Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“C’mon man, just once, to convince your PO you’re trying.” Sam said, wheedling and doing his best impression of Steve's puppy eyes.

“You are my PO.” Bucky grunted back, beginning another round of fast and furious punches to the state-of-the-art dummy. There were some advantages to living on the Avengers compound. Sam following him around wasn’t one of them.

Sam ran a hand over his short hair and looked up at the ceiling, a dramatic display of frustration only partly faked. “Convince me then, Bucky, give me a reason to write a good report.”

“You don’t have nickname privilege, Wilson.”

“If you don’t show up to the next appointment, I’ll revoke your bike privilege. I mean it Barnes. Tuesday, 9am.” Sam stomped away stubbornly.

Bucky landed another tight set of blows on the dummy, frustrated when it kept popping back up. Sam didn’t make idle threats. He considered gutting the rubber man before him like a fish to see what its insides where made of. Stark had designed it though and even if it would make him feel better, he was still on thin ice with the man.

He hit it again, hard as he could.

The malformed face reeled back, self repaired and bounced back up, smirking blankly. Bucky thought it was a smirk anyway. He half expected it to speak.

‘I could do this all day.’

Bucky dropped his fists, stalked away to shower. How bad could it be, really? Some doc sitting in a white room, asking probing questions… terrible, he decided. But he’d go, he needed his bike.

It wasn’t at all like he’d expected. the walls were a soft blue, there was artwork, a forest of trees, the doc didn’t wear a white coat.

It wasn’t what he’d expected.

It was worse.

“How’d it go?” Sam asked in the car on the way back to the compound, he was using the gentle voice people use when handling injured wildlife, afraid of the fangs and concerned for its welfare while it thrashed in the twisted barbed wire.

Barbed wire.

Artillery rocking, bucking, earth, mud sucking at his heels. The cold barrel of a gun against his cheek. Down the sights, squinting against the constant flash of machine gun fire.

A target. An enemy. A German. Young. Bucky could have counted the boys pimples.

5 on his forehead. 3 on the chin.

He held his breath, waited for the space between heartbeats.

And with a featherlight caress of the trigger, another man fell.

Bucky tucked his chin down, pressing his lips tightly together. What he refused to say to the patronizing doctor, he wouldn’t say now, not when the image of his most recently returned memory was so fresh. Still gunpowder and mud-clay on his teeth.

“That bad?” Sam glanced at him, then back to the road ahead. “It takes time, to get comfortable enough to begin, don’t feel bad if you’re not there yet.”

“I’m not going back.”

“Raynor comes highly recommended; she was in the service herself.”

The coaxing tone grated Bucky further and he snapped out loud, “and what difference does that make Sam? Its not like she, or anyone else has been through what I’ve been through. They can’t help me.”

If Sam said anything more before Bucky got out of the car, he didn’t hear it beyond the angry electric buzz in his skull. He punched the infuriatingly indomitable dummy, swam 20 laps in the pool, soaked in the oversized bath in his suite for 3 hours to try to chase away the chill and the memories it brought back. But the nightmares persisted.

1am, he slipped past the entry guards on the motorcycle Steve had given him. The wind stung his face, but he relished in the roar of the engine beneath him, the raw power and possibilities it offered.

A 23 minute ride brought him to a small town with a gas station, café, and a grocery store that had been refurbished since the compound had begun to give them so much new business. The second street wasn’t so brightly lit, houses, a small apartment building and laundromat, an auto repair shop and a car wash.

At the very end sat a small square building, windows so heavily tinted he could see his reflection in them. ‘Stone’s Gym’ hand painted on a small square of plywood with the hours underneath. Mon-Fri 8am – 7pm

No cameras. No cars. Perfect.

He picked the lock quickly, looking over his shoulder to check that the street remained empty and quiet. He closed the door carefully behind himself, and did a cursory scan of the room.

All the usual stuff; treadmills, several different weight machines, a boxing ring and an open flat mat for wrestling. An emergency exit sign glowed in the dark at the far end of the rectangular space marking a hallway leading to a backdoor escape. And there to his right was what he was looking for. Several punching bags hung from hooks in the exposed overhead beams, every possible variety of heavy weight bag stacked against the wall, speedbags and opposition body bags stood on stands.

Bucky avoided those, too much like the indomitable dummies he’d come to hate.

He selected the heaviest bag, swapping it with the light bag on one of the hooks. The bag jerked wildly as he hit it, and he modified his throws so he wouldn’t accidentally split the leather. He didn’t want trouble, or questions; was already memorizing every surface his fingerprints could be on, making a plan to wipe the place clean before he left.

He was just getting into a solid flow, absorbed in the sound of the bag under his fists and the blood pumping in his ears, drowning out the nightmare of memories, and the smug face of Dr. Raynor one perfect combination at a time.

“If your looking for cash, you won’t find it here.” A low female voice spoke from behind him.

Bucky turned to see a woman silhouetted in the front door. Tall and broad shouldered, but the thing that arrested his attention was the gun. She held it properly, in both hands and trained on a spot on the ground just in front of him.

Professional.

50 feet away.

1.5 to 7 seconds for her to raise it an additional foot and squeeze the trigger. If she had any reservations about killing a man.

0.25 seconds if she didn’t.

He could make the back door if she was a bad shot. But he couldn’t calculate the odds on that. And leaving a blood trail would just lead the cops right back to him and Sam would take his bike and Steve would look so desperately disappointed.

He raised his hands slowly, stepping sideways into the slight glow of the exit light. “I don’t mean any harm.”

“Get on your knees, cross your ankles, and keep your hands where I can see them” she ordered, as though she was in charge.

Given that she was the one pointing the gun, perhaps she was. In any case, Bucky obeyed, confident that he could still take her out from that position if she was an assassin.

“Why did you break in here?” She took several steps closer, still leaving a gap large enough to give her weapon the advantage.

He shrugged, freezing in place as she brought her weapon up with his motion. “Sorry, I- I just needed a quiet place to work out.” His voice rough from lack of sleep and he thought he saw an expression like pity on her face.

It was gone before he could be sure, but the gun lowered again. “At 2 in the morning?”

“I didn’t mean any harm, Ma’am, I swear.” Bucky answered,

She moved slightly, took one hand off the gun and flipped a switch on the wall, returning to her ready stance as a dim set of lights illuminated just the punching bag area area, leaving her and the rest of the gym still in darkness.

He caught the slow intake of breath as his gleaming black and gold arm became visible, so soft that ordinary ears would have missed it. This woman was very good at masking her surprise. And she’d retained the advantage of darkness, while blinding him. Strategic; tactical.

“Sargent Barnes, I presume.” She said calmly. The other unspoken question hanging in the air between her weapon and his head.

“Yes Ma’am.”

There was an audible click as the safety engaged and she slipped the gun back into a holster at the small of her back. “Well, Sarge we’re open from 8 to 7. Memberships cost 10 bucks a month or a 100 for the year.” She walked a little closer, motioning him to get up.

He rose to his feet, rolling his shoulder a little. The new arm was better than the old soviet made one, but there were still kinks to work out. “I didn’t want to bother anyone.” He said by way of explanation.

She was close enough he could see her dark hair escaping in wisps from a loose braid. Shadows still occluded her eyes, but the expression of her mouth wasn’t unkind. “You mean: you didn’t want anyone to bother you... Isn’t there a private gym in that massive complex you all live in?”

“Can’t be alone there either, Ma’am.”

“Even in the middle of the night?” She half-laughed incredulously.

“A.I. surveillance, for security. But she talks back.”

The woman cringed sympathetically, “secure maybe, but it sounds awful.”

Bucky shrugged one shoulder, relaxing a little more as she sat on a nearby thigh-master. Her shoulders rounded as she leaned forward, resting her elbow casually on one knee, her eyes still gauging his every movement. A careful display of pretended carelessness.

“Can’t complain ma’am, pretty sure it’s a condition of my parole.”

“Parole? The news said they got the winter soldier out of there.” She tapped the side of her head meaningfully. "Thought they cleared you."

Bucky gulped bowing his head and flexing his jaw. “Yeah. Doesn’t mean they trust me, I’m still a juiced-up soldier with the history of an assassin.”

“Didn’t kill me though.” She said, smiling. “Could have, five ways to Sunday, and I was threatening you with a weapon. Good case for self defense. There’s a lot of soldiers who wouldn’t have hesitated in your position.”

“And you could have shot me when my back was turned, Ma’am.” Bucky sighed deeply, “there’s a lot of blood on my hands, I can’t blame them for wanting me to pay for it.”

“There’s blood on all our hands.” The woman answered solemnly, “but I still got an honorable discharge and a pension, for whatever that’s worth. But you were a P.O.W. that’s a whole different pile of crap to crawl out of.”

Bucky shrugged again, growing uncomfortable with the direction of this conversation, the longest one he’d voluntarily had with someone other than Steve, Sam or T’Challa since he’d woken dripping wet with his arm clamped in a vice in Germany.

“Well Sarge, I suppose an exception could be made.” She said, switching topics too quickly for him to follow. “There’s a keypad on the back door, 831572. You break anything, you pay for it. Deal?”

“What?” Bucky managed to stumble out.

“Just lock up when you’re done, I don’t want vandals getting in again.” She was walking away, throwing these words over her shoulder as she reset the locks and the silent alarm on the front door, then turned and walked past him down the short hallway to the rear exit.

He watched her go with more confusion than ever, realizing only when she’d melted away into the night and the steel door swung shut with a solid clunk, that he didn’t even know her name.

Chapter Text

Bucky fidgeted. The shadows on the painting behind his head made him nervous, he could just see the rays of brushstroke light rays in the reflection of the window pane.

“You’re wasting more than my time here, you know.”

Dr Raynor was studying him. Like a fascinating insect pinned to a bit of white card in the natural history museum Steve had dragged him to the better part of a century ago.

“Your time, your recovery, your probation. The sooner you begin, the sooner it’ll be over.” She was saying, tapping the click pen against the scratchy pad of notepaper.

She shook her head as he fixed his gaze on the clock. Tic, tok. Tic. Tok.

Tic. Tic, tic…

A frantic man, debating over the wire, ‘red, yellow, black?’ The scissors -borrowed from an elderly woman further up the train- hesitated as the tic, tic of the analog clock continued.

No one was supposed to find it. It was a diversion, a relatively small bomb in the luggage compartment that would delay the train, give the Asset a chance to slip something into the tea cup of a traveling dignitary.

Bucky squinted, trying to wash out the image and lose himself in the solemn tic, toc, of the clock that would release him from this purgatory.

Tic, Tic….

The bomb was a perfect replica of another bombers design, a man who had been executed more than a decade ago. There was nothing in it that could be traced back to the Asset or his handlers. There would be less than nothing left when the clock stopped. For the fraction of an instant the Asset found himself muttering under his breath ‘red. Cut the red.’ A buzzing in his skull cut across the English words, and he ducked his head.

Tic.

Boom.

The little hand of the clock touched the 12, and Bucky was on his feet, out the door before Raynor could badger him to make another appointment.

“Hey, I was thinking…” whatever Steve had been about to say was erased as he caught sight of Bucky stalking out of the office building to the car like a cat, ready to pounce on the next thing that moved within his line of sight. “We can just go back.”

Bucky seated himself, rolling his eyes and doing up the belt when Steve raised those aggravatingly expressive eyebrows at him.

Captain-can’t-take-a-hint stuck to Buckys side like a particularly barbed thorn for the rest of the day. Ordering food, matching him punch for punch in the ring. Much as Bucky would have rather buried himself in a prison than talk, Steve’s presence was annoyingly helpful. He had been there after all. For the war at least. And unlike Sam, he didn’t insist on asking questions. A glance, a meeting of eyes and the least obvious of motions showed that he knew.

But Steve hadn’t fought on the wrong side. He didn’t have to live with the knowledge that so many people, good people, innocent people at the very least, had been extinguished by his hands.

So, for the fifth time in a month, Bucky ignored the rumpled sheets on the floor of his room and grabbed a set of keys.

He made the trip in 20 minutes, parked the bike in the dim alley and punched in the code.

The heavy bag waited for him, decorated with a sticky note.

‘Sarge, you overpaid for the membership, unless you meant to pay for several years?’

A second line, added on hastily in less neat script:

‘help yourself to anything in the mini fridge in my office, and if there’s anything I can get for you, a vintage heavy bag or Gatorade or anything, just leave me a note.   SM’

An embarrassed kind of gratitude exuded from the scrappy writing, and Bucky smiled at it. Sweet, he thought, to be thankful for a few bills when you discover the former winter soldier breaking into your gym. Sweet and maybe naïve.

Bucky worked up a sweat on the punching bag, leapt up to grab a beam in his hands and followed it up with some chin ups. Then he relaxed, just hanging there 4 feet off the ground, letting his shoulders stretch.

This silent space, comforting in its simplicity. Sound muffled by mats on the floors and walls. No wall of mirrors here to mock him, no intrusive AI reporting to Steve if he expressed an ounce of his frustration or pain aloud.

The note, the implied acceptance of his nightly prowling. There were change rooms and a bathroom open to regular gym goers, but the private office door was locked when Bucky tried the knob. Had she meant it, he wondered, or had she assumed he could pick that lock as easily as the front door nearly a month ago? An invitation or a trap?

The office was dark, no exterior windows to let in the streetlights. A long and dumpy looking couch dominated the small space. A night light glowed blue from an outlet above a counter height bar against one wall. A mini fridge, red with a chrome handle and curved edges that reminded Bucky of the cars in the 30’s.

Another sticky note on the glossy surface: help yourself, dehydration is not your friend!

A personal water bottle, Gatorade, vitamin water, cans of energy drinks. All the seals intact, with no evidence of tampering.

He took a Gatorade. Squinting at the fake orange flavor and opening the drawers in the bar. A miscellaneous assortment of pens, screwdrivers, wrenches and hex bolt tighteners alongside batteries, bits of rubber bands and the usual detritus not uncommon in a junk drawer. Papers, notepads, undecipherable sketches and the sticky note pad in the next drawer. The doors below revealed a yoga mat, wraps and bandages and a neat stack of clean but ragged edged rags. In an overhead cabinet near the desk, Bucky found a more curious assortment. An emergency medical kit, bottles of pain medications and a small jar with many slim sticks inside bearing the name ‘silver nitrate’.

The top of the desk was unremarkable, bills and receipts, a date book and calculator. Bucky scanned the material but found nothing of note. Stone’s gym was on most of the papers, but that was not the name he sought.

The trash was half filled with discarded wraps and scrunched bits of paper. Finally at the bottom of the bin, next to a used stick of nitrate, Bucky found an envelope with a handwritten address on it.

Ms. Martin

He stuck a post it on the fridge beside the other.

Thanks for the Gatorade.

Consider the cash a deposit on the 200lb bag for when that seam finally splits.

Let me know what I owe you.

JBB

Chapter Text

“Where do you think you are going?”

Steve, sounding disappointed. Bucky sighed.

“Out.”

“Third time this week, Buck.”

“Just need some fresh air. Don’t look at me like that Rogers. I’m still allowed that, aren’t I?”

Steve ran a hand through his stupidly perfect hair, exhaling one long breath. “No one is trying to imprison you Bucky, but you’re still on parole, and any… shifty behaviour could compromise that. You deserve freedom, but there are still rules we have to play by.”

“You really think I’m doing something that would get me locked up again? Do I look like an idiot to you?” Bucky fired back, with a little more heat than he intended. Still, the unspoken accusation hurt. If even Steve struggled to trust him, what hope did he have that the rest of the world would ever see past the winter soldier.

“No, I don’t Bucky, but the parole board wasn’t exactly understanding about the Germany-Siberia situation, they’re looking for any reason not to sign off on you.” Steve’s head dropped further, hiding his eyes in shadow. “You know I trust you Bucky, but I can’t protect you when I don’t even know where you’re going.”

“I’m perfectly safe, Steve. I promise.” Bucky answered, softening as he recognized the waning signs of adrenaline in the microtremors of Steve’s finger tips. He had caused that fear. “The nightmares… you know how it is, a little fresh air and tarmac under the tires helps.”

“You swear on my mothers name that no one gets hurt wherever you’re going?” Steve pressed, offering his palm to seal the deal. “Swear it and I won’t ask Harold to try and tail you again.”

“The grey Lincoln? Yesterday? That was you? Really Steve?” Bucky felt his eyebrows contract in anger and forced himself to school his expression into general disapproval. “Fine, for Sarah.” He shook Steve’s hand, squeezing a little harder than necessary, but still grateful for the hug he got at the end.

It was stupid that that fragment of healthy contact made Bucky tear up. Stupid that there wasn’t anyone else who could approach him without setting off every alarm in his body. Stupid that a hundred-year-old super soldier would be paranoid within the Avengers compound. Surrounded by people who were not his enemies, in the safest complex he could imagine. And still, he triple-checked the deadbolts and doorstops on his bedroom door before lowering himself to the floor to sleep every night.

Bucky walked through the trailer park, and stood before a half open door. A door he knew would reveal the terrible scene of the crime. The cloying smell of blood mixed with sagebrush that reminded him of the desert. Copper tang on his tongue.

How did he know this was the fourth in a line of similar murder scenes? He didn’t question it, he just knew and it was his job to investigate, to reveal the murderer.

Evidence in little paper bags, a rusty truck he drove back to the precinct. Another black capped man waved hello, “find anything Sheriff?” the voice was nasally, high and accented.

“Not yet Rogers, think you can pull up the finger print records?”

“Sure thing boss.” The man was walking away with the evidence, to a computer the size of a bus.

Bucky was at another trailer park, walking up the neglected path to a door, waving the flies away. A fifth scene.

Rogers, a short man with dark hair and spectacles ran up with a stack of papers.

“Got a match Barnes, would you like to see?”

Bucky gestured impatiently for the file. Flipped it open.

100% match, Sargent James Bucky guilty.

“Gonna have to take you in Buck.” Rogers’s voice had dropped low, and his shadow fell across Bucky’s face as his shoulders and legs stretched grotesquely.

“I- NO- Steve! It wasn’t me!” Bucky shouted as arms clamped over his, something wrapped across his mouth blinding him. He fought blindly, one handed and wrestling against something silky soft and smooth.

Bucky threw the sheet off himself, chest heaving as the shadows of his room rematerialized before his bewildered eyes.

He was ten minutes into a punishing routine when the back door chimed. He pressed his back to the wall nearest the hall.

Soft sneakered steps approached.

He reached for the shadowy figure just before they could turn the corner.

One arm twisted behind their back, and his vibranium forearm locking the head in an uncompromising trap against his chest. The lack of immediate resistance made him hesitate.

Until an elbow jabbed sharply into his gut. A quick kick to inside of his knee made him stumble, but he didn’t release his target.

“Let me go Sarge, or we are going to have a real problem.” The low voice was steady despite the pressure on her throat, cold and familiar. As was the cold muzzle of the gun against his left thigh.

He dropped her like a reflex, then lunged forward to catch her as she stumbled away. But she turned on a dime, bringing the gun up level with his chest.

“Sarge? Or is it the other guy I’m talking to?” she asked steadily.

“You- I didn’t expect, I thought…” Bucky’s rambles trailed off as the redness around her neck caught the dim emergency exit light and he slumped back against the wall. “I’m sorry. Gosh, I’m so, so, sorry.”

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this Sarge.” She lowered the gun, flicked the safety back on and holstered the weapon on her hip. “Next time, kill me before I put a bullet in that pretty face. Alternatively, maybe turn on a light so I know its you and not someone setting an actual ambush.”

She stepped closer, reaching for the switch on the wall next to him. He saw the recognition in her face as he flinched at her raised hand and the light. She stepped back quickly, hands raised in a passive position.

“I didn’t know it was you. Why are you here?” Bucky said, defensively, and hating how his voice sounded like it had in his nightmare, pathetic and defensive. Her eyes were red, swollen. They stood 5 feet apart, backs to opposite walls. And he could see the tremble of her hands, hear the quiver in her voice as she answered him.

“The building does have my name on it, I should be asking you why you’re here at 2 in the morning.” She answered sharply.

“You’re Stone?”

“Nickname, rookie was giving them out like cookies. Stone stuck.” She shrugged, pulled a key from her pocket and unlocked the office door, her back was turned for 3 seconds before she slumped onto the couch, head in her hands, eyes on the floor. Again carefully, painfully casual and unthreatening in her posture.

He stayed in the doorway, aware that even now she was watching his feet, that the gun on her thigh was less than a second from firing if she felt threatened again.

But she hadn’t reacted immediately. She had let him get her in a chokehold, let him capture her dominant arm. She hadn’t even had the gun out until after the elbow jab.

“Why?”

She looked up into his face, “why what?”

“Why didn’t you shoot? Why when I was a clear source of danger, did you let me get the upper hand instead of putting a hole in my chest?”

“Same reason you didn’t choke me out probably.”

He shook his head slowly, raised a questioning brow and maintained eye contact.

She looked back at him for a long moment, unblinking. Then she sighed and reached over the armrest to a small safe he’d spotted in his first inspection of the room weeks ago. He cleared his throat loudly and looked away as she spun the dial.

A gentle clunk and the sound of the handle turning. The clink of glass on steel. He looked back to find her taking a slow sip from a bottle of amber alcohol.

“I’d offer you a glass, but I’m afraid I don’t have any here.” She said, her voice rough and strangely mellow. “And there’s not enough left in this bottle for me to answer that question, so story time’s out. Besides, you came here to be alone. Give me a minute and I’ll leave you to it.”

“I don’t want to run you out of your own establishment Miss Stone, I can go.” Bucky answered, taking a step forward as her hands began to tremble again. “Are you, okay?”

“That’s Miss Stone-cold, to you. And I’m fine.”

“Bucky. Call me Bucky. Just take a deep breath for me, in through your nose?”

She squinted at him as he knelt in front of her, his hand on his chest and demonstrating. But she followed his movements, though her exhale collapsed from her much sooner than his did.

“Again, breath out slow this time, through your mouth.”

Several more coached breaths later she was looking less pale, and the wary watching and twitching of her hand to her thigh had decreased. “You rescue damsels in distress often, Bucky?”

He smiled at her use of the name, “don’t think its much of a rescue when I caused the distress, Ma’am.”

She shook her head at him slightly, teasing in her tone: “don’t think you can just waltz in here and steal credit for my panic. I have only myself to thank for that.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Ma’am.” He said, crossing his legs under him and using the desk as a back rest.

“Name’s not Ma’am, Bucky, or have you already forgotten? Lost your recall sometime in the sixties?” She quipped, growing more genuinely relaxed as the conversation devolved into banter, as though testing the boundaries of her recovery and his reactivity.

“Stone Cold. Why’d they call you that?” Bucky asked.

She hesitated, licking her lower lip and staring beyond the floor somewhere to her right. “That’s another story, and another bottle’s worth to tell it.”

The distance in her expression bothered Bucky, tugging at his own memory of disassociating.

“Another time then,” He suggested, rising slowly. “Sorry for the interruption. I’ll leave a light on next time.” He was halfway out the door when she finally looked up again.

“What? Oh, yeah, yeah, good. That’s fine. G’night.”

Bucky made his way back to the compound, nodding at the gate security and locking himself once again into his bedroom. The adrenaline had flushed rapidly from his system and he was somehow more drained, though he’d barely made it past his warm ups in the gym before their encounter.

It was the memories of coaching Steve to breath when the asthma attacks had gotten bad. That, he decided had taxed his mind.

She must have been crying before they’d met, with the way her eyes were bloodshot, he’d been careful with the headlock, he was sure it wasn’t hemorrhaging from asphyxia.

Two things. He’d learned two things. He wasn’t the only one awake in the night battling demons they didn’t want to talk about. And the enigmatic woman who hadn’t wanted to kill him was anything but Stone-cold.

No matter what other pretty lies she might tell, there was a wounded soul buried beneath the competence and confidence of a battle-hardened soldier.

Chapter Text

“You sure you want another one? Five of those would have most of my regulars plastered to the floor, and you’ve had ten.”

“I don’t get drunk.”

“I’ve heard that before,” the smooth bartender answered conversationally, pouring another glass and sliding it to his mostly silent patron. “From you it’s almost believable. Kinda like Cap.- you know, Captain America, drinks a jug when he’s here, never even gets a buzz.”

“Difference is, I pay for my own drinks.” Bucky answered stiffly.

“He pulls a crowd, that’s for sure, good for business.” The man answered cheerfully, wiping the still clean bar top and then turning his attention to glasses. “I’ll make you a deal, tell me what’s on your mind and I’ll buy the next round myself.”

“What, are you a therapist now too Mack?”

“Bartender, psychologist, not so different really; we all read people, their limits, their vices, their pain.”

“I’ve got a- a friend.” Bucky said slowly, rolling the glass between his gloved palms.

“A friend?” Mack nodded. “Right.”

“What would you say was wrong with someone if they kept getting into dangerous situations and didn’t try to defend themselves?”

Mack slowed his pretended cleaning and looked thoughtful. “You’re friend, knows how to defend themselves? You sure they ain’t just freezing up?”

“No, she- she knows her way around a gun.”

“She a vet like you?” Mack asked. The edge of one rolled sleeve shifted higher on his bicep as he reached for a new bottle.

“Hoorah.”

“Hoorah.” Mack answered back, pouring a generous four fingers into a fresh glass. “You’re friend needs help. Serious help.”

“It’s not, I mean, I don’t think…” Bucky trailed away.

“I can’t tell you what’s going on with your friend, buddy, but I’ve seen guys like that, just hoping someone else will do the job so they don’t have to.”

Bucky cleared his throat, pushed the empty glass away and laid a few bills on the counter. His right hand clenched around the bike keys in his pocket.

“Hold up a sec,” Mack stalled, pulling a notepad and pen from below the counter, “I know a guy, he’s good, helped me a ton.” He scribbled a name and number from memory. “Please, for your friend, doing anything is better than waiting for the worst.”

Bucky was ready to turn away, but something in the barkeep’s voice held him there until the paper was in his palm.

The gun trembled, like life itself, hanging in the balance. The Asset stood firm against cold steel at his temple.

Bucky, screaming under a ton of muscle he didn’t remember building and walls, walls, walls, and more walls, created from pain, reinforced by the hateful words in the red book.

Still. The Asset was still as stone. The recruit seemed to be losing faith with every drawn-out breath.

“Do it, just pull the trigger, let it be over.” “steady your hand, aim, count your heartbeats, fire between them.” “Please, let it end.” “I don’t want to die.” “Take the pain away, please, just…” “Steve, he’ll never know.” “Please God, if he’s alive, don’t ever let him know.”

Marble, silent, unmoving when the trigger echoed an empty-chambered click.

One more recruit added to the ranks, one less body for the mind-bound asset to carry out.

Deep. Deep inside that atrocity of automation, a mind laid bare, sobbing its terrible relief and re-doubled horror.

There was a light on when Bucky let himself into the gym at midnight. The office door was ajar and in the dark he saw a familiar figure curled up on the couch. Quietly he closed the door and continued on, still needing to release the guilt he carried.

Usually, the gym was spotless. Tonight, there was evidence of another’s nightmare fueled purging. A smaller bag hung from his favorite hook, a stool in the spot he usually did pull-ups on the rafter beam. A stool and a lighter bag were not that odd.

But…

The blood. Smears of it on the punching bag. And there was the rope, different shades of rust in the shape of finger prints, pooled at the foot of the stool.

Still, it took Bucky’s dream addled mind several minutes to piece it all together.

Blood on the bag. Maybe somebody forgot to wrap their knuckles. But so many hits? No-one in their right mind wouldn’t have noticed immediately. In their right mind…

He spun on his heel and stared at the rope. There were no knots, no kinks in it to suggest there ever had been. And the rusty prints were towards both ends, like someone had been holding on to the last few inches and their hands had slipped.

Right mind.

Whose right mind, not his certainly.

The door to the office burst in and he leapt the across the space to the couch holding his breath against the smell of liquor and his own fear.

Not another. Not another body to carry, to bury, to wish he knew how to mourn. Not another stranger dying alone.

A pulse. Thready but there.

“Wake up, come on, wake up.” He said, his voice rising in urgency. “Stay with me honey, you’ve got to stay with me.”

“Wha-, huh?” she mumbled incoherently, squinting against the dim light of the hallway and shivering.

“Have you had anything to drink besides this?” Bucky asked, lifting the empty bottle off the floor to show her.

“Ung,” her eyes fluttered shut again.

“Don’t, don’t sleep now, come on, I think you’re dehydrated, you’ve got to get some fluids in you first.”

“mm, then sleep?” she nuzzled her head into the armrest. “could sleep.”

“No, come on honey, open your eyes, I’m not going away.” When she refused to acknowledge his words, he added more firmly, “if you can’t wake up, I’ll have to call for help. Hospital, or Avengers, you choose.”

She stiffened and pressed her eyelids tightly together before opening them. “No, I don’t want, no- nobody, don’t you dare.”

Bucky took a step back to open the fridge and pull out a couple bottles. She was struggling to sit upright when he returned, and he sat down beside her, mindful of the space between them, but near enough to catch her if she fell. Something that seemed quite likely.

She curled in on herself, holding her hands oddly against her belly. She didn’t reach for the electrolyte drink he offered, but she tilted her head back when he pressed it gently to her lips.

“Just a little at a time.” her soft growl turned to a moan as he pulled it away. “Sorry.”

“Can’t catch a break.” She mumbled leaning against him to brace herself and reaching a curled hand to the bottle. “C’mon, lemme have it.”

“I need to have a look at your hands.” Bucky said, letting her take another sip before setting the bottle on the floor and taking her left hand in his own.

“That your best line? Works on all the honeys, does it?” She slurred out, unresisting.

He shook his head, dismissing her drunken rambling as he inspected the split knuckles and bruised fist. “Why didn’t you wrap them?” She answered his question with a disparate shrug. Slowly, carefully he prized her fingers from their stiff curled position, stretching them and causing fresh welts of blood to ooze from the cracked skin. A rope burn marked the palm and spotted the undersides of her fingers. “What exactly have you been doing?”

She shrugged against his shoulder and whispered, “losing.” She offered her other hand, a matching set of wounds, and a matching set of callouses on her palms under the burn.

“How long?” Bucky asked in a hushed tone. In the semi dark, in her inebriated state he felt a little guilty, but she had said she wouldn’t talk unless she drank. He decided, swallowing the guilt with a swig of electrolyte; she needed to talk.

“3 years.” She answered, then hiccupping slightly she reached for the bottle he offered. She held it carefully in both hands, using her palms as her fingers returned to their painfully curled prior condition. “you meant tonight… I dunno, maybe 10.”

“What happened tonight?”

“Jackson. Jackson called.”

“Who’s Jackson?”

“My C.O.” She chuckled bitterly, “not even his name you know, but he was a johnny Cash fan.”

“Jackson?”

“Yeah, Buddy called him that, was always humming that stupid song after a call from home.”

“Buddy, that’s the rookie who nicknamed you?”

She stayed silent for so long Bucky was beginning to think she’d fallen asleep on him. Her shoulders began to shake and she whispered in a broken voice, “damned rookie, I tried, I tried so hard. I just, I couldn’t- I couldn’t hold on. Buddy, I’m sorry buddy. I’m so, so sorry.”

“What happened.” Bucky breathed out the words, afraid to break the spell, afraid to break her completely.

“Fell, maybe 20 feet, I couldn’t hold on, hands were slippery. So hot, so wet, and he… I can’t save him. I can’t, I keep trying, but I can’t hold on! Buddy! I’m sorry, buddy, I’m so, so sorry, I’m sorry Buddy…”

Instinct even older than decades of conditioning prompted Bucky to move, to wrap an arm around her heaving shoulders, nestling her against him like a fledgling under a mother’s wing. The shaking was traded for trembling and he urged her to drink more as the fever fired through her with help from his own unnaturally high body temperature.

She fell asleep there in his arms. Bucky shifted to make them both more comfortable, watching the rise and fall of her back as the clock on her desk tic-tocked along comfortingly. When she was well and truly under, he extracted himself, arranged his jacket over her and made his way back to the gym.

The rope no longer mystified him, but he moved the stool back to its usual spot beside the weight bench. She hadn’t been trying, the injuries she’d inflicted were not the result of intent.

Still, he stared at the blood on the other weight bag as he worked round after round into his own.

Thump-thump, thump-thump.

Thump-thump-thump. Thump-thump-thump.

His fists on the leather, machine gunfire, the approach of a chopper, the heartbeat rushing in his ears. He worked against the bag as though it were the enemy, every enemy in every war. Names and faces of terrible men and women who had ordering killings without mercy. He pounded each one until he could imagine them laying in a heap on the floor. No, not dead, but rendered harmless by his hand.

Futile as he now was, living under constant supervision, no fight to win, no clear enemy before him, untrusted even by Steve. There was nothing he could do. No way to prove himself, to prove he could do good. No reason to keep living except that same un-extinguishable hope that had cursed him to six decades of memory wipes. Even then, when he’d begged for death in some forgotten place inside his own mind, he’d been relieved the gun was empty.

And he’d hated himself for it.

Hated that he still wanted to survive.

No longer. He would go on living, because he’d found some good to do.

When the woman woke on the couch of her office, she would find another electrolyte bottle beside her, the jacket still serving as her blanket, the gym tidied, and the offending rope in the trash- cut into foot-long sections.

A sticky note on her fridge with two phone numbers

One for: Robert Kilne -therapist, a friend said he’s good.

And one labeled with the familiar monogram: JBB- Stay hydrated.

A few days later Bucky found a new note next to his with two words written on it.

You first

Chapter Text

“What exactly do you do here?” Bucky asked, crossing his arms and appraising the grey-haired man in the green sweater behind the desk.

“We are dedicated to helping our clients, I specialize in a variety of treatments to aid in the management of everything from milder forms of depression to extreme trauma.” Dr. Kilne leaned forward, his hands splayed wide in welcome, and his eyes arrested Bucky. “But you can read all of that in the brochure. What I do here, is try to help.”

