*****
MISSION REPORT
NEW OBJECTIVE IDENTIFIED. RECONNAISSANCE REQUIRED TO DETERMINE APPROPRIATE COURSE OF ACTION. OBSERVATION WILL CONTINUE FROM A SAFE DISTANCE.
Was this it then? How could it be possible, after all these years? He just wants answers. Something to clarify the jagged outline of the puzzle plaguing him night and fucking day.
Balancing the notebook on his knees, he grips the pencil so tight, the sharp point of lead snaps and goes spinning across the page.
*****
Sometimes when it happens, it's like running face first into a brick wall.
The outline was there in his brain, a lost memory he never knew he needed to find. Now, with the story she offers, the paintbrush in his head goes crazy, spilling out the colors of an icy, destructive night in Paris. Memories return, a blizzard of blurry faces and voices crackling like radio static.
Black-gloved fingers moving effortlessly over ivory keys. 10, 9, 8. Sparkling people and fizzy champagne. 7, 6, 5. Excited screaming. 4, 3, 2. Beautiful eyes, watching him from across the room. 1. Confetti and balloons bouncing. Screaming. Screaming. More screaming. Terrified screaming. Blood on his fingers, soaking into crisp white cuffs. Slipping like a shadow from a locked room. Stalking through the streets of Paris, heading back to base, until, until, until. The detour. Green paint on her walls, an open window with fluttering curtains. A trembling body dressed in satin and lace. Pleasure. Force. Rough hands, rough words. The feel of her clinging to him like he meant something. Like she wanted him. Heat licking up his spine, heat between her legs, heat in her mouth. And then tears. Sadness. Disappointment. Always, disappointment.
He remains frozen in shock, until he finds his voice. He jumps to his feet.
"Jesus," he chokes out. He drags shaking hands through his hair and the wild tangles snag around his fingers. "Jesus. Did I - I rapedyou? Oh, my fucking god, fuck. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so fucking sorry, I don't – "
He falls mute. The apology sits heavy on his tongue and he wants to apologize for an eternity, but this is not for him to be upset. He's not owed the relief of tears: those are reserved for victims, not criminals. Instead, he remains silent, awaiting the condemnation he deserves.
But to his disbelief, it doesn't come.
"No! God, no, that's not what I'm saying," and now she stands up, trying to assuage his horror. "You didn't, that's not what happened."
"Sure sounds like it was," Bucky grits out. His hands are clenched at his sides and a faint whirring creeps from his arm when it recalibrates, a physical representation of his panic.
"No," she repeats forcefully. "Listen to me. That is not what happened. You didn't, you don't understand, I wanted – "
She stops in frustrated confusion.
"Still, I – "
"Bu – sorry, Soldier – "
Apologies collide, and both fall silent. Bucky tries first and his voice is quiet.
"Bucky. Please. My name is Bucky."
Wetting her lips nervously, she tests the syllables on her tongue.
"Bucky," she begins, embarrassed. "Listen to me. I hadn't been with anyone that way for a long time. I wanted - that. I wanted you. That night, I wanted you."
Bucky stuffs his hands in the pockets of the sweatpants and stares at his socks. They don't match, and he wonders fleetingly where all the socks in his dryer go. He wiggles his toes as he thinks.
"That night, you were waiting for someone else though – you thought I was someone else. Jimmy."
He looks up and sees the wind of his words blow the light from her eyes. When she speaks, her voice is tired. "I did. I thought, I hoped, maybe I would see him, but – he didn't come."
The look on her face speaks of a loss so devastating, it steals his breath. "Oh," he finally says. He has nothing else to offer.
Considering the checkered past they apparently share - and he knows it's all true, the memories are back again, slotted back into the space from where they were previously wiped - Bucky doesn't understand why she hasn't thrown his ass out the door. He's grateful for the reprieve. Undeserving, but grateful. Inflicting his presence on her any longer though, seems selfish.
"I should go," he says heavily. "Thank you. For saving my ass. For cleaning me up. I didn't deserve it. I'll get my stuff and go."
