It's Saturday morning, but Bucky still rises before dawn.
He opens the tracking app on his phone and checks in on you. Feels the familiar spark of relief when he finds the blinking white dot in your bedroom, presumably fast asleep.
He takes a cold shower, rinsing away the sticky feel on his skin, the kind that clings after a night of restless sleep. The icy water shocks him awake, makes his blood scream in protest, chases away the memories that seem to bloom fresh following the nightmares.
He pulls on black gym shorts and a faded blue t-shirt, pads barefoot to the kitchen. He makes coffee, drinks half the pot in a few scalding swallows, fills a huge mug with the rest, and sets a second pot to brew.
He sits on the floor in front of the sofa, reads through outstanding mission reports and emails an update to Nick Fury and Jack Bernstein.
When 7:00 arrives, he texts you.
"Good morning. Call me if you need to go anywhere."
He heads down to the gym, flips on the treadmill, and knocks out 15 miles. Follows that with push-ups, sit-ups, lunges. Cycles through five sets of a hundred each before he checks his phone again.
Nothing.
Mildly surprised at the lack of response, he texts again, grinning to himself when he imagines the snarky response his words will elicit.
"Elementary level manners suggest responding when someone wishes you a good morning."
He goes to the heavy duty punching bags, the ones Stark bought especially for him and Steve, and lets his mind go blank for an hour, punching and kicking until sweat pours off his body. He drops to the floor with a groan, chest heaving as he catches his breath. He reaches behind him, plucks his phone from the mats.
Nothing.
Opening the tracking app again, he discovers you in the same place as before, a blinking white dot still in your bedroom.
He dials your number and it goes straight to voicemail. He rolls his eyes and hangs up when he hears the recorded voice.
"No one uses voicemail. Don't leave a message, I won't listen. Text me."
So he texts again. "Are we in a mood today? Respond please."
He takes a second shower and dresses for the day, old black jeans and a white t-shirt. He makes breakfast, using Steve's bright blue Captain America toaster, which mysteriously reappeared two days ago. It now imprints an Ironman logo on every slice of bread it toasts and Steve is pissed.
Slathering peanut butter over Tony's face, he takes a huge bite and looks at the phone again.
Nothing.
He narrows his eyes, feels the first flicker of fear pulse in his chest. The blinking white dot is still there, hasn't moved an inch, but this is so completely out of character. He calls again, growling in frustration when the voicemail picks up, so he texts again and waits.
"Respond in the next 60 seconds or I'm coming over. Not a joke."
Nothing.
"Fuck," he mutters, feeling his skin begin to crawl. He dumps his food in the sink and snags his leather jacket from the common room, tugs on a pair of heavy black boots. Walks quickly to his room to grab his gun, slides a knife into each boot and hurries to the elevator. When he reaches the garage, he breaks into a jog, winding through rows of expensive cars, until he reaches his bike parked near the exit. The engine roars when he flips the switch, and he checks his phone one final time.
Nothing.
"Shit," he shouts, the words immediately swallowed by the thundering rumble.
He guides the bike into early weekend traffic and smashes the throttle, heading for your apartment, ignoring every red light along the way.
When he arrives, he wedges the bike into a spot that may or may not be an actual parking space, and sprints to the front door, wrenching it open. Ignoring the woman waving hello at the front desk, he skids into an open elevator, punching the button repeatedly until it creaks closed. When it finally reaches your floor, he nearly rips the doors apart when they slowly crack open.
And then he's pounding on your door, six sharp raps. "It's me, open up."
Nothing.
"Dammit, this isn't funny, open the door right fucking now or I'm using my key."
Nothing.
Something must be wrong. Even if you were furious with him, you wouldn't do this, you would always answer. Feeling a bead of sweat roll between his shoulder blades, he slides his gun from the holster strapped to his lower back, and cocks the hammer, the click deafening in the quiet hallway. His mind is shaking, but his hands are steady when they pull out a key, the one you grudgingly handed over after he promised to never, ever use it, except in dire emergency.
Slipping it into the lock, the tumblers turn smoothly, and he nudges the door open. There's movement in front of him, a shadow in the dim hallway and in the blink of an eye, he has the gun sighted, finger hovering over the trigger.
