iseedeadpeople

Twenty minutes before the alarm on your nightstand goes off, the sound of creaking pipes pulls you awake. Your neighbor is up earlier than usual, showering on the other side of the wall. In a building this old, every sound seems to travel from one apartment to the next. Outside, a siren blares, and two men are having a very loud argument. The city isn't waking up; it never seemed to sleep in the first place. The first week you spent in New York was different. Back then, the city seemed impossibly loud compared to the quiet town you'd left behind. Years later, the sounds have faded into the background, becoming just another part of the morning. A familiar feeling greets you before your eyes can fully open. Nausea rolls through your body, pushing you out of bed and toward the bathroom. Barely making it in time, you drop to your knees in front of the toilet and throw up.

When it finally passes, you stay there for a moment, one hand pressed against the cool tile floor. The spot you've chosen gives you a perfect view of the bug sticky trap tucked in the corner, and you notice a cockroach still holding onto life. You stifle the urge to be sick again. While unpleasant, you can't help but feel grateful that you're in this shitty apartment that's all your own. A plane flies overhead, and you take a moment to ground yourself in the sound, breathing until enough strength returns to stand. You flush the toilet and turn on the sink, splashing cold water against your face. The reflection staring back at you looks thinner, exhaustion sitting deep beneath your eyes. This has become part of the morning routine lately. The rent increase in the building has forced longer shifts at the diner, and exhaustion has settled in as something constant. The dizziness from the past few weeks lingers faintly even now, along with the nausea that never seems to fully leave. A quiet sigh escapes as you reach for your toothbrush. Whatever is causing it will have to wait. The day isn't about to stop for a stomach bug.

You sway on your feet, gripping the stanchion as the subway comes to another stop. An older woman had offered you her seat, which you politely declined, but now, as the dizziness returns, you regret turning her down. You barely register the chime signaling your stop and hurry out, slipping through the doors just before they close. The platform is filled with adults and children alike, all on their way to work or school. As you climb the stairs, you take a breath. This is the best part about the city, the reason you’ve stayed so long. No one is looking at you, too busy with their own lives to worry about yours. There’s comfort in disappearing into the crowd.

You hold the door open for a mother and her baby, who smiles up at you from the stroller, before stepping into the diner. Normally, the smell of bacon and butter drifting in from the kitchen would put you at ease, but instead, you shorten your breath, trying to stifle a gag.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

You wince at Cassie's greeting, though the concern written all over her face takes some of the bite out of it. She's leaning against the diner’s counter with her notepad in hand, one eyebrow raised in a way that tells you she already knows she's not going to like your answer.

“Mornin' to you too.”

Making your way behind the counter, you grab a glass and pour yourself some fresh-squeezed orange juice. It's become something of a miracle lately, one of the few things your stomach doesn't immediately reject. You barely have time to set your bag down before Cassie steps in front of you.

“I told you, I was covering for you today. You can't keep pushing yourself like this. You need to see a doctor and take a day off.” She puts extra emphasis on the last part, her brow furrowing. You've known Cassie for a few years now and can't remember ever seeing her angry. You hope not to make a habit of it.

“And I told you, she wasn't gonna listen.” Max calls over his shoulder as he carries a coffeepot toward the kitchen, dropping off an order on his way.

You sigh and tie your apron. “I appreciate it, I really do, but I can't right now.”

“You've been saying that for three weeks,” Cassie shoots back. “Three weeks. This isn't normal.”

“I'm fine,” you say automatically, taking a sip of orange juice as though it might prove your point. The cool citrus settles your stomach, if only for a second.

Cassie shakes her head. “You're barely eating. You look exhausted. And you keep getting sick in the middle of shifts.”

“It's just a bug that overstayed its welcome.”

“That's not how bugs work.”

“Mine is apparently very committed.” You finish, trying to lighten the mood. Max snorts and disappears back into the crowded room with a tray balanced on one hand.

Cassie doesn't laugh. “Just make an appointment.”

“I will.” You pause. “If it's still going on in a couple weeks.”

She stares at you, weighing whether it's worth continuing the argument. You take advantage of the silence.

“Anyway,” you add casually, “your sister’s birthday thing at Coney Island is today, right? You have plenty of time to make it if you leave now.”

Before Cassie can protest, you grab the coffee pot and make your way toward your section, already mentally running through the tables that still need refills and which regulars are due to come in any minute. It’s not coming to you automatically like it usually does, and you pause for a moment to gather your bearings.

“And I told her, I don’t care if it’s your birthday, I’m not riding the Cyclone with you. You couldn’t pay me to get on that thing.”

Right, Cassie’s still talking. You smile faintly, though you realize you have no idea what the beginning of that story was, only that somewhere between grabbing the coffee pot and crossing the dining room, you must have stopped listening. Or maybe she’d changed the subject. Either way, she sounds annoyed enough that you nod along.

When you reach the booth, however, you realize they already have food on the table. The older couple sitting there stares up at you expectantly while you stand with the coffee pot in your hand, trying to remember why you’d walked over in the first place.

Not your section.

“Sorry,” you mutter, heat creeping into your face as you turn away.

The dizziness returns with a vengeance, and you shake yourself out of it, pressing your fingers tighter around the handle of the coffee pot while you take a slow breath. Only eight hours, then you can return to your nice, soft bed. Eight hours is nothing, you've worked doubles plenty of times.

Cassie is still talking behind you, though every other word seems muffled now, as though she's speaking from another room instead of twenty feet away, and you vaguely wonder if she's still talking about her sister or if you've missed another part of the conversation without realizing it.

You glance toward your section and stop.

For a second, the booths all look the same.

The numbers sitting on them blur together, and though you know exactly where you're supposed to be, your feet refuse to cooperate, carrying you in one direction while your mind struggles to remember why. The smell of bacon drifting out from the kitchen turns your stomach again, and you swallow hard, willing yourself not to throw up in the middle of the breakfast rush.

Someone says your name.

“Hey, woah, are you good?”

You assume it's Max, though when you try to look up at him, you can't quite manage it. It feels as though the world has turned to liquid around you, the chatter of customers and clatter from the kitchen blending together into a warm buzzing that drowns out everything else.

There's the sound of something crashing to the floor, followed by voices rising around you, but they seem oddly distant, and by the time your vision goes black, the only thought left drifting through your mind is that maybe you should've stayed home today after all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your mother's soft cries drift in from the bathroom, the open window in your bedroom letting in the cool summer breeze. Your father's been gone on a work trip, and you know he's due back any day. You listen for the rumble of his truck outside, followed by the crunching of gravel that signals his return, but it never comes. It's safe in your room, a quiet oasis shielding you from any mistake that might set off a bomb and leave you and your mom dealing with the aftermath of your fathers temper. You creep out of your room and over to where she sits on the bathroom floor, something clutched in her hand. You're not much taller than her curled-up form, and you stop in your tracks when she looks up at you. You see something you've rarely seen before. Rather than her perfect, practiced expression, she has a genuine smile. And even rarer, she scoops you into her arms, making you giggle at her excitement. You finally can see what's in her hand. It's a little plastic stick with two pink lines.

“You're going to be a big sister.”

At the time, you had no idea what that meant. Years later, however, you understand that her excitement in that moment wasn't really about the promise of a new baby. It was hope. Hope that a baby might be what your parents' broken marriage needed, what their daughter had never been able to be.

But it wasn't.

The baby boy grew into a mirror of your father, carrying the same cold anger and condescension. He looked at you and your mother with the same expression as the man sitting across from him, yet he was loved unconditionally by the woman who gave him life, while somehow your every move was punished. Then the sound of an engine rolls up the driveway, gravel crunching beneath the tires, and both of you freeze.

You're retreating back to your room before you even realize you've moved, listening through the walls. You know the sound of the front door opening is coming, and your heart drops in anticipation of it, but instead, a rhythmic beeping catches your attention, and you focus on that.

The front door opens.

You open your eyes, and you're not in your childhood room. It's a doctor walking through the door, and the beeping is coming from a machine beside you.

“Oh, good, you're awake. The fluids seem to be working already.”

A man with black, pepper-streaked hair and a bright white smile makes his way over to your bedside, flipping through a clipboard filled with paperwork. The back is labeled Lenox Hill Emergency Room. It seems Cassie got her way, and now, instead of a normal doctor's bill, you'll be dealing with an emergency room bill on top of however you ended up here. You groan.

“You took quite the spill. Can you tell me what you remember?”

You pause, trying to think back. Your head feels clearer than it has in weeks, no doubt thanks to the tube stuck in your arm. You tell him as much as you can remember, the nausea, the dizziness, waking up sick every morning. He nods along, not seeming surprised in the slightest. You're sure he's seen worse in a New York emergency room than a girl who hasn't been taking care of herself.

“Is there someone you'd like to call to be with you? Your husband, or maybe a boyfriend?” The question catches you off guard. Why is it that men always assume a woman can't deal with something alone? You gave up dating a long time ago, deciding the risk of being with someone was far greater than the reward.

“Uh, no, I don't have…” You shake your head. “Actually, I'd really like to get out of here as soon as possible, if that's okay.” The doctor seems taken aback by that, though only for a second. He glances back down at the clipboard.

“Well, you were severely dehydrated, but your levels have improved since you arrived. Your bloodwork showed low calcium, vitamin D, and iron, which isn't unheard of in early pregnancy. You'll want to make sure you're taking your prenatal vitamins to help bring those levels back up.”

You laugh.

Not a polite laugh, either. A loud one.

“Oh, no, sir, sorry, but I'm not pregnant. I just really haven't been taking care of myself.” He has no idea how ridiculous of a mix-up this is. It's almost funny how impossible that would be. The doctor, however, doesn't laugh with you or tell you it's all some big misunderstanding. Instead, a nurse walks into the room carrying another stack of paperwork. She slows when she notices the look on your face.

“You didn't know?” the doctor asks, glancing between the two of you, the nurse looking just as confused as you are. “Oh. Uh, okay. Well, congratulations. You're pregnant. I know this must be a shock, but for being nine weeks along, everything else is looking healthy.”