He takes one step and black spots explode in front of him. Grasping the edge of the couch, he stumbles, and she reaches for him. Leaning clumsily into her, he grunts at the bursts of pain flooding from the wounds in his chest.
"No," she says. "Those two bullets nearly hit your heart. I don't even understand how you're walking right now, but you're not going anywhere until you've fully healed. Please."
"Really, I'm fine - "
"Really, you are not," she interrupts, steel-edged voice brooking no argument. "Stay. I insist. Get some sleep, let yourself heal. Then you can head back." She hesitates, before the next sentence. "The world can wait, Bucky."
Something in her tone makes him pause. It feels important, like there's more to this exchange than meets the eye. Bucky feels the age-old desire to wrack his brain hit him hard.
"Okay," he mutters, looking down. "If it's really not a problem - I'll stay. Just a few days. I, uh, I heal pretty quick."
"Yes, I thought you might," she murmurs, letting go of him.
Bucky waits for his vision clear, fiddling with the hair tie around his wrist and snapping it a few times to ground himself. "Once I'm not totally useless though, you gotta let me earn my keep. I'm not lying in bed all damn day."
"Okay," she agrees. "If you get up to bed and stay there, I'll find some things for you to do when you feel better."
"Helpful things?" Bucky clarifies.
"Yes, helpful things. I promise. Now go back to bed. I didn't spend all that time stitching you closed so you could rip it all open and bleed on my floors."
"Alright," he agrees, giving her a small smile.
There's that peculiar longing in her voice when she speaks again, the same as he remembered when she found him in the snow and her words brand him in the oddest way.
"Stay as long as you want. It's nice to have someone around, no one ever comes up here."
Bucky nods his thanks and shuffles slowly toward the stairs. As he walks, he thinks he hears her whisper his name, but it must be the wind blowing outside.
*****
The odds of Steve flipping his shit when Bucky calls are high. Toying with his phone, Bucky grimaces before he punches the STEVIE Gbutton and waits. Blinking little dots fill his screen, and when it connects, he sees a big forehead and snarls of damp blond hair.
"Hey man. How was it?"
The phone shifts and Steve's whole face comes into view. He's eating Skippy peanut butter straight from the jar.
"You were eating that last time I called," Bucky responds. "You ever gonna do anything useful, or just sit around in your underwear?"
Steve scoops a huge blob and stuffs the spoon defiantly in his mouth. "It's a new jar," he mumbles defensively.
"Lazy little shit," Bucky adds, grinning.
"Okay, time for you to fuck off," Steve replies, now washing it down with milk straight from a carton with TONY written down the side in black sharpie. "How was it? Find anything?"
"It was fine. Another false alarm."
"Great. Headed back soon then?"
Bucky chews the inside of his cheek and looks away. "Yeah, about that. So, I may have run into some issues – "
Milk splashes on the table when Steve bangs the carton down. "What'd you do?"
"Well hell, Rogers, I'm kinda offended. Why do you always assume it's me?"
Steve snorts like an irritated bull and rolls his eyes. "Because. Have you met you?"
"That's fair, but this time it wasn't me. I swear. I was heading back to the hotel and ran into this guy, some Hydra asshat asking if I'd set off the distress signal at the base. Anyway, he's pretty dead now, but the fucker hit me with a couple gunshots and – "
"Hit you with a couple what?" Bucky's always surprised Steve's voice can hit that high note - it sounds a like he's taken a kick in the balls. Bucky ignores it and keeps talking.
"– and I'm fine, Steve. It's fixed, I'm all good, I just want a few days to recover, so I'm staying a little longer."
Steve's already stomping into his room and throwing open his closet. Yanking an army green canvas duffel from the top shelf, he throws it on the bed and starts digging through his underwear drawer. Bucky sees a handful of demure blue boxers and one pair with neon pink Captain America shields go flying into the bag while Steve mumbles to himself.
"Steve. Steve. Rogers, listen," but Steve just plows along, ignoring Bucky and muttering about the shortest flight paths and weather reports and meetings to reschedule and all of a sudden, Bucky panics. Pulling the rip cord, he shouts a single word.
"Kit-Kat!"
Steve freezes.
For good reason.