“You know who I am- what I am. Do you really think you can help me?”

The doctor looked up at him, a serious and solemn expression pulling on accustomed wrinkles on his forehead. “If there’s any chance that I could, don’t you think it would be worth trying?” He didn’t back down from Bucky’s piercing stare.

“You said manage.” Bucky answered, sitting on the armchair with its back to the windowless corner. “Everybody has been trying to fix me, like there’s a magical cure for anything they did to my brain.”

“And that bothers you?”

“I’m not a broken radio that you can put back together, I’m… I’m a dead man walking, a ghost that just wouldn’t- couldn’t quit.”

“I’ve read the files you sent over Sargent Barnes, to have endured so much, you may not want to hear it, but it is a remarkable thing.”

“There’s nothing remarkable about what they did!” Bucky growled, his fists curling into the armrests.

“No, that is not what I meant. What was done to you is unconscionable. What is incredible, is that you are here. You came here of your own volition, you’ve already done an exceptionally difficult thing. Sargent I can’t imagine the strength it takes to walk into my office and ask for help, and I just want you to know I see that.”

Bucky stared at his hands for a minute, focusing on taking deep breaths and the speck of dirt under his thumbnail. “Name’s Bucky.”

“Thank you, Bucky. You can call me Rob.” Dr. Kilne cleared his throat and said, “Can I get you anything? I was about to make myself a pot of coffee.”

“Coffee’s fine.”

“Great, why don’t you tell me what you want to talk about while I get it started.”

The doctor rose and walked smoothly to a small cart against the wall, positioning himself so Bucky could see him measure out the grounds and add the water.

Perhaps the Doctor read more in that file than Bucky had, or maybe as Mack indicated- he’d been around enough paranoid people to anticipate it. Either way, he offered Bucky a selection of mugs, poured and drank from his own cup before filling Bucky’s and never once opened a notebook, choosing instead to write short notes on a flat pad of paper on his desk.

Kilne spoke in a calm clear voice, emotionless and unbothered by the horror Bucky threw at him in this first meeting; as though he knew it was a test. And when he offered to shake Bucky’s hand at the end, he smiled as though he already knew the result.

“I’ll see you again next week?”

Bucky stalled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t, I don’t know what my…”

“Marge,” the doctor called into the waiting area, “mark him down for next Tuesday, 9am.” Turning back to Bucky, he grinned, “show up on time and I’ll let you use the nerf gun.”

So he had caught Bucky looking at it, displayed at eye level on the bookshelf in his office next to a rubber band ball and a rubber chicken.

His head ached and his eyes stung, but Bucky felt somehow lighter. The heaviness of words he’d spoken, some for the first time, had lifted from him. Drained, like an abscess he thought; like an infection it would need to be done again, and again until the wound was finally clean.

Healing. Pain. Rebreaking and setting bones and cleansing the open lesions of his soul.

“How’d it go?” Steve asked hesitantly, the point between his eyebrows compressed into two tight lines of worry.

Bucky shrugged, tired of talking. “next one’s Tuesday morning.”

“You made another appointment?” Steve started, his expression opening like the clouds to reveal a smile like sunshine. “You’re planning to come back?”

“Doc said I could play with a nerf gun. And the coffee ain’t half bad.”

Steve’s smile brightened another degree and he wrapped an arm around Bucky’s shoulders as they walked back to their parked bikes. “Proud of you Buck.”

“Yeah, yeah, shut-up.” Bucky answered with a tired huff, punching Steve lightly in the shoulder and pulling the helmet over his head. “Race you back?”

The gates of the compound opened for them and Bucky considered driving past them, driving up to the gym in the bold light of day.

What? Just to tell Stone that he’d done it? Like it was something to be proud of? But she was the reason, she had dared, challenged him to go first, he just wanted to tell her he’d done his part. He didn’t want to find her in the dark and bleeding again. She needed help, Mack had said so.

Hey Stone, I went to therapy, your turn, don’t want you to die.

How would he even begin that conversation. No, he’d go tonight, leave a note, keep it simple.

Just notes on the fridge at midnight, no drunken admissions, no daylight confessions, strangers still and so it should stay.

I went –JBB

Good? Bad? –SM

Helps – JBB

No booze though, and I don’t like white-coats – SM

Nerf gun is pretty good, Doc wears sweaters – JBB

Kinda curious about the nerf gun, I have to admit. –SM

Nonlethal, g ood for stress relief,  - JBB

Bucky was going every night now, checking the office for Stone and the fridge for a new note before making his way to the punching bags. The replacement heavy bag he’d requested now hung in pride of place, waiting for him.

Every now and then, he found evidence she was still coming in at night.

The stool just a little out of place, rusty patches on knuckle wraps in the trash. But there wasn’t a bit of rope to be found, so either she’d gotten better at hiding it, or she was using something else.

Bucky leapt to grasp the rafter with both hands, pulling himself up onto the beam and balancing at a crouch as he walked along. There, a section of dark wood smoother than the rest, splinters worn away by the calloused fingers he’d inspected. Testing. Losing, that’s what she had said.

Too many holes in the story, but Bucky supplied enough to make sense of the rest.

“remember the cyclone on Coney island?” Bucky asked, looking down at the train tracks more than a hundred yards below him.

“Yeah, I threw up.”

“This isn’t payback is it?”

A routine mission, zipline to the train, infil trate, capture Zola, extraction.

Gunfire, those blasted blue charges, alone, he was alone in the compartment with an enemy,  click,  the clip was empty, and he was reloading but the other guy was faster, then Cap was there, tossing him a backup- a distraction and the gu y was down.

Bucky always had been a good shot.

Blue light, bursting the train car away on one side, knocking him and Cap down. He took the shield, for a millisecond time slowed as he registered the way it felt on his arm, yes, he could do this, he would do it for Steve, to protect him as he had a thousand times before. But he’d been wrong. He wasn’t strong enough, wasn’t ready when the double-barreled blue blasted against him, knocking the shield from his arm and flinging him from the train. Time slowed again, showed him Steve’s face, Steve’s fear as he shouted his name. “Hang on- grab my hand.”

But Bucky was on the beam, balanced and looking down not up, and it was Stone hanging from it, pleading in her eyes, trembling as her fingers sought futile purchase on the smooth wood.

He was alone again.

James Bucky Barnes; in Stone’s Gym; on a Monday night.

His vibranium fingers clutching an imaginary hand.

Chapter Text

Birthday cake not withstanding, Bucky hated the fourth of July. Fireworks that would have delighted a young Sargent Barnes now tormented him. The taste of gunpowder, echoing gunfire followed by the whistling scream even the flashes of light were reminiscent of an artillery battery. So, Steve didn’t press him to stay at the compound, just flashed sad eyes at him as he strapped a helmet on and drove away into the dusk.

The watch on his wrist read 10:43 when he pulled up to the gym. A glow from under the office door alerted him to Stone’s presence but he kept on down the hall, not wanting to talk.

Screaming men, screaming guns, Bucky looked down the scope of his rifle, tuning out everything but his target, watching men scurry like ants through the Hydra stronghold. He had no hunger, no pain, no fear, only the rifle in his hands, he was the barrel, the chambered round, the gunpowder waiting to be struck, he was the ice-cold trigger, waiting, waiting… Two slow breaths in and out, then he held it, counting his heart beats as they slowed.

Around him earth erupted into showers of mud and men and machines, but he was not there.

Fists on leather beating the time ignoring the distant retort of fireworks and shouting celebrants down the street.

Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump, he pulled the trigger, thump-thump.

Down among the scurrying ants a helmeted figure saluted him.

A higher scream of a rocket ripped through the air and the door of the office squeaked.

“Mind if I join you?”

Bucky turned to examine his mysterious companion. She wore her hair in a braid, a long-sleeved shirt and pant set that looked like something cut from the pages of those ridiculous ‘inspirational’ magazines he’d seen in the locker room of the compound’s gym. Stark would have whistled, Sam might have flirted, Steve would have tried not to let her see him admiring her toned physique. Bucky was more interested in the clarity of her eyes and the unblemished knuckles. There were no signs of recent late-night terrors or binge drinking, but she flinched when the next rocket screamed outside.

“No.”

“Great, how do you feel about music?”

He was ambivalent, but if that’s what she needed… He shrugged.

Stone pulled a phone from her pocket and music began to play from speakers overhead. It was unfamiliar but he recognized elements of the genre Stark liked to pump weights to, still this was different, a heavy bass beat that reverberated in his chest, the lyrics were simple enough but the tones were dark, moody and aggressive. She turned the volume down apologetically, “I like it loud, installed soundproofing and everything so the neighbors wouldn’t complain... just let me know if you want me to turn it down more.”

He shook his head slowly, tried to offer a sympathetic smile and fearing it came out more like a grimace explained haltingly, “it was fine before, the volume- the way you had it at the beginning I mean.”

She grinned at him and turned it up again, drowning out all sound beyond the walls of the gym. He continued working the heavy bag, watching her out of the corner of his eye.

She stretched long and deeply, more flexible than he’d have guessed, though not up to Natasha’s exacting ballet standards. Stretching done she graduated to warm ups, push-ups, lunges and squats, a pair of small weights joined in and she performed a very complete regimen of arm and shoulder strengthening lifts. She moved from one set to the next without hesitation, working on resistance, bobbing her head to the beat and breathing deliberately.

Merely beating the pulp out of a heavy bag began to feel oddly inadequate as Bucky watched her intentionally working through muscle groups from head to toe. Super serum meant he didn’t have to work on muscle tone, so long as he ate enough, they remained stable. And yes, he’d pulled a fair share of muscles in the fights he could remember taking part in in the last decade, but with a healing factor that would resolve it by morning and a tolerance of pain gained from years of torture, it didn’t seem important to do preventative maintenance.

Now though he was beginning to question why. Doctor Kilne would probably tell him it had to do with his twisted perception of justice, that Bucky had been conditioned to expect the pain, that he perhaps still felt as though it was deserved. Penance.

Still, he stayed at the heavy bag, hitting it in mindless tedious repetitions just so Stone wouldn’t notice how much attention he was paying to her. This was more difficult to accomplish when she hung a slim bag directly across from him and gave him a wry grin while she wrapped her hands and then launching into action.

She wasn’t fast, instead she seemed to put her whole body into each impact, flowing from the windup into the punch and then a follow through that would throw a grown man off his feet. As before, every movement was deliberate and automatic, in time to the rhythm of the music and between deep breaths. A dangerous dance.

“You alright, Sarge?” She asked, waving at him to break the trance he'd fallen into.

He was standing there like an idiot, holding the punching bag and watching her. “What? No, I was just…”

“Didn’t mean to throw you off your groove,” She laughed, turning the volume down so they could hear each other a little better. “Want something to drink? I got more of those electrolyte things you like.”

“Not orange.” He said quickly, then rubbed a hand over his face as she laughed.

“Is grape, okay?” She smiled again when he nodded sheepishly and walked off to collect the bottles in question, tossing a light purple one at him as she returned. “So, is it just the heavys for you, or is there anything else in my gym I should think about replacing in the next month?”

Bucky looked at her blankly and twisted the top off.

“It was a joke, well, mostly anyway, I just wondered if you’ve been using anything else, I didn’t figure you for a one trick pony.”

“I’m not a big fan of the machines.” He answered slowly.

“Yeah, I figured that. I was just wondering how an Avenger trains, figured if I can get the right gear in here, Falcon might stop by and autograph something for me.”

“Him?” Bucky tripped over the idea, nearly missing the rest of her intimation, “sparring and weights, they do a lot of fighting, but Falcon? Really?”

She laughed and took a drink from her water bottle before shrugging, “you’re not about to tell me he’s an ass, are you? Dang. Well, you know what they say, never meet your hero’s.”

Bucky smirked a little at her disappointment, but a nagging voice in his head that sounded a lot like Steve’s wouldn’t let the lie stand. “No, he’s… He’s not an ass. I didn’t expect… I though Steve would be more your speed.”

“Steve Rogers? I guess... Falcon is real to me, your Captain America was a legend I grew up with, a hero, never really thought of him as a regular guy. I mean, you and him, the howling commandos, legends I never thought I could meet, but I heard about the Falcon when I was in the service, his ops were considered the gold standard in Pararescue training.”

His inclusion in the ranks of hero’s and legends rocked him a little and he pounded a combination into the bag. Sam was a veteran, that wasn’t news, but somehow, he’d never thought of the quippy sideman as a leader in his field. The modern theatre of war was foreign to Bucky. Espionage and assassinations in the dark shadows of political dramas? yes, battle with aliens and superpowered people? yes, but how much did he really know about the war Sam and Stone had served in. He was a sniper; it was his job to thrust all feelings aside and take out the opposition one gun position at a time.

What was it like to infiltrate the frontlines of war to extract critically wounded soldiers under fire. To be responsible for saving lives, to have that blood on their hands even though they hadn't fired the fatal shot.

“You worked pararescue?” He asked finally, taking a long drink and eyeing Stone where she sat on the raised edge of the boxing ring, her arms hanging over the ropes like a punch-drunk boxer, breathing heavily.

“58^th rescue squadron, yes-sir.” She gave him a little salute.

“How long?”

“Two tours, got sent home a month into the third.” Stone answered disentangling herself from the ropes to roll under them and onto her feet in the ring. “How do you feel about hitting a moving target for once?”

Shaking his head before she was even finished answering the question, Bucky ran a hand through his hair, wishing it was still long enough to hide behind.

“Those pop rockets outside have at least another half hour in them if last years block party was any indication, so there's no hurry on my account.”

“That’s not…”

“What. Don’t think I can take a hit Sarge?” Stone grinned and raised a wicked brow, “not sure you could land one.”

“I don’t, I haven’t… I only spar with Steve.”

“C’mon Sarge, pull your punches a little, I’ll survive.” She tilted her head like a wild cat inspecting its next meal. “Or are you scared of me?”

“A little.” Not for the reasons she might be thinking, but Bucky was worried. Stone was unpredictable at best and goading him into a fight was the clearest case of risk-seeking behavior he could imagine. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

He couldn’t help the gravity in his voice or the haunted shade his eyes took on when he gave that last plea and she stilled, watching him.

“Another time maybe.” She said eventually, slipping back out of the ring as he returned to beating out combinations in time to the music. “I’ll leave you to it then.” She walked away down the hall and into the women’s change room leaving the music to play overhead.

Bucky left quickly, depositing the drink bottle in the recycling and locking the back door behind himself. Something like disappointment worked away at the edges of his mind, distracting him from the street revelers and continued pops and bangs. She hadn’t been angry; if any expression had crossed her face, it was a microsecond of sorrow but he couldn’t be sure he’d interpreted it correctly.

It would have been a mistake to agree to it, the hinge upon which that certainty rested was immoveable. The fireworks and flashbacks joined to the loud music and the aggression of fists flying at him could have triggered a defense response, and any response from him could be lethal. He needed more control, more certainty, more confidence, and a sparring partner with less of a death wish.

“This friend from the gym, what’s her name?” Dr. Rob Kilne asked, leaning back in his chair and tapping the pencil softly on the pad of paper on the low table between them.

“Stone, that’s what she told me to call her, nickname she picked up in the service. Stone-cold.”

“What exactly has she said that worries you?” The doctor sighed and shook his head gently, “don't bother lying, I can see your concern.”

Bucky enumerated their several strained first meetings, sparing no details in describing the strange fixation she seemed to have on testing her grip strength and the broken sentences she’d spoken in an alcohol and dehydration fueled daze about her failure to save Buddy.

“I can’t say anything without actually speaking to her, you understand?”

“Yes.”

“That being said, I would certainly encourage her to speak to someone, especially if the self destructive behaviors don’t abate.”

“I gave her your number, she’s the reason I came in the first place… I thought if I went, maybe she’d see it was alright.”

“But you don’t think she’s open to it yet?” Rob shrugged and looked up at the place where several nerf suction darts circled with the lazy blades of the ceiling fan. “Well, short of any actual evidence of a desire to self harm, I’m afraid there’s little we can do except encourage her to open up, your friend Sam has worked with veterans, perhaps he can give you a few pointers on talking to this Stone, but we are here for you today and I don’t think there is any more we can do for her at the moment.”

“I didn’t mean to waste your time.” Bucky answered reflexively.

“Not at all my good man, not at all. And I must say, I think it a very good thing that you are able to empathize with others.”

The rest of the session went as well as such things could. Lancing the abscess and draining himself of the horror and shame and guilt, washing the wound clean with a clinical detachment; Dr. Rob was good at pointing out the bare bones truth.

Bucky felt guilty, that was true, but that feeling wasn’t based in the reality of his imprisonment. He had not made the choices necessary to claim culpability for Hydra’s orders. It was a familiar routine by now, and he was allowed to empty a magazine of suction darts as an alternative to voicing his disbelief in his own innocence or goodness.

When the nightmares woke him that night, he decided to go for a swim instead, planning what he’d say to accomplish the goal he had in mind. Arguments and counter arguments and explanations ran through his head and he sorted through the possible reactions to the words most likely to win over his quarry.

Stone would talk, he would make sure of that.

And if she didn’t want to talk to him? Well, he’d just have to find someone who could change her mind.

Chapter Text

Targets in sight. The car bobbed through traffic trying to avoid the pursuit. The Asset prepared to attack, calculating the angles before landing with a thud on the roof and reaching through the rear passenger window to extract the first man.

Bucky watched the mental reel play out, trying to focus on his breathing, unable to ignore the scream as Sitwell was thrown cavalierly from the bridge. He forced a breath out between clenched teeth, clenching his fists around asphalt- around his legs tucked up to his chest. The pressure in his chest as the Asset leapt from the bridge with the single goal: Kill the targets, complete the mission.

“Bucky?” Something rattled free from the caged mind and the Asset blinked, shook his head against the piercing pain and the overwhelming sense of presence. Bucky? Was that his name? Did he have a name? Why had he never thought of it before… But he was alive, he was… killing. The dawning comprehension of the knife in his hand, of the blood on his sleeve, of the salt-copper tang of it in his teeth.

Light and sound and feeling flooded him and he panicked.

Run.

“I need a favor.”

“Whoa, am I hearing this right now?” Sam asked leaning back with a broad smirk on his face. “Big Buck Barnes asking lil’ol me for a favour? You mean to tell me that there’s something I can do that you can’t?”

“Sam.” Bucky’s tone was hard edged and he glared at Sam, clenching and unclenching his metal fist as though it could unwind some of the anxiety in his neck.

“What’s up?” Sam asked, dropping the joking manner quickly.

“I… I know somebody that needs help…” Bucky began, pausing to chew on his thoughts another moment, eyeing the exit. Sam nodded for him to go on. “I… I’m not good at- you worked at the VA, right?”

“Yeah, I did.” Sam said slowly, his face saying for him that more information was needed. “Is your friend a vet?”

“Not- Not my friend, just… doesn’t matter, yeah, she needs to talk to someone and I’m not… you’re good at that kind of thing.” Bucky said, staring at his shoes, shamefacedly.

“Don’t count yourself short Buck. I mean, I saw you with Steve on Tuesday, that panic attack, I don’t think anyone but you could have gotten him to calm down that quickly.”

Bucky shook his head, like the words annoyed him.

“I’m serious Buck, you are helping him, everyday. Steve keeps his trauma close to the vest, more than most, but he sees you putting in the work and it is making a difference, for both of you.” Sam said, putting a hand on Bucky’s shoulder so he couldn’t shrink from the praise. “But you didn’t come to hear me talk about that, so, how can I help?”

“This woman, Stone, she needs someone to talk to.” Bucky forestalled the objection before it came, “someone who isn’t… me.”

“Okay man, when and where?”

“Now?”

“Sure, so long as we get something to eat along the way, I’m starving.”

Sam asked nothing further, and Bucky was relieved not to be peppered with questions as he drove the two of them from the compound. This had all seemed like a really good idea last night. But his inclusion in it wasn’t precisely what he’d had in mind. The conversation with Sam was the hurdle that he’d been preparing to cross, but it hadn’t been quite the struggle he’d expected and now the upcoming introduction seemed a much greater obstacle. Sam knew nothing about her and he’d say something terribly obvious, and Stone would be angry, maybe even kick him out for meddling in her private affairs, change the locks, stay up too late, alone, in her office.

Help Stone. That was the mission. Failure could not be countenanced. Recovery, redemption, hope itself. Bucky must not fail.

“Stone is- was, a PJ, 58^th, like you. Bad mission, lost a rookie, she hasn’t said much but she’s being reckless. I need you to help her. Just… don’t be stupid about it, ok?”

“Don’t be stupid. Think I can manage that, for a few minutes at least.” Sam said with a grin, but he rode the rest of the way in silence, looking thoughtfully from the view out the window to the grim posture of Bucky behind the wheel.

Stone stood in the ring opposite a tall boy, maybe seventeen, gangly in the way only teens who’ve recently grown several inches can be, but there was determination in his movements as he planted his feet and swung for the pads Stone held.

“C’mon Jeff, you can’t hurt me, so hit like you mean it,” Stone said calmly, “to the cheek this time, just like I taught you.” She popped the mouth guard back in and nodded for him to swing.

Bucky and Sam walked up to the ring just as the boy threw a punch. Stone watched the fist come at her and didn’t flinch, letting the blow knock her back a half step and coming out of it with a little shake of the head.

“C’mon Jeff. That was a good warning shot, but if I keep coming back for more, what do you have to do?”

“End the fight, Ma’am.” Jeff said shyly, noticing the audience.

“That’s right Jeff. Don’t look at them, they’re not even here, it’s just you and me. End the fight.”

The mouth guard was returned and Jeff bounced on his feet for a moment, shaking his gloved hands and grunted as though to nerve himself up to the task. The boy’s form was excellent and Bucky winced as 180 pounds of young muscle threw itself at Stone’s face. For the fraction of a second before the fist landed, Bucky thought he saw Stone grin.

Then she was falling backward.

Before he could move, before anyone could understand what was happening, she’d dropped like a bag of rocks to the ground and rolled out of the fall into a crouch before springing back to her feet and whooping, raising her hands for Jeff to high five.

“Now that’s what I’m talking about! Solid hit, no hesitation, and it was clean.” she nodded at the glowing young man. “Couldn’t have done it better myself, really! Don’t slack on the footwork, and keep up the routine I set for you, it needs to be muscle memory. But yes, you did good work today, so why don’t we end on that high note and I’ll see you next week, yeah?”

Jeff blushed from his ears through his buzzcut blonde hair. “Thanks, Teach.”

“Don’t sweat it kid, you’re putting in the work and it shows.” Stone patted the boy on the shoulder and held the rope up for him to slip through. Jeff left quickly, with his head held high and Stone watched him go before turning her attention to the two newcomers. “How can I help you two gentlemen?”

Seeing Bucky seeming to shrink from her frank examination, Sam spoke up. “I convinced Bucky to show me where he’s been working out, thought maybe I could vary my routine up a bit.” Stone looked from Sam to Bucky and back to Sam with an arched brow. “He’s not much of a talker, but I haven’t heard anything bad I promise. So, you train fighters?”

“No, I don’t.” Her posture hardened fractionally, but shrugged. “I don’t have a lot of patience for the guys who fight for the sake of the fight. I teach safety mostly.”

“The kid?”

“He’s one of my… I guess you could call them protégés, wanted a little leg up before boot camp.”

“With self discipline like that, I’m sure he’ll go far.”

“He’s already come a long way.” She looked after the young man and smiled grimly, turning back to the two men. “I was starting to think you were nocturnal Sarge, nice to see you don’t melt in the sunshine.”

“I, yeah, I just…” Bucky chewed empty words and prayed Sam would do what he asked without making him spell it out. “I…”

“Sarge here has been telling me about this great little gym he’s been frequenting, and I wanted to see what it was all about. Sam Wilson.” He said, offering his hand to shake and a charming smile.

“Stone, pleasure to finally put a real face to the name.”

“You know, I feel the same way.” Sam said, looking from Bucky to Stone with an ever widening smirk. “I think I’m beginning to see the attraction of this place. So, tell me Stone, if you don’t train people to fight, what do you train them for?”

“Confidence, competence, the skill to end a fight and the brain cells not to start one.”

“And your trainees?”

“Mostly young guys who’ve been bullied or harassed and need to know how to throw a punch that will put their opponent on the ground and not six feet under.” Stone said, dropping the gear she’d been holding into a bag. “Give me a minute to put this away and then you can tell me how I can help you.”

Sam watched her tidy up the ring, collecting equipment and wiping things down with a clean rag. “You know who she reminds me of?” He asked Bucky in a significant tone, low enough not to be overheard.

“Steve.” Bucky responded with a sigh. “Yeah, I know.”

“No, she reminds me of you.” Sam said, with a raised brow, “I’ve heard the stories, the way Steve tells it, you ended every fight he got wrapped up in back in the day, you even tried to teach him, tried to keep him safe.”

“Tried being the operative word.” Bucky answered, not looking at Stone. He was starting to think it was a mistake to introduce Sam to the only person outside of the compound or therapy that didn’t already think him strange. Perhaps it was too late anyway, and for the sake of the mission… For Stone’s sake, he would put his embarrassment aside.

“You talk to her, I’m going to go, get a few rounds in before lunch.”

“Go right ahead,” Sam said, leaning on a post near the ring exchanging a grin with Stone, “I’m good right here.”

Bucky turned away, stalking to the end of the room where his favorite bag waited, hearing distantly the conversation picking up behind him.

“You feel like stepping into the ring, Wilson?”

“That depends, will you still think I’m cool when I’m flat on my back and sweating like a pig?” Sam laughed and Stone chuckled. “I didn’t think to bring a change of clothes, so I’ll have to take a rain check on that but why don’t you join us for lunch? There’s a great eatery about seven miles down the highway.”

“That depends, will I still get an autograph if I end up spilling sweet tea on you?” Stone echoed him, smiling widely.

“Definitely.”

“Then I’m in.”

Bucky tuned them out, focusing on the leather under his knuckles. There were a few gym-goers around and he held himself back, not wanting to draw attention. He stopped entirely when he realized a dark haired man on one of the weight machines was now craning his neck in Bucky’s direction instead of facing the ring. The leather jacket and gloves were far more out of place here than they had been outside where the crisp spring air at least partially justified his choices.

“Ready?” Sam asked from across the gym and Bucky grunted, walking out without looking back to see if he was followed.

Conversation over sandwiches and fries was relatively easy, brief banter over the menu, light, meaningless talk of the weather. Bucky refused to speak except to offer monosyllabic grunts in exchange for Sam’s attempt at ‘polite chat’, this wasn’t going at all the way he’d intended. Eventually their plates were cleared away and three coffees and a water- Stone’s -ere refilled. A steaming slice of apple pie was set before Sam and he finally seemed ready to really talk. Bucky held his breath.

“So, Stone, how’d you earn that handle?”

“Rookie on my last tour,” she paused, cleared her throat and continued with a chuckle, “never would call anybody by their real names, he blamed dyslexia, I said it was because he couldn’t spell.”

Stone presented herself confidently, but Bucky noticed that she hadn’t actually answered the question and he waited for Sam to call it out but he never did, just nodded thoughtfully and took a too-big bite. So much for Sam getting her to talk. This was a mistake. Bucky took another bite, hoping for this to be over, wanting to be alone. He needed space to work out a new plan.

“Who was your CO? Anderson must have been gone before you got there.”

“Mackle, Jimmy Mackle. But we all called him Jackson.”

“Can’t say I know him, a good leader?”

“Strict, by-the-book guy, but he was fair and a real mother hen underneath all that steel plate… I, uh, I owe him.” she rubbed the back of her left forearm through the long sleeve of her shirt and took another sip of coffee, shrugging. “Haven’t seen him since I got out.”

“Its tough, the transition to civilian life isn’t easy, I mean, I only lasted what… barely four years before Steve got a hold of me.”

“PJ to vet to Avenger, that’s quite the trajectory.” Stone remarked good humoredly.

“Better beds, better food, we’ve got a private chef five nights a week. The bad guys are… different, but the rest? It’s alright… worth it.” Sam smirked and nudged Bucky hard, “I mean, I’ve got to put up with this punk and the rest of the super-powered posse, but they desperately needed a regular guy just to remind them what it looks like to be human.”

“Not tired of the wings yet?”

“Tired? Of flying? Nah, there’s nothing I’d rather be doing.” Sam was having a good time, but Bucky grew frustrated at Stone’s consistent redirection back to him instead of saying more about herself. A transparent ploy that Sam didn’t seem to be picking up on. “When I was in the 58^th we were pretty well cross-disciplined, were you doing self propelled flights still?”

Bucky let out a breath. Sam was subtle, not an idiot.

“We didn’t get wing suits like yours, but we did everything else, choppers, props, jets, even used hang-gliders and squirrel suits on a few ops.” Stone answered smoothly, rubbing the coffee mug between her palms. “I think they’re working on Drone drops now, it’s a whole new world out there.”

“Don’t I know it.” Sam said, nodding in agreement. “Have you made a jump since you got out?”

Stone shook her head, “no, I wasn’t in it for the jump, not like… Well, Buddy, couldn’t get enough of it, he was my jump-buddy, never seen a smile so big in my life as when he was in the air. Bit of an adrenaline junkie, you know.”

Sam nodded slowly. “Yeah. My wingman was the same. For years, I just couldn’t stomach flying without him. It took Steve and the threat of a hostile takeover to get me back in the air.”

“Riley Ramirez. I read his name on the wall.”

“Yeah… He, uh, he was a good man.” Sam said, his mouth twisted for half a breath and then he was calmly neutral again. “Did you have a specialty? Or were you the annoying one who was good at everything?”

“Definitely not that,” Stone said, laughing, “no, I was the terrain specialist, which is just a fancy title for being in charge of reading the landscape, mapping rock formations and getting the rest of the guys on a solid footing. And of course planning any accents or descents off of everything too tall to jump.”

“My grasp of geology was never that tight,” Sam said, self deprecating smile in place, “do you still climb?”

“I… It’s been a while.” Stone said. There was a wistfulness in her voice that neither man missed. “Not a lot of opportunities around here, and… I guess I haven’t been trying very hard to find them.”

“There’s a great climbing wall at the compound that I haven’t gotten around to trying out, maybe you could stop by and give me a few pointers?” Sam suggested evenly.

“I can’t imagine you need my help, but sure, yeah, that’d be cool.” Stone agreed with a small tentative smile.

It was well done, even Bucky had to admit that. No pressure to climb it herself, Sam was simply offering her an opportunity to teach him, let it lead wherever it may. She and Sam arranged a day for the next week and Bucky sat back as Stone scooted from the booth, giving him a short smile and walking away, her braid swinging as she exited the diner.

Sam had stood up to see her off and he slide into the now empty seat across from Bucky. “I can see why you think she needs to someone to talk to, if all she had was you conversation would never get past, ‘yes’, ‘no’, and, ‘the weather is weather.’” Bucky gave him a look of pure annoyance but Sam only grinned back. “Hey I held back all the stupid until she left, but it’s still got to spill out sometime.”

Bucky leaned back quickly, “stupid can be contagious you know.”

“If that’s true then Steve is patient zero.”

Steve. On the bridge. In the airship. Fighting until he’d laid waste to Hydra’s plans and then, ‘finish it, cause I’m with you to the end of the line.’ Stupid, stubborn Steve. Willing to die on the off chance that Bucky would find his way back. It would have pissed him off more if it hadn’t worked. Watching Steve fall, like he’d fallen. Like Stone’s Buddy.

“Did it mess you up?” Bucky said aloud, startling Sam from his second perusal of the dessert menu. “What happened to your wingman, did it screw you up? Cause everyone else- Steve watched me die, flew himself into the arctic ocean, woke up in the future. And I… well, you know.” Bucky drained his coffee cup and stared into its depths. “We came back to a world that was nothing like the one we left. I thought, maybe, that and the war… and… well everything else. I thought it was just me and him…”

Sam looked him over, squinted and then answered soberly, “it messes everybody up. Some hide it better than others, but war… when I came back everything was still the same, it was me, I was the one that was different. Riley- Man, we were brothers and I watched him get shot down.” He fell silent as the waitress set the bill between them and left. “A hundred ways that should have been me, but it wasn’t. I’ve played it over and over in my head, trying to figure out how I could have changed the ending, but man, it wasn’t in my hands. So, when I got back, I had to figure out what it meant to survive, and then, how to actually live and not hate myself for it.”

“Do you?”

“Live? Or feel guilty?” Sam asked. “Both. The job helps. Reminds me what I’m still here for. It gets better, you need to know that, it doesn’t just go away, but it does get better. Easier to carry. You’re doing it well Bucky, I mean, yeah, I rag on you a lot, tease you, but I mean it.”

Bucky considered his words and decided to meet him halfway. “I appreciate it. The teasing. Makes me feel… normal. Like you’re not worried I’ll blow up in your face. Steve, much as I love him, he tiptoes around me like I’m nitroglycerin.”

Sam shook his head. “Steve isn’t worried about setting you off, Buck; he’s worried he’ll hurt you.”

“Oh.”

The Asset froze, the blue eyes of his opponent arrested him. Fear. Not for himself, not for the mission or the torture that would come if he failed. Fear for the man crumpled at his feet. His fingers twitched as though they were wrapped around Steve’s throat and he panicked. Smacking the broad chest with the back of his hand and taking a shuddering breath as Steve vomited river water onto the bank. Still the Asset’s fingers trembled. Instinct and training screamed in his ears as he stood up. He had to run. Steve would die if he stayed. He wouldn’t hurt him, so Bucky Barnes ran.

Chapter Text

Bucky watched the jeep pull into the parking lot. Mud splattered the sides raised body and the tires where thick and deeply treaded. A vehicle like that, had it been clean and chrome spit-shined would have conveyed pretention and a desire to appear tough. Knowing Stone, this was a practical choice, useful, pragmatic. She wasn’t posturing. Bucky wondered where the mud came from.

