#awgit

Bucky could not wrap his head around how bewitching you were in the autumnal twilight. The pink hue of the sun’s last rays set the skin of your arms in an alluring tone, made the color of your eyes even more pronounced. It wasn’t only your visage that was stunning, but your confidence behind the wheel of the cruiser. Freshly manicured fingers commanded the steering wheel with a grace that should not have taken him by surprise.

The 1941 Oldsmobile was a loan from Harvey. When you’d told him you were planning a visit home to Tarrytown he claimed he had a vehicle that needed test driving before it was detailed pending a sale. You and Bucky knew full well the car didn’t need any added travel time - Bucky being the mechanic who had repaired it in the first place. The train tickets had been easy enough to return, so the pair of you had taken the clandestine gift and reveled in the luxury of having a vehicle at your disposal.

With an ease that betrayed your years of experience, you navigated the road out of New York City and pointed the vehicle in the direction of your hometown. From his view sitting in the passenger seat, the thought crossed his mind that the woman seated next to him on the bench was a truly authentic you that his soul craved. No walls up, nothing to hide from the world - you behind the wheel cruising down the streets with a peaceful smile spreading to your cheeks. If Bucky had owned a camera he would’ve gladly spent a whole roll of film trying to capture this moment that was imprinting itself on his mind.

He could tell you knew he was watching you. Yet you didn’t shy away; didn’t admonish him for the way his eyes roved over you, nor the length of time they did. You merely continued to talk about your day like you would any other evening. Where you’d normally catch up over dinner and pie in a diner’s cozy booth, you did so in the comfort of the sedan as pavement moved steadily beneath you.

Bucky had expected you to be pleased earlier that evening when he picked you up from work in his Sunday-best; coveralls traded in for a dapper look after a long day working beneath the hood of this very vehicle. Instead, your eyebrows furrowed together, insisting he didn’t have to dress up to meet your parents. He’d waved off your protests with a cheeky “Can’t have your parents thinking I’m a hobo, right?”  He bit off a comment about how despite your overtures, you were impeccably dressed. Hair coiffed in perfection, not a speck of makeup out of place - your immaculate appearance didn’t ring true for a reason he couldn’t identify, so he kept the observation to himself.

You had quickly slid back into your rightful place snug in his heart when you’d overruled him by climbing into the driver’s seat.  Since he’d put in so much effort, you insisted he rest on the ride out to Tarrytown. Neither of you were fooled. You truly loved being at the helm of a car. With traffic to thank, the hour-long trip to Tarrytown was otherwise pleasant. When he wasn’t marveling at you, he admired the green fields of the rolling countryside.

A roadside advertisement for “Tarrytown’s Best Antique Shop - 2 miles ahead!” prompts Bucky to say -

“So, this is it, huh?”

You slant your eyes to his for a moment before they’re back on the road, a smirk gracing your lips. “Almost.”

Where a moment ago you had been the picture of serenity, an undertow of unease now laces your tense jaw. Try as you might, those eyes couldn’t hide from him.

Before he can ascertain the cause behind the shift, your hand comes down to his knee with an excited squeeze. “Well - this is Tarrytown!”

With the sparkling Hudson River visible in the west, a quaint village looms up to meet the Oldsmobile. All was exactly as he’d expected based on your stories. The place had the charm of another time with buildings betraying architecture from another century, a different kind of world. Towering dogwoods filled with red leaves greet the pair of you everywhere he turns. The road curves past the stately Tarrytown Village Hall, proudly on display in the center of the community.

He whistles appreciatively, eyes definitely not on the town. “She’s a beaut.”

“You’ve barely seen her,” you tease.

“Don’t have to, I know she’s a keeper.” He winks.

Your eyes roll with all the fondness in the world.

Not too much farther into town you take a turn, and another turn, and then another turn. Bucky’s sense of direction is lost in the maze of picturesque homes nestled in the hilly streets. He’s grateful one of you knows where you’re going; he’s grateful that it’s you.

Sooner than expected you bring the car to a slow stop; shifting the gear and pulling the emergency brake before killing the ignition, plunging the cab into a descending quiet as the engine settles.

You, however, are not settled. His attention is drawn to the way you twist the ring on your right hand as your eyes lose focus somewhere in the direction of what he assumes to be your childhood home.

The concept of you being nervous with a home-field advantage puzzled him. When he had brought you home he was fully confident in his sisters and mother making you feel welcome, truly taking a shine to you. To his joy, he’d been right. His father was another story, but that was an unfortunate surprise.

There wasn’t a bit of self-assurance in your shoulders as you gazed through the front windshield. The ring takes another spin around your finger.

He says your name as a question and you snap back to the present, eyes locking with his. You feign a grin and open the driver’s door before he can figure out how to word his question.

Following your lead, he opens the trunk and retrieves the bags, playfully refusing to let you carry yours. “And let your folks think I’m anything other than a gentleman? Come on, you’ve gotta give me something to show off.”

This only pulls a small smile from you before you’re checking your reflection in the side mirror. You wipe a bit of stray lipstick from the side of your mouth, rub at a dark spot beneath your eye. Slow steps lead you to the porch, where you pause again. The nippy breeze sends a flutter through your hair and Bucky takes the moment to really study your face.

Clearly there’s a mix between anticipation and unease. You’d been ecstatic at the prospect of bringing him home just a week ago when you’d made the final plans, so what had happened in the intervening time? Mentally flipping through his past observations he searches for a sign of what lays on the other side of the front door.

He had only heard you speak fondly of home, but in the seconds he reviews your statements they all land on the side of vague. Your hometown was big on traditions, so he assumed your parents would be of the same mindset. From what he’d gleaned you spoke with your mother on the phone fairly regularly, but any calls he’d been within earshot of had sounded almost. . . polite. He’d noticed letters from your father on your home desk and in your purse, sometimes reading a new one on the subway if you hadn’t had time the night before.

Based on his own time around Harvey, Bucky recalled several stories about you and your father. Your mother remained enigmatic, aside from the picture in your apartment of you nestled between your parents.

“You alright, sweetheart?”

You avoid his eyes, blink one too many times. “Of course.”

Before he has the chance to press you’ve twisted the doorknob and stepped across the threshold.

“Mom? Dad? Anybody home?” You call out into the sparse foyer.

Bucky can’t help the involuntary tremor of muscles at the sound of a crash from the kitchen, followed by a clamor of voices. When he pulls air back into his lungs, you're smiling an apology. A reassuring hand touches his cheek before fixing an errant lock of hair that had fallen from the strict hold of Brylcreem. He should’ve remembered that as clearly as he can see you, you can also see him.

You raise your voice a fraction, “Everybody okay? We’re home! You can set the bags down there, Buck.” With a motion to the side Bucky obediently deposits the luggage next to the door. It looks incredibly conspicuous in the tidy home, where everything seemingly had a place and stayed there. Some interesting artwork hung on the walls, a few he recognized from Steve’s art books. He’d have to ask who the art connoisseur of the house was.

A deep, soothing voice sounds from the doorway to the left. “Should have known you’d bring trouble the second you walked into the door!” The sentence hit Bucky’s ears a moment before your father, tall and lanky, rounded the corner, assisted by his two forearm crutches. “Hey, Sassafras!”

A giggle escapes you as you wrap arms around your father’s middle. “Hi, Dad. Missed you too.” He squeezes you with a little extra force, prompting an “oomph” out of you before turning to Bucky.

“Sorry about all the noise, we’re trying to get the pumpkins decorated for the contest tonight. We had a little mishap, but everything’s just fine. I assume you’re the young man we’ve heard about.” He worms his right hand out of the crutch and offers it, which Bucky takes amiably. “Glad you could make the trip out, son.”

You had mentioned your father’s service in the Great War that night in the diner when he’d finally told you of his own service. That conversation felt like a lifetime ago, especially when Bucky was faced with the reality of the injury in front of him. Below the knee of his right leg, his pants hang loose without the limb to support them. Nearly 30 years of practice could make anyone deft with crutches but the way he carried himself drew attention away from the injury and to the warmth in his presence.

“James Barnes. Nice to meet you, sir.”

“Do you prefer James?”

“Everyone who knows me calls me Bucky, but-”

Your father’s eyes shine with insight his tone belies. “Bucky it is, then. Come on in you two. Your mother is scrambling to get the last things together before the party, but we have a few minutes ‘til we need to leave.”

He tosses his head in the direction from which he came before offering an elbow to you. You tuck your hands into his elbow and kiss him on the cheek. Bucky trails behind the pair of you, noticing how you easily step in perfect time with each other.

“Your boss still giving you trouble?”

“Dad, it’s really okay,” Bucky hears you murmur.

In return you get a disapproving noise and he shifts to get a better look at you as they pass through the living room. “But if it’s not-“

Without an edge you state, “Not now, okay?”

“You’ll catch me up later?”

“Promise.” Crossing the threshold into the kitchen you quickly change the subject. “So how’s your pumpkin looking? What theme did you pick this year?”

Bucky isn’t sure he hears correctly when your father mentions something about dwarfs, but upon seeing the kitchen table he’s proven wrong.

Seven pumpkins sit in a row, each showing painted characteristics of Walt Disney’s cartoon variations of the fairytale dwarfs with background details carved to shine out from the candle burrowed in the pumpkin. The whole gang was there. Each pumpkin dwarf had its own colored hat; everyone’s beard a different shape and length.

A myriad of paints and brushes litter the table protected by a spare sheet that looks as if it had received much love over the years during arts and crafts time. Eyeing the paint stains on your father’s fingers, Bucky can make a fair wager as to who the artist in the house is.

Only one dwarf could have Grumpy’s sour expression, the one with the roses cheeks was not doubt Bashful; and who else could sport a grin that wide except for Happy?

A memory from 1939 surfaces fondly of Evelyn begging him to take her to the pictures to see it even though he told her he was too old. Her wide eyes eventually won him over and he dragged Steve along for the viewing.

Remnants of pumpkin entrails lay on the floor and the aforementioned mishap comes into focus. Bucky reaches for a rag to clean up the remaining spill but you snatch it first, quick to mop up and join your mother in the kitchen.

The most pristine-looking woman Bucky has ever seen in his life turns from the wastebasket in the corner, broom and dustpan in hand. Not a hair out of place, her pearl necklace looks as if it had just been polished.

“Oh,” the crease above her nose pinches, “I wish you hadn’t brought everyone back here, there’s so much clutter from this. . . project.”

“Dear, it’s just family.” Dad inclines his head toward Bucky. “Bucky, this is my lovely wife. Darling, this is Bucky.”

“Bucky? I’m so sorry, I was under the impression your name was James.”

“Oh, it is, Bucky is a childhood nickname that just stuck. But you can call me whatever is easiest for you.”

“Well, welcome to our home, James.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“I’m sorry the place is such a mess, it’s been a bit of a chaotic day.”

A few awkward beats pass before you approach your mother.

“Hello, dear,” her syrupy sweet voice contrasts the stiff kiss she leaves in the air above your cheek.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Have you been working long hours again?” She fixes a bobby pin that had begun to worm its way out of your hair. “Poor thing, the circles under your eyes are so dark, I knew this job would be hard on you. Have you been drinking enough water?”

You protest weakly, telling her it hasn’t been that bad and you must not have touched your makeup up good enough because you were resting just fine. Shoulders tighten slightly when she does a scan of you from head to toe - stopping to fix the collar of your dress that had crumpled when your father hugged you.

Some of the awkward tension breaks when your father clears his throat, drawing attention away from the mother-daughter reunion. “So what do you two think of the pumpkins?”

Immediately, your face softens. Joining your Dad to look over the assortment of pumpkins, you let out an appreciative whistle. “You’ve outdone yourself this year. Only one pumpkin required for entry and you bring six extra? The other contestants are going to hate you.”

“Probably,” your father replies with a chuckle. “Although the town already resents that I’ve won seven years in a row.”

“That’s quite an impressive reign.” Bucky runs a finger over the most prominent pumpkin, one that wasn't quite right. “But, I-uh, I think Doc is missing his glasses, sir.”

“Oh gosh, you’re right. He is supposed to have glasses. How did I miss that?” Leaning heavily into his crutches he groans. “And how do I get specs for a pumpkin on short notice?”

“You got a coupla paper clips around?”

With a puckered brow, your dad indicates to a drawer in the kitchen, from which you produce a handful of paper clips. After a minute or so of fiddling with the wire - using a glass to get a perfect round shape - he offers a pair of miniature spectacles fit for a gourd.

After examining the makeshift glasses your dad peers at Bucky, letting out a bark of laughter with a clap on his back to match. “Now we’re cooking with gas! Sweetheart, can you hand me some of that glue so I can pop these on?”