Years ago, when Bucky was mired in a particularly crappy depressive episode, he decided to make a blanket fort in his room. He stayed huddled in the retreat for a solid week, grudgingly emerging only to scrounge up food and get fresh batteries when his TV remote went dead. It was in the middle of the night, while he was watching 'Twilight Zone' reruns, that Steve crept into the room and sat beside him. No words were spoken, he simply hugged his knees to his chest and sat in silence.
During a break, a Kit-Kat commercial came on. The click and snap of the candy bar and the merry little tune of 'give me a break, give me a break' squeaked quietly from the TV and Bucky's voice was groggy when he spoke.
"This is really hard. Sometimes, I just – I need a break."
Steve hummed his agreement and through the thick blankets, Bucky felt the comforting pressure of Steve's hand on his shoulder. "I know. How about you and me make a deal? If things get to be too much and we need a real break, where you just get to be alone, no questions asked – we say that. Say Kit-Kat and everyone'll back off. It'll be like a safeword. Okay?"
The pile of blankets is silent, but a minute later Steve hears Bucky's voice whisper. "Okay."
"But you can't use it often," Steve says firmly. "This is only for the big ones. You only get to use it when you really need it. Deal?"
The 'Twilight Zone' theme song buzzes from the TV, playing through the entire refrain, before Bucky's hand slowly emerges from the pile. He holds it in the air and waits. Steve grips his fingers to shake and without thinking, unconscious movements walk them through the stupid super-secret handshake they created in 1927.
Bucky still wonders how the hell his body remembers these things, when his broken brain couldn't recall his own name for decades. Steve reminds him some things are like that.
Muscle memory. Some things just stick.
The pact is binding. Rarely used, but unbreakable when granted. Since their agreement, Bucky's used it twice and Steve's tried it once. Now, Bucky watches Steve's jaw working, peanut butter smudged in the corner of his mouth, and he knows Steve wants to argue.
But a promise is a promise.
Steve drops the duffel bag with a muffled thump.
"Alright. But you better fuckin' call if you need something. None of this 'I can get by on my own' bullshit. Understood?"
"Hey man, that line was all you, not me," Bucky reminds him and Steve grunts irritably. "But yeah, 'course I will. Thanks buddy."
Before he hangs up, he gives the phone a mocking salute and a wide smile. Steve rolls his eyes and flips him off, very pointedly pushing the end call button.
Silence surrounds him and his smile fades as he looks around the room. Exhaustion fills him then and his limbs feel like lead. Collapsing onto the bed, he buries his face in her pillow and closes his eyes.
*****
He sleeps for 48 straight hours.
He gets up a few times and stumbles to the bathroom, eyes half closed and leaning against the wall because he can barely keep his balance, but otherwise he's out cold. The gnarled fingers of the nightmares always strangling him slither up his neck, searching for purchase, but they're rebuffed. Again and again and again, they bay for his blood, but for some unknown reason they're pushed away.
What a god damn relief.
*****
It's late morning on the third day, when the sound of his stomach growling kicks him awake. Huffing out a soft whine as he stretches, he rubs the grit from his eyes and lifts the blanket. Tugging gently at the tape around his bandage, he sees splotches of green and yellow bruising around the area, and finds two wounds that look weeks old, scabby and starting to itch.
"Good morning," he hears and looks up to find her standing in the doorway with a purple mug of coffee.
"H-," he croaks, voice rusty with disuse, and he clears his throat and tries again. "Sorry. Hey. Good morning."
She walks slowly toward the bed, as if not to spook him. Bucky tries to smile, wincing just slightly as he struggles to sit up. Extending the mug, he accepts it gratefully and takes a long drink.
"Damn, that's amazing. Thank you."
Returning his easy smile, she motions to the wound and holds up a small scissors. "I can take those stitches out, if you want. Unless you'd prefer to do it yourself."
Letting an unknown person near him with a pair of scissors seems like less than intelligent behavior, but Bucky's never been a fan of stitches – putting them in or taking them out. Broken bones, concussions, burns, those are no problem. But anything that includes sewing human flesh together? That's at the top of his nopescale.
