A/N: Sorry for putting the author's note at the beginning of the chapter. HOWEVER, I have to put one up before you continue reading to let you know that this story is the third installment of a series, following the stories At Day's End and The Eleventh Hour. You can find both in the My Stories tab on my profile page. Therefore, the character of Holly Rogers (née Martin) and her actions and interactions in this story are not going to make any sense if you haven't read it, as well as any other original characters found within. I know, I'm asking a lot for you to read those stories before this one, but it will help in the long run. Seriously, it will explain the AU changes I have made prior to this story, because there are some pretty big ones I've made. It's the continuing saga of a Steve Rogers/OC, so I hope that's all cool.
That being said, allow me to throw in the disclaimer before we get started: I don't own anything from the Marvel Cinematic Universe. Nothing. Nada. Zip. I also don't own any other pop culture references I may have made in the text.
Also, this story is UNBETA'ED. This is mostly due to my personal schedule being a little different from others', and therefore harder to coalesce with someone else's. As such, I do proofread, edit, and restructure my own writing. I try my best, but I am not perfect.
Lastly, this story is NOT Civil War compliant. I may borrow a character or two from that film, or readapt a plot point, but I will not be following that film. Consider this an AU, if you like, but if you're looking for 100% canon compliance...I'm sorry, but I'll have to redirect you to the first page of stories in this section.
I think that's it for now...let's proceed...
The trek from the lower level offices to the apartments at the rear of the base wasn't particularly short, but each step that propelled her further away from her department was a welcome one. Familiar sights of glass, metal and tile swam in and out of her vision, the various branching paths towards labs and other offices nearly empty at that time of day. The journey to the back elevator had not cooled her off in the slightest, her lip being chewed and the sleeves of her sweater tugged over her hands as it brought her to the correct floor. Shaking her head and sighing, she was off mere seconds after the metal doors swished open. Turning left, she encountered the armored hall door, hand print scanner and card slider popping out as soon as she stepped into range. One after the other, she went through the security measure to be allowed into the inner sanctum: the residence of heroes.
To anyone else, it would be a prestigious honor to be given access to the housing of the Avengers, and to some degree, it still was to her. However, the luster had worn off some time ago for Holly Rogers née Martin; it was hard to be wowed by a cluster of apartments that you lived in, too, no matter who shared the common space in between them all. And speaking of the shared common space, it appeared that some of the team were lounging about it, discussing the most recent events of the day, among other things. Wanda Maximoff, codenamed the Scarlet Witch, was resplendent in her favored tones, her hands outstretched and holding a piece of clothing as she rested her backside against the arm of a nearby chair. Before her stood an android, the one called the Vision, his electric blue eyes widening as he scooped up the offered clothing, stretching out to reveal it as the sweater it was. A tiny grin surfaced on the girl's face when she was thanked for her gift. The Black Widow was in low-voiced conference with Sam Wilson, discussing a move that he'd attempted to execute and giving him pointers for follow-through. Seated on a couch on the other side of the room, she demonstrated the technique with a couple of pencils and a rubber band (all items retrieved from somewhere, Holly had no idea where), the man attentive to her words. A man watched them, his back to Holly as she passed by. Roused from her irritation for a moment, she reached out as she walked behind him, her fingers trailing across his shoulder blades and making him start a little at the touch. His blond head turned in time to see her hand flap a hello, his brow furrowing as she proceeded past him into the apartment and shut the door behind her without preamble. He would go to her, eventually, she knew that. Once the final debriefing was done.
Dropping her bag and flopping onto the couch, Holly blew out a breath as she craned her head back against the cushions. She was starting to think that perhaps she should've taken a position in the donations department of the base. It certainly couldn't have been any worse fielding phone calls and schmoozing relief companies. Nothing for it, she told herself, getting up off the couch and heading straight into the kitchen. Reaching around the cabinets (some of them still pretty bare, considering she did not have extensive cooking implements even before the move), she found the hidden stash of chocolate bars. After another brief hunt, she found a bowl and began breaking pieces of the candy into it, scanning the counter. Finishing with the task, she reached out and snatched up the red wine bottle off the corner rack. Taking it, the bowl, and a single glass with her to the living room, she plopped back into the seat she's vacated, gnawing on a couple pieces of chocolate as she liberally poured herself a glass of wine. After raking her hair back into a short ponytail, she drew in another deep breath, determined to get her mind off her annoyance. Extending a hand forward, she fetched up her laptop, scrolling through the tabs that had not been closed since she last looked at the device. Alternating sipping her wine and eating the chocolate, she went through her personal email, corresponding with the publisher who had contacted her a few weeks back. However, she began to become distracted by the other tabs, focusing on them for several long moments and plugging in new data to the search bars every few minutes.
