A/N: Hi all,

I don't why, but Bucky/Winter Soldier has become a bit of an addiction for me right now. So, in order to fill time between updates for Winter Soldier fics that I'm currently reading, I thought I'd give it a go.

I don't have a plan as such, I just really wanted to write something that focuses on Bucky's path to redemption – 'cause I think he seriously deserves it.

Just one other side note – I am Australian, and therefore have very limited knowledge about things like 'fire escapes', so if I'm completely off the mark – I apologise.

Anyways, I hope you guys like it!

Here goes nothing…

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Her table was hideous.

At the time she'd, shall we say, "acquired" her kitchen table, she hadn't cared one bit what it looked like – only that it had four legs and could support the meagre meals she had been accustomed to back then.

But now, with her student-life days behind her, and a reasonable income to keep her going, Grace decided that it was probably time for an upgrade in the table department. Of course, she would never have noticed such an insignificant detail if it weren't for the man currently sitting opposite her at said table.

The dishevelled, rain-soaked man she'd located out on her fire escape was sitting across from her, staring down at his shoes, while she had taken to staring at her table top – and as a result, coming to certain realisations about the questionable quality of the furniture in her apartment. They had been sitting like this for almost half an hour now. Neither of them saying a word. It if weren't so awkward, it probably would have been comical.

What the hell had she been thinking anyway?! Who in their right mind finds a random (not to mention, suspicious) character out on their fire escape, and invites them in to their home.

The answer: Grace Richards.

Thinking about it now, she was sure it was pity that had made her extend the invitation into her home. This guy… he just looked so… lost.

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Earlier in the evening…

"Yes, I'm eating fine… Mum… Mum! Do we really need to have this conversation every time you call me?!"

Grace sighed internally, she had been on the phone with her mother for their compulsory weekly check-in (a tradition of her mother's invention), and yet again, they had landed back on the same conversation topics: Did she have a boyfriend yet? Was she eating right? Was she getting enough sleep? Was she sure she didn't want to come home?

In reality, her mum was just being a mum, and Grace could never blame her for wanting to make sure her daughter was doing okay, but admittedly, the constant line of questioning – not to mention nagging, could certainly be a test of Grace's patience.

Half listening to her mother, half watching the television on mute, she was startled from her reverie by a sudden thump outside her apartment. Jumping slightly at the sound, she got up from her old, musty couch and went over to investigate.

"Mum… yeah, sure – not a problem…" she muttered into the phone, not really paying attention to what she'd possibly just agreed to.

"Look mum, someone's at the door. I'll have to call you back." And with that, Grace hung up on her mother. Of course, she'd have to call her back later, and would consequently have to engage in a conversation that would be twice as long as their typical "chats" to make up for the abrupt call termination, but that was a problem she was more than happy to deal with at a later time.

Having identified her fire escape as the most likely source of the sound, Grace began fiddling with the window latch. It was a stubborn thing, and more often than not, jammed when she attempted to open it. Hence why she had invested in a fire extinguisher – heaven forbid that this untrustworthy window be her only chance of survival in an actual fire!

Winning her battle with the window, she began squirming her way out onto the landing of the fire escape, toppling rather ungracefully (no pun intended), onto the metal structure. Once she had recovered from her minor fall, Grace stood up and brushed herself off, being sure to do a quick visual sweep of her surroundings – if for no other reason than ensuring there had been no one to witness her embarrassing dismount.

Seeing no one, and not being able to identify the source of the mysterious thump, she heaved a heavy sigh and prepared herself for a repeat of the window exercise. That is, until she stumbled.

It was only a slight stumble, not even enough to make her fall over, merely a slight step taken off-balance, resulting in her backtracking a few paces – right into a very solid form she hadn't realised was standing behind her.

Whipping around, Grace found herself face to face – or rather face to shoulder, with a very foreboding figure. He was tall, had long-ish brown hair that was clearly filthy, and possibly most sinister of all, was wearing a trench coat. In pretty much every crime show she'd ever seen, the murderers wore trench coats. This was practically an omen.

After realising that she had just wasted several seconds making these observations, Grace snapped herself out of her trance-like state of staring open-mouthed at her intruder, and forced a high-pitched scream from her lungs.

She had barely gotten a scream out for even one second before the stranger clamped a hand over her mouth. To her own embarrassment, it took her another few seconds to fully register her verbal restriction – but then, that was how shock worked, right?

She wasn't exactly sure how long they ended up standing there like that: the mystery man with his hand outstretched to cover her mouth while Grace stood facing him, her brow furrowed in confusion. Their stance was finally broken however, when she looked down at his hand – it too, was filthy.

Coming back to herself, she shoved his hand away, ensuring that the disgust showed on her face.

"Ugh, when was the last time you washed your hands?!"

In hindsight, maybe that was not the best thing she could've said – those would have been horrible last words.

The man said nothing, but made no attempt to flee either. He was difficult to describe – it was almost as though he was a shell: hard on the outside, but hollow within. There was no anger or fear about him – it was as though he had no emotions at all. That, in itself, probably should have made him terrifying. It didn't though – at least not to Grace.

Fully taking in his appearance now, she could see not only how dirty he was, but that he was also soaking wet – meaning he had probably been out in the pouring rain the city had experienced a few hours ago. Maybe that was it – the wet, ragged appearance coupled with the lost-boy vibe she got from him. Maybe that was why she didn't scramble back to her window…

"Um… Do I at least get to know what you're doing on my fire escape?"

He shrugged at her – well, at least that was something.

"Do you have a name?" She tried again.

Just a blank stare this time…

"…Or a place to go…?" She had now begun speaking at a slower pace, and probably a little bit louder than was necessary – almost as though she were attempting to communicate with someone who had limited control over the English language.

The blank stare continued. Maybe she was on to something with the language idea…

"Do you speak English?"

Still nothing…

"Do you communicate at all?!" She was getting kind of pissed now, and wasn't even attempting to keep the irritation from reaching her tone.

If you were to count blinking in someone's direction as a form of communication, then this mystery man was becoming quite the chatterbox; however, unfortunately for him, Grace did not accept this as an appropriate response.

"Seriously! Do you speak? … Or mime? At this point, I would even be willing to accept interpretive dance!"

To illustrate her point, she finished by waving her arms in the space between them. This, at least, earned her a cocked eyebrow.

"Aha!" She zoned in on the eyebrow movement. "You do understand!"

Still not saying a word, the man returned his eyebrow to its natural position, causing Grace to narrow her eyes at him.

Once again, they merely stood facing one another for several minutes – although this time, she was sure they were having some kind of unspoken staring competition. She probably would have stood there like that for hours in an attempt to beat him at his own game too, if it weren't for the sudden downpour of rain.

Letting out a small squeal of surprise, Grace abandoned their staring contest for her window, hurling herself through the tiny space. After achieving a slightly more coordinated landing this time, she turned around, only to see that her mystery man hadn't moved from his position – he was watching her though.

Rolling her eyes, and making a mental note along the lines of "I just know I'm going to regret this…", Grace stuck her head out the window, and called to him.

"Are you coming inside, or what?"

She didn't wait to see if he would follow her, she merely walked to her kitchen and began attempting to put away the dishes she had washed earlier in the evening. It must have been several minutes later when she heard the sound of heavy footsteps climbing through her window.

Turning around to look at him, he still maintained his lost-puppy-dog look, seeming completely out of place in her modestly-sized apartment. She ignored him momentarily to finish her task, only to find him still standing there – not having moved in the slightest, when she turned back five minutes later.

Rolling her eyes yet again, she gestured towards the table.

"Did you want to sit down?"

And without saying a word, he walked to the table and sat.