"God yeah. Please." He throws the blankets aside and swings his legs over the edge of the bed looking up at her. "How do you, um...how do you want me?"
"That's fine, just sit up straight and, um, if you can – lift up your shirt?" Bucky nods and pulls up his t-shirt, removing his right arm and then hesitating. He ends up with it half-way on, keeping his left arm and the thick red scars around his shoulder, hidden from view. Clearing his throat, he looks into his lap and waits.
Kneeling between his legs, her fingers are freezing when they touch his skin and he flinches slightly.
"Sorry," she murmurs apologetically, pulling away and rubbing her hands on her thighs. "My hands are always cold."
"S'okay, just surprised me," Bucky replies quietly. She glances up with a fleeting smile and goes back to work.
For the strangest reason, he feels himself begin to blush. Which makes no sense, because how many times has he been buck-ass naked in front of doctors and never batted an eye. But now, he swallows self-consciously and maybe he sucks in his stomach and flexes just a little, because for some wild reason, he cares what she thinks.
Which makes no god damn sense.
She doesn't seem to notice though, tongue between her teeth while she snips carefully at the threads and tugs them loose. Once they're gone, she squeezes a bit of ointment on, rubbing her thumb gently over the scab, and puts a clean bandage in place.
When she's finished, she looks up to find him staring awkwardly down, his face flushed a splotchy red.
"Are you okay? Do you feel warm?" She reaches a cool hand to his forehead and Bucky gets flustered.
"No, no," he says hastily, and he nearly tumbles off the bed when he ducks away. "I'm great. Fit as a fiddle. It's just the fire, kinda hot in here, and you have lots of blankets and they're so fluffy, and I'm, yeah. Whew! Hot stuff. Anyway."
Bucky wants to sink into the floorboards. Hot stuff? What the hell was that?! he groans internally. Have you ever even talked to a woman? Get your shit together you fucking moron!
His verbal stupidity surprises her, but thank god she ignores it. Standing up, she crumples the used bandages.
"If you're tired, you should keep sleeping. It's good for you."
Bucky shakes his head and adjusts his shirt. "I've slept more these past few days than the past two months. Usually have - nightmares and things," he tucks loose hair behind his ear, frowning at the admission, "but I've slept perfect here. No nightmares at all."
Her eyes light up at his admission. "That's great. I'm glad."
"Besides, you deserve your bed back."
"No, you're recovering, you need to stay in here – "
Bucky holds up both hands to stop her. "Yeah, no. You're not winning this one. If it's still okay, I'd like to stay a couple more days. Pay you back for helping me. But I'm taking the couch downstairs and if you try to make me sleep in here, I'll sleep downstairs anyway and this very comfortable bed will go to waste."
Hands on her hips, she raises her eyebrows, staring him down. Bucky feels momentarily cowed, but he gives just as good, so he folds his arms and stares back.
Finally, her lips twitch and he hears a small laugh. The sound makes his blood sing.
*****
The days tick by.
And it goes like this.
Every morning, she comes downstairs to find him sitting on the couch, blankets perfectly folded into neat squares. He hands her a cup of coffee, asks what he can help with today, and her long list of home improvements begins to shrink.
Every evening, she makes supper and they talk, and Bucky quickly realizes how much he enjoys these evenings. It should bother him, he thinks, to feel so oddly at ease with this woman who's essentially a stranger. But he finds himself sharing bits of himself, absorbing those pieces of herself she hands over. He relaxes more in a few days of knowing her, than in months of living with his team in New York.
Every night, she tells him to sleep well and she climbs the stairs up to her bedroom. He listens as she gets ready for bed, the quiet path of her footsteps a soothing predictability. When the footsteps go silent, he fluffs out a blanket and gets comfortable on the couch, so he can think.
And all through the night, he dozes in fits and starts, staying awake in the darkness to keep watch over this unknown woman who saved his life.
*****
"It's just always so damn cold out there. You know what I miss? Soup."
"Hmmm. Soup would be good. What kind?"
"Um...potato? My Ma makes the best damn potato soup. Warms your bones right up."
"I have some potatoes left in the cellar. Come over tonight, I'll give it a try."
