Stalker. That's what Natasha had good-naturedly called Claire when she had sought out her best friend to ask after the elusive ex-HYDRA assassin that had mysteriously stopped showing his face around the compound's common areas. With the obvious exception of the kitchen, the gym and the lab, for the rare circumstance that his arm was on the fritz, seemed to be the only places to find the elusive James Buchanan Barnes when he wasn't barricaded in his fox hole of a room.
"I'm serious Nat, I'm worried about him." She countered, her teeth worrying her bottom lip.
Natasha sighed, halting the movements of her fingers through the shorter woman's hair, hands falling from the half-finished braid to gently grasp her shoulders.
"Barnes is a big boy, he can take care of himself." She said softly, giving Claire's shoulders a gentle squeeze. "That last HYDRA raid took a lot out of him, took a lot out of all of us." Her eyes misted over, recalling the headache inducing flickering fluorescent lights, the moldy, wet smell of the underground compound that had lay abandoned for who knows how long. The information they secured was important, granted, but difficult to swallow. The feral look in Bucky's eyes as he watched the dozens of failed experiments that came before him would forever be etched in the back of her mind. How hard he tried to fight the grimace that twisted his features at the screams of the men that ultimately failed HYDRA's reprogramming, the ghosted, dissociative look in the eyes of those that were unlucky enough to survive. HYRDA's early versions of the serum were not as kind as Howard Stark's.
Steve had finally lurched forward across the control panel, silencing Tony's protest with a hard stare and switching the monitors off.
"That's enough." He said quietly. "We got what we came for."
That was the last day anyone on the team had seen him for longer than an hour. He exercised, kept up on his training, fed himself, but that's where it ended. At first, he had stopped joining them for meals, then stopped showing up for his jogs with Sam and Steve. At first Sam was relieved not only to have only one super-soldier lapping him, but to have a moment's peace from Bucky's relentless bickering. But Claire's concern reached its peak when she noticed his absence from movie night, an innocent suggestion from Tony to get the 'old farts' caught up on modern media. The team had reacted enthusiastically and, time and personnel availability willing, it had become a weekly tradition. It was simple, but regardless of the movie selection Bucky always bounded to his claimed seat on the couch, popcorn in his hand and an excited twinkle in his eyes. According to Steve, the 'picture show' had been an old favorite of his back in the 40's.
Claire had slipped quietly from the room, proud of herself for only being spotted by Nat who had simply raised an eyebrow and turned her attention back to the screen. The only sign that he was alive was the soft glow of his lamp light peeking out from underneath his door. She knocked, softly at first, then louder when he didn't answer. She pleaded with him, told him he didn't have to go to movie night just please, please open the door. She offered to go get Steve if he didn't want to talk to her, offered not to talk at all, anything she could think of to get him to open the damn door. She was met with nothing but silence. She sighed, leaning her forehead against the cool metal completely at a loss. He had never turned her away, always at least given her a reason why he just needed to be alone. After several more moments of deafening silence, she whispered a defeated 'good night Bucky' before slipping away to her own room.
Claire heaved a sigh, bringing Natasha back to the present.
"I know, I'm just not used to not being able to fix it." She looked down to her hands, wrung together nervously in her lap.
Nat sighed, moving around to crouch in front of the woman she had chosen to be a sister, lifting Claire's chin to look in her eyes.
"Despite what you think, and the unbelievable amount of expensive equipment Stark breaks, it's not your job to fix everything. Occasionally we can take care of ourselves." She said evenly, intimidating gaze unwavering.
"Well technically-"
"No." Nat stopped her with a clipped tone. "Your job is to use that pretty little brain of yours to create, build a better world than this shithole. Besides, there is nothing you can say that will convince me that M.I.T teaches a course on assassin rehabilitation."
Claire grinned despite the uncomfortable twisting in her stomach, one which Nat returned before standing to complete her work.
With a sigh, Claire surrendered to the feeling of her friend's fingers threading through her hair, allowing her eyes to slip closed as she relaxed against the back of her chair.
She would think of something. She always did.
The common area was deserted when Claire returned to the compound, plastic bag hung on her wrist and the evidence of movie night still littering the coffee table. She shook her head as she removed her sunglasses. Steve and Sam would be back from their morning run any time now and would set to work cleaning up the mess before wandering off to accommodate their respective schedules. The ones she had written for them, as well as everyone else on the team. While they were in the compound, Claire knew every meeting, every training session, every trip to the bathroom for each one of them. Which meant she knew exactly when Bucky could be found, relentlessly pounding split knuckles and bruised fists into the punching bag as if it were the cause of all his turmoil.
Pushing down the same feeling that climbed up her throat when Nat had accused her of stalking the poor man, she raked a hand through her hair and prepared to put her plan into action. She set to work with menial tasks to pass the time, keeping a close eye on the clock.
