the unhappy, the bitter, and the vengeful

by liarfaker

Sequel to as the living does not arrive, as the dead do not leave: "He's there, listening, but he never says a word." Natasha puts her hand on Steve's shoulder. "He will." Although it doesn't sound like one, it's a promise. Or it's a threat.

the unhappy, the bitter, and the vengeful

(sequel to 'as the living does not arrive, as the dead do not leave')

…

.

…

Steve slouches on Natasha's old (presumably vintage) couch, one of those you can get at garage sales for less than a hundred bucks. The distinctive smell this piece of junk had when Sam and Steve were bravely carrying it down the Stark Tower's hallways finally starts to fade. She insisted to have her room at the Tower furnished according to her own taste. (Which is trash, Tony says.)

It's been almost three weeks since their return from Cancún—long three weeks of Steve's emotional distress, Natasha's re-adapting to society, Sam's new job, and Tony's fussing over not being the only iron man (yes, he did say that too) anymore.

"Not a word?" Natasha joins Steve on the couch.

Steve sighs, resigned, rubbing his chin.

Bucky isn't the most cooperative patient.

They've arranged a place for him at Tony's with JARVIS monitoring Bucky all the time. Steve comes over for 'sessions' with his brainwashed friend, but all he gets is an occasional glare from the soldier. (And, if you ask Sam, that's quite a feedback considering the recent events.)

Steve talks about how he used to get beaten up black and blue and Bucky kept saving his sorry ass— "Sometimes", you used to say, "I think you like to be punched"—butthe soldier keeps staring blankly at the wall.

Steve tells Bucky about their trip to the World's Expo and how Bucky got all the attention. Ladies loved him, a charming young man in a military uniform while Steve was a lame wingman. The soldier's stare stays fixed on the window.

When Steve's mother died, he says, Bucky was there for him till the end of the line. The soldier doesn't even blink.

Even when Steve had nothing, he had Bucky. Now Bucky's face remains stone-hard.

"He's there, listening, but he never says a word."

Natasha puts her hand on Steve's shoulder. "He will."

Although it doesn't sound like one, it's a promise.

...

.

…

Or it's a threat.

Natasha kicks the door to Bucky's room open. Only thanks to miraculous Stark Safety Measures the door doesn't fall off the hinges.

And there he is, sitting on a sofa, eating Chinese food out of a carton box and watching the news with an indifferent expression on his face. It changes, but only slightly, when he sees Natasha burst in.

Without his regular master-of-doom uniform, in a pair of black sweatpants and a plain white T-shirt Bucky looks almost like a simple gym enthusiast—except for the arm, his scruffy face, and those menacing gray eyes.

"We need to talk, Barnes." She growls. Standing with her hands akimbo, she's ready to knock him out and drag him outside if necessary. But first—

"But first, take a fucking shower."

He gets up slowly looking around as if he was trying to assess the situation, then his stare shifts to Natasha and he narrows his eyes in the way that sends shivers down her spine. They are cold and calculating.

Bucky Barnes is a predator.

…

.

…

If anyone asks, their meeting in Mexico was but a coincidence. Officially, no secret meeting in Natasha's hotel room took place. Steve and Sam spent a few long days searching for the infamous Winter Soldier in Cancún. As far as Natasha knows, it's Steve who convinced the brainwashed killing machine to come back home. Or maybe some kicks and punches were involved, too. Neither Natasha nor Bucky mention the room getting demolished, the lamps crashing against the wall, or the incident with her ankle being tied to the bed frame.

If anyone asks, it was Steve who got to Bucky.

"Just imagine if he'd gone after you," Steve told her that day, "it would have been that bridge all over again."

She shook her head and said, "but you and Sam were there."

Bucky Barnes is her dirty secret.

…

.

…

relentless as the tarantula

they're not going to let you

sit at a front table

at some cafe in Europe

in the mid-afternoon sun.

if you do, somebody's going to

drive by and

spray your guts with a

submachine gun.

…

.

…

They go to the rooftop, the only place JARVIS does not monitor.

Bucky sits down on the ground crossing his legs. He's not even looking at her when he mutters with a hint of satisfaction in his voice, "I knew you'd come, eventually."

"And somehow I knew you would try to screw me over." Natasha approaches him with her fists clenched.

"That makes two of us."

She holds back the urge to kick him off the rooftop.

"We had a deal."

"We did, and I held up my end."

Oh, screw this, maybe she could just give him a little push and see how this bastard copes with gravity now.