You freeze, staring down the barrel pointed between your eyes.
Bucky's eyes go wide. He gives a choked gasp and immediately raises both arms, hands in the air signaling he means no harm. Still raised above his head, his fingers un-cock the gun and he tucks it back under his jacket.
And in the next breath, he finds himself shouting, blindingly, overwhelmingly furious.
"Jesus god damn Christ, why the fuck didn't you answer me?! We agreed, rule number two, you fucking promised me, you can't just – " He stops abruptly, really truly sees you. Panicked eyes, wild hair, fingers in a death grip on the tattered patchwork quilt wrapped around you.
His silence asks the wordless question.
"I got another letter," you whisper.
*****
Bucky is livid.
Watching him pace an agitated path through your living room, Steve thinks he can't recall seeing this level of rage in years. Looking down at the letter, his lip curls in disgust at the splatter of blood soaked dark into the paper.
"What happened?" he asks quietly.
"I have no fucking idea," Bucky hisses. Scrubbing his hands down his face, he clips a leash on his anger and tries to compose himself, to make sense of the situation. "I check her mail every day, here and at work. It wasn't there when I looked, I know it wasn't, I would have fucking seen it."
He sounds desperate to convince Steve, to convince himself, that he didn't fuck up, that he didn't miss something important, something that could have put your life in danger.
"If you didn't see it, it wasn't there," Steve agrees firmly. "So, think – alternatives, what are they?"
Bucky takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, rifling through the possibilities, considering and rejecting one idea after another. He grimaces when he reaches the conclusion.
"Three scenarios. Someone in the office delivered it after I'd checked, he was close enough to slip it in her bag, or he was in this apartment."
Bucky's logic sobers them both, and they stare hard at each other. He feels a sick swoop in his gut. Fuck, fuck, fuck, this can't happen. He has to get back in control, he has to figure this out, he has to fix this immediately.
"What do you want to do?" Steve asks, and his even voice is enough. In an instant, Bucky rebounds, and begins outlining a plan.
"Alright. SHIELD ran background checks on everyone who works in that office building, I'll put them to FRIDAY and see if she can find any patterns they missed. You get that letter to forensics, see if they can find a match on the blood. I'll get Stark to put a new security system in here, and tell Fury to put an agent downstairs around the clock."
"Would she move into the Tower?" Steve asks.
"She won't, and I'm not forcing her." Bucky thinks. "Besides, the Tower's too high profile, too obvious. He would know to look for her there."
Both soldiers look toward the bathroom when they hear the sound of plastic bottles crashing in the shower, followed by a string of colorful swears. Bucky contemplates the door, before the idea comes like a flash.
"I'm going to show her to the other place."
Steve whips around, disbelief covering every inch of his face. "Are you serious? I know you want – look, I know this is important, I get it, but – Bucky, really?
"Why not?"
Steve thinks of the words in the letter, of the anger at you, now turned toward Bucky. His voice is full of caution when he responds.
"Don't rip my head off here, but I'm gonna go ahead and ask the obvious question. Are you sure you're not too emotionally involved in this situation?"
Bucky stares incredulously. "What the fuck do you mean? I'm not being emotional, I'm being practical. It could be a good solution, if she needs it."
"Bucky, come on."
"Come on what? Help me out here Steve, what exactly are you trying to say?"
"I'm saying, would you do it for anyone else? Or just her?"
"That's not the point."
"That's exactly the point."
"Alright, stop. This isn't about emotion, I don't get emotionally attached, I'm not a fucking idiot. I'm just – I'm exhausting all the options, okay?"
Steve simply looks at him, at the rigid posture, at the defensive expression. He chooses his words extremely carefully.
"Up to you Buck."
*****
Standing under the fall of water, you close your eyes, letting the steady stream heat your skin. You heard Steve arrive when you were stepping into the shower, could just make-out the rough cut of Bucky's voice greeting him, before the rush of water muted the world. It feels rude to hide, but you're not interested in talking to anyone else right now, so you linger, unwilling to tap out until the hot water is gone.
Well, you mentally amend, no one else but him. Bucky is the only person you trust right now, and his response in the face of your fear this morning was just one more reason why.
