Words Between Pages

After Bucky came back into the cabin, Maggie struggled in the thick silence to know if they should continue digging through the early years of his life. She didn't want to push him too far. And there was hardly a piece of paper she'd collected not connected to Steve in some way. Their lives were intertwined so much that it had followed them both into the present. For Steve, it blossomed hope. But for Bucky, it stirred up confusion at a magnitude that couldn't be predicted. Each reminder could either unlock a new memory or elevate the frustration to destructive levels. 

She couldn't make the decision. Still sitting by the beginning of the timeline, she waited patiently for him to speak. 

"What's that?" Bucky nodded to the line of papers on the floor. 

"I thought this might help keep things straight," Maggie explained. “People's lives tend to overlap themselves and reference past experiences." She glanced at the boxes, the first of many, with more waiting in the bedroom closet. "Though it might get a little long." 

“How thorough." 

Maggie shrugged. "It's how I do my job. Break everything down into its finest details. You never know what odd bobble could unlock a new memory." 

The nod from Bucky was mildly unsure. He sat back down on the floor, leaning against the front of the couch. "Is there more of my childhood?" 

"You might regret that question." It was meant to be teasing, with a small chuckle, but in the back of Maggie's mind, she worried that he really might. There was enough information here to fill a decently sized trilogy.

A few holes were filled in from the papers Maggie pulled from the boxes. Childhood photos and maps of towns long changed were added to the timeline. Maggie watched Bucky's face each time she handed him something that held new information for the slightest twitch, the most minute shift in his eyes. None occurred. Everything Maggie had in her possession might as well have been a random box of black and whites from an antique shop. Strangers faces that were hard to imagine as real people with histories and memories now lost–their lives nothing more than a birth date and death date. The truth of the dash long forgotten as each generation became more and more separated. 

Holding onto the truth was Maggie's passion. Letting the static, blurry faces remain fully fleshed humans, on the ground history with names and relationships that held meanings. Bucky's family was full of such people. 

"This one is your paternal great-grandfather." Maggie handed over a slightly faded photograph of a man in his mid-thirties sitting in an overstuffed cloth chair, the chain of a pocket watch peeking out from his wool vest. Even through the flat expression of old, long-taking photography, hints of Bucky were there. The bridge of his nose, the shape of his eyes. "He came over at twelve years old during the Irish famine and worked various jobs to help support the family. Eventually, he got an apprenticeship and became an architect." 

Bucky stared blankly at the man who helped establish his family's life here in America. "I don't think I ever met him." 

"He died before you were born."

"Then I don't think this will help me remember." 

He passed the photograph back. Maggie took it, biting back a particularly acidic comment about Colm Barnes being important because he lived as she carefully placed it back in the protective folder.

Fine. She'd go to a different part of the family tree. 

The next photograph was newer, from the nineteen-thirties. A glamorous woman still radiating despite being in her mid-fifties smiled a secret she refused to tell the observer. 

"Alyona Volkova," Maggie revealed. "Though she married an American when she was eighteen, so then she became Alyona Thomas." 

"Who is she to me?" "Your mother, Winifed? That's her mother. Alyona Thomas was your maternal grandmother." 

Bucky blinked a frown at the photo. His long pause made Maggie wonder if she should start thinking of something else to pull out. Places, maybe, could work better. They could sometimes hold more memories than faces. 

A light, nearly inaudible sigh left his lips. "Babulya." 

Maggie straightened up and pulled herself closer to him. "What did you say? What does that mean?" 

Bucky looked at her with a confounded expression, as if he hadn't been the one to speak the unfamiliar word. 

"Bucky-" 

"Its a Russian word for grandmother."

"You remember her?" 

He shook his head. "No. Not really." He  dropped the photograph with almost too much disinterest and pushed up to his feet. "I think that's enough for today."

Maggie didn't stop him. Her eyes were on the face of Alyona. Even in the hazy, soft-focus of the gray-shades, a refuse-to-die light twinkled in her gaze. One reflected in some candid photos of her grandson Maggie had hanging in the exhibit. It had a dose of trouble, a few splashes of stubbornness, and the all important ingredient of what Maggie's grandfather called gumption. All the attributes she would need to continue facing this challenge head on. 

‘Keep trying ,’ Alyona seemed to say to her. 'It'll be worth it.' 

"Easy for you to say," Maggie whispered. With a gentle hand, she picked up the photo and found it a place among the time line. It took time to organize the other files, shifting what was already laid out to make room. Then she was able to stand as well, she found Bucky hovering around the bookcase. He was as still as a statue, his sight fixed on one shelf straight on. 

"Whatcha lookin' at?" Maggie asked once she joined him. 

He tapped the cracked spine of a well-read children's novel. "That's a strange word." 

Maggie snorted. "What? Hobbit? It's a made up word for the book." 

"Something about it is familiar." 

"Really?" 

He pulled the book off of the shelf and flipped through its pages. Maggie caught a quick glimpse of the dragon, Smaug. She always hated that dragon. The greedy, hateful thing. Granddad always scolded her for the face she'd make. 

“It wasn't Smaug that drove Thorin mad, that caused his end. It was his own choices,” Granddad would say. "He was the only one that could have changed his fate." 

"Did you like it?" Maggie asked. 

"I don't remember it." 

Rather like an overly excited child, Maggie tore the paperback from Bucky's fingers. "Then we should find it again together. Come on." She practically skipped over to the couch and hopped into a well cushioned corner.

"What are you doing?" 

"I'm going to read it," Maggie waved the novel. "Figure it could help pass the time when we need a break." 

He gave her that calculating stare again, not budging. So, she decided to be somewhat annoying and start, whether he joined her or not. 

"In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty-" 

Bucky sighed loudly, joining her on the couch. In his chosen position, he put as much space between them as possible. He stayed facing forward, his arms resting on his knees as he stared at the floor. Listening, but not engaging. 

Maggie cleared her threat and started again. "In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit."

For maybe forty-five minutes or so, Maggie read through the first chapter, reciting the nature of a hobbit, laughing at the unexpected arrival of a gray wizard and several dwarves, and singing the song of misty mountain in the same low, haunting tune her grandfather had used, though hers certainly was off key and lacking that same vibrato that almost always brought tears to her eyes. 

"It was long after the break of day, when he woke up." Maggie closed the book and stretched out her legs.

"That's it?" 

She nodded with a smile. "You get a chapter a day. That's how it's supposed to be read." 

Bucky quirked up an eyebrow. "That’s an awful place to leave off. It sounded like the beginning of a new paragraph" 

"Take it up with Tolkien." Maggie continued the stretch as she got to her feet. "I think it's time for some food." 

The fixing of the early dinner was another quiet affair. Wheels turning ceaselessly were obvious in Bucky's far away expression during Maggie’s preparations. He gave no hint to whether his mind was on today's revelations or the novel's enticing cliffhanger. 