The smile slowly slips from your face. This isn't funny anymore.

“No,” you say quietly. “That's not possible.”

The nurse chimes in. “Well, despite what most people believe, contraceptives are never one hundred percent effective.”

“No.” You cut her off. “I mean physically not possible.” You put extra emphasis on the last two words. “Unless I'm pregnant with the second coming of Jesus, either you have the wrong patient or your tests are wrong.”

The doctor finally speaks again, sounding more frustrated than before. Strangely, he's frustrated when he's the one making the mistake. “I can assure you, the tests aren't wrong. False negatives happen, but false positives are extremely rare, especially with blood tests.”

“And I personally drew the sample,” the nurse adds. “It is yours, dear.”

You're half expecting a camera crew to jump out and tell you it's all some elaborate joke. Instead, the room seems to close in around you, and suddenly you can't get enough air into your lungs.

This can't be happening.

There had been plenty of things you'd been unsure about in your life, but this had never been one of them. You never wanted children, never wanted to tie yourself to someone who could turn on you without warning or leave you and a baby living with the consequences, and so you never took that chance.

“You have options. We can set up an appointment with an OB-GYN for you, and they can go over next steps, whatever they may be.”

That's when it hits you.

“I understand this must be quite the shock—”

“Dr. Ryder,” you cut the man off, the words spilling out before you can stop them. “He's my gynecologist. I saw him a few months ago for my annual. You need to call him, something must've happened. He can tell you this is all some big mistake.”

The two of them exchange a look, and though neither says anything, you suddenly become aware of how desperate you sound. You try to think back to the appointment, but nothing stands out. It had been the same office you'd been going to for years, and you'd left thinking no more about it than any other appointment.

The doctor, however, seems finished with the conversation.

“We can't contact him, but you can make an appointment to follow up, or we can find a provider for you. I wish you the best of luck.”

Before you can protest any further, he's gone, leaving you alone with the nurse, who watches you with a sympathy that only makes the knot in your stomach worse.

You don't bother arguing with her. Instead, you pull out your phone and find three missed texts from Cassie, assuring you she's covering your shifts today and tomorrow and threatening to send you right back to the emergency room if you even think about stepping foot in the diner. You pull up the number for Dr. Ryder's office, one you've called plenty of times, and stare at the screen when the call doesn't go through. You try again, then a third time, before searching the number online, thinking maybe they'd changed it.

Nothing comes up. Not only that, but the listing for his office isn’t listed on Google anymore.

You barely register the three nurses who enter the room, all busying themselves with various machines. You only look up when someone reaches for your IV, expecting to see the same nurse who's been checking on you all morning, but it isn't her. It's a man in a lab coat with buzzed hair and tattoos peeking out beneath his sleeves, and while the other two remove the wires attached to your chest, the one closest to you pushes a syringe into your IV.

The Franklyn Art Gallery is quiet this early in the morning, soft jazz drifting off the white walls and the click of shoes marking the few people walking around, taking in the artwork. You’ve been waiting weeks for the curator’s call, nerves buzzing as you rock on your heels.

“Good morning! I’m so happy you were able to make it.”

You whip your head around, maybe a little too quickly, at the cheerful voice.

“Cherie, morning! Uh—yeah, you know, I figured I had time to stop by before my shift.” Of course, after getting her call at 5 a.m., you’d darted out of bed and sprinted to the subway so you could be here right when the gallery opened. Hopefully, she thinks you just happened to be in the area, not that you’ve been desperately waiting for her call.

“I’m glad. The buyer seems eager to take home your piece. She’s only in New York for a short time and heads home tomorrow afternoon. Now, about that—” Stepping closer, her hand lands gently on your shoulder as her eyes move to your painting on the wall. “She’s offering four-hundred under your asking price.”

Your heart drops, but you nod anyway. It’s been the same routine ever since you started selling paintings: people love them, but not quite enough to pay in full. You try not to take it personally, but it stings all the same.

“Did she say why?”

“Well, her reasoning is that while she loves the color composition and the subject, it just doesn’t feel—oh, how did she put it…” You already know what’s coming before Cherie says it. “It just doesn’t feel personal enough. The park is gorgeous, she said, and visiting it ended up being the highlight of her trip. She’s glad to take home a reminder, but otherwise it doesn’t feel unique.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, eyes drifting over the oil painting. The sunset, the autumn trees, the family you’d watched playing by the fountain; it’s hard to imagine what could be more personal. You had grown up visiting this park with your own family. You’d seen it change through each season and watched the fountain being built. Not only that, but you’d spent hours sketching and observing before settling on the final composition.

“Do you want my opinion?”

You pull your gaze from the wall and nod.

“She’s right. It feels like a photo. People want to be pulled into the art, to stand in it and live there for hours, getting lost, and it just doesn’t have that… But there’s one figure in this piece that keeps pulling me back.”

Your eyes follow her manicured finger as she points. “This man here, sitting on the bench, I can’t look away from him. The way he watches the world around him, he feels as if he doesn’t belong. Like he exists in a world you created only as a specter. It makes me want to know more about him. How he sees the world, why he’s here, where he’s meant to be? You need to bring that same kind of intrigue into the rest of your work, not just one corner of it.”

The man on the bench. For the past five years, he has found his way into nearly every painting you’ve created. The man on the fire escape, crossing the street, buying the morning paper, sitting on a bench. His appearance changes slightly each time, but his eyes are always the same. Most of the time, you don’t even notice him until the paint is dry. Maybe it’s because you’re always scanning crowds or shadowed alleyways, hoping for a glimpse of silver as you’re watching the world. Or maybe it’s the words that still echo in your mind whenever his face resurfaces, the words you regret not saying as he stood silently in your doorway: Stay.

You know you’ll never see him again. Honestly, you shouldn’t want to. The man was dangerous, even as he lay unconscious, bleeding onto your rug, you had known that. And yet, something tugs at your mind. Maybe it was the way he had looked at you, not angry but frightened. Like someone had hollowed him out, but a piece of him still clawed its way to the surface, reaching for the small comfort you could give that night. He could be anywhere in the world. He could be dead, for all you know, but with you he’ll stay here, safely tucked into each canvas.

You sigh, trying to push him out of your mind. “She can take it.”

Cherie looks surprised, her brows raised. “We can keep it a few more weeks, see if someone will take full price.”

“This is my favorite park in the city, and I’m glad she was able to find the same joy there I do. I’m happy for her to keep a reminder to take home.” The money would be nice, sure, but that’s not why you paint. Besides, it’s still enough that you won’t need to pick up as many shifts at the diner this month.

Bidding Cherie goodbye, you make your way out into the brisk morning. Manhattan streets are busy compared to the quiet in the gallery. Spring seems to liven the whole city, color painting the streets. Dodging people on their morning commute, you catch a glimpse of yourself in a shop window and sigh. In your rush this morning, you’d skipped any effort to make yourself not look as if you’d just rolled out of bed.

The subway is packed, but you manage to grab a seat. It’s second nature at this point, digging into your bag and finding a pencil. Your hand brushes the leather book, the first pages still stained in red, though it’s been long since filled. Normally, you keep the sketchbooks you’ve finished on your desk, but this one holds the first sketches of the man from your apartment. Not only that but, the only ones you’d also added his metal arm and the idea of leaving it anywhere other than with you makes you nervous. Sure, five years is a long time, but you’d rather not risk the mafia, or whoever he works for, coming after you if someone discovers it. Instead, you reach for your newest one, open to a clean page, and draw the life around you.

On the far end of the car, two high schoolers are standing, and as the train begins to move you have to stifle a laugh when the girl holding the bar lunges to keep her friend from falling over. Their fits of laughter are contagious to those around them. An older gentleman sitting at the opposite end just watches silently, his hand on his cane as the world outside the windows flashes by. And right across from you sits a young girl, maybe four, with her mother. She’s holding a stick and mumbling words under her breath, clearly imagining she’s a wizard. You can’t help but smile, watching her cast a spell on the man in the middle, who rolls his eyes at her.

As your stop approaches, you stand, rip the page from your book, and hand it to the little girl. She bursts into giggles looking at the drawing. You’d replaced her stick with a wand, given her a wizard’s hat and cape. Your favorite part, however, is that the man in the middle is now a frog. As you approach the doors, you see the mom smiling and pointing something out to her daughter, and as you step out you hear a bellowing, “Thank you!”

Maybe that’s what Cherie meant by not personal. Would people buy your paintings if you turned girls into wizards or bitter men into frogs?

The diner is busy, the morning rush in full swing, as you make your way inside. The smell of Tony’s cooking hits you, and you realize you’d skipped breakfast in your rush.

“Good morning, Khal,” you greet the older man sitting on his usual stool behind the counter. He doesn’t even look at you, his glare fixed on the TV.

“Can you turn that shit off for me? I’m gettin’ tired of seeing the same story.”

One look at the screen and you know exactly what he means. It feels like every news outlet has been running the same thing: S.H.I.E.L.D., some secret government intelligence group, turned out to be corrupt. Shocker. They keep showing the same scene, an aircraft crashing into a building in D.C. You feel bad for the people there, but after dealing with an alien army two years ago, you’re glad the excitement isn’t in your city.

Stopping in front of Khal, you prop a hand on your hip, raising a brow in annoyance. “Good morning, Khal,” you repeat.

With the world’s largest eye roll, he finally looks at you. “Good morning. Can you please turn that shit off?”

Smiling, you toss your bag and coat in the back before climbing onto a chair to hit the switch. But before you do, the newscaster catches your attention:

“—The Winter Soldier has not been found, though the CIA still believes him to be in the United States. A Soviet operative credited with over two dozen assassinations in the past fifty years, according to the released Hydra files, though agencies have been unable to decrypt further information. As the story at Triskelion unfolds, we will give you any new information we can. For now, former S.H.I.E.L.D. agents and Avengers Natasha Romanoff and Steve Rogers have refused to give any further information on the—”

You shut the screen off with a click. The story gets worse every time you hear it.

Weaving through the crowd, you grab a coffee pot, greeting customers as you refill their mugs.