You proffer the pot of glue and help your father attach the glasses to Doc’s pumpkin.

The grandfather clock in the family room announcing the hour prompts your mother to sigh heavily. “Oh dear, we are running late. I told you we did not have time for these last minute additions. I warned you about leaving things until the last minute this year.”

“Ah, we all know they aren’t going to start without us, don't sweat it.” Dad waves a hand, not one to be rushed.

“You always think the best is going to happen.”

“And you always think the worst is going to happen.”

An unladylike humph passes from her lips before a bit of panic flashes across her eyes and she’s the picture of grace again. For a second, Bucky saw a shadow of you pass over her features. “Can you grab the boxes from the garage to help your father pack the pumpkins?”

A ‘yes ma’am’ rolls off your tongue before the sentence is finished, feet moving to carry out the request. Bucky lends a hand, following your dad’s instructions not to knock their hats askew.

As soon as your back is turned your mother slips in behind you, shifting a handful of the pumpkins you’d painstakingly placed. Despite her efforts, it doesn’t go unnoticed.

“I’m sorry to leave the place a mess, it’s a horrible first impression. I hope you can forgive us, James.” Your mother tugs on the strings of her apron, shaking it out before placing it on a designated peg.

“I don’t mind cleaning up, Mom.”

“Oh,” she shakes her head, patting you on the cheek, “don’t you worry about it. I’ll take care of it later. Do you two want to join us?”

You and Bucky each grab a box, following your parents to their vehicle to pack them in the trunk safely.

“No, we’re just going to take a walk around since we’ll be busy tomorrow night.”

Bucky casts a suspicious eye to you. “We’re busy tomorrow night?” he mutters under his breath.

“Mhmm,” you hum. “It’ll be fun, don’t worry about it.”

Again, your mother repeats her invitation.

Your dad exhales loudly after opening the passenger-side door. “Honey, let them be, no young couple wants to spend non-stop time with the parents. We’ll see them tomorrow.”

Mom huffs. “Well, there are enough leftovers from dinner for both of you. We really need to get going.”

Dad leaves an obnoxious smooch to your cheek. “So happy you’re home, sweetie.” Then he turns his head to face Bucky. “Really really glad you’re here. Looking forward to getting to know you.”

“You two have fun!” Bucky catches a moment between you and your mother. She shimmies her eyebrows up and down a few times as you close the driver’s door. With a wink she pulls the car out of the drive without any response from you.

Slightly miffed, you walk back into the house with Bucky on your heels.

It’s not until you start scrubbing the table Bucky speaks. “I thought your mom said she’d clean up?”

You snort, tossing a rag in the sink. “She said that because our cleaning standards have never seen eye-to-eye. Anyway.” With a deep breath you start digging in the cabinets, pulling down a few snacks. “You wanna grab that bag on the coat rack so we can head out?”

Once the food and a picnic blanket are stashed in the bag, Bucky slings it over his shoulder and accompanies you outside.

The neighborhood is homey, even sweet, Bucky thinks. Everywhere he looks he’s met with greenery and actual white picket fences. He hadn’t been convinced they existed in real life until this stroll through your old stomping grounds.

“Where exactly are we going?”

Nonchalantly slipping your hand in the crook of his elbow you answer. “Tomorrow my mother will insist on taking us on a horribly boring and irrelevant tour of the town, so tonight you’re getting my tour.”

Someone across the street calls your name, interrupting your conversation. An elderly woman beneath an oversized straw hat straightens up from her garden.

Your smile is instant and full of sunshine when you return the older woman’s greeting. “Mrs. Robbins!” Leading Bucky across the empty street you meet her on the other side of her gate.

Her eyes crinkle kindly as she takes your hand in hers. “Oh, Sassafras, it is so good to see you again!”

You laugh and shake your head. “Good to see you too, ma’am.”

She tuts her tongue a few times before patting your hand. “Darling you’re old enough to call me Fiona, please do. And who is this handsome young man?” Dark eyes examine Bucky, keener than her feeble posture would suggest.

“This is my boyfriend, Bucky. Bucky, Mrs.-” you stop herself at her sharp look. “This is Fiona. A dear family friend and Harvey’s sister.”

Brown skin wrinkles around her softening lips. “It’s nice to meet you, Bucky.”

“Nice to meet you too, ma’am. I work for your brother at the garage, he’s been more than kind to me.”

She titters at that, hand swiping through the air. “I should hope so! He better be payin’ it forward after he inherited the place from her grandfather. I’ve gotta warn you, kid. This one,” Fiona nods to you with no small amount of affection, “has always had moxie; done what she wants, what other people want be damned. She’s a brave girl. Sure you can keep up?”

Bucky beams down at you and you return it easily. “Probably be a step behind her most of the way, but I’m up for the chase.”

You bid her goodbye only after securing a promise to see her tomorrow night.

“And what exactly is tomorrow night?” Bucky’s question is drowned out by another neighbor exclaiming at your presence.

You seem to feel rather than see Bucky’s questioning gaze on you. “Babysat,” you nod to a young family pouring out of a vehicle and heading into their home who were waving at you like maniacs.

Next house down you offer another explanation. “Cat-sat.”

Ten more steps and you speak again. “Helped her tend her garden when her husband left for the war,” you wiggle your fingers at a pregnant woman checking her mailbox who was wearing a sparkling smile.

A car slows down to move alongside you; the mustachioed gentleman at the wheel asks, “You kids need a ride?”

Bending at the waist to make eye contact through the open window you say, “No, thank you, Mr. Quaid. We’re enjoying the evening walk.”

“Take care!” The car speeds up and is gone.

A little more solemnly you nod toward a couple sitting on their front porch, hands joined. “Their son was a few years younger than me, I tutored him in math. He ended up doing really well. . .” Your voice fades when you smile in their direction. Hand moving to grip his, you continue quieter, “He was drafted when he was 18. Died in the first battle he saw. They were devastated. I tried to visit and bring them food as often as I could.”

He squeezes your fingers, no words needed - the weight of loss heavy in his own heart. Seeking to lighten the mood, Bucky clears his throat. “You didn’t tell me you were a local celebrity.”

You scoff in a way your mother certainly would’ve labeled as undignified. “Oh, it’s just a few neighbors. Helps that I’ve got a dreamboat on my arm.”

Then it’s his turns to scoff. “Hardly. You’re the good-looking one of the pair, Sixth Floor.”

“Ah, but you’re the new one in town. The place will be buzzing with news of you by the time we’ve walked the neighborhood.”

Bucky isn’t quite sure how to feel about that, but before he can voice any concern you’ve arrived in the town square where volunteers were setting up decorations and festivities for the coming weekend.

He whistles at the splendor of the unfurled banners hanging above the streets, dozens of jack-o-lanterns hanging from light posts, and the fervor of the crowd orchestrating the perfect swoop of a swag of orange and black tinsel. “Man, you weren’t kidding about your town being into Halloween.”

“No, I was not,” you admit with a rueful laugh. “Everyone really got into it in an effort to lower kids’ interest in vandalism. What were your Halloweens like growing up?”

“Umm, usually pretty relaxed. The girls always dressed up; I put minimal effort into putting a costume together.”

“Party pooper.”

“I do remember this one Halloween when we were young. The ice cream store down the block would give you a free scoop if you showed up in a costume. It was more like a mob than a store, kids everywhere. The employees couldn’t keep up with how many cones to give out. Don’t think they ever did that again.”

“That is adorable, but I can’t blame the owner. I would’ve knocked down some doors for ice cream too.”

“I’m assuming your Halloweens were slightly more eventful than mine?”

“Slightly.”

“Yeah, that’s your lying tone.”

“I don’t have a lying tone!”

“That’s the same tone of voice you used when Steve and Peggy were arguing about which one of them was more likely to win a bear fight and you told them you didn’t have an opinion.”

You both chortle at the memory.

“Oh my god, how had I already forgotten about that? How could such a playful question escalate into them aggressively advocating for their individual tactical advantages over a bear?”

“Alcohol is one way. Stubbornness is the other. And they both had loads that night.”

“I thought you said Steve couldn’t get drunk.”

“Fine, pure stubbornness on his part. Either way, you’re lying to me.”

You continue your walk through the downtown neighborhood in the direction of the river.

“Okay, my Halloweens were plenty eventful. Lots of dances and parties and festivals. We don’t know how not to take Halloween seriously. Spooky is literally woven into the fabric of our town.”

“Right, right, I remember you talking about the Headless Horseman poem.”

“Yep. The author lived not too far from our house. Rumor has it Walt Disney is doing a cartoon based off of the story.”

“That what inspired your dad to go with the dwarfs for pumpkins this year?”

The sparkle in your eye proves his theory. “Has anyone told you you’re very astute, Sergeant Barnes? Anyway, we’ve got loads of other stories. The cemetery is haunted; some of the statues have been seen getting up and walking around, visiting graves. The British head of intelligence during the Revolutionary War, John Andre, was captured in Tarrytown after meeting with Benedict Arnold to negotiate his defection - he was killed several days later. People still report seeing Major Andre wander the woods, along with the Headless Horseman, obviously. The Flying Dutchman, the phantom ship, has been spotted offshore in the Hudson too.”

The look on his face must have betrayed his fear that his girlfriend believed in ghosts, because you snicker. “It’s mostly all in good fun, but the legends leave plenty of room for the local kids to terrify everyone.”

“Don’t suppose you were ever involved in any of those pranks?”

“Me? Oh gosh no.” Your intense tone of innocence has his lips curling in disbelief. “Well. . . one night some friends and I scared some tourists who were walking around the cemetery. It’s funny how from a distance, lit jack-o-lanterns can look so realistic when being swung from a stick.”

“You tricked people into thinking heads were floating around in the fields?”

“We were just carrying our jack-o-lanterns around, I don’t know what you’re talking about. . .” Oh, mischief was a good color on you.

You turn down a worn road and Bucky takes a moment to admire your silhouette in the eventide.

Over your shoulder you call, “You coming?”

“Depends, you taking me into the woods to scare me with floating heads?”

Beguiling eyes twinkle. “Not yet. I wanna show you something.”

He takes your outstretched hand and lets you lead the way; your feet carrying you as if you’d walked this trail a hundred times before. Turns out, you had.

Not too many steps later, the smell of the river and a cooler breeze greets the pair as a huge building looms in the distance. Beginning to block the view of the Hudson the closer you get, Bucky can just make out the sign affixed in bold letters across the side.

“This your old factory?”

Your silence prompts Bucky to glance down where he finds you nodding. As if the words had suddenly been snatched from your throat, like your faculties were stripped down to remembering how to breathe. He looks at you closer.

There’s. . . pain. Not the physical type. The type that was beneath the skin, underneath the beat of your heart. A type of pain uncomfortably familiar to him.

The affliction etched into your brow is too close to how he feels when recalling his time overseas. Countless hours you had spent asking about and listening to his stories, holding him close when the memories were so vivid he almost couldn’t distinguish them from reality.

But there were moments he found himself yearning for pieces of that life, he must admit. The camaraderie among his unit, the steady sense of duty, the sharing of stories around the fire when Dugan wouldn’t shut the hell up, sharing a dance with a Red Cross girl on a rare night off in London. Yes, there was inarguable tragedy, trauma, and sacrifice. He was left with scars and loss.

Selfishly, he realizes, he had not spent a moment thinking about what you had lost.

Your tone is unintentionally forlorn as you share the names of your crewmates, what your days were like, a few anecdotes of your time there. A sadness that seemed a cousin to the dissatisfaction you’d had when clocking out of the corporate office every day seeps through the tension in the hand tucked into his.

Buried under the facts, he senses a void that aches more in this moment than he’s ever witnessed. The quiet charm of your hometown dampened by the war factory up the river. Tension in your household when you told your mother of your career plans. Knowledge and skills you excelled in. The team of women in your charge who you loved deeply, felt a responsibility to. Childhood playmates that hadn’t returned from the European theater. A sense of purpose and pride ripped away after the last Axis power surrendered.

You’d never stared mortality in the face like he had, but you’d fought battles, risked a lot. The course of your life changed forever because of the war. The troops were celebrated, at least publicly, upon their return. There was a reverence reserved for the uniformed troops.

But you. . . you were thrust aside to make room for men like him. You, thousands of yous, were told you were no longer needed. You could go home and sit. You were meant for something softer, something more domestic. Your expertise and fortitude were no longer needed, could be put in a memory box and forgotten about.