"And when exactly did we come up with the idea of your sabotaging Steve's efforts?"

One would think he was a tough nut to crack as a machine that only followed orders, but now—with free will and a head full of shit—who knows what his modus operandi is.

After a prolonged moment of silence, Bucky looks up at her narrowing his eyes.

"I know what you're doing and I don't like it, Natalia."

She could drag him down to the basement and wipe this smirk off his face with her knee.

"Believe me, you have no idea."

"You think that if I become that guy again, I'll forget about you and leave you be." He sounds eerily calm. "Just so you know, none of those things will happen."

Natasha's pulse quickens. "Unlike you, that guy actually deserved Steve's friendship."

His jaw tightens, but he stays silent. Instead, he keeps staring at the skyscrapers while the wind's messing with his long hair. He barely resembles the young sergeant from the picture. That soldier was one hell of a guy.

Bucky Barnes is not that guy anymore.

…

.

…

He wants sessions with Natasha in return—in Tony's gym.

At first, she politely declines. Politely as in, go punch yourself in the face.

But then, after Steve comes once again with his head down, she reconsiders.

The soldier dodges a long series of her punches and smirks when she grimaces wrinkling her nose at him. When he's hunched she kicks out, aiming right at his nose, yet he ducks under her leg, then twists a little and elbows her in the hip. Natasha grunts but keeps her balance.

He's faster than her. He's stronger. He welcomes her with open arms whenever she lounges at him, and then he sends her flying to the mat. Literally, he just throws her in the air like a basket ball. He isn't even trying to hurt her, not really, he just keeps pushing her away like you push an overenthusiastic puppy jumping at you. And he's smirking all the time.

There's not a drop of sweat on his bare chest. He stretches his neck from side to side, eyeing her with growing curiosity.

The smug expression on his face makes her toes curl.

Fine, she grits her teeth, warm-up's over. Time for her showpiece move.

In a few long strides she gets to him, jumps high in the air, wraps her legs around his neck—

—and they both fall to the floor.

To her utter irritation he's not making a move. She's on top of him, panting, alert, while he stays still on the mat instead, spread on his back. His gaze is fixed on her stomach, and Natasha realizes her tank-top's rolled up a bit too much.

"This scar," he says and brushes his fingers over her bare skin. Electric current shoots up throughout her body.

(Déjà vu hits her. She's been touched like this before—gently, with attention, with care—she's been touched this way by him.)

Natasha jumps to her feet as if he threw a whole bucket of ice-cold water into her face.

"Odessa." She adjusts the top, stretching it down to the maximum, rubbing her stomach to get rid of the sensation he stirred in her. In vain.

"It healed quickly, though." He stares at her, his eyes calm yet confident. "I bet the doctors were going nuts trying to figure out how you recovered from a lethal wound."

"It wasn't lethal." She snaps.

(The doctors didn't go nuts. She didn't even have to consult any when they got back to the base.)

The soldier chuckles. "Yes, Natalia, it was."

Bucky Barnes is a thorn in her side.

…

.

…

they're not going to let you

feel good

for very long

anywhere.

the forces aren't going to

let you sit around

fucking-off and

relaxing.

you've got to go

their way.

…

.

…

Bucky talks, Steve announces proudly like a father of a one-year old.

Bucky remembers him.

Natasha's stomach churns. "That's it?"

"That's it." He sighs. "But I've got this feeling that it's a huge step forward."

A huge step forward, she thinks, right into the abyss.

…

.

…

The first time Steve stumbles upon the former Soviet spies training, he's alarmed. Tony Stark, however, is enthralled.

It's not just a training. It's a show.

If Steve didn't know better, he would think it's all rehearsed. Never in his life has he seen two opponents moving in such sync. It's like whatever move Natasha thinks of, Bucky has already foreseen it. He anticipates every strike or kick, every blow is blocked. She gets to the ground and tries to trip his up so he ducks the kick and kicks her instead before she can stand up. She rolls to a corner and is back in a guard position, her fists up in front of her face.

"Somebody's got angry." Tony whistles.

After two long strides as a run-up, Natasha makes a lunge at him, her feet get off the ground. It's a tiger's jump—graceful and dangerous. But she doesn't get to rethink her tactic when Bucky's arms shoot up and grab her by the waist. He holds Natasha up in his iron grip like she's a ballerina, looking up at her as she tries to keep her balance in the air.

Steve who's watching them in awe has a feeling time slows down for those two seconds. It is, indeed, a moment frozen in time.