“You look terrible. Did you decide to just roll out of bed and call it a day?” Khal finally moves his attention from the screen, watching you rush around.

“You really do make a girl feel special. And yes, actually, I was in a rush—” you can’t help the smile spreading across your face, “—Cherie called. Someone wants to buy my painting.”

This piques his interest, earning an impressed nod. “Full price?”

Old man really can’t go two seconds without hitting a nerve, can he? He has a talent for finding people’s buttons and pushing. “No.” Not wanting to hear his reply, you flit around taking orders.

Morning rushes are nice. You don’t have to think about anything but the task at hand. It’s the same routine, and you’ve grown to love the predictability. As the day goes on, the diner clears down to a crawl, and you can feel Khal’s eyes burning a hole in the back of your head.

“You gotta stop accepting less, kid. At this rate, you’re gonna be stuck working for me until you’re ninety.”

“Well, first of all, it was still a good price. And second, you’ll be long dead by then, so I don’t need to worry. Besides, are you trying to get rid of me?” You shove your ticket book into your pocket, finally taking the chance to pour yourself a cup of coffee.

Your coworker, Cassie, drops into the seat across from you dramatically reaching for the pot. Her red hair is pulled into a high ponytail, her stylish outfit a stark contrast to your own today.

“I think he is trying to get rid of you. Maybe we should just stage a coup, manage this place together. He can’t take all of us, right, Tony?” Her voice pitches up at the last part, trying to reach the man in the back pretending not to listen.

“Yeah, whatever, sweetheart,” is the only grumble she gets in return.

You laugh at her antics, but Khal cuts you off. “Why didn’t they wanna pay for it?”

Taking a long sip, you chew over your words. You could lie to avoid the lecture you know is coming, but you’re too tired to make anything up. “She said it wasn’t ‘personal enough,’ whatever that means.”

He grunts, thinking it over. “I think it means you need to get a life. You don’t do anything other than watch people, come here to work, and go home. You wanna make it personal, you gotta actually participate in life.”

Not at all where you thought he’d go with this. Scoffing, you turn in your seat. “I have a life.” Well, you go to work, you sit at cafés or parks sketching, and then you… maybe he has a point. Biting the inside of your cheek, you deflate. Really, it seems the one piece of your work people are drawn to is tied to the only time you took a risk. Obviously, they don’t mean bringing dying men into your home, but maybe he has a point. “I do need to go out more, I guess.”

In a flurry, Cassie jumps out of her seat and makes her way to you. “I have just the thing. Tomorrow I’m going out with this really handsome guy I met in my sociology lecture, and he totally has a friend.”

Oh no.

“Don’t look like that, it’s just drinks at that really cute new bar down the street.”

“Hang on. We were just talking about me going out more. How did this turn into getting set up on a date?”

“It’s not the worst idea. You don’t like the guy, you never gotta see him again.” Your finger taps the counter. You haven’t gone on a date in a long time. It feels pointless, most guys get annoyed or lose interest if you don’t spend every waking moment with them. You spend most of your time painting, or looking for—

“Yeah, alright, fine. I’ll go. Just this once.”

She envelops you in a hug, the high-pitched noise she makes almost inhuman. “It’s a nice bar, so make sure you wear something cute, and put your hair up?”

Maybe this was a mistake.

Your morning goes much smoother than the day before. Actually taking the time to make yourself presentable, you meet the buyer and say goodbye to your painting. With the money you get, you stop at the corner store near your apartment for a breakfast sandwich, coffee, and the morning paper before heading back home.

The rest of the day blurs together. You begin stretching a new canvas for your next painting, though you haven’t decided on the subject yet. There’s something about having a blank slate on your easel, you keep coming back to stare at the white while endless texts from Cassie buzz your phone. As the sun dips lower, your nerves get worse.

Dates are already stressful, made worse by the fact you don’t even know what the guy is like. For all you know, you’ll have nothing in common, doomed to sit in awkward silence while Cassie enjoys her night. You settle on a black dress shoved in the back of your closet. It takes far too long to scrub the paint from under your nails, and something about the whole evening feels off.

Looking at the clock, you realize you have plenty of time to spare. Unfortunately, that just means stewing in your own nerves. With a sigh, you sink into the couch and reach for the newspaper you hadn’t opened that morning. Usually, you just look for ads for local art shows or gallery openings. With a huff, you try to flip through, but instead it unfurls, papers scattering everywhere. At this rate, your anxiety is going to make you spill a drink on the poor guy if you don’t get your act together.

Kneeling, you gather the pages—then stop.

Looking up at you is a face that is far too familiar. The black-and-white photo doesn’t capture the blue of his eyes, his hair is much shorter, and there’s a smile you didn’t think possible across his face. Your breath comes shallow as you pull your eyes from his and catch the headline above:

“The Winter Soldier, Soviet Assassin tied to the corruption of intelligence agency S.H.I.E.L.D., has been identified as James Buchanan Barnes. Howling Commando, former best friend of our own hero Captain America, now wanted for the murder of over two dozen public officials.”

Tripping over your skirt, you rush to grab your sketchbook, flipping past the first few pages. It’s him. He looks younger, though not by much, impossible for a man who served in WWII. Two dozen murders. You let a man who’s killed over twenty-four people into your apartment. You gave him a muffin. God, how many people has he killed since you saved his life?

A buzz from your phone pulls you from your spiral, your breath still coming in short, painful bursts. Cassie is asking for your opinion on what top she should wear. Closing your eyes, you try to gather yourself. You already knew, his weapons alone gave that away, not to mention the metal arm, which, if it hadn’t been broken that night, could’ve ended you in seconds.

This doesn’t change anything. Other than the fact you know he’s alive. A thought that shouldn’t be as comforting as it is.

Pulling yourself up, you slam the sketchbook closed and set it on top of the article on the counter. After a glass of water, you just stand there, staring at your living room. It’s changed a lot in five years. Finished and unfinished paintings clutter the space. Your desk takes up more room than it used to. Of course, you got a new rug after realizing the blood would never come out, the same way it hadn’t come out of the couch.

Your apartment has moved on from that night. You need to also. Striding over, you throw on your shoes, grab your bag, and bolt outside. You really need to go out more.

The night is going horribly. Maybe it’s the nerves from the news stories flashing across the giant LED screens in the bar, you keep catching the same photo playing again and again. Or maybe it’s the fact that the guy spends the entire time talking about his new crypto business. Cassie, by comparison, seems to be having a great time, and as happy as you are for her, you make a note to never let her sign you up for another blind date. Khal will have plenty of new material to make fun of you with, but at least he can’t pester you about never going out.

The man, Jake, doesn’t even offer to walk you home, instead choosing to meet up with his friends to continue his night. You happily bid Cassie goodnight as she leaves with her date, and you finally make your escape.

Outside, the air is much cooler than the packed bar, and in your rush you forgot a sweater. Picking up the pace, you make it to your building. Despite the cold, you make your usual stop, glancing down the alley. It’s always the same, but at this point it’s second nature.

Finally, you step inside, kick off your shoes, and head straight for your bedroom. At least you looked nice tonight, though Jake didn’t comment or likely even notice. And, to make matters worse, the bar didn’t serve food so now you’re starving.

Pivoting toward the kitchen, you set your phone on the counter near the discarded paper. Your options are pitiful. Usually you have more, but you hadn’t planned on cooking tonight. Spotting some homemade pasta sauce in the freezer, you turn to grab a pot when the deafening crash of glass fills your kitchen.

There’s a man standing in the doorway; the sheer terror that shot through you made the jar slip from your fingers. It seems to have scared him just as much, his eyes flit around, taking in the scene before landing back on your face. He’s wearing a black jacket, much softer than the leather tactical gear he had last time, jeans, gloves, and a black baseball cap that makes it hard to see his face clearly. Still, you know from his stance alone who he is. You watch his hands clench and unclench a few times, like he’s trying to decide something, then he takes a few steps toward you. This is it. After five long years, he’s finally here to kill you. Maybe now that his identity is out, he wants to tie up any loose ends. You can’t help stepping back, biting against the pain as you realize you’ve dug your heel into a glass shard.

Before you can move further, a gloved hand reaches out, taking your own. Instead of the pain you were preparing for, his touch is so light you barely feel it. His face flicks back to yours, astonished.

“You’re real.” His voice is a deep, rough scrape. But as your eyes move from his hand to his face, and now that you can see him clearly, you’re taken aback by how aware he looks. Certainly not like the photo of the young soldier that’s been circulating all day, but not at all like the man you had met before—dazed and bleeding out in the room over. Something about his words is disarming; there’s no way he’s here to hurt you, so why is he here? And what could he possibly mean by you being real? Seeming to realize he’s still holding your hand, he takes a few steps back.

“You’re…” The Winter Soldier. A Soviet assassin. A murderer. “James Barnes.” Your voice is far more pitiful than you meant it to be. His brows furrow, like he’s turning responses over in his mind, then his face snaps toward the counter where your phone sits, buzzing. You love Cassie, but she’s had the worst timing tonight. James looks like he’s about to bolt, and panic shoots through you at the idea. Moving, you quickly hit the power button, swiping until the screen goes black, but it’s too late. It seems whatever reason he came here for is overridden by the panic covering him; before he can turn, you reach for his hand just as he did moments earlier.

Without thinking you blurt, “Wait. Stay.” The word that has lived in your mind for five years finally escapes. “You have at least a dozen countries looking for you, and your face has been plastered all over the news. Does anyone know you’re here?”

His eyes narrow slightly in confusion. Right. He’s a government spy who’s almost a century old; why would anyone know he’s here? Still, he manages to answer. “No.”

You nod. Okay, so that makes harboring a fugitive easier. Why would anyone think to look here? Obviously, if S.H.I.E.L.D.—no, HYDRA—had known about his little stop here, they would’ve come after you years ago. It makes sense why he came here: there’s virtually no connection between the two of you. Still, while the question of why is easy, the question of if you should is much more complicated. At least, it should be. “Then stay. No one will come looking for you here, and obviously you know I don’t have a great sense of self-preservation—if I wanted to turn you in I would’ve done it when I got the paper this morning.”