The awareness that this is the first he’s seen this side of you unnerves him. Had he ignored it? Could you be that adept at hiding these inner struggles? Were you concealing this on purpose? Did guilt haunt you into silencing this wound? Sure, you’d alluded to how you’d been unhappy being pushed out of your job at the factory, that the office job was a consolation prize. Although, could it be called a prize when you’d forced the hand that had given it?

Shame washes over him as you blink tears away. Why hadn’t he asked? How hadn’t he caught this earlier? He wants to ask now, desperately wants to know and hold you, but he can read you well enough to see the sign your eyes hold that screams ‘do not cross into this territory’.

It dawns on him that he doesn’t know what to do. Helpless had never been a good fit for him.

Minutes of silence pass as he continues to watch you stumble through the visceral memories whirling about.

Then the answer hits him like a ball cracking against a bat.

Follow your example.

He can listen. He can respect boundaries. He can gently nudge. He can be present. He can offer perspective. He can provide backup when you face the scary depths of your mind. He can love.

Wordlessly you turn your back on the factory, unknowingly desperate to put space between you and a home that is too dear, too. . . no longer yours.

He can relate.

So he falls in step as you walk away, lost in thought. Trusting that you subconsciously know your next destination, that you’ll feel it when you arrive.

Every step away from that spot, you’re cast in a new light in the pitch black of night. One that paints you in braver, more hallowed strokes than before. A new admiration, a new respect. . . a new love blooms in him for you. And again, he finds himself thankful that he dropped into your life.

Releasing your hand, he pulls you closer to him with an arm around your shoulders and presses a vow to your head with his lips. A promise to watch closer, to always give you the respect you’ve earned, to care about the safety of your heart as you do for his.

In that moment, he decides that you deserve the world. And he’s going to do whatever he can to deliver it right to your feet.

You’ve walked a mile or so when you break out of your reverie and survey your surroundings, angling further toward a clearing free from artificial light or people. Finding a satisfactory spot - by what standards, he’s unsure - you pull the blanket from the bag he’s been carrying and settle it over the lush green grass. While you make yourself comfortable on the checked picnic blanket, he watches you with what he’s sure is an obvious adoration.

Looking up, what you were going to say dies on your tongue. “What?” you ask uncertainly, dragging out the vowel.

“Nothin’,” he shrugs. “Just enjoying the view.”

The cock of your head says you don’t believe him but you don’t press the matter.

“Well, c’mere.” You motion to the blanket next to you.

Feeling playful he shoves his hands into his pockets. “Answer one question.”

You hum inquisitively.

“Did you bring me to the middle of the woods to scare the bejesus outta me in the spirit of Halloween?”

Laughter has never sounded so sweet in his whole life. The mirth in your cheeks tugs a dopey grin upon his face as he plops down next to you, shoulder to shoulder.

“Alright, what’re we doing out here, Sixth Floor?”

“Well, you’re always complaining about how the city has too much light to really see the stars, so. . .” You turn your face to the heavens, Bucky following in kind.

He had been so wrapped up in you he’d failed to notice the mantle of twinkling lights above his head. A steadying breath is necessary as a peace washes over him at the beautiful sight.

“Now that’s a view.”

“Go ahead, talk my ear off about them.”

Growing up in New York City, the area was notorious for blackouts. Gradually growing bored during a summer filled with lightless evenings he found himself crawling onto the roof of his childhood home and examining the sky. He had been slow to fall in love with the sky but it had persisted throughout his childhood.

During a sleepless night on the cold ground in Italy, he realized the constellations he was looking up at were different from the ones back home. Peggy had surreptitiously smuggled him an astronomy book after Steve had rescued the 107th from Azzano and he’d carried it in his pack until he’d returned home. The same book rested permanently on his nightstand, a faithful companion when a different kind of sleepless night plagued him.

He settles in, throwing an arm around your shoulders, rubbing you for extra warmth.

“Ooh ooh, Jupiter is right there.” He points out the planet.

“Where?”

“Right there.” He wags his finger in emphasis.

“I. . . I just see stars.”

“Here, lay down.” Bucky falls to his back, feeling you drop next to him. He circles the planet again with a finger, hoping it’ll help guide your line of sight.

“Oh. . . yeah, absolutely, wow.”

“You still can’t see it can you?”

Your move to roll into his shoulder to muffle your giggles and embarrassment is futile; there’s no way he can pass up the opportunity to tease you about it.

In a torrent of words he finds himself helpless to stop, he tells you all about the skies above. He waxes poetic about the solar eclipse he’d seen over the summer, explains the draconid meteor shower that had graced the atmosphere earlier that month, and indicates several constellations.

He’s still not convinced you can actually make out the constellations; Ursa Major and Cassiopeia being his two favorites that evening. At one point you sit up and he shuffles to rest his head in your lap, legs crossed at his ankles.

Although he usually preferred to observe from the wings, he finds himself drawn to your audience. He could count on one hand the number of people he was at ease enough with to speak unbridled. Granted, you were an easy audience. Even if you were indulging him. there was refuge in your company.

Your digits twine into his hair, looping through the beginnings of a curl at the ends, undoing the efforts of the hair cream. A touch so gentle he could not bring himself to care. His eyes slide shut and he focuses only on the feeling of you playing with his hair, fingernails pleasantly scratching his scalp every so often.

Eventually, he runs out of things to say and you both keep your faces turned up to the blanket of stars. A thousand questions cross his mind yet he struggles to find his footing in this unfamiliar emotional territory.

“So, your mom seems a little. . .”

Your fingers falter for a moment before slowly resuming their perusing of his hair. “Obstinate?”

The bitterness surrounding that one word tells him all he needs to know.

“Invested?” He offers as an alternative.

You only hum.

“She cares enough to go along with your dad’s ideas. Like helping with the pumpkins, even if it seemed to stress her out.”

“Guess that’s love for you.” He detects a hint of strain in your voice, as if the unexpected emotions of your hometown arrival had drained you.

He’s hesitant to push further and his newfound courage fails him.

The stillness that falls is peaceful. A cozy bubble that’s just the two of you and the stars.

You eventually squint to see your watch in the dark and declare its time to head back before your mother calls the cavalry.

“She’d call the cops?”

“If it’s so late she thinks we’ve gone missing. And the Chief is my uncle, so. . .” A docile mirth meets him as you pull him up from the blanket to join you on two feet. “Do you want to explain to my mother's brother what we were doing in the wilderness at night in solitude?”

Bucky opens his mouth but you cover it with your hand.

“No innuendo-laced sass, sir.”

In a moment of impulsivity he kisses your fingers and is enamored by the embarrassment you hide by looking away, clear desire visible in the starlight.

“Let’s go before you give us a reason to really be in trouble, Sergeant.”

Unsurprisingly, he finds himself awake well before the sun. Given the unfamiliar environment and his mind turning the events of last night over and over, he was already pacing the guest bedroom’s floor. After debating internally whether or not it was rude to make coffee in someone else’s kitchen, he settles for scrawling a few passages in the journal you’d gifted to settle his mind.

He opens the door to leave the bathroom in fresh clothes and a shaved face, only to come face-to-face with sleep-rumpled you; in your pajama set with a robe thrown over it. Your bare feet brush against his - per usual, your toes are freezing.

“Good morning,” he hums.

“G’morning,” you return, burying your face in his chest, arms securing around his middle.

Unable to contain his grin, he scratches the back of your neck with one hand, smoothing circles on your back with the other. “You sure are cute in the morning.” He catches something vaguely resembling a ‘stoooooop’. “I’m telling you, you look your best right after you’ve woken up.”

“Shhh, stop talking,” you slur into his shirt, seemingly attempting to rub the sleep from your eyes.

“I mean,” he half-shrugs, “we have spent a night together.”

Your hand presses firmly over his mouth before he could finish his sentence. “James Buchanan, if you utter another word about that you and I will be banned from this house for the rest of our lives.”

He tugs your wrist down to kiss your knuckles. “We literally just fell asleep on the same couch, babydoll.” If asked he would blame the morning hour, not the overwhelming sensation of having you close, responsible for the deep rasp of his voice.

“I promise my mother will not listen to that story long enough before she disowns me.”

Releasing you, he steps out of the bathroom to let you in. Nodding, he turns around to watch as you shuffle to the sink. “Rest of our lives, huh?” He tosses a smug grin which you volley with a scowl.

“Shut up and make me coffee.”

He knows you miss the wistful glance accompanying his laugh as you shut the door in his face. Not that he minds.

When you do emerge for your lovingly-prepared beverage you are dressed to the nines. A new dress, coordinated stockings, and hair in perfect rolls. . . Bucky was more than a little taken aback. Saturdays were when he was treated to your out-of-the-office look; the bare face, your overalls, the unmitigated sass. This was. . . different.

“What?” You eye him from beneath your heavy eye-liner, taking a cautious sip out of your mug.

“N-. . . nothing, doll. You look nice.”

Your rigid smile gives him pause, but it’s one of the only pauses he has for the day.

The rest of the morning and afternoon don’t leave him much time to mull over all he’s learned about you in the last 24 hours; your mother kept the four of you quite busy with her town tour. Bucky can practically feel you cringing from your place next to him on the backseat bench of your parents’ car as your mother drags you all over town.

He doesn’t completely understand the point of most of the stops. She makes sure to drive by the newly built gazebo, the lovely park adjacent to downtown where there was plenty of space for kids to run, and a new boutique that had opened that spring. The tour included lunch with the mayor and his family, tea and coffee with the neighbors, and a quick stroll around the block where your mother pointed out several wonderful houses for sale.

However, he did notice how quiet you were. Your commentary was nil in comparison to the night before. Choosing to listen to your mother rather than add on to her narration struck him as slightly odd. Was it born from weariness or a reluctance to start an argument?

As the day progressed, Bucky clocked a growing agitation in you. Without so much as a minute alone with you since that morning he couldn’t put a finger on the source of your turmoil. He ached to fix it for you. Since he didn’t know what was broken, he settled for grabbing your hand and squeezing it three times.

Squeeze.  I.  Squeeze. Love. Squeeze. You.

The scowl you were wearing diminishes slightly when you redirect your gaze from outside the window to him. You squeeze back:

I. Love. You. Too.

The time for supper approached quicker than your mother anticipated, landing you, your father, and Bucky in the family room while she prepared the meal alone. After your lackluster attempt at offering help, which was quickly denied, you plop down onto the couch next to Bucky. He draws comfort from the way you nuzzle into his side, the way you rest your head on his shoulder for a few minutes. Your breathing evens out enough for Bucky to table his concern for a later time.

It isn’t until your dad shares a story about the time 10-year-old you had insisted a bead you were using to make necklaces was small enough to fit in your ear. It turns out you were correct, it was small enough to fit in your ear. After spending five hours at the doctor’s office with your father, the bead fell out the second the nurse had called your name to be seen by the doctor. It’s the first time that day Bucky hears you give a genuine laugh.

When the group sits down for dinner he can’t help but compare his family table to yours. Unlike being crowded into each other’s space in Brooklyn, he felt a world away from you at the formal dining table.

In between demure bites, your mother asks: “So James, we’ve been told you served, but haven’t heard many details.”

“For 1943 I served as a Sergeant with the 107th Infantry. I then became a part of a special operations combat unit.”

“Is it true you served with Captain America?”

“Mom.” If your mother could feel the waves of fury rolling off of you, she didn’t show it.

Feigning surprise, her shoulders raise in a shrug. “It’s a harmless question.”

Seeking to quell the simmer of anger bubbling in you, Bucky swoops in. “Yes ma’am, I did. Alongside a group of strong, fearless men.”

“And what was that like?”

“We dealt with a lot of classified information, so unfortunately I’m not at liberty to discuss much of it.”

A parroted line given to him by the SSR the moment he’d landed on American soil; a line that had saved him from this exact conversation a hundred times before.

Undeterred, your mother pats her lips daintily with her napkin. “Well, what is Captain America like? Have you met him, dear?”

After chewing on a forkful of the meal for a touch longer than necessary, you respond. “I’ve only known him as Bucky’s friend Steve. And he’s very kind, intelligent, thoughtful. He’s an artist, Dad. I’m sure you two would find a lot to talk about.”

“Well, James, thank you very much for your service. It’s an honor to have you at our table.”

“It was nothing, ma’am. I only did what other able-bodied men were willing to do, except I had the blessing of coming home.”

As if to stop whatever retort burning hot on your tongue, your father clears his throat. “We all do what needs to be done in times of war. Think all of us here can relate to that.”

“Oh yes,” your mother hums. “During the Great War, my husband, brother, and father were all off fighting. I took care of the household while everyone was gone instead of trying to find work. I felt that creating a stable home would be the most comforting for returning soldiers.”