While the chicken baked in the oven, Maggie went back into the living room. The notebook she started was still lying on the floor. Under the first note, she added:

"Alyona Thomas - called her babulya" 

"It's getting cold."

"Yeah, it is," Maggie agreed. She shut the notebook and placed it beside the timeline, safely out of the way of any wayward feet. "It's that annoying time of year where the day is nice, but the sun takes the warmth with it when it goes down."

"I'll start a fire," Bucky offered. Maggie didn't fight it to build one herself. She was awful at building a fire. Could never get that first spark to stick. 

Crouching down next to him but giving him room to do his work, she pursed her lips. "We're going to need to find other things to fill the time." 

"Cabin's not very secure," he replied. "Tomorrow, we should set up some things around the perimeter." 

"Whatever you say.” If it made him feel safer and less likely to lead, he could build a whole wall around this place for all she cared. “I'll follow your lead." 

He accepted that as he struck the match on the first try. There was no fear for his metal fingers when he held them out towards the logs and lit them with bright, roaring flames. He shifted the now burning logs around to keep the strong. He didn’t react if any of the flames liked the shining fingers. Could he feel anything with them? Or was the limb more like a ghostly apparition he could control?

From one heat to another, Maggie left him to complete the final steps for dinner. She managed to not dry out the chicken or over salt the sauce. Another successful attempt. Give it a few months' time and she could be a gourmet chef. Bucky had two platefuls, so he must be in agreement of her accomplishment.

"What did they did feed you?" It was dangerous territory again, she knew, but she just couldn't help her overreaching curiosity.

"Not this," he answered. He looked up across the table. "Mostly rations. Bare minimum to get the needed nutrition. Nothing more. Nothing seasoned or marinated. Everything was dry, with a single glass of water." 

"Then I guess you won't really know if I ever make something bad." Maggie smirked as she took a bite. Too big of a bite. She tried to chew it as discreetly and delicately as possible without choking. If he saw her struggle, he kept it to himself. 

"I guess so." Huh. Was that a slight smile? 

If it was, it was gone when he stood up and walked his plate to the sink. 

The rest of the evening passed with one of the few radio plays included in the pile of vinyl's playing from the stereo. Some of the punchy sound effects made Maggie jump when she’d spaced out too deeply, but Bucky remained still, unaffected, in his spot on the floor. His back was to her, leaning against the edge of the sofa, so she could tell if he was enjoying the story or even paying attention. 

As the crackling voices faded into the happy, self-congrulatory end credits music, Maggie waited to see what Bucky would do. He didn't move. Outside, the world was dark, welcoming the nocturnal animals coming out to explore their time in the world. Owls gave soft hoots in the tree branches strong enough to hold them as they searched for their first meal of the night. There was nothing else to do, so Maggie headed for bed.

"Good night, Bucky." 

He looked like he'd almost forgotten she was there. Those fragile blue eyes seemed worried as he looked up at her. "Good night, Maggie." 

Maggie bit down on the inside of her cheek, nearly breaking skin as she nodded at him and then closed the bedroom door behind her. 

He'd said her name so casually. The only true danger she was in just grew again. Bucky had superstrength and superspeed. Hopefully, he didn't have superhearing and could hear her erratic heartbeat as she tried to calm it down with reason and reality. Swallowing back a groan, she pushed off the door and readied for bed. Her fingers were clumsy with every step to the point that she was sure Bucky would come in to make sure she wasn’t fighting off a HYDRA agent. However, he must have assumed that she was fine and left her alone. 

She could toss and turn as she tried to settle under the covers in the dark but sleep wouldn't come. Her ears were too focused on the living room. They strained for the slightest noise. A reassuring snore. Or a scream. 

Would another nightmare consume him tonight?

Bucky wasn't in the living room the next morning when Maggie emerged from her restless sleep. She’d taken the caution to dress before leaving the bedroom to discover an empty living room. Though there was hardly anywhere to hide, she searched past every counter and even under the table, in case a worse nightmare had driven him there. He wasn’t anywhere inside the tiny cabin. In a panic, she scrambled to shove her feet clumsily into a pair of boots and ran out the door. 

It was one incident. He didn’t need to run away because of it. Maggie paused outside the door, searching for any sign of him in the trees beyond. Not a single leaf moved in the breezeless morning. "Please, please, don't leave." 

Thunk, thunk, thunk. 

Maggie's head swiveled towards the sound. Hope swelled. She knew that sound too well from her childhood. She ran towards it, rounding the cabin to the back. A sigh of relief fell from her lips. Bucky was there, his back to her and chopping up firewood to add to the pathetic pile. He hadn't noticed her presence invading on his morning chore. He kept chopping away, each swing revealing a hint of frustration releasing as the blade made contact with the unsuspecting wood log. 

Staying silent, Maggie leaned against the corner of the cabin and watched. Her lips won the war and pushed upward. He didn't leave. He could have easily snuck out with the dawn and ran away, but he didn’t. 

"Who's that one?" 

Granddad chuckled. "Monty, crazy British bastard." 

"Dad!" Maggie's father called from the kitchen. "Language!"

Granddad leaned over to little eight-year-old Maggie and whispered, "That's what he was. But it's a compliment."

The old photo album was opened on both of their laps, edges fraying from time's rough hand. All of the photos were in odd shades of browns and grays. It felt not just like the past, but a whole other world. From the clothes to the very people themselves. Though several faces smiled up at her, one stuck out amongst the rest. It was a younger face than the others, besides the great Captain America, smirking like he knew a funny joke was about to come. Or perhaps he would be the one to tell it. 

Maggie had gotten so excited after learning her grandfather had fought alongside the famous hero, but now she could hardly remember to find him in the album. That one face demanded attention.

"Who is this?" Little Maggie finally gained the courage to ask.

"That, Maggie, is Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes." His voice wasn't its normal, joke-y tone. "He was second-in-command and the Captain's best friend."

"What happened to him?" Little Maggie flipped through the album. "He's not here after a while." 

"It was supposed to be a normal mission," Grandad said quietly. Maggie didn’t dare point out the misty shield falling over his eyes. She’d never seen him even sniffle. She didn’t think men did that. "We'd had more dangerous ones before. But something went wrong. He died a hero, but we weren't the same after that. Rogers wasn't the same." 

"Dad!” Maggie’s father called again. They both looked up, expecting another scolding. “Can you come help with this stupid stove of yours?" 

Granddad left Little Maggie alone on the couch while he went to see what his son couldn’t figure out. Maggie lingered on a photo of Sergeant Barnes and Captain Rogers. Both looked like they were caught mid-laugh. She ran her fingers over the photo. The face of James Barnes would forever be ingrained in her mind, lingering in ways she never expected.

"Do you want any breakfast?" Maggie asked, now back in the present. 

Bucky stopped swinging the ax and turned around. He wiped beaded sweat from his forehead with his ordinary arm. For a moment, he only stared as if he were trying to read her face, looking for a sign of fear from the previous night. There was nothing to find. Finally, he nodded. "Alright, then." 