*****
"Can I ask what you were doing up here?" she asks, stirring her soup. Bucky ignores caution and dives right in, chomping into a steaming potato and gasping in pain.
"Damn, this is amazing, I love potato soup. Haven't had it in years," he enthuses, fanning his mouth. He swallows the scorching bite and takes a swig of water. "So, there used to be an old Hydra base near here. Been abandoned forever, but one of the old distress signals went off. I came up to investigate."
Fishing in the liquid for another potato, he captures one and looks up to meet a wide-eyed stare.
"I never knew there was a base around here. Did you find anything?" she asks tightly. Bucky sees her fingers clutch the spoon so hard he's surprised it doesn't snap.
"No, nothing. It's happened before, couple other places. Old bases breaking down, tech sparking out," he says quickly. "Never anything wrong when we get there. It's nothing to worry about, I promise. Just Hydra shit finally crapping out. It's a good thing."
"You're sure?"
Bucky hears it in her voice. He's intimately acquainted with the sound of fear. His spoon clinks when he sets it down and he gives her a reassuring smile.
"I'm sure."
She's keeps stirring her soup, thinking. When she asks a question, her voice wavers. "The man I shot. Was he Hydra?"
Bucky knows that sound as well. The uncertainty of someone who was caught in the moment, who fought violence with violence. "Yes. He was there about the signal. Asked if I set it off."
Looking away, she sees their reflection watching from the living room windows. Her face is thoughtful when she considers.
"I shot someone. And I didn't think twice."
The movement is purely unconscious. Bucky couldn't stop it if he tried.
"Thank you," he says, clutching her fingers and pouring every drop of sincerity into his voice, "for not thinking twice."
"You're welcome," she says faintly. Her fingers press against his for the briefest moment, before she drags her hand back to her lap.
*****
"You ever think about getting rid of that rooster?"
"Are you trying to murder my birds?"
"No! Oh geez, no."
"How about this - if he's still alive next time you visit, I'll make you fried chicken."
*****
"Can I ask you a question?"
"Sure," she answers, carefully setting fried chicken on a paper towel to cool.
Bucky thinks for a moment and chooses his words carefully. "The last time we met, it was 1969."
Her shoulders tense, but she nods and avoids his stare. "Yes. It was."
"You can tell me to fuck off here if you want, but - you don't look quite old enough for us to know each other then."
She stays silent, scratching at the edge of the skillet with tongs. He can tell she's deciding how to answer.
"No. I guess I don't." Looking up at him, she sets the utensil in the sink and meets his curious gaze. "I'm – enhanced, I guess. If that's what they're calling it these days."
It makes sense. There must be thousands of enhanced people across the world. So many choose to stay under the radar, uninterested in the circus spectacle that follows anyone who displays even a hint of ability. Bucky thinks of Steve wearing baseball caps all the time, and Wanda dying her hair black and changing her accent, and Bruce avoiding the color green and staying hidden in Tony's labs all day.
Sometimes being different sucks.
"Got it," Bucky says. He watches her pick at her chicken and he nudges a little more. "So, you're enhanced and you...found a good skin cream then?"
She huffs out a laugh.
"That would've been nicer. I was born with an ability. It was nothing powerful. Nothing fun," she says with a trace smile and Bucky feels himself smile in response. "It was passed down in my family. My mother had it, her mother before her. When I was 27, there was an accident. I don't understand what th – what happened. But here I am."
Bucky sees the light in her eyes dim, her expression closing off and he desperately wants to keep her talking. He wants to learn more. He wants to learn her.
"Should I assume Hydra was responsible for that accident?" Startled at the comment, she looks up nervously. "Sorry, I'm sorry. I just, when I told you why I was here, you seemed - scared. I know the feeling."
Swallowing hard, she licks suddenly dry lips. "Yes. They - liked their experiments."
Bucky gives her a grim smile. "Yeah. They really fuckin' do, don't they?" They sit in silence for a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts, until Bucky's curiosity gets the best of him. "What's your ability?"
With those magic words, it ends. Her expression shutters and she retreats into herself.