Bucky does his best not to sputter around the food in his mouth, eyes going as wide as his dinner plate.

Your comeback to the obvious jab was a lifted chin and pursed lips. The line in your shoulders speaking to the countless times this conversation had happened before.

Without a rejoinder from you, the matriarch sighs. “But so many young people had a fervor for a more hands-on approach to war, as they are wont to do.”

“No need to mince words, Mom, we all know you weren’t a big fan of my factory work.”

“Thank goodness,” Bucky says amiably “or I wouldn’t have a job or career path. Your daughter has really steered me down a road where I feel a sense of purpose again, and I won’t ever be able to convey what that really means to me.”

The smile does not extend beyond your mouth - not when you catch how starry-eyed your mother looks. Undercurrents he doesn’t totally understand emanate from both women at the table. What he does catch is your father’s eyes flitting back and forth between the most prominent ladies in his life, measuring the same current Bucky feels.

The man opposite him shakes his head at his wife, who tsks quietly and pushes her food around her plate for another moment.

Head tilting toward you, your mother asks, “Will you help me clear the table and wash the dishes?”

“I don’t mind helping out, ma’am. Dinner was delicious and-” Before Bucky had fully risen out of his chair your mother was shaking her head.

“Oh no no no, you boys just relax while the two of us clean up.”

Probably a little heavier than intended, Bucky drops back into his seat. Discomfort knocks in his knee bouncing under the table as he watches you pile your arms full of dishware before joining your mother in the kitchen.

The fingers of his left hand fidget with the tablecloth. It had been several years since he’d been forced to sit unbusy for this long a stretch of time. Unsettled hands often led to unsettled thoughts. If he wasn’t careful-

A muffled grunt at his right jerks Bucky from his thoughts.

“You okay, sir?”

Jaw clenched, your father nods as he shifts in pain, taking a few deep breaths.

Blue eyes flit down to the older man’s right leg where he’s gripping what Bucky would guess to be the site of the amputation. It passes seconds later, the WWI vet relaxing once again. The moment didn’t appear to worry him; in fact, it seemed to be a regular occurrence.

“Has Sassafras told you about how I lost my leg?” The deep voice prompts Bucky’s eyes back up to your father’s face, one that is watching him thoughtfully. A pang of guilt twitches in his chest at his outright perusal of the man’s injury. But he didn’t seem embarrassed or self-conscious. Just a soldier asking a question of a fellow GI.

“No, sir. She’s only mentioned it in passing. I didn’t want to overstep.”

“Ah,” your father waves a hand dismissively. “I was in the hospital recovering longer than I saw combat. Bullet hit just wrong enough in Saint-Miheil. I don’t remember it happening, but I can recall the ambulance ride to the field hospital. Once the surgeons did their work,” he nods to his leg, “I only had to wait to become stable enough to get shipped back here. The hospitals were crowded wall-to-wall. Staff was in a rush to move those of us who were deemed unfit for service to make room for more casualties.”

“Did you ever get a prosthetic?”

“I did, I did. Sure was an uncomfortable thing, though. We were rushed out of the amputee specialty hospital too. None of us were taught how to use them properly. I tried to make it work. Eventually, it wasn’t worth it. Only caused pain on top of pain. The limb found much better use as a makeshift shovel for a certain daughter of mine.”

Both men chuckle at the image of you shrunken down as a toddler, digging a hole in the backyard to bury your treasure with a wooden prosthetic.

“After a while, I stopped trying to get the pain treated. Spasms like what you just saw will come along every once in a while, but it’s manageable. I’m just thankful I got to come home.” His features mellow as he watches his wife and daughter moving in the kitchen in tandem.

Bucky observes the scene as well with a slightly more scrutinous eye. Your mother maintains a steady stream of chatter without any response from you. Eyes fixed on the plates you were lathering with soap, movements mechanical. Something unidentifiable has shifted.

Having caught a vulnerable glimpse of you the previous evening, a tide of protectiveness nearly moves him to his feet. To do what, he wasn’t sure.

Once again, your father’s voice pulls Bucky back to reality. “While not having part of my leg is a pain, tons of soldiers suffer from deeper wounds. My brother-in-law, for example, is still dealing with his shell shock.”

The hair on Bucky’s arms stands up, his blood chills. Briefly he reflects upon his first date with you - the episode he’d had when the busboy had dropped a tray of glassware. He wonders if you’d shared that with your father. If he knew.

As if he could read Bucky’s demeanor, he continues unprompted. “When he arrived home after the Treaty, he lived with us for a few years. I did everything I could for him. Through all my efforts, the most powerful was simply being present. Reassuring him that I was there, I was listening, that he was safe.

“Really, all I did was talk to him like he was human. Which is surprisingly rare with shell shock. Even my wife struggled not to treat him like he was breakable.” Again, the elder’s gaze shifts to where you’re now drying dishes. A wisp of sentiment curls his lips. “What never failed to make his day was his baby niece fearlessly crawling into his lap. She always brought a smile to his face with her kindness, her innocence. . . her belief that her uncle was just that. Not a fighter. Not damaged goods. Just her uncle.”

Ah. So that’s where you’d gotten the extra dose of tenderness.

“Time passed. He healed. Got back on his feet. Found a job in town that suited him; settled down, had a family. Every once in a while he gets that thousand-yard-stare that tells me he’s still fighting battles.”

The scars on Bucky’s chest and back from his time spent with captors in Azzano itch incessantly; he exercises all his self-control to stay still. A bead of sweat rolls down his back.

“In all the chaos and gore, I think the hardest thing to watch was the way men were treated differently in the hospitals. Those of us with life-altering injuries were treated with compassion. But the men with shell shock; the ones shaking uncontrollably, staring into the distance, screaming in their sleep. . . medical staff were unkind to them. Almost like my physical wound protected me from judgement or impatience.

“People who haven’t seen a second of action seem to think physical trauma is the only excuse for mental trauma. Like that can’t exist by itself. I never saw that at all. I know you and I both have seen our fair share of shit. The biggest difference? I was discharged. The shell-shocked were often sent right back into battle. The experts, doctors, nurses - it was obvious they believed treating the mind was an acknowledgement that there was a problem in the first place. Because they didn’t have a solution, they turned it into the soldier’s own problem. He was weak. Needed to buck up and get the job done.”

Frozen to the spot, Bucky regards your father as he takes a deep breath. Shifting forward ever-so-slightly he locks eyes with Bucky. Through all the combat the younger veteran had seen, he’d never felt more exposed than in this moment.

Fingers rubbing at his chin, the older veteran begins again. “The things all those doctors say, that certain men’s minds are fragile or it’s an excuse to go home. . . there’s no reason for someone to continue the behavior once they make it home. When you’re in a room by yourself and wake up from a nightmare and find trouble breathing - what audience benefits from that act? That’s not something anyone wishes for.”

Somehow sensing the trepidation across the table, he leans back in a relaxed, yet calculated posture. Gives a sheepish chuckle while Bucky tries to catch his breath.

“Not to prattle on like an old geezer, but all that to say; I’ve had first-hand experience with wounds that aren’t visible. Every man is different. Time moves differently for every one. There’s not a set recovery time. As long as a man has a support system and is honest with them, he’s going to be okay.”

A long pause stretches out, Bucky’s mind ticking as his knee bounces slower eventually stilling.

One whispered phrase floats across the table. “You’re going to be okay, son.”

Voice thick, every muscle straining to suppress a display of emotion, Bucky manages a, “Th. . . Thank you, sir.”

“Anytime.”

That one word, filled with a copious amount of conviction, did more to convince Bucky of his value than almost anything else he’d heard in the last year of his life.

Movement from the kitchen catches his eye again and momentarily, you glance over your shoulder and catch him looking. Bucky smiles, remembering a similar moment in his mother’s kitchen the night you’d all had dinner together. Instead of returning his grin you whirl back to the sink, spine tight.

He can’t imagine what has you so tense, what could have changed so drastically from the night before.

His only course of action is to hope you’ll shed light on it when he can steal a moment alone with you.

Chapter Eighteen

Lovely dividers by @firefly-graphics!

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The paper falls from your fingertips. “Buc-? Hi, wh- are you okay?”

You hear a sigh and then, “Sorry to call you at work, I know it could get you in trouble. Wanted to catch you early.”

It doesn’t escape your notice that he hadn’t answered your question. “What can I do for you today, sir?” You phrase the question again, warily eyeing Flannery across the office.

“‘M gonna have to bow out of dinner tonight. I know it’s my second time this week, I’m just absolutely beat, think I may be getting sick. I’m leaving work right now. Wouldn’t be much fun company.”

“Oh,” you deflate in your chair. “We’re sorry to hear that, sir. Is there anything we could do to accommodate you? Perhaps an alteration to the proposed agenda?”

“I don’t think so. Just wanna be home and go to sleep. I’m sorry, I know we haven’t seen each other this week. I’ll make it up to you.”

You keep your voice professional, shoving down your disappointment. “There’s no need for that, sir. I’ll make note of the change in schedule and be in touch at a later date to confirm with your office.”

“Thanks, sweetheart. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Feel better,” you whisper before setting the receiver down. Something in his tone haunts you the rest of the morning and well into the lunch hour. You don’t hear the break room’s topic of debate as you push your leftovers aimlessly around your pyrex. A bitter taste had settled in your mouth after the unexpected phone call.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Suzy slides into the seat next to you, sounding too casual for your taste.

“Got a lot on my mind.” You chew another mouthful of fruit in contemplation.

“This have to do with your dreamboat?”

“I’m really not in the mood today, Suze.”

“That’s fine. But are you okay?”

Chewing your lip, you turn to her. Her red curls had a little extra bounce but her eyes betrayed her concern for you. “Not really. I can’t put my finger on it, but something’s not right with him. I can’t shake the idea that he’s avoiding me.”

“Did anything specific happen? You guys have a fight?”

“No fighting. . . though he acted strangely after our last date.”

“Strange how?”

The yellow and orange leaves beneath your feet had a distinct crunch to them synonymous with the time of year. It had been a standard evening out for the two of you: comfort food from the diner, a shared piece of pie, and a stroll along the streets. Now that the temperature had been dropping slowly, you could nestle closer to each other.

“‘M just saying, you’ve picked the pie the last few times, I’m past due to choose the flavor.”

“But Bucky, you pick blackberry every time, I’m giving us some variety!” you protested.

“Why would you stray from a pie that never fails you? One that never gives up, that truly strives to be its best for us-”

“Are you eating this pie or marrying it?”

“It’s crossed my mind.”

Your giggles and his chuckles echoed, the street lamps lighting your way home.

“I don’t know why you’re with me then, sounds like pie is your true-”

A loud pop shattered the peace of the night and Bucky went rigid. Before you knew what was happening a shove knocked the breath out of you and you ended up several steps behind your boyfriend. He’d grabbed a pipe out of a nearby trash can, ready to wield it against anyone.

“Buck, it’s okay.” You reached out to grab his shoulder and he immediately jerked away from you, chest heaving. “Hon, it was just a car back-firing.”

His eyes were wide and terrified, grip tight on the pipe.

“We’re okay, Buck. We’re safe, nothing is going to hurt us.”

“Right. Sorry. That . . . was an overreaction.”

“You alright?” you stepped toward him. “I know you-”

He took a surreptitious step backward. “I’m fine, uh. . . yeah, I’m fine. Oh, and your door’s right here.”

“Bucky, you’re not-”

“I’m good, really. I’ll see you in a few days, right? Hope you sleep well.”

Decidedly distracted, he brushed his lips against your forehead and took off down the street, loosening his tie. Watching him leave kicked up a storm of confusion in your mind.

“And I haven’t seen him since,” you conclude, leaning forward to put your head in your hands.

The gentle hand on your back surprises you but you don’t shy away from the comfort. “It’s gonna be okay, babydoll. We all go through stuff, sounds like his stuff is a little heavy right now.”

“Then why isn’t he asking me to help?”

That’s the question still on your mind when you get home from work that night and make a call to Steve and Bucky’s apartment.

“Sorry ma’am, no one’s answering at the residence,” the operator drones in your ear. “Is there another number you’d like me to call?”

“No, thank you.” You stare at the telephone as if it had personally offended you, eyebrows knit closely together, arms crossed.

Somewhere in the space of the last three weeks you had messed up, done something to send Bucky running for the hills. You wrack your brain for an explanation, an event or conversation that was even the slightest bit terse. Coming up empty you sigh and force yourself to continue about your evening.

One day passes with no word from Bucky.

Another day goes by silently.

At the end of the third day you find yourself staring at the phone again, debating your next move. 

