Only For A Moment

Prologue

Bucky stares blankly at the ceiling of his small apartment. He can hear the traffic outside and the families in the apartments around him far better than any normal person ever could. For hours he lets those sounds wash over him, ground him, distract him from the ghosts in his head.

This was the benefit of being here rather than the farmhouse he’d stayed in for a couple of months after getting to Romania, the noise. Growing up in Brooklyn quiet was a hot commodity. Some part of him remembers seeking it out on rooftops and nighttime beach treks. Solitude away from city sounds, his parent’s arguing, his sister’s pestering. Now… he’d give anything to be annoyed by his family’s noise.

Sighing he finally sits up, leaning against the wall. He hadn’t left here in four days. The nightmares had been so bad. Flashbacks, the psychology book he read called them. Dreams so real they seeped into reality, distorted things to the point that a person couldn’t tell what was real. He was exhausted, on edge, and truly beginning to wonder why the fuck he was even trying.

Absently his fingers wander to the journal laying by the bed. That was why. He knew it in his bones. He wasn’t going to let go until he got it all back, everything they took from him, and he couldn’t go before telling Steve he was so sorry… How could he have done that-

His right fist slams into the mattress, the springs groaning in protest. This wasn’t doing him any good, hiding out in here. Being in the city was stressful sometimes but he wasn’t about to fly off the handle… he needs the distraction.

The October day is bright, a little warm even. Blue skies with perfect puffy clouds floating languidly about. It was beautiful. The perfect day to go to a park. He’d been meaning to check out Cișmigiu Gardens, so he sets off in that direction.

It’s barely noon when he gets there and seeing that it’s Thursday, the park is fairly deserted. There are enough people to serve as the distraction he needs, plus the park is beautiful, some flowers still blooming and foliage still fairly green despite fall being here.

“Alice!” Bucky spins on his heel toward the sound of the woman. She’s a few yards away running after a giggling toddler who’s heading straight for the water.

He moves to chase down the kid but a boy bolts from his sunny spot on a bench, fast, very fast. Something about the way he moves gives Bucky pause.

The toddler has a head start on everyone and is just about to the water. One pudgy leg goes to take a step into the water and by some sheer force of luck, they fall back… somewhat unnaturally, as if they were pulled. But…

The boy snatches the baby up, who immediately starts to wail, their master plan thwarted. From his place, he can just hear the boy coo to comfort the child. He must be very young, voice still soft and feminine.

Panting the mother catches up. Thanking the young man profusely. As he hands the toddler to its mother Bucky see’s his face… except… he knows this face somehow.

Suddenly he can’t breathe but he can’t look away. Despite appearances, he knows this isn’t a young man. You’re a woman… it feels like someone’s digging an icepick into the front of his brain. He grits his teeth trying to focus.

Quickly he sits on a bench, diagonal and down a bit from the one you got up from, pulling a book from his bag to hide his gawking. Thankfully you’re not paying any attention at the moment. You head back to your sunlight drenched bench.

Fuzzy images flash through his mind. You look so different, he remembers thick hair, falling loose into your face. A face that’s crying, bloody, scared… of him? Of course of him… You look just past him, he freezes, but you don’t notice him before you lay back on the bench, eyes on the blue sky.

Could you really be Hydra…? Because surely that’s why he knows you. A Hydra trainee… someone he was supposed to break…

There’s something else there though. He knows it he just can’t touch it.

For hours Bucky watches you. Strangely you don’t do much but look at your phone from time to time, drink out of your large paper coffee cup, and stare at the passing clouds, or the water or the people. Much like him, you seem to fade into the background. No one paying you any mind at all. It makes his chest tighten just a bit… the melancholy that settles around you despite the beautiful day around you.

When you finally get up he can’t help it. He has to follow. In all this time he hasn’t seen one Hydra agent, not one face he recognizes. Bucharest should be safe, it wasn’t a hub for any of Hydra’s active bases, off the radar entirely… So why…

You slip into a store and exit with a bottle of whiskey, snacks, and cigarettes. From there he tails you to a rundown block just near Lake Floreasca. It’s the first time you seem to pay attention to your surroundings before you go into a dilapidated building and don’t exit again.

That night he dreams of hitting you… with his left fist. He remembers them briefing him, he was to go until you stayed down. They preferred he didn’t kill you, too valuable, too unique for some reason. All he saw was a woman, a target… But then… He wakes up drenched in sweat, his head feeling like it’s going to crack open.

Bucky spends the next eight days following you. He knows he shouldn’t. A part of him thinks you could be a threat, an agent sent here to flush him out, bring him in… his gut says something else… even though he doesn’t know exactly what that something else is.

What he does know is that an active agent or asset usually eats regularly, something you don’t do. They don’t go out for multiple coffees, chain smoke, and go through handles of liquor a day… No, his gut says you’re not an active agent at all… You look like someone who’s hurting and lost… just like him.

It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid. If you are someone he hurt you won’t have any interest in speaking to him, why would you? But there’s that little nagging thing he can’t reach. Something different… Something special… He fucking hates that he can’t get to it. And it’s that little something paired with his crushing sense of loneliness that makes him finally decide to let you see him.

The day is bright again as he waits just down the way from what appears to be where you’re living. He doesn’t even register it though. His heart is thundering in his ears, breath ragged. 

There are so many things that can go wrong here. Not least of which being that you could lead them to him… he’d rather die than go back but… he needs this. And maybe, just maybe you do too. Though he can’t allow himself to hope that he could do something, anything good for someone else. Still… 

You’re eating breakfast, that’s good, he doesn’t think you ate at all the day before. While he doesn’t want to interrupt you the busy morning street is as good a place as any for him to get in your line of sight, to see if you even know him. Strategically he stands by a newsstand just down from the Starbucks you’re in front of and waits.

To anyone else, he’s just a man looking at the paper, but his eyes are glued to you. After a few minutes, you seem to sense that you’re being observed. Maybe you do have some self-preservation skills… He feels your eyes lock on him.

It happens quickly, so quickly that no one around you catches it. But it looks almost like your table and the items on it begin to float just slightly before settling, spilling your coffee. He takes the moment of distraction to disappear, his heart threatening to beat its way out of his chest.

You knew him… That much was clear. Now he just had to find out how you fit into his story… why you’re different… whatever came after, he was ready for.

Chapter 1

Hitting the hard floor of your slummy squat isn’t exactly how you want to start the day but it is far preferable than the dream you’d been trapped in. 

For a few moments, you breathe in the musty smell of the room. You can almost taste the dust, mildew, and rust on the back of your tongue. You allow your fingers to feel the rough wood of the floor, so different from your cell. The muffled sounds of Bucharest waking up seep through the boarded window, trucks and the soft lapping of Lake Floreasca. Worlds away from the clinical sound of the facility. These little details sink in, permeate every sense, assure you that this is real, that the dream was just that… a dream.

Once the sense of dread seeps away a bit you allow yourself to sit up and lean against the wall. Your phone, of course, slid under the bed when you fell. Sighing, you hold your hand up and beckon it to you, hoping the screen isn’t smashed. 

With a scrape and a soft whoosh of air, it lands in your upturned palm. For a moment you just stare at the back of the phone a bitter smile rising on your face.

Such a simple thing. Moving something from one location to another. When you were a kid you thought everyone could do it. Until one little girl ran screaming from you on the playground and told the teacher you were a witch. You had given her flowers, from a magnolia tree. 

She said they were pretty and there was no way to reach them. It was so easy and you were confused why she couldn’t get them for herself… The teacher, of course, didn’t believe the girl but your mom moved you all the same. A simple thing… And Hydra burned your whole world to get to it.

A small popping sound pulls you back. Your hand is in a tight fist around the phone, your knuckles white. If the phone wasn’t broken before, it is now. Groaning you flip it over, sure enough, a spiderweb of cracks lace the screen, though thankfully it’s still working well enough.

It wasn’t as though there was anyone who could contact you. Hydra made sure there was no one left. But you like the feeling of familiarity it gives you, that little connection to the outside world. Mindlessly you scroll through the news. The States are still reeling after the fall of SHIELD/Hydra, lots of discussion about the Avengers, you don’t bother. Instead, you watch cat videos until your stomach will no longer be ignored.

Tearing off your sweat-stained tee you head to the busted bathroom to brush your teeth with what’s left of a water bottle. Despite your best efforts, you catch your reflection. 

The woman looking back is a stranger. The first thing you’d done when you got away was shave your head, and you’d kept it that way. You let your hand wander over the half-inch or so of new growth. No one could use it to hold you down now, but you loved your curls once. Before you could examine the map of scars that laced your chest and abdomen you spit and turn away. 

No use. Better this way. Y/N was dead. Just like her mother, like Marcus, and Abby, and Nix. They weren’t coming back and neither was she.

Taking a deep breath you begin to wrap the Ace bandages around your chest. Nix had taught you how to do it properly after he’d broken his arm while you were both in college and he needed your help. You silently thank him, like you do most mornings, and hope that wherever he is he doesn’t have to bother with bandages and binders anymore.  

Breasts as flat as you can get them you toss on a grey tee, loose jeans, and the leather jacket you’d stolen in Berlin. If there were Hydra agents looking for you they were looking for a woman. The person reflected back at you is, to the casual observer, a young man.

Sighing, you grab your scarf and cap and head into the bright morning light.

It’s still fairly early but traffic has already begun to flow toward downtown and students of the nearby high school are on their trek to class. You can’t help but smile as you see a couple, no more than 16, steal away into an alley together giggling.

The National History Museum isn’t too far and there’s a Starbucks close by. It’ll be nice to do something so… normal. It doesn’t hurt that it’s easy to lift wallets unnoticed in museums, especially when you don’t have to lay a finger on them. You’d stolen plenty when you were a kid but, but now you wondered why you’d bothered with college and career at all. “Shoulda’ stayed a thief Y/N,” you say softly to no one.

That first sip of caramel macchiato is a better high than just about any drug. You close your eyes and take another, letting the sweet and bitter taste flood your mouth, feeling the sunshine on your little sidewalk table, hearing the traffic and the people pass by. If you allow yourself you can pretend you’re back in Brooklyn, back in the life you’d fought so hard for, waiting on Marcus, he’d always loved Starbucks even though you kept telling him there was better coffee to be had. Right now though, this is perfect.

Halfway through your breakfast sandwich, the feeling of being observed overtakes you. This isn’t new, you’re always afraid someone’s watching, looking for you. But in all this time there had only been one low-level agent in Berlin who’d noticed you and stupidly engaged. You were pretty sure you’d disposed of him before he was able to alert anyone else but who could know. 

Without moving your head you scan the area, your eyes searching from behind your sunglasses. ‘Just like they taught you,’ a bitter voice chimes in your head. You push the thought away.

You almost miss him, almost convince yourself you’re imagining things again. But there he is in street clothes, ball cap pulled low not unlike your own. There’s something different about him, so different you make yourself doubt for a second, but those eyes, you knew without question. The Soldier.

Instantly your heart begins pounding so hard you can hardly breathe. You keep your eyes on him until you feel the chair begin to shift under you. Everything you’re touching is floating just a bit, your power lashing out in tune with your anxiety. Quickly you snap it in place your coffee spilling from the sudden change in position. “Fuck,” you hiss between clenched teeth. When you look back he’s gone.

‘Stay calm, breathe. Don’t make more of a scene,’  you keep repeating in your head like a mantra. Without making eye contact with the other patrons you pick up your trash and toss it.

The museum. You’ll go there. It may be a great place to pickpocket but it’s shit for killing someone. ‘They won’t kill you,’ the voice in the back of your head reminds you. Death was only for the lucky ones and you had never been what anyone would call lucky.

Chapter 2

You want nothing more than to disappear into your scarf, just fall into your shell like a turtle. But you know you have to keep your head up, look normal, be vigilant. The museum rises up in front of you, it’s stunning facade somehow comforting. Beautiful buildings always inspired Y/N. But she was gone. ‘We can have similar interests,’ you think pushing away the ghost of your former self.

It’s Friday and the museum has just opened but there are enough people to make you feel at ease with your plan. Some tourists and two groups of rowdy school kids. ‘Perfect.’ You slide near a gathering of fourteen tourists who, from the sound of it, are Danish.

The cheery museum worker hands you a headset without a second thought, smiling brightly, and, gives you an appreciative once-over. ‘Girl must have a thing for vagabond-chic.’ She seems young and you hope she’s got a good friend to help her polish her taste in men.