She was so preoccupied with her searches that she failed to hear the door open, failed to notice the new presence in the space. Well, she failed to notice until he bent down, snagging a piece of chocolate from the bowl just before she could grab at it again. Following the path of the pilfered chocolate, she watched as her husband, Steve Rogers, perched the candy between his teeth and grinned down at her, blue eyes glinting with mirth. She snickered, unwillingly, rolling her eyes as he sat down beside her and pressed a kiss to her lips. Flicking his gaze over the coffee table, his smirk lessened slightly. Leaning forward, he palmed the wine bottle, testing the weight and raising an eyebrow at her.
"Long day?" he asked as he set it back down, her answer being a snort and shoveling another piece of chocolate in her mouth. A swift glance warned him that he would be opening the floodgates if he pursued the topic, but the slightest fraction of his shoulder lifting prompted her to go ahead.
"You know, it's shocking how one mislaid file can turn an entire department upside down for an afternoon." Holly rolled her eyes up to the ceiling, slamming her laptop shut and passing a hand over her face. "I spent hours looking for a folder of photographs from 1946, only to find it buried somewhere in the 1967 shelves, because apparently reading labels is a thing that doesn't happen." Also, it seemed to be a thing to make the one who held the title of Junior Archivist do the leg work when someone else made the error…of course. Tightening the end of her ponytail, she groaned, "I mean that, too. It was literally hours of combing through twenty-one years of stuff for snapshots. Geez, I may not have a master's degree like everyone else in archives, but I've at least got enough sense to put things in the correctly labeled place, in chronological order."
Leaning into the couch cushions, Steve folded his arms across his chest, tapping his fingers along his bicep. "Well, everything was packed up and moved in a hurry. It makes sense something like that should happen."
"Makes sense, yes. But it's still irritating," she groused, knowing full well she was being unfair to her coworkers and her department at that moment. Exhaling sharply, she felt herself deflate a little, having let out the frustration. Fingers flicked through the air, brushing the incident off. "At least they're in the right place now."
Putting her head in her hands, she did not see her husband reach over, but she did feel the palm he laid upon her bowed back. As his thumb gently stroked back and forth over the material of her shirt, she felt like such a fool, and a childish fool at that. Her work woes were hardly anything in comparison to what he did for a living. Still, Steve was gracious enough to let her whinge without comment (though if he did do that one day, she wouldn't blame him for it). Sitting up straight again after a minute or so, she dropped her hands away, lacing one with his as she sighed.
"I'm being a whiny baby, sorry," she apologized, her words answered by his head shake. "How was your day? Good?"
Steve tilted his head to the side, eyes flicking to the shield of his trade where it rested against the wall.
"It was fairly tame, actually."
In the aftermath of the fiasco with Ultron, and the subsequent battles ranging across the earth, the demands and rigors of the schedule of a superhero had slowed down somewhat. No doubt one of the numerous opposition groups were amassing, preparing to make their move against the Avengers, but at the moment, in the beginning of August, they were working quietly, leaving nothing to chance. There were still threats to answer, but the last couple of days had been relatively calm. Consequently, it had been a day of hard training and consulting with Nick Fury at the helicarrier base, as well as getting in touch with Tony Stark and looking into some upgrades to the equipment they had. All this was discussed over dinner, two frozen pizzas demolished swiftly (one of them entirely consumed by Steve; the freaky fast metabolism still threw Holly for a loop, sometimes).
"What were you looking at, when I got in?" he asked her once their plates were put in the sink to soak and they had adjourned back to the living room to watch something on the television. He could practically feel her spine stiffen when he sat down next to her, and his eyebrow inclined.
