Summary:
It's been two weeks since Bucky Barnes jumped out of the helicarrier, plunging into the cool depths of the Potomac to pull out the stranger who called him friend. Now, he stands outside a two-story home, a crumpled address held tightly in his hand. He needs a safe place to rest, if only for the night, and she looked nice in the picture. Friendly.
And, Bucky thinks, he could really use a friend right now, even if it is just for a few hours.
This is my first story on ff, although this story is also available on AO3. The mistakes are about all I own (everyone, with the exception of Amelia, belongs to MARVEL) so please don't sue. The writing style in the beginning is a little scattered. It's meant to be. Bucky starts off the story, and he's not in a great place. You'll see his thoughts start to come together more as the story progresses.
James Buchanan Barnes glances at the crumpled piece of paper in his hand. 513 E. River Road, Eddisburg, Pennsylvania. The small town was easy to reach, even if it had taken all night to walk here. It's still dark, only the streetlights lining the streets providing any light at all as he stood outside the small home. Two stories high with a small attic on top, large bay windows in the front, the exterior painted a dark blue with white trim. There was a front porch. A swing. The only thing missing was the picket fence.
Not perfect, as far as defensible positions went, but he's worked with worse.
The only light coming from inside is from a dim bulb in what is likely the main bedroom. The rest of the home is dark. It's early; the woman inside will still be asleep. Still, he needs somewhere to go. He pulls his bag a little higher on his shoulder, and slips around back. Fewer people to see. He brings up his hand and raps sharply against the wood. It's cold, the early spring wind beating at him, and he needs to get inside. Needs to get warm.
He needs rest.
When there is no response, he knocks again. After another moment, a light flickers to life, shining from the same upstairs window, illuminating part of the small yard. Another minute passes and the porch light above him turns on. He instinctively steps back, hiding in the shadows. It's a habit that he can't seem to shake, even if it has been two weeks since he jumped from the helicarrier, crashing into the water to save the man who had called him friend.
Finally, the door opens. The woman standing on the other side looks like her picture- long brown hair, brown eyes wide as she looks up at him. She is wearing a thick robe and fuzzy blue slippers. A few inches of red flannel pajama pants stick out the bottom of the robe. His gaze travels back up. He can see the fear on her face, and he fights the urge to take another step back.
"Can I help you?" He watches as one hand goes into her pocket, and he hears the click as the safety is taken off of her gun.
He swallows painfully, fear clouding his thoughts. That happens a lot now. He doesn't think that it used to; the emotion is unfamiliar. Still, the woman is standing there, armed, and he doesn't want to hurt her.
"There was a picture. I saw you with him. I need- I need-" He cuts off, his thoughts skittering away again.
"What picture?"
Ah. That he can provide. He reaches into a pocket, slowly when he notices her tense up, and pulls out the page he'd ripped from a magazine. He holds it out with his metal hand, and she looks at it, eyes going wide again. She ignores the paper, but takes a small step towards him.
"Come into the light," she invites, removing her hand from her pocket and holding both where he can see them. Surrender? No. Telling him that she means no harm. Hard to tell the difference. Almost everyone surrendered, before. He thinks he likes this better.
His heart is pounding. Fear never leaves him now, even though he doesn't remember what he's so afraid of. He's pretty certain that he can handle most physical threats. He shuffles forward, and she gasps.
"Bucky?"
He freezes, and the picture falls from numb fingertips. That's what the Captain called him. His...friend. Do you know me? Who am I? What am I? The questions scramble for purchase in his confused mind, but only one makes it out.
"Do you know him?" he asks, gesturing to the fallen paper. She scoops it up, a faint smile on her face when she sees the picture there.
"The night of Tony's opening gala," she explains. "He was too shy to ask anyone to dance."
The smile softens her face, easing away some of the fear. Bucky shuffles a few inches towards the porch light, his eyes never leaving her face as she stares down at the picture.
There were 135 articles about Steve in the DC library. He looked at half of them, scanning the words and images for anything that felt right. There was nothing; only more emptiness where memories should be. This picture was from the coverage of the Opening Gala for the new Avengers tower in Manhattan. Steve was standing a bit too close to the woman, and he could read the surprise on both of their faces. But she was smiling, and so was he.