His eyes flick to the table, moving the notebook aside to uncover the photo. The way he stares at it confuses you. He looks angry. Or… maybe devastated is the better word. Just like before, his eyes flash through a million emotions while the rest of him stays steady. As you shift your weight, pain shoots through you where the glass is still embedded in your heel.

“You’re hurt.” His eyes flit over you, taking in the scene. The sauce luckily didn’t make too much of a mess, still frozen, but the jar has shattered, littering the whole kitchen.

“I’m—” Before you can even attempt the lie about being fine, he’s at your side, picking you up. You can’t think to protest as he moves to the living room and sets you on the couch. It’s almost ironic how the roles have reversed, but he obviously has a much easier time carrying you than you had. He goes to the bathroom, reaches under the sink, and grabs the first-aid kit. Somehow he remembered where you kept it, or more likely, he just guessed.

Moving your coffee table out of the way, he kneels in front of you and examines your heel. Even with his leather gloves on, he holds you gently, and you have to look away at the way your face warms. He removes his hat, sets it carefully to the side, and you can finally see him fully. His hair is slightly longer, a bit messy but honestly not as bad as you’d expect for a man running from the government, and certainly better than the wet mat from last time. Propping your foot on his knee, he pops open the kit and looks through the supplies. His hand lands on a small white bag; he reads the label and his eyes squint, landing back on you.

You almost laugh at his confusion, biting your cheek instead. “I took a trauma first-aid class a few years ago, learned how to do stitches and everything. You know, in case I found another man bleeding out behind my dumpster. I was hoping I wouldn’t ever need to, though. The instructor said my stitches were the ugliest he’d seen in forty-five years of teaching.”

His eyebrows rise, and you swear his eyes look almost—amused? Turning his attention back down, he lays out the supplies he needs. “It’s not deep, but you’ll need stitches. It’s going to hurt.”

“Can’t be worse than having a shard of glass in your foot, right?” After a moment of staring at the ground, debating something in his head and clenching his jaw, he slowly peels off his gloves. You’ve seen his arm before, but the brilliant silver still causes you to stare. That thought is broken by the disinfectant; the burn feels like someone set your entire body on fire, and you bite your lip to keep from crying out. Through the tears, you can see the deep crease between his brows as he gets up and heads to the kitchen. This time, you can’t help the laugh that escapes as he hands you the bottle of wine you keep above the stove for cooking. He waits patiently for you to down as much as possible, helped by the two drinks you’d already had at the bar. Thankfully, James is skilled enough to get through the stitching quickly, before you have a chance to pass out.

After wrapping it, he finally looks at you again. “Don’t walk on it for a few days.”

You groan, burying your head in your hands. Of course you can’t walk on it. Khal is going to be angry when you tell him, but at least the money from the painting will help make up for the missed work. Pushing your hair back, you look at the man standing a generous distance away now. Glancing around the room, you try to find what might have startled him, the look on his face is the same as when your phone began buzzing. Slowly, you try to stand on one leg, and he moves an inch as if you might topple over.

Limping, you make it into your bedroom with James shadowing you, which might’ve been easier before the wine. Reaching into your closet, you pull out spare blankets and a pillow, tossing them onto your bed. Then, very gracefully, you scoop them up and toss them to the man in your doorway. Limping to the bathroom, you pull out a clean towel and toss it on the pile. His eyebrows knit tight; he’s still on edge as you hop around.

“It’s been getting pretty cold at night, so you should use the fleece blanket, the blue one. The shower doesn’t really run out of hot water, so take your time; might be the only building in New York with that perk. Use whatever you want… what’s mine is yours or whatever that saying is…” Okay, maybe you are going to pass out; the room isn’t supposed to spin like this, right? Bracing on the wall, you take a breath. “Look, I’m sure you’re not going to actually sleep or use any of my stuff, but you should. Even if you just stay one night, you don’t know when you’ll get a chance to use an actual shower or bed… uh—couch. At least I’m assuming. I’ve never been on the run before.”

For a moment his eyes roam over you, brows furrowed before he clenches his jaw. Waiting, you let him come up with whatever reply he’s mulling over, hoping he doesn’t notice how heavily you lean on the wall. Finally, he looks at you, and for a second you’re taken aback by something new. It was just a second; if you blinked you would’ve missed it, but his eyes look impossibly soft. You can’t help the grin spreading on your face, spurred on mostly by the alcohol. He gives a small nod, and you take that as your cue to head to your bedroom. Shutting the door, you decide it’s best to let him choose what he wants to do next. Honestly, you wouldn’t be surprised if he just left right away, jumping out the window—or however he managed to break into your apartment.

Sitting on your bed, you finally unravel, hands shaking as they run through your hair. The man who’s been living on your canvas, ghosting your thoughts for years, is back, and he’s not just a nameless face anymore. His story is everywhere now, and everything in you says you should be terrified.

Rain taps against the windows, blurring city lights into soft streaks of color. Rainy nights are always the best. Storms hush the usual chatter of the diner, giving you room to breathe. Tables are wiped down, dishes stacked away for the morning, yet you linger by the glass, watching the pavement ripple beneath the downpour.

“Head on home, girl.” Khal’s voice cuts through your thoughts. He’s perched at the counter, finishing inventory. You’d almost forgotten he was still there. The amused curve of his mouth says he’s been watching you drift for a while. Before you can argue, he adds, “Nobody’s crazy enough to be out in this storm except you. Go on, enjoy your night.”

Arguing would be pointless. Khal has run this diner for thirty years, and in the two you’ve worked here, you’ve learned he never budges once he’s decided something.

With a sigh, you grab your coat and purse. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re trying to get rid of me, old man.”

“Sorry, did I not make it clear enough? Yeah, I’m trying to get rid of ya.” His dry tone makes you laugh, the sound echoing through the quiet space. On your way back up front, you notice the little book he’s slid across the counter.

“It’s just a sketchbook—don’t look at me like that,” he says, half-defensive. “Picked it up downtown. Figured you’d need it. You’ve already filled that blue one you’re always carrying.”

You can’t help the small smile tugging at your mouth. Ignoring his grumble, you dart around the counter for a quick hug. “I’ve been looking for a new one. This is perfect.” The leather feels sturdy, the thick paper perfect for using paint without the pages wrinkling.

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t get it soaked on your walk home.” He ducks his head, scribbling again.

You tuck the book into your bag, pull up your hood, and give one last wave. “I won’t, I promise!”

Even with the rain soaking through your clothes and the weariness from the day, you’re determined to have a good night.

Ideas fill your mind of what you want to put in the pages of your new book. The lights of the local shops look beautiful tonight, the soft glow against the wet brick walls. The way the cars shine, tires splashing water as they pass by. Normally, you’d sit at the park or a café to draw. The world is such a beautiful place, it’s hard not to get lost in watching the way people interact with it. Like now the woman across the street is locking up her corner store. You watch as she turns, eyes tracking up to where she’s now smiling. In one of the cars across the street sits a man, and a little girl who is now excitedly waving as her mom darts across the street and into the warmth of the car. A few blocks down, there are two men on their fire escape smoking; they seem to be lost in their own world as they look out at the dark cityscape.

And now, as you approach your apartment building, your eyes wander down the black alley until they stop. In the back, behind your building’s dumpster, is a brilliant silver. It would be invisible if it weren’t for the puddle reflecting it back to you. Maybe, if you had really stopped to think about it, you wouldn’t have let your mind carry you over. It would’ve been easy to walk away then, let the mystery of it sit in the dark, come back to check it out in the morning. Now, however, as a man comes into view, you know there’s no way you’ll be able to walk away.

The puddle you saw wasn’t just water, but stark red painting the concrete. Without thinking, you kneel next to him, gently moving to see him better, the dark making it almost impossible. He’s unconcious and injured badly, but the leather covering him isn’t giving away the extent of it. Whoever this guy is, he tried to hide instead of getting help. And, judging by the armor and the gun strapped to him, it’s clear why.

Glancing up at the sound of distant sirens, you pause, hands resting on your knees. Those sirens might as well be the voice yelling in your mind that this is a horrible idea. To run back inside your apartment, call the police, and let them deal with the man covered in weapons, bleeding out behind your dumpster. But before you can listen, you glance down, seeing his hand now trying to cover one of yours.

If you had known you’d be spending your night freezing, covered in blood, and dragging a stranger up to your apartment, you might’ve fought Khal a little harder about letting you stay the rest of your shift.

As carefully as you can manage while dragging a grown man across the floor, you finally place him on your rug. Flipping on your lamp to get a better look, you kneel by his side. He’s wearing tactical gear—military style, maybe? What you thought was armor is actually a prosthetic. The silver metal is severely damaged near the shoulder, wires fried, a faint electric hum leaking from it. Whatever it’s trying to do, it’s not working. He’s worse off than he first appeared; the rain must’ve washed away some of the blood now covering him.

Taking a breath to steady your shaking hands, you remove the buckle at his waist, trying to ignore the fact that one holster houses a knife and the other some kind of explosive. Setting the belt on your coffee table, your hands hover over the leather vest. Whoever designed it clearly didn’t prioritize practicality.

“I’m sorry, I need to undress you a little bit.” Right, because he can totally hear you while he’s unconscious on your floor. Groaning, you finally make yourself inspect the vest. After some careful maneuvering, you finally manage to unclasp it, opening it enough to assess the damage.

His entire abdomen is red, and panic bubbles in your chest. You’re supposed to apply pressure to stop bleeding, right? Or clean it first? God, why did you bring a dying man into your apartment when you don’t know what you’re doing? What happens if he does actually die—are you supposed to find a way to get rid of him? Do you just drag him back down to the alley, pretending you didn’t try to do anything? God, why are you even thinking about this right now?

Darting to your bathroom, you grab all your spare towels, wetting one and grabbing your first aid kit from under the sink on the way back.