*****
The second he hears your confession, he has an arm around your shoulders, steering you to the sofa and pushing you gently down. He kneels at your feet, tucks in the edges of your blanket, and looks up into your eyes.
"Okay, it's okay. I'm here, you're safe. I'll fix it," he promises, resolve echoing in the timbre of his husky voice. "I'm gonna fix it."
You didn't know how much you needed the words until you hear his voice. Relief crashes down, fast and heavy, leaving you dizzy.
"Can you show me the letter?"
Feeling slightly embarrassed at the overreaction, you point back to the kitchen. "I, um, kind of put it in the oven. I have no fucking idea why, I just panicked. Wanted it out of sight."
It's a testament to his professionalism that he doesn't laugh. When he goes into the kitchen and opens the oven door, you see his shoulders tense as he picks up the letter, a low growl leaving his throat while he reads. It takes him a moment before he can turn to face you with a calm expression.
"Okay, how about this. So first, I'm gonna make you some coffee, because you get scary when you don't have caffeine." You burst into surprised laughter at the assessment, a smile tugging at your lips while you flip him off. He gives you that lopsided grin of his and continues. "Then I need to make some phone calls, you can go take a shower, and we'll start this day again. Sound good?"
*****
Sometimes a hot shower does wonders for resetting perspective.
Steve is gone when you finally come stomping out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam. Bucky sits on the sofa, lost in thought, but at the sound of your footsteps, he shakes himself from the reverie, eyeing you suspiciously.
"I've made a decision," you announce, tossing a wet towel over the kitchen chair.
"Of course you have," he sighs, leaning back into the sofa cushions.
"I refuse to let this crazy fucker scare me into hiding, I'm not sitting in this apartment all day just because some jumped up asshole has a crush and a pair of scissors. I texted Jack, he doesn't want any major edits on my story for tomorrow, the weather is gorgeous, and I'm going out to enjoy the shit out of this beautiful god damn day."
To your amazement, Bucky nods along. "Good idea, you shouldn't sit here and think about it."
"Back up. I feel like I heard you agree with me. Have you been drinking? Or have I?"
He laughs, happy to hear the ever-present sass return. "Before you go traipsing around the city though, can I suggest a location?"
*****
Shaking your head vehemently, you glare daggers at the black bike.
"Nope. That's a solid nope."
"I bought a helmet, because I thought you might like to try it," he says mournfully, giving you a kicked-puppy face before innocently adding, "but it's okay, if you're too scared, we can get a cab."
Narrowing your eyes at the taunt, you snatch the shiny black helmet with a snort. "I understand how reverse psychology works, you jerk. If you kill us, I swear on everything holy, I will murder you so slow."
He seems far too entertained by the threat. Jamming on the helmet, he watches you fumble repeatedly with the chin strap, growing progressively sweaty and sweary, until brushing your hands away and clicking the lock in place.
Giving a nod of satisfaction, he moves to swing a leg over the bike, but you quickly catch a fistful of leather and yank him back.
"Wrong. Where's your helmet? I'm not washing brains out of my shirt if you crash this thing."
"I don't need one." He taps his head with exaggerated patience. "Super soldier, remember?"
"Super stupid, more like." Scowling fiercely, you cross your arms and wait. He sighs loudly.
"Christ, okay, okay. I promise I'll get one for next time."
Appeased with the promise, you watch him settle on the bike, before he extends an arm and motions you to get behind him. Gripping his forearm tight, you climb gingerly up, propping your feet on the pegs and searching for handholds. When he starts the engine, the rough sound vibrates down to your teeth.
"Hang on!" he calls, and before you can find your composure, he takes off like a shot. Immediately panicking, your hands fly off the seat, closing around him in a death grip. Burying your face in his back, you call him every curse word you've ever learned, praying to god he hears you and takes offense.
You feel his chest vibrating under your fingers, and you know the asshole is laughing.
As he zips through the side streets, twisting and turning and backtracking, leaving what you eventually realize is a false trail, you begin to relax. You have no idea where he's taking you, until you see the ramp in front of you and the bridge looms ahead, ropes of silver steel and smooth grey stone and black iron railings.
Brooklyn.
*****
Guiding the bike into a narrow, hidden alleyway in Brooklyn Heights, you coast to a stop at the back of a nondescript brownstone.