"Um...websites. For buying a house, or building one. We had talked about this being temporary, and well, I was thinking about it." Truth be told, she'd been thinking about it frequently. While the move upstate and their subsequent marriage had put the initial plans on the back burner for both of them, it did not mean the idea had been abandoned altogether. Gesturing to her laptop, she shrugged her shoulders. "We have some money saved up, and if we really need it, we could apply for a VA loan. Can't imagine they'd deny a World War II vet."
Tipping his chin forward and squinting slightly, he wondered, "Were you going to talk to me about this at some point?"
She nodded, genuine in her expression. "Yes, after dinner. And it's that time now. So..."
"You're really ready to get out of here, huh?" he inquired facetiously, the earnest cast returning to his gaze. When she merely shrugged a shoulder, he exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose at her non-verbal answer. "That a yes or a no, doll?"
Her head tilted from left to right, eyes rolling with it. Pushing up the ends of her sleeves to stop herself from tucking into them, she laid her palms flat on her knees, met his eyeline fully.
"It's not that I don't like it here, Steve. I know it's important to be here, to stick close by, but..." she trailed off, trying to find the right words. "It's not ours."
It wasn't their home, which was something she'd wanted with him from the beginning of their engagement. Life with a national icon, with a superhero, would never be simple, or easy, but she did not see why that had to preclude them from wanting what other people had. She did not think that should prevent them from putting down roots of their own, finding a place where he didn't always have to be on display as Captain America, and where she didn't have to rigidly guard her conduct as the First Lady (Stark's newest nickname for her grated at times, but it was easily put up with). Like with almost everything else, they could make it work, find a house—or even build one, despite that being a new set of challenges—to make their home. The quarters they had were nice enough, but even now, two months on, it didn't feel right. It didn't feel like more than just a place to exist.
If she had been writing down her thoughts, she could have expressed herself more eloquently, but as it was, she was speaking and therefore found herself more limited. Holly continued to meet Steve's contemplative gaze, firm in her stance. The layer of knowledge beneath his blue irises surfaced as he reached out, cradling the join of her neck in his palm. The shuffle of his warm fingers against her skin settled after a few moments, and he let out a deep breath.
"I understand," he murmured after a few minutes. Nodding to her laptop, he tipped a hand toward it, gesturing for her to open it back up again. "Show me what you've found."
Some time was spent looking through the tabs Holly had saved on her Internet searches, options discussed and argued back and forth as they looked into listings nearby. There weren't a ton, but several of the houses showed promise, and Steve was more than willing to take a look into them in the near future. Within an hour or two, the conversation turned to other matters, glances and touches shared as they went. Soon enough, the pair retired to the bedroom, but not to sleep. Once the door was shut, the pair came together feverishly, clothing dropping away little by little as their embraces deepened.
"Captain Rogers..." a smooth accented voice called out several minutes later, a trifle hesitant. The AI had been instructed to maintain a measure of radio silence for the remainder of the evening, but it was not about to let the goings on at the front door to go unremarked upon.
"Not now, JJ," Steve murmured back, too occupied with his wife's mouth melding onto his and her body rolling on top of him. Her lips moved away to coast along his jaw to his neck, hot against his skin as he groaned. He fumbled with the button of his jeans, but with her swift assistance they were opened and pulled off, joining hers on the floor. Their shirts had long since been abandoned, the first casualties that night.
"Captain Rogers, Sergeant Wilson is at the door," the AI cut in again, insistence in its tone. It was more brusque than its predecessor was, and it was not about to go unheard. That happened a little too often with Mr. Stark. "He is attempting to override access. He's saying it's important."
Frowning, the captain bit off a half-formed retort, instead choosing to groan deeply in irritation. His hands fell from his wife's back onto the mattress, balling up into fists as he rolled his eyes. This wasn't the first time this had happened; living on the base meant ease of access, for everyone. It was impossible to be out of touch, and sometimes it was not a good thing. Important...of course it would be important. But what level of importance remained to be seen, and he would need to see what it was. And they both knew that for sure. Holly's bare chest pressed to his as she buried her face into the crook his neck, groaning in frustration and impatience. Her fingers curled around his shoulders, nails digging in and making him wince slightly. With her atop him, he could feel her body shift, going rigid as she released her hold on him. Sitting up until she was straddling him just above his waist, he watched curiously as her blown-out pupils contracted, a hand raking through her freed hair as she considered something. His palms moved to rest on her thighs, but he stayed put otherwise.