After wiping as much blood as you can, you finally take in the man before you. His shallow breaths mirror your own as you note the myriad scars covering him. The worst are where metal meets flesh, it almost looks like someone tried to tear off the prosthetic. Those aren’t the immediate concern. Turning back to his stomach, you see the large gash. Knowing how to stitch someone up, or honestly any kind of first aid beyond wrapping, would be helpful right now. After disinfecting and wrapping, you put the vest back in place. You’d really rather not have him shirtless when he wakes up in a stranger’s home.

Now for the part that scares you the most: you stop to look at his face. His long hair is soaked in what you hope is just rainwater. Strangely, there’s a tiny bit of black around his eyes, as if he had paint that got washed away. He’s wearing some kind of mask, covering the bottom half of his face. If he’s not going to kill you right when he wakes up, he definitely will if he knows you’ve seen his face. Your eyes wander to the weapons on your table, then back to the metal arm. The silver is contrasted by a large red star on the side, the paint showing signs of wear. You’ve seen the most identifiable part of him; at this point, also seeing his face doesn’t matter.

You move to unclasp the mask, but before you can, his hand wraps around your wrist with alarming strength, likely enough to snap it if he wanted.

All the worst-case scenarios you dismissed now flood back into you as you try to free yourself from his grasp. The eyes that stare up at you promise nothing but lethal intent. You hold your breath as he tries to sit up, scanning the room, then finally looking at his left arm. In that brief instant he’s distracted, you wrench your wrist free and push yourself back against the couch.

The prosthetic’s damage is worse than you thought, the gears struggle, failing to function. Panic creeps into his eyes as he tries to move it. He feels for further injuries, flesh hand landing on his abdomen—and freezes. His gaze snaps back to yours.

You can’t help but be taken aback by just how many emotions he holds in just his eyes. Where panic and anger just were, now he just looks scared. His damp hair clings to his neck, his flesh hand trembles on his stomach. For a moment, the light catches his eyes, you’re struck by a blue so vivid it’s almost impossible to describe. You’ve painted countless skies and seas, but never a color like this.

Swallowing, you force your voice steady. “You were bleeding a lot. I… I found you in the alley. There were cops in the area, so I thought it’d be safer in here.” His eyes dart around your living room, trying to make sense of what he woke up to. “I can call an ambulance—” The panic in his gaze stops you. “Okay. No ambulance. Look, I don’t know what happened, and I’d rather not. But you’re in bad shape, and I don’t know any other way to help.”

You realize he’s not going to speak, as you both sit on opposite sides of the room just looking at each other. He looks about two seconds from dropping again, his eyes alert but the rest of him giving his condition away. Honestly, as terrifying as it is having him awake, you take that over him dying or passing out again. Careful not to make any sudden movements, you stand on shaky legs and make your way to the kitchen.

Taking a breath, you grab a glass, filling it with water and grabbing a muffin you’d been saving for the morning. He’s tracking your movements as you make your way back over to him. You kneel back down, keeping a safe distance, and set them in view. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. I don’t know how long you were out there. I don’t want you passing out again. Try to eat something.”

After another long moment of him staring at you, you sigh. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what you need.” Finally, his hand reaches out, pointing to the table. Great, he’s finally communicating, and it’s asking for the belt strapped with weapons. Carefully, you pick it up and place it next to him before retreating again.

You don’t breathe as he picks it up, setting it on his lap. Instead of grabbing the gun, he opens a pouch and pulls out a tiny round piece of metal. He places it on the prosthetic, and as soon as you hear a click, the gear sounds you heard from the arm suddenly go quiet. His posture noticeably relaxes, and you realize whatever damage was causing his arm to malfunction, that little thing must’ve shut it down. Quickly, he grabs the belt and in one swift move, he stands.

“Okay, whoa, hang on.” You barely catch him before he stumbles, holding him up. “I can’t keep carrying you—you’re really heavy.” You pivot, lowering him onto the couch, and hold your hands up as he attempts to rise again. “Stop, please. You’re not going to make it far like this.”

Once you’re sure he won’t try to get up, you step back, grabbing the muffin and water and placing them on the coffee table in front of him, before moving to leave the room.

Now alone in your bedroom, panic and adrenaline churn. You can’t let him stay, whoever did this might still be out there. As soon as he feels even slightly better, he’ll come after you, or whatever crime lord or secret service he works for will.

The soft patter of rain has faded, leaving your apartment too silent. You rummage through your closet and grab an old T-shirt.

Returning to the living room, you freeze. The muffin is gone, the water empty. The part that stops you, however, is he’s no longer wearing the mask. His facial injuries aren’t as bad as you thought, but just like his abdomen, it’s hard to tell with so much red covering it. After grabbing another wet towel, you approach cautiously, waiting for him to indicate you should stop. “Can I?” you ask.

His eyes dart to the towel, then he gives a slight nod.

You weren’t expecting him to agree. Last time you tried to touch his face, he nearly broke your hand. Leaning in, you lightly wipe his cheek, careful not to aggravate unseen injuries. His gaze is piercing, but strangely, he looks so much younger than you thought. He has to be in his mid-twenties, but beneath that he feels so empty.

Don’t dig into this. Whatever he’s done, whoever he is, it’s better not to know. Even if it’s taking everything in you not to try and convince him to stay here. That he’d be safe, that you’d give him a place to be safe, because really, you can’t promise you could protect him from whatever the world has done to him.

Finally, you’re done, tossing the bloodied towel aside and instead grabbing the old shirt. Ripping it, you almost laugh at the confusion covering him. “For your arm. I’ll wrap it to take the tension off. It should help with the pressure on your shoulder.”

Making a sling, you’re careful as you wrap it around his shoulder, the metal now cradled in the cotton. Sure, it looks funny, but until he can fix it, it’s the best he’s going to get. By the looks of it, it is helping to relieve at least a tiny bit of pain.

As you’re giving him one more scan for any injuries you missed, you stop again at his face. For just a moment, it looks as if he’s going to say something. Your thoughts are cut off by the sound of a siren passing outside, and it seems so are his because he moves to stand again. This time, however, he’s steadier. In one move, he grabs his belt and mask, making his way to the door.

For a moment, you just watch him, and he watches you. His eyes dart around like he’s making a decision, but before you can get another word out, he’s gone.

It’s been a little over three months since the young teacher spoke at his support group. After that night, she never came back. Steve had tried not to worry. At the time, the school year had just ended, and she didn’t seem to be around the building much. Still, he found himself wandering the halls an hour before his meeting was supposed to start.

They were a couple weeks into the new school year now, and from what he could tell, she was busy. Her door was propped open, giving him a clear view of the room and of her hunched over a large desk, writing furiously. He stayed far enough down the hall to avoid being seen, debating whether to try and coax her into joining the group again. He knew better than to push, especially with someone he barely knew. But something had been nagging at him ever since he’d caught her peeking around the corner that night, trying to see who was staying so late in the gym.

“She’s always been like this, you know.”

He jumped. Tried not to, but failed. He’d been so lost in thought, he hadn’t heard the older woman walk up beside him.

“What—uh, what do you mean?” he asked. If she noticed the stumble in his voice, she didn’t mention it.

“Always burying herself in work. Don’t get me wrong, this job takes a lot of time especially with the younger kids, but with her it’s everything.” The woman’s eyes met his, tired but sharp. “She moved here from California a few years ago. I think she’s got family there, but they’ve never visited. Never takes time off to see them. Doesn’t have many friends either. Some of the younger teachers have tried, but she keeps everyone at arm’s length. It’s gotten worse lately.”

Steve frowned, letting that settle. “There are only three teachers left, right?”

“Some of the parents blamed us,” she said quietly. “She’d taken over the day everything went to shit. Spent the entire day getting screamed at. Parents telling her she should’ve paid better attention, like she could’ve changed anything.” She scoffed and rubbed her temple. “Next day, she was back in the building, organizing, making plans. I don’t think she’s ever stopped. Never let herself be angry or sad. Never let anyone in.” Her gaze softened just slightly. “I think it’s good what you’re doing. Giving back. Trying to help people through this. But you need to understand something, Rogers—some people don’t want to be saved.”

That wasn’t what he expected her to say.

He stayed there for a few seconds, watching as the woman shuffled away, her cane tapping gently against the hardwood. He’d heard that line before ‘Some people don’t want to be saved.’ He resented it. Maybe it was true. Maybe some people didn’t. But that didn’t mean you shouldn’t try.

Still, as he looked toward the classroom, toward her, he knew it wasn’t that simple.

He’d come back next week.

Standing in your full-length mirror, you give your outfit one more look. It’s the first day of school, and you always wear the same thing each year to welcome your students.

When you were hired to teach at Brooklyn Elementary, you were overwhelmed. It was a new city, and knowing no one in the area, the loneliness felt all-consuming. That is, until you met the woman you had been hired to replace.

Like most teachers, she had continued teaching until she physically couldn’t anymore, rather than retire. She had popped into the room, offered you her last words of wisdom, and handed you a gift. It was a denim overall dress, hand-embroidered. At the hem of the skirt and on the front pocket were classic images—cute little yellow pencils, blue scissors, and bright red apples. She said she had made it to wear every year on her first day, and she hoped you’d continue the tradition.

This will be the second time most of your students have seen the dress, and you’re trying not to get overwhelmed by the thought. Pairing it with a bright red top and a matching bow, you pull on your shoes and get ready to head out for the day.

Stopping at your door, you pause, pulling out your phone.

You haven’t seen Bucky in the past few days, which isn’t surprising. You’ve been spending most of your time in your classroom preparing, or coming home to sleep before picking the work back up again. It’s been hard keeping your thoughts from finding reasons to reach out.

You hadn’t told him you put your number in his phone. If he wanted to use it, he would. He hasn’t which, honestly, you understand. But you can’t help the way your hopes rise each time you glance at your notifications.

It’s not just that he’s good company that’s been feeding your desire to see him again.

It’s the notebook.

You had your suspicions about what had happened to Steve, but a part of you had been hoping he was just busy doing… whatever it is superheroes do.

When you had taken Bucky’s phone, your first warning bell had come from his contact list—or rather, who wasn’t in it. He only had a few names listed, and only two he had actually contacted recently. Steve was nowhere to be seen.