Maggie pushed off the cabin and went back inside. After another fifteen minutes or so, Bucky followed suit. 

"It'll be ready in a little bit," Maggie said from the stove. Bucky didn’t reply when he came into the kitchen area. Carrying an unsure stance, he lingered on the outskirt, little droplets of sweat still forming on his temples from the workout. 

"I'm sorry, again, about last night." His sudden apology made Maggie jump, which in turn made him wince. He stepped closer though, choosing now to hover by the counter to her right. “Sorry,” he murmured again. He picked up one of the uncracked eggs and feigned interest in its shell. 

"It's alright," Maggie replied honestly. "I knew this wasn't going to be smooth sailing. But making it to port will be worth it." 

Bucky frowned. "I don't think I've ever liked boats." 

Handing a finished plate over, Maggie chuckled, "Take some Dramamine. It's going to be a bumpy ride." 

"You got your grandfather's stubbornness." 

Maggie gaped at him. "Did you remember something?" 

"No," he shook his head. "Not anything specific. More just... a feeling."

"Well, at least he left an impression." After filling her own plate, she sat down at the table and began to eat. Her grumbling stomach was not going to politely wait for him to join, now that the panic had subsided. Bucky hesitated but soon he took the seat across from her and began to eat. 

Breakfast was a quiet affair. Only the sound of scraping fork and clinking glasses filled the cabin. The lack of conversation continued as Maggie cleared up and Bucky wandered over to a wooden box that sat on a rickety side table by the bookshelf. Finding the cache, he lifted the lid to reveal a dusty record player. With his flesh hand, he felt the mixture of metal and plastic that came together to release captured sounds. 

"Granddad hated silence. He always had a record playing in the background." Maggie sat down cross-legged and sifted through the vinyls stored underneath in the only acceptable order: genre and then alphabetical. Halfway through the box, she pulled out one of her favorites. Meet Me in St Louis. 

Dust coated the protective jacket, turning the already faded painting of Judy Garland a ghastly gray. In her head, she could hear her grandfather croon about her lovely face, about how they don’t make them like that anymore. It’d made Maggie wish she looked that soft, that angelic. And that she could sing. To have a voice that made all others hush just to listen. A wish on birthday candles that never came true. 

Careful not to cake her fingers in the dust, she pulled the record from its sleeve and blew away any odd remnants. Bucky stepped back to let Maggie place the oversized disc on the plate and start the first song. 

Judy Garland's voice trilled lovingly through the air. Maggie watched the vinyl spin around, imagining her grandfather standing next to her, humming along off key. At least she wasn’t the only one in the family who couldn’t sing. But there was something else he could do. When she was a little girl and he was still strong enough, he would lift her up and dance along to the joyous beat, spinning her around and around as she giggled uncontrollably. So many memories were digging up through the dirt that had been slowly piled over the years due to time and other, more recent memories. 

"I never saw this movie," Bucky said, breaking the scene. He was holding the flimsy cover in his hands, his eyes taking in the printed painting of Judy Garland in a large white dress and lace parasol as he wiped away the dust.

"It came out while you were stationed overseas,” Maggie explained. "Granddad didn’t see it until a re-release several years after the war. He didn't actually care for the story, but he did like the music. He always liked her music." In perfect timing, the record skipped, a scar from its constant usage over the years. She turned away this time, to avoid the oncoming emotional wave. "Do you want to start going through the boxes?" Maggie offered. 

The nod from Bucky was cautious. 

Maggie left Bucky alone for a minute as she went outside to the car and retrieved the two cardboard storage boxes from the trunk. Her arms moaned and complained from the weight for the short distance back to the cabin. Both boxes were filled to the point of pushing at the glue-held seams. There wasn't a single stone she'd left unturned in her research. Some nights she wondered if she was going too far, collecting too much. Almost all of it would be left off the walls of the museum. Hardly relevant to the story being told within the Smithsonian exhibit. There was no stopping her, though. And she couldn't bring herself to get rid of or lock up the research. She kept it all. Never did she imagine she could use it for something like this. She simply couldn't... let go. 

Bucky halted his pacing when she came back inside, taking both boxes from her before she could protest.

"The bottom box is the start," Maggie told him as she went back over to the bookshelf. Most of the books were of history. Granddad's snide little notes filling in the spaces of the margins. A few novels– some Tim Dugan's favorite's and others, Maggie's–called the lower shelves home. Sitting closer to the top of the bookcase, a small stack of leather bound notebooks barely bigger than her hand were ready for someone to fill the blank lines with words to remember. Maggie flipped through the notebooks until she found one that was empty of any other sentences and then went to sit down on the living room floor. 

"Why do you have all of this?" Bucky inquired as he joined her on the cold wood.

"I-" Maggie licked her lips as she chose her words with caution. "I get a bit overzealous when I'm researching a subject. A project like the museum exhibit requires mountains of information and cross-verifying. You never use everything you gather and I– Well, I went a bit above and beyond. People needed to know more than just the names of the Howling Commandos. I believe to really understand history, we have to see the players as human beings." 

"I'm not sure they all deserve that." She could hear the “I” underlining his statement. 

"It's not about deserving. It's about learning. True learning only comes from absolute understanding.” 

"Is that what you are trying to do? Understand?" 

"Perhaps it is." 

And now maybe that was what drove her now. Trying to understand the path that had led Bucky to right here, memories missing, nearly a hundred years old but barely looking thirty. And the only place to start, to get her answers, was the very beginning. 

"James Buchanan Barnes was born March tenth, in ninety-seventeen." Maggie pulled out a copy of the birth certificate waiting patiently in the very front of the first box and handed it over to Bucky, having most of the information memorized herself. "You're originally from Shelbyville, Indiana. Your parents' names were Jimmy and Winifred Barnes." She rifled through the box to find a specific photo. The flimsy paper copy was the best she'd been able to find a few years ago since the Shelby County Historical Museum wasn't willing to part with the original, but Winifred's natural beauty and Jimmy's familiar smile were still clear enough in the scan. 

Bucky frowned down at the papers in his hands. The way his eyes bounced between the photograph and the certificate made Maggie wonder if he was trying to connect the names with the faces and force a memory to surface. 

"Don't force it," Maggie soothed. "It won't come back on day one." 

He didn't take kindly to the words that were meant to comfort. Tossing down the papers, he asked, "Was I an only child?" 

Maggie shook her head. "You were the eldest of four. A sister and two brothers. You were closest to your sister, Rebecca, though you did seem close with William and George as well. Unfortunately, they've all passed on." 

Bucky stared down at nothing as he nodded. The natural assumption was that he would ask more questions about either his parents or siblings, which Maggie was ready for, but he didn't.

"What else do you have in that box?" 

A smile half-proud, half-shy cracked on her lips. "You might regret that question." Fingers working quickly, she began to pull the most obscured–and somewhat ridiculous–documents to the light. "You were a bright student and a bit of an overachiever. Athletic, intelligent, and handsome from a young age, the world was pretty much your oyster–" she stopped, realizing what she'd just said. Bucky didn’t react to the specific adjective, at least on the surface. She handed over the old, yellowed report cards with glowing notes from the teachers over and moved on. 