Barnes smirks and whispers, "Still a dancer."

She draws in a sharp breath.

And the moment's broken. Natasha lowers her legs, pushes her feet off Bucky's chest, and with a back-flip she lands on the mat like a world champion in acrobatic gymnastics.

Black Widow is much tougher than a ballerina, Steve thinks. Tony starts clapping.

Both Bucky and Natasha turn their heads and realize they were being observed all this time. A pang of guilt renders Natasha speechless for a moment. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear blushing, suddenly feeling like a schoolgirl caught with a boy in the janitor's closet.

Black Widow never blushes.

"Don't you think they— Don't you think it's weird?" Steve mutters.

Tony glances at him with curiosity. "What's weird?"

"Nevermind."

…

.

…

Pointe shoes make her eyes water up. She always puts them on gritting her teeth in anger. God only knows how many times she hurt herself while trying to maintain her pose.

Releve, plie, open the leg, and up. Releve, plie, open the leg, and up. Fouette turn. Turn. Turn, turn, turn.

She wishes her toenails didn't exist at all.

Turn.

Whoever invented this should be burning in the deepest pit of Hell.

Turn.

A shadow passes through the door.

And turn. And tu—

"Faster."

—at the sound of his low, hoarse voice Natalia's knee bends, her ankle gives up. She falls to the floor, right on her wrist. You can't simply admit you're in pain. Not in the Academy. That's why she only lets out an angry hiss as if the floor burnt her.

He doesn't even look concerned. Intrigued—yes. He's been watching her warm up for some time now. Barrework. The stretching, the splits. The way her back arches, the muscles tense up and then relax. He can't take his eyes off the exposed column of her neck. Her gently curved arms cut through the air effortlessly as if she was swimming.

She's in pain, he knows it, but she's perfect.

"You hate ballet." He states.

Not much of a discovery, Natalia snorts to herself, but she knows better than to talk back. So she stares at the floor trying to steady her breathing.

"You think it's a waste of time. You think you could have more training sessions with me instead."

It's surprising how much he knows about her without exchanging more than a few words over those six months of their training together.

He doesn't extend his hand to help her up. A professional assassin should never count on even the tiniest gesture of help. Natalia stands up and holds still despite the fact that her joints are on fire. Facing him so close, with just a few inches between them, with blood racing through her veins, she hopes her body does not betray her even more.

"Dancing teaches you grace. It's a weapon, too. You'll be surprised how often it will come in handy."

He eyes her up and down. For some reasons, suddenly she wishes he finds her beautiful.

Later that night Natalia follows him to his room. Not that he knows, of course. She hides in the shadows of the corridors, her moves so quiet they're practically imperceptible. The Winter Soldier does not look back, not even once. She's so proud of herself.

Sneaking into his room would probably get her killed. She'll watch him through the window instead, she decides. Not even looking down she skips from one windowsill to another until she reaches the one she assumes, judging by her previous investigation, must be his. Clinging to the red brick, crouching on the marble ledge, Natalia peeps into the room squinting her eyes.

A dark silhouette of her instructor crosses the room. It's hard to overlook that metal arm. The arm she's still hesitant to touch, even during the training sessions.

Then her eyes widen. Standing with his back to the window, the Soldier takes off his shirt exposing a wide, muscular back. It's mesmerizing, watching him move. She can't help but to lick her lips while staring at his abs. There's an unfamiliar feeling down her stomach, the one that makes her press her thighs together as her pulse quickens.

She's never seen him at ease—or as close to that as he can get being the Winter Soldier. She wonders how it would feel to run her hand through his hair, then down his chest, and further down his stomach.

A rapid movement shakes her up. With a few long strides the man gets to the window and shuts it with a loud crack—

—the window frame trembles and Natalia shakes along with it.

Suddenly the whole world's spinning.

Clinging to the brick wall even tighter, she sucks her stomach in, her body tense and hard as a rock.

She holds her breath.

She keeps her balance just like during a ballet class. A deadly ballet class.

Then, slowly, she moves away from the window, onto the next windowsill, and then another, still feeling shaky. Just the moment when her feet finally touch the floor in her bedroom, she lets out a deep, long breath of relief.

Next morning she finds a note placed in one of her pointe shoes.

It says, "I told you it would come in handy."

Natasha wakes up clutching at her bed covers.

Bucky Barnes is the monster under her bed.

…

.