13:00
Go time. Untangling herself from the mountain of paperwork and sliding her computer off her lap she grabbed the contents of the convenience store bag and headed to the elevator, willing herself not to nervously bounce on the balls of her feet. The doors slid open with a hiss, revealing a pair of baby blue eyes set into a chiseled face haloed by a full head of perfectly combed blonde hair.
"Hey Claire." The man the face was attached to said with a smile, eyes crinkling warmly.
"Hi Steve." She replied with a sheepish smile of her own.
His eyes moved from hers to the object clutched in her hand, quirking an eyebrow but saying nothing.
"Well, don't want to keep you." In an uncharacteristic move to end the would-be conversation he strode out of the elevator, one hand holding the door open for her. She flashed him another smile, scrambling inside before she lost her nerve and shouting out a rushed 'Bye Steve!' as the doors closed.
Once inside she found herself questioning every life decision she ever made.
"This is so stupid." She growled, fighting down the urge to jab the 'elevator stop' button like her life depended on it. But before her momentary courage gave way to cowardice the elevator slid to a stop, doors opening as F.R.I.D.A.Y announced she had arrived at her chosen floor. She stood, frozen, locked in an internal conflict until the A.I gently urged her to 'Please disembark the elevator, and have a pleasant day.'
Her lip curled at the sentiment before she threw her body forward, forcing her feet to move to keep her from falling flat on her face. Not like it would be the first time. She wandered slowly down the hall. Maybe he won't even be there, maybe his isolation had reached the point where missions and sustenance were the only two things left to draw him out of hiding. The thought didn't have the desired effect and she felt the icy clutches of panic rise in her chest. Her feet sped up of their own accord, the tightness in her lungs dissipating as she caught sight of his sweaty mess of hair exactly where he was supposed to be.
Unsure of whether she was terrified or relieved, she started towards him, quiet footsteps masked by the sound of wrapped fists on leather. She paused to observe him as she got closer, muscles rippling under the thin material of his tank top, sweat falling freely from his skin and hair alike. He fought as if he fought for his life, stance rigid, fists unforgiving. With a loud roar, his metal fist collided with the front of the bag, tearing through the leather as if it were nothing more than paper. Her heart broke for him.
For a long moment, the only sounds filling the large space were the sounds of sand trickling steadily from the hole he made and his labored breathing. His chest heaved with effort as he cursed himself under his breath and moved to snatch his towel off a nearby bench before collapsing on it, head in his hands, towel slung carelessly over his shoulder.
Claire stared at his back, knowing what she came here to do but unsure how to begin.
"Bucky?" She said in a voice that was barely above a whisper. He visibly tensed, fingers curling into his dark locks slicked with sweat. With renewed vigor, she started forward once again. Moving to sit next to him on the bench, being sure to leave enough space between them to keep him from feeling suffocated by the unwelcome intrusion. One long second stretched into minutes of tense silence, his heaving breaths slowing as he drew in the deep, calming breaths his therapist spent months convincing him would help.
"Look," She began. "You don't have to talk about what's bothering you, and don't say nothing, you're a terrible liar."
The slightest hint of a smile ghosted along the corners of his mouth, and she quickly stamped down the flutter of hope building inside her.
"Never liked lyin' to you anyway." He rasped, voice rough from disuse.
She smiled.
"Good." She picked up the object that brought her down here in the first place and placed it in her lap. His tracked her movement from the corner of his eye, unable to stop the old habit that had been quite literally hardwired in his brain. If he was curious, he didn't show it.
She sucked in a deep breath, fingers tracing the tightly coiled wire that held the notebook together. Suddenly her plan seemed so silly, so childish, but this was the point of no return. With bated breath, she slid the book over to him on the bench. He stared at it as if it may be hiding a Glock .45 under the hideous mustard yellow cover. She couldn't stop the quiet chuckle from bubbling from her chest
"It's just a notebook, Bucky." He continued to eye it, unconvinced.
"What's it for?" She raised an eyebrow.
"Oh, you know, thoughts, ideas, research, I went through dozens of them in college." She grinned as he huffed, straightening his back. One hand continued the trek through his unruly hair, the other carefully picking the notebook up. He leafed through the empty pages mumbling something akin to 'Not what I meant and you know it.'
Her smile faded as she chose her next words carefully.
"I…I know that some of the thoughts in your head-" She clamped her mouth shut. None of this sounded right. With a shaky breath, she tried again. "I know that there are things in your head that you can't get out. Things you will never tell us, because you can't find the words, or don't want to burden us with your past." She paused to give him a sad smile, placing a soft hand on his arm. "I understand Bucky, not what you've seen or been through, but I understand why you can't open up to us in that way. I just…wanted you give you some way to put some of those demons to rest."