You follow the group a few paces behind, observe where the men’s wallets are, what women have purses without zippers and plan your strategy. Bucharest is done, but you need funds to get out and tourists always have cash and in places like museums, a false sense of security.

As you pass the incredible skeletons your mind wanders to the Soldier. You’d caught wind that he’d vanished after the incident. Given his rap sheet, you have no doubt he has more than Hydra on his ass if that’s the case. But he was their star, the crown jewel of their murderous menagerie, you can’t imagine why he’d go rogue. Though there was that time-

A young woman slips on the tile and careens into you bringing you back to the task at hand. “Undskyld! Undskyld! (Sorry! Sorry!)”

“It’s ok,” you respond in Danish brandishing a smile. Knowing almost every language in modern usage may be the one good thing to come out of this nightmare.

“Oh,” she smiles awkwardly as you hand her tote back. You knew she’d assumed you were a man, that responding in a distinctly feminine voice would throw her even more than her slip. You also know that this is all the distraction you need to pull her wallet up, out, and under your jacket. Weaponizing gender norms, Nix would be proud. “Thank you!” Without a second thought, she strolls back to her friends, not wanting to linger.

You continue the museum tour for a bit without lifting anything else, not wanting to push it. The woman running into you was, despite your previous thoughts on the subject, lucky. Biding your time is best. 

In the marine life exhibit the hall is narrow and dim, everything awash in blue light. You’re bummed to be leaving this city, this museum alone with it’s winding corridors is a gold mine.

One of the Danish men pulls his phone out of his pocket, his money clip peeks up for just a moment and wouldn’t you know it just falls out and silently into your hand. A British man who’s group was already in the hall lost his wallet, shit luck that. Spoils in tow it’s easy enough to slip away unnoticed and duck into the men’s restroom.

A decent enough haul, about $300 Romanian Leu and $250 Euro. You’d certainly done worse. The money clip also seems to be gold so you hold onto it. The Brits wallet you let fall to the bathroom floor and as you casually stroll back past the mastodon on your way out you let the woman’s wallet float silently near where you’d collided. You may be a thief but you know getting around a foreign country without your ID is difficult and don’t want to cause them anymore issues. You’ll take any good karma you can eek out.

The thought of leaving the museum makes your mouth go dry. Romania seemed unassuming enough. After Berlin, you thought the typical European locals were too risky but you needed to be in a city where a stranger could go unnoticed. Was there really no place safe from Hydra… was running worth it?

Steeling yourself you step into the crisp day. Kiseleff Park is right by the museum and it seems as good a choice as any. You go far enough away as to not be seen by the tourists when they exit but not so far as to be away from public view and lounge on a bench. If they wanted you dead they could probably hit you here but if they want to take you in, this is too public. It wouldn’t be impossible of course but given the bind Hydra’s in it would certainly be too inconvenient.

You let your sixth sense slither down the legs of the bench. The screws securing it to the concrete are rusty but you’re pretty certain you can weaponize it if necessary. Down the bench, to the sidewalk, you feel out the cracks in the concrete surrounding you, easy enough to break it up and hurl it. The trash can to your back left is metal, the posts that make up the barrel can be pulled apart and used as projectiles. Even the lamppost about six feet away would be useful in a pinch.

‘What a good attack dog you will be,’ that voice slithers from the recesses of this morning’s dream. They were so impressed at your ability to think on your feet, to get out of a bind even if they were the bind…

You stop yourself. Don’t want to give him power in your waking hours, he has enough of that when your body demands sleep like the traitor it is. You fish your shattered phone from your pocket and give the surrounding area one last look over before trying to plot your next course.

The money from today would be more than enough to get you to the coastal city of Constanta, but from there you’d be partially surrounded by water. While living the rest of your days on a boat sounds kind of perfect you aren’t exactly a sea fairing woman and considering that the Black Sea is bordered by some pretty unstable regions, it’s best to not. You’ve got about $700 Leu between today and what’s in your squat, that may be enough to get a shitty car, or you could steal one. Maybe drive to Croatia.

The thought sends a pain shooting through your chest. The last Friendsgiving you had with them you’d convinced everyone that Croatia belonged on your group travel list, showing them photos you’d pinned and talking about how enchanting it looked when Anthony Bourdain went. You’d even priced hotels and flights just to show how y’all could make it work.

A single tear catches between your sunglasses and cheekbone and you quickly brush it away before you map the distance. Fourteen hours. You could do that without stopping. Ditch the car on some back road and walk to the city of your choice. You swallow the sob bubbling up your throat. There’s no point in tears now. You’re going on for them. They are gone because of you. It would be selfish to throw away the life you have, no matter how shitty it is when they don’t get to live theirs anymore. You can weep for them in the ocean they never got to see but not here on this fucking bench.

You slump over, take one ragged breath, then another. Dig your fingers into your thighs. Try to ground yourself in your body. And look up.

He’s across the street. Openly staring at you with no cover whatsoever. ‘Pretty shitty for an assassin,’ you think and you’re once again hit with the feeling of difference about him. He seems almost wilted. That doesn’t matter. Hydra will do anything to get at you. What better than to position someone like him here to get close, make you think you’re on the same struggle. An excellent way to break you down.

Suddenly you’re ready. If they want to play you’ll play. You take your glasses off and hook them on the neck of your shirt. Slowly you lift your face and meet those eyes. Unblinking you stand and walk away. You know he’ll follow.

Chapter 3

You memorized the city map, have even explored most of it, but you know no area better than where you’ve been squatting. The buildings surrounding it are just as squalid, likely due for demolition soon, and the only people in the vicinity won’t interfere if they hear something unsettling.

Though there’s a part of you that’s horrified at the idea of leading him to where you’ve found something like safety you know it doesn’t really matter. If the Soldier has been sent for you he will eventually find you. If it can happen on your own terms, well that’s as good as it’s going to get.

You don’t look back to see if he’s still there. You know he is. Once at your building you don’t go in, you slip to the back. These were once duplex like tenements and the backyard is littered with everything from broken metal piping that once provided water to the house, to glass, bricks, stray bits of metal, and even the aluminum skeleton of a kid’s playset that rests half in the soil and half obscured by overgrowth. You can use all of it. Anything is a weapon when propelled at a high enough velocity and you’re fairly certain that a piece of lead pipe hurtling faster than a bullet can even take down the Soldier.

You let your power flow through you and you become weightless floating noiselessly into the bushy trees that fill half the lot. Honestly, you don’t expect to see him. You’re prepared for a fight but knowing what you do of Hydra’s methods you mostly expected that he’d follow you and come back later. But there he is climbing into the yard almost as quietly as you had.

Slowly, methodically, he scans the area and you instinctively sink deeper into the trees to hide from that piercing stare. He doesn’t seem to notice you and you think for just a moment he looks… disappointed. Sad, like he missed something… No. You pull yourself together. This is the fucking Winter Soldier. Hydra’s own personal boogeyman. You will not allow them to trick you though you applaud the effort.

He edges toward the hidden playset and you seize the moment. A shattered bit of pipe flies at him and without flinching he smacks it out of the air, the sound of metal on metal filling the silence. You float from the trees. He looks right at you, those eyes like cold fire. While he’s distracted by the justifiably unsettling image of a floating person, you hurl a brick at the back of his head and the infamous Winter Soldier hits the ground with a resounding thud.

This was easy. Far too easy. You aren’t stupid enough to not see that. But you can use this to your advantage either way. Quickly you get this hulking man into your squat. The back rooms aren’t habitable, the floor falling in so badly that was someone to step on it you’d definitely find yourself in the floor, not on top of it. Thankfully, you can float both of you without too much of a headache.

You’ve made what was once the living room your ramshackle abode. It’s the only part of the building where the roof is fully intact and the floor is solid. Unfortunately, that also means it’s the only place you can bring him. The corrugated metal blocking the hallway sealing your space from the drafty back of the house drags a bit even as you use your hand to focus more energy toward it. He’s so much heavier than you anticipated. As his metal arm clunks against the floor you suspect that’s part of the problem. Unceremoniously you let him drop, hard, in the far corner.

Running your sense up against the studs of the wall behind him you check their structural integrity, not the best but they’ll do. The remnants of a small kitchen are on the other side and the copper pipe while corroded will work well enough for what you need. You punch your fist through the plaster. As you tear through the wall to create a manageable hole you can’t help but wonder if the wall is giving away so easily due to your strength or the building’s neglect. Not for the first time you question if this strength, something you never had before, comes from your abilities or if they did… something. Copper piping begins to snake through the hole in a jerking motion, the subtle sounds of the joints snapping off ring in your ears. No time to worry about that. You’ll use everything at your disposal, even if they gave it to you.

Carefully you manipulate the pliable metal shooting the ends through the wall shackling his wrists and neck to studs and wrap a length around his ankles. ‘Good enough,’ you think as you head out back. You’re acutely aware that there’s little you can do to really bind him with the resources you have, he’s massively strong and that arm is a weapon in and of itself. You also know the more energy you expend on this the less you’ll have at your disposal to defend yourself. But you’d been practicing, honing your skills, passing the lonely hours by seeing just how much you could do. Feeling out your limits. Again that voice, ‘Just like they want you to.’ Push it away. Focus on now. The wire fence in the back of the lot is consumed by foliage but you’re able to yank a good length of chain link from it nonetheless. On the side of the yard, you notice a backpack that wasn’t there before he arrived. You bring it to you and carry it and the fencing inside.

The Soldier is still unconscious, his head lolling, the copper manacle the only thing holding it somewhat upright. There’s even a slight bit of saliva leaking out of the side of his mouth. ‘Shit, hope he’s not dead,’ you think as you approach. You’d kill him without even thinking twice but you had questions he may just answer if you asked them the right way. Before binding his legs with the fencing you check his pulse. It seems faint but definitely there. Not dead.

With his legs encased in layers of fencing and his arms manacled with a few extra lengths of pipe for good measure, you collapse onto the bed. The space between your eyes is pounding but not as bad as you’d anticipated.

It’s early afternoon but the boarded windows make it seem like evening. You flip on the electric lantern by your bed and the backpack rushes toward you landing softly at your side. Before opening it you run down what could be inside. 

Weapons? You glance at the Glock and 6 knives you pulled off of him sitting on your nightstand. Nah, he wouldn’t carry weapons in something that could so easily be taken in a fight. Definitely could be a tracker in there, something to alert Hydra of his location when the task was finished. A bomb? You shake your head. ‘Getting ahead of yourself.’

Rather than touch the bag you focus on the zipper, pull it open, and let the contents spill out. What escapes the confines are worlds away from what you anticipate. Severed body parts would have shocked you less than these items.

Notebooks. Spirals and composition books with different titles like “People” and “Lies?” inked in a sometimes shaky sometimes solid hand. Sharpies, highlighters, and pens of every color. A bruised apple. A few books like a Lovecraft compilation and an E. E. Cummings’ poetry collection. But it’s the non-fiction books that really catch you off guard. Howl At The Moon: The History of The Howling Commandos, Lost and Found: The Incredible Journey of America’s Captain, Silent Heroes: Tales of WWII Vol. 15 James Buchanan Barnes. 

It’s that last book that makes your breath catch. The grainy photo on the cover shows a young man with short but somewhat shaggy hair, his face relatively clean-shaven, but the eyes… Even in black and white, that stare is unmistakable. 

You gape at the unconscious form of The Winter Soldier, of James Buchanan Barnes, and for a fleeting moment you don’t see an assassin, you see someone who may be a ghost too.

Chapter 4

“Fuck, fuck, FUUUCK,” you mumble as you pace back and forth. The few pictures in the slim volume had only confirmed even further that the man chained to your wall is indeed, a 98-year-old POW. And whether he’s spent all this time willfully or playing for the wrong team or not there’s no way to know

If this is Hydra trying to trick you they’ve gone to extraordinary lengths. He (or someone) has filled the book with notes. Crossing out bits and scribbling ‘FALSE’ over them. Highlighting areas and noting, ‘True? Don’t know.’ on some. On the portion dedicated to his life before the war, you notice, “Fuck Lombardi’s, Totonno’s was the best,” and you hurled the book across the room.

The first apartment you and Nix shared in Brooklyn was in Gravesend off 86th. It was a dump but it was yours. And every single payday you’d carb load on Totonno’s and take some home before getting properly wasted like only two urchins such as yourselves could. You may be in the big city (technically) but you were just trailer trash kids at heart with your malt liquor and cheap bourbon. Your stomach growled at the thought of a hot perfect slice of Totonno’s and your eyes stung with tears.