A girl was allowed to call her boyfriend, right? Especially after not having seen each other in a while, at least to say hi and catch up on the day - and he said he was sick, surely it was alright, even expected to check on him. You reach for the handset. 

Then again, he’d clearly been sending signals that something wasn’t right, perhaps you should just leave it alone. You snatch your hand back to yourself, drawing it up to pick at your lip nervously. 

But Steve, on the other hand. . .

Shockingly, the line connects.

“Hullo?”

“Steve? It’s me.”

“Hey,” Steve’s voice warms, “you wanna talk to Buck?”

“I actually wanted to talk to you.”

“Oh, okay. What’s going on?”

You twist a finger around the phone cord, digging for the right words. “Is Bucky okay?”

“‘Okay’?” you can practically see his forehead wrinkled in confusion.

“I’m not sure why, but he’s been distant over the last few weeks. I don’t know if it’s me or what, but is he safe? Is he okay?”

“He’s, uh. . .” Steve lowers his voice. “He’s been better. Seems to be having a tough time. I thought you knew that, though.”

“No, I haven’t seen him for two weeks.”

“Really?” Clearly as shocked as you were, his tone turns suspicious. “He’s been avoiding me too. In passing he mentioned that his classes have been giving him some trouble, but I figured he’d seek you out with help on that.”

“Yeah,” you sigh. “Me too.”

“Huh. Thanks for letting me know, lemme see what I can do from my end. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Thank you, Steve. That makes me feel better.”

“Of course. Take care of yourself, okay?”

With a smile you bid him goodbye and hang up, hoping he could make some headway.

-x-

Bucky hears Steve hang up the phone and hopes to God he’s not in for a well-meaning chit-chat.

But of course, a knock comes on Bucky’s cracked-open door, and he can’t really deny Steve entrance. Turning back to the pile of classwork on his desk, Bucky busies himself with a half-finished essay. His friend perches against the dresser, ankles and arms crossed.

Bucky scratches absentmindedly at some stubble on his cheek before grunting, “Whaddya want, Steve?”

“Your girl just called. Said she hasn’t heard from you. She’s worried.”

“Been busy.”

“That’s bullshit.” The pencil in Bucky’s hand snaps in two and he forces himself to let go of the pieces and keep his hands flexed open. “What happened, Buck?”

The aftermath of the nightmare - the first that had plagued him in several months - comes back to Bucky. He’d woken in a cold sweat, hands shaking violently, head pounding. Banging out of his room he’d sprinted for the bathroom faucet, dousing his face in ice cold water to shock his senses back to him. Light sleeper that he was, Steve was there in seconds. Bucky had snapped at him when asked what was wrong, had told him to leave him be. He should’ve known Steve wouldn’t leave it for long.

With effort, Bucky spits out, “The day we took Fischer down.” Any additional detail would have been Bucky’s undoing; he knew Steve could connect the dots.

The blond brings up a hand to cover his mouth, heaving a deep breath. “Yeah, that one’s given me nightmares too.”

“Does it? You don’t show it.”

“We’ve pretended not to hear each others’ nightmares for a long time, pal, no use continuing that charade.”

Silence stretches between them for several minutes. Bucky stewing, Steve waiting.

“Why was it them and not us, Steve?”

Steve knew ‘them’ wasn’t just the girl at the church, wasn’t attached to a singular person or event - ‘them’ stood for every life lost in the war that had stripped the world bare of too many things to count.

“I wish I could tell you.”

Clearing the emotion from his throat, Bucky’s next question surprises Steve. “How do you not let it eat you up?”

Shaking his head, Steve replies, “Some days it does. You know I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve, but I try to talk about it. With you, with Peg, sometimes one of the other guys. If you let it stay in your head, it only grows bigger.”

“I don’t know if I can do that right now.”

“That’s okay. And it doesn’t have to be me you talk to if you don’t want. But do me a favor?”

Bucky finally shifts in his chair to look Steve directly in the eye, lifting a brow as if to ask “And what would that favor be?”

“Don’t shut her out. You know you can’t scare her away. Obviously she wants to be part of your life, so let her. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

As messed up as I am, is it fair to her to drag her down with me?

-x-

Bucky was grateful for the quiet apartment - Steve was away on business, his classwork was in a lull, and the day’s work had drained him. All he wanted was to eat and fall into bed. The thought of skipping another meal tempted him as he dreamed of what could possibly be a restful night of sleep.

Soft knocks at the front door startle him away from his bedroom. Slowly, he steps to the door in socked feet. Pressing an eye to the peephole, his heart drops into his stomach and threatens to pound right out of his body. You’re waiting on the other side, fiddling with something in your hands. 

You look nervous.

“Bucky?” How could a voice feel like home but also make him dizzy with anxiety? Letting his forehead rest against the door, he realizes how much he’s missed the sound.

He can feel the second rap of knuckles reverberate through his head. Your voice wraps around him again.

Open the door, Barnes. She’s right there. You need her. 

Shame whispers, “But does she need you as a burden? Does she need this broken man in her life?”

A voice that sounded like Steve urges him to open the door, to let himself be vulnerable. 

The doorknob tenses under his grip.

But he doesn’t move. He can’t.

“I don’t know if you’re even home right now, but uh. . .” he hears you sniffle, prompting his eye to focus again on the peephole. You wipe at your cheek - Bucky convinces himself it couldn’t be because of him. “I got something for ya. You mentioned in one of your letters that writing things down cleared your mind, helped you move past things. And while I don’t really know if you’re going through something or just want to be alone for whatever reason. . . I just hope this helps.”

You stoop down, setting whatever you’d been holding against the door. Straightening, you turn to leave, pause, then face the door again. “I miss you, ya know.”

Hesitant footsteps retreat down the breezeway, your tread easy and familiar in his mind.

Only after counting out a few minutes Bucky cracks the door open. A small packages falls to his feet with a surprisingly solid thud. He nudges the door closed and pulls at the twine, then the brown paper wrapping.

Shaky fingers feel at the strong, yet simple leather cover of a journal. He flips through the unlined pages, mind reeling at your memory of something he couldn’t recall mentioning to you. Forcing air into his lungs he cradles the book as if it were a priceless artifact; maybe for him it was.

Opening to the first page his eyes are immediately drawn to black ink, to your familiar handwriting.

Whether it’s with me or without me, I hope you find peace.

You’d left your initials beneath the note, as if he ever would have questioned whose hand had written the inscription. He lets out a humorless laugh before his knees weaken. Letting himself be taken to the floor, he leans against the door, clutching the journal to his chest.

And on the floor of his empty apartment where he wept the full anguish of his soul, it was a lifeline.

-x-

This was a bad idea. I should go home. This is stupid. 

Bucky’s foot taps against the sidewalk outside of your work building impatiently. He’d been there a few minutes already, knowing your schedule like the back of his hand. A deep urge to finally speak with you had brought him this far, though he was fighting the pull to run back home.

Just as he had convinced himself to turn around, you emerge from the front door and he’s frozen in place.

The notion of home floats through his mind as he watches you, hair only slightly rumpled from your day of work. Poised, graceful as ever, a true striking presence on the sidewalk - earning more turned heads than you would ever be aware of. 

So focused on making sure your hat was perfectly in place, you don’t notice Bucky until he’s right next to you. 

“Hi,” his mind goes blank as he stares into your eyes, wide as dinner plates at his sudden appearance.

“Bucky. . . uh, hi,” you stammer. “Wh-what’re you-”

“Can I walk you home?”

“Y-yeah, absolutely.”

Together, you traverse the deeply familiar path home, though a pace apart. 

“How’s the family?” you ask, reaching for an innocuous subject to fill the dead air.

“Uh, good. I’ve missed the last few Sunday dinners, but I assume everything is fine.”

“Oh.”

“Are you - you doing alright?”

“I’m . . . okay. Been a long few weeks.”

He watches the ground as you walk, the click of your heels on pavement bringing sweeter memories to the forefront of his mind. But then the rhythmic sound stops and he looks up, shocked to see your apartment. You’ve turned to face him and his eyes are drawn to how you’re picking at your cuticles.

“Can we sit?” you motion to the brick steps leading up to your door. He nods and you perch on the stairs, closer to each other than you’d been for weeks. “Bucky. . .” 

“Yeah?”

“I. . .” you turn your eyes back to your fiddling fingers in your lap. “I just need to know if this,” you gesture between you, “is over so I can not think of you as mine anymore. If it is, I can handle it and move on.”

Bucky’s mouth hangs open, at a loss for words. You take that as a cue to continue.

“But if this isn’t over. . . you don’t have to meet my parents next month, if that freaked you out. Or if I came on too strong when you got back from Pennsylvania, I can back off. Just. . .” your eyes finally move to meet his and the uncertainty in them was foreign to him, “tell me what I did wrong so I don’t do it again?”

His mind reels as he sits back to take a long look at you. You were serious. You genuinely thought this was a result of something you’d done - but why would you think any differently?

You don’t know how not seeing you left an aching hole in his chest. You don’t know how often he thought of you, how many times he’d frozen when the operator had asked who he’d wanted to be connected to only to hang up. You don’t know about the wad of cash in his sock drawer for which he had sparkling ambitions. Without knowing that, what other conclusion were you supposed to draw?

“I’m such an ass,” he mutters aloud, much to your furthered confusion. After dragging hands harshly down his face he threads his fingers in yours. “Sweetheart, this hasn’t been about you, not in the slightest.”

“Then what is it about? If it wasn’t something I did, what happened?” Your grip on his hands almost breaks his heart completely - like you were scared he’d bolt if you let go.

Words stick in his throat and he swallows in an attempt to dislodge the lump that had formed there. 

“Buck, it’s me. You can say it.”

“I. . . I don’t even know where I’d start.”

“The beginning?” you gently suggest.

At your urging, he begins haltingly, stumbling over words, hoping he was making some kind of sense. “Uhhh. The night after we spent the day at the garage together. I had a nightmare, a memory of being in Europe. A young woman died - she died because of me. It felt like I was there again. I could feel the cold air and the smell of. . . I relived it that night. The days seemed to get worse after that.”

Details begin to spill from his lips - slowly, then all at once. Things he couldn’t have recalled if asked suddenly were toppling into your lap, unorganized, bloody, and heavy. He recounts the sleepless nights, the images seared in his brain from the battlefront, the components of war rarely shared with civilians that had taken a good portion of his innocence and good conscience.

Pausing, he clears his throat and scratches his chin. “It’s hard to talk about,” he admits in a low voice.

You’ve been silent, but present until this moment. “I know. Thank you for sharing with me.”

“The last few weeks have been a fight between wanting - no, needing - you to bring some light into my life; and living in fear that my darkness may snuff your own light out. I can’t take you down with me, you don’t deserve that.”

“Don’t I get a say in it?”

Tears prick at the corners of his eyes and he withdraws a hand from yours to dash at them. “I hate this,” he sniffles. “I thought I was getting better, that this was behind me. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? For what, being human?”

“For being like this when my life has gotten better. I’ve been home for so long, I should be past this by now.”

Your hands are on his cheeks, tilting his head to look into your eyes again. “Says who? Honey, things like this, it’s not a simple trip from point A to point B. This kind of healing takes time. And a backslide isn’t an indicator of failure.”

“Sure feels like I failed at something.”

“But you haven’t,” you insist firmly. He doesn’t respond and you pull your hands away, hesitantly grasping his again. “Why haven’t you been home to see your family?” you ask after a few moments of reflection.

“The girl I . . . that. . . she reminds me of my sisters. It’s hard to look at them and not see her after. . . it happened. I don’t want to attach that memory to them more than it already is.”

Your chest heaves with a long breath as if you were preparing to dive into deep water. “Your time serving, the things you saw. . . they affected you. You have to admit that.”

“It bothers me, sure, but I didn’t come back wounded. I made it in one piece, I don’t have a reason for being this shaken by it.”

“Just because you’re physically safe doesn’t mean your mind didn’t take on injuries. You’ve been through so much-”

Brusquely, he cuts you off. “My mind is fine. I’m not a coward.”

“Bucky, I know that. Everyone knows that. This isn’t about cowardice or weak minds, or whatever nonsense doctors and generals say it is. To survive what you have, to have made so much progress to get to a place where you’re working and taking care of yourself. . . it’s the strongest thing I’ve ever seen. You’ve chosen a career path. You’re almost done with the training while juggling two jobs, family, and a demanding girlfriend.” Both his lips and yours twitch at your teasing. Then you soften again. “You know I’ve seen this up-close with my uncle. You’re not alone and you’re not crazy.” 

Bucky’s face must have mirrored the doubt he felt inside. 