Stone looked up at the complex and he flinched back, despite knowing that the mirrored window wouldn’t reveal him to her. Sam walked out to greet her and they disappeared from view.

Bucky couldn’t help but watch through the window, leaving only to use the bathroom and grab a snack before settling back on the window ledge with a book. More than four hours later, Stone exited, waved Sam away and hopped up into the jeep. She spent a minute looking down at her phone and Bucky wondered why until the phone in his pocket chimed.

unknown number: Good climb, thanks. SM

“Busy day?” Sam asked Bucky over dinner.

“No.”

“Should have stopped by the gym instead of sulking in your room. Especially if you’re trying to convince Stone that you’re not actually a vampire.”

Bucky continued to chew mechanically, ignoring Sam’s teasing grin and Steve’s newly piqued interest.

“Stone?” Steve asked.

“Bucky’s gym-buddy.”

“Gym buddy?” Steve asked with rising curiosity.

Bucky glared at Sam.

“Oh, was she a secret?” Sam winced apologetically, unable to hide his smile. “Oops.”

Steve looked from Sam to Bucky, and raised one of his perfectly patient eyebrows.

Bucky sighed. Steve wasn’t going to let it go, even if it took him days to wear through Bucky’s defenses, and for once, Bucky didn’t feel like fighting to the last inch. “Stone owns the gym I go to at night.” The blond eyebrow hiked a fraction higher. “I… I picked the lock, she pulled a gun on me, figured out who I was and then gave me the keycode for the back door.”

“She’s former pararescue,” Sam added victoriously. “So, I invited her over to belay for me on the climbing wall today, give me a few pointers.”

“Another troubled vet to pull under your wing Sam?” Steve asked, eyes glittering with amusement.

“She’d be in good company.” Sam answered and then taking another bite, he redirected the conversation to a training simulation Steve had been working on. “Stark worked up a new VR scenario for you, I thought maybe we could take a swing at it together in the morning?”

“0-800, I’ll be there.” Steve answered almost mechanically and the conversation faded as Sam and Bucky traded worried looks.

Stone wasn’t the only one who had Bucky concerned. He and Steve had histories, too much history for any single individual to properly comprehend. Bucky’s mind had been stretched to breaking point and been broken, and stretched again to remember. He had been forced to face every waking nightmare and the reality of the time he’d lived even before the war, Steve hadn’t.

Bucky’s mind was a battle ground, trenches, machine guns and landmines had destroyed the surface of a once fertile field, full of promise and potential. But every bomb had been set off, every ounce of destruction had been wrung from the artillery, and now he was slowly, painstakingly filling in the holes, leveling pits, with Dr. Kilne’s help he was uncovering the bodies, and giving them the respectful burials they deserved. It was still a bleak landscape, but there was evidence of new growth at the base of the blasted oak trees.

Steve on the other hand, his battlefield had lain untouched for decades, the blast craters became watering holes, the trenches half filled with washed out soil. He compartmentalized everything he experienced, refused to talk about it when the event was ended. Everywhere he stepped a trench might collapse the ground beneath his feet, and live ordnance and landmines lay in wait under the overgrown grass. Steve was more present than Bucky ever felt, and Bucky had originally resented it, but he could see now, his best friend was stuck in the present moment and couldn’t take a single step either forward or back.

Military order tethered Steve and he clung to it.

07:00, stretches. 07:30, breakfast. 08:00, training. 11:30, shower. 12:00, lunch. After lunch Steve scheduled various tasks, discussing strategy and tech with Stark, meetings, public services, preparation and planning for natural disaster recovery simulations and so on until supper, at which point he mandated rest for himself, reading, listening to music or sketching.

Every day that he was in the compound. Sleep, rinse and repeat. Aside from appointments with Dr. Kilne, Bucky did the same for the better part of a week following Stone's visit, shadowing his captain and watching for the strain Steve tried so hard to hide.

Until the thin strand of order keeping Steve tethered to reality snapped all at once.

08:34,

“Steve. Steve! It’s not real, its not- Steve!” Bucky shouted, trying to get his attention. But a choked sob escaped the helmet that fed Steve a fully realized simulation, and he turned towards a figure no one but he could see, swinging madly, losing control and growling like a wild animal. Not meeting the obstacle he’d expected, Steve advanced and Bucky stepped between him and the massive beam in the center of the training arena. “Steve, its just a sim, it’s not real, you’ve got to stop!” Steve wasn’t listening so Bucky spoke at the ceiling instead. “Friday, get Stark down here.”

“Mr. Stark is in-”

“I don’t care, just get him here, now!” Bucky shouted trying to restrain Steve and struggling as fist after fist landed. Steve was in a rage now, literally blind, but still falling back on the lethal instinct honed over the last century. He was aiming for organs and when he was blocked, Steve slammed his fist into Bucky’s neck hard enough to bring tears to Bucky’s eyes. Still, he resisted, not willing to let Steve injure himself trying to bring down the roof on his own head.

Tony’s voice preceded the man through the arena’s entrance, “what is so darned important that I had to-”

Words failed him as he registered the scene before him in its entirety. Steve, pummeling Bucky to the floor, landing blow after blow with guttural screams of rage as the huge screen on the far wall projected the image of what Steve had seen in the headset. Tony Stark saw a representation of himself just on the edge of Steve’s peripheral, a pool of blood under him, a spear of alien metal impaling his sparking suit.

“Friday, cut the helmet feed.”

“I’ve already done that Mr. Stark; Captain Rogers appears to be receiving visuals from an unknown source.”

Tony raised a wrist and used it to send a small pulsar to Steve’s curved back, stepping back as the man turned on him. “Steve, its me.”

What might have happened if Bucky hadn’t managed to get to his feet and pull the headset off in time, no one could have said with any certainty. Even with the visual impediment removed it took another tiny repulsar blast to his gut to knock some clarity into the clouded blue eyes.

“Tony?” Steve breathed, gasped and collapsed to his knees. “Is this real? Are you-”

Tony stepped forward quickly, smacking Steve across the side of his face. “Real and in the flesh, are you back with us?”

“I, yeah, I… I don’t…” Steve stuttered, shaking his head and catching sight of Bucky who stood to his left, leaning heavily against the pillar, spitting blood on the floor and gasping for air as more blood trickled from his nose. His flesh hand cradled his chest. “Did I- Buck.”

“I’m fine.” Bucky said stonily.

“You look like you were run over by a herd of mastodons.” Tony said with his trademark smirk. It didn’t reach his worried eyes. “You know, nature's take on tanks, long tusks, extinct?”

Steve shook off the attempt at levity and curled in on himself, burying his face in his arms.

“Hey, Steve, I’m Okay, you’re okay, Bucky’s-”

“I’m good. Really.” Bucky cut in.

“Bucky’s a bit delusional, but he’ll be fine.” Tony added with a forced chuckle, pressing his palm to the super soldiers heaving shoulder to anchor him.

“I, I messed up Tony.” Steve said with a shudder.

“Not your fault Cap-” Tony started to say but was cut off.

“Siberia.” Steve said, looking up at the screen where Tony’s bloody body lay to where Bucky stood, dripping. “I couldn’t let you kill him, but I… It shouldn’t have happened like that. I-”

“No Steve. We messed up. You, and I… did things we shouldn’t have done, let other people get in our heads. You were right, about some things, and I was right about everything.” Tony trailed off as Steve slumped under his hand. Shaking his head he continued, “I was so afraid of what was coming, so afraid of what it might cost… the vision Wanda put in my head, I saw you dead Steve, just like that.” He pointed at the screen. “With your last breath you asked me why I didn’t do more to stop it. And… like every other arrogant SOB I turned it into a prophecy.”

“You never said anything,” Steve said softly, “I didn’t know.”

“Because I didn’t want you to.” Tony answered. “I didn’t want anyone to know, nightmares, panic attacks, for years after New York… I thought I was the only one. I didn’t want you to think I was cracking.”

Steve finally turned to look back at him. “How’d you make them stop?”

“I, I uh, didn’t.” Tony looked momentarily embarrassed but stood his ground. “Hey, Bucky?”

“Yeah?” Bucky responded, surprised to be included at this stage of the conversation.

“How’re the nightmares?”

Bucky had to spit out a mouthful of blood before he could answer. “Terrible.”

Steve looked from one to the other with slow blinking eyes, as though seeing them with new eyes as Stark nodded in understanding and Bucky dipped his head in answer.

“And the flashbacks? You get them?”

“All the time.” Bucky said.

“What about therapy? You said it was helping?” Steve asked, looking as though he’d been kicked.

“It is. It… It’s a long process.” Bucky said, grimacing as he took a few steps toward them. “Rob says it takes a lot longer to heal a broken bone than the time it took to break it. And we broke a lot more than bones.”

“Rob?”

“Dr. Kilne.”

Tony offered Steve a hand up. “What’dya say you and I go talk to the Doc?” Steve shrugged noncommittally but accepted Tony’s hand and rose to his feet. “But we got to get you cleaned up first. Bucky, you need help getting to medical?”

“I don’t need-”

“Shut up Buck,” Tony interrupted him, “Steve and I go to the brain doctor, you go to medical and let them help you, it’s only fair.”

“Fine.”

Bucky grunted, flinching slightly as Tony stepped in under his left arm and gestured for him to lean as much as he needed to while still bracing his ribs with his free arm.

“Excellent! Friday, can you contact…”

The discomfort of such close contact with Tony was overshadowed by Bucky’s awareness of Steve walking close behind them. Steve needed to see this. Steve needed to know they were- all three of them -still just men. That it was okay to let people help. And in service to Steve, Bucky could swallow his pride. And if the pair of former enemies found some shared understanding in doing so, well, they weren’t going to overthink a good thing.

For Steve.

Braced and bandaged, with super soldier strength pain meds to take away the sting and a series of taped gashes that would ordinarily be stitched up, Bucky was sitting on the edge of the med bed waiting for the head nurse to discharge him when a pair of footsteps heralded the arrival of visitors.

“He’s just in there. I’ll leave you to it.”

“Thanks Sam,” a woman said. One set of footsteps faded away and then she came around the corner, saw Bucky and stood still in the doorway. “Hi.”

Chapter Text

“What are you doing here?” Bucky could have slapped himself for the first words out of his mouth. His correction wasn’t exactly much better. “I mean, why are you… here.”

“You haven’t been by the gym.” Stone answered somewhat flatly. Her hands were clenched and Bucky wondered if she was as uncomfortable with the current situation as he was.

“No.”

“I guess… I just wanted to see if you were alright.” She said shifting from one foot to the other.

Bucky was suddenly aware of his current state of undress and his ears flushed red. Thankfully all his injuries were above the waist and the nurse had allowed him to keep his pants, still he was exposed. Medical tape and specialized boning created a surface level splint for the five ribs he’d cracked but it didn’t cover the rest of his chest or the raised ridge of scar tissue that circled his shoulder where Hydra's arm had once been directly grafted on.

“Are you?”

“What?”

“Are you alright?” Stone asked.

“I’ll heal.”

She was looking him over disbelievingly and he chanced a glance at his reflection in the glass wall of the med suite. The wounds had been attended to, cleaned and treated as necessary, but there were still trails of dried blood from his nose and mouth that had dripped and then smeared across his chest.

“It looks worse than it is.” He said quietly, flexing his hand unconsciously. The meds were wearing off. “I heal fast.”

“Do you want your prosthetic on?” Stone asked, stepping fully inside the room for the first time when Bucky moved to reach for it and winced as the brace tightened on his torso. “I could help, if… If that’s okay?”

Bucky shook his head frustrated to be seen like this, angry that she saw his pain. Remembered Steve. “Fine.”

Stone’s uncertain body language was immediately replaced with detached confidence as she approached his side. “The pylon on your sleeve isn't clean, I’m not familiar with this style, is there a particular solution you use?”

“Yeah.” Bucky answered in a half whisper, trying not to shrink away from her inspection. “I, uh, in my room. It’s not… there’s nothing here for it.” Stone looked at him sharply, confusion in her eyes and perhaps something like anger. “It’s Wakandan tech. And I, uh, prefer to handle it myself.”

“Oh.” Her face softened at the last admission.

It was an admission. He didn’t like people messing with his arm, especially while it was still attached to him. It reminded him too much of Hydra’s brutal manipulation.

They seemed to be at an impasse now, neither exactly sure of what to do or say next, until the silent standoff was interrupted by the appearance of the head nurse, a matronly woman, who bustled in and looked over Bucky's bandages and asked if his pain was being managed. Fine, he lied.

“Well in that case, you are cleared to go Mister Barnes; just promise me you won’t take the rib splints off for at least three hours. And no fighting for twenty-four hours, you hear me?” She smiled at him and then at Stone. “Are you a friend?”

Stone shrugged and smiled for the nurse’s benefit but Bucky though he saw a wince.

“Great, you can help him back to his room, three hours, then he can shower and take the tape off.” She signed something on her clipboard, showed it to Bucky who also initialed it and then she bustled out of the room faster than she’d appeared.

After a moment had passed Stone stepped back and said, “you don’t really need my help, I should go.”

Steve. Steve needed to know when to ask for help. Steve would say the same for him. Maybe it was true.

Stone was halfway to the door when he spoke up. “Can you carry my arm up for me?”

“What?” she turned back, noticing his gesture at the prosthetic and nodded. “Oh, okay, yes of course.”

Bucky rose to his feet, swallowing a groan and began to walk, not looking back to see if she followed, stepping lightly to avoid jarring his chest. Steady steps chased him and he resisted the urge to go faster as he approached the elevator and pressed the button. It chimed almost  immediately and he stalked inside and pressed a security sequence for the private quarters. Finally looking up to acknowledge Stone he saw that she carried his prosthetic arm in a football hold across her stomach with one arm and grasped the wrist gently to prevent it from flopping back on itself. As though it was somehow human and breakable. The humorous thought of Shuri’s reaction to such a display was quickly subsumed in the idea that perhaps Stone had done something like this before. Perhaps handled much more delicate circumstances than the one they were now in.

“What?” Stone asked, seeing his stormily changing expression.

“I… I just… I wondered.” Bucky gestured at the arm. “If you’ve had to… do that, before.”

“Carry a prosthetic?” Stone asked and he shook his head. “Oh... A few, yeah.”

There was nothing he could say to that and so they stood in silence until the elevator doors opened again into a foyer-like room with mirrored glass doors on the far side. Bucky walked to the door and placed his palm on the biometric lock and an electronic voice spoke from a speaker in the ceiling.

“Bucky Barnes verified. Welcome home.”

“Thank you, Friday; uh, this is Stone, she’s with me.”

“Very good.” Friday answered back and the door opened for them.

A lounge adjoined a dining area that could serve two dozen people with ease. A small kitchen cornered the room and Stone merely glanced over the empty space as Bucky led the way down a long hallway to the right. They met no one initially and Bucky was just starting to let down his guard when Clint exited one of the guest rooms.

“You okay?” Clint asked, looking Bucky over with concern. “You never go to medical, what happened? Is everybody-”

“Just me. And I’m fine, Tony insisted I go, Nurse Betty let me out.”

“Tony?” Clint said, his brows reaching for his hairline at the familiar use of his first name, but then he looked at Stone and asked about her instead. “Who’s this?”

Bucky didn’t move to introduce them and Stone stepped forward, adjusting her left arm under the prosthetic so she could clasp Clint’s hand without dropping the mechanical one.

“Stone, I’m a friend of Sam’s.” She said evenly.

“Ah, climbing wall, I saw you the other day, man you’re wicked quick.” Clint smiled.

“I… didn’t know I was being watched, but when Sam Wilson makes a bet, I just couldn’t let myself lose.”

“I’ll make note of that for next time.” Clint winked jovially and walked away so quietly that Stone could have imagined him to float over the floor.

Bucky placed his hand on the knob of his door and waited for the thumbprint to unlock it before turning the doorknob and stalking into the dark room. He flicked the light switch on as an afterthought when he realized Stone wasn’t on his six anymore.

“Stuffs in here.” He said, entering the bathroom and pulling out the kit Shuri had given him. Labels on every bottle proclaimed the use of each and a laminated sheet gave clear concise instructions on how to maintain his prosthetic arm. Stone followed him in and set the arm down on the clean marble counter.

Stone moved again into confident action, reading through the care guide and noting the labels before selecting two bottles and a soft cloth. “Would you rather clean your shoulder up yourself?”

Bucky pulled a stool from the oversized shower and sat on it with his head down, a silent permission. He felt relief as she began to work at cleaning the metal coupling for the arm. There were no sensors for this area and he couldn’t feel it but it still made him feel detached. There was shame in the relief that it was out of his hands for the moment. Like being a child again and letting someone else handle the mess. Like being a machine.

As the asset he’d never had to make a decision for himself. Problem solving during a mission sure, but no real independent thought. When he was finally freed, he’d taken every step towards liberty that he could, even when it meant he was bone tired and still had to drag himself up out of the mud. He’d fought against Thanos’s alien horde until his skin was stained with their blood and when it was over, he didn’t ask for help, just dragged himself back to his old hut, collapsed on the floor when his legs gave up their strength and forced himself to carefully remove the arm and clean it properly before falling asleep where he lay.

Steve was supposed to let Bucky help him, and he was trying to understand what that meant as a woman who was in some ways a complete stranger cleaned his shoulder up, taking off the coupling sleeve and with a washcloth gently washing and drying the skin.

“Better?”

“Yeah.” Bucky grunted. It was. It was humiliatingly liberating not to have to do it himself.

“You still want the arm back on?”

Bucky tilted his head, looking over at it and then shook his head no.

“Alright, well that’s done then,” she said, looking at him. “Unless, is there anything more I can do… Maybe get some of this blood cleaned up?”

Bucky shrugged again and she nodded.

The sink was filled with warm sudsy water and Stone went to work in sections. First, she laid a damp cloth over an area of dried blood and when it had sat for a minute, she’d lift it away and dab the area clean.

The unusual intimacy of her actions made him fidget and he tried not to watch her eyes as they inspected his skin. Grey rimmed with deep green and short fine eyelashes.

“Why’d you come?” He finally asked to distract himself from the feeling of her hands on his chest.

“Why’d you stop?” She asked in turn, still focused on dabbing away a particularly stubborn spot. “Come to the gym every night for months and then you show up with Sam once and nothing.”

“You waited for me?”

She nodded once and he could have counted the freckles on the skin just under her eyes. “At first, I was just going to thank you. Sam’s been cool and I’ve enjoyed climbing with him, getting back into it, I forgot how much I used to love it. And I… didn’t have anyone else to talk to about it, but then you didn’t show and I started getting angry. Thought- well, I realized you just felt sorry for me. So, I guess I just came to say thank you and apologize for spilling so much of my mess over on you, it won’t happen again.”

“No, you- didn’t. no.” Bucky stuttered as she worked across his collar bone, her face less than a foot from his.

“You don’t have to explain Bucky, I just feel like an idiot for not seeing it sooner.” She said softly, her fingers trembled for a moment and he looked in the mirror to see the aging green bruise where Steve had punched him in the throat. “What happened to you?”

“Accident.” Bucky said stonily. He knew she didn’t believe him from the set of her shoulders and the way her jaw clenched. Life around the Avengers was dangerous. Stone was, well, not fragile exactly, but already wounded. Let Sam be her friend, Bucky had already done all that he’d intended. Mission accomplished. New mission: help Steve.

She worked on in silence and he let himself stare at her as she worked on his face, concentrating on not moving his mouth as she cleaned the blood from his lips and nostrils. Hating how the tender act made his skin tingle and steeled his jaw to stop himself from leaning into her palm. Fascinatingly contradictory; Stone had a tan but faint lines showed evidence of eyewear on her temples. Hard lines of her nose and pointed chin contrasted against the soft curve of her cheek and the comet streaks of green and silver in her irises. Bucky hadn’t been this close to a woman, or really anyone in a very long time and he’d forgotten what the texture of skin looked like, pores and scars and the barely-there hairs that gave a halo to her sun-bronzed skin. Darker hair escaped from her hairline in tiny perfect tidal waves and there were several piercings he hadn’t noticed before. Miniscule stars making new constellations on her ears.

“Done.” She said, standing back quickly when she noticed his eyes on her. Bucky wondered if he had imagined the blush creeping up her neck; it was gone before she’d turned away and wrung out the cloths.

“Ok.”

“I’ll… I’ll see myself out then.” She paused at the door and seeing he had nothing more to say, nodded her farewell. “Take care of yourself Sarge.”

Bucky slumped onto his bed with a dissatisfied sigh. It was over. His newfound purpose had been tied up in the mission of getting Stone help. Now it was done and despite Steve’s even greater need, he felt somehow bereft.

His nightmares were riddled with her face: through the scope of his rifle. On the floor with Steve and Tony all three locked in a death grip. Cold in an open coffin as he presented a folded flag to a faceless family.

2:17am Bucky pressed the sequence to open the gym’s back door, seeing the small light blink green with disbelief. There were no lights on and he checked the back office, disappointed and relieved to find it empty.

There was a note on the fridge.

-Stay hydrated, and no fighting for 24 hours. SM

A whole shelf of the little fridge was filled with the grape electrolytes he preferred. Bucky took one and settled on the couch, falling asleep after a few minutes and waking just before dawn to sneak away before anyone saw him there.

Chapter Text

-Stay hydrated, and no fighting for 24 hours. SM

---

-Yes Ma’am. JBB

---

Bucky’s last note and Stone’s had been removed from the fridge and no new reminders took their place. Once or twice a week Bucky returned to an empty gym, pounding his nightmares into dark leather and running through the checklist he’d created with Dr. Rob’s guidance.

“My name is James Bucky Barnes, I served my country faithfully, I never served Hydra, they used me and that’s not the same. The winter soldier is dead, Hydra is gone. I am not a machine. I am James Bucky Barnes; I can be a good man.”

Every few weeks he would see the jeep pull into the parking area and he’d choose to make himself scarce. Sam would walk her out some hours later, sometimes joined by Clint if he was around and they’d stand around talking like old friends, slapping each other on the arm and laughing at some joke Bucky wouldn’t hear. It was good. They were good for each other. Bucky just had to be good for Steve. And at the moment that was more than enough.

The first few therapy sessions hadn’t daunted Steve, he’d acted as though this was another of those things he’d naturally excel at, but Bucky had known Steve before the serum, knew that same little Steve was still in there somewhere and helping him sort through the rubble wouldn’t be as simple as an injection. Dr. Rob allowed Bucky to spend twenty minutes of every session talking through his attempts to help Steve, offering advice and correction when Bucky was going too far, reminding him that he knew what it felt like when everyone was just trying to fix him, reminding him to still be Steve’s friend. And then they were back to Bucky’s wounds, addressing his mindset on the world and his place in it, the things he’d endured. Every session ended with Bucky collecting the darts from around the room and taking one more tiny step forward into the truth. Into the future.

Through Steve and Tony’s visit to the doc, they learned that the same VR that had sent Steve into that spiral may also be useful to unwind his trauma. Tony’s visits to the therapist hadn’t lasted beyond the first, but he was in daily communications with several of the leading psychiatrists in the field and they were brainstorming ways to integrate Stark tech with existing treatment options like EMDR. Steve had received the idea with skepticism but Bucky could see the lights on in Starks lab late at night when everyone else was asleep.

Hope was a beautiful and dangerous thing.

Bucky read everything he could find on the subject, starting with articles Rob sent him and then going deeper when Friday began sending him weekly collections of peer-reviewed studies. But Bucky wanted more than tests and theory, he wanted to see it happen. He watched Tony tinker from a shadowy corner of the otherwise glass walled hallway, wondering what made the man mutter to himself.

“You coming in or just gonna spy from the hall again tonight?” Tony said loudly, not looking up from the circuit board he was soldering on. “Biomechanical Barnes, I’m talking to you.”

The door opened as Bucky approached it and he walked in quietly, circling the work bench to approach Tony from the front with his hands held out in a display of peace.

“Pull up a seat, but don’t say anything. Not that that’ll be a problem for you, hey? Actually-” Tony set the screwdriver shaped tool in a cradle and planted both hands on the table to look at his wary guest, the haze of half-mad brilliance glazing his eyes. “Talk. yeah, I need you to talk, I’m so darn tired of listening to my own voice, so take a look at this and tell me where I’m going wrong.”

Bucky looked at the helmet, the wires sticking out of it and the circuit board, the digital representation of schematics he didn’t know the first thing about and then at the scribbled notes on paper and the dozens of dried coffee rings marking every page.

“Water.” He finally said, jerking Tony from his reverie.

“What? I must have dozed off- there’s no way you’re saying my design needs to also electrocute the wearer.”

“No.” Bucky shook his head and hazarded a smile. “How much coffee have you had?”

“What’s that- you know what, fine, I’ll humor you, maybe it’ll get me out of this rut. Twelve, maybe thirteen.”

“Have you eaten anything?”

“Yeah, of course I eat, what are you on about, I had… Lunch, I think… We had bagels for lunch right?”

“Breakfast. Lunch was tacos.”

“I missed tacos? Again?” Tony said with a flash of anger, “Friday, I told you to remind me when tacos are on the menu.

“I did sir, you dismissed the alert three times.”

“What? Why would I do that?”

Friday sounded incredibly offended for a computer, “would you like me to play back the lab recording?”

“No, no, that’s fine.” Tony said, slumping onto a stool and dragging his hands through his hair. He looked older than ever with the dark circles under his eyes and the slightly stretched look of his cheeks.

“You can’t expect your Maserati to run on diesel fuel.” Bucky ventured quietly, making his point in a language he thought Tony would appreciate.

“What, you’re a gearhead now? When did that happen?”

“Steve never told you I worked in my dad’s car garage growing up?”

“No, he didn’t. Wait! you were the guy, the friend who helped him fix up the bike he found at the dump. That was you! Oh, its all coming together… and then of course, you go and get that lovely little bit of exoskeletal magic attached to your shoulder, d’you know how to work with that? Did they teach you in Wakanda? C’mon, spill, I’ve got all night.”

“I can try, but I’ve got to warn you, talking makes me hungry.”

Bucky smirked at him and Tony conceded with a raised voice and hands out in a gesture of resigned submission. “Friday, send a drone for delivery. Two- make it three large pizza’s extra pepperoni.”

“Yes sir.”

“Did you want anything to drink with that?” Tony asked, new light blazing in his eyes.

“I don’t know if you can get it but there’s this grape hydration stuff…”

“I, can get anything.” Tony said, clapping his hands forcefully. “Alright, start talking Buckaroo.”

By the end of the night Tony had a full belly, a case full of electrolytes in various flavors- he’d insisted on trying them all to see which was really the best, it was a holdout between blackberry and strawberry thus far- and he had gained a new appreciation for Bucky’s fascination for the scientific.

"The concept makes sense but I can't follow the logic to the numbers, its just too much to process all at once.” Bucky said after Tony’s third attempt to explain coding, tapping the side of his head apologetically. “I appreciate you trying but I don’t think there’s enough room up here to make it fit.”

“Hey, that’s cool, leave all the computer whizz stuff to me, I don’t mind taking the credit.” Tony waved him away with a wide smile. He was drowsy now; the frenetic energy of the earlier problem had left him after making a tweak on the helmet and testing it with preliminary success. “How about the kiwi flavour?”

Bucky shrugged and tossed him a pale green bottle with a grin.

“Eh, not bad.” Tony said after a first sip. “Coffee’s still better, but not bad... Who’d have thought, Bucky Barnes is a brainiac, and we’re both insomniacs... Speaking of sleep, I think I could catch a few zees.”

“In a real bed.” Bucky said in a stern gravely voice. The rapid fire of Tony’s questions and a full therapy session in the morning had dried his throat.

“At least my couch is better than the floor.” Tony said in half-hearted argument. Bucky had admitted sleeping on the floor in conversation with Steve yesterday and Tony wasn’t letting it go. “I have to drink water, eat food, even when I don’t feel like it - You have to sleep on the ridiculously expensive mattress I paid for.” He thrust his hand out and Bucky shook it reluctantly. “Deal?”

“Fine.”

“Sweet dreams Bucky-boy.” Tony said standing up abruptly and walking to the elevator that would take him to his own penthouse suite.

Somewhere between the pizza and the prosthetics, things had changed between them.

The delicate truce they’d formed in order to coexist more than a year ago was shattered now, and in its place was something almost like kinship. Not friendship. Neither Bucky nor Tony would ever concede that. But something like a brother’s best friend, teasing jabs and mischief and an underlying silent respect that prevented them getting too far up each others nerves. No one who had seen the simmering resentment between them a year ago could have anticipated this outcome, but as long as no one challenged it, the two of them would get along alright.

For Steve.

For themselves.

<o><o><o><o>

Tony never missed another taco lunch. Friday would alert him once and failing to receive a response would send Bucky, who would show up, usually glistening with sweat from a morning training session and threaten to bodily drag him to the dining room. More than once a fully suited Iron Man landed on the balcony outside the common room with Bucky administering a headlock, clinging to his back. Sam watched Steve laugh as the two came up with more and more absurd ways to play at fighting, the best shows always happening to coincide with Steve’s EMDR therapy sessions. Steve knew why they did it, but he made Sam swear not to tell the other two their ploy was so easily seen through. It may have started as a joke, an attempt to improve Steve’s mood, but it was making changes in Bucky and Tony too: the tension between them that had held the compound in an atmosphere of anxiety was melting away.

Neither had the deep shadows under their eyes anymore. Bucky laughed and smiled more freely, and Tony’s face had lost its sallow appearance. Even Pepper laughed on the few occasions she witnessed their antics, her nerves around them had noticeably dropped off lately. Therapy had much to with it. But the power of forgiving the man Tony had blamed for his parent’s deaths had lifted a burden from him even defeating Thanos hadn’t achieved.

Full as Bucky’s days now were, with afternoon siestas to make up for late nights planning pranks with Tony or pounding out built up tension in Stone’s gym, training with Steve, therapy, supervising Steve’s EMDR sessions on his request; there was still a space in his week.

A space suspiciously khaki coloured and jeep shaped in the driveway. Even more suspiciously in the shape of the small gym office refrigerator unmarked by friendly yellow notes.

It seemed to be going well; Sam was cheerful on climbing days. Bucky wouldn’t ask. Sam would just tell him for the hundredth time. “If you want to know how she’s doing, you’re going to have to work up the nerve to ask her.”

“I didn’t say anything.” Bucky said, raising his hands in frustration.

“You’re face says it all my friend.” Sam answered cheekily back. “You care. You just need to figure out why.”

“No. I don’t.” Bucky said, grinding his teeth and turning his back on Sam. Muttering under his breath. “I don’t even know her.”

Sam had still heard him. “You could change that if you weren’t so darn stubborn.”

And then one day, Bucky’s phone rang.

“Bucky?”

Chapter Text

“Bucky?” Stone’s voice said through his phone’s speaker. There was an intensity to her voice and he could hear the hum of a vehicle in the background. “I need to talk to Sam but he’s not answering his phone, can you find him for me?”

“Sam? Uh, he’s a little busy at the moment.”

“Its urgent. Please.”

“Give me a minute.” He covered the speaker and knocked on the plexiglass barrier. Sam’s head turned and Bucky pointed at the phone. The video screen froze and Bucky entered the arena, handing the phone to Sam and helping Steve take the helmet off. They could both hear the conversation taking place on the phone only a few feet away.

“Sam?”

“What’s up?” Sam answered brightly.

“I need a lift asap, call came in from Plotter Kill reserve, rescue, hoping not to make it a recovery but they don’t know how much longer he’ll last.”

“I can pick you up in ten, chopper good?”

“Chopper’s great, I’m nearly there.”

“I’ll get the bird ready, park on the far side near the hangers.”

“Thanks Sam, you’re a lifesaver.”

Sam passed the phone back to Bucky and looked at Steve. “Sorry Steve, this’ll have to wait.”

“Go,” Steve said firmly, blinking a little too quickly but smiling reassurance nonetheless. “Godspeed.”

Steve and Bucky watched the chopper lift off eight minutes later from the balcony of the common room.

“Plotter Kill Reserve. That’s what, an hour and a half drive?” Steve asked conversationally.

“Hour and forty.” Bucky corrected; his arms crossed.

Steve rubbed his chin, failing to hide the curling corner of his mouth. “They might need a little more muscle. I could call and ask.”

“Sam would have taken us along if that was the case.”

“Right…” Steve said, turning his back on the field and leaning against the railing with his head tilted at his best friend. “Well that's it then. They’ll be just fine. Nothing to worry about. Right Buck?”

Not worried. Bucky said it to himself as he packed a bag. Not because I care. Just curious, that’s all. He kicked the bike into gear and roared down the highway. Professional curiosity, just want to see what its about. Not because I’m worried. Why’d I be worried anyway? Not like we’re friends.

We could have been. A contrary voice spoke up from the back of his mind.

I don’t need more friends.

No? Even if that was true, what if she does?

Bucky swore softly.

The mission had been to help Stone, and he’d deserted it at the first opportunity.

An hour and a half. He could have flown the chopper. She would have called him for a ride. If he hadn’t lost his nerve. It had alarmed him to be looked after so gently. Shame flooded him as he realized he’d repaid her kindness with coldness. Had believed he didn’t deserve it, so deeply, despite everything he logically knew, despite every long conversation with Rob. He’d been happy enough to help her out before, when she was drunk and delirious. And the first time she’d had a chance to return the favor, he’d shut her out.

Coward.

He growled low under his breath and pushed the bike to go faster, praying there were no cops on this stretch of highway.

Bucky pulled into the parking lot at the head of the hiking trail to see a tent and a group of volunteers setting out water bottles and speaking to a park ranger in uniform.

“Sir, you can’t go up the trail, there’s an active rescue taking place and we can’t allow…” The woman stumbled over her words as he glared at her and the ranger stepped in with a raised hand.

"What is your business here?"