You had been so sure this was a trap. But what if you were wrong? What if he didn’t wake up? What if you killed a man who didn’t deserve it…? But… he was The Soldier. He’d done unspeakable things. If you killed him was it really undes- if you thought that what did you deserve. “Fuuuuuuuuck!” you shout and press the balls of your hands into your eyes.

A low sound. A sigh? A groan? Regardless it’s coming from behind you where the Soldi-Jame- where HE is.

You spin on your heel and without you even fully forming a command the weapons on the table surround you. The Glock cocks ready to go, the knives swaying a bit but still pointed at him. You don’t move don’t breathe and he squirms.

For a second he’s panicked. Thrashing and growling. More animal than man and you grit your teeth as you hear the pipes creak and some plaster dusts his dark mop of hair. But then he’s still. So still he seems like an art installation. Something inhuman. His head bowed hair concealing his face. You aren’t sure how long you wait. A minute, five? It feels like an eternity before you slowly you side step to be directly in front of him. The weapons moving in perfect unison with you.

He doesn’t lift his head just moves those eyes to meet yours. At first, they are shards of ice bearing into you but then they seem to melt. There’s that sadness you’d seen earlier and maybe… kindness.

The memory floods your brain against your will. You can feel a rib crack and though you want to throw your assailant across the room you just… can’t. Your power refusing your silent command. You’ve braced yourself for another blow, the beatings never stop until you black out and they can always tell when you’re faking. But the kick doesn’t come. Over the loudspeaker, a man says in rage laced Russian, “What the fuck are you doing Soldier?! Did we say stop?!” You open your eyes and look up. You have to know what’s coming next even if it’s terrible. Instead, you’re met with a look you haven’t seen in so long. One of concern of… kindness-

A knife to your right clatters to the ground and you push the memory aside. Stay focused or you’re going to end up dead.

“I know you, don’t I?” his voice is hoarse. You don’t answer. He lifts his head relieving some of the pressure from the pipe on his neck. He looks at the pipes wrapped around his arms, the fencing on his legs, “You know me… That’s pretty obvious.” Again you don’t say anything. A wan smile rises to his lips, “And if you know me, or think you know me, I know there’s nothing I can say to convince you that I’m not… I… I’m not… Him.” His face crumples and a bit of your resolve goes along with it, just enough to send another knife clattering to the floor.

“Look, don-don’t panic and shoot me, but I’m just going to-” the fingers of the metal hand clench into a fist and he yanks his arm straight down, the copper pipes snap like rubber bands, the stud only groans in protest. You step back quickly, your calves hitting the bed. Your mind curiously blank. He stops, holds up his hand in submission. “I know words don’t mean shit,” he breaks the pipe at his neck and rubs the red flesh there for just a moment. “But before I do this,” he links a metal finger through the pipes on his right wrist, “I want you to know I’m not here to hurt you, for whatever that’s worth, I do not want to hurt you.” He holds your gaze for a minute as if waiting for a response, you give him nothing.

He said he didn’t want to hurt you, not that he wouldn’t. That difference didn’t go unnoticed. He didn’t want to hurt you but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t do so under orders. On the other hand, it was only fair since you would hurt him, had already. And you realize that just as you can’t be certain of him he can’t be certain of you either. If he knows you, recognizes you, then it’s as a Hydra trainee and nothing more.

He’s already ripped through the chain link and is breaking the pipes at his ankles. Once free he stands. Too quickly for you. It’s not the gun that goes off nor do the knives shoot toward him. Those things stay suspended in between you, your small shield. No, your power slams him into the wall of its own accord. You don’t feel panic just strength. You’re not sure how long you can pin him but the look of surprise is enough. He knows you’ve got muscle now, knows you aren’t an easy hit. You will not go quietly.

His hands are up in that universal gesture of surrender. “I’m so sorry, that was dumb, I didn’t… think.” You let him hang there, pressing him until you can hear the plaster crack behind him. Then you release. He takes a deep breath. “Here,” his hands still up, eyes locked to yours he sinks to the floor and sits cross-legged. “Again, I don’t want-“

“To hurt me. I get it,” you snarl. Something flashes in him so quick you may have imagined it but he seems pleased to have gotten a response. Recognizing you’re not interested in his assurances he only nods before his eyes fall to the backpack and its contents strewn across the bed.

His demeanor shifts immediately. He’s not the cold calculating soldier, not the man trying to convince you of his lack of murderous intent either. This is a desperate man. “Please,” his voice cracks then the words tumble in a rush, “if you will just give me my bag and books I swear I’ll leave you alone. I promise. Please just give me those and you will never see me again. Don’t. Please don’t take them I need-“

“I’m not going to take your fucking journals man.” Your gut is telling you he’s for real. This man, whoever he is, was not sent by Hydra. The rumors must be true. The Winter Soldier, Hydra’s pride and joy, is running. 

Chapter 5

You take a deep breath and pluck the Glock out of the air, the knives clatter to the floor released from your hold. Part of you suspects he’ll rush for them but he just sits there, hands up eyes shining and glued to the books on the bed. You de-cock the gun and tuck it in your waistband. Not wanting to take your eyes off him you lift the bag and its contents from behind you and dump them in his lap.

Immediately he begins to look through them, checking each, mouthing the title. “There was another boo-“ the spine of Silent Heroes slams into his temple, admittedly a little harder than you intended, he flinches but as soon as he sees it’s ok he visibly relaxes.

“Who the fuck are you,” your voice is low without an ounce of softness. Your gut may be telling you he’s not an immediate threat but that does not mean you trust this man.

His mouth opens to answer and snaps shut. His eyes look to the books, to the bed, the wall. Anywhere but at you. “I… I don’t really know.” He appears small to you suddenly. Like a kid that’s lost at night with no clue where to go.

The fight drains from you and you plop heavily onto the bed. He’s just staring at the book, at his photo from so long ago. Suddenly you feel guilty for going through his bag, a ridiculous emotion given the situation but it rankles all the same. “Do you really think Lombardi’s is shit?”

He lights up. A raspy chuckle escapes. “Yeah.” Your eyes meet and again he’s a different man. “Everyone thought because it was first it was best but man, Totonno’s, that was pizza.” His tongue flicks over his bottom lip and he looks ravenous, you can relate.

“The sauce,” you both longingly groan at the same time and laugh despite everything.

“Wait…” he sounds excited, like a kid on Christmas, “Is it still there?! I mean you’re not… I was… it was…” He takes a moment, “a long time ago…” with that a cloud befalls him again.

“As of 2007 it was still there slinging the best pies in Brooklyn.” You pull your phone from your pocket to check.

“So you’re not…”

You look up, “Not what?”

“Like me…” you stare confused and he says with a small dark laugh, “A relic.”

“I don’t know how alike we are but no, I’m not a relic. I’m…” honestly you hadn’t thought about it in a while, how old you were. “Fuck I guess I’m about 30.”

Your age was always an awkward subject. You’d ran away at 15 and landed in New Orleans, where you met Nix. He was a few years older but was just like you, a kid alone. He helped you get fake documents, a new birth certificate, social, everything. A new date of birth made you 18, a new last name made you someone else, and a high school diploma complete with transcripts made college an option. You can’t help but sigh, you had already killed one version of yourself before Hydra had even found you.

Google has graciously saved you from this line of thought and informed you that Totonno’s is in fact still in business. “Yup, Totonno’s is still there to this day. Thankfully all the aliens seem to be destroying is Manhattan. They’re smart enough to leave the best borough alone.”

His face breaks into a breathtaking smile that genuinely surprises you. “I guess that’s a bit of silver lining in this mess of a world.” His voice is rich and melodious. At this point you’re honestly wondering how there are so many different sides to one person.

The silence hangs for a moment. His hand runs over the cover of one of the composition books that has ‘Home’ scrawled in a shaky hand. “So…” he trails off. “Are, uh, you from there, Brooklyn I mean.”

You scoff, “No. I’m from nowhere.” That’s always been your answer. Ghost girl.

“Everyone’s from somewhere.”

You stare at him a moment, his face is open and, frustratingly kind… dammit. You slump a little, “Yeah well most people have a hometown, someplace they grew up, but I never really stayed anywhere long enough for that.” He remains quiet, giving you space to form your thoughts. “But,” your voice cracks and you clear your throat to reel in your emotions, “Brooklyn, was the first place I made a home.” The only place.

“It’s a good place.”

“It was.” And you could never go back. You stared at your phone. The little red dot marking a place that may as well have been on Mars. When the screen turned black you kept staring into it, your reflection warped in the shattered screen. When you looked up he was flipping through pages in that composition book looking so serene it almost made you want to throw something at him.

“Ferdinando’s?” he whispers. Then again, “Ferdinando’s,” as though he’s answered a question and scrambles for one of the pens on the floor. You watch him quickly jot something down.

“Ferdinando’s?”

“Oh!” It was like he had forgotten you were there. “I… just something I remembered. Sorry.”

You smile despite yourself. “You’re talking about that old Italian place in Cobble Hill?” His head shoots up. “Yes, that’s still there too last I knew. And they made a damn good cannoli.”

A small chuckle skips past his lips and he stares into the middle distance for a moment. “I,” another little laugh, “used to take dates there.” He runs a hand absently through his hair and writes something down.

His pen freezes, his eyes don’t leave the paper, “To make Him they had to kill me…” He’s so quiet you have to strain to hear, “this,” he gestures lazily to the books, “is my attempt at raising the dead.”

Mournful eyes, more grey than blue meet yours. “But I can’t pretend the bad didn’t happen too… that He, I, didn’t do horrible things.” He pulls a three subject spiral from the pile, thicker than all the others. There’s no title here. “I’m not sure what book you belong in… but if it’s this one,” he lays his palm flat on the cover, “and I think it is. I…” his voice breaks and you think he’s going to sob, “I’m truly sorry.” No tears fall but you swear you could drown in his eyes, in his grief.

A very strong part of you doesn’t want to give him anything, push him away, make him leave. Wants to shut him out. But if you’re being honest with yourself your loneliness is far stronger. And his loneliness… I mean for fuck’s sake he just opened up to a woman who he only thinks he knows, who knocked him unconscious and chained him, however ineffectively, to a wall a few hours ago.

Fuck it. 

“No…” You stare at your hands, unable, unwilling to hold his gaze any longer. “I don’t really think that’s where I belong in your story.” You hear him let out a breath. “How do you know me, or think you know me, Mr… Sargent-“

“Bucky,” that crooked smile again.

“Mr. Sargent Bucky, then.” It’s a shitty joke, hardly even a joke, but he gives you a little laugh all the same.

The slight humor isn’t enough to lighten his next words, “When I saw you nine days ago-“

“Nine?!” You can’t help but be alarmed. Nine days, nine fucking days he had been following you and you didn’t notice a goddamn thing.

“… Yeah.”

It hits you, “You wanted me to see you today… You wanted to see how I’d react.” He just nods. Small again despite his size, shoulders slumping. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“If it’s any consolation you’re doing a great job laying low.” You snort. “No really,” he says insistent, “I mean you did pick the same city as The Winter Soldier, that says you know how to disappear.” There’s an awkward beat, “I don’t know that anyone else would notice you.” You don’t say someone already had, in Berlin.

“But… yeah…” He picks up again. “I saw you, your face, and I saw.” He stops suddenly his eyes  staring at his hands, balled into fists sitting on his knees, “I thought I remembered…” He just can’t get it out and his eyes find yours begging you silently to tell him he’s wrong.

You feel for him, you do, but you won’t sugar coat this. “You remembered,” your hand wanders to your right cheekbone where a thin scar runs up from there up around your eye socket, “beating me.”

Chapter 6

Until this moment you never fully understood what it means to land a verbal blow. 

His eyes shift down and to the left of yours, not quite staring at the floor but unable to meet your steady gaze. That icy hardness has crept in around his jaw again. “So… that’s a true one.” 

It’s not a question but you answer it anyway. “Very.” You only let it hang for a second. “But… you weren’t the only one to do it.” It’s his turn to snort, “You were the only one to stop.” His eyes shoot to yours like lightning. Thinking back to your time in the facility makes stomach acid rise in the back of your throat. You try to just bury it, only let those demons out when you can’t stay awake any longer. But this is a shared moment, one you think you’re beginning to see much more clearly.

“They took almost eight years of my life,” you shake your head, “I know that’s nothing compared to what they took from you.”

“That doesn-“

You raise a hand, “Don’t… Don’t interrupt or I may change my mind.” Inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly you continue. “In all that time you were the only person to show me any kindness. To… help me.” You can feel his eyes staring, begging you to look at him but you can’t. 