“You said Steve has episodes too right?” He nods. “Do you think that he has a weak moral character? This man, who you think the world of - do you consider him mentally fragile? No,” you answer for him as he can only shake his head. “Then why would you flip that onto yourself? Why would Steve’s hand-picked second-in-command be considered weak? You wouldn’t because you’re not.”

He couldn’t think of an argument against that - but you took his silence to be dubious.

Your voice is hesitant, unsure. “They do have psychiatric hospitals-”

“I’m not desperate enough for that.” The second the words left his mouth he hears how harsh they sound.

“Do you have to be desperate to ask for help?”

“I shouldn’t need help!” he exclaims suddenly. “Other men came back fine, Dad never went through this. I don’t know how to be this way without feeling like shit about myself. Besides, from the stories I’ve heard, what they do is more similar to torture than treatment.”

You’ve shrunken back, shoulders hunched forward as if to ward off his tone. “Okay. I won’t mention it again. I’m sorry.”

“No,” he huffs in frustration. “I should be the one that’s sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you. You’ve been to hell and back which would make anyone’s soul weary. Please be kinder to yourself.”

“I don’t deserve your kindness, let alone my own. But for some reason, Sixth Floor, you’re giving it to me in spades. I don’t understand.”

“Caring for someone doesn’t always entail what they deserve - but I assure you, you are absolutely deserving of all the patience and gentleness. You are one of the most noble men I’ve ever known.” If the conviction in your voice hadn’t rung so clear, he’d think you were full of it.

“How can you still say that after how I’ve treated you?” He doesn’t give you the chance to respond. “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to lose you baby, I just, I lo. . . I love you too much. And the thought of having pushed you away makes me sick, but I won’t blame you for walking away because of how I’ve acted.”

A sad smile crosses your face as you press your forehead to his before whispering fiercely, “Love isn’t a feeling, it’s an action. I love you to the very bottom of my heart, James. Can you let me love you? Let me show you? I want to be here, if you’ll have me.”

With most of his energy channeled containing sobs, he offers a nod. Leaning in to each other, your lips unite for the first time in too long - earnest, sweet love mingled with relief pours between you. 

Pulling back only slightly, Bucky’s blue eyes search your own. “I missed you,” he murmurs roughly as his thumb wipes away a tear from your chin. 

“I missed you, too,” you return as the pads of your fingers swipe against his wet cheeks.

He lets that settle on his bones for future nights where he may hear whispers of doubt about you and your devotion.

“I wanna get better for you, darling.” He meant it sweet, touching, but you shake your head.

“No.”

He begins to shift away from you, your previous words with the solitary one dissonating, but a hand to the back of his neck holds him fast.

“Don’t get better for me. James Buchanan Barnes is worthy enough to get better for himself.” You interrupt what was obviously going to be a protest from him. “You’re the one that has to live with yourself. I don’t plan on going anywhere, but I also can’t fight this battle for you, as much as I wish I could.”

“I don’t know what getting better for myself even looks like.”

Your eyebrows settle into determination, a directness in your gaze. “Your training is almost done. Quit washing windows, focus on finishing well. Life is about to change for the better. Refocus, take a breather. And let the people in your life love you.”

“I. . . I’ll try.”

“That’s all I can ask. Except. . .” You bite your lip, as if pondering whether you should continue.

“What?” he prompts.

A twinkle returns to your eye and you lean in even closer, “You could shave the beard before you meet my parents or they’ll think I’m dating a hobo.”

For the first time in weeks, a laugh bubbles up through Bucky and out into the world with joy that was anything but hollow.

Chapter Sixteen

Tags:

July 7, 1946

Dear Bucky,

I can already imagine the panic on your face when I hand this to you at the train station this afternoon. I hope you take my assurance that it isn’t a Dear John letter seriously. I just wanted to give you something to read on your long trip to Pennsylvania. A 10 hour train ride to Pittsburgh and then a 2 hour bus ride to New Castle, I think you told me? I know you packed some textbooks but one can only do so much studying in a 12 hour window - you’ll go crazy. And I’d really appreciate it if you returned semi-sane. But I also wanted to circumvent any uncontrollable emotions I may have during a goodbye, no matter how temporary it may be. In short, you’re very welcome.

I know you’re a big brave combat veteran but I also know this training is a big deal for you. It’s all new material, a new place, new people. A lot of change in a really small amount of time. No matter how much you insist that you’re fine, I’ll still commend you for facing this challenge head on. And I’ll be in your corner as long as you’ll let me. Hopefully you’ll be so busy that you forget about any discomfort you may have.

I have to admit, I’m a bit jealous of you. You know how tough work has been the last week. With Anderson piling more tasks on me while he’s been mysteriously out of the office and Flannery being even more strict on how the office is run after the Fourth of July debacle, my job has been exhausting. What I’d give to leave it behind for a while, to learn useful, practical skills. Alas, it wasn’t meant to be - well, I guess I already had my turn, huh? I’m hoping you’ll let me live vicariously through you over the next month. Write to let me know all about what you’re learning and how you’re feeling about it, if you want to. Who knows, you may be able to teach me a thing or two when you get back. But not more than two. That’d be far-fetched. Don’t forget, I did teach you everything you know.

See you in 34 days. That’s doable, right? What am I supposed to do with myself with all this free time? You’ve put quite the cramp in my social life, apparently. I’ll have to see what kind of trouble I can get in without you.

Hope to hear from you soon.

Be good,

Your Girl

July 8, 1946

Sixth Floor,

Gotta admit, you shoving a piece of paper into my hands as you pushed me onto the train did take me by surprise. After the split second of panic I realized you’d miss me too much if you let me go. But in all seriousness, thank you for writing that letter. Kinda felt like I got to carry a little bit of you with me here. That’s cheesy. Nevermind. 

I haven’t written a letter since I was discharged from the army, so I apologize if I’m a little rusty. It’ll be especially strange since my CO won’t be reading it or redacting any information. I’ll have to get Becca to show you some of the letters I sent home - most of the time half of what I wrote had been blacked out due to “sensitive information”. Towards the end of the war my letters were short and sweet, just telling everyone I was alive and okay. I don’t get the impression that the teachers here will have much interest in my mail. Time will tell. But I do remember in the beginning that writing down things that had happened to me over there was helpful. Like I could get a tragic event out of my head with just a pen. Writing down helped make sense of it somehow. Hopefully these letters will have the same effect.

While I technically wrote this on the train, by the time I get this to a post office I’ll have made it to New Castle safely. When I was young we never traveled very far out of the city, so ironically the most “country” I’ve seen was in Europe and it was nowhere near as pleasant as here. Places that have had the ever-loving shit bombed out of them can hardly be called pleasant. Maybe getting out of the city will be good for my head. Like you said, being able to get away from the usual responsibilities to focus only on this training will be a nice break, I think. And a vacation from washing windows. I’m gonna get spoiled.

You called me on my bluff and I like to think I’m an honest man. To be real honest with you. . . I’m nervous. Part of me wonders if I even have what it takes to finish out this training. But I’ll take your word for it. If you think I can do it, you can’t be completely wrong, can you? And don’t worry, the problem won’t be ‘how long will Bucky keep me in his corner’ but closer to ‘will Bucky ever let me OUT of his corner?’. The answer will probably be no. To be determined.

Don’t be afraid to share about your days, too. Maybe it’ll make me a little less homesick, if I get to that point. And I know your days will be infinitely harder without me there by your side. Whatever will you do? I really wish you could be here, though.

33 days better pass quickly, for your sake and for mine. 

Yours,

Bucky

July 12, 1946

Dearest Bucky,

If you can’t actually address a letter with my real name instead of using “Sixth Floor” I’m going to find an embarrassing nickname for you so the postal worker snickers when they hand letters over to you, see how you like it.

It’s been a fairly innocuous week. A quiet one, that’s for sure. Just been trying to keep my head down and avoid Anderson as much as I can. Suzy has dragged me out for dinner and drinks a few times to keep me busy. She says hi, by the way. And she demanded I tell you that if you don’t come back soon, I’m going to drive her crazy with my “mopey-ness”. Also, you owe her a drink for cheering me up while you’re gone - she’ll collect when you return. The other girls are doing great; Alice got married and is moving upstate with her husband, so we’ve got a new girl taking her place. She seems sweet, but extremely shy and quiet. Hopefully she warms up to us soon.

Funnily enough, it’s my turn to write a letter on a train. Earlier this week Mom called and complained about not seeing me often enough since I moved into the city, so I’m on my way to Tarrytown. I hadn’t realized I’ve stayed in town every single weekend since we’d gone steady. Guess I’ve had a good reason to keep my plans open, huh? 

Mom also fished around for when I’d come back next even though I haven’t even arrived yet. In her round-about-way, she hinted that she wants me home for Halloween. I can’t blame her, I’ve never not been home for the festivities. I was going to buy my ticket in advance and began to wonder if I should buy two. One for me, one for you? I mean, if you would like to visit Tarrytown with me the weekend before Halloween? The 31st is a Thursday, which puts a damper on things, but it’ll still be a blast. Mom mentioned wanting to meet this “mysterious new friend” that’s kept me in New York so often.

Since I had the pleasure of meeting your family, I thought I should return the favor and ask if you’d like to meet my parents? If that’s something you’re not comfortable with, I understand being that it’s way ahead of time and a fairly intimate situation. I’m sorry, I’m not being very eloquent am I? You don’t need to make a decision. Just think about it.

How’s it been? Are you getting along with everyone? Tell me everything!

We’re down to 29 days, but that still feels far too long. 

Truly,

My Name is Not Sixth Floor

July 17, 1946

Dear Sassafras,

Buy 2 tickets to Tarrytown. I’m looking forward to spending Halloween with your folks. You’ll have to try a lot harder than that to scare me off.

Have we gone steady? I don’t remember asking you. Did you hypnotize me? Please advise. (Hopefully you can read my teasing tone and not leave me heartbroken as a result of this horrible joke)

Tell Suzy I’ll happily buy her a drink as long as she keeps guys in bars away from you, huh? All is well here. The guys are okay, but they’re not you. No one is you. But chatting passes the time and they’re easy enough to get along with. It’s interesting to see all the different paths that have led us here, all our different motivations. There are people here from all over. I thought I had to travel a long way, but the guy from Maine’s got me beat. His letters take longer to travel too, makes me grateful I get to hear from you fairly often.

I know this doesn’t come as a surprise to you but the training has been tough work. Motor oil is permanently stained into my skin, I’m convinced. But I have to admit that everything you taught me gave me a definite leg-up on most of the other students. I was the only one who could replace a spark plug successfully on the first try. They didn’t believe me when I told them my girl showed me how. Obviously they don’t know my girl.

I was daydreaming the other day about something you whispered to me at Steve’s birthday dinner. It was right after you had finished chatting with Peggy. You kinda tucked yourself into my side when you slid back into the booth, you just grabbed my hand almost wondered out loud, ‘What kind of cake do you like? I wanna know so I make sure you get in on your birthday’. My birthday isn’t even until March, but you were still thinking about me and wanted to have the little bit of info to save for later. The fact that you had ‘for later’ in mind . . .  I think about that a lot.

How are we only at 24 days? Seems like time should be passing faster.

Always,

Bucky

July 22, 1946

James Buchanan,

You’re right, that is a terrible joke. Never do that again or you’ll find I’ve died of a heart attack. Ya big tease.

Speaking of Steve, I dropped by y’all’s apartment on my way home from work to return that book I’d borrowed and we ended up talking for a while. It’s funny, I don’t know if I ever voiced this to you, but he is absolutely nothing that I expected him to be. We were so engrossed in talking about art and literature that I ended up staying way longer than planned, making him late for dinner with Peggy. Hopefully she wasn’t too upset about it. He’s so easy to be around, to let my defenses down with him. I’m really really glad you have him in your life, Bucky. He’s solid, he’s kind, he’s loyal. Knowing him by knowing you has been a treat.

Not to be a downer, but things with Anderson seem to be turning worse. I’m getting up my nerve to talk to Flannery about it. He’s been extra grouchy and demanding. Either he’s raging in his office or he disappears for days at a time. I can’t pick up the slack anymore. And the way he’s been eyeing the new girl - did I tell you her name was Marjorie? I can’t remember - makes me anxious. Something just doesn’t feel right. I don’t want to kick up a fuss, but I’m also reaching the end of my rope and want to look out for the other girls.

Anyway, on to happier things. I remember my hands were covered in all kinds of stains for a while after training, too. Have they taught you to weld yet? That was one of my favorite lessons, welding to fix damage or create a new part. Glad to hear you’re working hard and learning a bunch. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little smug at my having played a small role in your success. I knew you had it in you. Now please don’t prove me wrong out of spite.