"When you were twelve, your family moved to New York City, settling in Brooklyn. Your father worked in insurance, which helped your family live comfortably, even during the Great Depression." Digging out the next folder, Maggie hesitated with the next piece of information. Nothing drastic, but possibly overwhelming, giving his reaction back at her apartment.

"What is it?" 

She sighed, deciding to rip it off, painful or not. "When you'd settled in New York, you came across a small, skinny boy your age getting beat up by a bunch of bullies trying to take what little money he had. You fought them off and the two of you were inseparable ever since." Lifting the top page of the file away from her chest, she turned it and showed him the yearbook photo. The caption underneath read “James Barnes, freshman, and Steven Rogers, freshman, celebrate Barnes' State Championship in the four hundred meter dash.” 

Silence settled over the living room as Bucky stared down at the static black and white picture from a high school yearbook. 

George Washington High School. A still brand new building for the young residents of Brooklyn in the nineteen-thirties. Hundreds of students were photographed to be forever entombed in the pages of this particular yearbook that the school still held, but to Maggie, only two of its subjects really mattered. 

"That long?"

"Yeah," Maggie whispered. "He risked his life for you and you did the same for him. Friendship like that is in short supply these days.” 

“Til' the end of the line." 

Maggie blinked. "What?" 

"He said that to me," Bucky explained as if he were in a daze. "When we were up on that ship. He wouldn't fight back." Coming back, he stood up and dropped the file. "I need some air."

Maggie didn't stop him as he stepped outside, closing the front door behind him with a loud thunk. Many breaks between revelations were in their future. She piled the history pulled from the box and shuffled to the far edge of the living room until she came to the bedroom wall. Starting with the birth certificate, she laid the papers down in order, creating a physical timeline of Bucky's life. In the notebook, she wrote down a summary of it, adding that last piece revealed by Bucky under Steve's name. 

Well, that was… weird. 

To be honest, Peter thought that there would be, like, a tingling or shocking sensation. Granted, he didn’t feel anything the first time, but he was expecting it. Swinging through the air, spider-sense on the lookout for any crime to fight, his web rope suddenly disappeared and he went tumbling down to the streets. That certainly hurt. But this time… traveling back… it was different. One moment, he was standing on a copper disk by Staten Island, silently saying goodbye to another version of himself. A happier version. The next, he was back in the New York that he knew. 

Peter sighed as he looked around the sunlit high rises around him. Home. He was home.

“Aunt May.”

Thumbing through putting on his mask, Peter refused to slow down as he made his way across New York to check on his aunt. He didn’t know how long it had been in his world since he was pulled over to the other side. He just needed to know that she was okay and that she wasn’t worrying about him. His heart raced faster as he swung closer to home. It was as if that tiny muscle was determined to beat him there. When the small town home came into view, he smiled under his mask. 

Change. Right, right, right, right. He needed to change first. No need to give Aunt May a heart attack. He’d been pretty good at keeping his secret from her and he wanted to stay on that path. He’d already lived the consequences of the other choice. 

He made sure to come in through the back window that led into his old room, his backpack hidden and nearly forgotten on a far off rooftop. With as much quiet care as he could accomplish, he cleaned up his face and covered his suit with spare clothes that May always kept around, just in case. When he was done, exhaustion caught up with him. 

Collapsing on the bed made up with fresh sheets, Peter let his eyes wander around the room that had been his since he was six years old. 

It had been several months now since he’d moved out. The studio he now bunkered down in and called home base was more like a shabby broom closet, but it was closer to Empire State and easier to run out of at the sound of a police siren. This place where he grew up was now a shell of its former self. The walls were bare, save the curated bulletin board above the old desk. Neither he nor May had removed the polaroids and digital prints that held onto the best time of Peter’s life. 

Yeah, sure, getting hit or thrown across the room hurts and criminals–well, they were really starting to get weird. But he had Gwen. He had that stable ground to stand on, that vital gravity to hold him together. It was far from perfect. But it was good. It was his. What he wouldn’t give to get it back. To get her back. 

Maybe he should have asked young Gandalf to give it a try. 

Peter shook his head. His counterpart meddling with magic was what got him sucked into a different universe in the first place. 

“Yeah. Magic equals bad.” 

Tearing away from the board, he stood up and turned towards the window. With a jump and a questionable landing on the lawn, Peter snuck through the alley that separated the tiny yards behind his house and jogged around until he was back at May’s front door. 

“Aunt May? It’s me! It’s Peter!” 

Stepping inside, Peter swiveled his head from side to side, scanning the front living room, listening for the usual rustling of May’s daily chores. Familiar clinking and rushing water came from the kitchen. He ran towards it at full speed. His poor aunt barely had time to turn around, her arms still splattered with soap suds and water droplets. He slammed so hard into his aunt that they both nearly crashed down to the plastic tile floor. 

"Well, what is this all about?" Aunt May asked through a chuckle that didn't cover up her worry. She patted his back, leaving slightly damp hand prints on his shoulderblades, as he rocked her back and forth, refusing to let go. 

This told him that he was really back. It could only have been a few hours–a whole day at the most–but there had been a taste of the possibility that Peter might never have come home. But he was back. This was his world. His Aunt May. 

And he wasn't dying. Or actively bleeding. Hopefully Peter Two found a good doctor. 

“I just needed one of your hugs, Aunt May." 

Aunt May huffed and pulled away. "I knew it. That J. Jonah Jameson is working you too hard. Does he know you have school to worry about as well? I doubt you're the only photographer in the city."

"But I am the best," he gave the fiery woman a calming kiss on the cheek. "Especially when it comes to getting photos of Spider-man." 

Aunt May pulled the linen towel from her shoulder, nearly whipping Peter's nose in the process. "I'm not sure I like that either. It just seems so dangerous, being that close to crime and criminals." She began dying dishes to try and hide how deep her worry really went. 

"I keep my distance," Peter lied as he hugged her shoulders from behind. Well, it wasn't entirely a lie, depending how you looked at it. He tried to keep enough distance away to keep from being punched in the face. The bruises and cuts had gotten a little hard to explain away. Not to mention, no longer pulling his punches helped to avoid their counters as well. That stopped tonight. The clouds hadn't broken away completely, but some sunlight was starting to shine through. Friendly neighborhood Spider-man was back. A better way existed, he'd seen it. There was hope for Peter Parker. 

"I've packed some leftovers for you," Aunt May rubbed his forearm affectionately before gently breaking out of his hug. She turned to the fridge and pulled out nearly a week's worth of food in several stacked containers stuffed into two plastic bags. 

"You know I do know how to feed myself, right?" 

She raised a testy eyebrow at him. Are you saying you'd rather eat cold fast food over my homemade meals?" 

"No, no, absolutely not." Peter snatched the containers, clutching them to his chest protectively. 