“I don’t know how long I’d been in the facility exactly but it was long enough… long enough to begin to forget I had a life once beyond the pain, and training, and tests. Long enough that I’d almost forgotten why the people they’d threatened to hurt if I didn’t comply mattered.” The bed shifts just a touch and you bring the energy back into yourself, digging your nails into your palms. “They’d been running me hard, pushing this ability, to new lengths. Finding my limits and demanding I move past them. I’d been fighting agents they sent my way on and off for what may have been weeks now that I actually think about it.”

Was it really that long? You counted on your fingers eyes turned to the ceiling. “They would ask what I wanted when I won and I asked to go outside almost every time. I think I went out 11 maybe 12 times. Sometimes it was day others night so I don’t know if those were the same days but I needed to see the sky because I had this fear that maybe the whole world was a lie and that there was nothing but the facility that the whole worldIthoughtIremem-“ You’re rambling your words slurring, heart racing at the memory of that strange inescapable fear. 

He says nothing. Stays at his spot on the floor barely breathing. The pillow floats to your lap and you clutch it to your chest. “I. Had. Been. Fighting.” You pronounce each word distinctly, reclaiming authority over your own tongue. “If I won I was rewarded with being granted a simple request. A few minutes outside, a shower alone, an actual meal, not whatever the gruel they gave me was. I got better and better. The fight would go until one party was unconscious,” you don’t say you’re pretty certain you killed some of them. “I guess they needed to reel me in. Remind me what I was…” You close your eyes remembering so clearly when you saw him, saw the Soldier. “He, I never knew his name, told me I was so lucky because they thought I was ready to face their best asset, the crown jewel of Hydra, the Soldier.” He makes a small sound you can’t quite name but still, you can’t look. “I didn’t care. I had won every single fight recently. I thought there was nothing they could throw my way…” You aren’t sure how much detail he wants, how much you want, and you bury your face in the pillow. 

“It’s ok,” he whispers, “tell it how you remember it, that’s important.”

Now you look at him, his face a blank mask. “I thought I could take anything they threw at me until I caught that left hook of yours on my right cheekbone.” You can hear the metal plates shift. “I shouldn’t have even let you get close but you were better than the others. I got a few good moves in but once that happened I was fucked. Not lucky enough to be out cold though. I think you must have taken it easy on me because you likely could have done more with one blow then you did.” You pause but he says nothing. “I got back up, kept trying even though my head was spinning.” Your hand goes to the scar again.  “You somehow got my feet from under me. I fell and you kicked me right in the ribs, broke one clean. After that, though you stopped.” Now something registers other than nothingness on his face. 

“I don’t know why you did it. They were screaming over the comms but no one came into the ring. You looked at me and you looked worried… and there was a kindness in your face that hadn’t been there before. I hadn’t had anyone look at me like that for so long I forgot that people could give a shit.” Now his brows are knitted together like he’s trying to make sense of what you’re saying. “You actually sat me upright, and they were still screaming but no one stopped you. You ripped some fabric from your shirt and wiped the blood from my eye so… so gently. And you said you were sorry, you’d hoped I’d go down easy. And…” you trail off. The rest was a blur.

“I touched your face with my right hand.” His voice is gravel. 

Your eyes meet, “Yeah.” His words bringing the chaos into focus.

“And you put your hand over mine and started crying.” 

You nod, “You said, ‘Don’t cry doll, it’s gonna’ sting that cut.’ And it did but I couldn’t help it.”

The metal hand forms a fist, “Someone came in then and I shot them.”

“Without even looking back.” You were leaning forward now he had shifted to his knees. 

“Four, no five, I took out like that. Only the one way in so it was easy.”

“They hit some sort of panic switch then because the lights went out and there was a red strobe, like a shit movie.”

His head nods frantically, “I asked you if you could walk and you said yes and if nothing else you thought you could fly-“

“Float.” What you did wasn’t fast enough to constitute flight.

“Yeah, float.”

“You said you could try to get me out, I thought you were crazy.”

He shrugs, “It wasn’t a big facility, usually less than 50 people there.” 

“Well, it felt like fucking Orpheus leading Eurydice from the underworld. That’s a-“

He scoffs, “I know the story.” And you feel yourself blush a bit for assuming. “I did tell you to stay behind me didn’t I?”

“Mhm, and you barreled through people like they were nothing.”

The corners of his mouth tick up a bit, “I know my memory is shit but I think you knocked some people on their asses too.”

You shrug, “Maybe…” that hangs for a second. 

That bastard’s voice rings in your head again, the second time today, ’You killed four of my agents little pup. What a good attack dog you will be.’  

“But you got me to an exit.”

“Told you to fucking run or float whatever you did but to go far and fast.” 

“You wouldn’t… come with me. I tried to make you but you wouldn’t. Just told me to get the fuck out and ran to attack some guys coming for us.” Silence. “Why didn’t you run?” 

Chapter 7

The question hangs in the air. You can see the change take place, see him freeze over. “If I had gone with you… you wouldn’t have gotten very far.”

You laugh bitterly, “I didn’t get far anyway.” The ice melts and it replaced with worry, in an instant. You look at your hands, ashamed. “I was… so fucking stupid.” Rage begins to burn in your chest. “They kept threatening to… hurt them. I… I… didn’t have a family but I made one, a small one. And they said if I didn’t comply they’d… so I complied. I did what they asked. I would have done anything to…” the urge to scream is overwhelming but you swallow it. “Anything. When you got me out I knew I had to get to them first…” What words could encompass what they’d done? Every other torment until then had been bearable. If you could trade a lifetime as Hydra’s slave for their lives you absolutely would have. But… no.

Your mouth was ash. Tongue refusing to let you say, they were dead. All dead. Marcus. Abby. Nix. They’d even killed your mother, a woman you hadn’t had contact with since you ran at 15… Dead. You still couldn’t imagine it. Not really. Couldn’t grasp how Marcus would never put on another rooftop performance piece that only the pigeons and the three of you would see. How Abby would never lose herself in her writing, how she’d never again read you all bits of it after dinner. Nix. Was there even you without Nix? Your brother. Your heart. The person who knew the you before, who helped you find a new life, a new name. Without whom you would unquestionably have called it in before turning 18. Dead. More than that, the dead have graves, memories left behind. No. Your small family was… Erased.

He says it for you, takes it because you can’t. “You went to Brooklyn… and they were already gone.” You just nod.

That rage is like lava, burning, roiling under the bindings on your chest. So hot it feels like you’ll spontaneously combust. “… And it was like they, WE, never even fucking existed!” Acknowledging this out loud makes something snap in you.

The lantern flies across the room and slams into the wall, plastic shrapnel scattering to the floor, sending the room into dim shadow. The pages of his books flutter. The nightstand topples over. It’s like a wind is rising in the space but there is no wind. Just you. This crackling invisible monster like hundreds of angry hands lashing out. The floor is shaking or maybe it’s just the bed. Your eyes are still on your hands, curled into fists, and the blood pounds in your ears drowning out all other sounds.

Then you feel it. A large, calloused hand encases your left.

He, Bucky he said his name was Bucky, is kneeling before you. In the gloom, you can’t make out his face but you can feel that gentle pressure of skin on skin. Not demanding or threatening. Just there to let you know that for now, you aren’t alone.

Never in your life have you been what anyone would call a crier. But for the second time, you find yourself crying in front of this man. There’s no noise, at first. Just silent tears like someone forgot to turn the tap off. Your blood slows but there are no sounds except for his steady breathing and the hum of traffic outside.

One small sob escapes then another. You cover your face with your right hand and begin to weep. He doesn’t move, doesn’t want to scare you or do something that would make you uncomfortable. But his thumb starts to rub small rhythmic circles on the side of your fist. It’s a strangely comforting motion and it only makes the tears flow harder.

Fuck. You don’t know this man, not really. He did you a kindness once but you know who he is… or, was. Hours ago you were willing to kill him if necessary. But you’re past caring… A guttural sob escapes you sounding inhuman.

Your left-hand grasps his right forearm, nails digging in trying to anchor yourself to something solid. You don’t feel fully in control as your right-hand leaves your face, damp from tears and searches desperately in the half darkness for something else to hold on to. It finds his shoulder, thick and strong and… solid. The heavy metal of his left hand gently lays atop your right and you never knew a weapon could be so tender.

Another horrific sob doubles you over, makes your chest hurt, straining against the confines you put there. That metal hand moves to your side. You aren’t sure if you fall into him or if he pulls you in, but before another sob hits you find yourself in his arms, cradled against him on the floor. Face buried in his chest you just cry.

You cry the tears you held in earlier on the bench, you cry for your family, for their unremembered art, their unresolved dreams. You cry for yourself. For the first you who you killed at 15, for that girl who had already been through too much. For the woman, Hydra killed who had just begun to see a light at the end of the tunnel. You cry for the home you can’t go back to. And you even cry for the Soldier. For James Buchanan Barnes. For this Bucky person who holds you now so tenderly not shushing you or telling you it will be ok, because he knows it will never be ok, just rocking you in his arms. Just being what you so desperately need.

Chapter 8

Enough time passes that it’s full dark when your sobs slow to nothing more than hitching breaths. Your eyes have adjusted and the streetlight out front is on sending dingy light shooting through the boards on the window. You lift your head a bit and try to wipe at your snotty nose realizing you’ve soaked this man’s shirt with more than just tears.

“Ugh, I’m so sorry.”

The muted light barely illuminates his face but it’s just enough to make out his soft smile. “Trust me, I’ve had worse on my shirt.” You concede that point with a nod and sit up. You’d been perched on his thighs, legs out to his right. He can’t be comfortable. Even with being pretty malnourished these past few months you still weren’t what anyone would call slight. You take a shaky breath and notice that his metal hand is still on your upper back. You lean into it for just a second, appreciating the immovable feeling before going to move.

“You sure?” He says sensing you shift.

“Yeah. Plus, you’ve got to be uncomfortable.” His right-hand rests on your knee.

He shrugs, “I’m good, you don’t have to go… unless you want to.” You meet his eyes and get the feeling he doesn’t want you to go. It is nice, to feel another person there.

“Thank you,” you lay your hand on his and you swear you can feel a small shiver run through him. Even though it feels so nice you shift off his lap to the floor next to him. His hand lays flat between you and you butt your pinky next to his, not quite wanting to let go of that physical connection.

You rub your burning chest, grimacing. Been in this for too long, you think and the crying only made it worse.

He glances down where your bodies touch and lets out a small sigh. You think he’s going to ask more about what happened after he got you out instead he looks around the room, “How long have you been living here?”

You can’t help but laugh bitterly, “Live? I personally prefer the term, squatting.”

His left-hand raises to his chest in false anguish, “Oh, I’m truly sorry to offend.” He looks around once more, “But… do you even have running water…?”

“What do you think?”

“Gonna go with no. And no electricity either. Or any way to properly secure the entries.” These aren’t questions. Just observations. You shrug. “Just because you’re on the run from a diabolical group of well connected nazi assholes doesn’t mean you have to live in a hovel you know?”

“I don’t know actually,” you spit with much more venom than is deserved. His hand slides over yours in silent apology. “Sorry. Look. I’ve been homeless before and honestly, this isn’t so bad.”

“It’s just,” he clears his throat, “I have those things.” You don’t say anything. “And…” he runs his left hand through his hair nervously, “if you wanted… you could go there.” You only stare, not sure how to respond. He looks like he’s said something off-putting rather than remarkably kind, “But not if you feel uncomfortable or anything. I, uh, don’t even have to be there for a while if you want to just… I don’t know have something a little more… a little less…”

“Hovel-like,” you interject.

“Yeah… yeah.”

You look around at the dark room, your few clothes strewn about and the nightstand busted from your outburst earlier, the bed that was, likely, older than you were. “An actual shower would be amazing.” You’d been breaking into the gym of the nearby high school a few nights a week to bathe quickly, very quickly. He nods and stands. This time you don’t fling him against the wall. He holds his right hand out to you and you take it.

Bending down he gathers the books you scattered when your power lashed out and his knives. You notice he had already reclaimed his Glock from your waistband. “But you don’t have to leave your apartment.” His eyes meet yours silently questioning, “Seriously. I’d feel really fucking guilty. So… If you’ll stay I’ll gladly go with you.”

“Yeah,” he smiles that incredible smile again, “I’ll stay.”

It takes hardly ten minutes to gather your few belongings and you’re ready to leave this place behind you.