You’re such a sweet talker, Barnes, you’re gonna make me shed a tear before this is all over. Of course I think about the ‘for later’s. I like learning the little things about you. Sometimes we get so wrapped up in the big picture stuff, we forget about the small details that are even more a part of making us who we are, ya know?

By the way, I’ll kick your ass in 18 days for addressing your letter to Ms. Sassafras Pants. If you won’t properly address, I won’t properly sign. Do you even remember my real name at this point? I got some input from Steve and he recommended a nickname, but it was too offensive for a postman’s eye to put on the outside of the envelope - contrary to popular belief, I do have a reputation to uphold. I’ll let him write it in the postscript. 

Always yours, 

Sixth Floor

(I’d rather be Sixth Floor than Sassafras)

P.S. I only told her to call you a dumbass. -SR

July 27, 1946

Sixth Floor,

I hope you appreciate your proper name on the envelope this time. But please let me keep calling you by your nickname inside. Sound like a deal?

Anderson hasn’t made you feel unsafe, has he? Are you okay? Do I need to send Steve over to teach him a lesson? I trust you’re fully capable of looking after yourself, but a visit from Captain America couldn’t hurt, could it? You know he’d be there in a heartbeat if you asked.  I hope the conversation with Flannery was helpful. Keep your eyes and ears open, your gut feelings are usually right. Lemme know what I can do, I feel useless sitting all the way in Pennsylvania.

 I feel like I’m starting to get overwhelmed by all the information. Training isn’t over for a couple more months, I know that, and having Harvey’s help makes me feel a little better. But some days I wonder if I’m cut out for this. If I’m smart enough for it. Can I even fake it good enough to pass? Sorry for rambling. Just processing, I guess. Don’t know if I could ever say that out loud.

But did you know they’re starting to talk about putting telephones in the radios of cars? Isn’t that crazy? And apparently new models are going to have power-operated windows. Guess the future is coming fast. I’ve also discovered that I hate carburetors with every fiber of my being and they hate me back. The majority of the time it feels good to work with my hands, to keep my brain busy. As an aside, when were you planning on telling me you knew how to weld? Envisioning you handling a welding gun is both adorable and incredibly attractive. Is that too much? Probably. Oh well.

I miss you. 2 weeks left ‘til I’m home. August 10th, please come quick.

Thinking of you,

Dumbass

P.S. Steve - write me letters your damn self if you miss me so much. Dumbass. 

August 1, 1946

My dearest Bucky,

I get to see you this month - that feels so good to say! We’ve almost made it! Given the timing of our past letters this is probably my last one before I get to hug you. I miss you so much, but honestly, writing letters has been fun. Our relationship blossomed from only speaking with our hands and mouthing words, and here we are now, only using the written word. We’ve come full circle, huh?

Truly, I don’t think I’m in danger at work. Just extremely irritated and on guard. I don’t feel the need to involve Steve at this point, or Peggy. Let’s be honest, she could take him down in the most satisfactory way that would definitely tarnish the symbol of Captain America. You’re sweet to worry, though. Just keep listening, that’s all I ask right now.

I had dinner with Becca last night. I hope that’s okay, I don’t want to cross any kind of boundary that would make you uncomfortable. We had such a pleasant time, though. I feel like we are both so very similar, having overcome a lot of the same struggles. We bonded over our parents worrying about us ending up as old maids and the trouble they had with us working rather than homemaking. Your mom sent cookies with Becca. To be fully transparent, I definitely ate the entire sack that night. Think Winnifred will teach me her ways? Also, I had no idea how interesting being a telephone operator is - the stories Becca had to tell about the people she interacts with! She’s a saint and hilarious and I adore her. She also had some incredibly interesting stories about you. . . we should discuss how angry Monopoly makes you. . . I’m tempted to play a game with you, Steve, and Peggy - I’m aware that could rocket us into another world war, but it’d be fun to watch, no? 

I don’t have the words to describe how proud of you I am. I know it hasn’t been easy, I know change can be hard. I know you have doubts. But you are so close to finishing, to reaching a major milestone in your career. I have full faith in you - you can do this. Me, Harvey, Becca, Steve, and everyone else is rooting for you. And if it doesn’t work out, so what? You tried something, you put in work and effort. Finding something you don’t like is just as helpful as finding something you do. You have other options, you always do. I mean, we know you are an impeccable window washer, so. . . Whichever way you decide to go, I’m with you for the ride. 

Only 9 days left. I can’t wait to see you at the train station.

Affectionately yours,

Sixth Floor

August 6, 1946

Darling Sixth Floor,

The more I think about it, the more I realize that being here has been helpful in a lot of ways I didn’t expect. I’ve bounced from being surrounded by family, then an army, the Commandos, and back to family, I haven’t really had space to figure out who I am away from all of that. I’m still working on finding that out, but the breathing room has been. . . enlightening. Is that word too hoity-toity? Probably. Oh well, you can make fun of me for it in a few days. As nice as it’s been to get away from the city, my fingers are itching for New York. Doesn’t hurt that you’re there.

You having dinner with Bec doesn’t bother me a bit. I’m a little worried you’ll like her more than you like me, but I guess we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. Whatever she told you about Monopoly is a lie - I did not throw anything, she is the agressive board game addict. Unfortunately as per the Howlies, Peggy and Steve are not allowed to play Monopoly together. We tried when we were snowed in to camp one winter and I’m not exaggerating when I say they almost killed each other. Well, Peggy almost killed Steve. Those nails of hers are lethal, you know.

Ma would be thrilled if you asked her to help you bake, although you will be in danger of her never letting you leave the kitchen ever again. The woman has a lot of wisdom to impart and all the time in the world. This may sound weird but. . . I like you getting along with my family. Not sure why. But it feels nice, having you fit in so seamlessly.

One of the guys recently asked how long we’d been together and I really had to think about it for a second before answering. Not to wax poetic, but it’s strange to me that we’ve only known each other since April. Four months of knowing you and continuing to know you every day. You’re so familiar to my life now, I can hardly imagine a time when you weren’t in it.

Thank you for having faith in me. Thank you for being an encourager. Thank you for opening up this new life to me. The world has only gotten brighter since you walked into that skyscraper all those months ago.

By the time you get this, I’ll probably be within a few hours of home. But as of this moment, I’ll see you in 4 days. I can’t wait.

See you soon,

Your Window Washer

Chapter Fourteen

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Saturday afternoon at Grand Central Station was tantamount to pure chaos, but you didn’t much mind since you’re there for a singularly joyful reason. The hubbub of both weary and excited travelers echoes across the cavernous main concourse; you can barely hear yourself think. People from all walks of life bustle around while you hover in the agreed-upon spot, waiting for a particular train to get in.

For the fourth time in 20 minutes you check the giant chalkboard along the main wall to confirm the train’s time of arrival before consulting your watch.

Soon.

Somewhere in the last 34 days you had become the girl that ran to her mailbox each day after work with hopes of hearing from her beau. A girl that missed that boy more every moment he was away, life feeling dull in his absence. A girl that was a hopeless goner. A goner who had had to scrap more than one letter because she’d written Love, Sixth Floor or All My Love, or Love you! No one had told you how difficult love letters were to write without using the word ‘love’.

As you scrambled out your door in a rush to the train station not too long ago, you’d practically run over your unfortunate mailman. He’d had a letter for you - from Pennsylvania - and he chuckled as you couldn’t contain the giant smile on your face. Even he knew what a goner you were.

You’d plopped yourself on the front steps of your apartment and torn open the envelope, reading the letter three times before you walked mooney-eyed to the station, the paper still in hand. His words reverberated in your mind. You snort at the mental image of Peggy throwing herself over a table to maul Steve to death after he’d charged her an exorbitant amount of rent during Monopoly. He said he longed for New York because you were here. Bucky adored that you got along with his family, said you fit in seamlessly. He thanked you for things that were so natural you didn’t even realize you were doing them.

Again your eyes settle on your favorite line - “You’re so familiar to my life now, I can hardly imagine a time when you weren’t in it.” Delicately you trace the word Bucky had written before your nickname - darling - then run a finger over his soothing scrawl of ‘Your Window Washer’.

There were moments when you forgot how this had all begun. How you’d noticed a handsome window washer going about his duty, how he’d gone out of his way to interact with you, to make you smile. The moments you’d tried to connect and had barely missed one another. He really had been your window washer from the start, hadn’t he? You just hadn’t known it.

Your ears prickle to attention when they hear your name ringing clearly in the severely crowded area. Looking up from the letter your eyes rove the crowd as you shove it into your pocket.

Bright, sparkling eyes meet your own across the room.

Eyes that were attached to Bucky’s thousand-watt smile. He looks tired from the journey, but only someone who knew him as well as you could tell. With his suitcase in one hand and his jacket draped over the other arm, he cocked his hat at an incorrect yet very suave angle.

With several trains having just arrived, the concourse was rapidly becoming busier. Passengers exiting the rail cars took up almost all elbow-room available, ending in a flood of people between you and Bucky.

Taking several rushed steps through the hoarde you head in his general direction, continuously searching for that hat a head above the crowd. One moment you saw it, the next you were stuck in a crush of travelers. Finally there were only a few paces between you.

You hear the clunk of his suitcase hitting the ground a split second before your feet are swept from under you, Bucky’s arms strong and secure around your waist. He takes a superfluous little twirl around, pulling a relieved giggle from you. Feeling his heart beating against your chest shockingly sent the peaceful feeling of HOME thrumming through your veins. You didn’t know it was possible to feel home in a person.

Bucky heaves a sigh, one that reminds you of a house settling after a long day of activity. A hand smooths up your back and to the nape of your neck, sending tingles down your spine. When you feel his lips press delicately to the side of your head you’re grateful he’s got a hold on you because you’re fairly certain your knees would’ve given out. For all the affection you doted upon each other, none had ever felt quite so intimate, so. . . tender.

“People are staring,” you whisper in his ear.

He pulls back, granting you a view of that rugged face you’d so dearly missed over the past month. “Don’t care,” he smarts. Then he kisses you properly, scandalizing the old ladies walking past - hell, he was even scandalizing you a bit.

“Okay Romeo,” you lean away, laughing when his lips attempt to chase yours. “Let’s not make any grandparents roll over in their graves with our excessive public displays of affection.”

With that he snorts before reluctantly setting you back on your feet, though not taking his hands from you. He doesn’t say much, just gazes into your eyes. Almost as if he was guzzling a glass of water after having gone days feeling parched, he takes you in, seeming more nourished as the seconds ticked by.

“What, do I have some lunch left on my face?”

There’s that wide grin you love so much. Bucky runs the backs of his knuckles along your jaw and murmurs, “Oh yeah, I missed you a ton.” His head dips down once more, gracing you with a kiss so ardent it steals your breath. A firm hand to his chest separates you and you remind him to behave.

He only laughs heartily and stoops down to retrieve his luggage and hat you’d apparently knocked off during your embrace. You hang his jacket over one of your arms, looping the other around his elbow. Together you walk out of Grand Central and onto the New York streets, feeling like a piece of you had just been restored.

-x-

Over the following weeks, you and Bucky are rarely apart from each other. If you aren’t sleeping or working, you’re together. Suffice it to say, absence had definitely made the heart grow fonder. During those days there was a near-imperceptible but also impossible-to-miss shift between you. In the moments of intense relief of being reunited, the gravity of the relationship dawned upon you. You wonder if you would ever have reached that point if not for the distance and time away forced upon you.

There was a particular night you truly felt the relationship deepen. August was quickly coming to a close, a sense of change coming in the air in the mornings and evenings. It was a Thursday. You and Bucky had generously - well, at the time it had felt generous, but it turned out to bear more likeness to disastrous - offered to cook dinner for the pair of you as well as Peggy and Steve. The other couple was extremely kind about the ordeal, but it had been a mess and barely edible. Thankfully there was plenty of wine and laughter around the table to make up for it.

Having set your eyes on cleaning up the remnants of your destruction of the boys’ kitchen, you were promptly shooed away by Peggy.

“No, no - you cooked for us, we’ll clean the dishes,” she commanded, practically booting you into the living room.

You collapse onto the couch with a huff, not having realized how much time you’d spent standing in the kitchen over a meal that was most definitely not worth the effort. Without much grace Bucky plopped down next to you, head knocking against the back of the sofa, hand searching for yours.

“I really am sorry, Bucky, I told you Mom hadn’t passed down her exceptional cooking skills to me.”

“Don’t worry about it. I have a thing or two I can teach you,” he winks before closing his eyes.