…

When Bruce Banner comes to examine Bucky's bionic arm it's like taking a dog to a vet.

"Out of question." Bucky shakes his head and turns TV on. He frowns at the screen.

The biggest event of the year, the first America For Peace gala will take place in New York, a city that endured—

The screen goes black again. Natasha stands next to his couch tapping her foot.

"Let him do his job."

"If it was about my arm, Stark would do it."

She cocks her head to a side. How come he always sounds so certain? For a man whose brain was ground to dust by some kind of a diabolical machine, Bucky Barnes shows a lot of composure.

"Then what, pray tell, is this about?"

"My head."

Natasha snorts. Maybe his composure is, after all, simply a sign of madness.

"You're paranoid."

Bucky's face stays hard, but his eyes wander over Natasha's face. The way he stares at her—she can't read him. She's the specialist on gathering intel, yet Bucky Barnes successfully blocks her and drives her crazy at the same time. She's dealt with worse before. Alexander Pierce and his mind games did not scare her. She's dealt with Loki for goodness' sake, the most skilled manipulative extraterrestrial son of a bitch the people of Earth have ever seen.

But when it comes to the man she's facing, the Book of Bucky Barnes is written in an invisible ink in some dead language.

"One day you'll see how it feels to have your mind split in two, Natalia."

Something in her snaps. She's had enough of this homicidal nutcase. Throwing her hands up, Natasha approaches him.

"Stop it. Do you hear me? Stop it!"

"Stop what?" He asks, curious rather than intimidated.

She stands right in front of him breathing heavily, looking for the words to describe what's going on with her. Her fists clench and unclench. Conflicted, Natasha lets out a low growl.

"Stop… This!" Her voice quivers. Whatever he's doing to Black Widow, it shouldn't be happening. Black Widow's unbreakable by default.

This is when his face changes. There's a flicker of guilt and concern in his eyes. "Natalia?" He slowly reaches out to touch her. It's been so long since he held her.

But Natasha angrily slaps his hands away.

"I don't care if we used to know each other. You were my teacher—fine. There's probably a good reason why I don't remember you."

"You don't understand. What they did to you—"

"I don't care!" She pushes at his chest, driving him further away. There's disgust and loathing in her tone. She hates the Winter Soldier's guts. "Whatever life I'd had before, it couldn't have been worse than the one I remember I've had. Why would I want to know, huh? To become like you?"

He listens to her with his mouth agape. "You don't want to know the truth?" He breathes out, his mind in total disarray. Natalia was the only thing to keep him sane. Now she's turning her back on him.

"The truth is a matter of circumstance." She says coldly. "It's not all things to all people, all the time."

"And let me guess," he sounds disappointed, "neither are you?"

"Right now I'm Natasha Romanoff. My files are all over the Internet, so feel free to do some bedtime reading." Natasha turns on her heel and heads for the door, her heart still pounding. "And even then you won't be able to say you know me, Bucky Barnes."

…

.

…

Contrary to popular—okay, to Natasha's—belief, Bucky Barnes does dream.

In his dreams he's falling down, the cold devours every bit of his muscles, every cell in his body, and the winter never ends.

In his dreams he's haunted by the ghost of the missions past.

Every time he closes his eyes he's again the man with the knife. Or the sniper on the balcony aiming at the VIP box at an opera house. A walking killer instinct. The Asset.

A redhead in a raincoat with two guns underneath. She's dancing in the rain next to the Eiffel Tower, and her lips twist in an inviting smile. She calls him James in that flawless American accent he taught her. In such rare moments he's less of a killing machine.

Every time he opens his eyes the world's changed. Weapons become superweapons. Heroes become superheroes. The redhead is gone.

…

.

…

"I told you, he's not coming." Natasha snaps. Steve's Let's wait just five more minutes turns into an hour. "Just so you know, I've got better things to do than watching the Avengers' adaptation of Frankenstein."

Bruce Banner looks at her, awkward and confused. "But he's not technically dead—"

She tries to shush Banner with a wave of her hand realizing that the metaphor is lost on him, but it's not her gesture that does the job. It's Bucky Barnes standing in the doorframe, the white shirt crumpled, his hair a mess.

All eyes fall on his scruffy face. The lab grows silent.

Natasha has to admit, he's a goddamn scene stealer.

Stark grins and rubs his hands together, eager to examine one of the finest weapons he's ever seen. Steve says the procedure's harmless, just a regular checkup—except not at your regular doctor's. Bruce Banner, a specialist in biochemistry and nuclear radiation who turns into a giant green monster when angry, gives Bucky a shy half-smile and coughs up, um, would you mind if I checked your head, too?