"Not urgent?" she asked, looking for clarification from the AI. Clarification for what, Steve did not know, but he too waited for the answer from JJ.
"No, ma'am, not to my knowledge." The answer was succinct, and one could almost picture the AI shrugging a little as he went on. "Then again, 'important' is subject to opinion in this case."
Holly blew out a fast breath, her chin jerking up almost in challenge. "Well, let's see what's so 'important,' then."
Suddenly, she had lifted off him, the shift in weight quick enough that Steve did not react right away.
"Holl," Steve said soon enough, sitting up fully as she moved off the bed. The comforter of their bed was plucked up, shoved to one side as she tugged at the sheet below. Struggling for a moment or two, she mutely gestured for him to get up. As he did so, his brow furrowed at her actions, observing how she disassembled the bed for the sake of one sheet. As she turned her back to him and began wrapping it around her torso, covering her bareness up top and the black bottoms she sported below, he couldn't still his tongue. "Holly, what are you—"
He was cut off by her crossing the room and flinging the bedroom door open. Confidently, she strode out with her mussed hair and impromptu bedsheet toga wrapped around her towards the main hall, her plan becoming obvious in that second. Half-choking on a gasp, he made to follow her, to try and stop her before she could do as she'd set out to. In his state, though, running wasn't ideal, and by the time he caught up to her (after he shook off the surprise once he realized her objective), she was already tapping through the alarm codes, disarming the quarters and swinging the door open.
"Sam," she greeted, false cheer in her voice as she spoke. Sam Wilson stood before her, hand raised as if to pound on the panels again, but his fist fell to his side. His dark eyes grew impossibly wide as he registered exactly who he was looking at, and the state she was in, jaw dropping slightly. A flash of annoyance went through Steve at that, and despite the fact that he looked just as ridiculous in that moment, he purposefully cleared his throat, pulling his friend's attention away from his scantily-clad girl to him. Wilson snapped his mouth shut, swallowing and barely suppressing a smirk when he noted Steve's attire as well...or lack thereof.
At least he was still wearing his boxers, the captain mused to himself, bringing his hands forward and resting them so that they covered him a little more. The thought was scant comfort, however, and he felt blood rushing up into his face.
"Holly, Steve...hi," the other man greeted them lamely, clearing his throat and pointedly focusing at the wall just above his leader's head. In his peripheral vision, he could see Holly nod, with her leaning against the door and crossing her arms over her chest.
"JJ told us you were trying to break in, essentially." Glancing down, she smoothed out a wrinkle in her coverings, the bedsheet flattening under her ministrations. Affecting nonchalance, she inquired, "What's up?"
Wilson coughed once, gaze lowering to meet Steve's once more, after a swift look was darted to her. She just politely inclined her eyebrows, and waited for him to speak, hips shifting and the sheet parting to expose a bit more of her leg.
"Er, the team in London called," he explained, hooking a thumb backward. "They want to conference about some incidents cropping up in Europe. Told them I'd get back in touch with them after talking with you, Steve."
The captain nodded, shuffling sideways and not quite meeting his gaze. "I was...kinda in the middle of something."
"Or close to it," Sam muttered under breath, the flush in Steve's face deepening when he heard it. "I didn't know that...yeah."
"Yeah. Think you could give me a few minutes?" Off his words, Holly turned to look at him fully, unamused and eyebrows arching. Steve's Adam's apple bobbed in his throat when he realized the implications of his own words. "Or, um, maybe about half an hour?"
Her eyes narrowed a fraction, her head tilting to the right as she put a hand on her hip. "I don't know, certainly sounds important."
Immediately Sam waved a hand in the air, as if trying to push her statement away. The captain, for his part, nearly glowered at her, cool indifference in her dark eyes when she stared back.