“Although I do feel like we owe Peggy and Steve some sort of tangible apology for making them sit through that.”

He waves his free hand flippantly. “They’ll be fine, they’re big kids. Be thankful you weren’t around for Peg’s burnt pot roast debacle. I don’t think I’ll ever see angrier tears again in my life.”

The faint sound of running water from the kitchen combined with the clattering of dishes signals that Steve and Peggy were no doubt side by side in front of the sink, shirt sleeves rolled up and out of the way, bumping elbows in their homey little chore. Bucky talks about his work in the garage while idly flipping pages of a textbook he’d placed in his lap. He dutifully asks after your coworkers, expresses genuine care and concern for them which never fails to warm your heart.

A hum of conversation floats into the room and you give in to your exhaustion slightly, dropping your head to Bucky’s shoulder. “Are they okay? Sounds serious.”

“Work stuff,” he mumbles. “Not that you hadn’t guessed it, but they have a hard time leaving it in the office. Which is understandable considering what they do.” Bucky shifts his arm up, offering you a place to wiggle beneath it, nice and cozy in his side.

“Mmm, saving the world and all. I mean, at least it sounds like a better talk than the one we walked in on after the baseball game.”

“That was definitely a doozy. Apparently it turned out okay and they seem to be better off because of it. Steve said something about how getting everything out into the open always suited them better than keeping feelings to themselves.”

“Makes sense, I suppose. So tell me what your latest lesson is about, maybe I can help.” Bucky pours over paperwork he’d retrieved from the desk in his room, calling attention to marks he’d made on diagrams that had confused him, underlining terms for which he had a hard time finding definitions. For quite a while you work like that on the couch, listening, pointing things out, doing your best to help where you could and encourage where you couldn’t.

You hadn’t noticed how heavy your eyes had gotten until Peggy’s voice fills the room, causing you to bolt into sitting upright again. “You better leave soon or the neighbors will start talking,” she halfway teases before offering a graceful wave; both you and Bucky mutter goodbyes.

“I’m leaving soon, I promise,” you call out before the front door clicks shut as Steve and Peggy step outside for a moment to themselves.

Minutes later Steve comes back down the hallway, sleepily bidding you both goodnight before slinking to his bedroom.

“Ugh, the walk home is going to be horrible. We waited way too late tonight.”

“I know, I know,” Bucky sighs. “Just listen to my essay about the benefits of having a key-based ignition in the future and then I’ll take ya home.”

“Okay,” you agree, eyes drooping as you focus on his steady tone.

The next thing you know, a door squeaks open. A few heavy footsteps move in your direction and you hear Steve murmur, “Oh.”

You squint one eye, then the other open against the sunlight streaming through the living room windows. Looking around, your confusion only heightens when you realize you’re in the boys’ apartment. Moving to prop up on an elbow you glance to your side to see Bucky fast asleep on the couch, his shirt rumpled from where your face had just been plastered. A pile of textbooks and sheets of paper is in disarray around Bucky’s feet. Steve was standing in the doorway from the kitchen, looking slightly uncomfortable and a little worried in his blue striped cotton pajama set peeking from under his robe.

Swiping a hand across your eyes you realize with dismay that you’re still wearing makeup, which is now smeared all over your face. “What. . . what time is it?” you groan.

Steve looks to the clock on the wall. “Uhh. . . a little after eight.”

“Well that’s not so bad for a Saturday.”

“It’s. . . it’s Friday.”

“SHIT!” you clamber to your feet.

Your exclamation startles Bucky awake, looking as disoriented as you felt and extremely bothered by the anxiety you’re radiating.

“Oh my gosh, this is horrible, this’ll ruin me - we slept together!”

Bucky looks down at his mussed clothing hurriedly before confirming everything was where it had been the previous night. “Well, technically-”

“Shut it,” you snap as you dart around the apartment. “I stayed overnight in your home, society doesn’t care about technicalities. Oh my god, I’m going to be late for work by the time I get back to my apartment to change clothes. Flannery is either going to kill me or worse, fire me - WHERE ARE MY DAMN SHOES!” 

“I’m gonna start a pot of coffee,” Steve says to Bucky before slipping from the room.

“Baby, take a breath-”

“I don’t even have time for that, why didn’t I just go home early last night? Where did I put my purse?”

“Honey, it’s gonna be okay, will you stop for a minute?” 

Eyes wide you spin to him, arms thrust out. “How is this going to be okay? Debbie probably worried about me all night AND she’s going to think I’m easy for staying at my boyfriend’s so she probably won’t want to live with me anymore-”

Suddenly Bucky’s hands grip your shoulders, forcing you to a stop. “Hey,” he says firmly, yet with a touch of gentleness. “You’re gonna call Debbie right now and tell her it was too late last night, so you slept over at Peggy’s. Would it be worse to show up to work late or not go in at all?”

“Probably show up late, she’s a stickler for punctuality,” you squeak, heart still beating out of your chest.

“Then call in sick after you talk to your roommate. You’ve been a model employee, even Flannery knows people get sick sometimes. Take another deep breath for me - there ya go. No one has to know that we accidentally fell asleep on the couch, Steve’s not gonna say anything to anyone, okay?”

You only nod, too focused on stopping the hyperventilating.

“You’re alright, c’mere.” Drawing you into his chest, you press your forehead into it, willing your tense muscles to relax. “I’m due at Harvey’s garage today, how about you come with me? I know he’d love to see you and it’d feel good to be working together again, right? We can stop by your place on our way over so you can change. How does that sound?”

Even amid the panic a part of your heart keened at the comfort Bucky was providing, at the feeling of being cared for.

A few minutes later, your relieved roommate and a surprisingly sympathetic Flannery had been called and placated. After you’d calmed down, Steve offers you coffee and cereal while Bucky changes into the coveralls Harvey had given him; Steve threatened Bucky that if he skipped breakfast again, he’d tell Winnifred.

Before you know it you’re in the garage, playfully sticking out your tongue at Harvey’s teasing about playing hookie. You forget how much working with your hands brings you peace until you’re doing it again - the stress wound in your back eases as you help Bucky on a tune-up. With a hip propped on the front of the car, you watch as Bucky follows the checklist, testing the functions of various parts to make sure they’re up to snuff.

For the first time that tumultuous morning you take a look at the man next to you. What you see sends a ripple of unease through your gut. Even though you’d both slept like the dead last night, the dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced than they should have been and you find yourself mentally going over the last few days to remember if they were there earlier. With only his health in mind, you notice the coveralls are little looser than when he’d first tried them on for you.

“Bucky,” you ask. He hums in question from beneath the hood. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m fine, why?”

“I’m not trying to make conversation, I really want to know if you’re okay. You look tired. Well, you’ve been looking tired.”

He straightens and arches a sardonic brow. “That your way of saying I look ugly today?”

“Stop it, I’m being serious.”

“I mean, I feel tired but it’s been busy. Nothing different than usual.”

“Are you sleeping?”

“Enough.” He wipes grease from his hands before shutting the hood, evading your eyes.

“So that’s a no on sleeping. Between two jobs and school, you’re going to run yourself ragged.”

“School’s almost over.”

“You still have two more months!”

There’s a flash of emotion in his eyes you can’t quite identify before he consciously smooths it over. “I’m fine, doll. Really. I just. . .” You wait patiently. You almost think he’s not going to finish when he says, “I wanna work hard and do this right. All this is so I can have a better life. . . and so you can have one too.” He finally turns his eyes back to yours. “I’m afraid that if I don’t give this all I have, I won’t be good enough to pull it off. And I really want this to work.”

Internally you debate with yourself. More than anything you want to reassure him, to soothe him, to fix all his fears and problems. But there’s also a part of you reminding yourself that that’s not your job. It’s Bucky’s life, not yours. The last thing you wanted was to become a nag and drive him further away. 

You smile and drop the matter, hoping he’d take your concern gracefully. The rest of the day you work in semi-comfortable silence, each tip-toeing around the other and the subject.

That night, Bucky tosses and turns, your conversation playing over in his head. Maybe he’d been too harsh, maybe he should have been more gentle. Maybe he should take your advice and stop washing windows. But another voice (one that smacks of his father) pushes back, insists that all the work was necessary if he wants to be successful, to have a brighter future.

Finally, he drifts into a restless sleep, the all-consuming thoughts of a better life for himself and for you finally fading. Or so he thought.

-x-

Cold. Cold cold cold. He’d been on that fucking hill for hours with his belly buried in dirt, waiting. Waiting waiting waiting. Funny how this job required hours of waiting and only seconds of action.

Eyes slant to the watch he’d taken off and propped up on a stone. Nine minutes to go. Willing feeling to return to his hands, he flexed his grip on the familiar weapon he’d been cradling for hours.

To calm his mind, he runs the math again - latitude, wind speed, relative motion. Check, check, check.

The radio laying in the reeds buzzed softly with the other Commandos reporting in, just loud enough for him to hear. 

“He’s on the move, Barnes,” Jones relayed from his post across the street from the church, of which Bucky had a clear line of sight from his position. Bucky leans in, one eye shut against the world so he could zero in through his scope.

The target appeared in the shadows of the doorway. Schmidt’s rumored new right-hand-man, Karl Fischer, almost as psychotic as Hydra’s leader. Falsworth had been able to get chummy with some of his men over drinks the night before, learn the faction was storing weapons in the sanctuary’s basement. Parishioners had shared that their priest had mysteriously disappeared after refusing to agree to the commander’s demands last week.

Bucky knew that the individual he watched confer with Fischer was by no means a man of God, unless priests now walked around with crooked collars and Hydra weaponry stashed in their back waistband. 

The conspirators shake hands before leaning in to undoubtedly whisper two words that he had grown to loathe as they were murmured over him dozens of times while he lay strapped to an operating table in Azzano.

They pull apart and the target takes one step down the stairs.

Bucky’s finger holds tension tight on the trigger.

Two steps.

There’s a thought nibbling at the back of his mind. Begging for attention. But there’s no time.

Three steps.

The rifle’s kickback slams into his shoulder as his eye remains trained on the commotion in his scope.

Bucky blinks.

Fischer was still standing.

Had he missed? Were his calculations off? He fires again and finally sees the wretched man crumble. Then Bucky sees the other form on the ground and his stomach drops.

He hadn’t missed. Not totally.

Radio and watch forgotten on the ground he bolts for the trees, for the Harley he’d stashed beneath fallen branches before the sun had come up.

The rest of the Commandos were following the plan, corralling Fischer’s cronies before they could spread news of their leader’s demise. 

Dugan shouts something at him as he speeds into the square, all but leaping off the bike when he nears the church.

Bucky’s presence perturbed Steve; if Bucky was here, something was wrong. Stepping over the score of soldiers he’d already managed to incapacitate for the time being, he rushed to meet his friend.

“Buck, what’re you-”

He ducked a shoulder into Steve - which was more like hitting a brick wall - to move past him to the church steps.

Heavy footfalls take him over the long-dead Fischer to the small body one stair above him where Bucky comes to kneel. 

Her hair was dark, like his sisters’. She was young like them too. Except he’d never seen this much blood from one of their scraped knees.

A local. Had probably been praying inside before she went about the rest of her day. The overturned basket with meager rations strewn down the steps taunted him. 

Bucky struggled to make sense of what happened. Fischer must have slipped or perhaps had a premonition and used her as a shield right as the shot had been fired.

A shot that had taken a blameless life. Bucky’s shot.

He wasn’t naive. He knew every action taken by each soldier sent ripple effects that altered the lives of many - but he’d never been face-to-face with the outright consequence of his profession.

Being so focused on Fischer, he hadn’t even noticed another person in the vicinity. And this young woman he held - when had he started holding her? - had paid the price for it.

Gradually Bucky became aware of Steve’s insistent tugging on his shoulder.

If they broke down over every innocent caught in the crossfire they would all have lost their minds by now. Everyone had to harden that part of themselves - not for convenience, but for survival. Bucky thought he’d mastered the act, but this girl couldn’t be much older than Evie. 

“Steve, I-” Bucky sees his anguish reflected in the blue eyes of his best friend.

“I know, Buck. I’m sorry. But they’ve got her.”

Suddenly he’s sees the other villagers surrounding them, grief tracking down their cheeks. Reaching to take her away from him, to weep and mourn this sweet loved one whose time on earth was finished.

Staggering to his feet, Bucky swayed at the blood covering his clothing. Steve steadied him with an iron grip on his arm, a hand to his back.

“Mea culpa,” Bucky whispers against the wind, the sight of her unmoving eyes burning into his memory.

She wasn’t getting a better life. Why should he?

Chapter Fifteen

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