"I kind of hate you," you huff, pulling the helmet off and rubbing the pressure from your temples.
Dropping the kickstand, he slides off and offers you a hand. "Come on, that was fun. Admit it."
"No, it was terrifying," you insist, taking his hand for balance. Smoothing your hair, you look up at the wall of brown bricks in front of you. "So, where did you bring me then?"
Bucky is suddenly second-guessing himself. He hesitates, his mind struggling to untangle the threads of rationale that earlier seemed so clear. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe it's too much.
But then he sees the look of trust on your face, and his hesitation evaporates.
"Few years ago, I, um, I bought this building. Ripped out the bottom couple floors, and converted the top into an apartment. I come here a few times a week, just to be alone, try to clear my head. It's completely secure, has the same security systems as the Tower, but there are only three other people who know it exists." He gives you a small smile. "Well, now four I guess. I just thought you might like to know you have somewhere to go, somewhere safe, if you ever need it."
Whatever you may have anticipated, this certainly wasn't it.
Following him to the back door, you find a security system that looks deceptively out of date, but then he punches a long string of code into a grimy plastic box, holds for a retinal scan from a dirty camera lens, and you recognize Stark technology at work.
Opening the door, he heads up the dark staircase, feels his heart beat faster at the sound of your footsteps behind him. For some reason he is unwilling to examine closer, it matters what you think, of this place and what he's done. This is actually him, something only a handful of people have seen.
When he eases open the front door, he steps aside and lets you pass. Walking into the small apartment, you stop in stunned surprise.
The west wall of the apartment is made entirely of glass. Early afternoon sunlight floods the open layout, and when Bucky pushes a button next to the door, the wall begins to ripple, moving and shifting, until it retracts completely. With the barrier is gone, only a wall of open air separates you from the small balcony overlooking the Manhattan skyline.
Pivoting slowly, you see a small kitchen, filled with dark wood cabinets and stainless-steel appliances, glossy white tiles gleaming as a backsplash. Wide wooden beams span the length of the high ceilings, and opposite the kitchen, sits a massive cream colored sofa with throw pillows piled across it, shades of grey and blue and brown. A dark leather armchair rests near the open wall of windows, and shelving brackets the limestone fireplace, soaring 15 feet in the air and crammed full of books, a rainbow of spines marked with spiky black letters.
Dozens of frames decorate the walls, full of artwork and photographs, and when you step closer, it takes your breath away.
Small initials are etched on the edges of canvas, pencilled into old sketches, the faint letters spelling SGR. Peeling black and white photos are carefully encased in glass, and you recognize Bucky when he was young. His little sister sticking her tongue out at the camera. His parents on their wedding day. A tiny blond kid with a cheeky smirk and messy hair, who looks remarkably like Steve Rogers.
"Steve drew up blueprints for the space and convinced the Smithsonian to return all our original photos. Tony bitched the entire time, but he put in the glass wall. It's completely bulletproof, could even handle a few grenades if anyone tried. He linked FRIDAY to the security system, and has a holographic block on the place, so from the outside all visual cues indicate the building's empty, even if you're standing on the balcony waving. I installed the kitchen, re-modeled the bathroom, laid in the hardwood floors. Made it all a project, part of the therapy I had to do..." he trails off, tracing his fingers over the back of the sofa, as if reliving the days spent measuring and sanding and painting.
Turning around, you see him standing tense behind the sofa, gripping the edge tight. In a flash, you understand. This is his home, his real home, filled with the things he remembers and loves. It's akin to baring his soul, showing who he is on the inside, and he has willingly brought you here, somewhere strictly off limits to the rest of the world.
The gesture is confusingly intimate, and you feel an ache behind your heart. The compliment rises to your lips, spilling into the quiet room.
"It's beautiful, Bucky. Completely, amazingly beautiful."
As his face breaks into a look of pure happiness, the ache expands.
*****
In five minutes, you have nine books piled next to you. Curling into the giant leather chair, you pull a throw blanket over your shoulders and settle in with "The Book Thief." The afternoon sun moves slowly through the apartment, drenching everything in warmth.