"No, no, that's cool. I'll just tell them you're...off-base for the time being," he replied, the excuse he settled on decent enough. Dipping his chin, he went on, "It should be okay."
Steve gave him a clipped nod, his eyes cutting away and indicating him to go. "Good."
Inclining his head once more, Sam quickly pivoted on his heel and walked away from the quarters, Holly waving good-bye when he risked a glimpse back. Shutting the door as he hurried on, she rested her back against it, tossing her hair a little when Steve approached, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"I can't believe you did that," he grumbled.
She tipped her head back, flicking a few fingers in the air with one hand as she held the sheet around her with the other.
"The door was locked and the apartment was in private mode for a reason," she pointed out calmly. "He gets why now."
"Holly..." he drawled, her name not quite the reprimand it was supposed to be. Stopping just short of her, he carded a hand through his hair, looking at a loss for what to do.
"Steve," she countered, shooting him a 'come on' look when he shrugged at her. Striding away from the door, she took note of the clock on the far wall, the digital display unable to be missed. Laying a palm against his chest, over his thumping heart, she let a finger trail lightly over his skin. As it trailed down from his chest to his stomach, his jaw twitching as she did so, she murmured, "Well, you bought a half hour's worth of time. We better make the most of it."
"So romantic," he retorted sarcastically, pupils dilating despite himself. Snickering, she let her palm sweep over his hip before she laced her fingers with his, enjoying the spark of fire that leapt up at the touch. Tugging on his hand, she began to lead the way out of the front hall with him in tow.
"Hey, you're about to get shower play. I wouldn't complain," she told him, cutting a path toward the bathroom. When she glanced back at him, she noticed his eyebrow had raised in question. Grinning darkly, she informed him, "Can't have you show up to the meeting smelling like—"
Steve gripped her hand tightly, pulling her up short. A finger was laid over her lips, pausing her in her speech.
"If that's what you want," he said. He stroked down to her chin, tipping it up and making her look at him directly. When she returned the lusty gaze he'd shot at her, he felt his lips stretch into a feral grin. "Lead the way, Mrs. Rogers."
The half hour that followed was undisturbed, save by the flinging of the bedsheet out the bathroom door before it slammed shut. As well as that, the idea that perhaps the search for a new home should start much sooner than they initially agreed upon had been planted in the captain's mind. But the idea could wait, at least until his thoughts were not otherwise occupied.
xXxXxXx
The Country House was in relative peace that day, the ticking clock marking the time as the hours slid by. Bucky Barnes was not paying attention to the rotations of the hands; rather, he was engrossed in his book, a fantasy thriller recommended by his therapist. It was overly detailed, and so many things were happening at once, but the characters were interesting, and it was enough to keep him reading. It kept his mind open, free of the memories and the darkness for a time. It was easier to do so, in that farmhouse, in his own small bedroom, than any place else in the world. Granted, his knowledge of the world consisted of a time that no longer existed, and of an organization that most likely still did, but he could recognize peace when he found it, and it could be found there.
"James! Some letters came for you."
Glancing up from his book, he made brief eye contact with the girl standing in his doorway. Another agent of Fury's, he'd discovered, who traded on her cherubic blonde hair and blue eyes to sucker information out of the unworthy of humanity. A job gone wrong had her there, and wasn't that always the case? That was what she said to him when he asked politely, having run into her a few times. In truth, she seemed too nice, too well-adjusted to be there, but the haunted look in her gaze when she froze, locked up when she thought others weren't looking, told him otherwise. That day must have been a good day for her, given how smiley she was. And as much as he would rather the people around him weren't as morose as he, he wasn't about to encourage further discourse. Instead, he focused on the novel in his hands and waited until she dropped the envelopes on the table just inside the door. Once she turned out of the doorway and her footsteps retreated down the stairs, he got up, the book abandoned in his haste to grab them up. He had no reason to distrust the people in the house. Like him, they either were there for healing or to assist in the process, and thus far he had not detected any falsehoods in their actions or activities. Still, what felt like a lifetime of isolation and suspicion sat at the back of his mind, no matter how many times he was assured that he was in a good place. Everything could turn in an instant, and they could just as easily take away from him the good things that were opening up to him as give them to him.