"That's what I thought." 

Peter just smiled at her. Then, she narrowed her eyes on his shirt. 

“I thought I washed that shirt and folded it upstairs?”

“Nah, nah,” Peter scratched the back of his neck while scrambling for another lie, “that was my other black shirt with the… loose collar. You know me, I don’t have much variety in my clothes.”

“We should really fix that. You might meet a nice girl if you dressed yourself a little nicer.” Gasp sharply left Aunt May as she covered her mouth. “Oh, Peter, I’m… I’m sorry. I know that you’re–”

“Don’t worry yourself, Aunt May. I know you mean well. I’ll… I’ll be okay. I promise.”

She studied each inch of his face to make sure he really didn’t take offense. He gave her a goofy smile to try and help her relax. In everyone else’s eyes, two years probably was enough time to begin moving on. But they didn’t know the guilt he carried, the pain. He didn’t simply lose Gwen, it was entirely his fault. There was no moving on from that. 

Pulling her signature move, Aunt May patted his cheek. "You need to get some sleep." 

"Sleep sounds good," he nodded. Now that the adrenaline from the fight and getting back home was crashing, Peter could have curled up right there on the kitchen floor, no pillow, no blanket, and slept for twelve hours. His neck might hurt when he woke up, but that would have been future Peter's issue, if Aunt May would have allowed such a thing.

"I love you, Peter," she said quietly. She kissed his cheek and pushed him towards the door. "I don’t have to tell you to get your homework done, so at least get some sleep. You look like you’ve been hit by a truck."

A giant lizard man, actually. But he wasn’t entirely ready to leave. “Are you sure? I can help you finish those dishes. And I’m pretty sure the upstairs window is still squeaking–”

“Peter, go home.”

“Okay, okay!”

I am home, he thought as the screen door slammed shut behind him. 

He walked for a few blocks until he reached some taller buildings. The ordinary way home would take too long. Sticking to the shadows, he jumped and glided through the sky until he landed on the roof holding his backpack. There was enough room inside to hold Aunt May's leftovers and the extra clothes. Slung on to his shoulders, the pack was snug on his arms with just enough room that it wouldn't rub while swinging through skyscrapers. 

The city he knew at his feet, Peter made a promise. He would be the hero they needed. The kind of hero kids could look up to and everyone could count on. Responsibility laid on his shoulders. He'd use his gifts as Uncle Ben–and Gwen–would have wanted. 

*****

City lights streamed in from the cracks around the blackout curtains that covered the windows. Peter groaned awake, shaking his head and pushing up on his elbows. His eyes adjusted to the darkness. Each muscle sighed in relief as he stretched at every angle. He got up from the bed and stumbled over to the bathroom, splashing water on his face. No idea why he did that as it did absolutely nothing to help him wake up some more. Now his face was wet and tight. 

Shuffling back to the bed, Peter clicked the home button on his cell. The light from the screen burned his eyes as he struggled to read the time. 

4:42 a.m.

Great. Great. He slept the whole day and most of the night. Locking his phone, he tossed it on his pillow. Then scrambled to pick it up again. 

The date. It was Monday. He had slept the entirety of Sunday. No wonder he was so stiff. And starving.

Good thing about New York, plenty of places were twenty-four-seven. Aunt May's leftovers were in the fridge, but he'd rather save those for later. Putting on a fresh, clean suit and then a decent outfit over it, Peter organized his backpack for the day. No textbook was needed for Monday classes, that was good. His back got enough swinging constant through the city, taking away a beat up paper brick, he wouldn't argue. Thursdays were the worst. 

Now. Where was his mask? 

He’d carelessly tossed it last night with how exhausted he was. It was actually kind of shocking he didn't sleep in his suit. He'd done that before. The chafing was horrendous. The apartment wasn't that big. Really it was a doll's studio. No living room, a bathroom barely bigger than the closet and a kitchen that was workable-as long as you didn't want to open a drawer and the bridge at the same time. Or, you know, actually cook. 

Ah, there it is. 

The large eye was visible right under the nightstand. Peter swiped it up and stuffed it into the front pocket. Okay, that was done. He did one last check of phone, wallet, keys, and headed out. 

Peter took the stairs as quietly as he could. He was up, but others were trying to sleep. Though, New York wasn't exactly a quiet city and his steps being light wouldn't help soften the noise. He made it to the bottom without any complaints. The street outside was empty. He kept his eyes as he strolled down the sidewalk. A few shadows moved in the passing alleys, but no one was getting mugged or searching for help. Guilt-lined relief washed over him. He wanted breakfast, then he could web up some criminals. 

The corner deli was bright and open when Peter crossed the street. Good old Benny waved at Peter, a questionable rag in his hand.

"You're alive!" the Irish grandpa laughed. "I almost sent the police to check on you when you missed breakfast two days in a row, but I don't know which of these buildings you live in." 

"And I think I'll keep it that way," Peter replied. Benny was always trying to set him with some unseen niece and Peter didn't really want the two of them awkwardly showing up at his door. "But, hey, I'm here and drooling for that world famous burrito." 

"Extra sausage, right?" 

"You never let me have it any other way." 

Benny chuckled deeply at the quip. While he slapped together scrumpled eggs, irish sausage, and potatoes onto a warm tortilla, Peter browsed the cooler for a drink. Not sure why he bothered to think about it. He always went with apple juice. 

Tossing the bottle up and down, Peter shuffled over to the register. "How's your brother doing, Benny?" 

"Ah, he's alright," Benny grumbled. "That cough is still bothering him, but the doctor gave him a steroid so he should be one hundred here in a few days." 

"Good, good. What do I owe you?" 

"Seven eighty-five, same as always."

"Touché." Peter dug out his wallet. A single twenty left. Good thing his aunt stocked up his fridge. Jameson probably wouldn't pay him until Friday. Benny stretched his neck to get a better look inside the worn wallet that now housed a few crumpled coupons, his school I.D., and an emergency credit card he hadn't dared to use yet. With Aunt May as a cosigner, she might pay it before he could and she was struggling enough these days. 

"You know what? Don't worry about it." Benny slid the bill back across the counter. 

"No, Benny, really, it's okay." Peter tried to hand it back, but the owner stepped back. "Consider it a loyal customer reward." 

Peter could have cried right there. "Thanks, man. Really." 

Benny pointed at him, that grungy rag back in his hand. "Don't get used to it." 

"I won't." Peter saluted with the foil-wrapped burrito and ran out of the store. 

It wasn't long until Peter found a ledge to sit on and eat his breakfast and watch the sunrise over the skyline. Horns blared, voices unintelligibly mixed, and lights flickered on as the hum of the night grew into the shout of the day. Of all the places he could have been born, Peter was thankful that it was here. Where else could he get a view like this? 

Brrrriiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnggggg!

Peter nearly dropped the last bite at the sudden alarm blaring through the air. He knew that sound a little too well. 

"Really? A bank robbery this early?"