Bucky’s apartment isn’t too far away on the top floor of a Soviet-era apartment block. It’s small but feels… safe. And almost reminds you of that first place you and Nix had shared, a tight studio with the bare necessities. A mattress on the floor, ratty couch, windows covered in newspaper, but there’s a balcony. When you walk out you breathe deep, loving the feeling of being up so high.

“It isn’t much,” he says, looking around not meeting your eyes.

“It’s perfect,” and you mean it. This. In this moment. Is perfect.

“Oh and here’s the bathroom,” he opens the door to a small room. Unexpectedly there’s a bathtub and you dream of bubble baths. He opens a closet to the right and points out the towels. 

For a moment you both stand awkwardly not knowing what to do. “Well,” he clears his throat, “I’m going to run to the market before they close.” You give him a questioning glance. “I will be back though.”

“Ok.” He nods and turns to leave. You have a question, it’s haunted you for years you’ve got to get it out now or you’re worried you’ll never do it. “Wait. Can I ask you something?”

He turns back, “Yeah… If I can ask you something?”

“Home field advantage, you go first.”

He takes his baseball cap off and runs a hand through his hair, something you’re realizing is a nervous habit. “If… if I helped you… uh…”

“Why did I hit you over the head with a brick and tie you to a wall today?”

His mouth cocks in that crooked smile, “Yeah.”

“That was maybe two years in so once they got me back I was in Hydra for five or so more years. I… heard things.” You pause, hating this. “And… He… He brought you back some time after, a few months maybe. Time… all that time is so fluid so I’m not certain. And while I was… restrained… he asked you if you knew me. You said no. He asked if you’d kill me. You looked me in the eyes and said yes. He… ordered you to choke me.” You hear the metal plates shift. “You did. He stopped you before I lost consciousness. Sent you away. Then told me not to be mistaken, what happened before was just a moment of dumb luck, a malfunction. That the Soldier wasn’t on my side.”

His jaw is tight and you notice a vein throb in his neck, “He wasn’t.” Taking a deep breath he asks, “What was your question?”

“Why’d you do it?” He stares not understanding. “Why’d you help me? Why risk it for someone you didn’t know?”

Suddenly he looks a million miles away. “You reminded me of someone I used to know, someone… someone important to me. He didn’t know when to quit when he was outgunned. Neither did you.” He smiles, not the show-stopping one, this smile is melancholy, almost mournful.

“Sounds like a good dude.”

“Mhm…” again his hand rakes back his hair and he dons his cap. “I gotta get there before they close.”

“Alright. Thank you…” He nods and you’re alone.

You don’t have anything to make a bubble bath so you stick with just a shower, water so hot it stings. Had a shower ever felt quite this good?

Leaning your head against the far wall you let the scolding water pound against your back, reveling in the lack of urgency. Massaging your breasts, so sore from being bound all day, happy that you can finally breathe unencumbered. Muscles you had forgotten were tense begin to release and a few racking wet coughs rip through your chest. Suddenly you’re exhausted. You shut the water off, quickly dry your cropped hair, and wrap the towel around you.

Annoyingly you realize all your shirts are filthy, you had intended to do laundry today. He let you in his house you don’t suspect he’ll mind that you steal a t-shirt. 

Slipping into a pair of clean boxer briefs, you go to the closet and pull out a black t-shirt. It’s soft and smells vaguely spicy as you slip it over your head. The fit isn’t exactly oversized on you but just big enough to be incredibly comfortable.

You sit cross-legged on the double mattress, even without a bed frame its worlds more comfortable than what you’d been sleeping on, to put your few toiletries and dirty clothes in your bag. Another wave of bone-deep exhaustion hits. You rest your head in your hands… Then there’s nothing.

Chapter 9

Consciousness comes slowly. There’s a blanket over you, warm. The bed is soft… too soft. This isn’t your bed… the smells of dust and mildew aren’t hitting you… this isn’t your squat. And is that… bacon?

You bolt up, momentarily terrified before you remember. Bucky, his apartment, everything that happened. Jesus… did you really sleep through the night… dreamlessly? And… oh god he invited you into his home and you not only stole a shirt but you stole his bed.

“Good morning,” you look to your left toward the kitchen. He’s standing there with a spatula in one hand and a coffee mug in the other, his hair in a messy half bun, same kind of tee you’re wearing stretched across his chest, smiling that damn smile.

“Morning,” you don’t have fucking pants on. Internally you’re groaning.

“Nice shirt.”

Are you actually fucking blushing? You’re a grown ass woman Y/N, get it together. “Yeah, sorry. I realized my clothes are dirty… I need to do laundry. I’ll wash this too.”

“It’s not really a big deal,” he looks back to the stove. Bacon sizzles and your mouth waters.

Glancing down, your nipples undeniably visible, it hits you that you don’t even own a bra. If you could disappear you would. A voice in the back of your head pops up, ‘Bitch, how many weekends did you spend on Riis beach, tits to the wind not giving a fuck?’ That was her though, one of those dead Y/Ns. Be that as it may… she’s not wrong. You’re acting ridiculous.

“Sorry I jacked your bed,” you stand and fold the blanket that, you realize now, he must have covered you with since it was on the couch the last you saw it.

“It’s ok, I’m… not much of a sleeper.”

“Me either usually,” you lay the blanket on the couch.

“How do you like your eggs?”

“Huh?” He’s pulling bacon out of the pan and takes a gulp of coffee.

“Your eggs, how do you like them? Or do you like them?”

“You don’t have to-“ he cocks an eyebrow, “Any way.” His head tilts, disbelieving, “No, really. I love eggs so I’m just not picky.” This seems sufficient and he begins cracking them into the bacon grease. Fuck. Yes. You think as you stand awkwardly by the couch.

“Oh,” he cracks the last egg and steps back to grab a mug off the shelf behind him. “I assume you also like coffee?”

For a second you wonder why this is an assumption and remember that he saw you at Starbucks, and if he’d been following you for nine days then he’d definitely noticed you getting at least a cup but usually more every day. And who doesn’t like coffee? “It’s my one true love,” you say reaching for the mug.

He turns back to tend the eggs, “I didn’t know if you liked it black or not so I got cream and sugar just in case.”

You can’t help but smile down into the mug as you fill it with god’s gift to mankind. “Black first thing, usually.”

Turning back you see him perfectly flip the last two eggs, Nice. Your eyes close as you take a deep drink of the bitter and exceptionally strong coffee, always comforting. When you open them his eyes are running up your body. When they get to yours he brandishes a mischievous smile and there’s a flash of something wicked for just a second. You can’t help but wonder what this man was like before he went to war.

He turns back to the stove plating the eggs. “Dressing like a man was smart,” he says matter of factly grabbing the plate of bacon and eggs and nods toward the small table. You hadn’t noticed that he’d set two plates out, you sit at the chair with its back toward the door. “Actually…” his eyes wander to the door and you’re surprised he wants to sit there.

“Oh, sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize.” he sets the food in the middle and you see he’s made enough for at least four people. He notices your wide eyes. “I don’t think you really ate yesterday,” he sits, “and you can’t just live on coffee.” There’s something in the way he looks at you that says in those nine days he took note of your terrible habit of not eating often. Stress always stole your appetite, and your life was nothing but stress now. In this moment though, you could eat every egg and piece of bacon on that plate.

“No complaints from me.” You slide four of the eggs and a shameful portion of bacon on your plate. He grins taking a sip of coffee. The mug is almost empty. “Here,” you grab his and take a huge drink from your own mug.

He half rises, “You don-“

“Sit,” you command, he does. “You let me into your home after… yesterday. I stole your shirt. Stole your bed. And you just made me an ample and much fucking needed breakfast. Let me fill your damn mug.” You spin on your heel and head for the kitchen.

“Yeess mam,” you hear him say quietly. You set his mug down and he glances up through his lashes, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” For a few moments, you eat silently. Why did home cooked food always taste better? “So, my drag was pretty convincing?” He cocks his head to the side, mouth filled with egg, “Dressing like a man.”

He chases his mouth full with coffee before responding, “From a distance. The lack of stubble is suspect, no Adam’s apple, but concealing your figure was a smart move. And cutting your hair.” Always that pang of sadness for your lost locks. Blame it on being a Leo. “I saw you without sunglasses once. Was it not for that I don’t think I would have seen it was you.” You nod. Fairly pleased with the answer.

“How’d you think of it?”

You shrug. “Just made sense.”

He stares, not buying it. “Sense that plenty of people on the run don’t make.”

You shove half a piece of bacon in your mouth, salty and greasy and so so right. “Honestly, I didn’t. Not at first. I did cut my hair, the moment I got out.” His eyes slit with his unasked question, “No one could grab me by it if it was gone…” you wash that nugget down by draining your mug. You go to get up.

“I got it,” he turned over his shoulder, “You can keep going if you want.”

You exhale, “But yeah, that was it, just the hair. Thanks.” He reclaims his seat. “I got out of the country easy enough, not the first time I had to get new ID’s.” His eyebrows raise in surprise. You laugh a little, “Yeah Sara Madison was not a real person. Or she was but… she never really lived. Anyway.”

“Wait,” he puts up a hand, “Sorry, I just… realized, I don’t know your name.” You swallow hard. Eyes focusing on a small pool of grease on the serving plate. “You don’t ha-“

“Y/N,” you spit it out more exposed by that bit of truth than your lack of bra or proper pants could ever make you feel. Your voice trembles a bit, the syllables sounding wrong, “My name is Y/N. I never went by Sara, just said my mom named me that out of tradition but always wanted to call me Y/N. Which I guess is technically true since she did name me that.”

When you meet his eyes he smiles, the real one, and his eyes crease at the edges, “It’s great to meet you, Y/N,” his right-hand reaches across the table to shake yours, you take it. “Even if you stole my shirt and bed.”

You slap his hand away, “Don’t forget knocking you unconscious.” He laughs a quick ringing burst, his whole face lighting up. Bucky Barnes, you realize, has one of those faces that’s meant for laughing and you can’t help but laugh too.

“Yeah. Well, I’m an old man. I can forget a lot of things.” You roll your eyes. “So, you got out.”

“Mhm. I’d always wanted to go to Berlin.”

“Why?”

“Cabaret is one of my favorite musicals,” the look on his face says he has no clue what that is, “and it’s one of the gay capitals of Europe.” This seems to be genuinely surprising to him.

“Oh are you-“

“Does it matter?” Always an edge to you with this, ready at any moment to fight.

“No, I was just curious.” But it does matter. This is important. A hard-won part of who you are still. Something they couldn’t take.

“I’m bisexual… and it matters. I just… I grew up in a region where it wasn’t-”

“I was born almost a century ago. You don’t have to explain. But for what it’s worth it’s not something that… bothers me.” You’re ready to pop off that you don’t care if it bothers him when he looks to the side for a minute like he’s listening to something. “One second.” He quick steps to his bag, pulls a specific notebook out and jots something down, a sweet smile on his face, then returns to the table. “Sorry.”

Your curiosity gets the best of you, “Bucky,” he starts a bit at the sound of his name, “are you, were you…?

“Gay?” You nod while sipping your coffee. He shrugs, “I haven’t thought much about it, I don’t think so. I just… remember escorting these two girls to a dance who were. I think we pretended they were both my date but I just made sure no one fucked with them… it’s fuzzy but… there.”

With that, your defensiveness disappears. “So, yeah,” you continue with a sigh, “Berlin seemed like as good a choice as any.” Your stomach flips just a bit at the memory. “A Hydra agent spotted me,” his brows knit, “he immediately engaged, I don’t think he had time to tell anyone. But I…” You clench your jaw worried you’ll lose your breakfast.

“Did what you had to.” The fingers of his right hand brush those of your left.

Shrugging you continue, “Either way after that I knew a haircut wasn’t enough.” You almost don’t say it, don’t want to feel that void but it tumbles out, “I had a friend… more like a brother really who was trans.” He wants to ask but is nervous. “Transgender, it’s when the binary, male or female, gender they give you at birth doesn’t mesh with who you know you are. So, Nix,” your voice breaks a bit at his name, “he was told he was a girl when he was a kid but he knew that wasn’t right.” You swear you can almost hear him making a mental note to store this new piece of information in one of his little books.

“Anyway, he told me once when we were in New Orleans it always surprised him that all it took for people he used to be acquaintances with from school or whatever to not even see him was a haircut and not having tits.” Your hand goes to your own chest, for your aching heart or dreading binding your own chest again you weren’t certain.

Bucky chuckles, “People see what they expect. Most don’t really pay attention.”