He walked back to his narrow bed, seating himself on the edge as he turned the envelopes over. Examining the letters closely, he could tell they had not been tampered with. The first, the neat handwriting on the front remarkable even after all that time, was opened, the flap torn carefully by his metal finger. Removing the paper within, a few photographs spilled out with it, landing in his lap. Gathering them up, he placed them to one side as he read the contents. Steve was well, reporting in every week like he had since the channel of communication had been cleared between them. Apparently, he'd gotten into a bust-up with a set of arms dealers in relation to someone he'd encountered in the recent past (memories of black censor bars threw themselves up in his mind while he noted how aloof his friend was being about the details) but he and the team made it out alright. A few sketches had made their way into the margins, and Bucky could hardly suppress a snicker. Steve was always doodling; he was a danger to any piece of paper if he had a pencil in hand and a free mind, and the letter he held was no more safe than any other. Scanning down the letter, he read that the pictures were a few snapshots from the wedding, the photographer having given him permission to send them along. Not that the kid would really refuse—evidently he really looked up to the superhero team, and was looking to make sure he didn't offend any of them with his work. It ended with him, as always, inquiring as to how he was doing, and what he'd done that week, the words meant to ease him slowly into opening up to the man who had called him friend, and meant it, for the first time in seventy years.
Picking them up and looking at them, he felt his lips turn up in a wistful sort of smile. His friend's happiness was obvious as the candid shot captured him dancing with his new wife, laughing at something she said. In the back of his mind, the part of him that belonged to Bucky Barnes was so pleased for him. Of the two of them, Steve was the one he could picture settling down, marrying, having kids, provided that some dame would finally give him the time of day. As he thumbed through them, few though they were, he noted the repeated appearances of some individuals in them: the billionaire, son of Howard Stark, a dark-haired fellow with inquisitive eyes was by Steve's side in one, a finger jabbing towards an unknown object, a smirk decorating his lips. The one called Sam with his hands tucked into his pockets, head tilting back as he listened to something the bride was saying to him. The red-headed woman with a bright gaze and a biting grin, catching out the cameraman in one and shooting him a playful wink. Members of his team now, the people Steve worked with, trusted...his new friends. His new world.
It was a world that Bucky wasn't sure he could fit into. The evidence of his past, the trauma in his mind, all told him that it would be a risk, and perhaps the captain would be wise to not take it. However, he was still writing, still reaching out.
Crazy punk, his brain threw up, and he shook his head. Setting the letter to one side, he picked up the other. The script in the address was even tidier than Steve's, and slanted, looping on the rounded letters and connecting to the others as it went. A tremor of trepidation fluttered through him as he broke the seal on the flap, and he exhaled slowly before taking out the paper and reading it.
James,
It's incredibly obvious when you attempt polite chit-chat in letter format. Probably should skip it next time. However, to answer your initial questions:
Thank you, I am well. Or as well as can be expected, when you're running from country to country, making sure the bad guys of the world don't rest as soundly as they would like.
Summer in the country is strange, I agree. I'm more at home in cities. I can blend in there. Out here, people can spot you coming from miles away. I'm not very comfortable with that.
I told you the air conditioning would be pitiful. I so told you. Stick to the office in the eastern corner of the basement; you're less likely to suffocate and melt there than anywhere else in the house.
Now, moving onto the stuff you really wanted to address, but didn't until it was too late to turn back...
When Steve told me he was going to tell you to write to me, too, I have to say I was really quite surprised by the idea. I can understand why you (more than likely) had reservations in doing so. Still, it's done, and at least you have someone else to talk to. Someone who understands what's going on. God love him, but there are some things that America's Golden Boy probably won't comprehend. Not about being trapped in your own mind, not about having no real form of free will except in choosing the method in which to kill someone. Not about being made into something you had no choice but to be. I was lucky enough, during my stint in rehab, to have someone who at least sort of got where I was coming from. Not entirely, but enough so that I didn't feel like such a nutcase half the time.
Only half, though.
So, yes, I can do the same for you. And don't worry about sparing me the details, if you have to get into it. I've seen my share of terrible things. More than my share, but I can handle it. Trust me. I can't guarantee that I'll answer right away—Avenging does take some time, and I like to do my job well—but I will answer you. Or at the very least, I'll listen...read, I suppose, but the sentiment remains, either way.