He stared at her, her kindness never failing to leave him at a complete loss for words. His eyes drifted back to the book in his hands, the weight of her words settling low in his chest.
"I might need more pages." He drawled out, attempting to lighten the mood. He felt as if he half succeeded when she gave his arm a squeeze.
"That's why I got the 5-subject." She said with a smirk, catching on. He gave her a huff of something resembling a laugh before his face settled in what the Army called 'the thousand yard stare,' eyes seeing straight through the notebook in his hands.
"I don't even know where to start," he said in a broken whisper.
"I do." The confidence in her voice startled her. "Start with all the times they made you feel less than human, with all the times that shred of humanity they just couldn't get to despite how hard they tried broke through, with every time you felt alone or scared. It doesn't have to be just memories. Thoughts, feelings, whatever's floating around in your head. Just…start writing and the rest will follow. And when you're done, and you'll know when you are, bring it back to me."
His eyes flashed to hers in an instant, unbridled fear clouding his sapphire depths.
"No, no, Bucky, I'm not going to read it," she soothed, running her hand down the smooth expanse of his flesh arm. "Just…" She let out a breath. "Do you trust me?"
He nodded mutely, eyes locked on hers.
"Then trust me." She clasped his hand in hers, eyes pleading silently with him.
He blinked, and she saw the conflict in his eyes. The flicker of fear that she had crossed a line quickly vanished as he again nodded his head.
"Okay," he whispered.
She gave his hand one last squeeze before releasing it, clearing her throat and moving to stand. Her movements were halted by a hand on her arm, gentle despite the power she knew lay within it. He peeked up at her through the long strands of hair that had fallen into his face.
"Thank you." She fought the urge to launch herself towards him, envelop him in a tight, warm hug and whisper everything was going to be okay. She settled with a small, genuine smile as his hand dropped back to his side.
"I'll see you soon, soldier," she said tenderly. He nodded, watching her leave before turning his attention back to the appallingly colored book in his lap.
"Time to get to work," he grumbled to himself.
Three days later Bucky found himself outside a familiar door, the metallic 'M.I.T: Building a Better Future' bumper sticker Tony had stuck to her door the day she moved him taunting him. His eyes flickered nervously from one end of the hallway, his frayed nerves playing tricks on his mind as he kept thinking he heard footsteps rounding the corner.
'Pull it together, Barnes. She told you to bring it back. Just knock, give her the damn thing, and scram.'
Not giving himself a chance to lose his nerve, he raised his hand, knuckles rapping lightly on the smooth surface. His heart gave a lurch as he heard her call out a strained 'One second!' and fighting the urge to bolt when the knob jiggled.
"I couldn't find the Red Zin you like so I got - Oh hey Bucky!" She greeted breathlessly as the door swung open, wisps of hair that had escaped her messy bun framing her flushed face.
"I could come back-" he started, turning to leave.
"No!" She all but shouted, quickly collecting herself. "I mean, no, it's okay. It's Game of Thrones night and Nat and Wanda are supposed to swing by. Not for another half an hour, but you know, Nat does what she wants."
He chuckled, fingers idly playing with the now worn pages of the slightly tattered notebook clutched in his hands. Some of his thoughts and memories hit him harder than he thought, and the unsightly cover had paid the price.
Her eyes followed the motion of his fingers, widening slightly as the realization hit her.
"You finished it." She blurted out, eyes flickering from the book clutched in his metal hand and his face.
He nodded, holding it out to her. She halted him in his tracks with a single hand.
"One second." And just like that she was gone, door ajar and quiet rustling sounding from inside the room. Moments later she reappeared, slippers on her feet and face hugged by the hood of the 'Stark Industries Research and Development' sweatshirt she had haphazardly pulled over her head. In her hand was clutched a small, metal trash can, the clanging from the inside of the receptacle alerting him it wasn't empty.
He raised a questioning eyebrow as she took his hand, feet firmly planted to the ground even as she gently urged him to follow. Green eyes met blue as she tightened her hold on his hand.
"Trust me."
He relented to the soft feeling of her small hand in his, returning the squeeze with a tentative smile before allowing her to pull him down the hall and to the elevator where she wordlessly pressed the button for the roof and waited for the doors to close. He willed his hand not to tremble as they rode upwards in silence, swallowing the lump that rose in his throat as the doors slid open to a cool, crisp night. The cold air caressed his face and a light breeze ran its fingers through his tousled hair. It was only then he realized how long it had been since he'd gone outside.
"What-"
"Trust me," she silenced him in a sing-song voice and pulled him to the edge of the roof where a small, square table sat bolted to the ground. She released his hand and he instantly missed the warmth, shoving it into his pocket as she pulled more items out of the trash can before placing it on the table top and turning to him.
"Place it in the bin." She instructed gently, pointing to the crumpled book in his hands.