Bucky settles onto the sofa, props his feet on the coffee table and unfolds today's crossword puzzle from the paper, digging a pen out of his pocket.
"Someone's a bit arrogant," you comment drily, indicating the ink.
"It's not arrogance, it's confidence. There's a difference."
"When was the last time you finished one?"
"Aren't you supposed to be reading?"
*****
"Bucky?"
"Hmm?"
"Why don't you just live here?"
He looks up from his crossword, and finds you facing the balcony, eyes closed in bliss as a wide beam of sunlight envelops the chair.
"If it was possible, I would. Doesn't make sense with work, being in the Tower is easier. Besides, I like this place being off the radar. I'm too paranoid to – "
"Wait, what? You're paranoid? This is brand new information."
He gives you a mock glare. "I'm very understandably paranoid with people knowing about this place, I like that it's mine alone. Well, and sometimes Steve's, if he needs a break and asks nicely."
*****
"Can I ask you a question?" It takes a moment to register his voice, you're so engrossed in the beauty of Liesel's story.
"Sure, hit me," you respond easily, marking your page with a finger and closing the cover.
He seems to think for a moment, finding the right words. "Why was this letter worse? I don't blame you, but why didn't the other three have the same effect?"
"I think it was the surprise? It was completely unexpected. The other ones, I knew there was something wrong, Jack said there were threats, you and Steve were both there." You pause, searching for a way to encapsulate the feeling that letter left. "Because it was in my home, it made me feel vulnerable. I hated that."
He nods. He understands.
*****
Bucky looks up from the paper, starts to ask another question, and stops when he sees you. Fast asleep, lips parted slightly, your face tipped up to soak in the light.
He bends back to the crossword, an unconscious smile playing on his lips.
*****
"I'm hungry."
"Didn't you just eat my last Snickers?"
"I'm wasting away."
Bucky tosses the crossword on the table with a dramatic finality that indicates he's not going to finish it.
"I'll be back."
*****
When the sun sinks below the waves of the East River, streaks of subdued color paint the clear sky, cool oranges and soft pinks and hazy purples, a perfect mirror to the calm quiet of your afternoon together.
Wrapped in one of Bucky's enormous fuzzy blankets, you rest against the balcony wall, looking back into the cosy little apartment, two empty pizza boxes at your feet. Bucky leans next to you, his long legs stretched out comfortably, head titled back to catch the last vestiges of warmth tangled in the cool evening air.
Somehow the light conversation has tripped into more personal territory, and he's asking if you want to talk about what happened all those years ago.
"You know what happened. I'm sure I have a file, right?" You give him a wry smile.
"I know what I read. That doesn't mean I know what happened. Sometimes talking about it helps." He gives a dry laugh. "Least that's what all the therapists always tell me."
The last time you had a real, honest to God conversation about what happened that day, was in your therapist's office the day before high school graduation. After that, it seemed easier to stop rehashing the past and start living toward the future. So, you put that part of your life in a box and stored it safely away, deep in the back of your head.
But his voice makes you want to open that mental box and rummage through the contents, so with a deep breath, you begin.
"When I was 11, we moved to Algeria. My Dad was asked to take the Ambassador post, and there was serious pressure to accept. Before he agreed, we sat down and made a pro/con list together. It was just me and him, long as I can remember. He was the greatest man I've ever known. He loved reading old comic-books, he told terrible Dad jokes, and he always carried peppermints in his pocket. He was the one who encouraged me to write, and he'd read every silly story and school essay with the same seriousness he gave embassy cables and economic reports. He's the reason I became a journalist."
You pause here, take a drink of water and shuffle through the box, reordering the contents.
"The day it happened, school ended early. I was walking with a group of girlfriends back to the embassy, and suddenly we heard screaming and shouting, and masked men were running out onto the front steps. I watched them dragging out two of Dad's colleagues, kicking them to their knees in the street, and then I saw him. The whole side of his face was bloody and his eye was swollen shut. I started shoving through the crowd of people, trying to run to him. Dad saw me coming, I could see the fear in his face, but I couldn't get there in time. They shot him in the head, and I caught him before he hit the ground."
Fingers unconsciously picking at a loose thread on his blanket, Bucky reaches over and covers your hand, thick calloused fingers pressing hot on your skin. He doesn't speak, just brushes his thumb back and forth.