You nod, “Before I left Berlin I was someone else again, this time a man. It’s worked so far.” You gesture at him, “Present company not included.”

“We will say I’m just an anomaly.”

The plates are empty and you’ve both had more coffee than should be allowed. You sigh and stand grabbing your plate and the serving plate. He goes to protest, “You cooked, that means I do the dishes. This is the universal rule, and you can’t convince me it didn’t exist in the time before dishwashers.”

He grabs the rest of the dishes. “Fair. But let me dry.”

You wash and dry the dishes in companionable silence.

Chapter 10

You plop on the couch pulling your bag to you groaning.

“What’s wrong?” He sounds so concerned your heart aches for a second.

“Nothing,” you laugh a little, “I just never thought I’d still hate doing laundry even when I own like six pieces of clothing total.” He studies you a minute and goes to his small closet. He throws a dark blue button up at you and your power catches it midair. You peek around the floating garment and look at him quizzically.

“Get dressed,” a pair of jeans sail over the suspended shirt and you catch it normally.

You stand to snatch the shirt, “I own pants.”

“How many pairs?”

Shaking your head, “1.5.”

“Please explain how someone can have half a pair of pants?” In response, a pair of too big jeans cut off at the knee rise from your bag. He shakes his head, “What in the hell are those?”

“My laundry day pants.”

“A disgrace is what they are.” You really can’t argue. “We’re getting you some clothes.”

Your pride prickles at this, “I can get my own clothes,” and you send his clothing hurling at him. His metal hand catches them and he massages the bridge of his nose.

“But you don’t.” You stare incredulously. “You said you have six pieces of clothing, no five because I won’t count whatever those monsters you showed me were. You could get your own clothes but you don’t. You’re an exceptional thief,” your mouth opens to defend yourself, “that’s a compliment,” he fends you off, hands up. “And you have passible documents, obviously the know-how to get new ones if needed. Easy enough to get a place. Yet you chose to live in something no better than a cave.” He holds your cold stare for a second and sighs. “In the nine days I observed you, I think I saw you eat maybe, maybe, four or five times and even then not much. You could have been eating in that house but I didn’t see anything besides some bottled water there so I’m assuming you weren’t.” Your eyes are firmly planted on the ground.

“I did, see you drink no less than five huge coffees a day, black mostly I’m assuming. I did see you burn through what, a pack a day, at least? But you don’t seem to even be a habitual smoker because in the whole time I’ve been around you, you haven’t lit up once and you left the pack you had in your squat. I did see you drink-“

“Enough!” Who the fuck does he think he is?! Your ragged jeans, the full-length ones, land in your hand and you slip them on. “Thank you for reminding me that you were stalking me for over a week without me having a fucking clue, makes me feel super confident about my ability to keep myself alive.” You grab your bag and boots, “And thank you for the bed and breakfast experience but I can take care of myself.”

You’re about to turn the doorknob when you hear him say, “But you don’t.” You pause for just a moment, “You don’t because you think you don’t deserve it.” Now you’re frozen. “Anything that happened to you there wasn’t your fault and anything you may have done… you have to try and forgive yourself for.” You look over your shoulder at him, he’s looking right at you, metal arm still clutching the clothes hanging at his side. “If you need a point of reference, I promise you I’ve done far worse things, and I’m not sure what I even deserve… but the basics food, clothing, shelter, even I allow myself that.”

When you escaped Hydra six months ago you had just wanted to end it. What was the point of living anymore? All the people who mattered were dead, erased from everything. You had less than nothing. But you couldn’t do it.

After Nix found you at 15 you had told him you wanted to just die. He’d said, “Fuck that! The best way to get back at every asshole who’s hurt you is to keep living. Don’t give them the satisfaction of winning, they don’t deserve it.” You couldn’t let him down now so you decided to live, go on for them. But… you weren’t really living. You were just, alive. Suddenly you felt so ashamed. You owed it to them, to Nix, to yourself to do better than this.

Your tongue didn’t want to obey but you drop your boots by the door and strode over to him, yank the proffered clothing out of his hand without making eye contact, and slam the bathroom door closed.

Staring in the mirror you glare at yourself. Door slamming? Really? Are you a teenager?

You lift your breasts up, binding them tightly. Maybe too tight. But a twinge of pain is grounding and you leave it. The button up is blue-black, Brings out my circles beautifully. You’d never been more thankful for your broad shoulders than in these last few months. they made passing easier, as did the muscles you’d gained over years of training with Hydra. Concealing your wide hips and hourglass torso was easy with layers. The jeans were too long as was the shirt, ending just below your ass. You may have always been thick but tall, not so much. You lift the denim from its resting place just above your pubic bone and cinch them with a belt closer to your waist. tuck the front of the shirt in leaving the back out to further hide your curves. The sleeves you roll to your elbows before stealing yourself to face the aftermath of your own bullshit.

He’s sitting comfortably on the couch reading the book of Cummings’ poems when you come out. Looking at you over the book he gives you a small smile and you almost wince. Y/N. You’re a fucking asshole.

He left your boots by a dining table chair, even laid your jacket, which you’d almost stormed off without, over the chair for you. You crumple into it. “I… I’m…”

“You really don’t have-“

“I do though.” He’s slipped a piece of stray paper into the book and is looking at you with a gentle expression. “By and large you’ve been needlessly nice to me. And this… I’ve always been bad at accepting help and everything… I don’t know how to be a fucking person anymore on top of it.”

He lets out a humorless laugh. “I’m struggling with being a human again too… I get it.”

“Well, you’re certainly better at it than me.”

“Hardly.” He sets the book aside. You slip into the boots. “So, you good to go?” He’s walked over to you and reached out his right hand. You take it.

“Yeah.” He slips gloves over his hands and you wonder if he had them yesterday. and grabs his cap.

Clothes shopping with The Winter Soldier, you think, What the fuck is even my life?

Chapter 11

There’s a distinct shift in him the moment you walk outside that you didn’t notice last night. His face is hard again, that frozen look screaming don’t fuck with me or I will kill you. He stays close, pacing himself to match your smaller stride and always on the side facing the road.

You slip into a dimly lit thrift store. The bored cashier hardly notices you and continues to look at her phone. A wave of nostalgia hits you. How many times had you wasted an afternoon digging for treasure at places like this? Every apartment you’d had was decorated in secondhand finds, half your wardrobe was either handmade or thrifted. Your heart lifts. And without thinking you head to a rack of dresses.

He doesn’t say anything. Your hand glides over an airy black maxi dress complete with bell sleeves and crochet details, very Stevie Nicks, very close to your size. Very not what you’re here for. You sigh.

“Old habits,” you say forcing a dry laugh and he just softly smiles.

At the men’s racks, you grab a few pairs of jeans and a couple of button-ups you think will work, t-shirts you’ll buy new. “Excuse me?” You say in flawless Romanian, thanks again Hydra, “Is there somewhere I can try these on.” The cashier doesn’t even look up just points to a curtain at the back of the store.

He eyes it suspiciously. “I’ll check for monsters,” you say over your shoulder.

It all fits well enough. You snag a pair of sweatpants and a few sweaters, fall was setting in hard, as you head to the front. Items in hand you tease, “Acceptable?”

“It’ll do,” he smirks. You note the bag in his hand. “Jeans,” he shrugs.

You pay though you’re pretty sure you could have walked out with everything and she wouldn’t have cared. “Now I can stop stealing your shirts,” you say as you slip your sunglasses on outside.

“That one doesn’t really fit me anyway. In the chest.” You do your best not to think of a button up straining against his frame and fail… miserably.

You see a used bookstore up ahead. “Mind if we stop in?”

“Sure. You like to read?”

“Well yeah.”

“I just didn’t see any books.”

You shrug. “I’ve been going to libraries. But, I’m a regular bibliophile.” You open the door, a cheery bell tings. A giant orange tabby stretches on the counter, far more attentive than the thrift store cashier.

A small squeak slips from your lips, “Ooooh baby hiiii!” You scratch the cat’s chin and he purrs loudly. “You’re a pretty baby,” you dig your hands into his fur cupping his face and planting a kiss on his pink nose.

“Cat person?” He’s eying you.

“Oh…” You pull back, “Yeah… I mean dogs are great too but I’ve always had an affinity for cats.”

“Buna dimineata!” A bent old man calls from the back of the store and you can see Bucky tense up. “You’ve met Victor I see, he’s got better hearing than me these days.” The man steps behind the counter and pets his companion. “Can I help you find anything?”

You can’t help but smile. You’re sure to drop your voice a bit before asking, “Do you have any books in English?”

“Oh yes!” He waves you to five somewhat sparse rows of shelves in the back. “These are in English, and I’ve got more boxes in the back I haven’t gone through yet.”

“Can we look at those?” You’re surprised at Bucky’s question.

“Sure, sure,” he begins to hobble to the back door. You go to follow but Bucky catches you with his left hand, gentle whirring of gears, and he gestures for you to stay behind him. There’s a part of you that’s annoyed but you’re also undeniably touched.

You walk into a dusty back room filled with books. “Lots of back stock. It’s hard for me to get through it all these days.” Bucky looks around the tension seems to slip from him.

“We could help you,” he looks at you as if to ask if that’s ok with you. You nod in agreement, not like you have some pressing engagement.

The man is visibly surprised, “Well I,” he clears his throat, “I couldn’t exactly pay you.

“We’d take payment in books,” you say and it’s Bucky’s turn to nod in agreement.

“Truly?” You both nod and Bucky flashes one of those smiles. The old man lets out a raspy laugh. “Well,” he gives you both a once over, “why not,” he throws his arms up in exclamation. Holding a hand to Bucky, “Robert Goldstein.”

“Nice to meet you, sir,” he gives the man’s hand a firm shake, “Grant.”

You eye him, that’s the most random name. The man reaches to you, “Nicholas.”

He shows you both where the ladder you won’t be needing is and when he grasps at his back Bucky leads him to the front and insists he relax that the two of you are happy to help.

While he’s up front you pick up an old book, not bothering to look at the title, and open it. You don’t look at the words just bury your nose in the pages and breathe deep. Next to coffee, this is the best smell in the world.

“Better than flowers,” you didn’t hear him behind you and your jump sends you about three feet in the air. “Woah, sorry,” he lays his right hand on your forearm coaxing you back to the ground. “Do, uh, you always get a little… floaty when you’re startled?”

You laugh and set the book down. “Not always.” You glance to his hand still on your arm and he quickly removes it. “Do you always sort books for random old men?” He laughs a bit.

“Nah,” he pulls a box off the top of a metal shelf.

“Did he say how he’d like them sorted?”

The box thuds to the ground, and a little mushroom cloud of dust lifts. He reaches for another. “Yeah, ‘Lose alphabetical order.’” Another plop and dust cloud. “Said there’s the English book section he showed us and most everything else is Romanian.” He plucks a book off the top, “This box must be one of the Romanian ones.” He sits, back facing the door, and gestures to the other. “No work, no free books.” You playfully use your power to toss a book from one of the boxes at his face, he catches it. “You’ve really got to stop hitting me in the head with things. I’m a fragile old man.” You snort out a laugh and take a seat.

You sort through the first two boxes, he takes A-K and you the rest. Once Mr. Goldstein sees you two are actually doing what you said you would he’s delighted, thanking you both profusely. Happy to see that there are, “Nice young men left in the world.”

Bucky makes it back to the storeroom before you and has already set two more down. “English,” he says holding up a copy of Midsummer Night’s Dream.

“Nice,” you take your place.

“You want this one?”

The words tumble out, easily, before you can stop them, “No, I’ve always been more of a tragedies girl. The others are so overdone, and so often done badly. Plus I think his villains are often more compelling than his heroes.”

“Got a strong opinion on The Bard I see.” Your heart races a little. You want to say that was another Y/N, but you just can’t. Instead, you shrug. “Got a favorite?” He hands it to you for your S pile.

“Macbeth,” you say automatically staring at the cover featuring that stupid donkey head.

He gives you a second to see if you’ll elaborate before asking, “Why Macbeth?”

You open your mouth and nothing comes out at first then it’s as if a ghost possesses you and you spill as you sort a bunch of shitty harlequin romances, “I always liked Lady Macbeth, she’s diabolical but also she’s just trying to make it in a male-dominated world, and she’s not sympathetic, not really. Women characters are so often on that maiden, mother, whore spectrum and in a way, I always felt she subverted that. Then there’s the witches, powerful women who don’t give a fuck, so good. They were fun to do too.”