"Stone, I'm looking for Stone." Bucky said, grunting as he realized how incomprehensible it was to be looking for stone on a mountain. "A friend." Not much better, the park ranger still looking confounded.

“Bucky?” Sam’s voice came from around the back of the tent. “Is that you?”

“You know this guy?” The ranger asked, still watching Bucky with suspicion.

“Yeah, he’s with me.”

“Alright Wilson, be careful out there.”

“Will do, hey Lisa, can you toss my buddy a water?” Sam asked, and the petite blonde grinned, handing him the bottle. He gestured toward a maintenance road off one side of the trailhead. “C’mon Bucky, they’re up this way.”

Ten minutes of walking fast, at first a flattened trail it grew increasingly inclined and left Sam huffing a little. He held Bucky up at the third switchback.

“Whatever is going on, you can’t interfere. We're only observers here, you’ve got to promise me, Buck.”

“Fine.”

Sam looked him over, squinting at him like he wasn’t sure this was wise. “Alright, its just through here.” He pointed at a spot a little further up the trail where recent foot traffic had trampled down the undergrowth off to one side.

Following the path, Bucky marched out onto a shallow slope sparsely interrupted by scrub brush. Evidence of previous rock slides lay in long dusty layers to his right. Ahead of them a helicopter waited with the pilot. Sixty yards away to his left, a group of men and woman wearing reflective vests and helmets stood at the bottom of a cut in the mountainside, one sat on the ground with icepacks on his legs.

And there, halfway up the cliffside, tiny at this distance, a figure wearing a yellow vest. Ant sized, a flash of blue on a ledge above revealed the position of the fallen hiker.

Sam spoke quietly, as though sound could bring the whole hillside down on them. “The SAR team is already in position to provide medical assistance and get the patient in the air as soon as they get him down, there’s nothing else for us to do right now.”

“Is that…?” Bucky’s question trailed away as he looked at each member of the team on the ground for the familiar figure of the only person here, he cared about and failed to find it. The climber was too far away to distinguish features beyond the dark hair, but he recognized the intentional movements.

“Stone? Yeah.” Sam said in answer to Bucky’s distrustful inspection of the scene. “They sent up two of their own guys first, but the rock is too unstable for anchoring above that-” here he pointed at a change in the colour of the cliff-face, “-line there, Stone is one of the best free climbers in the business, she tried to get another one in about twenty feet up from there, but it broke loose on the first attempt. Guy was lucky he was only ten feet off the ground when it came down, he’s a little banged up but nothing broken.”

“Since when has she…” Bucky started, breaking off and holding his breath as the handhold the climber was using fell away and she swung in midair on only one hand and a single foothold. She was moving very slowly, stopping completely on occasion as a fresh fall of shale trembled off the cliffside around her. She was so far above the topmost anchor point and Bucky was calculating just far she could go and still have any hope of the rope breaking her fall.

“Been working with search and rescue?” Sam finished for him. “She was in their system as an emergency contact ever since she came back from her last deployment, but given her injuries they didn’t actually call her in. About a month ago she started volunteering with a local team and this is the first real call she’s been on. Don’t worry, Buck, they know what they’re doing,” Sam said putting a comforting hand on his shoulder and giving him a sympathetic look. “There’s a jump cushion at the bottom and her belay partner is one of the best in the business, he’s got thirty feet to catch her if she falls. This is what they’ve trained for, they know what their doing.”

“Injuries?” Bucky asked sharply.

“Not my story to tell Buck.” Sam said turning back to the scene and crossing his arms.

Bucky pondered the new information. Testing she’d said. The extreme attention to detail in her strength and endurance training at the gym now made sense, as did the callouses on her hands.

“Why didn’t you go?”

“Fly up there and get him with the Falcon suit you mean?” Sam asked, shaking his head. “I offered, we ran a test on a separate section of the cliff face, but the thrusters destabilized the rock. I scouted out his location but the guy is in bad condition, I wouldn’t be able to support him well if there’s anything spinal going on. It’s still on the board as a last resort, but Stone was confident she could get it done with less risk to him.”

One tentative hand hold at a time, scanning the rock for strengths and fault lines, preparing to fall back on a stronger position if it gave way. Stone worked across the vertical incline slowly, every emotion, every fear had fled away the minute she was off the ground. The only thing in the world was the mission and the rock under her fingers.

A whimper sounded a little way above her.

“Marcus Ferman?”

“Yeah- that’s me.” The middle-aged man grunted, shuddering as a rock skittered past him. “I’m gonna die out here, aren’t I? I don’t want to die, I’ve got a kid.”

“You’re not dying today, Marcus, just focus on my voice, I’m coming up to you so don’t move.” Stone said, swapping out hand holds and testing another foothold. This was the most sensitive section, not because of the rock itself but the risks. The safety harness she wore was connected to an anchor she’d set some way below them, enough to slow her fall and prevent her death, but it would leave her at the bottom in who knows what condition and the ledge Marcus was on might fracture if her movements caused a slide that undercut his position. “Nearly there. Do you know where you’re hurt?”

“Uh, I, everything- kinda, it hurts to breathe and my leg is killing me.” A sound of shifting from above and more shards of shale fell, stinging her face.

“Marcus, I need you to keep as still as you can, okay? Don't move. Can you tell if you're bleeding?”

“Uh, yeah, my leg is… well.” A dry retching sound followed a sharp inhale and he spoke again in a trembling voice. “it’s not looking right, I can’t…”

“That’s ok Marcus, focus on my voice and look up at the sky, ok? I’m almost to you, and then we’ll get you looked after, ok? Just hang in there for another minute.”

She was free climbing and testing each tentative hold before letting it take her weight. She’d been climbing for thirty minutes but the ache wasn’t cutting through the adrenaline yet. That would come later, for now she only had one goal, broken down into three words: Secure, Stabilize, Extract. Her patient came into view, laying on his side in the fetal position on the left side with his left leg splayed out and back. She climbed onto the ledge, grateful to find it more stable than she’d expected, though dreadfully narrow. 

“Alright Marcus, my name is Sarah, and I’ve got you now. You’re going to be okay.”

He was trembling despite the coat he wore and she apologized as she zipped it open to feel his ribcage. Three broken ribs, and the soft spongey texture under his skin indicated bleeding in the intercostal spaces but no evidence of lung punctures and he wasn’t coughing up anything. The knee was hyper extended, and she took great care in straightening it, probable greenstick fractures and damage to the cartilage in the knee, at most a spiral fracture, but it wasn’t displaced, a miracle considering how far he’d fallen. Abrasions from the sharp rock marked his hands and legs and to a lesser extent his face, but the wounds were shallow and had mostly clotted except for a few larger stone shards in his shin which she cushion wrapped immediately.

Stone radioed her findings to the team waiting with the chopper at the bottom of the hill.

“I could try to set an anchor up here, but the way these fracture lines look, I’m concerned we’d just end up bringing the ledge down on top of us. Have to come down the way I came up. .”

“Roger that.” … “Is the patient within your weight threshold?”

Stone looked Marcus over and nodded. “Affirmative, permission to move the subject?”

“Granted. We'll have Wilson on standby to catch you if we see signs of a slide."

"I'll stabilize and get moving then, over."

Stone turned back to her patient and began extracting things from her bag. “I’m going to wrap your chest and then we’ll splint this leg and get you out of here, ok?”

“I can’t move my leg, I can’t-” He was beginning to hyperventilate and she grasped his chin firmly but it didn't stop his rambling. “My son, I’m never going to see him. He’s only five-”

“Marcus, look me in the eyes.” She waited for him to obey and then spoke with perfect conviction, “I know you’re scared right now, but I’m damned good at my job, you hear me? Now, I am going to get you off this mountain, but I need you to trust me. So, look at me. I don’t look scared, do I?”

“No Ma’am.”

“That’s right.”

She nodded sternly and released his chin, working quickly wrap his ribs and leg to prevent any further damage. Marcus pressed his eyes shut at the fresh scattering of rock as she manoeuvred him into the harness and instructed him on what would happen next.

“You’re going to be my backpack, and all I need you to do is to stay as close to me as you can, don’t lean back or swing your legs out and keep your head down, can you do that for me?”

“Yes Ma’am.”

“Keep your eyes closed. Deep breath, hold it for four, then exhale. I’ve got you.” She said as she clipped the frame on her back and carefully lowered them off the ledge to her last set of holds. Several minutes of retracing her steps hadn’t brought them much below the level of the ledge and she paused to catch her breath. It was going to be a long descent.

He relaxed slightly and she could hear him muttering,“three, four, out… three, four. In…”

“What does your son look like?”

“Henry’s the spitting image of my wife, he’s got this mop of curls and…” Marcus prattled on about Henry and Stone heard the love in his voice as he described the boy and praised his wife for being such a wonderful mother.

It took nearly three-quarters of an hour to reach the belay point and Marcus had grown quiet, offering only single word responses to her prompts. He was tired and the adrenaline was wearing off. Stone understood all too well, her shoulders and wrists screamed every time she had to shift weight between the left and right hands, and her left forearm burned hot.

“I’m taking up the slack.” Came the welcome words of Jones through her radio. “Signal when you’re ready and I’ll let you down real easy.”

“What’s happening now?” Marcus said behind her, his voice rising again.

“We’re nearly there Marcus, this is our anchor here, and now we’re going to walk down the wall to the team, just stay close and we’ll be on the ground in no time. Ok? You might feel a little jolt, but I’ll be as gentle as I can. Just keep taking those deep breaths for me Marcus, can you do that?”

“Yes, yes, I’m… I’m trying.” He answered in a quivering tone.

“You’re doing really well Marcus, we’re almost there.”

“Sarah?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

Chapter Text

Bucky had never hated his improved vision and hearing as much as he now did watching the perilous descent of rescuer and patient from the unyielding rock face.

Every trickling stream of shale roared in his ears, trembling limbs and heaving shoulders invisible to all but him mocked him with his own helplessness. Footholds Stone had previously used for the space of a single heartbeat, she now lingered on for lengthening stretches, twisting her left arm and shaking it as though it had gone numb and then going on to the next without hesitation. The pounding in Bucky’s chest kept time, 5 beats, 7, now 12, and 8, 14, 12, 17.

Sam had left him to join the ground crew earlier, wings extended, read; he too waited, watched, breathed with the woman on whom this entire operation hung. There wasn’t anything to be done for her or her patient. Nothing Bucky could do, no sacrifice he could make. His hands clenched invisible rocks in time with Stone's finger-tip grips, he breathed with the rise and fall of her shoulders, and he knew nothing of it.

There is no shame in not being the solution. Not for everything and not for everyone.

Doctor Rob had said that only a few days ago when Bucky had expressed anger at Steve choosing to talk to Sam about his last session instead of Bucky himself. He could hardly argue the point when Tony had called him out to the lab the previous evening with the excuse of having ordered an indecent quantity of pizza; an ill-disguised plea for help to fight off the demons that haunted his nightmares of late.

Not everything to everyone, no. Still... Something, to some people, some of the time. Bucky swallowed away the rusty taste of shame and watched the climb with a burgeoning sense of pride in her as he shrugged off his own internal voices. Stone was fighting the mountain to save just one lost soul, and though her shoulders grew stiff and her arms trembled, she fought on.

Their indistinct voices were tired, but not hopeless. Her head bobbed and Bucky thought she’d asked a question, the guy on her back clenched his fists against the straps. Faintly now he heard her voice: “… really well Marcus, almost there.”

“Sarah?” The man sounded close to tears. Bucky held his breath.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“Yeah.”

Finally, they dropped below the grey line of rock and the load was shifted to two men on the ground, feeding the rope out to lower the harnessed pair more quickly, though it was still painfully slow as Stone stepped backwards off the mountain. She twisted abruptly, fighting to keep from spinning with the load on her back and Bucky could see her face for the first time.

The stark neutrality of her expression jarred him.

They stopped just a few feet off the ground so the team could get a board under the man’s legs, he was lowered down onto it and the harness clips that attached him to his rescuer’s back were released and Stone dropped down and out of view. The moment the patient was on the board, the medical team swarmed. Removing the jacket, prepping an iv and checking his blood pressure and oxygen saturation. That done, they carried him away to the waiting chopper, leaving only two figures behind in the dust: a man coiling up the long rope and just behind him, on her knees and kneeling on the inflatable jump cushion, Stone.

Bucky approached them without thinking, drawn forward by the slumped curve of her shoulders and the way they shuddered with each laboured breath.

“You need a hand with that harness Martin?” The man was asking as he wound the long rope on his arm, inspecting it for flaws as he went.

Several long moments passed before she answered. “No, I’m good, just catching my breath.”

“Hell of a rescue, don’t think we could have got him down in one piece without you.”

“Team effort, Jones.” Stone answered quietly.

“Sure am glad you’re on the team,” Jones said firmly. He dropped the perfectly tied rope into a duffel and hefted it over one shoulder. “Some of the guys are headed to Billy’s for a cold one after we wrap up, you comin’ Stone?”

“Thanks-” Stone lifted her head and seeing Bucky for the first time instantly became more rigid. The movement caused her companion to look up at the newcomer as well.

“You know this guy?” Jones asked Stone suspiciously, his eyes on Bucky.

She merely regarded Bucky silently, analysing. Bucky imagined curiosity and uncertainty in her eyes, then wondered what that would look like on her face.

Bucky took a step forward and said assertively, “I’m a friend.”

“Jones, Rudy Jones.” The man shook his hand and grinned. “Stone-Cold Martin here just lived up to her name and pulled off the best freeclimb rescue I’ve ever seen, maybe you can convince her to take a celebratory drink with us, you’d both be welcome, drinks on me.”

“We can’t.” Stone said quickly, “Sam’s flying me back as soon as I’m done here. But thank you Rudy, I appreciate the invite, raise a cold one for me.”

“Next time then,” Jones said with a grin and swaggering away with the duffel over his shoulder.

“If… If you wanted to stay, I could give you a ride back later, on the bike.” Bucky offered cautiously.

“I’d need a helmet.”

“There’s a spare on the Chopper.”

“No, that’s…” She looked uncomfortable and Bucky took a half step back, not wanting her to run.

“Or I could ride back with Sam, lend you the bike.”

“No,” Stone said sharply shaking her head and groaning. She tugged at the clasps of her harness for a third time, and grunted under her breath, “stupid things, why… this agh. Come on!” She wasn’t speaking for his benefit but he couldn’t ignore the rising frustration in her tone. There was no way she’d manage his bike when her hands were curled tight in on themselves like this, struggling to apply sufficient pressure to disconnect the heavy clips on her harness.

“Can I help?” Bucky asked, stepping closer aware that a few stragglers remained, waiting to remove the inflatable once she’d climbed off it. “Or we could go back to the trailhead, there’s a tent, Sam, or one of the ladies could help.”

“I’ll manage, just need a minute,” she said stubbornly, rising on trembling legs, “must look ridiculous. Climb all that way just to collapse at the bottom.”

“No.” Bucky interrupted her and offering her a hand. She took it and let him help her ease herself to the ground, not shying away from the contact. He stepped in close to her, blocking the view of any onlookers and quickly pressed the release on her harness himself, she was only a few inches shorter than him, but her shoulders slumped and her knees stayed bent, exaggerating the difference between them as she shrugged herself out of the contraption. He stopped her from turning away with a hand under her elbow. “Don’t say that. That guy would still be up there if it wasn’t for you. How much longer would he have lasted? How many other guys would have tried to climb it and fallen, or ended up buried with him?”

Stone looked at him, her expression still flat but now he thought it was exhaustion that sapped the life from her face. The eyes, greener than their usual grey, speaking for her. Uncertainty, maybe disbelief.

“No sane person would think you were weak for being tired after what I watched you do. *No One.*” He repeated it, urging her to believe him and pressing his point with a squeeze. He watched her eyes, waited, wanted to see the truth reflected back but she just shrugged and looked down at her hands, cradled against her belly. “I could carry you,” he offered, looking abashed as she reared back in anger and stepped away from him quickly. “Sorry, I… I’m just here to help.”

“I’d, I’d rather walk, I just... Want to walk.” Her trembling words were at odds with her hard expression but again the eyes, pleading for him to understand.

He nodded, turning to the trail and offering her his arm. Stone accepted it, but it became clear after just a few steps that it wasn’t enough to support her. Cramped fingers couldn’t grasp his sleeve and he wondered if her feet hurt as badly or worse for the way she was stepping on the sides of her shoes.

Taking her arm and pulling it up around his shoulders so he could wrap an arm around her waist, he did his best to take more of her weight as they moved together down the mountain. They walked slowly and in silence, pausing when in view of others and leaning into each other as though it was the casual embrace of lovers instead of what it really was: two strangers, one trying to be a friend and the other simply trying to save face.

Bucky got her situated in the chopper and went about loading the bike in the cargo bay, grateful that Sam had chosen a bird large enough for it, while Sam gave their farewells to the volunteers and whoever remained of the search and rescue crew and began pre-flight checks.

“Ready for liftoff?” Sam said from the front seat, turning back to see Bucky tightening the last strap for the bike and Stone buckled in with her hands still held awkwardly to her chest. “You’ll let us know if you need something, Stone?”

She grunted and bobbed her head in an approximation of agreement.

“Bucky can help you buckle up.” Sam said with a grin at Bucky’s subtle head shake no.

Bucky shot Sam a glare but he was already facing forward and engaging the rotors.

“Sit.” Stone said firmly, but her voice was grainy and soft. Worn down.

He obeyed and sat before he realized her belts weren’t done up. He knelt in front of her and Stone watched him silently as he worked the straps of the five-point harness over her shoulders and secured the latches. So close to her he could hear the rough tearing of air through her trachea. Another strangely intimate situation, Bucky was nevertheless much more comfortable on the giving end of the deal and refused to think of it until he was settling back in his seat and she was still looking at him in that odd way.

“All set?” Sam said into his helmet, his voice echoing in the tinny speakers in the rear cabin. Bucky gave him a thumbs up and Sam winked before returning to his console.

Bucky looked at Stone as the weightless feeling of liftoff twisted in his gut. Head hanging loose, her eyes half closed, more relaxed than he’d seen her except for the tense set of her shoulders and cramped hands.

Sara Stone woke to the gentle bump of landing and the sound of blades slowing overhead, the rolled up jacket she’d been resting on falling away as she lifted her head. A moment of comprehension as she saw the fuzzy outline of broad shoulders approach her, concerned eyes piercing through the fog with intensity she couldn’t bear. “Buddy?” she whispered.

No. Not Buddy. The tearing in her forearm reminded her of what she’d done. What she’d failed to do. Buddy. No. Sleep. Just to cease, just for a minute, not to feel.

Her eyes closed again and she knew no more.

“She’s passed out Sam.”

“Take her to medical,” Sam said from the front, twisting himself in the seat to see the patient in question. “Might just be fatigue but she should get checked over.”

Bucky nodded and undid her belt, taking care not to jolt her neck as he lifted her into his arms.

“Don’t leave her alone in there Buck, she hates hospitals,” Sam shouted after him.

It was an unnecessary remark, Bucky had no intention of leaving her alone, still it nagged at something in the back of his mind, something he couldn’t quite name.

Nurses swarmed forward at the sight of a dusty and disheveled woman lying limp in his arms but he warned them back with a glance. “Doctor Gilvery. And you.” He nodded at the matronly nurse who’d attended him last time. Miss Betty nodded and led the way at a brisk trot to an examination room. Stone had met her when he’d been in the infirmary. She was a little bossy and abrupt but very capable and never seemed to cower away from Bucky, all points in her favour, but there was one other, Stone had met her before, and that seemed terribly important just now.

“What happened?”

“Rock climbing,” Bucky said, adding at the worried look he received, “she didn’t fall, she was the rescuer, her hands and feet hurt and she fell asleep on the way back, Sam says it might just be exhaustion but to check her over anyway.”

“Alright, so unconscious, nothing broken, no acute trauma, no known head injury. We’ll have to get her out of these clothes for a scan,” Miss Betty relayed the information to the doctor who had just arrived and then turning to Bucky, “if you could wait outside.”

“No.” He said abruptly, taking Stone's hand and holding it desperately tight. Then bowing his head abashed, “I can’t leave her.”

The matron squinted at him but nodded, “alright then, we’ll draw a curtain, sit there if you would.” She pointed at a chair and he dragged it close enough that he could sit without letting go of the too-cool hand.

The view was obscured by the curtain but the sound of two nurses murmuring as they worked together to undress her, inspecting her for injury as they went and the doctor’s flashlight clicking on and off gave Bucky enough memories of lights in his eyes and rough hands manipulating his limbs. He pressed his eyes shut at the idea, focusing on the single thing that could stop him slipping into a flashback, on the single sensation that kept him seated. The calloused curled fingers unconsciously wrapped around his palm.

Not the soft delicate touch of a woman’s hand that he’d daydreamed about in the old days, cold against his warm skin, but burning through his mind nevertheless. Maybe Tony was right about him being ‘touch-starved’ if this simple and platonic act could make his heart pound, or maybe it was just worry and the awful smell of disinfectant.

“Blood,” a distant voice said calmly. “Scissors.”

“You’re going to have to let go Mr. Barnes.” Betty said, tapping the back of his hand.

“What’s going on?” Bucky said, dropping her hand instinctively. “Is it bad, what—”

“She’s going to be fine, Ginny, cover her with a sheet. Alright Mr. Barnes, you can come back.”

He swept the sheet aside in one furious movement and saw Stone still in her athletic top and covered from the waist down with a thick sheet. Mary was carefully cutting a slit up the left sleeve and Bucky could see a smear of dried blood on her wrist. Just below the inside of the elbow the culprit was found, a small shard of shale embedded in her skin. The injury itself wasn’t deep, and the bleeding hadn’t been excessive but Bucky grimaced at the thought of her descent. How long had it been there, how many times had it ground against her as she fought for stability against the unforgiving mountain.

He sunk back onto his stool, cradling his head in his hands as they addressed the injury. Why? Why hadn’t she said anything?

“If you’re going to accompany her for the scan, you’re going to need to remove your prosthetic.”

Bucky moved without thought, tearing off the sleeve of his shirt, disengaging the coupling, dropping the arm into his lap, peeling off the sleeve and pilon and setting the assemblage on an empty side table. When He looked up again, Stone had been covered completely by the sheet and her shirt lay in ribbons on the floor.

The scans and testing went by mercifully fast, and Bucky was allowed to stay with her through them on the off chance that she’d wake up. Sam joined the nurses watching from the corridor and gave him a questioning nod that he shook off with a look, ‘later’ was implied.

Everything appeared normal, her heart rate and blood sugars were low but an IV drip and rest were deemed sufficient for her recovery, the slate shard was removed and the wound was cleaned, nano-stitched and wrapped.

While the nurses took care of that and re-dressed her, Bucky met Sam in the hall and relayed the information he'd received from the doctor. Sam nodded and sighed with relief.

“She’s going to hate all the attention, but I’m glad it checks out. I can stay with her until she wakes if you want to go…” His words faded away with the grim look Bucky gave him then. “Alright, I’ll order some food and see if we can’t spare a room for her tonight, they’ll want her under observation but she won’t want to stay in medical any longer than necessary.”

Night had fallen outside the infirmary windows by the time Stone was lifted gently from the stretcher to a bed by Bucky. Miss Betty assisted him in settling her onto the bed, taking care to straighten her hospital gown and tuck her in warmly.

Stone murmured restlessly and reached out with her left arm, “Buddy?”

“She must be looking for you in her dreams.” Miss Betty said with a wink before leaving the room. “She’s starting to come out of it, but let her sleep if she can.”

It wasn’t him she sought, but Bucky took her hand anyway, hoping it would bring her some comfort. Calloused fingers gripped him back tightly and Stone relaxed against her pillow with a long breath. He moved to cover her bare arm with the blanket when her inner forearm caught his eye.

He’d never seen her in short sleeves before and hadn’t looked closely at the area of smeared blood earlier, but now that the wound was bandaged and the skin was clean, he couldn’t miss the scars.

It started on her inner wrist, were a watch band might sit, a thin silvery rope of scarring, it spread up her arm, twisting under it and wrapping around to a point just shy of her outer elbow, wide in the middle and deeply furrowed, ruined muscles barely covered by a thin layer of dermis.

The small adhesive patch paled in comparison to the scar around it.

What had happened to her? Bucky clutched her hand more firmly, careful not to apply too much pressure but reassured by the returning warmth.

“Sarah,” He breathed the name like a wish.

“Bu—” a mumble escaped her lips and he held his breath. “Bu—y?”

Her hand moved in his, squeezing tighter still, as though she was afraid to let go, to fall. Or to drop him. His gut twisted again at the thought, trying to remember what she'd said about losing Buddy. She couldn't hold on because it was too hot, too slippery. 

Dreadful realization flushed the blood from his own face and he buried his head in the bed next to her hand. 

Then quietly, so softly his hearing alone could have distinguished the consonants.

“Bucky?”

Chapter Text

While Stone slept in the helicopter, Sam and Bucky talked.

“You gonna ask, or am I gonna have to get an extinguisher for when the gears in your head start a fire?” Sam asked, with that knowing smirk Bucky hated.

“How have things been… The climbing and everything.”

“It’s been fun.” Bucky glared at the back of Sam’s head until he elaborated, “climbing has been interesting, she could teach if she wanted but no matter how hard I work, I’ll never be as good as she is.”

Bucky chewed over it for a minute before asking, “and what about the… you know, the talking thing, I introduced you so she could talk to someone.”

 “We talk. She’s been through a lot and it comes out in bits and pieces but,” Sam shot a look over his shoulder that Bucky couldn’t interpret, “it’s like this Buck, she sees me as a mentor, so when I ask, she’ll tell me, but I think what she really needs is a friend.”

“Can’t you do that too?”

“I don’t think so,” Sam paused, opening and closing his mouth a few times, “from the conversations we’ve had, I think it should be you.”

“I’m—"

“Before you start just let me say this, she trusts you, enough to give you free reign in her gym and what’s more telling, she let you help her just now.”

“A couple of buckles Sam, not a big deal.” Bucky tried to shrug the idea away, uncomfortable with the idea. Stone’s head lolled to one side and he shrugged out of his jacket, rolling it up and wedging it between them so she could rest against it instead of his cold metal shoulder.

“She wouldn’t have let me do it Buck,” Sam said raising his brows significantly, “she never let me help with anything, no matter how stiff her hands got, but you were practically carrying her down the mountain.”

Bucky didn’t have an answer to that and they sat in silence for the rest of the trip.

The smell of antiseptic was the first thing Sarah noticed, it stung her nose but she didn’t dare open her lips for a deeper breath, the dust was awful even through the mask she wore. A beeping sound in periphery caught her next and she looked for the source.

“I thought you said it was clear Mills.” She barked into the headset.

She was annoyed. Mills and another soldier had been assigned to escort them on a recovery mission and though they had done their job well enough, Mills in particular had been cavalier, scoffing at their concerns, and making crude comments under his breath as they covered the body. Buddy had rolled up a towel and used it as a pillow to cradle the head, something he apparently thought was “unnecessary” given the man was dead and saying “that was what happens when you put a woman on the team, a bunch of sappy soldiers.” Farris had been about ready to rip into him then but Sarah had shook her head and her team followed her lead, ignoring the mans taunt and finishing the job. She’d let it go, wasn’t the first time she’d heard it. Now however the anger began to build.

“Are you questioning me?” Mills growled into the speaker in her helmet. “Said I cleared the building, didn’t I. So, it’s clear.”

The beeping continued and Sarah bit back the words she wanted to say, again looking for the source. But it was wrong. This isn’t how it happened. There hadn’t been a beeping sound, and she and Buddy had seen the bomb first so why wasn’t it there on the stairwell?

Foggy everything was clouding up, a dust storm? Inside the building? Nothing was right. Or maybe this was what was supposed to have happened. Farris and Jackson started down the stairs at the foot of the stretcher, Stone and Buddy stabilized the head, matching their pace. It smelled like a hospital, all wrong, and she felt cold, odd given how much they’d sweated climbing up these stairs in the first place, maybe there was a storm rolling in. Any moment now

Beep. Beep. Beep.

She blinked but everything stayed dark. The world spun, strong arms lifted her, and she was floating, landing like a feather on something softer than soil. All of the oddities of the scene made sense. It had been a dream. She blinked again, but still couldn’t see, then wondered if she’d blinked at all or if that too had been a dream. Disoriented and exhausted, she slipped back into sleep.

Sitting at Stone’s bedside, Bucky stewed over the conversation with Sam.

“Don’t leave her alone in there Buck, she hates hospitals.”

That’s what Sam had said. The nagging feeling he couldn’t quite place previously now snapped into crystal clarity. Sam knew something about her, something Bucky should have known. He had also implied that Stone would be more open with Bucky if he allowed it. Her hand tightened around his fingers and he watched the muscles in her gnarled forearm flex against scar tissue, twisting and puckering the skin.

Stone had been a mission, a project, an experiment. The word crossed Bucky’s mind and brought with it a wave of nausea. To him she had been a reflection, a wounded creature like himself and he’d taken it as his mission to prove that she could be saved. That he could be saved.

Sarah. That was her name. And he’d learned it by accident. What he knew about her could fit on a very short list. She was a veteran, owned a gym and she wasn’t afraid of him; he’d learned that much the very first time they met. Was that all?

“Buddy…” her voice interrupted his spiraling thoughts and she squeezed his hand again.

She had lost someone, and the guilt haunted her. She was reckless and fearless for herself, but that one time she drank too much he had seen the pain in her eyes. She didn’t like fireworks or cream in her coffee, but she preferred the orange or grapefruit flavoured electrolytes. And today he’d learned more. Sarah Stone wasn’t only a terrain specialist but a gifted free climber willing to put her life on the line to save a civilian, a complete stranger; she was embarrassed to be seen as weak, had been injured and hated hospitals.

Her palms were calloused and she had pushed herself almost past the point of endurance at least once before. Failing is what she had called it then but the truth was Stone had been testing herself for years, working to rebuild strength in her wounded limb. How much courage had it taken to agree to this climb, to trust herself enough to try again, to risk the possibility of failure she so deeply feared.

The dream returned, but it was different again, still wrong. Now it was Buddy on the bier and her arm was on fire, fingers grasping the handle, trying desperately to hold on as black oil coated them, she was losing, Buddy would fall and she couldn’t stop it. A larger hand wrapped around hers, cool and metallic and holding fast to the frame of the stretcher and the panic flooded out in one long breath.

She knew whose hand had helped her and thanked him before drifting away from the dream into a deep sleep.

“Bucky.”

Bucky let her squeeze his hand until his fingertips turned purple with uncirculated blood. He would have tolerated it for longer if it didn’t seem like her injured arm was seizing, the muscles jumping in spasmic rhythm.

The prosthetic hand was cool and he laid it gently over her white knuckled fingers, and within moments she had relaxed, her breathing slowed and the stitch in her eyebrows smoothed into what he hoped was peace. Long minutes passed and she remained still. Bucky stared at the vibranium fingers. He had avoided touching people with that hand, still remembering the way it seemed to behave on its own all those years as the winter soldier. Of course it had been responding to his brain signals, but the fragment of himself that remained buried so deep had screamed for the hand to release more than one poor soul with no effect.

The hydra arm had become the object of his own inhumanity, the symbol of what they had done through him. When Tony blasted it off his shoulder there had been outrage at the surface but when the fight ended and Bucky walked away, leaving the arm behind in the hell that had been one of his prisons, there had been a sense of relief. And in Wakanda when they had offered him a new one, he’d said no thanks, grateful to be free from it. Until the fight came to him. He’d made the choice then to take it.

Dr. Kilne was big on identifying choice and personal agency and they’d talked about the new prosthetic arm at length. He chose this one, it was crafted to aid him not to harm, it looked and moved differently and it had been integrated into his nerves in a way that allowed him to feel something like natural stimuli from its surface.

Temperature, texture and torque could all be adjusted to his preference, even pain could be simulated, an unexpected answer to the phantom pain he had experienced, or what sometimes seemed worse- phantom itch, he could now scratch the prosthetic limb and feel relief. Still, regardless of how naturally it responded, he’d never quite seen it as a part of himself, using his right hand whenever possible and being careful not to touch anyone with the metal fingers. Something had shifted though, and Stone had started it, carrying his arm with all the dignity and respect of a real human limb. And just now he had reached out, not afraid, only concerned for her, and it had soothed her.

His left arm and hers stuck in his mind, and both the sameness and difference between them shamed him.

She had been suffering on her own and yet had rebuilt her strength, her confidence. Whereas Bucky, surrounded by people who wanted what was best for him, had treated himself the same way he’d treated his arm, like a contaminated weapon, useful only in a fight. A dangerous creature, unsafe, undesirable.

Soft slow breathing and her hand laying warmly in both of his taught him that he could comfort, that without amputating his arm or his past, he could be important, useful, wanted. He shook his head to leave the spiral of regret and guilt and shame.

Regret wouldn’t keep her safe, and safe wouldn’t keep her whole, and leaving her alone… well, Sarah had been alone long enough.

Chapter Text

5am,

The doorknob turned slowly, careful not to make noise that would wake the one sleeping inside. Bucky turned toward the soft sound of footsteps expecting Sam to walk in, and instead it was Steve, his blond head haloed in the hall light, beckoning Bucky out of the room.

“How is she?” Steve asked in a whisper, looking down at the floor shuffling his feet.

The smell of antiseptic and the echo in the corridor tugged at Bucky’s memory.

Steve, sitting on a hard bench beside him, listening to the doctor’s kind but unhelpful words.

“Your mother is in a bad way son, there’s not a lot we can do but keep her comfortable.”

Steve staring at his shoes, kicking the untied lace away from him. “Is she in pain? She won’t tell me.” and shame coloured up the back of his neck to flame in his ears.

“She’s refusing pain relievers…” the doctor looked conscious of treading on thin ice and cleared his throat, “I believe she is more concerned about the cost.”