I'll consider it part of the whole making-it-up-to-me-because-you-shot-me-twice deal.
Do well. Keep wanting it.
—Natalia
Unbeknownst to him, a tiny grin had come to his lips after the initial fear had worn off. It had been something of a leap, establishing a connection with the woman who called herself the Black Widow as his friend's behest, but it seemed that perhaps some good would come of it after all. Glimpsing the photos beside him again, he picked up the one featuring the red-headed lady, tapping it against the paper. She understood. And she was right; there were just some things Steve wouldn't understand. Maybe that was why he suggested the idea in the first place. It wouldn't do any harm, not really, to write to her.
Unless she ever used the information he would (willingly) divulge against him. Then he'd make her life a living hell, friendship with Steve or not.
"Good news?" a mellow voice asked him, and he glanced up. Doctor Gregory—Libba, he reminded himself—stood in the doorway, resting one shoulder against it. His eyes darted to the digital clock on his nightstand; it was about that time to meet with her, it appeared.
"Yeah. Um, well, it's not bad," he said, quickly amending his words. Picking up the envelope with the photos inside it, he lifted a corner of his mouth. "Got some pictures with this one. And the other seems willing to talk to me."
After he'd already posted the first letters, he had eventually confessed to the psychiatrist his plan to reach out, connect with the people who had been involved with his escape from HYDRA. In retrospect, he realized that did not want to endanger his own treatment if she thought he was not ready, or if it were a poor decision on his part. However, her found her to be in support of the idea, encouraging him to give it a try. The only time she would object to such a thing, she told him, was if he found the recipients of his letters to be detrimental to his pursuit of healing. In her mind, James needed the room to grow and change, to shed the persona he carried and forge one from the better part of himself. It was a start, and she would not hinder him.
"Certainly sounds positive," she intoned, hazel eyes glittering as she gestured for him to come along. Once he set his letters aside and rose from the bed, she pivoted on her heel, leading the way downstairs and out the front door. The sweltering heat of August washed over them as they stepped onto the front porch, the air thick with humidity. Bucky grimaced, already knowing that sleep that night was going to be downright impossible because of that, if not from the nightmares. Scrubbing his face, he waited as she adjusted the ties on her shoes, turning up the sleeves of her blouse as she swung back up.
"Which direction do you want to go?"
It was a routine, one that they had participated in for the last two and a half months. In the early days, when they attempted to conform to the traditional setting of office and chairs, Bucky had felt stifled, broken. He was quite unable to open up in the tiny box of a room, under close examination, his defects and failures on display. After the third appointment or so, Libba had instead summoned him to meet her outside. When he had done so, she asked him the very same question, allowing him to choose which way they walked. It made him suspect her motives, in allowing him the freedom of mobility and movement, and when he'd shrugged, he started watching the trees as she led the way into the nearby woods. Over the footpaths and broken tree limbs, around the pond one mile west and beside the cornfield of the nearby farm, he followed her, with her only pointing out animal tracks in the mud or the birds circling ahead in the sky. And one day, as they walked, he started talking. About little things: how his mom and dad managed to scrape together enough money to buy roller skates for him and his siblings to share, how his sister insisted on learning to dance from him, how he'd shaken down the idiots who threatened his punk friend who had no idea how to step down from a fight. About bad things: his fall from the train, the pain in his left arm which he could sometimes still feel even though it had been replaced years ago. About the people he had stalked, hunted, killed. About the people he didn't, and how those missions haunted him more. The agony of torture, of losing every scrap of memory until he didn't know how to do anything but eat, sleep, and kill. She took it all, listening to every word he uttered, and when she did not run, when she merely laid a hand on his shoulder and silently nodded, he realized what was happening.
It was the start, but Bucky still had a long way to go. And he still had to pick a path to follow.
"East," he said, tromping slowly so that the doctor could keep pace with him.
"Good," she replied, the pair of them stepping onto the worn-down path that ran parallel to the driveway, away from the house, both of them disappearing from sight after a few minutes.
A/N 2: And so it begins...
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