The second red flag was the tiny notebook he had handed you. You’d seen it before. Your writing was already on one of the pages. And you knew if Steve had passed it on to him, he likely wasn’t around anymore.

Bucky’s alone.

Bucky, according to Steve, doesn’t ask for help, content helping others around him.

You’ve decided: after school today, you’ll find an excuse to see him. If he wants to turn you down, so be it.

Finally ready, you give one last check, making sure you’re not leaving anything behind before stepping out into the hall.

“Apples suit you.”

You practically drop your keys from the way you startle. Well, looks like you won’t have to wait until after school.

“This building is a thousand years old. How do you manage to open your door and walk out here without making a single sound? You almost gave me a heart attack.” You can’t help the smile taking over as you finally turn to him.

“Well, I could always just start humming songs everywhere I go like you do.”

Surely that’s an exaggeration, right? Okay—maybe not. But the teaching songs are so catchy, it’s hard not to.

“Maybe you should. I’ll teach you some.”

Stepping into the elevator, you try to calm your nerves before continuing. “Where are you headed this fine morning?”

“There’s a coffee shop over on 4th Street. Heard they have good muffins. Figured I’d try it out.” He shoves his hands into his pockets, eyes fixed on the elevator doors. After a breath, he finally adds, “If you have time before heading in—”

“I’d love to go! Honestly, I forgot to eat this morning. I’ve been all over the place.”

You’re blessed by the appearance of his crooked smile as he leads you out of the building and onto the busy street.

Since everyone came back, it’s been hard to get used to all the people again. It can get so overwhelming at times, but being next to him makes it easier. Where you’d usually have to dodge people to avoid getting shoved, you don’t have to worry, tucked close to his side as you both move through the crowd.

Finally reaching the shop, you’re thankful for the cool air that greets you as Bucky props open the door. The inside is cute, with dark wood and brick that make it feel homey. And he was right about the muffins. You can smell them, freshly baked.

You try to bite back a laugh at the way Bucky scans the menu. He looks genuinely offended by it, brows drawn tight, and you doubt he even realizes it.

“There are a lot of coffee shops now. A lot of choices. It’s… a lot.”

“Well, stick to the classics then. You can’t go wrong with brewed coffee and a blueberry muffin. And lucky for you, almost every café has them.”

“Is that what you’re getting?”

You pretend to consider it before turning to him.

“No. I like sugar with a side of coffee, so my go-to is a vanilla latte. I will be sticking with the muffin, though.”

His face says ‘I knew it’ as he turns to the register. Without asking, he places the order and pays for yours.

You both settle at a small table near the window. You’ve done this a million times, but no matter how much you prepare, you always end up forgetting something. The kids will be excited. Some you’ve already taught, but for the others, it’s their first time being in a school.

Looking out the window, you try to push away the image of the empty rug from five years ago. They’re back now. They’re here. But what if it’s temporary? What if that alien guy comes back—and Captain America isn’t around to fix it?

“You’re nervous.”

It’s not a question.

“Is it that obvious?”

Bucky looks concerned, which makes you realize how far you’d let your thoughts spiral. That’s not something you can risk doing in front of the kids. You take a breath and try to steady yourself.

“I’m always like this. First day and all.”

He hums, but something in it tells you he’s not convinced.

When your name is called, you jump up before he has the chance to move.

“You treated me. The least I can do is go get them.”

At the counter, you take a second to collect yourself. Get it together. The world isn’t ending today, and you’re in a coffee shop with a man who has enough to deal with without you falling apart.

The group in the far corner finally leaves, and the shop quiets. You grab the cups and the bag of pastries, then turn toward the table.

He’s not there.

The seat by the window, where he’d just been, is empty. He didn’t follow you to the counter. He’s not in the bathroom either.

“Bucky?”

You try to keep your voice steady as you approach the table. Turning quickly, you scan the shop again.

“Buck—”

A firm hand lands on your shoulder. When you turn, he’s there, looking more worried than before.

“Hey, hey. What’s going on? I just went to get some sugar.”

“I thought—”

That you disappeared.

But he didn’t. No one did. The shop is the same. The couple in the back corner. The baristas at work. Nothing’s changed.

His hand shifts gently to your face, guiding your gaze back to him. He doesn’t say anything, just takes the coffee from your hands and leads you outside.

The walk is quiet. The school halls are filled only by the muffled sounds of teachers preparing for the day.

You hadn’t asked him to walk you all the way to your classroom, but he led you there anyway.

Once inside, he goes straight to the windows and props them open. Thankfully, the weather isn’t as hot today.

He always moves so naturally, confident in any space he’s in. You hadn’t noticed how tall he is—or maybe you had—but it’s more obvious now, when he’s standing next to such tiny furniture. It almost makes you laugh. This man was a soldier. He fought in World War II, was forced to do things you don’t even want to imagine, and yet here he is, surrounded by crayons, number blocks, and storybooks.

It makes you wonder what he would have done if there had never been a war. What he wants to do now.

You try to gather yourself as he walks over to where you’re propped against your desk.

For a moment, he just studies you. His eyes make it feel like he can see straight through every tiny crack in your heart.

“They’re not going anywhere.”

And the way he says it—with complete certainty—actually makes you believe it.

You grab his arm to steady yourself and try to sound more confident than you feel.

“My first year, I misspelled my last name when I wrote it on the board. And yeah, they couldn’t read yet, but every year I’m scared I’ll do it again.”

He laughs. It’s short but louder than you’ve ever heard from him and you swear your heart stops.

Before he leaves, he pauses by the door.

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning?”

Every nerve you woke up with melts away as he watches you, waiting for an answer.

“Tell me how you spend your day, now that you’re a civilian.”

Dr. Raynor manages to make even a simple question sound like an accusation. ‘You’re wasting your new life already, James?’

This is his fifth session with the psychiatrist the government requires him to see. He understands why, honestly, but that doesn’t mean he has to fully cooperate. He’ll sit here, show her he’s alive and not planning on going rogue or hurting anyone, then leave.

The office is nice enough. Nothing fancy. It has a big window, a few plants. The building is kept cold, which he wouldn’t normally enjoy, but with how hot it is in New York—

“I asked you a question, James.”

Bucky sighs and shifts his attention from the window to the woman sitting across from him.

“I wake up, go for a walk to get breakfast, and then I go home.”

“That’s it?”

What does she want him to say? He’s doing exactly what they told him to do.

He clenches his jaw a few times, trying to figure out how to appease her.

“I’m not hurting anyone.”

“You’re not living either. When’s the last time you talked to someone?”

He watches as Dr. Raynor pulls out her notebook. She clicks her pen a few times, and he tries not to cringe at the sound. Clearly, she doesn’t like his answer.

“My neighbor. Two days ago. I walked her to the school she works at.”

That seems to surprise her, which Bucky tries not to take offense to. He hadn’t planned to bring up the girl across the hall—especially not because it would lead to her classroom, which would lead to the photo. Or worse, it might lead to the fact that he’s been wanting to find a reason to talk to her again.

He’s spoken briefly to others in the building, mostly the older residents. They seem to enjoy small talk, likely because they don’t have much family in the area. That’s fine. But this had been different.

He’d seen her around the building, always a little lost in her own world. A flash of color, bright smiles lighting up the otherwise dark hallways.

Bucky had been a soldier, had done things most people couldn’t imagine. And yet, somehow, he found her intimidating.

It was easier to just keep to himself.

Two days ago, he’d been planning his usual walk to get breakfast. He paused by his door, listening for signs of the other residents.

The older man to the left of his apartment was already in the kitchen, pots clanging, curses echoing faintly through the paper-thin walls. The middle-aged woman on the right was still asleep. He didn’t have to listen hard to know; her snoring could probably be heard through the whole building.

The girl across from him, though, she seemed to be getting ready to go somewhere. Soft footsteps across the floor, boxes being dragged, closet doors opening and closing.

Peeking through the small peephole, Bucky watched as she finally stepped into the hallway but his usual view of the pretty woman was blocked by a stack of large boxes, filled to the brim with strange, colorful items.

He realized quickly what was about to happen. The building was old, untouched for years, and loose floorboards were scattered throughout. One of them sat directly where she was about to step.

Without thinking, he opened his door and stepped out, managing to grab the boxes just as she tripped.

Bucky told himself it was the polite thing to do, walking her to the school. He had been planning on trying a new diner, but that was in the opposite direction of Brooklyn Elementary, so he’d just plan on trying it another day. He knew it was obvious he had trouble keeping a conversation, it made most people uncomfortable. They’d often find ways to leave. She didn’t seem to mind, likely patience learned from having to talk to children all day. It had been going well enough, until she stopped walking. He felt his skin go cold, bracing for what was about to happen. It was rare that people recognized him. He probably shouldn’t, but part of him was thankful for the Blip, only because it meant people forgot about Hydra and the worldwide manhunt for him.

“You're on my wall!”

He—what?

She quickly seemed to realize how lost he was. “Wow, that sounded incredibly weird out loud. What I meant was, you’re Bucky Barnes, right? I have a photo up in my classroom. You and Steve Rogers.”

Right. Okay. Bucky Barnes. Sergeant Barnes. That means, though, she likely knows who he was after, and he’s fighting the part of him that wants to ask. He had planned then to place the boxes in her class and quickly make his exit, content to go back to avoiding her. But he found it hard to walk away—made harder by the conversation about the photo.

“Well, what did the two of you talk about?” Dr. Raynor’s curiosity is evident, and Bucky wants to shut it down before it gets too far.

“Not much.” Good. She deflates, finally closing her notebook.

“James, you can’t shut yourself out. I understand having a hard time talking to new people, but you should at least make some effort. Have you had any contact with Sam?”

The brick phone the government issued him sits heavy in his jacket pocket. He knows how to use plenty of advanced tech, touch screens aren’t a problem, and yet he can’t figure out how to send a text with this thing.

“I call him.” Which isn’t a lie. What he’s keeping to himself, however, is that Sam almost never answers. Instead, he receives a text along the lines of ‘Can’t call right now. Send a text like a normal person.’