Steve turned his face up sharply, suddenly pale against the hot blush, “tell her its real cheap, I’ll pay it, just don’t tell her… Doc, I can’t let my mama suffer like that.”

“Alright, I’ll do that,” the doctor said, patting his shoulder before he left the room.

Steve bumped into more than one doorframe on the walk out of the hospital, muttering to himself about cost savings and how he could take a night shift job, stopping only to gasp and cough after they’d descended the last set of stairs.

“You work any more and your bones’ll fall right out, Steve.”

“Bucky.” Steve glared at him reproachfully.

“I’m not saying she shouldn’t have the medicine you fool. I’m saying I’ll pay for it so stop trying to make more hours from a day.”

“We couldn’t possibly…”

“Take it Steve or I swear I’ll have to pay you and her back for all the meals I ever ate at yours, and the mending your ma did on my dress uniform, and—”

Steve slapped his thin hand over Bucky’s mouth and argued, “now, that’s not fair Buck, we’ve been friends enough without exchanging money all this time.”

Bucky shrugged away from the staying hand, “don’t go imagining that this is charity Steve, I expect you to pay me back sometime, but right now your ma doesn’t need to see her son wasting away to pay for her comfort, that’s the surest way you’ll hurt her yourself and you know it.”

“I’ll do that Bucky, I’ll pay it back double in interest even if it takes me a hundred years.”

Stubborn Steve. Beautiful, frail, stubborn Steve.

“Buck?” Steve’s voice woke Bucky from the reverie.

“Uh, yeah, she’s… she’s just sleeping now.”

“Did you get any rest?”

Bucky shrugged his answer.

“I can sit with her for a while.”

“I don’t need to sleep,” Bucky said firmly.

“Sure, okay, but you should clean yourself up a bit, wash your face and brush your teeth put a comb through your hair, unless you want to make her uncomfortable. Buck, I’ll let you know if she wakes up.” Steve saw the moment of hesitation and pushed Bucky in the direction of the elevator, “the moment she opens her eyes I’ll call you. Go.”

Bucky chose the stairs, taking two at a time and jogging the rest of the way to his own door until he stood in front of the bathroom mirror. Steve was right. He looked scruffy, the hair over his left ear stood straight out, sweat stains marked the back and underarms of his shirt and his eyes were ever so slightly bloodshot. A shower and a short nap would set him right but he needed to see her before she left. He wasn’t sure his resolution would survive the distance of a day or the cold detachment of a text message.

Peeling off the sweat soaked sleeve of his prosthetic arm reinforced the need for a proper shower, he didn’t need the smell to repel her before he could speak.

Sarah woke slowly in a room that smelled first of antiseptic and then of something else spicy and warm and clean. Several blinks were needed to clear her vision and she saw the slump shouldered shape of Bucky Barnes leaning across the back of a comfy looking chair and breathing slow deep breaths, his prosthetic arm glinting in the light of a soft sunrise offered by the window shaped panel in one wall.

Damp hair and a change of clothes later, he appeared less haggard than she remembered him being the day before. He was handsome, there was no denying that but the softened expression he wore in sleep made him something more essential yet. Human. He was like herself. Super strength not withstanding, she had seen it in his eyes the first time they met, the same kind of eyes she saw in the mirror every morning. Haunted and afraid and alone, and afraid to be alone and afraid not to be alone.

Her palms were hot, her fingers ached and there was a prickling feeling creeping up her arms from the wrists. Raising them brought her bare forearms into view, an IV in one and a bandage wrapping the inside wrist of the other. Small abrasions, not bleeding but freckling in short but angry red lines across her skin, a blister had formed on the webbing between her left thumb and forefinger. She’d made it down the mountain before her arm gave out and the muscles burned, seeming to wake to fire alongside her senses, still, she’d done it this time, rough fingers curled into exultant fists.

Stone had fought the mountain and won.

“How do you feel?”

Bucky’s voice made her jump a little, she had half forgotten he was there. How did she feel? “Like I got caught between a hammer and an anvil,” clearing her throat and letting a grin slip past the mask, “incredible. How is the hiker?”

“Stable for now, needed a transfusion but it looks like he has a chance for a full recovery.”

“Good.” Stone used her elbows to pull herself up and looked around. “Where are my clothes?”

Bucky lifted a bag off the floor and set it beside her on the bed, “they had to cut off the shirt to get all the shards of rock out of your sleeves without you getting sliced up more, I’m not sure what happened to it but I brought you some clean things to wear.” He looked her face over thoughtfully and she waited for him to ask whatever question was brewing in his head but instead he nodded and said, “I’ll call the nurse to get the IV out and help you with, everything.”

Nurse Betty was efficient and comfortable, speaking only to explain the process and all that had occurred the day before. Now seeing that Sarah was holding up well and could use her hands properly she said, “I see you have something comfortable to wear, if you’d like to shower, I’ll just warn you the shampoo is a bit drying, but I’ve left a clean set of underwear in the linen closet beside the bathroom door for you. Is there anything else you need before I go?”

“No, thank you. Actually, yes, where do I go to pay?” Sarah asked, running a hand over her hair and winced at the gritty feeling against her scalp. She beat the mountain but half of it seemed to have followed her back.

“You don’t have to pay here Miss, the Stark foundation covers all the medical expenses. If you’d like a copy of the medical reports I can print them out for you.”

“Oh, yeah, that would be- that would be nice. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. I’ll tell Mr. Barnes to wait for you outside the building, he’s always a little green in the medical wing and the fresh air will help," she looked sympathetic in the direction of the door and then added, "I’ll be right across the hall with the files when you’re finished so take all the time you need.”

Bucky was leaning against the brick façade of the medical wing entrance when Stone pushed through the doors and he straightened up when she saw him. Her hair was damp and the long sleeved sweater he’d lent her hung to the tips of her fingers but there was a warm flush of life under her tawny skin again and she walked toward him with an easy grace despite favoring her left leg in a nearly imperceptible limp.

“Thanks for the clothes, I’ll get them back to you as soon as I can,” She said cooly.

Her demeanor came across strong, unwavering, lacking all of the awkwardness crawling across Bucky’s skull and he wondered if he’d imagined the strange air between them ever since he’d introduced himself as her friend, but no, that memory and the oddly flat expression she’d worn were real. Even now there was tension under the surface of her otherwise calm face.

“Are you going home?” he asked quietly, unsure of the words to use, how to say what he needed to without sending her running. “Or the gym? I can give you a ride if…”

“I’m fine to drive myself,” She flexed her hands as if to prove it, “need to get the jeep home anyway.”

“Right. Well… If you need anything,” he trailed off, she was watching him with bland curiosity, “I was thinking I’d stop by the gym tonight, if you don’t mind.”

“I could hardly keep you out if I wanted to,” she chuckled.

“No, I’d… I’d stay out if you- if you’re uncomfortable. I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

Stone looked from him to the ground and finally to her left hand, wiggling the fingers experimentally before speaking again. “I don’t mind.”

“Then I’ll be there around 9,” Bucky said, when it seemed she had nothing to add, he offered a little wave and turning to walk away. Cringing internally at the childishness of the gesture. 

“I’ll see you around then?” She asked suddenly.

He turned back and felt a smile grow across his face, “yeah, you will.”

Chapter Text

The door was locked when Bucky arrived at the back of the gym. When he’d mentioned the time to Stone, he’d intended it as an invitation, a sort of test. If she stuck around to talk, if she opened up to him then maybe Sam was right and there was some potential there, something worth protecting. If she avoided him, well… He punched in the code and pulled the door open.

The hallway was dark but light spilled from the partially open doorway of the office and he could hear paper shuffling inside, then a pause and a soft snap.

“Sarge? That you?” Stone’s words were followed by the click of a gun's safety being disengaged.

“Yeah, its just me, I’m at the back door, turning on the light.” He flicked the switch beside him and spread his hands so she would see he held no weapons.

Stone’s dark head popped through the doorframe to see him and a half second later she smiled slightly and waved him in, “You’re right on time.” The click and snap repeated in reverse order.

She was settling behind the desk again and Bucky stopped in the doorway, “you look better,” he said, less gently than he’d intended. It was true, though her braided hair was escaping in little puffs that caught the light and she was still wearing the sweater he’d lent her in the morning with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, there was a healthy glow in her face and her eyes looked brighter and more alert than they had in the morning, and she was using her hands almost naturally now.

“Mm.” Stone agreed, looking down at the papers she held. Long moments passed and Bucky waited, silent and still, simply watching as she jotted numbers down on a pad of paper, and then she lifted her head and seemed surprised to see him still standing there, “you’re not here to workout? Ah. Right, the clothes,” she shrugged apologetically, “I haven’t washed everything yet, but I can drop them off tomorrow—”

“Keep them, I- I came to see you,” Bucky said suddenly, seeing her surprise he added, “to see how you were doing, after…” and gesturing at the bandage on her wrist, “everything.”

“Oh. Yeah, I’m good,” Stone said, reflexively moving her left arm below the desk and out of view and not meeting his gaze, “right as rain in a day or two.”

“Have you eaten yet?” Bucky asked, searching for a reason to stay.

“Just a bit ago actually, you?”

“Yeah, yeah, I… just wanted to make sure— that you have. Been eating, that is.” Bucky mentally kicked himself, wishing he had said anything else more plausible.

“You can order delivery here if you’re still hungry.”

“Oh, no, I’m fine. I’ll just go—" Bucky gestured in the direction of the gym and tried to smile but it came out feeling wooden and disjointed, “—get a few sets in.” He was painfully aware of the fact Stone was watching him, head tilted, expressionless except for the slight crease between her eyebrows and he shifted his feet to dispel the tension.

“Maybe next time?” she said in a curious way, one that suggested she was just as surprised as he was to hear what she was saying, then she added even more cautiously, “we could eat- together, next time?”

Bucky managed a "mhm" of agreement and another wooden smile and took himself away before he could say anything disastrous to ruin the flimsy agreement they’d just made. He tried to roll the stiffness out of his shoulders but when he started laying into the weighted bag it came through a little more heavily than he intended and he heard the seams groaning. Easing up to prevent a rupture and a second even more awkward encounter, he moved into a series of kicks and punches, holding back just a little more of the raw energy he felt building up in the back of his skull.

Every conversation he’d planned went awry the moment he opened his mouth, still the result wasn’t so bad. Nothing like the first several nearly deadly altercations they’d had before, it was uncomfortable and new and untested but she seemed willing to meet him half way despite his clumsy words. And still more hopeful had been the beginning, calling out to him before her weapon was readied, exposing her position to a possible enemy to prevent friendly fire. She saw him as an ally and not a threat.

He was not a threat. Not to her or Steve or Tony, not to anyone who held no malintent. He was James Bucky Barnes, not the winter soldier. He reminded himself of these foundational truths as he worked up a sweat, still keeping an ear out for the soft murmurs and shifting of papers in the office down the hall. And maybe, after all, he was capable of being a friend.

Late that night when he saw the light on in Tony’s Lab and walked through the sliding glass doors, he thought it again. Tony whipped his head around from the engine on the lift and a wide toothy smile broke through his grease streaked face.

“Buckaroo, just the man I wanted to see, look here, I’ve rescued this beauty out of a rusting hunk of metal and…”

As Tony verbalized his excitement about his discovery and all the potential the engine in question could offer if it was just cleaned up a bit and tuned properly, and then moved on to vent his outrage at the neglect of the car that left the rest mostly unsalvageable; Bucky found a smile growing across his stubbled face. Maybe he should get his hair cut again, it’d been almost a year since the last time Steve took him to a barbershop and he’d been so anxious the short cut had come out choppy and rough looking and it had grown out even shaggier in that time.

“You know a decent Barber?” Bucky asked when Tony had finally run out of steam and they were settling in to eat through an aromatic spread of Thai food that made his stomach grumble loudly.

“Finally getting that shrub shaped up properly? Don’t get me wrong, the long hair looked great on you, I could never, and I can do almost anything better than most, but there’s a little bit that sticks out just over your ear that I want to singe off every time I see it.”

“Yeah, I think its time I start figuring things out, but I don’t know if I can sit in a chair like that again…” Bucky said, his voice fading away before he could elaborate.

...He could feel the cold steel on his face, the way the mouth guard pushed against his gums as the electric shocks began once again, the dispassionate face of the man wearing a mockery of a doctor’s white coat, bending over him to ensure the electrodes were connected, the hum of the machine and over everything the smell of burning hair and antiseptic singeing into his nostrils with every violent breath...

Tony tapping the wooden chopsticks on the takeout box brought Bucky back into the present, he was looking carefully away from Bucky’s face and humming something softly as if he hadn’t noticed that Bucky had frozen, but there was a cold greenish hue to his hands as he gripped the items he held and when he finally looked up there was a mirror image of the thousand yard stare Bucky had so often seen before in his own face.

“I know a guy, he’s not bad with scissors and, well, he’s flexible about, well everything.” Tony cleared his throat and said with a slightly hollow brightness, “no chairs, no mirrors, whatever you need, he can handle it. Here have some of these noodles, don’t know what they put in this but I don’t care as long as they keep em coming, Peppers been on me about carbs lately. Zucchini is fine as a vegetable I suppose, but it can’t replace proper noodles.”

“I’ll pack an extra serving next lasagna day, and if I happen to store it in the lab fridge and it goes missing, no one has to know right?” Bucky answered lightly, glad to be back on level footing.

“And an extra garlic loaf? I love those.”

“Of course.”

They grinned at each other and without another mention of barbers or diets, tucked back into their food with renewed enthusiasm.

Chapter Text

Since his last conversation with Stone, Bucky frequented the gym more nights than he stayed home and he always checked the office first. Stone hadn’t been in the last dozen times, but he knocked anyway. No answer. He picked the lock. And smiled when he flicked the light switch on.

There was a new note on the minifridge, a slow growing collection neither he nor Stone seemed willing to throw away.

Thanks for looking out for me Sarge        

SM (a smiley face)

Bucky had drawn another bigger smiley face next to it, satisfied that she would understand the doodled sentiment. Until the seam of the heavy that he’d been trying not to destroy suddenly gave way that same night.

Order another bag. Sorry.             JBB

You overpaid again          

I’ll order another flat of those drinks you like            SM

The tip was for the trouble.           JBB

No trouble, but I’ll accept it if that makes you feel better             SM

The new bags are good.    JBB

Glad to hear they meet your standards.

Any snacks you like?     SM

Why?         JBB

To accommodate my most generous gym patron of course,

sweet tooth? Or salty?        SM

This last had a little arrow pointing to a several stacked boxes, chips, pretzel bites, protein bars, peanut butter cups and several other offerings he hadn’t tried before.

He was uncomfortable with the over abundance of the gift but as Stone seemed to feel the same way about the money he’d left to replace the equipment he was steadily wearing down, he decided not to turn it away. After working up a sweat and an appetite in the gym he returned to the office and dutifully tried one of each, swishing the grape drink around in his mouth to cleanse his palate before moving onto the next. He left his note under the last on the fridge.

The brownie is my favorite. Thanks.                     JBB

Bucky returned to the compound with a satisfaction not entirely explained by chocolate but the feeling evaporated the instant he was saw Sam in the hallway outside his living quarters, he was tight and wore an expression of frustration and worry that scrunched his forehead.

“Steve…” was all Sam said at first, sighing deeply.

“What happened?”

“He’s shut me out Buck, I can’t get through to him.”

Bucky nodded and jogged the short distance to the suite inhabited by his oldest friend. Steve sat on the floor in the corner of the pitch black room and the light from the open door- which should have dazzled his open unblinking eyes -didn’t even seem to register.

“Steve.” Bucky breathed softly, afraid to stumble over any psychological tripwires by approaching too quickly.

Steve didn’t seem to see him, or to be seeing anything at all. Nothing real in any case. Thousand yard stare blindly into the dark floor. Bucky moved closer, making some noise with every footfall and clucking his tongue softly. A short sequence tapped on the wrist of his prosthetic and his hand glowed softly blue and he knelt a few feet away, on Steve’s level, holding his palm out low to illuminate his own face.

“Steve, it’s me, Bucky.”

Blue frozen irises reflecting the light responded sluggishly contracting against the icy blue glow. “Buck?”

“Can you tell me where we are?” Bucky asked, not daring to look away from the strange glazed expression.

“Can’t you see?” Steve whispered, gesturing with his hand at something only he could see.

“Sorry Steve, I can’t see what you’re seeing.”

“The flashbang must have blinded you temporarily,” Steve moved suddenly closer, grabbing Bucky’s jaw with an ungentle hand and examining his eyes carefully, “no visible trauma, does it hurt?”

“No Steve, its just dark that’s all,” Bucky answered, he swallowed back the lump in his throat. Steve was coming around, behaving a little more like himself, it was the first step back to reality. “Don’t remember much either, can you tell me what happened?”

“We overtook the position Buck, it worked. But they’re all…” Steve swallowed and rubbed the back of his neck in that old tortured way, his face contorting over words he couldn’t say, starting and stopping in bursts, “no prisoners to question Buck, they’re all… and we needed to question them, need to find him, we have to find the base and stop him before… They’re all dead. Bucky. They’re all so… so young Bucky. Just kids. They’re just kids.”

With those last haunting words Bucky knew what Steve was seeing, was seeing it himself.

Crumbling rock and dust beginning to settle on the chaos of the unexpectedly brief fight to overtake the command post. No more muzzle flashes, no signs of movement from the broken building except for the flickering of yellow flames in the stairwell and the slow flash of a red warning light.

The last hydra base before he- before the train. Hydra’s high command had abandoned the place and left a small detachment of Hitler youth behind to defend it alone, trained and equipped but woefully unprepared to handle a real war coming down on them. The howling commandoes had not been prepared for what they found when they made entry. It rattled every last one of them but Steve was the only one who couldn’t numb the memory with the whiskey they shared that night. And there had been no time to face it, the next day they’d been put back on mission, fueled with a new layer of hatred for the man they were hunting, pouring their anger into their fight against Red Skull and his cruel minions, Bucky fell from the train and Steve had yet another moral wound he couldn’t anesthetize, another abscess on his conscience.

“I’m sorry Steve but we’ve got to go now, this place is rigged to blow and we’ve got the files, we can’t stay here.” Bucky stood up slowly.

“These kids Buck, we…”

“I know Steve. But we’ve got to go, take my hand.” Bucky waited for Steve to grasp his offered right hand and he pulled him up to his feet. “That it, just hang on and follow me, ok.” Bucky walked Steve to the window and threw the curtains aside to reveal the softly lit grounds of the compound park. “Look out there and tell me what you see Steve.”

“Its green. Buck, why is it…” Steve shook his head, squeezing Bucky’s hand tighter, and pressing his eyes shut. Open. Shut. Open. Again, and again. Finally, the grip eased up and Steve dropped Bucky’s hand altogether to brace against the window frame, knees weak. “I did it again, didn’t I.”

“It’s okay Steve.”

“It’s not. It’s anything but okay.” Steve’s hoarse voice dripped self reproach.

“Not what I meant… It was awful, what happened, it was awful and we feel awful and feeling awful about it is allowed, heck, if it never bothered us, we’d be monsters.” Bucky said slowly, carefully treading back over ground he had already walked himself, afraid to set Steve off again, terrified that he himself would slip to deep into the shadows and images Steve’s narration had brought into his view. The room blurred in front of him.

Boyish faces covered in the fine dust of war, marred with the paint they’d used to camouflage themselves in the rocky subterranean tunnels and the blood of battle…

No. He couldn’t afford to fall into it right now. He repeated the truths in his head like a mantra to will away the memory that sought to swallow him.

I am James Bucky Barnes, Steven Rogers is my best friend, we are human, we can’t change what has happened, we can face what we’ve done, we are human, we are not infallible, we can be forgiven.

He breathed it in and out slowly until he could be sure of himself.

It was true, just as it was true that they felt awful for those boys, and it was true they would have saved them if they could, it was also true that they couldn’t go back and do things differently. “There was nothing we could have done Steve.”

“If we had known.”

“We didn’t.”

“But if we had.”

“I know.” Bucky put a hand on Steve’s shaking shoulder and murmured it again, “I know Steve, I know.” Steve wasn’t ready to move past the hurt yet, he wasn’t ready to let go of the what-ifs and accept what had happened. The wound was open now and he had to let it hurt before it could begin to heal.

They stood there for hours that felt like days, staring at the green lawn- perfectly smooth and crater-less, and Steve said nothing and Bucky pretended not to notice the tear drops on the carpet.

Bucky drove Steve to therapy the next day, and stuck by his side through twenty laps around the Olympic sized pool and another twenty around the running track. Steve was running from his mind as stubbornly as Bucky had done himself, and this time it was Bucky who stuck to his side despite his clear wish for isolation. But Steve wouldn’t speak and Bucky wouldn’t make him. He’d talk when he was ready.

A day passed. Then night fell again and Steve softened in the fading light. That ephemeral moment when the veil of solid reality seemed thinner, the shadows capable of hiding the tracks on their tear streaked faces. That was the moment Steve would ask Bucky a question, simple at first. Merely, “how do you sleep?” and from there the conversation would find its way out into the darkness around them.

There was a pattern Bucky was beginning to see, Steve wouldn’t let himself go there on his own, but he would follow.

Bucky had always been worried that sharing his own struggles would burden Steve more, and to avoid heaping that on top of the overblown sense of responsibility Steve already carried, Bucky had avoided being completely honest about the stuff he’d talked with the doc about in therapy. Yet he’d been unable to keep it in forever and the first time he let it out all unsanitized and raw and horrible, Steve had seemed to breathe a little easier and then the words had poured out in a flood until they were both exhausted with the pressure of it, weary yet lighter than before.

Sleep came easy on those nights and Bucky didn’t make it to the gym for weeks. The bags under Steve’s eyes were lessening, and he was smiling more at the small pranks Bucky and Tony played, there was improvement, small as the steps seemed.

There was a long way to go and Bucky still woke from nightmares almost every night, but there was a way forward, for him and Tony and Steve, and all the rest of the avengers too. But the others were not his domain, they had their own support networks and confidants and he was grateful they did.

One pebble remained in his metaphorical shoe. Stone. Friendly fridge notes were all well and good but if what Sam said was true, she was too much like Steve, holding it all in, letting it consume her in silence. It was time for the second phase of his plan to begin.

He left another note on the fridge that night.

Dinner Friday? My treat.   JBB

Meet at the gym, 7pm?     SM

I’ll be there.           JBB

Chapter Text

Tony’s barber arrived Friday afternoon and he cut Bucky’s hair in the lab while Tony tinkered in the background. Bucky perched on the small round stool Tony usually rolled around with and the cut was completed without the mechanical buzz of a razor against his skin, no sound of electricity at all in the light of the big windows, only the clean snick-snick of good scissors and the soft hum of the barber who seemed to be in a world all his own.

“You’re done.” The comfortable voice said and Bucky opened his eyes to see the barber packing up his kit, he was almost out the door before Bucky could collect himself.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Tony walked over to a box recessed into one wall and flipped the big breaker switch, bringing everything back to electronic life, computers humming, the soft sizzle of lights and dummy bumping repeatedly into the doorframe of the storage room. It all made Bucky’s skin crawl after the natural silence, but as it had been Tony’s idea to cut the power in his own lab to give him space for the long awaited haircut, he would rather eat nails than show displeasure now.

“You good?” Tony asked.

“Yeah, thanks.”

“I think we can call it even,” Tony said cooly.

The events of the previous Wednesday lingered unspoken in the air between them and all Bucky could do was nod.

One of Tony’s worst nightmares to-date had resulted in a 3am alert from F.R.I.D.A.Y. to Bucky and the AI voice had actually sounded concerned.

“What about Pepper?” Bucky asked the disembodied voice.

“Based on his current state and the data I have collected, You are the person best able to assist him, Mr. Barnes.” The Irish voice stated simply.

He ran.

Bucky found Tony standing in the middle of a blasted crater of melted metal and mangled machinery, one of his more recent suit builds reduced to rubble and Tony himself bleeding from the right knee and shoulder, wild-eyed and dragging in panicked breaths he forgot to exhale.

“Tony?” no response and Bucky wondered how loud the blast had been before shouting, “Tony!”

Recognized sparked in his red eyes and his expression changed like a flip had been switched. “Barnes, I, uhm I had an incident, what brings you to my less-than-humble abode?” He smiled and it was a hollow, haunting thing.

Bucky pushed heaps of metal aside and walked up to him, cautious as he was used to being with Steve. But Tony was different, he challenged the approach, raising his chin in defiance of comfort. “Tony,” Bucky shook his head no, slowly, never breaking eye contact, and put his hand on Tony’s shoulder, it trembled under that slight pressure and Tony blinked at him, raised his chin higher, pressed his lips tight shut against the hope of expressing whatever set the pain in his eyes. Bucky shook his head again, not letting him look away and Tony blinked again, and crumbled. Bucky barely caught him before his injured knee hit the floor.

All Tony had been able to say, whimper really, was disjointed words and names but from it, Bucky understood what it was that plagued him in the dark of that night. Bucky hadn’t intentionally memorized the list of the dead in Sokovia but there were some names he couldn’t forget, and then there were more he did know.

Vision, in one sense Tony’s father figure as JARVIS and in another, his son, a by-product of his own mind and yet more than he was, still somehow deeply human. They had been forced by Thanos to destroy the mind stone and Vision had not survived the task. More names, in a dreadful litany, from New York, the downfall of shield ‘should have known’ Tony said to himself, over and over, ‘should have known’ ‘could have stopped it.’

“Tony, you did what you could, what you knew. Tony!” Bucky said sharply, interrupting the murmured condemnations, “Pepper Pots, Colonel Rhodes, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Bruce Banner, Clint Barton, Wanda Maximoff, Sam Wilson, Peter Parker. These are a few of people who care about you, who are grateful to know you, who would be devastated if we lost you.”

Tony’s eyed had shut before and now they opened blearily, “if we lost you?” Bucky nodded. Tony held his breath for a moment and then his features changed again, softening slowly. A tear marked Bucky’s arm that still braced him up. “I tried to kill you,” Tony choked back the lump in his throat and whispered almost below hearing, “sorry… glad I didn’t- But… you understand.”

“I killed your parents,” Bucky said, his own voice graveled with barely suppressed emotion.

“Yeah. Yeah, you did…” Tony started, choked back a sob and gripped the side of Bucky’s neck suddenly fierce, “did you know? When it was happening, did you… were you in there?” He tapped the side of his own head aggressively.

“Do you really want to know?”

“Please.” The word sounded like a prayer.

Bucky set Tony down gently and took a couple of long breaths before he began, “they, hydra, really tried to burn me out of this—” here he shrugged and lifted his hands to indicate his body –"but they never quite did. They made my carcass into a machine but they never quite got me out. So yeah, I was in there, useless, but I was still there… I still saw- saw all of the… the murders. Those butchers wiped me, over and over to make the body compliant, but when the programming finally broke, it was all still there, every face- everything, I ever did.”

“I asked you in the bunker, that day…” Tony said, turning the words over in his mind like marbles, looking at them properly for the first time, gulping a little in the pauses, “you said, you said you remember all of them. That was the truth…”

Bucky shut his eyes against the faint impression of the images beginning to layer over his vision and nodded tightly.

Several minutes passed in silence, Tony working through things in his mind and Bucky trying to keep his at bay.

Finally, Tony broke the silence with a question, so soft and hesitant it didn’t sound like him, “you fought it?”

Bucky stilled, eyes still tight shut.

“The reports, I read them after Nat leaked it all. They wiped you every day that you were awake, sometimes twice… because…?” the unfinished word sounded like a question and the answer. Bucky nodded again and Tony let out a long low breath that was almost a whistle, “I always wondered. That must have been hell.”

“Yeah.”

Both men sat on the floor, staring at their own hands, envisioning the blood they felt they couldn’t quite wash off, still seeing the shackles on their wrists, perhaps both.

“You’re bleeding,” Bucky said, snapping out of it at last to deal with the immediate concerns, “med bay.”

“No. I… its shallow.” Tony stood up suddenly, as if to prove he was fine, or to run if he wasn’t.

“First aid kit?”

Tony pointed and dummy trundled out of a corner holding it out. Bucky cleaned and bandaged the wounds, glad to find them shallow and with clean enough edges to heal naturally given they didn’t get infected. It was 5am by the time he finished, too late to get more sleep and he didn’t want to leave the him alone in the lab, the smell of burnt rubber and smoke burned his eyes and nose and it was likely much worse for Tony.

“My bike was making a knocking sound yesterday and I can’t figure out why; think you could take a look?” It was a boldfaced lie, and Bucky knew that Tony saw through it but he didn’t object.

Steve found them in the garage, surrounded by parts and a holographic schematic readout off to one side and working in tandem. “Good morning.” It was clear he had questions but he constrained himself to a single raised eyebrow.

“Needed to get Bucky’s bike in shape for his date tomorrow,” Tony said brightly up at him, then turning his attention back to the bike and holding a hand out, “ratchet.”

“Not a date,” Bucky grumbled, slapping the requested tool into Tony’s waiting palm.

“Right. Not a date, just dinner with a pretty woman.” Tony smirked, “so what are you wearing for the ‘not a date’ date?”

Now Tony stood before him, head tilted at the new hair and smirking once again, “go get em tiger.”

Bucky had the rest of the afternoon free, far longer than needed to prepare for dinner but word had gotten around the compound and the smirks on Sam and Clint’s faces forced him to retreat early to his own room where he took a longer than necessary shower and then paced the length of his closet in frustration at the sudden lack of choices when it had always felt more than sufficient before.

Time- that had been crawling to this point -suddenly leapt.

Three sweaters and two leather jackets lay splayed across Bucky’s bed and he grunted at the mirror once more running a hand through his hair, the sides and back were shorter but not so short it prickled as he ran his hand over it, the hair on the top was long and he swept it back again huffing at the strands that seemed determined to fall on either side of his face. Maybe he should try growing it out again, it had been easier to keep it out of his face then but he hadn’t enjoyed asking for help tying it up one handed and there were still days he didn’t want to wear his arm. And there was something to be said for blending in a little more, at least until the image of the winter soldier on the news faded in people’s minds. For now, he’d settle for unintimidating, perhaps even approachable.

The mirror also revealed the shadow of stubble on his face, and Bucky scrubbed it thoughtfully. He should shave again. Showing up looking like he didn’t care to groom himself properly might give the wrong impression.

He was overthinking it; Stone hadn’t ever seen him looking anything but rough, and she had never seemed bothered by it before now. But then it was a meeting in public, and what passed at midnight in the gym might not in the revealing light of day, it wouldn’t do to embarrass her. The new haircut, carefully styled back defeated his arguments, too much change would be worse than none. The light blue henley t-shirt was added to the pile of rejects. Another, dark gray and long sleeved this time, replaced it. His arm wouldn’t show through the fabric, it would be fine.

 In any case to much time had been wasted over what was supposed to be a simple outfit choice so there was no turning back now if he didn’t want to be late. He grabbed the dark brown leather jacket off the rack and pulling it on, shrugged a few times to get the material to settle over his prosthetic properly, but the shirt kept bunching up around his armpit and he had to hold the cuff with his fingers and rotate his arm fully twice before it finally sat right. He grabbed the nicer pair of leather gloves and his keys and half ran out the door.

The ride was somehow much shorter than he remembered and Bucky parked the bike at the back of the gym in his usual spot at 6:47, looking around the empty alley and noting the typical absence of vehicles. Stone’s jeep had never been parked there before and now he wondered if she walked to and from home. If that was the case, she might prefer a diner within walking distance instead.

The solid steel door was locked but the light was on in the hallway when he opened it and there was music playing in the gym, not quite obscuring the sharp smack of gloves against leather. He walked quietly toward the sound, not wanting to startle her but too curious to see what she was doing make his presence known.

Stone stood on a mat with boxing gloves facing an oppositional body bag, a dummy in the shape of a human torso with a weighted base that allowed it to move with the impact and return to be fully upright. He had always hated the ones they had back at the compound, with their eyeless faces and mocking smiles, but this one was blue, and featureless and bore no false head which lessened his discomfort slightly. It rocked back and forth as Stone delivered a solid blow to the front shoulder with her right hand once, twice, and a third time with a grunt, then with her left hand, her teeth gritted. He winced at the pain as she shook her hands out to loosen up the wrists, rolled her shoulders back, and stretched her neck from side to side before squaring up again.

She was wearing sweat pants and an athletic top with long sleeves pushed halfway up her forearms and her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. Hands properly wrapped and her ready stance technically perfect enough to have been cut from the front page of a magazine. The image she made was perfectly suited to her surroundings from the athletic shoes to the little wisps that escaped her hairline to curl and stick to damp skin and added to that the determined focus he could read in the side profile of her face. The newly healed wound on her inner wrist stood out as a dull red check against the silvery brown of the older scars, not a stain against the whole picture, but a proof of reality that made it still more beautiful Bucky thought.

He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms as she launched a series of kicks at the dummy, ribs, kidneys, and a pair of pads attached to the post at knee level, first the left leg, then the right and she finished with a high kick at the neck, grinning to herself and breathing fast. Bucky cleared his throat gently to be heard over the bass from the speaker and she whipped around to see him.

“Sarge! I didn’t see you there, is it seven already? I thought I had more time,” she said, scanning the clock on the wall with some concern.

“I’m a little early.”

“I was going to get cleaned up before you came but I must have lost track of time. Do you mind if I—” she gestured at the entrances to the changing rooms down the hall beyond him. He nodded and she smiled and said, “I’ll make it quick.”

And she wasn’t lying, returning in just under 10 minutes. It had been long for Bucky though, long enough to run through the suddenly much too short list of conversation openers he’d memorized that morning. Long enough for him to begin regretting every choice that led to this situation. Until she returned and he was suddenly rooted in place. She was dressed somewhat casually in black jeans and a deep purple top that enhanced the glow of her warm brown skin, covering her arms to the wrists as usual.