He looked between her and the trash can, confusion etched across his face.
"What are we doing?" he asked quietly.
She reached for him, taking a hold of his arm and hugging it gently.
"Saying goodbye." He stared deep into her eyes, fighting back the sting of tears that collected at this back of his and sucking in a deep breath to calm the pounding of his heart. He pushed through the urge to lurch away as she pulled one hand from its place wrapped around his forearm and placing it on his metal hand. He nodded his understanding, keeping his eyes on her as he lifted all the pain, turmoil, haunting memories, and ghosts of his past and dropped it with a clang into the metal bin. Suddenly, with her petite hand guiding his wrist, it didn't seem so heavy.
She gave him a warm smile before pulling away from him, grasping the small, white bottle off the bench and spraying a healthy dose of the sharp-smelling liquid on the cover. Her face tuned to his when he let out a small chuckle.
"That color is atrocious."
She grinned again, eyes gleaming in the moonlight.
"I know. That's why I got it."
Reaching to the bench once more, her fingers closed around a small matchbook, holding it out to him with an expectant look.
"When you're ready."
He stared at the small, white square for a long moment. Claire watched the warring emotions playing in his eyes but remained silent, allowing him to take this step when he was ready. Finally, after one moment stretched into several, he raised a trembling flesh hand to take it from her, pausing slightly when his fingers brushed hers.
With a flick of his wrist the cardboard tips ignited, casting shadows across his face before he flung the whole thing into the can. He watched with immense satisfaction as the infernal thing within it burst into flames, warmth blooming across his face. Her hand slipped into his again and he didn't hesitate to close his fingers around hers as tightly as he would allow without hurting her.
They stood together for several minutes, watching the flames dance and crackle, lulling them into a peaceful silence. He shook from his trance when her hand gripped his with surprising strength. Stepping back with one foot she sucked in a deep breath.
"FUCK! YOU!" She shouted out into the night, stretching out each syllable, squeezing her eyes shut and heaving forward with the effort.
He stared at her, dumbfounded. She turned back to face him with a wide smile.
"Your turn." He glanced down at their conjoined hands and back up to her face.
"Say it with me?" he asked quietly, smiling when she nodded enthusiastically.
His chest rose as he breathed in until it hurt.
"FUCK! YOU!" They shouted in unison, voices rising with the ashes and embers into the night sky. His breaths came in gulps, eyes burning with unshed tears, but the tightness that had settled in his chest over the past weeks loosened its merciless grip.
He heaved in once more.
"FUCK! YOU!" He roared again, and Christ it felt good.
It felt really good.
He blinked rapidly, unconcerned with the fresh wetness on his cheeks as he felt Claire grinning stupidly beside him. Her free hand had taken to running the length of his arm soothingly and he leaned into her touch.
"Better?" she whispered, leaning her cheek into her shoulder.
He nodded, tears falling freely into her hair.
"Thank you."
The kitchen was alight with activity the following morning, as it usually was on the rare morning there wasn't mission, wasn't a world to save and they were just people enjoying a meal with those they had come to call family. Claire sat at the table, laughing over a cup of coffee as Tony relentlessly snuck bits of bacon and scrambling off to avoid being swatted with a spatula by Bruce, currently sporting a lime-green cooking apron Tony had bought him as a joke.
"I'm starving!" The billionaire had whined, shooting her a wink.
She shook her head, lightly blowing on the molted liquid as the team filtered in on their own time. Soon, large plates of pancakes and bacon sat in the center of the table.
"Dig in." Bruce announced, removing his grease-stained apron and taking his seat.
The sounds of laughter and clinking silverware filled the space, accompanied occasionally by compliments to the chef and in Tony's case, a loud moan as he stuffed a large fork-full of 'fluffy heaven' in his mouth. Sam and Clint had only just begun playing monkey in the middle with the syrup, much to Steve's dismay, when a soft cough halted all movement.
Bucky stood in the doorway, hands pulling slightly at the pockets of his sleep pants and looking out at them from underneath his unruly hair. An awkward silence stretched across the table, the team split between gaping at him or looking to Steve with wide-eyes. He only looked at her.
Claire smiled brightly at him, patting the seat beside her.
"Hungry?" He nodded, holding her gaze until Steve spoke up beside her.
"Well then, you better get over here before this animal eats it all." He elbowed Tony who leaned over his plate protectively.
The tension broke when Bucky's face broke into a grin, moving to take his place beside Claire who offered him a plate and a light squeeze on his arm. With one last shared smile, they turned to join in on the ruckus that had once again broke out at the table.
Natasha watched them through a mouthful of bacon. She didn't miss the way he would sneak glances over to Claire and smile, the way her hand would occasionally brush the back of his knuckles, the grin that never left his face or the newfound light in his eyes.
Maybe there was more to M.I.T's curriculum than she knew.