Bucky brushes past Natasha without as much as a nod and takes his place on the huge armchair that reminds him of the one HYDRA doctors used to put him in. This time nobody straps him down or put metal rods to his head, but he still feels uneasy. A lab rat again.

Natasha cringes and grits her teeth when Stark and Banner open a fold after fold of his bionic arm. He must have gone through hell and back adapting to his new limb. Natasha remembers she was reluctant, or maybe even disgusted, to touch it at first. That's why he was always attacking her with his left arm. She imagined it was cold and inhuman like a robot. But that night when she fell asleep in his arms for the first time she found out how wrong she was about the Winter Soldier.

"Oh, God." She whispers to herself and turns away.

Steve frowns realizing he's been missing out on something. Something he doesn't exactly understand, but it's about the connection between Bucky and Natasha. He saw it at their training, and nobody can convince him otherwise. It's the way Natasha stares at him. They way Bucky's eyes always follow her, even though right now—for some reasons that bother Steve even more—he's trying so hard not to stare at her.

Maybe it's about Odessa, he thinks—

"Now, if you could move over there," Banner gestures at what looks like a MRI booth, only upgraded by a genius. Bucky throws a fleeting glance at Natasha but she's already leaving the lab.

—or maybe not.

Tony Stark's voice wakes him up from the daze. "So, you and Romanoff, huh?"

Steve blinks twice. Yes, he must have misheard Stark. "Excuse me?"

"Come on, Rogers." The grin on Tony's face widens. "It's so obvious when you look at her. Puppy dog eyes don't lie."

"She's my friend." Steve insists. He hangs his head and whispers, "A friend that's been acting weird lately. I'm just worried."

"Define weird."

"I don't know. But I think it has something to do with Bucky."

Then Bruce Banner pops up right beside them. The brain damage does impact Barnes, he says, but now when HYDRA's wiping techniques are gone, there's still possibility that he'll fully regain his memories. Bucky would eventually remember his past, maybe even his youth spent on Brooklyn. He'd remember Steve, the War, the 107th, and the Howling Commandos.

And all the red he's got on his ledger.

Back in the booth Bucky's eye begins to twitch.

…

.

…

the unhappy, the bitter and

the vengeful

need their

fix - which is

you or somebody

anybody

in agony, or

better yet

dead, dropped into some

hole.

…

.

…

Their mission in Paris goes as planned, or even better. They come back like it was a honeymoon. In a sense it was. Those stolen moments under the shower or in the middle of the night when she woke him up—a semblance of normalcy that was never meant for spies.

The first thing she hears when they cross the Academy's threshold is, "You're ready, agent."

James disappears behind the door. They give him the order to stay away and he obeys. All she can remember is the worried expression on the Winter Soldier's face—the one he wears only when it comes to Natalia.

They lead her into a white lab and put her on the cold and hard operating table. The tools clatter like cutlery.

She screams in pain when needles penetrate her skin, when they cut into her veins, when the burning acid enters her system. Her vision's blurry—because of the acid or her tears, she can't tell.

All she knows is that every cell in her body is on fire. Somebody is skinning her alive.

She wakes up what seems like eternity later with metallic taste on her tongue. Her body feels alien. Her skin is not her skin anymore. Her muscles move at their own will. She's trapped.

Masked faces blur in with the sickening white background.

She vomits. She blacks out.

She wakes up again with an IV stuck in her hand. A long, thin tube leads to a plastic bag tagged 'B.W. Program' that's filled with transparent fluid.

She asks about the Winter Soldier.

He's on an assignment, they tell her. He won't be coming back anytime soon.

Screams wake her up. She wipes the drops of sweat dripping down her forehead with the back of her hand, and then jumps off the bed.

…

.

…

She struggles through the darkness enveloping Stark's Tower. Her room is secluded, a whole maze of hallways away from Bu— from James'. It was the only condition she made. Because, imagine that, she's not exactly a people person.

The walls are cold. They remind her of the Academy. When the lights are off, every building in the world is a prison.

"Jarvis!" She calls out. "Lights on!" No response. Natasha curses under her breath and hurries down the corridor feeling around with her hands. With no sense of space surrounding her, she's drowning in the pitch-black void.

If it wasn't for the screams, there would be nothing to guide her.