“Where were you thinking of eating?” Stone asked. She stood in the doorway of her office, pressing the water out of her long straight hair with her palms and a t-shirt and he watched the water build up to a bead at the very ends and slowly splash to the floor so mesmerised that he forgot the question until she repeated herself, “any preferences? Indian, Italian, Mexican? There’s a Polish place not too far out that makes a great borscht.”

“No,” Bucky answered a little too sharply, “uh, I’m sorry, it’s just… I don’t have a lot of good memories with…”

Stone paused her drying to look at him in a knowing way and then resumed with, “any other cuisines off the menu?”

“No, I… Indian, Indian sounds good,” Bucky said shifting uncomfortably, wishing he could crawl out his skin and into the earth beneath his feet.

“I’ll have to go and get the car first, unless you’ve got a spare helmet and don’t mind carrying a passenger?” She said, tossing the damp t-shirt over the back of her desk chair and pulling her own leather jacket off a hook near the door.

Bucky shrugged and then shook his head, “no, I- don’t mind if you don’t. I’ve got a helmet in the… spare. If you don’t mind riding along. I’m safe…” he was failing to put the words together but she was smiling in a way that made the bridge of her nose scrunch up and almost hid her eyes from view and it didn’t seem to matter that he couldn’t make sense of himself.

Stone pulled out her phone, and showed him the route to the Indian restaurant she liked before donning the helmet like a pro and climbing on the bike behind him like it was second nature.

It wasn’t the first time Bucky had had a passenger on his bike, both Steve and Becca back when they were young and everyone felt invincible, and Steve a few times after they’d become nearly invincible, but that had been very different. Stone sat lightly behind him, tight against his back, hands on his waist, just enough pressure to know she was there and not so much that it interfered with his movements and when he leaned into the turns, she leaned with him. Becca had always countered, afraid to fall and making the maneuver both more difficult and more dangerous, which was why he’d avoided ever taking any of his dates on the bike, beyond the fact that they wouldn’t appreciate messing up their carefully crafted updos, they could be hurt, it was a risk he wasn’t willing to take.

That hesitation had been forgotten, and Bucky wondered at it as the asphalt melted into a blur under their wheels. Much as Stone worried him most days, he hadn’t even stopped to think if she would be safe as a rider, and if he had, it would have been an unnecessary concern. Now the concept of a passenger being a ‘backpack’ finally made sense to him. A car suddenly honked at them from the left and Bucky maneuvered hastily to avoid the driver who was changing lanes for the next exit and hadn’t seen him in his blind spot, in all of that Stone never flinched, never moved except to match him, nothing but an extra pressure on his waist to indicate she even noticed the incident.

He parked the bike in front of the restaurant and she released her grip on the leather of his jacket with a chuckle, dismounting and taking her helmet off to reveal a wide grin.

“Thanks for the ride, that was great.”

Bucky shrugged, feeling a blush rising up his neck and following her into the establishment.

Perhaps it would turn out all right after all.

Perhaps.

Chapter Text

“Miss Sarah, your usual table I presume—" A middle aged man began what seemed a familiar greeting but stopped short when Bucky appeared in the doorway directly behind Stone.

“Yes, thank you,” Stone answered lightly and waved for Bucky to follow her.

She led the way to a small circular table in the dimly lit corner, the booth seats were set at a 90 degree angle from each other and gave a view of the diners and the windows to the parking lot outside, two round backed chairs offered seating for additional guests. Stone sat on a booth seat and Bucky paused, his hand on a chair back. It would be odd to sit adjacent and not across, but either of the chairs put his back to the door. She seemed to understand his dilemma and patted the cushioned vinyl of the second bench welcomingly.

A place was nearly empty, the supper rush having long passed and the only other diners were a family with several young children who made a great deal of relatively joyful noise and a young couple who sat in near perfect silence except to giggle and blush at one another over their menus. Bucky felt as though he understood the boy, uncertain how to speak, desperately afraid of the silence growing more awkward as the time passed.

Stone leaned toward him and quietly asked, “are you, okay?”

“Yeah. No, I’m, fine its good,” He answered, holding his gloved vibranium fist under the table out of sight.

“It’s usually pretty quiet and the food is really good.”

“It’s fine. Not too loud—” the crash of a plate hitting the floor jolted him into raising his fists against an unexpected enemy and he could see the shift in Stone’s expression from apologetic to ice in the instant before they both turned to assess the scene.

The smallest child was crying his apologies to his mother while she wiped the sauce from his chubby arms. The mess was cleaned up and the child soothed in time, but Bucky and Stone still sat somewhat frozen until the waiter approached their table with menus.

“I am very sorry for the delay; can I bring you something to drink?”

Stone accepted the menus and when Bucky failed to answer the waiter’s question, she ordered water for both of them. The water arrived before either of them found words to say to break the silence.

“You need more time to decide?” The waiter asked politely, Stone nodded and he retreated to the counter.

“We don’t have to stay, if you’re uncomfortable,” Stone said softly, rubbing the sleeve over her forearm unconsciously.

“I’m not.”

“You’re not taking off the jacket or gloves, so no, you are not comfortable.” She said it mildly, without condescension or condemnation.

Bucky opened his mouth to argue his point but closed it when he looked at her, her left arm was now tucked tight against her belly and she was looking at the table, through it really, and he knew that she knew.

“I’m not a big fan of unfamiliar places. Since I come here often, I thought it’d be alright but I’m guessing you don’t get out much either.” she looked at him and behind the blank expression her eyes seemed to read his.

“I’m… I’m working on it, Doc says its about small exposures over time, that it’ll get easier.” Bucky sighed and settled back against the booths thin cushions to look over the menu feeling like a weight had shifted. He’d managed to actually say what he’d been thinking, the room was quieting as the family with children paid their bill and he was actually able to see the menu in front of him.

Stone seemed to be considering him, his words, but he felt the intensity of her eyes landing on his gloved hands. “Coming this far counts as a small exposure, don’t you think?” she said after some time and waved the waiter over greeting him by name, “can we order to go?”

“Of course, Miss Sarah, will you be having the lamb vindaloo tonight?” he smiled when she nodded and jotted on his pad, “extra spicy with extra sauce of course, and for your friend, what will you have Sir?”

Bucky resolved to make one more effort, the Doc would tell him to end on a good note if at all possible, so it wouldn’t reinforce the anxiety. “What would you recommend?”

The waiter brightened instantly and Bucky nodded along as he was walked through several items on the menu.

Food secured in the storage compartment of the bike, Bucky asked to confirm their destination, “back to the gym?”

Stone considered it for a second, tilting her head and then answered, “I’ve got a better idea.” She showed him a map on her phone, their current location marked in blue, the streets back to the gym and just past it a red marker. The ride was easy with minimal traffic and Bucky, instead of thinking about bike safety and the strangeness of having Stone at his back, spent the ride wondering where they were going. Her place? That made the most sense but it also brought with it a new source of worry. He hated small, enclosed spaces, hated feeling like he was too big to be allowed in, like a bull in a China-shop afraid to turn and send a thousand fragile things falling to shatter on the ground, hated feeling like there wasn’t enough air to breathe.

He pulled in and parked next to the familiar jeep.

The building was three stories, a laundromat and a bakery occupied the main level, the second floor boasted several doors with business names engraved on small plaques, an accounting office, a family lawyer, and another he couldn’t guess the function of. The doors on the third level had numbers just below the peepholes, but Stone didn’t stop at any of those doors either, leading the way around the last corner of the covered exterior hallway to find another set of stairs, but these ones were steel and much steeper than the previous. The top step led to another door with a sign that read ‘authorized access only’, Stone opened it with a key and Bucky followed her through to the rooftop.

“It’s not much but, there are no eyes up here.” Stone said, setting the takeout bags beside a low table.

The space was set up like an oversized balcony, spanning a third of the rooftop where it met another raised level accessed by a ladder for maintenance. The perimeter secured by a half wall, stuccoed and stained by rainfall, blocking the view of the other lower buildings in the vicinity. Sheltered in one corner by the half wall and the 10 foot wall was the table, and side by side, an outdoor lounge chair that had seen better days, and a seat that looked like it came from a semi; this last had a plastic cover on it and water lay still beaded up in the creases from last night’s rain.

Stone pulled a towel out from beneath the seat and dried it off, gesturing for him to sit while she cleared the remaining space for herself, settling cross legged on the ground and leaning against the edge of the lounge chair near him. She passed him his food in silence and after closing her eyes for several long moments, pulled her dish to the edge of the table nearest her and rolled up her sleeves before tearing off a piece of naan and scooping a generous portion into her mouth.

“Thanks.” Bucky said slowly, shrugging out of his jacket and copying her technique. It wasn’t his first experience with Indian food of course, but it was somehow more freeing here. No judgement and all the time and space in the world to accommodate himself to the method. It was more freeing and less messy too, something he hadn’t expected to be true.

“How is it?” She asked after some time had passed.

“It’s great, spicy, but very good,” Bucky managed after swallowing a little too rapidly, he hadn’t expected a question and the food was still steaming, warming down his throat as he gulped air.

“Didn’t expect you to have a low spice tolerance,” she laughed, then suddenly rising, she faced him, “drinks, water, beer? I don’t have soda but there’s a convenience store down the block…”

“Water or beer is fine,” Bucky said trying for a smile and finding it less stiff and awkward than before.

She swiveled on her heels and jogged for the exit, returning a minute later with a box, there were 4 cans left in it but she’d stuffed two ‘Stone’s gym’ branded water bottles in the top. “It’s filtered, I didn’t have any sealed bottles.” She shrugged apologetically, “I can’t help but hate the way distilled water tastes.”

This time Bucky smiled and it wasn’t an effort, “I know what you mean. Granted the water we drank in the 40s wasn’t much better.”

“Lead?” Stone asked. Bucky shrugged and went back to chewing as she talked about how her Nan’s house that had been built in 1923 and how she’d replaced all her pipes once she saw an article in the newspaper about the effects of lead poisoning in young children, “she knocked on all the neighbor’s doors for weeks until everyone agreed to get the work done, she said she couldn’t sleep thinking about all those kids getting sick. Cost a pretty penny, but they got a deal if the whole street went in on it together.”

Bucky made a noise of assent and cleaned the last of the sauce from his bowl with the remaining bit of naan. It was as delicious as the waiter had promised and he drained his water bottle to take the edge off the fire in his mouth, grateful to find it cool and sweet and clean to taste. The portions were large and Stone was slowing down about half way through her mountain of rice, taking her time chewing and seeming to fully enjoy every bite, swaying from side to side slightly as though she couldn’t possibly stay still. She hummed softly.

It was as unguarded as he’d seen her, except for those moments when alcohol or exhaustion had lowered her inhibitions, but this was her alive, alight. She closed the container carefully and cracked open a can, holding it out to him with her left hand. She hesitated as his fingers grasped it, squinting at him before letting go and retrieving a second for herself.

“Your prosthetic. Forgive me, I didn’t realize you wouldn’t be comfortable with it out in public.” She let the words hang in the air, leaning against the edge of the lounge chair beside him, both of them facing the same way. In his periphery he could see her running her fingers absently over her scars. The sun had set and what light remained was the warm yellow of the street lights and a set of solar powered lanterns that illuminated the corners of the roof. The moon crept out from the behind the cloud that had obscured it and reflected blue against the black of her hair. “You never hid it from me, so it didn’t cross my mind, but then, when you and Sam took me to the diner… you wore gloves then too, didn’t you?”

Bucky nodded, then realizing she wouldn’t see it, murmured a soft “yeah.”

“I forgot.” Her clothes rustled softly as she uncrossed her legs and shifted to lean on the softer foot of the lounge chair mere inches from where he sat. “Do you ever go out without it, or do you always wear the glove?”

“I, haven’t,” Bucky paused, thinking it over, “I could, but the bike is more comfortable with both arms, and… I think I’d prefer wearing gloves.”

“Less conspicuous.” Her tone was cool but interested, and then it shifted when she raised her arm toward him so the moonlight illuminated the ridges of twisted silver flesh, “you never asked… I thought you would.”

“You keep it covered,” Bucky stated simply.

“You’ve seen it a few times now, more than most.” She let it rest on her knee, tracing the shapes with the tips of her fingers. “I don’t like the way people look at me when they see it. Like I'm broken.”

Bucky flexed his vibranium fingers and huffed at that.

“You don’t though,” she turned to look at him, “you don’t look at me like I’m something to be pitied.”

“You don’t need my pity and I’m in no position to offer any.” Bucky heard the words trip off his tongue before he’d fully vetted them, but there was no lie in it and he nodded to further affirm the sentiment. She nodded too and as they faced the moon together, he found breathing came easier, and so did words, honest and blunt flowed like a river released into its natural course. “The history books are kinder than the truth. Just a few simple lines to tell how my sister received the news that I was MIA, presumed dead and the lengths Steve went to to stop hydra before he went into the ice.

"The distance I fell, shouldn’t have been survivable, but hydra had already pumped me full of the first stages of their version of the serum, so my senses were heightened and healing factors were active but nothing I could have named when I woke in the snow.” Stone had gone still and he could feel the warmth of her shoulder an inch from his knee, but now that he’d begun, it wasn’t so easy to stop. “It was so cold, everything so cold and numb I couldn’t move, when the hydra soldiers found me, I couldn’t resist. They dragged me back, and that’s when I realized my left arm felt different, I was burning with cold but everything from the shoulder down was hot, I thought it was on fire until... When I woke up the second time I was on the table and they’d cut and stitched it together but I could still feel my fingers burning.

“The cold kept me alive, and that’s why they decided on cryofreezing to ‘keep’ me. Even after they attached the arm, my fingers were still burning, it’s the last thing I would feel before I went under, and the first sensation that returned when they thawed me out again.”

Stone had tilted her head to look at his vibranium hand and he flexed the fingers instinctually, to feel the movement of air over the sensory membrane. “Does it still burn?”

“Not often. This one senses temperature.” He had asked Shuri for that feature specifically but hadn’t explained his reasoning. The moment the new arm had connected with his nervous system the burning changed, not gone completely, but when he could feel cool air on the ‘skin’ it stopped. Wearing the gloves brought the burning back but he chose to suffer that heat rather than feel the condemnation of stranger’s eyes recognizing the Winter Soldier.

Her interest was calm but evident, she even leaned forward and seemed about to reach out and touch the gleaming knuckles but stopped herself. “Full sensory input? So, you can scratch the phantom itches?”

He almost spat out a mouthful of beer, “Yeah, you know about those?”

“I had- have a few friends who’ve lost limbs. Phantom pain is cruel but I’ve heard the itches you can’t possibly scratch can drive people mad.”

“That was why Hydra went to the trouble of making the Winter Soldier arm from vibranium. Every earlier prototype was damaged, as hard as they tried, the instinct to scratch couldn’t be overwritten.”

Stars shone dimly behind the brilliant light of the moon and the glow of streetlights below and like the night, silence fell. Slow and comfortable, breathing in the crisp clean air. Bucky could feel his heart beat settling, calm- like a blanket laid across his chest, stomach satiated and a sense of rising courage to speak again if the opportunity arose. Stone swayed from side to side again, as though it was necessary to process both food and thoughts with motion, and he waited for her and held his breath each time her shoulder nearly brushed his knee.

She stopped moving and raised her arm momentarily, “it didn’t hurt at first, I didn’t even realize I was injured until the adrenaline wore off.”

She had spoken quietly but clearly and Bucky risked asking, “what happened?” grateful when she resumed.

“We were on a mission; our target was ambushed at the top of a four story building. Was supposed to be a simple recovery, waited 36 hours for the area to be reconned, it seemed to be clear and we couldn’t afford to wait longer so they gave us a couple extra guys and we went in…” she cleared her throat and it took a minute for her to continue, this time sounding less like she was giving a briefing, “they were supposed to watch our backs but… well, our first extraction point was too risky once we’d secured the body, dust storm was kicking up and obscuring our view, plan b was the second stairwell, Buddy and I were descending, we had the rest of our guys split covering the front and back door and two watching our six, and then we tripped over the IED.

“whether it had been left for us or not, well, didn’t really matter when the stairs blew out from under our feet three floors up. Buddy was at the bottom of the stretcher when he hit the trip wire so he got the worst of it but he was still… still hanging on to the thing, but it was too heavy, I couldn’t hold both of them.” Stone stopped speaking, her breaths coming fast and ragged.

The sound brought a lump to Bucky’s own throat and he wished words existed that could comfort such a pain, knowing it was futile. Still, when she shifted her position again he took the chance to bump his knee against her shoulder, surprised but not displeased when she stilled and leaned into it. Usually, the feeling of physical touch made his skin crawl, the want eating itself in his gut while the terrible itch of discomfort and guilt screamed under his skin, but it didn’t hurt when he felt the warm pressure of it this time. Maybe it was the darkness, the smallness of it, the layers of clothing, or perhaps the way her breathing evened, maybe it was all of that, but it seemed enough. Enough to feel that he gave comfort, even as his own body ached to receive it. Perhaps she was the same, feeling that anything more than that single point of contact would overwhelm all rational thought and destroy sanity but that anything less would leave him untethered drifting through space isolated and doomed. Perhaps, he was not so alone.

The wind shifted, blowing cold in their faces and he suppressed a shiver at the sudden chill, unwilling to move lest she revoke that warm shoulder. She sighed and pressed her lips together and he understood that was all she had left in her to say, and so he stayed, frozen in the moment, the touch. That one anchor of warmth tethering himself to her. It was not enough and altogether too much and as long as it lasted it ached in his chest. It ached still more when she finally moved away, rising to her feet in a single smooth motion and gathering what remained of their meal.

“It’s getting cold,” Stone said. She once again led the way down the stairs, stopping in front of the door with a number plate reading 3B, opening her mouth, closing it again.

It was awkward enough with all of Tony’s talk on ‘date’ etiquette repeating in Bucky's head, and her additional hesitation made his decision. “I should be going.”

“Alright… well then, Bucky,” she smiled, “thank you for tonight.”

“Maybe…” he was the one to hesitate this time, “maybe we can try eating out again sometime?”

“I would like that,” she answers, putting a key in the lock.

“Uh, Stone-” he began, cutting himself off at the strange way it sounded out loud. It had always seemed much more natural inside his head.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks,” he blurted too quickly. He wanted to say more. Thanks for dinner, for telling him her story, for treating him like a human being, and more; thank you for being alive, thank you for not giving up. But it lodged in his throat and all he could manage was repetition, “thank you.”

“You are very welcome.” Stone was standing half inside her door now and he backed away until the exterior railing stopped him, the ache rising again and the urge to reach out and feel the warmth of her shoulder again itching at his palms. “And Bucky?” He looked back at her and she smiled warmly, “you can call me Sarah.”

The door closed and he was left to recount every moment of the evening on his ride home. Every misstep, every failure to speak and uncomfortable uncertainty was crushed under the weight of that smile and the warmth of a single touch.

It was enough.

And though the boys would no doubt tease him to kingdom come,

he was glad he’d gone.

Chapter Text

Bucky pulled the helmet off, shook his head and then realized his hair was shorter than it used to be and ran his fingers through the top to settle it instead. The ride home had been long, and the night air cool, crystalizing up his spine instead of calming. It had been a good… appointment… mission... Date would be the natural way to say it, but he couldn’t bring himself to use the word that would confuse the simplicity of dinner with Stone. The shiver crawled higher up the back of his neck and he pulled his collar up as he exited the garage.

A voice from the hall stopped him before he could open the door to his room.

“You’re home late, was starting to think you might be out all night.” Sam stood with his arms crossed casually, Steve was leaning against the wall behind him, looking away but obviously paying close attention. Bucky thought he saw a flicker of blue eyes in the reflection of the glass on the framed team picture hanging on the opposite wall. “How was your date?” Sam asked, eyebrow raised and a smirk playing in the corners of his eyes.

“Not a date. And dinner was… nice.”

“Nice.?”

Bucky turned his head away from the reflection and nodded in a manner he thought would look casual and unfazed. “Yeah, it was fine, food was good.”

“Hm… Fine then. So, are you going to go out… for dinner again?”

Bucky shut the door against the question.

They would. She had responded positively to the suggestion when he’d said it. But a fragment of icy doubt pricked at the base of his neck. Had she really meant it?

“Let people tell you what they mean, and then believe them.” Dr Rob had said last time Bucky had suggested that people were lying to be polite; Steve was always deferring choices to him, and it felt like appeasement, like Steve wasn’t really interested but just going along with whatever Bucky wanted.

“Don’t guess at what they ‘might’ be trying to tell you, its their responsibility to tell you what they mean. Let’s walk through this scenario together: If Steve says he doesn’t care what time you go for a run, then either A: he really doesn’t care, or B: he’s not confident enough to express his preference, or C: he may have a slight preference but is willing to run on your preferred schedule. In the case of A or C, doubting his words is only adding to your distress and if it is B, confronting him may only set his confidence back further. Offer him the opportunity to voice a preference, and accept that he may not have an answer to give.

“All of you have been through a great deal of trauma, and you and Steve especially have found yourselves in a modern world overflowing with choices, its natural to be overwhelmed by that, just as it happens for many of our service men and women who come home and suddenly must decide for themselves what to eat, when to sleep, and every other minute task of daily living that was dictated and ordered for them for so long. It may be that allowing you to decide on a few small scheduling items, gives Steve a framework to build off of that helps ease some of that decision fatigue.

“Trust the words, especially when they are proved by the persons actions. If he says yes to a 10am run, and he shows up at 10am, then he is choosing to be there, and that is enough.”

Steve wasn’t incapable of making different choices if he wanted to, he wasn’t shy about his enthusiasm for roast dinners, and he always ended their runs with a wide easy grin on his face. Steve could be trusted. And Stone too was true to her word, and hadn’t said anything she hadn’t meant.

It wasn’t merely tolerating him, merely not hating him, it was something else.

She had brought him in to her spaces, her office at the gym, and the rooftop hideaway. He walked over the events of the evening, thinking over every minute interaction, every micro expression and word. And as he traced patterns in the wallpaper, it sorted itself into something tangible. Solid and real and anchored in the moment they touched on the rooftop. She wasn’t lying to him, and she wasn’t fake ‘polite’ around him either, wasn’t that the reason he’d felt drawn to her from the beginning? The lack of guile had shown itself even beneath her emotionless mask.

His hypothesis was reinforced when she invited him out for coffee at the diner a few days later.

She wore long sleeves and he had his gloves on but they could leave at any time and the pie didn’t take more than a few minutes to serve. The waitress, a middle aged woman who seemed both bored and as though she’d rather be there than anywhere else- took their order, offered a minimum of pleasantries and called them both dear as she poured the coffee. Still Bucky felt the heat burning in his metal fingers, the urge to run, to hide, to watch the exit. Stone was his opposite, calm, looking at him not mapping the space behind his head, and she didn’t force a smile even as she thanked Margeret for the pie and the top up on her mug of coffee. She sipped slowly and savoured the pie in small bites and he mimicked her motions, forcing himself to notice the flavour when she closed her eyes and nodded. She had done the same over the vindaloo and had obviously enjoyed that meal.

The pie, Bucky finally registered the flavour and textures properly, letting go of his surroundings for just a moment. A flakey crust that melted in his mouth, thick slices of apple, a little tart and not oversweet and a light touch of cinnamon. It reminded him of the pie that was often served in the mess but only as a perfect contrast.

“They used to make pie on Thursdays at camp Lehigh where I grew up in. But it never tasted like this,” Bucky said quietly, taking another bite, “carrot, berries and apples when they could get them, more often it was just marrow, especially in winter.”

“Marrow?” Sarah asked, tilting her head and looking at him. The attention made his palm itch but he tamped it down under the warm memory he’d forgotten.

“Some sort of squash I think, a fruit ‘stretcher’ is what the ladies called it, they’d add extra sugar and spices to make it taste like more, and… oh what was it, that stuff from the big bottle, apple vinegar maybe? It was nothing like this but still a real treat for a kid in the 30’s.”

“You grew up in an army camp?”

Bucky nodded and found himself explaining how he’d been orphaned with a baby sister at the age of 10, how his father’s commanding officer had eventually agreed to let Bucky stay on at the camp after Becca had been sent off to boarding school. Sarah made the occasional sound of assent and otherwise let him tell it as he wished, not probing for more when the thoughts of Becca started to creep in and he clammed up and started scanning the exit and counting the tics of the clock.

“Ready to get out of here?”

Bucky nodded mutely and followed.

The jeep waited for them just outside the door with the bell and when Bucky had shut the passenger door on himself, he let out a long breath. Sarah swung herself into the driver’s seat much more naturally and drove them back to the gym, pulling in beside his bike before she started the conversation.

“That went pretty well.” She looked at him for an answer and he chewed on air. She turned a bit more and with a more intent expression said, “alright, debrief. We seated ourselves, the lady was nice, the coffee… I’d say a solid 7.5 out of 10. And the pie was great. How would you rate that exposure?”

Understanding what she wanted from him, he took some time to consider.

“5 out of 10.”

“Only 5?”

“The old men having tea in the corner were gossiping about the waitress and they didn’t th- They said some things about you that I’d rather not have heard.”

“Like?”

“Pretty if you would smile more…” There had been more comments but he didn’t think they bore repeating.

Sarah actually did smile a little, “not like I haven’t heard that before, its half of why I got the nickname Stone. I aced Poker, and I don’t owe those old men my smiles, don’t let it bother you.”

He couldn’t drop it as easily as she seemed to but it didn’t sit as heavily when she flashed a full smile at him. There was a dimple in her right cheek and it caught him like a trap he hadn’t anticipated.

“The old men and their business- is none of our business, so discounting their small minded comments, did we only scrape a passing grade?”

His fingers were hot again, burning inside the glove, he imagined he could smell the leather beginning to smoke and he clenched his fist tight to douse the imaginary flames. Before he could register it, she was pulling his vibranium fingers open and tugging the glove free, a difficult task with less malleable joints but she didn’t hesitate and he didn’t resist. Instead, he watched, as if frozen in place, as she turned up the ac and held his hand up to the vent.

“Better?” She looked at him and when he could only return it with confusion, she added, “you said that the gloves make it burn, but sensing different temperatures helps right?”

He nodded. Her hand on his bare wrist was warmer than anything else he could feel, but it didn’t burn as the phantom pain did, warmth washed up the back of his neck and ears and he cleared his throat abruptly to focus on the previous question.

Bucky ran over it again. He hadn’t messed anything up, the waitress hadn’t been bothered or uncomfortable, and while he’d felt that burning desire to run away the entire time he was paying and waiting for the machine to read the card, nothing had actually gone wrong. And he’d remembered something from his childhood, something he’d forgotten from a time he’d thought was almost completely annihilated from his mind. And he’d talked about it and it had been… it had been nice.

“7. 7 out of 10.” He said firmly. The dimple reappeared and he was trapped in it once again.

She was always remarkably expressionless in difficult situations; the first time they met she had held the gun and such a cold flat expression on her face he’d been unable to read her intentions. That same flatness of affect was there again at the bottom of the cliff-face and in the moment that the dishes broke in the Italian place. But when she sat in the moonlight with him, there had been moments of pure enjoyment over the food and as she’d relayed a little more of her scar story, he’d seen the twisting of pain in the corners of her mouth and eyes. It was like she was thawing slowly. Now this smile, her teeth- white and symmetrical and imperfect, and the crinkle in the corner of her eyes, cold air in the jeep on a spring afternoon, the dimple and the little expulsion of air before she chuckled, it was all pure sunshine, blazing bright enough it hurt to look at, but he couldn’t peel his eyes away.

10/10 he thought to himself.

Chapter Text

Two separate things happened to two separate people on the last day of April. Both were likely enough events, expected with the same certainty of a jump scare in a thriller movie. And had both of them occurred on different days, there’s no way to be sure how differently this story may have ended.

The phone rang. Sarah stared at the screen, willed herself to press the little button that would end it. It rang again. She knew she had to answer, but her fingers wouldn’t swipe to accept either. It rang a sixth time and a reaction born from muscle memory and knowing how much the caller hated to be left hanging, she swiped the little green button.

“Martin, you answered.” He sounded as surprised as she felt.

“You called Sir.” Flat, careful. Imaginary tripwires surrounded every syllable.

“And you’ve made it very clear you don’t have to answer just because I call.” He sounded amused more than snippy and Sarah pictured him chewing on a toothpick and standing in that distinctive posture, a hand on his hip, one foot on a rock or a bench, looking for all the world like he was starring in an old western with his handlebar mustache and customary hat. “It’s about time you come and pay your respects Stone.”

He was expecting an argument, the same old excuses, was probably working himself up into a speech to change her mind. She wanted to do all of it, or say something so shocking he’d never call about it again. But then, if that worked, he'd just as likely never call again about anything at all and he was her one remaining contact... and her CO. And what he was asking wasn’t unfair, wasn’t intended as a punishment, rather the opposite, one of his speeches always included the idea that she needed to make her peace and that Buddy was waiting for her. But she didn’t want to make peace, to let go. Couldn’t. Not yet. Not when the smell of blood still lingered.

“I’m not gonna ask again Sarah,” Jackson used her first name and it stung a little behind her eyes, “I just wanted to let you know that there’s going to be a special memorial this year, and well… Amelia really wants to meet you, she asked me to tell you that particularly, she really hopes you’ll come.”

“Yes sir.” Sarah said slowly, mechanically. She heard the intake of air on the other end.

“I’ll send you the information.”

“Thank you sir.”

Sarah Stone dropped to the floor of her office and covered her face with her hands.

Bucky clearly saw the building beginning to crumble, everything washed in the grey dust of desert combat, and in that moment, he saw inside, saw figures he recognized, falling, falling away.

The mechanism was in his hand, his thumb pressed on the ignition switch, too late he dropped -or rather threw it- away, but the act couldn’t be undone.

Electricity crackled inside his skull again.

The chair, they must be trying to erase the memory. He scrambled to imprint the figures in his mind, the faces growing clearer as he replayed the scene again and again, the electricity continued to crackle, his teeth clenched too tight, too much fire, too much pressure, too late, the faces pressed inside his eyelids, mocking his failures, Steve limp and grey and dead, the Ironman helmet crushed at his shoulder, Sam pointing at him, accusing, “you did this, it was you, you killed them, look!” the figure of Sam rippled and he was standing next to the ruins pointing.

An arm protruding from a pile of concrete debris, purple sleeve torn open to reveal a scar, a scar he knew. But she shouldn’t be here. Bucky tore the rubble apart and at the base, there she lay.

Crumpled and lifeless, her skin mottled purple and black to match her clothes, blood staining his hands as he lifted her free.

“You have to fix it Bucky, bring them back.” Sam’s voice roared over the crackle of the cradle on his head. “Don’t forget.”

Bucky was watching himself lift the limp body, could hear his own rasping breaths and desperate pleas for her to wake up, and not to forget even as the figures became cloudy and vague and more and more distant. He was dying himself, that was the only explanation he could grasp and for the first time in a long time that idea brought him no comfort. Go back, go back and make it untrue, go back and remember and make it right.

“Don’t forget. James Buchanan Barnes, identification number…”

His own voice woke him from the dream and Bucky sat up in the bed, a slap on his chest stung the way it should and he pressed his palm to the soft cotton sheets reassured that he was no longer dreaming. The nightmare was fading quickly and he knew it would dissolve from his memory soon, too soon.

“Friday, is everyone…” Bucky found himself grateful for the watchful eye for the first time.

“Everyone who is at the base is sleeping, Clint and Wanda are on mission, last report 23 minutes ago, all is well Sargent Barnes.”

“Don’t suppose you can check in on my… friend?”

“If you are referring to someone who does not live on the compound, I do not have authority to do so.”

“Of course, I’m sorry for asking.”

“Is it an emergency? Emergency protocols allow me to access ctv in public spaces. Of course, I can sneak into private devices but there are Public and legal ramifications for such actions.”

“No, I’ll, I’ll go check it out myself. Let Steve know I’m out if I’m not back before our morning run.”

“Will do Sargent Barnes, drive safe.”

Bucky fitted his prosthetic on in the dark, pulled on clothes without much thought and almost forgot to grab a jacket on his way out the door.

The hall light alone illuminated the area, Sarah’s office door was open but it was dark as well, nothing out of place but her windbreaker hung on the hook inside. It didn’t feel right, the hair rising on the back of his neck felt like the whispered caress of a ghostly hand. He moved quickly down the hall into the gym, his shadow falling over a crumpled human form, he paused allowing his eyes adjusted to the dark and scanned the rest of the gym for signs of danger. It was quiet. Too quiet. Too much like the dream he’d had.

“Sarah.”

She lay on her side, curled up tight with her head on a towel. Knees and feet together, elbows too, but her forearms splayed out as if she couldn’t bear them touching and her hands were curled in tight nearly obscuring the angry red and white lines on her palms, her phone looked as if it had fallen from her grasp, just inches from her fingers. The rise and fall of her chest proved that she was still breathing, if shallowly, and her pulse threaded slowly through the carotid artery when he pressed two fingers to her neck. The smell of alcohol was there, not strong but enough to prove she hadn’t been entirely in her right mind.

“Sarah. Wake up,” He said a little louder. “Come on, wake up honey, this is no place to sleep.” Her forehead wrinkled up when he pinched the skin on the back of her hand but she didn’t open her eyes. He counted the seconds as the pale pinch of skin slowly flushed red and more slowly settled back into its natural position. “Sarah.”

“Mhm… just a few more minutes.” Came the mumbled reply.

“Not here, can you walk? You need to drink something.”

“Mmm.” She groaned and settled back into slow breaths.

It felt wrong to lift her in his arms, to move her without asking permission, but she wasn’t in a state to give it and she couldn’t stay here on the floor, that would be a greater wrong. So, he slipped her phone into his pocket and with a whispered apology, carried her into the office, setting her down gently on the couch.

“Here, have a little of this.” With one arm around her shoulders to hold her upright, he held the bottle gently to her lips and tilted it just enough to wet them. She flinched at the feeling. “drink,” he said, like it was an order. And she obeyed. He gave her a moment to breath and then repeated the order until she started drinking on her own. Eyelashes fluttered, bleary unfocused eyes cleared.