"I'm sorry. I'm not comfortable talking about it," she says quietly. "I hope that's okay."
"Of course," Bucky replies easily, and he means it. He picks the crispy skin from the chicken leg. "I know what it's like to be different."
*****
"You made noodles?"
"A long time ago, when we had plenty of flour and butter. They won't be as good as the ones you had in Italy though."
"Nah, those were fascist noodles. I bet your noodles taste better."
"I would hope so."
*****
"The food here is fantastic," Bucky says reverently, piling a second helping of spaghetti on his plate. Maybe he should feel self-conscious at the awkward way he slurps the noodles, but it's so fucking good he doesn't care.
She forks the noodles and twirls them into a spoon, grinning at him. Bucky marvels briefly at the effortless gesture.
"Well, I try."
"You succeed."
Passing him a basket of bread, she stirs the noodles around her bowl.
"Hey Bucky?
"Hmmm?
"What have you been doing? Since you came back?" she asks tentatively.
There's a question.
What has he been doing? Revenge. Rounding up the arrogant fucks who escaped the first Hydra purge following DC. Avenging. Throwing himself back into fighting, trying to rebuild his tarnished reputation with the good deeds he owes. All are viable answers, but he goes with a more personal truth, the one that keeps him up at nights.
"Trying to figure myself out, I guess. Learn how to be part of a team again. How the world works, when you're allowed to make your own decisions. Sorting through memories, trying to make them useful. All that good stuff."
She takes a drink of wine and seems to gather her courage. "And are you - I mean do you – have you been remembering things?"
The question is so hesitant. Bucky wonders wryly if she's afraid to hurt his feelings, but it doesn't matter, he can admit when he has no fucking idea what's going on. Which is most of the time.
"Some," he says honestly. "Don't remember anything from before I was captured. Anything I know, it's stuff Steve's told me, or stuff I've read. Watched a bunch of documentaries about WW2, that was weird, seeing myself on old film reels. No idea why, but I can't get to any of those memories, they're just - obliterated. The ones with Hydra though, they're reappearing. That's why I volunteer for jobs like this," he admits, tearing off a hunk of bread. "Keep thinking if I go back to these places, I can figure out who I was back then."
"Bucky. Why the hell would you do that to yourself?" she asks sternly. Bucky grins at the tone.
"You sound like Steve. Look, I don't want to know what I did back then. All the shit I've done to other people...all the shit that's been done to me. Fuck that. I don't want to know, I need to know. Hard to put yourself back together, when you're missing huge pieces of the puzzle."
Bucky looks down at his plate, mopping up spaghetti sauce with his bread. She doesn't say anything else.
*****
The air is crisp and clean the next night, when Bucky steps outside. Standing on the front porch, he pulls a dark blue knit hat low over his ears and sucks a deep breath, reveling in the freshness that fills his lungs. Mountain sunsets are something incredible to behold and he stops to savor it; the craggy horizon painted brilliant red-orange, deep purple hugging from above, crystal white stars gleaming.
It clears his head in an unexpected way. The scents of snow and pine needles and life. He'd forgotten how reviving life in the wilderness could be. Growing up in Brooklyn, spending most of his life now in Manhattan, he wasn't exactly an outdoorsy guy. And normally, he hates the snow. Spent far too many years being cold to seek it out, but here? Here, it's not too bad. The sound of the nearby river bubbling through ice, the smell of wood smoke curling in the air, and – well.
And her.
There's something strangely calming about her. Her voice, her mannerisms. Her cautious smile. The way she hums while she cooks and how she catches her tongue between her teeth when she's concentrating. Bucky feels an unusual tug in his belly at the thought. It feeds something he hasn't really considered since he fought his way back to the land of the living and it's making him reconsider a few things.
He should probably call Steve tonight. Let him know he's still knee deep in Kit-Kat mode.
Because right now? Bucky really doesn't want to leave.
Reaching for the tattered broom leaning by the railing, he sweeps away the couple inches of new snow covering the steps and jumps lightly down. Walking back to her little woodshed, he pops a key into the lock connecting the shed doors and eases the creaking wood open. Rummaging for a few minutes, he piles up a massive armful of logs and carries them back to the bin on her front porch. Three times he makes the trip, arranging the pile carefully, filling it to overflowing, so she won't need to tramp through the snow to get more.