Peter showed that last bite into his mouth while pulling his shirt over his head. The left pant leg got caught on his foot. "Come on, come on." This wasn't great for his first time back. Granted, New York probably didn't miss him in that short stint away, but that wasn't the point. 

By the time he reached the bank, several cop cars had already arrived. They all pointed to the front entrance of New York National Bank, the police finding shelter behind open doors, guns pointed at– 

Oh, brother. 

A man in a head-to-toe brown and yellow costume blocked the entryway, a duffle bag strapped to his back and his arms stretched out in front of him. Peter clung to the brick of a nearby building to observe and come up with a plan. 

By now, Peter was getting used to other guys in costumes running around the city. To be fair, he kind of started it. So, what was this guy's gimmick? Scaling on the yellow section made him think of a bug. Good thing spiders ate bugs. Hm, he didn’t see any wings. Maybe not a bug. 

The metal braces around the robber's forearms glowed a strange orange. Then a blast of soundwaves shot from the braces, shattering the cop cars' windows and throwing the officers back. 

Yup, okay, that's new! 

Peter pushed off the wall and flipped through the air, landing in between the new bad guy and the cars. 

"I'd be careful! You keep that trick up and the city might actually file a noise complaint!" 

"Of course," Mr. Vibration scoffed. "I guess I should be honored that Spider-man came to see me." 

"Well, it's been a slow morning. I was quite enjoying it actually."

"Is that so? Then let's end this quickly and you can go back to minding your own business!" With a grunt, the gauntlets glowed again. Peter barely managed to web out of the way. The officers managed to regain their footing and began firing at the robber. They didn't last long. Another blast sent them flying into the sidewalk. 

Okay, take care of those! While he was distracted, Peter took aim and sprayed both arms with sticky webs. Jumping through the air, he tightened the wrapping and pulled. The robber fell into his face. Phew, that was quick. Peter landed in front of him. "Next time, maybe you could take dance lessons and try jazz hands. A bit less illegal.” 

“What makes you think there'll be a next time?" One large blast simultaneously ripped the web apart and knocked Peter off his feet. The robber managed to get to his own and land over Peter. "So, the spider fell down the water spout." Mr. Criminal swung, aiming for Peter’s face. Peter was quicker, kicking both feet into the space where the robber's nose was hidden by the mask. The man stumbled back and Peter shot more webs at his ankles and pulled. 

“Listen, this is fun and all, but I've got somewhere to be," Peter huffed. "So, let's wrap this up. Literally." Still holding on to the rope, he jumped up onto the nearest traffic light and tied the rope to the horizontal pole. The robber was getting ready to send another pulse, so Peter acted quickly. He webbed one and tightly secured it to the vertical traffic light pole. It was easy to do the same with the remaining free am, this time using one of the cop cars as an archer. This guy didn't seem like he had superstrength. He struggled and pulled at the restraints, trying to activate his gauntlets, but he was firmly stuck in place. 

"You ever think about therapy? 'Cause I'm sensing a lot of unresolved buzzing." 

"This isn't the last you've seen of the Shocker, Spider-man!" 

"Maybe keep workshopping that name." Peter saluted the officers and webbed out of there. He made a stop on the side building to rip his camera out of its web casing. Jameson should like that. Maybe enough for a bonus? He scoffed. Yeah, right. That man hardly paid him as it was. But taking photographs for the Daily Bugle gave him time to be Spider-man without a strict schedule. 

Back at his backpack, Peter took a breather. Who the hell was that guy? And where did he get those gauntlets? 

Those were questions for another day. It had to be close to the start of Peter's first class. He checked his phone. 

Oh, crap! 

Maggie closed the trunk of her car with a satisfying thunk. That was the last of the boxes she needed from her apartment. In the front passenger's seat, Bucky anxiously waited. His eyes never stopped moving. Every person walking down the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street was a possible threat. 

“We have a couple of stops before we head out to the cabin,” Maggie informed him. 

His expression was strained. “What stops?”

She returned it with an incredulous look of her own. “I don't know about you, but I want to eat while we're there and I doubt you want to wear the same clothes day after day.”

He looked down at the same clothes she'd given him last night and shrugged. “I hadn't thought about it.”

She wasn't completely caught off guard by the response. The most likely scenario was that he didn't ever have to put much thought into his everyday wear. What he could remember, his life was order after order and he simply followed them.

His refusal to wait in the car when she ran into the clothing store for him and again in the grocery store was mildly frustrating. For a man trying to hide from the world, he didn't care to take the better option. He stayed close by Maggie's side as they wandered through the aisles. When she moved, he moved. Even an inch to look as something else. He didn't fully trust her yet and she couldn't blame him. All she could do was try her best to show him she wouldn't turn on him. 

"Ready?" she asked as she jumped into the driver's seat. Bucky nodded without looking at her as he shut the passenger side door. She took that silent answer and started the engine.

It was a long drive made even longer by the perpetual silence. But what kind of casual conversation could be had? Asking him about how he was alive and what he did as the Winter Soldier was out. That was a subject that needed to be slowly given, not taken. 

As the trees thickened, cars and other signs of civilizational waned. Maggie's fingers tapped against the steering wheel impatiently. Another hand crossed the threshold and covered the fidgeting digits. 

"Sorry," Maggie mumbled. She just wanted to reach the cabin. Then she could relax. Bucky leaned back in his seat, resuming his watch out the window. Now any perceived danger would be more concealed by the foliage and nature rather out in the open on the streets.

Oh, thank goodness. The entrance of the unmarked road was approaching. A tell-tale boulder with a striking pattern sat patiently on the side of the road for anyone who knew its secret. Maggie slowed the car to take the right-hand turn safely. It was partially obscured by overgrown branches and wild weeds. Exactly as Granddad intended. Asphalt quickly shifted into bumpy, uneven rocks. The car vibrated and jolted as it rolled along. Compact cars weren't the best for gravel roads, but it was all she had. Hopefully it would hold together and not pop a tire before they reached the end. 

The road wound and tuned, refusing to straighten out. Timothy Dugan had been a bit paranoid, wanting a hideout that couldn't easily be found. An overgrown road that twisted and turned to the point that anyone would give up and turn around, thinking they had turned onto an old, never used trail. Maggie, however, knew to keep going. Finally, the cabin materialized at the end of the road. 

It wasn't a large structure, surely not meant for even a decent sized family. It was a lonely retreat to get away from the world. Her grandfather built it himself, even digging the well and connecting the generator. It was left to Maggie and Maggie alone in his will. No one else came out here. She felt closest to him out in the woods he loved so much, though with the exhibit she hadn’t been able to check on it for several months. 

"Home, sweet home." Maggie shoved open the door of her car. Bucky was useful in helping to carry the groceries and duffle bags of clothing. They headed for the waiting dark cabin. Bucky was right behind her, hovering as she unlocked the door. Musky darkness greeted them on the other side. Beams of weak sunlight pushed through the faded curtains to give sight for the lonely room. The furniture was covered in a thin layer of dust, but that could be easily cleaned with a bit of elbow grease and gritted determination.