“Bucky? You came,” her voice said. Softly, relieved. The lashes fluttered shut again but she stayed upright on her own.

“You awake now?”

“Almost.”

“What happened?”

“Tired.”

“Finish this and I’ll let you sleep.”

Her only answer was to take the bottle in her palms and drink, pausing for deep drags of air like she was drowning.

“Take it easy.”

She finished the bottle and sighed deeply, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead and closing her eyes again, “go, home.”

“I will go, after I make sure you’re alright.”

“Not that…” she groaned again, “I… I want to go… home.”

“Keys?”

“Jacket.”

“Can you walk?” He helped her to her feet but she swayed dangerously when he took his hand off her elbow. “Take my arm.”

Bucky knew he wasn’t the sort of person to be trusted with a task like this, but who else was there to ask? It would be irresponsible to leave her alone at this crucial moment, and he was here, and she had shown him where she lived, that had been a sort of admission of trust, a kind of permission to know her. Nothing remained now but to do the right thing and though it still felt wrong for him to be the one doing it, the fact that it was the right thing to do was incontrovertible. Maybe he should call Sam.

The phone he pulled from his pocket wasn’t his. The screen lit up when he pressed the buttons. He wasn’t going to snoop, just wanted to see if there was anyone else to call, it asked for a fingerprint and he pressed Stone’s thumb to the glowing circle. The call screen was the first thing he saw, the second thing that registered was who she’d been trying to dial before she’d dropped the phone. His name and number stared back at him, she just hadn't pressed the call button.

“Bucky?”

“Yeah?”

“You came... Thank you.” She leaned against him heavily, trusting him to catch her.

His ears flushed hot but he pretended not to notice, he just kept them both moving toward and then out the door, locking up as he went and getting her to sit on the bike as he considered the next steps. She wasn’t in a state to ride, and the walk though not long was more than he thought she would tolerate on her trembling legs. Just what had she done to get into this state he couldn’t guess, though her hands told half the tale. He decided just to walk the bike to her apartment with her on it, less dangerous than the drive and less compromising than the assumptions that would be made if he were seen carrying her down the street in the middle of the night.

The third key on the ring opened the door to 3B and the entry way light came on by itself, casting long shadows across the relatively small space. A short entryway opening to the kitchen on the right, and further along a living area with a short hallway to the left with three doors, all of which were open far enough for Bucky to recognize a bathroom straight out, an office to the right and to the left a bedroom. He led her to the bed and she curled up on top of the covers seeming content to sleep as she was, so he pulled off her shoes and found a throw blanket on the couch in the living room to cover her.

“Why do you keep making me worry,” Bucky said softly, trusting that she was asleep enough not to hear. She sighed into the pillow and without thinking, he moved the hair away from her mouth so she could breath more easily. “And why does it seem as if no one else is… as if you won’t let them... Why me?” Soft exhales were all that answered.

The apartment was neat and clean, a mug and plate on the dish drying rack and a takeout container in the trash proving that she had eaten something in the last day. The living room was equally dust and trash free, but the floor to ceiling shelves around the TV were bursting with oddments. Movies and Music on the bottom shelves seemed less disturbed whereas the books above barely seemed to fit, some set halfway out as if they’d been put back absently. One in particular caught his eye and he tugged it out careful not to disturb the rest.

It was a book of poems.

He sat down on the couch deciding that it was alright to stay until she woke, to be sure she was alright. She had called him, tried to at least. Silencing his doubts with that thought he opened the book to a random page and began to read. The words sharp and delicate as broken glass, shattered and reflecting a thousand rays of light into feelings he’d never named, slowly stole away the sting of fear and more gently lulled him to an unintended rest.

Chapter Text

“Just one spoonful, and swallow… there you go, wash the medicine down with this.” Bucky handed Becca a tumbler of water and helped her balance it as she drank.

It was a dream, he knew it was. The memory and awareness of the time that had passed, what he had become, it was all there, but here in this army camp, he was just a teenager looking after his little sister. Major Samson had consented to his request to bring her here when the news had come that his aunt’s household had fallen ill and little Becca had no one to look after her. Her bed was made in one corner of the laundresses’ quarters behind a sheet and Bucky was allowed to visit her during the day while the other inhabitants were busy at their work.

Slowly Becca had gained in strength, and even a little of the plumpness he remembered. But times were lean and when Major Samson discovered that Bucky had been giving Becca half of his daily rations, his kindness toward the child was overshadowed by his concern for the lanky young man. They had argued. Samson had won. It was true that his aunt had recovered fully and there was no need to keep Becca in a camp full of soldiers when there was a proper home available. Greater than Bucky’s desire to keep Becca close was the better feeling of wishing for her to be happy and well cared for and in their aunt’s care she would receive nice clothes and sufficient food and a good education.

Becca had returned to her place and he lived for the letters he received. He also became something of a nurse, soldiers who were just a little ill or wounded would ask him for help rather than risk the ire of the camp doctor and head nurse.

Bucky walked through the barracks and across the camp within the dream, seeing as he walked how things had changed. Then he was walking down an alley, familiar, a boy, thin and coughing. “Are you alright?”

Steve had asthma and was malnourished, and with his mother too ill to help, he was working two jobs and spending nights sponging her forehead and boiling water to ease the dryness of her coughs. Bucky found himself once again looking after someone who had no one else to turn to. It was natural by then, and Steve’s pitiable condition would have softened the heart of a much harder man than Bucky had ever bid fair to become.

Slowly he woke from his dream, his eyes pressed tight to hold the image of it, of himself as a gentler less jaded soul.

He was not in his room.

Sarah awoke to the uncomfortable feeling of her shirt sleeves twisting tight around her scars. She changed into a loose oversized t-shirt, not wanting anything to touch the angry red marks inflaming her arm. The previous night was something of a blur, she tried to trace her route home but after the phone call she’d felt so far outside of herself that even her training that night wasn’t clear. Floating. She had floated into bed. That must have been a dream. A dream alone could make sense of the heart beat pounding in her ears, a stone giant’s arms lifting her off the floor.

Dreams were odd things of course, stone giants with heartbeats were not impossible in that state of mental fluidity. But if the arms were stone, why were they warm? Hard as granite and warm as flesh had been the hand that cradled her. Even in dreams the rocks were usually identifiable, this ambiguity confused her more than the rest.

Hair combed and braided back out of the way and in fresh clothes she opened her bedroom door. Odd, she didn’t usually bother closing it. Turning, she saw the back of the couch. Everything was as it should be.

Except.

There were socked feet hanging over the armrest.

Ah. The stone giant stirred.

“Coffee?” She asked.

“Hmmgh?” Bucky’s eyes, blue even in this lighting, blinked at her in confusion.

“Coffee.” It was a statement not a question. Sarah needed the distraction of making it to process the situation she found herself in, and she’d need the caffeine to answer the questions he must have if he’d taken her home last night.

If Bucky was a stone giant, she decided he must be sedimentary, layers on layers deposited by time. That had been the point of attraction all along if she was honest. Like herself, he must have fossils or even geodes hidden within. There must be shards of themselves that could be recovered, and someone who had done it already would know best how to dig.

Coffee finished, she poured a cup for each of them and brought the mugs over to the couch where Bucky sat. He sat upright, the pillow had returned to its usual place and a book she didn’t remember pulling out set primly on the coffee table. Watching her with eyes no longer hazy with sleep, the stern impression entirely destroyed by the way his hair stuck up all on one side.

“The haircut suits you.” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.

He ran a hand through it but the effort was worse than futile, half of the strands splayed out in every direction leaving the remaining behind as a bent sentinel. Mouth opening and closing as though he wanted to speak but couldn’t decide on the words to use, he finally settled on, “thanks,” and lifted the mug to his lips instead.

“I should be thanking you, for getting me home last night,” Sarah said, distantly.

“I wasn’t intending to sleep here, I just… wasn’t comfortable leaving you alone in that state.”

“How bad was it?”

“You were dehydrated, and… well,” he gestured to her hands, “you must have been at it for a while. I found you sleeping on the floor.”

Sarah opened her palms toward him. She had seen it when she’d begun to make the coffee, but while her hands were sore, they retained a normal range of movement. Raw and red in striped across her fingers and palms, the callouses that had saved her from most of the damage were almost entirely worn off. She’d need to file off the excess, a couple of nights with ointment and cotton gloves would keep them from cracking and give the blisters time to heal. Further up her left wrist the rope burns marked angry red lines across her scars.

“How much do you remember?”

“I got a bit carried away in the gym, and I remember feeling real tired… sugar must have dropped, I forgot lunch and then I got the call before supper… I guess I must have passed out. After that it’s a little less… someone was calling my name, that was you?” she looked at him and he nodded, “I was a little confused, I drank something, after that it all felt like I was floating in a dream.”

“You wanted to go home, so I walked you over. On the bike. I mean, I pushed the bike with you on it…”

Sarah took another sip from her mug and nodded, dispelling a little of Bucky’s nerves. It had seemed the right thing to do, but as he’d sat and watched her make coffee, the silence and the slight hunch to her shoulders had left him feeling wrong all through.

“Thank you.” She looked straight at him. “I do remember calling you, asking you to come. I didn’t think you would, but I just… I didn’t want to be alone. So, thank you.”

Uncomfortable with her thanks and wanting her to look away, to look anywhere except at his face where he could feel the flush rising, he asked, “what happened? Before you… got carried away?”

“Ah, that.”

She did look away, first at the floor, then the ceiling, then she covered them with her free hand. The relief Bucky had expected to feel was replaced by worry and a wish that she would look at him rather than whatever had driven her to the point of self destruction he’d found her in.

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“I’d like to.”

He waited as she gathered herself, tucking her feet underneath herself on the floor where she sat across from him.

“My CO called. He… he calls me every year about the memorial, for Buddy. I didn’t go. Didn’t think I had a right to. And I… I didn’t want to face his widow. Cowardly, I know.”

Bucky wanted to object, but the guilt was too familiar.

“I told him I’d go.” She took a too large gulp of hot coffee and swallowed it uncomfortably. “I can’t back out now.”

It was a statement, but her low tone pleaded with him to offer an excuse. He wanted to tell her that she didn’t have to go, that it would be okay to hide away from all of it forever. Except that he had been burned by it too, there had been amends he’d tried to make, only to find that the family member of the winter soldier’s victim had died only a year earlier. There was a limit to what time alone could mend.

“You don’t have to go alone.”

“Who would go with me?”

“I will, if you let me.”

Chapter Text

“I need you to sign for me.” Bucky shoved the papers toward Sam without looking at him.

“Sign for what exactly?” When Bucky failed to answer, Sam read the form. “Going somewhere?”

“Yes.”

“You know I can’t sign unless I know the details. Spit it out.”

“A memorial.”

“Anyone I know?... Someone you knew?... No?” Sam grew frustrated with the lack of response. It had been a long time since he’d seen Bucky this tight-lipped, he’d thought therapy was helping, but perhaps he’d tripped a mental landmine recently. Healing wasn’t linear as Sam knew all too well.

“Sarah’s jump buddy. She needs someone to go with her.”

Sam had no trouble singing his name on the permission forms after those gritted words were spoken. This wasn’t a landmine in Bucky’s healing road, it was a sign of his progress that he was willing to face this hurdle on behalf of someone else.

Taking the role of Bucky’s parole officer had been a risk, having to police someone so close to you wasn’t a light responsibility to shoulder, and it had even strained his relationship with Steve at the beginning. Now though, the satisfaction of seeing the light in Bucky’s eyes more than repaid Sam for the trouble. Sam had to hold back when he saw the secret little smile Bucky wore as he said he would go with Sarah, keep her company, keep her safe. Sam held his peace, knowing if he said too much, Bucky would hide it better. If he didn’t, maybe Bucky would stop hiding it from himself too.

“If you need backup for any reason, you have my number.”

“I won’t need it.”

“I know,” Sam answered with a grin as wide as it could go.

Bird song and the rising sun greeted Bucky as he drove his bike to Sarah’s apartment, and she raised a hand to greet him from where she waited, leaning against the driver door. 

“You really don’t have to—” she began to say.

Bucky ignored the half hearted words and threw his duffel in the back. “Let’s go.”

“Alright.” A sheepish smile resisted the straight set of her lips as she jumped in and turned the ignition. “But you’re in charge of the music.”

“What? How, uh…”

“It’s connected to my phone, here.” Sarah passed him her phone and showed him the pattern to unlock the screen, “you can pick basically any song in this app, search bar is there, and my playlists are at the bottom.”

Left alone with the device and a seemingly endless stream of possibilities Bucky would have been completely overwhelmed but for the presence of Sarah who hummed along to nearly every song he selected regardless of genre. The music had lifted her mood, her expression brighter and her fingers tapping rhythms on the steering wheel somehow made Bucky feel as though everything had been set right after a heavy storm. If they could just drive like this forever, it would all be alright.

They stopped to eat sandwiches she bought from a small grocery store, and when he offered to drive, she declined politely. Again, the asphalt rolled away beneath their tires and Bucky chose a new genre to explore, punk rock, Sarah’s singing and the way she looked over at him when a “good” song began warmed him far more than the sun did. That dimple was inescapable and he chose each new song hoping to see it again.

Her mood shifted as they drew nearer the destination and the music that had been uplifting began to feel oppressive. Bucky turned it off and Sarah said nothing, her grip on the steering wheel unchanging, stone faced.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I… I can’t.” The look she flashed his way was uneasy.

“Do you mind if I do? Talk, that is.”

“Not at all.”

“I told you that Becca and I lived apart after our parents died, and that Major Samson took me in. Well, he let me stay at the army camp in the summer but he insisted on sending me to school for the rest of the year, and our aunt got Becca into a good boarding school, too far away for us to meet often but I got her letters, she was so clever, she got into a women’s college for arts….”

Sarah listened as Bucky bragged about his baby sister, his voice warm and full of pride for someone who grew up and grew old without ever knowing he was still alive and being tormented. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, the first pulses of a panic attack faded to a dull ache in her gut. Still there, laying in wait, but not actively clawing through her soul. If she’d been alone… The road was narrow, the ravine deep. But she wasn’t alone.

“Thanks.”

“Mhm,” He murmured back as though he already knew exactly what she meant and continued his story without a hitch “…everyone now thinks of Steve as a goody-two-shoes but they didn’t see all the fights I had to drag him out of…”

The hotel was clean, well lit and modern. They walked together to the end of the hall on the second floor and scanned their keys simultaneously for the last two rooms on the left. He paused for a moment, but her door was already closing.

Bucky settled in, tossing his duffel in the bottom of the dresser and after scanning the area he closed the drapes.

He had time now to sit and wonder if he’d made the right choice in coming. The moment doubt started to creep in it was confronted with the memory of a dimple and a soft spoken thanks. Would she want to eat? It was early evening, but it was a long drive and a more daunting morning ahead, she might just want to be left alone, maybe to find sleep if she could. His stomach growled, making his decision clear. It would benefit neither of them to go hungry.

The opening door hit his knuckles before he could knock.

“I was just going to order pizza, you hungry?” Sarah asked, unphased.

“Pizza sounds good.”

They ate the pizza on a park bench near the hotel’s back door, an attempt at greenspace not much improved by the struggling grass and too straight trees in a stiff line down the back. But it was relatively private and Sarah had said she needed fresh air. Bucky waited for her patiently, watching the perimeter and sitting as still as possible, he’d finished most of the large pizza while she still chewed on her second slice.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Her eyes didn’t follow his voice; didn’t seem to be seeing the lump of concrete they were pointed at. She took a sip of water before answering with a slow shake of the head. No.

“Ok.”

The sun went down. The last of its rays painting the underside of the clouds in swathes of red and they went to their respective rooms for whatever sleep they could find. The morning would come, far too slowly for the sleepless and still much too soon.

He stalked down a side street, keeping to the shadows, watching the man’s shuffling steps as he inadvertently led the winter soldier to his general’s private quarters. The main street had been filled with revelling soldiers not long ago, but the crowds were dissipating as a light rain began to fall. There was no way to know if one or a dozen soldiers, they’re weapons still at the ready, might remain there, perhaps seeking shelter in an alcove. The winter soldier only had orders to kill the general and to leave no witnesses. And yet, he strode out into the flickering light of the street lamps and allowed his gun hand to swing wide of the overcoat designed to hide it.

He waited, ready to fire, ready to receive fire. The general came out to greet the man. One shot rang out. Only the winter soldiers gun smoked.

The man who’s limping gait had showed him the way, turned to see the source of the sound. Again, it was only the gun in the winter soldiers’ hand that rocked. Another red blossom in the rain. He was exposed, far too much, unnecessarily, but all he did was turn slowly. No soldiers countered his gaze. No rifle fire split the air. A shopkeeper and a young man holding a bouquet. White blossoms stained red.

And still no one stopped him.

Bucky dragged himself from the sweat twisted sheets with a gasp. A long shower, alternating between steaming and ice cold, finally drove the remnants of the memory from the forefront of his mind. He couldn’t let it take hold. He was supposed to be support, not be the one needing it.

Bucky did not know how comfortable Sarah had grown to be in his presence, his confidence a little shaken by her silence. The truth was made painfully obvious when she walked through the glass doors into the midday sun.

The woman who emerged was as unlike her as he could have imagined possible. Her hair, usually escaping in wisps and curls from loose braids was now firmly and smoothly gelled into a regulation bun at the nape of her neck. Dress uniform, crisp and neat, the rows of ribbons marking her honors; but neither the metal plate nor the starched collar was as stiffly set as the face of their wearer. Her eyes were open just a fraction too wide and there was no light or colour in the clear cold grey irises when they met his. The only fragment of Stone that remained was the constellation of piercings in both ears, though it seemed that she’d swapped out some of the flashier ones for simple flat gold studs in reverence to the solemnity of the occasion.

She was looking at him and through him, beyond the present time and place.

“Ready?”

She jolted a little at the sound of his voice and nodded, moving in a quick march toward the parking lot.  

He kept back a half step; her unconsciously mechanical movements bringing back the nightmare-soldier feeling he’d only just quelled. Not now. He couldn’t afford to slip.

Stone and Bucky exited the jeep at the same time, scanning the area, marking the exits and taking note of the prevailing winds. She was on autopilot, working purely from muscle memory. Signs pointed them to the gated backyard and the hum of voices rose as they approached. Stone stopped at the gate and Bucky considered offering her his arm but she blinked and pushed through on her own.

A lull in the voices, an exclamation of greeting and Stone saluted her CO, who responded with a hand on her shoulder and a gentle reminder to be at ease and the party flowed back into motion. Deciding to stay back, Bucky watched her greet several others. The group was an even blend of civilians and veterans, though most of the later were dressed casually their posture gave them away. Along the side of the house was a long table loaded with food and drink and a second smaller table bearing a large framed photo of a smiling young man in uniform. Smaller photos were scattered among a collection of keepsakes and memorabilia, Bucky approached nearer to see the same smiling man looking much younger in a family photo with a younger brother and two proud looking parents, another showed him in a suit beside a glowing bride, his smile almost impossibly big.

“Scott’s smile was infectious, but if all you see is the photo’s you’d never guess how much he cried that day.” The woman who spoke to him could only be the blushing bride herself, older, shorter hair, but the same soft smile for her husband. “Did you know Scott? I haven’t seen you here before.”

Bucky felt suddenly out of place “Uh, no, I… I just came with a friend, with Stone, uh. Sarah.” He gestured to where she stood, not at ease.

“Oh, that’s wonderful, thank you for coming, I know John said she was coming, but I wasn’t sure.” She paused and tilted her head at his lack of understanding, “ah, John, you’d probably know him as Jackson, Scott and Sarah’s CO. I can introduce you if… ah, looks like he’s got his hands full with Rosie. I haven’t told you who I am have I? I’m a little scattered, please forgive me, my name is Amelia, and as you have probably guessed, I am Scott’s Wife.”

Her hand was extended to him and seeing how apologetic and frazzled she looked, he took it without a second moment of hesitation.

“I’m Bucky… Uh, Barnes.”

“Bucky? Pleasure to meet you, Scott loved nicknames.” She shook his hand with more pressure and warmth than he’d expected, “I suppose I should get back into the crush and mingle, help yourself to food and if you need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

He nodded and she gave a wry trepidatious grin and wove her way back into the thickest group in the now much too crowded backyard.

Bucky chose a less conspicuous position along the back fence ensuring he was still within Stone’s view if she needed him, and waited with his arms crossed.

Her posture remained wooden even as she shook hands and gave small stiff smiles in painful flashes, but she didn’t seem panicked until the woman he’d spoken to approached. Then Stone’s eyes, just a fraction too wide, darted left and right and stuck on him. Seeing that as his cue, he moved in, stalking through the chatting circles with a grim expression that opened the way for him.

“Sarah,” Amelia said, her voice catching and the swell of a tear trembling against her lower lashes, “Thank you for coming.”

Sarah caught Bucky’s eye as he swept in to stand at her side and he gave a small nod of reassurance that she returned before giving her attention back to Amelia. “I should have come sooner.”

“I’m just glad you came. Scott told me so much about you I feel like I know you already.”

Sarah returned the sentiment, forcing a chuckle as she explained that Scott wouldn’t ever shut up about his wife back home, no matter how badly the single men razzed him about it. The conversation, a little uncomfortable and stilted from the start, settled slowly into a more natural path, until they were chuckling over shared anecdotes of Buddy’s antics and jokes.

Bucky settled back, scanning the crowd occasionally but mostly focused on the movement of Sarah's left arm. To someone who didn’t know her, she may have seemed more-or-less comfortable if a little formal. But Bucky saw it differently. Instead of the wide almost constantly shifting stance she naturally took, her feet were planted flat and parallel and she was nodding as she listened, as though desperate to ensure that Amelia felt heard. Her arms hung loosely at her sides but in the pauses when she was searching for words, the left wrist twisted.

Someone was talking loudly, reminding people to eat and the crowd was humming approval when the back door, shut a little too hard by a gust of wind, snapped half of the attendees to attention. A young man with a child on his shoulders smiled and apologized for the sound.

The tension lifted, in everyone except Sarah; and then Bucky when he saw her freeze. The young man bore a clear resemblance to his older brother and that same gummy smile was repeated in the face of the child. “You go ask.” He said, lowering her to the ground.

Small feet moving before she made contact with the grass and she was rescued from the fall by her uncle who spun her in a circle before letting her go to make a clumsy dash straight for Amelia’s legs.

“Mum! Uncle Will said to ask you, can I have ice-cream?”

While Amelia knelt and talked to the child, Sarah took two half steps back until Bucky’s prosthetic arm around her shoulder stopped her from colliding with an elderly woman who was trying to pass by behind them. The danger passed unnoticed by Sarah and he let his arm drop but she stepped closer still until her side pressed against his, her eyes wide and locked on the child who was clapping with excitement about the promised treat.

“You okay.” Bucky asked under his breath. Sarah didn’t answer, but her hand grasped at the sleeve of his leather jacket. “You want to get out of here, just nod. Okay.”

Amelia was speaking, “…in just a minute, okay? There’s someone I’d like you to say hello to.” And she stood, holding the little girl’s hand and turning back to Sarah with a smile, “Sarah, this is Rosalie, Rosie, this is Sarah Stone, she’s your daddy’s best friend from work.”

Rosalie gasped a little, whispered “Stone” under her breath and hid her face behind her mother’s skirt.

“Buddy and Stone were the heroes in the stories Scott used to write for Rosie in his letters home. She asks me to read them almost every night.”

Sarah murmured something like comprehension and nodded, “Uh, we…”

Bucky stepped in, “we should go, it’s a long drive back and…”

“Oh, yeah, of course, well thank you both for coming,” Amelia responded her eyebrows raised with concern, “drive safe.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Together they turned and left the backyard, walking just slow enough to be inconspicuous. Bucky’s metal palm was warm, but it didn’t burn as the phantom fingers usually did. It was only when they arrived at the vehicle that he fully realized that her fingers were intertwined with his. He opened the door for her but she didn’t let go.

“Do you want to go back to the hotel or…”

Finally, she shook her head a little, and looking at her boots she shrugged.

“We’ll go get our stuff and you can change into civvies and then I’ll drive us back, okay?”

She nodded and allowed him to guide her into the passenger seat.

Bucky cleaned himself up in his hotel room, repacked the toiletries into his duffel bag, this time putting his leather jacket inside before zipping it up. He sent a quick text to let Sarah know he’d wait for her outside and left after one last look around the room.

She walked out of the building in sweats and a long sleeved t-shirt, her hair was down and dripping a little at the ends, looking much more like herself but also the way he remembered her after that rescue mission, stiff and like she was using every ounce of her strength just to hold it all together.

She climbed into the passenger seat without a word and rolled the window down, which Bucky took as permission to drive.

The whistling of the wind through the wind, whipping her hair in every direction, concealing her face, the hum of the engine and the rushing sound of rubber on asphalt filled the silent space between them. At first Bucky tried to stay focused on the road, recalling the route he’d mapped before they left. Mid afternoon, he stopped at a roadside market for some sandwiches and water and Sarah ate mechanically, seeming not to see anything or anyone at all.

The second hour of silence began to weigh on him, and the sun warmed his knuckles until he couldn’t stop thinking about it. That moment when, in her distress, she’d reached for his hand. Was she thinking about it too, maybe she hadn’t even realised it at the time and it was just him imagining it meant something.

Nervous and boyish, Bucky found himself trying to seem natural while moving his hand to rest within easy reach. Just in case she needed it. That was all. He was just making himself available. As comfort. As a friend.

Her arms were crossed and after several long minutes he realised she was taking the slow steady breaths of sleep. He ran his foolish hand through his hair, the pounding in his chest mocking him.

The remainder of the drive was uneventful, the sun dropped below the western horizon and the sky faded, blue bleeding into black. He stopped only once, carefully adjusting Sarah’s head and making sure her hair was out of the way before rolling up the windows and retrieving his jacket.

Then it was just the hum of the engine and the sound of her slow breathing until he parked the jeep in her usual spot.

“Hey, Sarah?”

“Mmhm?”

“You’re home.”

Sarah straightened up abruptly, pushed the leather jacket aside and got out mechanically, walking down the sidewalk and up the stairs without looking at them, autopilot. Bucky grabbed the bags from the backseat, locked the doors and followed her quickly, hoping she wouldn’t trip. She didn’t.

The door opened with the third key on the ring and when Bucky pulled it open, she stepped into the shadowy hallway and stopped there. Like a cardboard cutout of herself, casting long shadows into the living room.

“Your bag,” Bucky half-whispered.

She pointed at the floor and he set it down out of the way of the door.

“Keys?”

She motioned to a ring on the wall next to the hooks that held her jackets. He hung the keys.

Now they were both standing in the half light of the open front door, both frozen. The air around them brittle.

“Are you…” He started to ask but stopped.

“Don’t.” She turned further away so he couldn’t see her face.

“Don’t what?” he asked, reaching out a tentative hand.

“Don’t ask, don’t… don’t touch me.”

The icy tremor in her voice arrested him, and he held his breath. Nothing moved, not even the shadows dared sway. It was painful stillness, not rest, not ease. Sharp, frigid, dangerous; space swelled between them, stretching the tic toc of the clock on the wall into long threatening hammer falls.

He should leave. He should give her space. But it felt wrong. It felt the way he did every night that the memories tore him awake.

“Why?” He finally said. A whisper that sounded like a shout.

She gasped once, then again, and finally answered, her voice on the knife’s edge, “I’ll break.”

He turned away and, in his peripheral, saw her shoulders drop. He closed the half open door, dropped his bag next to hers and put a hand on her shoulder, turning her toward him.

“Then break,” Bucky murmured, pulling her unresisting frame into his arms, “go ahead and break. I’ve got you.”

And she did.

Chapter Text

Sitting, on the floor in the dark apartment. That’s where Bucky found himself when the slow morning light started spilling through the frosted window over the sink onto the floor. Not alone. She sat beside him, her arms wrapped tight around folded knees, like she was trying to take up as little space as possible, the vibranium arm cradling her shoulders didn’t seem to bother her at all, and her head rested lightly against his chest.

He had only intended his embrace to be comfort and support, to give her the chance to fall apart and not have to pick herself up all on her own. But now… His free hand reached up to pull the wind frizzled hair out of her face with a will of its own, drawing feather light down her temple to follow the line of her cheek to her chin.

Beautiful, even with the salt encrusted tear tracks.

Beautiful.

He withdrew his hand abruptly, ashamed. Once again, he’d behaved like a cad. Wanting to hold her hand, to touch the sharp curve of her lips, to learn if it was granite or pillow soft. She merely needed a friend, comfort, support. She’d asked for nothing more, and here he was taking liberties while she slept.

Traitorous fingers reached once again and he diverted them to pull his own hair. Wake up Bucky. Wake up and set this foolishness aside.

Her lashes fluttered, brow contracted and he turned away, unwilling to see her reaction, whatever it might be.

“Mmm. Morning,” she said slowly. Her voice gravely from crying and sleep, but it sounded sweet, mildly amused even. She shifted and groaned a little and he pulled away from her, extracting his arm so quickly she nearly hit the floor. “ow.”

The prosthetic arm held her just until she could brace herself up on her own hands but he didn’t try to move away again. “Sorry, I…” he couldn’t say that he was trying to get away because he was afraid he might kiss her.

“You’re arm fell asleep?”

He risked looking at her face again, so near his. Her mouth curled at the corners and her eyes, still a little swollen, nevertheless crinkling in lines of genuine humour. He huffed a laugh, and made a show of flexing and pumping the vibranium fist as though trying to regain blood flow. Her shoulders trembled, this time with repressed laughter and he rested his head against the wall and chuckled too. The situation, the wonder and discomfort of it all, a simple joke that made him sound so entirely human. After all he’d said the night before.

The chuckling faded to slow breathing and it dawned on him, that he was. That to Sarah; he was entirely normal. With a prosthetic limb, sure, but he’d seen enough of those at the memorial to make it clear that that wasn’t unusual at all. Not to her.

Sarah rose to her feet, wandering into the kitchen and bumping gently against the furniture like the robot vacuum cleaner at the compound Tony insisted on calling Tumblin' Tom after it accidentally navigated itself off a balcony. The contraption had righted itself and proceeded to cheerily vacuum half the lawn before F.r.i.d.a.y. called in an unidentified object on the grounds.

She maneuvered without looking, using her hands and spatial memory to fill the tea pot and prepare two mugs and tea bags. “Chamomile, okay?”

“Yeah,” He said.

“I’d offer coffee but I was hoping for a little more sleep, preferably without the kink in my neck.”

“I shouldn’t have…” he stopped, stood up, tried again, “I should have carried you to bed.”

“Careful, I might get used to it,” her voice had that edge in it again, not dangerous exactly, teasing, but also maybe telling the truth, “being looked after.”

He weighed his responses, decided on the simplest. “I wouldn’t mind.” He heard the slow draw of breath, how it charged the air.

“Don’t worry about last night, I’ve slept in stranger places.” She chuckled but this time it was forced.

He didn’t like that. Not at all. “I wouldn’t mind,” he repeated more firmly, striding into the kitchen to face her, “would it be that bad? To get used to?” now the electricity in the air in the humming kettle in their locked eyes, crackled.

“I don’t know.” She looked down at her clasped hands.

Honest again. As she had been last night. Bucky fought the urge to repeat those actions, those words. What he’d do if only he dared. He wanted her to choose, to ask it. But she wouldn’t meet his eyes. And then his cell dared to ring.

“Hey.” Bucky answered the phone, still looking at Sarah, still hoping she’d meet him halfway. “Right now?” a sharp exhale. “I’ll be there in 10.” And then softly to her, “I’ve got to go, might be a few days, but I’ll be back.”

She nodded mutely at her folded hands and again he nearly did something irreversible. Time swelled, pressure folding and pressing in every direction, he wanted to stay, to hear her say whatever she might say, in opposition rose the crackle of pain in his jaw demanding he follow the order he’d been given, while the small shred of rational mind remaining argued that Steve’s voice had been concerned, Sam was in the background of the call asking questions about the situation, civilian lives were at risk, there was no time to waste.

“Call me, if you need anything, If I can’t answer, call Sam or Clint, just don’t… don’t be alone when you don’t have to.”

“Mhm.”

The ghosts of their midnight conversation were still too fresh, so he left without a word and denied himself a look back. There was a mission to complete.

Sam and Steve did the preflight check while Bucky received the briefing from Nat and then they were in the air. There was precious little time, but every five minutes free, his mind would wander back to the night before.

“Go ahead and break. I’ve got you.”

Stone’s legs crumpled and Bucky slowed the fall, braced her in his arms until her shoulders stopped shaking. A wait that could have been twenty minutes or two hours.

A slow silence enveloped them, fragile, a grenade with the pin pulled, trigger barely held.

“Why did you join up?” Sarah whispered into the dark.

“I… it was the only home I had left, guess I didn’t want to leave.” He shifted so she would be more comfortable and when the silence grew again, he made a decision. “I felt like I owed it the Major, and all the people who looked after me, the men who told me stories and taught me to shoot and the cooks who gave me extra portions from their own rations, and denied it. And then we were in the war and Becca, Becca deserved to live in a better world than the one we were heading toward. We were proud to serve, convinced our actions could stop the war before it landed on our shores again, determined as free men to fight for liberty, for a life free of fear.

“And then we got over there and things weren’t nearly as clean and mathematical as I’d thought, the Germans were just men except for the ones that weren’t, and bullets were just bullets, until we saw them firing blue light and instead of falling our guys were just… gone. And then they gassed us with something, and we woke up in cages, rats for hydra’s experimentation, they’d take one guy at a time, and every night when the factory was shut down, we’d hear him scream. It was terrible, but even worse when it stopped. We knew that when the screaming stopped, they’d come get another one of us. And then it was my turn, strapped to the table—”

“You don’t have to tell me.”