"The gunman trained the gun on me for a moment, but then he laughed and said ليس اليوم.
His Arabic is rusty, and it takes him a moment to puzzle it out. "Not today?"
"Yes. He turned the gun away, and just strolled off, like he didn't have a care in the whole fucking world. Like he hadn't just ruined mine."
"When did you realize it was Hydra?"
Meeting his gaze, you give a ghost of a smile. "When he spoke, he pulled down the mask covering his face. On his neck was a red tattoo, an octopus with a skull for the face. I didn't know what it was then, but I came across it years later and then I knew."
Bucky thinks back to the background history he read in your file. Like the mission report he gave on Kazakhstan, it contained the barest facts, enough for a black and white sketch of the story. With your words, the colours are splashed in place, the tragedy brought to life in brilliant swathes of ivory pillars and black cloth and blue skies and a ring of red. He remembers the pictures the file contained, a frightened little girl clinging tight to her father's body, her white school uniform stained red with blood, her small hands cradling her father's head, and he feels his heart jerk in response.
"I'm sorry," he says softly, squeezing your hand. "I'm so sorry that happened to you."
*****
The ride back to Manhattan is smooth as Bucky weaves effortlessly through the thick traffic, and you feel a sting of disappointment when the apartment comes into view. Cruising to a stop, he turns off the engine and twists around, looking back expectantly.
"Hey, I didn't get my compliment yet today."
"Don't I get a free pass due to extenuating circumstances? I'm very fragile right now."
"No, it's good to do things that make you uncomfortable, it helps you grow as a person."
"Fine." Considering him for a minute, you can almost taste the sassy statement you normally throw, but something stops you, and the words that arrive are laced with uncommon sincerity. "I like how you're so calm in every situation. Nothing ruffles you, and that's always reassuring."
Bucky remembers nearly flying out of his skin with panic this morning and is extraordinarily thankful you didn't witness that moment of weakness. This is what he wants you to see.
"Not bad, I'll take it."
*****
Arriving at your front door, you find the new security system Tony installed, the technology now allowing only you and Bucky access into the apartment. He still insists on coming inside to do a quick walk through, and for the first time, you let it go. When he finishes, he lingers by the front door.
"Sure you're okay? You don't need anything else?"
Smiling at his concern, you shake your head. "No, all good. Thanks again for today, for getting me out of my head."
He smiles in return. "Anytime."
Standing in the dark hallway, the shadows strip away your inhibitions and you impulsively throw your arms around him, giving him a quick squeeze. He responds immediately, arms folding around you, pulling you in tight.
It feels nice. You don't remember the last time you hugged someone.
Bucky lets go first, stepping back quickly and clearing his throat awkwardly. He turns to the door, his hand hesitating on the knob for a beat, before he's stepping into the hall.
"Good night."
"Good night, Bucky."
The door closes with a gentle click, and he waits. Doesn't hear anything. Waits a little longer. Then he knocks on the door.
You open it immediately.
"Did you forget something?"
He looks like he wants to say something. But at the last minute, he decides against it.
"You didn't deadbolt the door. And you didn't ask who was there. We talked about this."
Blowing out an irritated breath, you glare at him. "Did you do that just so you could be a pain in my ass?"
"Well yeah, that is my job."
"For fuck's sake. Goodnight Bucky." You slam the door, deadbolt it, flip on the security system and say loud enough for him to hear. "That guy is such an asshole."
Bucky chuckles to himself, stuffs his hands in his pockets, and does a quick sweep around the hall, checking, checking, checking. Heading downstairs, he walks past the new SHIELD agent posted at the front door, a tall man with spiky blond hair who meets his eyes in acknowledgement, before returning his stare to the street.
Velvety night air dances around him when he perches on the bike and digs deep into a hidden jacket pocket for a battered pack of Marlboros and a rusty metal lighter. He slips a cigarette between his teeth and cocks his head forward, touching the end to the flame, inhaling deep.
He remains on the black leather seat waiting. One eye on your window, the other tracking movement up and down the block.
He stays still until he sees your light go off.
Dropping the smoke, he grinds it under the heel of his boot and heads home.
*****