He gives you that squinting look, “Were you an actress?”

And she’s off again, that automatic rebuttal as second nature as breathing, “Hell no. I’m a-“ you bite your tongue. You’re dead Y/N, you aren’t anything anymore… You clear your throat, ignore the tears burning in your eyes. “Was, I was a technician. Costumes.” You grab the books, your box empty. “I’m going to put these up.” You leave before he can say anything else. Fucking Shakespeare.

Chapter 12

Now, you want a cigarette. The last 24 hours have been far too much and you’re done. Bucky wasn’t wrong, you weren’t necessarily a habitual smoker but you were a ‘when you want one you need one’ kind of smoker. 

You walk to the newsstand across the street to snag a pack of cheap ones and a lighter. You cross back, tapping the pack against your left hand, the lighter held in your teeth. 

That first drag is almost as good as the first sip of coffee. Annoyingly you have noticed, as with drinking and caffeine, it takes so much more for it to really do anything than it used to. But the motion is still soothing in its own way. You take a long pull and look up at the blue sky puffing perfect smoke rings. 

The bell on the bookshop door tinkles and Bucky emerges. “If you’re going to tell me these will kill me I would really rather you keep it to yourself.”

“They will and I wasn’t,” he leans against the wall next to you, “I was going to ask for one.” You stare at him for a long second before proffering the pack. He takes one and before you can hand him the lighter he pulls a knock-off Zippo out and lights it. 

He drags hard, letting the smoke escape from his nose. You stare up at him and he looks down at you through the cloud, “Yes?”

“Just wondering why you gave me shit for smoking earlier, since you obviously do too,” you turn away inhaling and looking across the street. 

He snorts, twin plumes rise in your peripheral, “I gave you shit for smoking a pack a day or more when it’s clear you aren’t doing so because you need to.”

“So what you’re saying is,” you take a drag, “if I was an addict it would be fine.” 

“No,” he drops his to the ground, stamps it with his boot, and picks up the butt, all with the last vestiges of smoke curling out of his nose. He looks right at you, “But you wouldn’t be doing it for the sole purpose of hoping it would kill you.” He turns and tosses it in the nearby trash can. 

“Touche,” you tamp your cigarette against the brick wall and he gives you a half-hearted smile before heading back inside. 

Was I always this defensive? You wonder as you head to the trash can. Why does he keep asking me questions? Doesn’t he realize I don’t want to fucking remembe- Then it hits you and you grab the edge of the trash can groaning. 

You really have forgotten how to be a human. You don’t want to remember, you want to let the old versions of yourself, the battered child and the resilient woman, you want to let them both die in the pit of forgotten things and move on, void of a past. He does not. He cannot. He needs to remember, desperately needs to find that past version of himself. All his questions aren’t solely because he wants to know you, they’re also because he’s hoping you’ll ask back so he can get to know himself. 

You think back to how he lit up last night when you asked about Totonno’s, how that led him to another memory, how this morning through talking to you he remembered escorting those women to protect them. You, Y/N, are a complete and total asshole.

Back inside you smile at Mr. Goldstein and head to the storeroom. He’s sitting in his place, two more boxes on the floor back to the door. Not wanting to startle him you gently rap on the frame. “You know I heard you the moment you walked in right?” You wince a bit at his cold tone but, honestly, it’s the least you deserve. 

“How’d you know it was me?”

“The way you walk,” he sets the book he’s pulled out to the side, a collection of poetry in Romanian. 

“You couldn’t see me?”

“I could hear it,” you walk around him to reclaim your own spot, he still hasn’t looked at you, “hear how you set your foot down. You don’t put your heel down hard, mainly carry yourself forward on the balls of your feet,” he sets a book in its alphabetical pile. “Dancers and people who wear heels a lot walk like that. Good for being quiet, and moving quickly, shit if you want to have a solid footing.”

“That’s some hearing for a fragile old man,” that gets you a bemused look. “I don’t walk that way from excess heel wearing, I always hated heels, and I’m no dancer,” you start sorting your own box, handing him an author beginning in B. “I got used to sneaking around a lot as a kid and I guess it just stuck.”

“Why?” He asks this like he doesn’t expect an answer. 

“Mom had a series of assholes for boyfriends.” He looks at you, brows knitted. You shrug. “So, I learned to be quiet. I couldn’t always just float.”

“I figured.” You cock your head, “I just… I thought… they gave you this-“

“No,” you hover a book from the top of your box to your hands. “This has always been mine.” You spin the thick volume on your upturned palm. “It’s why they wanted me.” It falters and falls, “But they did make it… stronger? Or maybe just pushed me to use it more. Either way, I used to just be able to move medium-sized objects or use it to help move big ones. Came in handy moving a couch to a 4th-floor walk up.”

He snickers, “I bet.” The silence hangs. 

“So, do you have a favorite Shakespeare piece?” He looks at you hard for a second and you smile, Please just know I’m sorry, I’m so tired of saying it.

“I don’t think so,” he blankly studies the cover of a book. “I don’t remember reading many of his plays, I did take a girl to see one about this woman who was,” his eyes squint into the middle distance, reaching for that memory. “A harlot? No…”

“Taming of The Shrew?” 

“That’s it!” He pulls a little notepad from his back pocket and jots it down, you can’t help but smile. “I liked it.”

“I like that one too.”

“I thought you were a tragedies girl.”

You laugh, “Yeah but 10 Things I Hate About You is hands down my favorite romcom.” 

“What?” 

“Romcom. Romantic comedy.” He still looks confused. “Oh! It’s a movie, based on the play but set in a high school in the 90’s. I kind of hate most romance flicks but that one is an exception.” You realize he probably hasn’t seen many movies.

“I’ll have to watch that.”

“You should,” he hands you a stack of books for your piles, “It’s silly but good.”

He chuckles, “I like silly.”

“Yeah?”

“St- a friend and I would always go see Chaplin or the Marx brothers, stuff like that. We’d go to see pictures all the time, even if we had to sneak in,” he’s wearing that sad smile. He almost said a name, you aren’t sure if he’s worried it’s the wrong name or if he doesn’t want to share it… He laughs, eyes glassy, “Got caught sneaking into Duck Soup, we were 16 I think. We ran but he, my friend, fell behind, he had trouble breathing, so I had him get on my back,” his eyes crinkle. “God, we must have looked so ridiculous.” 

“Did you get away?”

There’s that incredible smile. “We did. By hiding in a dumpster,” he shakes his head, “that was Steve’s-“ he comes up short smile vanishing, takes a shaky breath, “his idea.”

You smile, “Clever.”

“He always was.” He’s so far away. “And so goddamn stubborn.” He’d said you had reminded him of someone when you were pitted against one another at the facility. You’re scared to ask but you swallow hard and go for it.

“This friend, was he the one I reminded you of? When… when we…” He looks at you, smile so tender it makes your chest contract. 

“Yeah,” his voice cracks a little and he clears his throat looking away. “He was… my best friend, my… family.” His left hand seizes into a fist, the metal whirrs in the silence and the glove strains to contain it’s secret. You reach over and lay a hand over the hard metal aching for his loss, too close to your own. 

He jerks his hand back and for a moment you’re a little hurt, then you see Mr. Goldstein approaching. “You kids are making good progress.” 

“Yessir,” Bucky responds, no sign of the previous emotions in his tone. He stands, grabbing his stacks. “Once we’ve finished these that’ll make six boxes.”

“Fantastic!” Mr. Goldstein claps his hands. Victor, the cat, lazily strolls in and rubs his face on Bucky’s legs. “Victor seems to approve too. I should have known you were good boys when he took to you, cats have a sense about people you know?”

You look at Victor, contentedly winding around Bucky’s feet, purring, “Yeah, they do.”

Mr. Goldstein nods. “Well once you two are done with those I’m closing up. Have afternoon Shabbat. Don’t forget to pick your books.” He turns and hobbles back to his perch in the front. 

Victor is still making his circuit around Bucky. He sets one handful of books on the desk and bends down to scratch the cat’s ears. “I think your senses may be a little busted, bud,” he whispers. Victor only purrs louder. 

“Nope,” he looks up at you somewhat surprised, “Victor’s senses are just fine.”

Chapter 13

You both assure Mr. Goldstein you’ll be back on Monday and leave with one book each even though he insists you take more. Bucky chose the Romanian poetry book he’d put aside earlier and you pick some random sci-fi paperback. Books tucked into your thrift store bags you head out.

“I need a few other things,” you say as you step out. “A pillow,” what you’d been sleeping on… should just be burned and you couldn’t keep stealing his, “some basic tees, stuff like that. I can find them solo and meet back at your place?” Way to make some assumptions Y/N. “That is… if you… if its ok.”

He looks affronted, “Of course it’s ok. You staying. But… if it’s, all the same, I’d like to go with you.” He gives the street a once over and you have a suspicion that part of his desire to accompany you is to make sure no one follows you back.

You shrug, “Sure, the company is… a nice change of pace.”

“There’s a place not too far from here that should have everything you need.”

“Lead on,” you gesture forward and he takes the roadside and does.

Admittedly the walk is a touch farther than you thought it would be but it was a pleasant afternoon and though he was quiet, you weren’t lying earlier, the company was nice.

You’re pretty surprised when you come up to a busy Marks & Spencer. Bucky is decidedly tenser in the well-lit store. His left-hand flexing and relaxing, the subtle sounds of metal.

“Hey,” you lay a hand on his left arm he flinches, “you ok.”

He nods one hard nod, “Just not a fan of places like this, well lit, a lot of people.”

“I really can take care of this by myself. You can just wait outside or I can meet you-“

“No, it’s fine.”

“Ok, but if you need to go, that’s also fine.” He nods and you set off. He may be tense but you hadn’t been into a store like this in… years. It was kind of nice, normal feeling.

Five minutes in and you’re feeling like he may be onto something. You note a small black dome on the ceiling, Cameras, there are cameras everywhere here. Your anxiety ticks up a notch. A baby starts screeching and your teeth begin to grind. No easy exit. Finally, you locate the pack of basic tees you want and grab two and some more boxer briefs.

You head for the registers until you notice he’s not with you, you turn, “Pillow?” he says cocking his head toward the other side of the store.

“Right.”

After escaping you walked for four days, damn near non-stop, in muggy April weather. This trek across a store on a busy Saturday afternoon? Is about a hundred times worse. Your anxiety rises higher and higher with every step. A child barrels into your legs and you almost snap. The burning in your restricted chest feels worse with every pained breath. When you see an end cap with pillows you think it’s the most beautiful store display ever made.

“This is good let’s get the fuck out of here.” Bucky nods, a vein in his throat throbbing.

Purchase made you both practically bolt for the door. People seem to clear a path and you’re pretty sure you’re both sporting faces that scream: WE HAVE MURDERED PEOPLE AND YOU WILL BE NEXT IF YOU DON’T MOVE. You make it about half a block before you veer off into an alley and rest your hands on your knees. Anxiety breaking laughter bubbles out of you.

Bucky stares at you, “Did I miss something?”

You wave him off, “I ca-“ a laugh cuts you off. You’re crying, hysterical. “It’s just,” he can’t help but smile now, “Fuuuuck,” you breathe out, massage your chest, try to get enough air in before another giggle hits.

“What the hell?” A laugh breaking through.

“We are fucking useless,” you finally get out. You wipe your eyes. “You’re well, you know, and I was,” a laugh, “fucking world class murder machines and we can’t go into a normal ass store without having a breakdown.” He shakes his head, seeing the ridiculousness of it. “Espionage, hacking, hell I don’t even know how many languages I speak. Send me to buy a t-shirt, have a five-year-old run into me, and I’m spent.” This makes his face collapse into a laugh, it’s rich and full and heart lifting.

He giggles, “Millions of dollars worth of investment,” he holds up his left hand.

“To make absolutely useless humans.”

“No wonder they were doomed to fail.”

“Put out shit product. Terrible business model.” He’s leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed, staring at you and smiling. You inhale as deeply as you can, “Woo. Sorry, that just got me.”

He waves you off, “Gallows humor is still humor.”

You back off the wall and give a cheesy grin and thumbs up, “Thank’s crippling anxiety, you’re good for something after all.”

He playfully slaps at your raised thumb, “Let’s head back. It’s a good ways to go.”

You realize walks with him are quiet because he’s always looking, eyes moving methodically, constantly absorbing information about your surroundings, the information you’d never think to look for. Senses on high alert.

A little more than halfway back to his apartment your own senses pick something up. Shaorma*. Your stomach growls and your eyes locate the offending shaormerie. Not too much of a line and good god it smells like magic.