He ignored her, it was far to late to put the plug back into this oldest secret. “I lost a lot of time, don’t know what they did to me. I put all my effort into remembering three things, three facts I would not allow them to change. My name, my serial number and ‘I will not scream’. Night after night, I repeated them. I thought if I could hold my tongue, and stay alive, the men might be able to sleep at least a little, maybe they’d be less afraid, keep their wits about them if help ever came, at the very least I might give them a reprieve.

“I don’t know how many days passed, but one night Zola stops mid injection and everything gets real quiet. I start to think I’m dying, then Steve shows up but he’s so different that for a second I thought we had both dusted it. But Steve was still stup- Steve, and we were not yet dead but if we didn’t stop Red Skull, a lot of people would be, so I didn’t stop to ask what they’d done to me. Here was another madman bent on ruling the world and he had power to make it happen, a war within a war, we were the team tasked with ending it. And well, I didn’t. But they did, end it, well, as far as they knew. Steve was gone, but the war was over. but it didn’t end, not for me.

“I was kept on ice for nearly 70 years, thawed long enough to do a job and just before I could begin to think, to actually understand anything at all, they’d reset me like a clock and put me back on ice. Time didn’t pass while I was in the cryo chamber, everything goes black and then I’m thawing again, chilled to bone except for the fire where my hand should have been.

“When Steve finally snapped me out of it, I ran. Didn’t know myself, didn’t trust my mind, the fire in my fingers felt like an anchor, dragging me back into the past, into the program, where I wouldn’t have to think, wouldn’t have to feel anything. Part of me wanted that nothingness, and I couldn’t separate that part from the rest, couldn’t trust myself.

“The things they made me do, that my hands did and my eyes witnessed- I remember it, all of it. And the moments that a fragment of me almost broke through. But I couldn’t stop myself pulling the trigger. Never made it stop. I wanted it to. I wanted to die. I couldn’t defy the programming, couldn’t break the course set for me.

“But there was one time, the first time I nearly broke through. I couldn’t break away from direct orders, no matter how hard I tried. All I could do was take unnecessary risks, hoping someone would end it for me. My one act of resistance…” A long heavy sigh crushed his chest before he could inhale and finish the story. “It costed three innocent people their lives. Maybe I can blame hydra for the rest, but those three. Their blood is on my hands.”

He turned both palms up as if she would see the red pooled there in his palms. A dim reflection glinted off his metal hand until it was covered by hers. Nothing was said. The air too heavy and thick to break through. His phantom hand had burned briefly while he told the story but it was cool in comparison with hers and the fire settled long before the tension did.

“Why did you join?” He asked, almost under his breath a long time later. But he received no answer beyond the long slow breaths of her sleep. He considered waking her for a moment, but she rested against his arm and what he could see of her face seemed peaceful, more than it had on the drive back.

It could wait.

Chapter Text

Something shifted for Sarah as she watched Bucky Barnes gather his bag and jacket and stalk out the door. His body language had changed when he answered the call, every movement now certain, steady, driven forward without hesitation. Muscle memory that his time as the Winter Soldier must have imprinted deeply. So different from the way he’d spoken before, starting, stopping, swallowing words she could only guess at.

The dichotomy tumbled around the back of her head as she tried to fall back asleep. The apartment grew hotter as the sun rose and the air hung stagnant as she gave up and made her way to work.

Bucky Barnes was a puzzle, a particularly complicated rock face she needed to understand. On the surface he was simple, an incredibly competent fighter with a confidence appropriate to his capability. Uncertainty only showed itself in social settings, and the last few months had changed that to something closer to comfortable.

They’d built trust between them in that time too, she thought. Spent time together, ate together. Got used to each other.

“Would it be that bad? To get used to?” The look in his eyes had pierced her to the soul. “Don’t be alone when you don’t have to.”

Didn’t she? The lie laid itself bare on the mats beneath her feet as she worked through stretches and greeted the early risers. She had sworn to herself that she’d never fail again, never let someone down. And all it had really meant was never get close enough for anyone to lean on her. And she hadn’t actually followed through on that either. The kids she taught looked up to her even when they surpassed her abilities, the small group of elders that came in every Tuesday brought her snacks as thanks for helping them with the equipment and the girl who used to sneak in at 5:30 am wearing oversized sweaters and left if there was anyone else inside, was now lifting weights in the corner being spotted by her gym buddy, a guy who’d almost made it to pro in basketball until he tore a meniscus in his knee, he had started coming after physiotherapy was denied.

The gym was supposed to be a job, somewhere she could clock in without answering to anyone, clean benches, reset weights and more or less ignore that life continued on outside those walls. Hope was dead; her unspoken philosophy. And yet it ate through her cynicism and quite by accident she had become the center of a community. Her attempt to become unnecessary to anyone had failed catastrophically.

Stone walked through that day on auto pilot, ate a sandwich without tasting it, closed up and mopped the floors, scrubbed the toilets and sprayed down the shower stalls. Muscle memory, mind in motion.

Faded face resurfacing. Scott’s brilliantly smiling photograph at the memorial. The bright blue eyes and grin that had so often preceded a joke. It had grown dull, dust covered and cold in the image that haunted her sleep. But that wasn’t Buddy. In life Scott was vibrant, alight in a way she had been skeptical and somewhat disparaging of, to her it had seemed painful to be so very full off life in a place where death was only ever inches away. Like moss it had grown on her in the long waiting stillness between rescue missions.

And then he was gone and the little light taking shape in her had drowned in their blood, returning to the dark hollow space it had always been.

Sarah stood beneath the shower head, letting the pebbles of water beat against her skull, eyes closed. Inwardly reaching for that hollow space, probing it, testing it like uncertain ground. Against all odds, her heart beat in her chest, hard.

Not dead.

And for the first time in a long, long time, Sarah realised she had been waiting for things. For the morning, for her regulars to smile at her, for her phone to ring, for the backdoor to open. Having spent so much of her life feeling as though she was merely passing through time, neither living nor dead, she had expected really feeling alive to be so very new and different that she couldn’t miss it. But it was so small and simple after all.

To go to bed with anticipation for the next day. To open her eyes and not be disappointed.

The smell of her shampoo was nice, clean. scrubbing her scalp satisfied an itch she hadn’t been aware of and she dug through memories of her last tour, for the fragments of joy Buddy had always been brimming with. Yes, it had been a million tiny things, the mess serving sloppy joes, a cloud in the shape of a dragon, settling into his cot every night with a satisfied groan. The rest of the crew had tested it one day when he was out on patrol, convinced it must be different than the rest, it wasn’t.

Dried, dressed, Sarah began to type out a message. Stopped. He was busy, she could wait. She dialed a different number and fought the urge to hang up when it connected on the second ring.

“Stone? That really you?”

“Yeah, it is. Nice to hear your voice Rev.”

“Not your chaplain anymore Stone.” There was warmth in his tone.

“Guess I can find someone else to talk to then,” she teased back.

“I’ve still got ears, and you are more than welcome to come stay with me and Nancy, anytime.”

“...Maybe I’ll take you up on that sometime.”

“Yeah? We’d be thrilled! And you know what, I’ve got some aged steaks just waiting for the grill if you're free Friday.”

“I… I don’t…” she paused and clenched her fist once, twice. “I’ll be there.”

She listened as he crowed the news to his wife and couldn’t fight the grin as she heard Nancy squealing in the background of the call.

Hesitation followed the hasty decision but she had made a promise and she couldn’t let them down knowing how much they were looking forward to it.

Chapter Text

The phone had been silent since Bucky left.

In the following days Sarah’s nervous twitch of twisting her left wrist had evolved to include patting the pocket where she kept her cell. It wasn’t the first week she’d spent not seeing him, but knowing that he wasn’t far off and he could walk in at any time had felt distinctly different.

Night fell as she drove, heavy clouds forming on the horizon and slowly swallowing the stars and the dim sliver of moon and the bathing the windscreen in fat rain drops. It had rained the day she’d met Rev and Nancy too, the day she’d graduated.

Military training was hell but it could have been worse. It could have been home.

But on that last day, standing in the rain and waiting for no one, she had to face the truth. Some small part of her had thought her parents might come, that they could be proud of who she was becoming. Foolish.  

Family and friends found their people and tapped them on the shoulder to release them from formation. Cheers and tears and hugs surrounded her, they walked away laughing and huddling under umbrellas.

She was going to be left there alone.

Eventually someone would return for her, a drill instructor or another recruit, out of duty or pity. An afterthought.

Persistent drops of rain washed down her face, water, hair gel and salt all mixing to make her eyes burn but she held her posture. Even if no one was watching, she stood at attention, if only to prove to herself what kind of person she was.

And then the rain stopped running down the back of her neck and gathered at the edge of a large black umbrella. A warm hand patted her shoulder and a soft voice spoke over the pitter-patter overhead, “O, Mon Cher, well done.”

Dark eyes smiled at her and then she’d been wrapped in a warm hug. Long braided hair, the scent of good lotion and expensive florals, and an accent she couldn’t quite place; New Orleans and something more but that too was warm and comfortable.

When she leaned back to look into Sarah’s eyes she spoke so softly Sarah had to read her lips, “where are your people?”

“I don’t have any.” It wasn’t the whole truth but she couldn’t say more with the lump in her throat.

“Now you do. You can call me Nancy, and there’s someone I’d like you to meet.” She waved over a man standing under the eaves of a nearby building, he was a little taller than Nancy and a direct contrast with his white hair and fair skin.

Nancy insisted they look after each other, but Sarah thought he wouldn’t have needed to be told, he tended to gather the youngest servicemen and women under his wing by his very nature. Rev had been the chaplain at two of the stations Sarah had been on and had gotten his name from refusing to answer to any title higher than Reverend or Mr.

The rain dwindled to mist and the gravel crunched under the wheels as Sarah turned down the long driveway.

Rev and Nancy owned a ‘cottage on the lake,’ although cottage was an ungenerous name for the spacious and well lit home that emerged as a beacon from the evening shadows of the tall pine forest. Warm light spilled from the tall windows and a golden retriever barked twice and wagged an eager hello from behind the front gate.

“Welcome, welcome, perfect timing, I was just about to put the steaks on.” Rev greeted her loudly from the grill off to one side of the covered deck.

“Sorry for being late, road construction held me up longer than I expected.”

“Not too late at all, we’re living on lake time out here, eat when you’re hungry, sleep when you’re tired.”

“Retirement is treating you well, then I take it?” she asked, dropping her bag by the French doors and leaning on the rail to admire what she could see in the half light of a crescent moon, petting the dog who was sniffing down her sleeves and shins. The tidy vegetable garden and studio/shed casting deeper shadows across the lawn broken up by the series of solar lamps leading down toward the lake which was not quite visible through the trees.

“A few chores to keep me busy, as much fishing as I can handle, and when Nancy needs me out of her hair, I can sit on the back deck and whittle to my hearts content.” He laughed and it came out in a bark similar to the dog’s.

The door opened with a light creak and a soft voice called, “is that Miss Sarah, I hear?”

“Yes Ma’am.” Sarah found herself standing at alert without thinking.

“Now William, why’d you not tell me she arrived?” Nancy’s accent slipped a little deeper in affectionate annoyance, “I’m no ma’am to you, and I won’t be saluted to; you may call me Nancy.”

“Thank you ma’— Nancy. I'm very sorry for arriving so much later than I had planned.” Sarah looked to Rev for reassurance but he seemed content to watch the exchange.

“Ah, don’t be sorry my dear, have you eaten? Supper is nearly ready but I can bring out a few things to carry you through.”

“Oh, no I can wait, I had a late lunch.”

“If you change your mind…” Nancy looked her over doubtfully, “there’s no need to go hungry around here. But if you’re sure, why don’t I show you to your room and you can freshen up while you wait.”

All these years hadn’t touched Nancy much; her hair was streaked with more grey and today she wore it naturally but her heart and the easy affection in her voice and eyes were the same.

The motherly attention was still so foreign to her that Sarah squirmed when Nancy’s arm wrapped around her waist to walk with her up the stairs. If the response was noticed it did nothing but subtly tighten the gentle embrace and the wrinkles around Nancy’s mouth.

“Mon Cherie, I’m so happy you have decided to come to us. Here you are, fresh linens and towels on the bed and there’s extra in the linen closet next to the lavatory,” she motioned to the open door of a bedroom and then down the hall.

“Thank you, and thanks for letting me stay on such short notice.”

“Don’t go feeling burdensome now, there’s little variety here and visitors are a welcome change. That said, do your things the way you like, this floor is all yours. We tend to wake early and sleep earlier, but between my poor hearing and Williams snoring, you can make all the noise you want. He will be wanting to take you fishing, feel free to say no. I should get out of your hair, and let you settle in, I’ll call when the food is ready, yes?”

“Thank you, yes, this is all… very nice. Thank you.” Sarah said to the retreating back, receiving only a wave in response. A handmade quilt covered the bed, squares triangles and rectangles in colours and fabrics that made her think of plates of fruit on a picnic blanket. Towels laid out for her with a candy bar on top, her favorite.

Sarah blinked away the tears and went to wash up, splashing cold water on her face to overcome the hot flush of emotion she hadn’t expected. She arranged her things in the room, left her phone to charge and feeling a little more presentable, returned to the lower floor.

Dinner was a feast and while Rev and Nancy conversed comfortably, they asked no questions and allowed her to eat without disruption. It was a relief not to search for words when she still wasn’t entirely sure why she had come. Rev looked at her a few times, smiled gently and nodded. He would wait.

When the last fork was set down, Rev spoke, his voice clear and bell-like, “make yourself at home Sarah, I’ll be out fishing around 6 tomorrow, you can join me or putter around here until I get back. Snacks in the pantry and all the food in the fridge is fair game, but I was hoping to roast a few sweet potatoes with the fish I catch for supper, so don’t go emptying the bin.”

“I can help with dishes.” Sarah said, rising when he reached out to take her plate.

“Not tonight, after a good nights rest you can work as much as your inclined, as a matter of fact, I’ve got a few projects I could use a little help with, but tonight you’re our guest.”

“Yes sir.” It came out instinctively but she wished she’d held her tongue, waiting for the reprimand.

Keen eyes locked on hers for a moment that felt far too long and then he nodded, “at ease.”

Sarah excused herself from the table and began to look around, mentally kicking herself for the habits she’d fallen back into. That part of herself she’d long thought was dead, the soldier, so effortlessly resurrected by the events of the last week. From the moment she’d put on the dress uniform to when she’d returned to her apartment, everything was a haze, as if she had not been there and had only heard about it second hand.

Shaking off the still muddled memories, she focused instead on the shelves in the living room.

Books on history, anthropology, theology, commentaries and mystery novels all shared the space, sorted by subject then author. Several bearing Nancy’s name were framed by a set of decorative bookends. Woodworking, dictionaries and the encyclopedia of DIY filled the lowest shelves and she pulled out e-g and thumbed through at random.

Eventually she settled on a murder mystery and an armchair, round and wide enough to curl up completely within the circle of its cushioned backrest and allowed the crackle of the fire and the words on the page to carry her out of herself.

A hot mug of tea on the small table beside her sent up wafts of fragrant steam when the sound of a door closing pulled her attention from the book. Her hosts had gone to bed, the stairwell lights and the lamp behind her chair were left on but otherwise the cottage was draped in soft shadows. The dog wandered over and allowed her to stroke its greying muzzle, looking at her with baleful eyes. She seemed to be asking why Sarah was not also going to sleep, but when she didn’t move, the dog padded slowly away and curled up on a raised bed in much the same shape as the arm chair and let out a huff.

Sarah decided to obey the dog’s wishes and take herself off to the bed.

Comfortable mattress, if a little soft, the quilt felt heavy but not too hot and there was no sound to disturb her rest. But sleep eluded her. She read another chapter by the light of tall lamp beside the bed, finished the tea, brushed her teeth and tried again to close her eyes. The soft hooting of an owl and the slight creak of old trees beyond her window should have been calming, but it was too strange, too different from the apartment she’d grown used to with its groaning furnaces and the sounds of vehicles passing by.

Checking her phone for the hundredth time just to find it as blank as before, she pulled up the messaged and began to type.

• Hey, I’m out of town for a bit, if you get back before I do, let me know

  ---

She wasn’t expecting a quick answer. But when the symbol indicating it had been read lit up and still no response came, her heart sunk. Of course he was busy, there were a thousand reasons he wouldn’t have time to send a message, and when she probed her own feelings, she knew it wasn’t anger or hurt that she felt. It was something softer and more lonely.

The rain returned, batting at the windows with a steady drum beat and sent her finally to sleep. When the morning came a set of messages waited for her.

• 3 days, maybe more.
• Stay safe.

  ---

Even then the small ache remained. When she woke up at the crack of dawn to go fishing with Rev, the rays of the rising sun bursting through the mist of morning after a night rain, the smell of wet earth and green wood and lake water refreshing her. Rev speaking softly, explaining his favorite fishing spot and the perfect tackle to catch ‘the big one’ and the gentle lull of water on the hull of the small boat, all seemed designed to set her at ease.

An afternoon spent reading and taking the dog, whose name she’d learnt was Tillie for a long walk to snuffle every tree and bush for a mile, and Sarah was glad she had come. Nancy spent the greater part of most days in her studio, and Rev puttered about with his ‘busywork’ and she could spend as much time as she wished on her own or following him and lending a hand and ear.

Rev could have written a textbook of his own in the art of patience and Sarah was beginning to crumble under the gentle companionship by Monday morning. A gentle rain kept her and Rev indoors when the question finally came.

“So, are you ready to talk?”

Sarah shrugged, nodded and said, “honestly, I’m not sure what to even talk about.”

“You attended Scott’s memorial service, why don’t you start there.” He said gently, focusing on the yarn and needles in his hands and giving her space to begin.

And she did, slowly at first, starting with the excuses she’d made not to attend before, admitting the lies. When he asked where she’d found the courage to go, she told him about Bucky, and then she’d had to back right up to the beginning of that story and explain how they’d grown close enough for him to offer to go with her to the memorial and for her to accept.

“How’s the Search and Rescue volunteering been going?”

“Besides the mission I mentioned, I haven’t been called out, but training has been good.”

“Rebuilding confidence?” Rev gestured to her left arm with his chin.

Sarah shrugged, put her attention back on the rock mantle of the fireplace.

“Are you keeping it covered for yourself or for the sake of others?”

This was a question that required more thought, but she knew she would be given the time and so she traced the layers of mineral deposits in the stones while she searched for the words. For the truth.

At the time, the state of her arm hadn’t registered. By the time they’d been airlifted someone had applied a tourniquet and given her something for the pain she didn’t feel. The hospital had been a blur, white coats and blue scrubs and needles and beeping sounds and after she’d been informed of Buddy’s death, they’d sedated her. Surgeries followed, to repair the remaining tissue and restore function. She missed the funeral for a skin graft. They sedated her again.

And then she’d been sent ‘home’.

Everything was over, and she didn’t remember most of it. The first time she’d had to change the dressings herself, she’d thrown up in the hotel toilet until there was no bile left, and then finished the job. The second time, she tried to numb herself with alcohol first. But it had burned so badly coming back up and she decided to save it for after.

Her arm healed, but the sight of it still made her nauseous for a long time, then she’d started PT on it, and worked on regaining strength and range of motion and that had diminished the symptoms further. The last time she could remember looking at it was on the rooftop with Bucky.

“Habit now, mostly... I don’t know if I even own any short sleeved shirts.”

“Hm.”

Fishing was Rev’s forte, and Sarah drank in the stillness of the lake in the early morning like nectar.

And the two made her eat more than she thought she could.

And when Sarah rolled up her sleeves to help wash dishes, no one blinked an eye.

When she packed to go home a day later it was a kind of relief. She’d exhausted herself talking and smiling so much more than she was used to.

“Thanks again for having me.”

“You’ll come again?”

“Definitely.”

“Bring your Bucky along next time, ok? I’d like to have a look at the fellow, make sure he’s good enough for you.”

“Rev, he’s a good guy Rev, but he’s not ‘my’ anything.” Sarah shook off the suggestion like it itched.

“Maybe not yet,” Nancy said, with a wink, “but I see your eyes sparkling Mon Cherie.”

Sarah had meant to let the teasing roll off her back, but it stuck between her shoulder blades and she drove through the night replaying the words in her head.

Home, washed up, teeth brushed. She lay staring at the ceiling. Patted her pocket again. The phone was still there. Still silent.

Midnight struck.

3 days, maybe more.

Chapter Text

“Where do you think you’re going?” Sam stood in the doorway, arms crossed and flexing like it would help him fill the space more completely. “You need another 12 hours to heal all that.”

Bucky didn’t speak, glaring Sam down and stalking closer, the intimidating effect somewhat diminished by the observable limp.

Steve chuckled from his bed in the medbay, “let him go Sam.”

“He’s in no condition to be going anywhere, let alone drive a motorcycle,” Sam said, “I’m responsible for both of you and you will stay in medical for the night.”

“Wasn’t your fault Sam.” Steve propped himself up on his uninjured arm, “let him go, you’ll only get both of you hurt worse trying to stop him.”

Sam stepped aside a fraction of a second before Bucky pushed through the door. “Alright, fine, but you have to sign the waiver before you leave…” his voice faded away as the man he was speaking to exited the building. “Seriously.”

“I’ll sign it.”

“I need Bucky’s signature not yours Cap.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ll sign it.” Steve grinned wickedly. “His hand is a little difficult, but it wouldn’t be the first time. Your signature is so much easier.”

“What?!”

Bucky forced his bad leg over the seat of his bike, pulled the helmet on and didn’t bother fastening it further. Since the moment the fight ended in an explosion the only thing he’d been thinking was that Sarah would be waiting.

Her jeep wasn’t parked in her usual spot at the apartment building so he turned the corner and found it behind the gym. Keypad glowing under his fingers, he paused.

The door swung open.

“Hi,” Sarah said, surprise and a smile on her face, “I was about to go home but you…”

He looked like something the cat dragged in and was now altogether too aware of it. Greasy hair, blood and sweat stained clothes and bandages over the surface splints on his left leg and right shoulder.

“Come in.” She took his metal hand and pulled him inside, gently, irresistibly. “Do you want to get cleaned up? There are showers in the men’s room you could use and I think there are some spare clothes in the lost and found I could lend you…” Her eyes landed on the bandages and she stopped speaking.

“I’m fine. They patched me up already.”

“Fine?” Sarah squinted at him, skeptical.

“I’m a mess, huh” He huffed, “I couldn’t tell you the mission was extended another week, we were ordered radio silent. So, I came to see you as soon as—" he scrunched his face and ran a hand through his hair, “I should have called, or sent a text huh?”

Her laughter made his heart trip a beat and she grinned at him, making it worse, “hungry? I’ll order something and see about those clothes, go take a,” she sniffed once, “long shower.”

Getting cleaned up without full use of his right hand was difficult and he was grateful that his prosthetic was completely waterproof, though it would need oiling later. The outer bandages removed and grime washed away to reveal the almost black blue bruising underneath the silvery splint fabric covering the ankle and halfway up his shin and he could feel the same smooth material interspersed by boning flowing from the top of his right shoulder blade down to his ribcage.

The first shampoo washed out grey and sudsless, and he repeated the process twice more before it finally stopped feeling gritty against his scalp. Why he hadn’t cleaned up before coming was inconceivable now, but then he hadn’t looked in a mirror until he’d walked into this bathroom.

Toweled, he exited the shower stall and found a stack of clothes on the bench in the locker area with a note on top:

“These are clean, I washed them myself.”

The pants were fine, but he got caught in the shirt, his shoulder rotation hampered by the splinting and the fabric snagged on the boning. He grunted, tried to shrug free and debated tearing it.

“Uh, Sarah?” Bucky called out.

“Yeah?”

“I… I’m stuck. I need a hand.” When a long pause followed, he added, “I’m decent, well, except for the shirt.”

The door pushed open and she walked in cautiously, saw him and covered her mouth to hide the smile she couldn’t hold back. “When you said you were stuck…” a laugh broke free, “I wasn’t expecting a prosthetic pretzel.”

“Ha ha,” he rolled his eyes but couldn’t help returning the grin, “a little help?”

“Right, well, I could decouple the arm if you’re okay with that, do you want the shirt on or off?”

“Yeah, that’s fine, just get it off.”

Sarah stepped closer, looking for the pressure release on his shoulder but was somewhat hampered by the t-shirt and the way his prosthetic arm was trapped across his chest. “Sit.” She pointed at the bench nearby and helped him to it, supporting his raised metal elbow as he limped to it.

Finding the latch, she disengaged the seal that held the arm in place and gently prised it from the sleeve and pilon, untwisted it from the fabric and set it gently on the bench beside him. He was aware that he was in an enclosed space with Sarah, and he was partially exposed. She was close. Too close, he was overheating from the shower, from the pain, from her breath on his cheek as she leaned over him to free the fabric from his shoulder. He waited for the gasp as she took in the bruising and odd medical intervention protocols that had been created to accommodate super soldier healing.

She said nothing however, removed the shirt and sorted through the pile of clothes she’d offered to find a sweater that would be large enough. “You want it back on?” her gesture was for his arm.

“It needs cleaning,” he said. It wasn’t an answer but that’s all he could think to say. Instead, he reached as high as he could manage with his right arm and pulled the sleeve from his shoulder. He’d only intended for her to understand he didn’t need the prosthetic back on, but she turned and gathered a pair of clean facecloths, wetting one with hot water and a little soap and returned to clean the area of his shoulder and stub that the sleeve had covered.

This, the second time she’d done this, without hesitation, broke something in him. Others had dealt with his prosthetic and shoulder before of course. Hydra, Shuri’s techs in Wakanda, medical staff. But it had always made him feel more like a machine than a man. This was different. Because it wasn’t out of duty or necessity. Because it was her. He was grateful when she helped him pull the sweater on, glad to hide his face and the pounding in his chest that she was bound to notice sooner or later.

Sarah pulled the hood back off his head and raked her fingers through his hair to settle it back down, “you’re warm.” Her palm rested on his cheek, she pulled away quickly and pressed the back of her hand to his forehead and then to hers.

She couldn’t have known what that was doing to him, and she didn’t seem to want to meet his eyes but he thought for a moment a blush was reddening her ears.

“You’ve got a fever.” She looked worried and pressed her hand to his forehead again. “I’ve got Tylenol, but would that even—”

He shook his head and smiled, “I run a little warm, it’s the serum.”

“Because you’re healing fast? I suppose that makes sense, inflammation, increased heart rate and oxygenation, just to an enhanced degree. Ok. uh, I think the food will be here soon, I’ll go… look after that.”

So, she had noticed. Bucky couldn’t help but smile at her retreating back. Clever enough to catch the symptoms and still somehow miss that she was the reason his heart was beating out of his chest.

Sarah walked to the back door in a daze, smoothing her hair down over her ears. Bucky probably hadn’t noticed, right? For a few moments, she’d thought he was as nervous as she was, irrationally, she’d thought he was blushing because of her, but it was just the flush of super serum healing. Thankfully, she’d figured it out before she’d made a fool of herself.

The food arrived, piping hot and steaming up the bag it was delivered in and she set it out on the coffee table.

“I didn’t realise your shoulder was… I can order something else,” She said hastily when Bucky filled the doorframe just behind her.

“It smells great, and I can manage chopsticks.” He brushed past her and sat cross-legged on the floor in front of one of the large bowls, set his arm down beside him and picked up the chopsticks to prove it.

“Right.” Sarah nodded once to herself, took a slow breathe and sat across from him, grateful that the steam swirling up from the bowl gave her a reason to be flushed and sweating.

They ate almost entirely in silence, which would have been comfortable if one or the other didn’t keep opening their mouths to speak only to stop before any intelligible sound could fall out.

“Rough mission, is everyone else okay?” She finally asked as she set the chopsticks down.

“Yeah, Steve and I took the brunt of it, he’ll sleep it off in med-bay.”

“Which is where you ought to be right now,” Her tone was dry but lightly teasing. The unnatural stiffness between them seemed to melt away and she actually met his gaze firmly, “since you’re here, take the couch and try and sleep a little while I clean up.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re practically glowing, don’t tell me it doesn’t hurt.”

“Forgot I was dealing with Sam, 2-point-0.”

“Flattery won’t get you out of this one.”

“Wasn’t flattery.”

“I’ll tell Sam you said he’s the best Avenger.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

Her eyes glinted and he obeyed, lifting himself awkwardly off the floor and onto the couch, more to avoid her dimple than in submission to the threat. He positioned himself on his empty shoulder to take the pressure off the wounds on his right, his head on the arm rest. The pain was intense, his heart working overtime to send oxygenated blood to the injury sites felt like a full bodied blush, not assisted by the way she moved around the room so casually. As though clearing the table a foot away from a super soldier was just an average Tuesday. He shut his eyes.

The sounds of drawers opening and closing intrigued him but he resisted the desire to look until he heard the sound of his arm gently bump against the coffee table top. Sarah sat across from him again but now it was his prosthetic arm on the table next to a collection of items, cleaning cloths, a toothbrush still in its packaging, rubbing alcohol and a small green bottle whose label he couldn’t read from where he lay.

“What—”

“It needs cleaning,” she answered, echoing his earlier words.

“I didn’t bring the oil.”

“Sam said this would work.”

She lifted the green bottle and he saw the words ‘all purpose machine oil’ and the brand of a sewing machine company he recognized across the top.

“I’ll do…” He had started to move but stopped when she shook her head.

“Rest or I will call Sam to come get you,” she said quietly, not looking at him and rising to her feet. “I’ll be back in a sec.”

Her footsteps passed down the hallway to the back door, the security system chimed twice and she returned to the office, this time she sat between the couch and the table, her back making an indent in the cushion near his chest. Close enough to smell the product in her loose hair.

“Area secure.”

“You don’t have to…” Bucky started again, stopped when her head shake sent hair into his face where it caught in his two day old stubble.

“Can I?” Sarah asked, not seeming to notice as he brushed the hair from his face. “There’s not much else I can do for you.”

“You could talk.”

“About what?”

He thought about it while she began cleaning the prosthetic, thought back to the last time he’d seen her. “I was going to ask why you joined up but you fell asleep.”

“You want the short version or the boring one?”

“Anything…” he hesitated, “everything.”

He thought he might have imagined the subtle recoil of the cushion beneath him, but there was a tremor in her voice when she started speaking, slowly, softly, as though the words were glass and she was afraid of the way they’d fall.

“I signed up to get away from home… I was made to fix them, but it didn’t work. My mother left when I was nine and my father buried himself in work, and I was free to look after myself more or less. It wasn’t a bad life, school was… well full of kids but the teachers looked out for me. I got after school jobs and no one ever worried about where I was. Until he brought a new woman home in my final year.

“She was supposed to be my new mother, not that I ever really had a first. I was young and angry and I hated her. She was kind, cooked nice meals we had to eat in the dining room and she folded the laundry and asked me where I was going and when I’d be home again, and I hated her for trying so hard, for caring. Looking back, I think I was afraid if I let her love me, she’d see how messed up I was and she’d leave too. I made them miserable, but I could see how happy she made him. So, I left after high school graduation. I… never really saw them after that. I didn’t call; they didn’t visit. I heard they had a baby from a cousin I still talk to. He sends me Christmas photos.” Sarah sighed, set his arm back on the table, cleaned and oiled and pulled her knees up to her chest before continuing in little more than a whisper, “they look happy.

“Bootcamp was hellish but I was bitter and angry and the pain and degradation felt like justice. I guess I take after my father, once I was assigned and we shipped out, I lost myself in it. There was a lot of possible terrain to cover and in the breaks between missions and chores I spent studying. It was easier to forget what we’d seen when my mind was being force-fed new information, during the day at least. But there was nothing to do in the bunk but remember.

“I got a small flashlight and started studying at night too. Pour myself over the text until I couldn’t hold my eyes open and then pour myself into the cot and toss and turn until it was time to pour the coffee. Rev advised me to try and count myself to sleep, that didn’t work so I started assigning each number a rock classification as I counted. I was getting more and more sleep deprived and they threatened to take me off the roster if I couldn’t perform. I tried everything, and what eventually worked was imagining I was turning to stone, laying as still as possible and letting the heaviness overtake me until I woke up the next day.

“That’s how I got the nickname. His first tour, Scott wasn’t sleeping much better than I had, and I needed a partner not a liability, so I pulled him aside one day and dragged the truth out of him. He was homesick, but more than anything, he was nervous about the job, afraid he’d mess up and afraid I’d get him kicked out. He’d seen me chewing out a soldier for messing with the rappelling equipment on his first day in camp and I guess he got the impression that I was a hard-ass. We talked through it and I told him how I learned to sleep, and well… I don’t think that technique ever did work for him but he loosened up and it sorted itself out.

"After a mission we’d debrief together and before hitting the bunks he’d ask me what kind of stone I’d become that night. A pattern. A little ritual we created to remind ourselves we were still human... Sometimes I feel more stone than human. Maybe I spent too many nights becoming an unfeeling rock and now I can’t go back without crumbling.”

At some point in her narration Bucky had begun to run his fingers over the ends of her hair where it lay on the cushions behind her. It felt nice in a way she couldn’t explain and she didn’t dare shift or bring attention to it in case he’d stop. So, she had kept talking until the words ran out, because he’d asked and because she didn’t want to think too deeply about the comforting familiarity of this moment. But the words had ended and she didn’t know what to say and his fingers were still brushing through the ends of her hair.

Bucky’s breathing was slow and easy and he didn’t speak, half asleep and entirely relaxed. But something was knocking in her stone brain, breaking out, beating in her chest.

Rev and Nancy were right.

Bucky wasn’t merely an acquaintance or simply a friend, not to her.

It seemed dangerous to think it, but maybe, they both meant something more to each other. Was it possible?

Would she dare to want more? Even if she didn’t dare, could she resist?