"Feel free to inspect," Maggie offered. "I'll go check the generator." 

Around the side of the cabin, the generator was still all in one piece. It took several pulls and a check of the gas tank, but eventually it roared to life with plenty of gasoline stored in the shed several feet away for continuous use. Carrying several logs of wood from the pitiful pile in the back, she headed inside where the lights had flickered on, albeit weakly. Good thing she had thought to pick up a few spare light bulbs at the store. 

"The single bedroom is through there." Maggie pointed to the closed door on the far right after dropping off the wood by the fireplace. "Bathroom is next to it. Try not to take super long showers. Everything comes from the well and the filtered storage." 

"Your grandfather built all of this?" Bucky wandered into the kitchen area, eyes scanning every little detail they could soak up. None of the cabinets or designs were anything intricate or special. All of it was practical. It was for function, not for style. 

"Yeah, he did. Between the war and his missions with S.H.I.E.L.D., he needed a retreat to calm down." Maggie got started on building a fire in the fireplace in the far wall, beginning small for now. It wasn't too cold yet, but they would need to chop more wood in the coming days. Out here, the weather change could be felt to a more extreme end. Fall temperatures weren't awful, once winter came, however, they would be thankful for the continued heat. Clapping her hands to rid them of bits of bark, she stood to her feet. 

“No one's been here for a few months, so we should probably try and make this place a bit more hospitable.” She opened the small closet for a well stocked pile of cleaning products. To Bucky, she held out a rag and a spray bottle. He stared at the objects, not moving. Maggie huffed, sounding like her grandfather, "There's no real guests here. If you are going to take a pillow, you've got to put in the work and earn it.”

His eyes flickered from the cleaning tools to her. “What do you want me to do?” 

“Spray and wipe down the counters. I’ll try to make the furniture usable.”

With hesitant movements, he took the spray bottle and cloth and walked into the kitchen to make it habitable for cooking and eating. Maggie watched him for a few seconds, monitoring the amount of cleaner being sprayed onto the surfaces and how much the rag was soaking up. Satisfied at the cleaning effort, she moved over to the living room to begin on the couch. 

It was a tougher job than Maggie had expected. The dust had settled deep into the fabric and demanded an exhausting amount of scrubbing to really get it clean. The outermost layer floated back in the air as she worked to clear the cushions, eliciting several painful sneezes. Little beads of sweat dotted her forehead by the time the couch was now ready for human usage. 

“How’s the kitchen looking?” Maggie called out as she sat down on the floor, resting her arms on her knees to try and let her muscles rest. Then she groaned. No one had mopped the hard wood floors yet which could only mean her bottom was now covered in dirt, grime, and dust.

Bucky stepped up to the left side of the couch, staring down at her blankly. “I finished five minutes ago. I cleaned the table, too.”

“Of course you did.” Maggie pushed herself up to her feet and clapped her hands together to get them somewhat decent. “Do you mind mopping the floor? I’m going to change real quick and then get started on dinner." 

The annoyed glare on his face was almost comical. Maggie bit the inside of her cheek to keep from snickering as she scooped up the duffle bag with her clothes and shut herself in the bedroom to put on fresh clothes. When she came out, the floor was nearly shining and Bucky was sitting on the couch, staring at nothing. 

“Thank you,” Maggie said sincerely as she passed him to the kitchen. She began separating the groceries still waiting for their new home from the morsels to be used for their first meal in the cabin.  

Unsure of what to do with himself, Bucky left the couch and lingered by the counter. He'd removed his jacket, so as he crossed his arms and leaned against the counter edge the metal arm was on display under the short sleeved shirt he must have changed into. The limb shined almost like a mirror, with two-inch sections breaking up the surface to allow for movement. 

"Does it hurt?" Maggie nodded towards the arm since her hands were busy cooking the chicken in the pan. She didn’t want to come on too strongly, but the silence was killing her and all other possible subjects refused to come out of hiding. 

Luckily, it didn’t appear to be a sore subject. Today, at least. He merely shrugged. "Sometimes."

Now emboldened, Maggie took another hesitant step. "Do you remember anything more yet?" It had only been a little less than twenty-four hours but she didn’t have a firm grip on how his memories were currently functioning.  

"I was... experimented on," he said slowly, gaze down at the floor. Maggie’s stirring down shifted to match. Her concentrating wasn’t on the food, but every little change in Bucky’s expression. Was he truly trusting her? "It made me stronger, but–" He frowned as if he were concentrating really hard, forcing the image to sharpen right before him. 

"But?" Maggie urged. 

He laid his palms out in front of him in the air. "I had both of my arms."

"So, it was before the train accident?" Wheels turned in Maggie's head. A piece of the history her grandfather told her so many times, she nearly had his version memorized. "Watch the chicken." 

She put the spatula down and hurried to the bedroom. When she came back, she put down a medium-sized box and dug through the papers haphazardly stored inside. The sheet she pulled out was a copy of a report detailing the rescue of the 107th from a HYDRA facility. 

"It must have been this." She handed the report over for him to read. 

"HYDRA had me before?" he asked once he’d finished the summary. 

"They captured your unit and took you back to one of their facilities. When Steve broke in by himself to get you out, you were in what was believed to be an interrogation room alone while the others were locked away together in cells. Perhaps more was going on than simply asking for information." Maggie moved around the counter to get back to the chicken before it burned. He wasn’t a fair helper when it came to the cooking.

She let Bucky skim through more of the papers, answering any questions that she could. The finer details were a mystery to her. Only he would be able to someday fill in the missing pieces. 

When they were seated at the small table beginning to eat, his question turned down a different road. "How do you know so much?" 

Maggie chewed over her first bite before answering. "I was the only one interested in Granddad’s stories. When I was little, he told me about the more fun, exciting adventures he had been on.” Sitting back, she reveled in those moments with her grandfather. “In college, I developed the insane idea about how there should be an exhibit to everything he had done with the Commandos. That's when he started telling me more. He showed me all the reports and logs. He hated computers so he kept paper copies of everything. Boxes and boxes of it. Any piece he didn't want on display was stored here. I've read through ninety-nine percent of it." 

Hunched over his plate, Bucky swallowed a large mouthful of food. "So, you know a lot about me, then?" 

"I thought that’s why you came to me?" She nodded towards the box, silently thanking her grandfather for his odd, collective ways. "My grandfather would have done the same."

"How many boxes are there?" 

The left corner of Maggie's lips twitched upward. "Twelve. Though not all include you. A lot of S.H.I.E.L.D. missions are in there, too." 

Bucky looked down at the now empty plate. When did he eat all of that? "I guess it's a good thing you bought so much food." 

Maggie laughed and took another bite while he stood to grab another round of dinner. 

Once the meal was finished and the dishes cleaned up, Maggie pulled the couch apart to reveal the hidden bed folded inside. They were both exhausted and in need of a real night’s sleep. 