“Hey,” you slow and he glances back, “Since you treated me to breakfast how about I get us an early dinner?” You nod in the direction of the shaormerie. You can see him calculating, there’s a short line but the tables are packed save for some out on the sidewalk and, just like you, he’s likely done with people. “To-go.”

He stares at the storefront a second longer, “That sounds great, actually.”

Large quantities of grease-laden comfort food in hand you finally make it back to the apartment.

Chapter 14

Your chest is screaming but your stomach is much louder. Shopping bags abandoned at the front door you both ditch your jackets and sit down to tear into your shaorma. It’s like the best gyro and kebab you’ve ever had made a baby and then someone put french fries on it. So good, so needed. So much chest pain.

You drop your food to the table and take a few breaths, massaging the space between your breasts. Bucky looks up at you, “It is generally good to take breaths between bites,” he teases. You give him a small smile.

“Thanks for the tip…” you wheeze a bit. “One sec.” You have to get these bandages off now.

You had them on too long today and yesterday for sure, honestly you’ve been wearing them too much altogether. Add to that today’s long walk, near full blown anxiety attack, and yesterday’s breakdown… well, your body is over it, to say the least.

Once in the bathroom, you unbutton your loaner shirt to your waist and reach inside undoing the bandage’s anchors. Immediately you feel the pressure lessen. Pulling it away from your chest you notice a few small thin bruises, Too tight and too long. Stupid. You knew the risks of using bandages to bind your chest. But given the circumstances, you couldn’t exactly just pop online and buy a proper binder and sports bras weren’t enough to be convincing.

You force yourself to cough, something you’d watched Nix do for years, and you have to admit it hurts more than usual. Even without the restriction, you can’t quite get enough air in your lungs. Instead, you settle for short breaths, a distinctive rasp that wasn’t there this morning rattles out each time. Great. You cough a few more times but it does nothing to relieve the heavy feeling in your chest. Accepting there’s nothing you can do about it now you button up a bit and gather the bandages.

He watches you toss your bindings in your bag before you sit down. “That didn’t sound good,” popping the last bite of his shaorma in his mouth.

You take a few smile bites, appetite busted by the pain in your chest. Shrugging, “It’s just one of the many glamorous side effects of binding your chest with bandages.” His eyes narrow, “You’ve just got to be careful to not wear them for too long, the constant pressure on your chest isn’t excellent for you and Ace bandages restrict more over time. But it’s what I’ve got so I make it work.” You lean back in the dining chair, massaging your chest. Bucky looks at you with worried eyes as he gathers his trash.

“Are you,” he gestures to your half eaten meal.

“No, I think I’m good. But I ca-“ He’s already wrapping it up.

“I’ll put it in the icebox.”

You laugh, “Icebox. You are a relic, Barnes,” you wink as he turns back earning you a goodhearted eye-roll. A pain shoots through your chest and a deep cough leaves you gasping.

He’s by your side in a second, left hand on the back of the chair the other on your knee. “I’m fine, really, it will clear up.” You rub your chest again, trying to relieve some of the tension. His mouth presses into a fine line and another intense cough tears through you and you struggle to catch your breath.

“No. You aren’t fine.” You look into his eyes, a blend of stern reproach and worry there, “It sounds like you’ve got fluid in your lungs, and that is not fine.”

“It happens sometimes,” you shrug, “improper binding can cause it, I will be-”

“Stop.” You glare at him but don’t finish repeating yourself. “Fluid sitting on your lungs can lead to pneumonia, it can get bad quick, overnight…”

“Thanks… I guess,” you remembered taking Nix to the ER for that very thing in another life.

“You’ve got to move it-“ you unintentionally cut him off with a cough and another… and you just can’t get it to stop. He begins rubbing your back with his metal hand, the cool pressure feels soothing through the fabric of the shirt. “It’s ok, you’re ok…” You can’t get enough air in and you shake your head disagreeing with his idea that you’re ‘ok.’ “It will be. Don’t panic, that’s going to make it worse, it will pass.” Finally, the coughing gives way to wheezing breaths.

“Ok,” his hand is still rubbing your back, “I know it hurts but take as deep of a breath as you can.” Your eyes search his and he just smiles. “Come on, deep,” and he breaths in time with you, “hold it for a second, let it out.” You do and a gentle cough escapes, much less painful. “Good,” he hands you a napkin left from your dinner, “Do that again but before you fully exhale make yourself cough.” You do and it’s not cute but damn does the release feel amazing, and you’re thankful for the napkin.

You think you’re ok but another fit hits. “Fuck,” you eek out between breaths. He scoots your chair out so he can fully face you.

“Does one side hurt more than the other?” You nod gesturing to your right. He takes a deep breath and you envy his oxygen. “I think I can help you but you would have to be ok with me touching you…” For a second your heart ticks up, “I can help loosen the fluid, but I don’t want to do anything you don’t wan-“

Another cough tears into your chest and you wheeze out, “Yes, it’s fine, whatever is fine.” Before you know it you’re out of the chair and he’s laying you on the bed your right side up.

He lifts your right arm over your head and starts a firm but steady beat with cupped hands just above the bottom of your ribs, “Now breathe like you did at the table, deep breath, hold it, release, deep breath, let almost all of it go, cough.”

You do and after almost five minutes you begin to feel relief. He helps you upright. “Does it hurt or feel heavy anywhere else?” Too intent on breathing you just hold your hand to your upper chest. “Ok…” He looks nervous. “Can I?”

“Yeah,” you breathe out. He sits behind you cross-legged and lays your head in his lap.

He looks down at you, “Are you sure?” You nod but the moment his hands touch the skin of your chest your heart starts racing. He lays his palms flat on your chest and you swear a shiver runs through his whole body. He’s careful, so careful, not to push the shirt too far, not to venture too close to your breasts. There’s no rhythmic beat this time, instead, he begins vibrating his palms. “Breathe,” he says softly eyes locked on yours. And you do.

You only cough a little but the motion convinces the muscles in your chest to relax and you’re left with only a dull soreness to remind you. You close your eyes and breathe normally for a few breaths. The feeling of his hands on your chest, of being close, of connection, overcomes you for a moment.

Slowly you will your eyes to open and you almost lose your hard-won breath. His eyes look at you tenderly, his smile soft, face relaxed. “Thank you,” you whisper. He gives a small nod and goes to move his hands. You suddenly feel panic and pull them back to you before his fingers have even risen.

His face is unsure, “Please, I…” you lay your hands over his, this time you know you feel him shiver. “If it’s ok could we just sit for a second… I…”

“I’d like that.”

Chapter 15

It had been so easy to forget you even had a body for years. Easier to disconnect. It was just something, some corporeal form you were chained to. But right now, you felt anchored with Bucky’s eyes locked on yours, his hands resting on your chest just above your breasts. Hands that held you the night before while you broke, hands that just now somehow knew how to fix your lungs, how to heal. The hands, you now knew beyond a doubt, of a good man forced to do so much evil.

Slowly you slide your hands from his and up to his wrists up to his forearms. One solid flesh and muscle, one smooth metal plates. His eyes close thumbs rub trails along your collarbones sending chills through your body.

His eyes are still closed when you run the fingertips of your right hand against his stubble dusted jaw, your left hand now locked onto that immovable metal arm. He swallows hard, leans down a bit further so your palm can cup his cheek. You reach up and trace the line of his brow, he turns his face a touch as your hand slides down and you feel his lips for just a moment against your skin.

You don’t know how this will go. Or how far you want it to go. But suddenly the need to be touched, really touched, is all-encompassing. It’s not sex. You need intimacy, to be reminded that you’re a human with a body that can be touched. Not a ghost.

Following their previous path, your hands slide down his arms, to his hands where his thumbs are still gently stroking your collar bones and to the buttons on the shirt. His eyes open focusing on your hands and then your face, softly questioning, the slightest trace of worry.

You hold his gaze as you undo one button.

Two buttons.

Three.

Four.

Another, and another.

Done.

You push the shirt, his shirt, away to lay at your sides and run your hands up your torso, in the moment not concerned about the scars or the bruises from your bindings. At his hands, you stop. Beneath them your heart is pounding, you know he can feel it too. Gently you push them down, silently begging him to prove that you’re real.

His brow knits but releases when a small reassuring smile rises to your lips. When his hands begin to move down to your breasts, lingering there for a moment, thumbs slipping over your nipples you shudder and close your eyes. Down they travel, over your ribcage to your abdomen, fingers caressing ever so slightly like he’s reading braille in your goosebumps.

They move along your side and your back arches just a touch. Back to your shoulders he lifts them up, moving your body upright and you think it’s over, and that’s ok. Instead, he slides the shirt off your shoulders and down your arms, his breath hot on your neck, and tosses it aside.

For a second you freeze. You know what sight is there and you can’t. Quickly you turn to face him, up on your knees mirroring him.

His right-hand rises to your face, cupping your left cheek, like that far off nightmare, but this was no nightmare. His thumb traces your lips, his gaze locking yours, his left hand on your waist pulling you closer. You know you both wear questioning looks, know that neither of you is sure how to do this, to do anything that makes you feel like more than a tool to be used until it breaks.

He leans down a bit, presses his forehead to your own, eyes closed, hand still on your face. You reach for his shirt fingers toying with the hem. You don’t know his experience but something about his concern in touching you tells you he’s been where you have, he knows.

“Is this ok,” you whisper. His eyes shoot open.

“Yes,” he says with a breath, his left-hand leaves your waist for a moment and leads your right hand beneath the fabric. When your hand touches his hard torso he draws in a little breath and you slowly inch your left hand under the other side. Not wanting to move too fast you just let your hands sit there, cupped right over his hip bones until he’s ready.

His right-hand slides back to the back of your head, eyes searching. Your hands squeeze his sides in reply and then his lips are on yours.

This isn’t a hungry kiss, no this is something else. It’s not quite desperation but it’s something deeper than just want. A need you both have, something almost primal, something you can’t put into words. And it’s possibly one of the most incredible things you’ve ever felt.

Unhurried his lips caress yours, press in, just the flick of his tongue on your bottom lip, but not demanding. You return in kind tasting just a touch of salt. His left-hand runs up and cradles the other side of your head, fingers running through the soft fluff of your buzzed hair.

He pulls back and you think that if this was it, you’d be able to ride this high for a while. Surprisingly he pulls his shirt off with one hand and your breath hitches.

He’s a truly beautiful man. Broad chest, dark hair sprinkled across its expanse, every inch of him roped in muscle. And scars, so many decorate him like sloppy graffiti, most notably the painful thick ones that reach out from his left shoulder where metal met flesh. Hydra didn’t need their weapons to be pretty, you think.

For a minute you just sit back on your heels, each of you taking the other in. You lean forward, right hand extended and wait for him to nod before you touch him. He wasn’t expecting you to go for the red line above his heart, likely thought you’d want to see how man and machine connected. But no. As you touch it your left hand instinctively rises to a similar one above your own heart.

Trackers. One there and one on your inner right thigh. One purely to know where you were at all times, the other… More of a shock collar to keep the dogs in line. Located close to the heart it could give enough of an electrical jolt to incapacitate an asset if they misstepped. While his is far cleaner than your own it’s clear you both dug them out of your flesh when you broke free. His right thumb brushes against yours, less healed than his, and you wonder if he removed his at an earlier time.

As if you both think you can heal this shared pain you lean into the other at the same time, softly kissing your matching scars. That sends you over the edge, tears sting your eyes and can’t help but fling your arms around his neck. He wraps his around your torso and pulls you against him, the feeling of so much flesh touching your own sending chills through your whole body. Your legs wrap around his waist and he sits back against the wall legs crossed.

Your faces buried in each other’s necks you both begin to cry softly, the feeling of flesh touching flesh, of someone knowing just a little of what you went through overwhelming you both. You pull his face to yours, eyes stormy grey-blue, tears flowing, his Adam’s apple bobbing with his struggle to maintain some kind of composure. It hits you that it’s possible he hasn’t felt another person this close, a person who wasn’t hurting him, for decades. Almost ten times longer than your own struggle.

“You can let go Bucky,” his eyes search yours. You push his hair back, wipe some of his tears, “Right here, with me right now, you’re safe. You can let go.”

He does. His grip crushes you to him and you don’t even care that it’s a little too tight. You run your fingers through his hair as he sobs into your neck, his whole body shaking against yours. Much as yours had the night before the dam he’d put in place is cracking. He didn’t let you drown then and you won’t let him drown either.