“That’s good.” Dr. Raynor glances at the clock, realizing their session is over. “I want you to continue to work on that this week. Keep in contact with Sam, and try to talk to others around you, even if it’s brief.”

As Bucky rides the elevator up to his apartment floor and steps out into the hall, he pauses. One of the first things he noticed about the girl across the hall is that she almost always has music playing softly. Not loud enough to bother anyone, he certainly doesn’t mind. Usually, it’s something he doesn’t recognize, but every so often it’s a song or singer he’s familiar with.

He thinks again about his phone. He could’ve asked Dr. Raynor to show him how to use it, but he would rather ask literally anyone else on the planet. He could call Sam and ask, but that would mean Sam would need to pick up, which is why he’s in this situation to begin with. His other neighbors are likely just as clueless as he is. Except one.

Rocking on his heels, he flips the phone around in his pocket, glancing down the hall. She wouldn’t question why he needed help. She already knows who he is. But that’s exactly why he hesitates. Sure, she didn’t seem scared of him at the school, but in her own home it might be a whole other story. He would stay in the hall, she could quickly show him, and then he could disappear into his apartment, leaving her to whatever it is she’s doing.

Bucky hesitates before knocking on her door, stepping back to leave a generous amount of space between himself and the frame. She answers quickly, and he tries to hide how relieved he is when a smile overtakes her face.

“No way, I was just thinking about you!”

He’s starting to realize it’s impossible to predict what she’s going to say.

“I mean, I was thinking about ways to properly thank you for the other day. I landed on baking cookies—they should be done now.”

He watches her disappear into her apartment, stunned. Is he supposed to follow? This wasn’t the plan. He was supposed to just get help and leave. His question is answered when she pops around the corner, gesturing for him to come inside before disappearing again.

It’s a mirror layout to his own apartment, but it couldn’t be more different. It’s warm, lived in, and bright. Everything is kept neat and organized, which is good considering the amount of things she has. Making his way to the kitchen, he watches as she removes a baking sheet from the oven, then turns the heat off.

“They need a few minutes to cool.” She catches herself, like something dawns on her. “I didn’t even ask why you’re here.”

“I was hoping you could help me with something.” He pulls the phone from his pocket. “I can’t figure out how to send a text on this thing.”

She takes the phone from his hand, making her way over to the dining table and pulling out a chair for him. Taking a seat, he watches as she flips it open, a soft hum escaping as she presses a few buttons.

“Government-issued, isn’t it? They gave you the most impractical phone ever invented.” Scooting closer, she angles the screen so he can see. “It’s simple once you get the hang of it, just tedious. Each number correlates to three letters. You have to rotate through each before getting to the one you need. See, let’s say you want to spell out the word ‘hi.’ You’ll need to press the number 4 two times, then the number 4 three times.”

Bucky made the right decision. There’s no judgment, no questions he doesn’t want to answer, just a simple explanation. Relaxing, he leans in a bit more to see it better.

“You’re right, that is tedious.”

Her soft laugh fills the space. “A whole language was created for these phones, you know. Abbreviations of words, so you don’t take an hour sending a single message.”

He watches as she suddenly pops out of her chair. “I’ll write you a guide. But I will warn you—you’ll sound like a mid-2000s teenager in your texts.”

He can’t help but laugh, even if he doesn’t entirely know what that means. If Sam makes fun of him, he doesn’t care. He should be thankful he’s getting a message in the first place.

As she rummages around for a pen, Bucky pulls the small notebook he has tucked into his back pocket. “You can write it in here.”

She pauses at that before gently taking the book. He’s not sure what caused the shift, maybe she just wasn’t expecting him to have one. Bucky himself isn’t even really sure why he’s been carrying it around. Steve had given it to him, said he used to write down things people recommended: music, movies, things he missed while in the ice. But he hasn’t really looked through it. Hasn’t wanted to learn about the years he missed. He’s not going back, anyway.

She sits down again, beginning to write in the book. He can tell she’s hesitant to ask something, which is strange, given how she tends to just say whatever pops into her head. It doesn’t last long though, her soft voice breaks through the scribbling sound of the pen.

“You don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to, but… can I ask what happened to Steve?”

Oh.

Taking a deep breath, he tries to figure out how to answer that. It’s not exactly simple, and not something they’re sharing with others. She’d mentioned wanting to update the photo on the wall, add where he and Steve are in life currently. He could lie. But honestly, he really doesn’t want to lie to her.

“He passed away. After he won the fight and brought everyone back.”

She seems to have expected that answer. She finally looks up from her writing. “I’m sorry, Bucky.”

He doesn’t like seeing her sad, it feels like he just committed a crime, making someone so kind and gentle feel anything other than happy. She slides the book over to him as she stands, giving his shoulder a light squeeze. Another thing he’s noticed she does. Which, for some reason, he doesn’t mind.

He watches as she uses the counter to push herself up, barely reaching a container kept on the top shelf of the cabinet. She piles the cookies inside, then turns back to him—and he notices her pause. He’s smiling way more than he probably should be, and she definitely noticed.

“They’re chocolate chip. I like to keep things classic. Mostly because I’m not the best baker in the world. If you ever want a mean lasagna, though, I’m your girl.”

He can’t help the sound of amusement that escapes.

“Thanks for the cookies and for helping an old man navigate modern technology,” he says with a smile. Her soft laughter trails after him as they walk toward the front door. God, that laugh. He wishes he were funnier, just to hear it one more time.

“I wouldn’t call that modern. I’m happy to help, as long as it means I can get you to carry more things for me.”

He would. But instead of saying that, he flashes one more smile before bidding her goodnight.

Back in his apartment, he pauses, listening to the music coming from hers again. His space feels so empty. Cold.

“I’m afraid to leave my apartment now. Like, what if she comes back and I’m not there? I find myself just sitting on the kitchen floor, waiting, until I realize it’s been an entire day.”

The room fills with sympathetic hums as the man across from you speaks. He’s new to the group, middle-aged and sharing his experience from the day half the world disappeared, almost a year ago. Everyone has a similar story, feelings of guilt for surviving, not wanting to move on. Others fall apart or just try to disappear with the ones they lost.

“But you came here today. That’s a good start.”

Steve Rogers’ voice is calming, his eyebrows knitted in understanding. It’s strange, seeing the man in person. Brooklyn Elementary is filled with plaques and photos of Captain America, proud to boast their superhero alumnus. It was what stood out to you the most on your first day teaching here. Most of the plaques are gathering dust now, even as you sit in the school’s gym with the man himself.

“This tragedy is a tie. It connects us all. A blanket of grief no one is free from,” Steve continues. “It can feel easy to get lost in others’ experiences, to minimize your own. It creates a quiet cage that becomes difficult to escape. It’s important to talk about it, to share what you’ve been through so you can create community. That’s why I’m proud of each of you for taking the step to come here today.”

He always speaks with an air of authority, even though you can see how the grief is eating away at him too. This is your tenth week attending his support group. Every Friday, a small group of around six people gathers in the gymnasium of the school.

You had stayed late one night, losing track of time while preparing a lesson plan for the following week. With only three teachers left, including you, the students had to be combined. Your normal group of kindergartners had expanded to include students from kindergarten through third grade. You had to juggle vastly different stages of learning. Still, not every seat in your class is filled. Only a small group of kids remains from each age group.

On your way out that night, you saw the gym light still on and wandered over to peek inside. You quickly realized it was the support group you had seen advertised on flyers all over the city. You tried to sneak away, but of course Rogers caught you and invited you to join. So you did. You sat quietly, listening to his words of wisdom and humming along as others spoke. You never spoke yourself. No one ever pushed, which you appreciated.

“Would anyone else like to share?” Steve glances expectantly around the small group.

You straighten in your seat, taking a breath to gather yourself. You hadn’t planned to speak today. You were determined to continue as a silent supporter. However, today is the last day of school before summer vacation. It should have been the last day with all of your kids, their excitement filling your classroom as they prepared to move on to first grade.

Steve notices immediately, trying and failing not to show how excited he is that you are finally planning to speak.

“I’ve been a teacher here for almost seven years now,” you begin. “Anytime people hear I teach kindergartners, I always get the same response. ‘You have more patience than I do,’ or ‘I could never be around that many five-year-olds at once.’”

Small laughs echo around the gym as you continue.

“But there’s something so special about them. Their young minds are excited to learn, constantly growing. The way they see the world is so bright. It’s infectious. It’s the reason my closet looks like a crayon box.”

You take a shaky breath, trying to push the visions from your mind. You can’t fall apart. Not when they’re all counting on you.

“Rebecca, Liam, Joey, Maria J., and Caleb. I had 27 kids, and they’re the only ones left. They had just come back from recess. You’d think they’d be tired, but honestly, they were practically bouncing off the walls. Cassie and Dina were arguing about not wanting to be friends anymore. Every argument, every problem they have may seem small to us, but to them it’s everything. It’s the hardest thing they’ve had to deal with in their little lives. So, I decided to pivot from my regular plans and read instead. It’s funny. The book I picked was called ‘Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day’. They were chiming in with their own experiences with bad luck, laughing with each other. I turned away for one second to turn the page, and all of a sudden my class was completely silent.”

You keep your eyes down. You know that if you look at anyone, you’ll see the tears forming. If you see that, you won’t be able to finish.

“Honestly, most of the day is a blur now. I tried to find all of the kids. Some were hiding because they were scared. A lot of the teachers were gone too. The worst part was when the parents showed up, and I had to tell them their kids were gone. I still hear it. The crying. The desperate wailing from losing their child. Today would have, should have, been their last day with me. I still get up every morning, pick out something bright to wear, and practice my smile because I can’t fall apart. I won’t do that to my kids. They’ve already lost everything. It’s my job to help these kids grow in a world that feels like it’s ended.”

You don’t really remember how anyone responded. Steve had a speech about allowing yourself to feel the loss or something equally profound. You didn’t go to any more meetings after that day.

Now, four years later, you look around your brightly decorated apartment, checking for any last supplies to bring to the classroom. The school year begins in just two weeks, and this time, it will be filled with the 22 students who never got to finish story time.