Groping her way down the hallway, she runs into a door. And then another. After opening what seems like a hundred of them, she finally bursts into James' room. It's a cubbyhole he chose out of all the rooms Tony had to offer, 'cause he's a soldier to the core. Even though it would seem impossible to wreck such a small and almost empty space, it looks as if a tornado's hit it. Wooden furniture in pieces. The walls covered in a pattern of angry punches.

He's curled up on the floor in a corner, his face hidden in his arms, his hands clutching at his head. Blood's dripping down his right hand knuckles. Breathing heavily, he lets out a tormented moan.

"James?" She says softly, taking slow steps towards him. You do not approach a wounded predator without caution.

Sweaty and feverish, he cringes in terror. His grip on his hair gets even tighter. She could swear she hears him sob. The closer she gets, the more he cowers. He's whispering something to himself, but the words blend together into an incomprehensible mess. When she gently places her hand on his shoulder, he jerks away.

"I should have died there", she hears him say and she instantly feel her knees go weak.

They should have let him die, he's frantically shaking his head, he fell off that train, he groans, he should be dead. Dead, dead, dead.

His heart, just as his voice, is breaking—and Natasha's crying with him. She knows better than anyone how it feels to be undone. To find yourself stripped of your life. To be torn into pieces, to have your essence killed.

"They should have let me die."

Come here, James, she says, stretching her arms out, and she's thrown across the room with such force she hears her bones crack when her back hits the wall.

Scrambling off the floor, Natasha's about to make a dash for the door when she sees Steve standing there. There's confusion, horror, bitterness painted all over his face. And his stare shifts from Bucky to Natasha and back.

"Get out!" Jame— No, Bucky growls at her. "Get out!"

Bucky Barnes is not her James.

…

.

…

as long as there are

humans about

there is never going to be

any peace

for any individual

upon this earth or

anywhere else

they might

escape to.

…

.

…

It takes a Hulk and a hell of a dose to sedate Bucky.

"I don't know what they pumped into him but the guy's healing incredibly fast," Banner says.

Natasha wraps her arms around herself.

Bucky's unconscious for two days. Or maybe three. Or maybe it's the goddamn eternity, she loses count.

Steve doesn't talk to her. Passive-aggressive silence, that's what they call it in psychology textbooks.

Tony's wondering what he's missed.

…

.

…

all you can do

is maybe grab

ten lucky minutes

here

or maybe an hour

there.

…

.

…

She sneaks into Bucky's room during a rare moment when nobody's there to watch him. He's still sleeping, and there's a strained look on his face that tells her it's not a sleep of the just. Bucky's fighting.

Her fingertips skim over the top of his right hand. His bloody knuckles. His long fingers. Pianist's hand that is equally skilled at pulling the trigger. She doesn't know if her mind's playing tricks on her, or if she actually remembers feeling his touch on her skin. But if it was at least half as intense as the way it haunts her, then oh God.

Somebody clears his throat and Natasha instantly drops Bucky's hand.

"Steve, listen—"

"No, you listen." You don't have to be a psychology major to know how he's feeling. Betrayed, that goes first. "Unless you stop lying to me, we're done. I mean it. We're done, Natasha."

"I didn't tell you the whole truth, but I didn't lie to you." She protests. "I kept a secret, but I did. Not. Lie. To you."

He shakes his head with a bitter smirk on his lips. When Steve Rogers tries to look cynical (and fails, because he's Steve Rogers), you know how much he's hurt. "Really? Then who lied to me? Because there's no one else here involved in this to such extent, except you."

Natasha gives him a worried look, the same she gave him when he and Sam were about to set off to search for Bucky.

"Are you sure about that, Rogers?"

…

.

…

After sunset she pays Banner a visit and asks him for a favor.

He mulls it over for a while but asks no questions. He knows better than that.

"I'll do it. But I don't have the necessary equipment here."

"That's no problem at all. I've already packed my bag."

…

.

…

something

is working toward you

right now, and

I mean you

and nobody but

you.

…

.

…

Bucky wakes up to the faint sound of swing music coming from the radio.

When Steve finds him, he's standing with his mouth agape, looking around his room with wide eyes as if some secret clues were written all over the walls. "Where is she?"

She's gone, Steve says. She and Banner left. Even Tony doesn't know what's happened.

"I know."

…

.

…

The colors behind the window change.

The sun sets and rises again.

The swing music is still playing in the background.

For the first time it's Bucky who talks and Steve who listens.

…

.

…

TBC

*poem by Charles Bukowski