"Alright," she sighed as she tossed down blankets and a couple of freshly washed pillows on the lumpy mattress. "I'll sleep here and you can take the bedroom." 

"No," Bucky said sternly. 

Maggie blinked. "No?" 

"No,” he repeated. "I'll sleep out here. You take the bedroom." 

"You're technically the guest,” Maggie argued. "Guest gets the room." 

“You said there were no guests here.”

She rolled her eyes at his memory insisting on holding on to that small sentence. “That was only a saying my grandfather made to get us to help him and my grandmother clean their house. This is my cabin, you are the guest. Take the bedroom.”

He didn't respond. Instead, he straightened to his full height and crossed his arms. It was statement enough. He wouldn’t budge and there was no way she would move him–verbally or physically. 

Maggie laughed out a scoff. "This is a gentleman thing, isn't it?" More silence. The fight wasn't worth it. She was too tired and he would win in a wrestling match. Giving in, Maggie sighed. "Fine. Take it. You'd probably just carry me back there anyway."

The twitch of a smile was confirmation enough.

“If you need more blankets, there are some in the chest." She pointed to the wooden trunk in front of the couch in lue of a coffee table. "I'll keep the door unlocked. If you need anything, come get me." 

"You should lock the door," he warned as she turned to leave. 

Trying to mirror his earlier intimidation tactic, Maggie straightened her shoulders and kept her gaze leveled with his. She trusted him and the only way for him to believe her was through action. "It’ll be unlocked. Come in if you need me." 

Before he could argue further, she scurried to the bedroom and shut the door behind her. 

Heart pounding in her chest, she leaned against the wall, counting each breath until it finally slowed. 

This was fine. Everything was fine. 

She truly believed that. Other things were causing her heart to pound, but they would be shoved so far down that were unreachable. So, peeling off the wall, she walked over to the bed and tugged off her sweater and pants and crawled into the sheets. The fibers were soaked in a wooden scent–the same scent her grandfather often carried with him. Burying her face in the pillow, Maggie enveloped in the scent as she drifted off to a deep, peaceful sleep. 

Until a scream of anguish ripped her back awake. 

Tangled up in the blankets, Maggie struggled free herself from the bed and ran from the room, ready to discover a fight. Out in the living room, the bed was folded back into a couch and Bucky was wrapped like a cocoon in thin sheets on the hard cold floor. His screams that had woken Maggie continued as he withered in pain, eyes still squeezed shut as he was trapped in his dreams. 

"Bucky! Bucky!" Maggie fell to her knees beside him and tried to wake him by shaking his shoulder. "Bucky!" 

His eyes snapped open and a hand flew to Maggie's throat, slamming her down on the floor as he hovered above her. The gritted-teeth scowl strained his features as he stared down at her with an unfocused gaze. Then something snapped him back to full awareness. His eyes cleared and he let go. 

"I'm sorry.'' His voice broke as he scrambled back away from her. 

With her hand now rubbing her neck to calm the stinging skin, Maggie croaked out, "It's okay." 

"No, it's not," he growled. "I could have killed you."

Fighting that comment was another losing battle, so Maggie ignored it and crawled towards him. He needed to know she wasn’t afraid. She knew incidents like this were a possibility after whatever HYDRA had one to him. Bucky tried to shuffle away further, but the side of the couch stopped him after only a few inches. Taking the advantage when she saw it, Maggie sat next to him with no space between them, her body pressed up against his to let him know that she was there and she was real. The dream was over and he wouldn’t hurt her on his own volition. 

In only a cami and shorts, she could feel his clammy skin against hers. There was a slight tremble where they touched. She held onto his flash arm to try and calm him. He refused to look at her. "Do you want to talk about it?" 

For a moment, she didn’t think he would. But then, Bucky took a deep breath, still staring at the sheets tangled up in his feet, and, to her shock, he let her in. 

"Most of the time, when I wasn't carrying out a mission, I was in a cryo sleep. If I was out of cryo too long, images would surface, blurred memories that I couldn’t make out. So, they would have to wipe my mind again and again."

"I'm guessing it wasn't a pleasant experience,” Maggie whispered. Her thumb began absentmindedly rubbing circles over his outer arm.

"No," he answered harshly. "It was excruciating. It went on until I finally passed out from the pain." Almost subconsciously, his right hand shifted from his own leg to take comfort on Maggie's knee. He needed to be grounded, so she let him cling to her. She was real and the reach of HYDRA wouldn’t get them here. 

Against his shoulder, she murmured, "Is that what you were dreaming of?" 

He nodded. He refused to look at her. "The last time it happened. I had just encountered Rogers on the bridge. He knew me. And I was remembering being in HYDRA, waking up to this," he lifted up the metal hand. “Its all right there, underneath the surface.”

"I can't imagine not being allowed to remember who I was." She lifted her own right hand to take hold of his metal one. "You shouldn't have gone through that." 

He responded to the touch. His fingers curled around her own, delving into the contact like they were the surface of a new world. But before the exploration could go any further, he snatched his hand back. "You should go back to bed," he said as he shifted away from her. "I'll be fine." 

She looked up at him, not quite ready to leave him still like this. "Are you sure?" He nodded. Knowing that they were still too new to each other for her to fight back against his pulling back, Maggie let go and stood. "I hope you don't dream."

She looked at him one last time before disappearing back into the bedroom.

*****

Bucky watched her as she closed the door to the bedroom, taking refuge from him and the danger he clearly represented. Adrenaline still drummed in his ears as he took in the dark cabin. The phantom pain hadn't died down. He breathed in and out to control his heart rate. 

It wasn't real. He wasn't in HYDRA. He created a tether to the bedroom door to keep him in the present. This was his first night since the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D. that he wasn't sleeping on the streets, constantly waking at every little noise or jumping at every shadow. He didn't dare close his eyes in Maggie's apartment the previous night. The environment wasn't trustworthy. She could have been a trap, an agent of HYDRA ordered to bring him back in. 

While she slept, he raided the apartment for any sign of a lie. Every photo, every spine-cracked book with little notes pointed to the truth she had been saying the entire evening. Breaking into her laptop was easy. Doused in the glow of the screen, he'd read about the Howling Commando's granddaughter who loved history and pushed for the exhibit honoring her grandfather. It was the reason he came to the cabin. 

He stared down at the metal fingers that had stolen the lives of so many people. It felt separate from himself and yet he knew he could never disconnect from it. Next to the cold artificial hand, he lifted the one made of flesh and blood, comparing what they reached for. In a state of delirium, he'd pinned her down and squeezed her throat. A miracle had snapped him out of the iron-clad dream. She didn't run from him like she should have. She came closer. She touched him with a softness he didn't deserve. Yet, he wanted more. He wanted to cling to her. Something about her felt close to reality. She was separate from the horrors he had committed. But she was also connected. 

He couldn't hurt her again. Knowing his past was the key. To know who he had been was vital to his very survival.

James Buchanan Barnes.