You grab a stack of cardstock paper from the storage closet and pack it into one of the large totes. New York is hot and sticky, and without a car, walking a few blocks to the school already feels like enough of a challenge. The goal is simple: make only one trip. Carrying three large storage totes and two rolled-up posters shouldn't be too hard.

Okay, maybe it will be. But confidence is key.

With the posters tucked under one arm, you bend to lift the boxes. The first obstacle appears as soon as you reach the door: trying to hold it open with your foot while balancing everything in one hand. Things might have gone smoothly if you hadn’t forgotten about the loose floorboard just outside, perfectly positioned to catch your foot.

You picture crayons, paper, and blocks spilling across the hallway as you brace for impact. But it never happens. A pair of gloved hands steps in, taking the boxes from your arms with steady ease.

Peeking around the stack, you finally get a good look at your unexpected savior.

"I figured I’d at least make it out of the building before covering the floor in paint and glitter." You try to keep the embarrassment out of your voice, but it slips through anyway.

He isn’t a familiar face, though that’s hardly surprising. With half the population returning to the land of the living, new neighbors show up constantly. Still, this one stands out—absurdly handsome, with an amused smirk tugging at his lips.

"I’m curious, what was your plan for locking the door?" he asks, shifting to effortlessly balance the large boxes with one arm.

You fish your keys out of your pocket and step back to your door, clicking the lock into place.

"My plan was to make a fool of myself and hope a gracious neighbor would take pity and save me." You sidestep the loose board this time on your way back. "So, thank you for saving me, uh…"

“Bucky.”

You give your name in return and start straightening your satchel, adjusting the posters still tucked under your arms as you prepare to reclaim the boxes. Something about him tugs at your memory. Maybe you have seen him around before.

Taking a closer look, you study his features. Deep blue eyes, neatly trimmed hair, and a tall, alert stance. His eyebrows lift, nearly hitting his hairline. He definitely asked something you didn’t hear.

He lets out a soft huff, the crooked smile threatening to distract you again.

"Where are you headed with all of this?" he repeats, clearly entertained.

"Oh! I’m walking to Brooklyn Elementary. The school year starts soon, and I need to set up my classroom."

Before you can try to take the boxes back, he turns and walks a few steps to the door directly across from yours. You try not to feel jealous of how effortlessly he pulls his keys from his pocket and locks the door before turning back to you.

“I’ll walk you. I’m heading that way anyway.”

“You really don’t have to do that,” you start, but he’s already walking toward the elevator at the end of the hall.

“Well, the city’s covered in enough graffiti. I don’t want to add to it by letting you create a rainbow mural on the ground.” You can’t help but laugh at the seriousness in his tone as you both step into the elevator. If your neighbor wants to be, well, neighborly, who are you to stop him?

Out on the bustling street, you fall in step just behind Bucky. He clearly knows his way around, his stride confident and purposeful. It’s funny, he’s polite and clearly kind, but his expression is all hard edges, moving like he’s on a mission. Every so often, he glances back to check on you, probably making sure you’re not about to faceplant again.

“So, you grew up in Brooklyn?” You ask, now walking beside him.

“Yeah, I did. How do you know that?” He gives you a puzzled look that makes you laugh under your breath.

“Well, you’re taking a shortcut to the school that took me years to figure out. You seem pretty familiar with the area.” He relaxes slightly, jaw shifting like he’s deciding how to answer. It’s the same look your kids get when they’re trying to figure out a tough question, debating whether to risk saying the wrong thing or just go with the safe answer: I don’t know. So you do what you always do with them. You wait and give him the space to decide.

“I actually went to Brooklyn Elementary. But that was a long time ago. My friend and I always took this shortcut, left early so we could mess around before school started.” His eyes crinkle a little as he remembers, a small laugh escaping, but you don’t think he realizes it. “We always ended up being late.”

It’s the smile. That’s what does it. It just seems so familiar.

“Have we met before? I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere.” The words slip out before you can stop them, and you immediately regret it. His soft smile fades into something more neutral, brows drawing together into a crease.

“Uh, maybe. I moved in a few weeks ago.” He’s looking ahead again, adjusting the boxes in his grip like he’s trying to stay busy. His soldier posture. That smile. Him saying ‘That was a long time ago.’

You stop dead in your tracks as it clicks.

He turns toward you, posture somehow even stiffer than before.

You can’t help the grin spreading across your face. “You’re on my wall!”

Okay, well. That was the single creepiest thing you could have said.

You rush to recover, but the look on his face says you’ve already lost him to confusion. “Wow, that sounded incredibly weird out loud. What I meant was, you’re Bucky Barnes, right? I have a photo up in my classroom. You and Steve Rogers.”

His brows raise as you both continue your walk, and you see him shifting through his responses again. Your first year teaching, you had done your research about the area. One section of your wall was decorated with bubble letters spelling out the words "Local Heroes." It took a lot of time to complete, filling it with photos of both historical and current important community members. Firefighters, nurses, etc. and of course, Sergeant Barnes and Captain Rogers. Below each photo, there's a short overview of their lives and accomplishments. The kids love it, especially when they have a family member who makes it onto the wall.

Whatever Bucky was going to say, he’s decided to keep it to himself. You've finally made it to the school, walking up the steps and heading in through the front entrance. It’s funny, the way he’s looking around, the surprise evident on his face.

"Oh wow, this place looks almost exactly the same," he says, voice soft in the quiet halls.

You can’t help but sigh at that. "You know what, I’m going to the district and telling them you said that. Maybe then they’ll actually give us the money to renovate this place."

This actually gets a quiet laugh from him, and you can’t help but be proud. As you walk to unlock your classroom, you notice he has stopped in front of the glass display in the hall. One of the many dedicated to Captain America.

"This kid gave so much trouble to all of the teachers here. I swear he gave them heart problems from the number of fights he got in. I was the one who always saved him from getting a black eye, and somehow I was the one always getting detention." He’s talking so softly, you’d think he was only talking to himself until he turns to you. "And now he’s plastered all over this place."

"Well maybe we need to get you a plaque too. 'The one who saved Steve Rogers from getting pummeled.'" You push open the door, hitting the light switch, waiting for them to flicker to life. Bucky strides in, making his way to your desk, effortlessly dodging the tiny desks and chairs.

"You know, my average class size is around 25, but this year I’ll have 28 kids." You sigh, tossing the posters onto one of the counters, circling to take in the state of the room. "I honestly don’t know how they expect me to fit them all in here. I mean, yeah, I know they’re tiny, but you’d be surprised how much room they all take up."

His hands are tucked into his leather jacket as he takes a glance around too. "I’m surprised they have you guys starting again so soon."

The room is hot, and even though propping open the windows won’t help, it’ll at least let out some of the stale air. You sigh, trying to ignore the sticky feeling from the heat.

"Kids need stability, especially after the world pretty much ended. We couldn’t stop when half the population disappeared, and we definitely can’t stop now that they’re back." You watch as he walks around the perimeter of the room, looking at all of the things you already have up. "Besides, most of my kids this year are former students. I’ll get to see them move on from my class after five years. That makes it worth it."

You get a sympathetic hum from him, similar to the ones you got from your support group. He stops, as if he found what he was searching for. Cautiously, you make your way over to him, stopping in front of the photo-covered wall. In the very short time you’ve known Bucky, you’ve already learned he’s incredibly hard to read. His face seems fixed in the same neutral expression, and if you blink, you’ll miss the brief moment you’re blessed with a shift. A soft smile and sly smirk. It makes you want to stare at him all day, trying to coax more from him.

Now, it’s all furrowed brows and the corners of his lips turned down as he reads the words under his photo. There’s not a lot publicly available about him. Steve has a ton, but Bucky's past and, honestly, current story is more or less a mystery. Sure, you have the big events available. But the small in-between moments seem to not exist. The short summary you chose has changed quite a bit since your first year here. First, he was Sergeant Barnes, Captain America’s best friend. One of the fallen heroes from WWII. Now, he’s Sergeant Barnes, Captain America’s best friend, survivor of WWII and Hydra, and one of the fallen heroes who fought trying to save the world from the man who made half the population disappear.

"I need to update it again." You seem to startle him out of his thoughts, though he doesn’t shift. "Add on that you succeeded in bringing everyone back."

"It wasn’t me. There were hundreds of people there who fought." His stare is fixed on you again. Another thing you noticed about Bucky, his intense staring.

"Yes, but out of the hundreds who fought, only two were from Brooklyn, and this is about local heroes."

His gaze is steady as he works his jaw. "Are you sure this is really appropriate for kids? I mean, 'survivor of Hydra' it’s not exactly a secret what that really means. It’s not something they should look up to."

He’s right, it isn’t a secret. You take a breath before turning to lean on the desk close to the wall.

"Do you know my favorite part about working with kids?"

He’s thrown off by the question, turning to you as you continue.

"Adults see the world in black and white. Good or bad. Right or wrong. Their opinions get shaped by their experiences, their fears, and whatever they think matters in the big picture. But kids? They see in color. Honest, messy, vivid color. They’ll notice every flaw, and they won’t hesitate to point it out. But they also see the good — sometimes more clearly than we ever can. They’re not measuring people by what they’ve done or who they’re supposed to be. They see who’s in front of them. Who’s trying. When they look at this wall, they don’t see how someone got there. They see who they are now. And for them, that’s enough to call someone a hero."

You push off the desk, examining the photo once more. "I need a new photo. This one’s a little outdated."

He gives a small sound of amusement as he takes one more look at the black and white photo in front of him. You decide to pivot the topic away from his past, giving his shoulder a soft pat before making your way to the large boxes.

"Thank you again for saving me today. The citizens of New York thank you for sparing them from me stumbling around the streets."

You’re blessed with one last quick smile from him as he starts to make his exit.

"Anytime you need help, you know where to find me. It was nice seeing this place again actually."

You try not to beam at his offer, but the idea of seeing him again makes you way happier than it probably should. You call out as he’s leaving.

"Careful, I might actually take you up on that. Being a public school teacher is very humbling. I have no shame asking for help."