Maybe tomorrow, he'll make himself useful and cut more. Manual labor, fresh air. The happy thought makes him giddy.
When he finishes, he flips the lock clasp to bolt it again, but something catches his eye. Peering closer, he finds scratches down the side of the lock. Glinting silver, they look new. Bucky narrows his eyes and glances over his shoulder, into the darkness of the trees beyond.
The world is quiet. Not a breath of wind.
It seems odd, but as she said before – no one ever comes up this way. Likely it's nothing and she mentioned this lock gave her issues, so maybe it was simply past frustration. Fingering the grooves, he makes a mental note to ask her about it, just in case. Trudging back toward the porch, the scent of pancakes reaches his nose and he leaps eagerly up the first step.
He pulls up short.
It happens then. The brick wall appears.
Bucky feels his brain ricochet from the blow. He wasn't even searching, but it hits like a hammer, pounding the breath from his lungs and the sound of Steve's voice fills his head.
"Nah, it was in France, about a year before. SHIELD never returned your bag after – well. After. Who the hell knows though, maybe it's lost in the archives somewhere. Anyway, there were all these letters you had in there from your girl, maybe they're something you want."
"My girl?"
"Yeah, you – your girl. Smart. Beautiful. You were, uh...you were just fuckin' head over heels. She used to write you all these letters, you kept 'em stuffed in your bag, 'Dear Jimmy,' they always started and – "
"Stop."
"Buck – "
"Stop it Steve, I mean it."
"Alright, alright, you said you wanted to know, I'm just telling you - "
"Dammit, just - I don't wanna remember it. Not right now. Can't fuckin' handle hearing about someone else I let down."
Somewhere in the forest, a bird whistles. The sound brings him crashing back to the present.
Dear Jimmy, he thinks.
Bucky stops breathing.
*****
There's an old jazz song on the radio perched above her sink, and she turns the dial up. Tapping her feet to the brassy beat, she moves through the small kitchen, humming. Pancakes, eggs, bacon. Breakfast at supper. For some reason it's always a treat, no matter how old you are.
She's mixing batter when she hears the quiet click of the closing door, and she sets the bowl down and turns to look at him with a grin.
"Look, I know you said you don't like your pancakes burnt, but I think you should just try – "
Her voice fades when she sees him. Bucky stands before her, the blue knit cap clenched in his hands. Dark hair sticks in every direction and he pushes it back, trying to coax it smooth, and she sees his fingers tremble. His face is pale and his bright blue eyes watch her closely.
"Bucky? Are you okay?"
He opens his mouth and closes it. Twice. Unable to find the words.
"Are you hurt?" she tries again, wiping her hands on a dish towel and coming forward. "What happened?"
Holding up a hand, he stops her and moves to sit on the edge of an armchair. Chewing his lip for a full minute, he finally finds his voice.
"I have a question. I need you to answer me with the truth."
"Okay," she says hesitantly. She moves to the living room and sinks slowly to the chair opposite him. She pinches her lip nervously and Bucky feels his heart spasm. He keeps watching her, willing himself to pull up the correct memories and failing. Finally, he gives up and whispers.
"Am I Jimmy? Were you waiting for me that night?"
Her expression never changes, but he sees her breathe faster, chest rising and falling quickly. The answer is clear. Closing her eyes, she exhales a long breath.
"Yeah. You – yes. Yes. You were, you are – him. You're Jimmy." Opening her eyes, he sees them shiny with tears and when she blinks, they spill over. "I was waiting for you that night."
Silence stretches longer and longer and Bucky finally realizes his lungs are burning. He lets out his breath with rush and leans forward. Elbows on his knees, he tries with everything in his heart, to remember.
"We'd met? Before then? We knew each other?"
She sits up straight, never breaking eye contact. Wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand, she searches for the right words. Bucky feels his heart thump wildly while he waits; her voice is laced with sadness when she speaks.
"The first time we met was in 1944. I was wearing grey and you were wearing blue."
*****