And that smile. Something inside of him stirred, like a tiny part of his soul starting to wake up again. It wasn't the same smile Steve showed the reporters or photographers. There was nothing practiced or fake about it. This was the first picture he'd seen where the man looked genuinely happy.
So, the Asset took a closer look at the woman in his arms, trying to figure out what made her so special. Her name is printed below the image. Amelia Cassidy.
The woman looks up, her gaze questioning. "You found me from this? Why?"
He just stands there, looking down. His hand is still shaking, so he tightens it into a fist at his side. "The Captain. He- I'm-"
He looks up, eyes flickering up to meet hers before flinching away again. A moment passes, and she steps back, holding the door open.
"You should come in. Are you hungry?"
Five minutes later, he's sitting at a table, a bowl of something that looked and smelled familiar sitting before him. Beef stew, she'd called it. It was good. Better than the nutrition packets he got at HYDRA. A glass of milk was positioned to the side of the bowl. His. This is an important distinction; he remembers the last time, when the offer of milk didn't mean anything. The woman sat across from him, trying to watch him without being noticed.
When he first entered her home, she led him straight to the kitchen and directed him to sit at the small center island, as she started rummaging around through the fridge, seemingly unconcerned with the assassin sitting at her back. She pulled out a large bowl, popped it into the microwave, and poured a glass of milk, sliding it over to him. He doesn't acknowledge it, eyes focused on the pattern in the grain of the wooden island countertop. The microwave beeps, and he tries not to jump. Moments later, there is a bowl of hot food before him, and he finally looks up.
She is quiet until the bowl is almost gone, and he has adjusted to her curious gaze.
"Steve thinks you left the country," she says at last. "When he woke up in the hospital, he told me what happened. He said that you saved him."
He looks up, and then his gaze moves beyond her, to something outside her window. "He was drowning. I pulled him out."
"And then you went into hiding?"
"Can't let them find me. I can't go back." His heart started pounding. Fear. The woman notices, reaches out, sets a soft hand over his. Her fingers curl around his, and he freezes, every sense focused on the sensation of skin on skin. It grounds him, pulling him back to the now. She is not hurting him, nor trying to defend herself, so the touch is unexpected. Unfamiliar.
Nice.
Slowly, his eyes watching her for any reaction, he turns his hand over, until their palms are flush against each other. She meets his gaze, and he doesn't see fear.
He jerks his hand away, and turns his attention back to the food before him, hearing her sigh. A moment later, she speaks again.
"What should I call you? James? Bucky? Sergeant Barnes? Do you have a preference?"
"They called me the Asset."
"No, I mean your name."
He stares at the cubes of beef, as if they might procure the answer she's looking for. They don't. "They just called me the asset. Or the soldier." He is a tool, a weapon. Weapons don't have names. Except, that isn't quite right; he has a faint memory of a sniper rifle called Tina, can almost remember the feel of her in his hands.
"Do you remember anything from your life before?"
Flashes come to him. A scrawny kid. A war. A fall. "No," he says. "Only… The Captain. Steve. He said that we were friends." End of the line.
Amelia smiles again, but it's sadder this time. "I can call him. He'll be here before the sun rises."
This scares him more than anything, not that he understands why. "No!" She jumps, and he quiets his voice. "Please. Not yet."
"Can I at least let him know that you're okay?"
"No." Because he's not. Not okay at all. That much, at least, he knows.
"Do you want me to tell you what he's told me?"
He glances up then, his eyes feeling wet. "There was a sign, with a man that looked like me. James Barnes. But he died."
"James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky. They thought you died. You fell from a train, dropping to the bottom of a ravine. They don't know how you survived. Steve thinks that it might have something to do with the experiments they did when HYDRA first captured you."
The fall. The terrible fall that haunts his nightmares. It really happened. 'Grab my hand!' He still wakes up screaming, haunted by a pair of blue eyes and a hand reaching for his.
"Do you want more?" Amelia asks, gesturing to his bowl. He nods, so she takes it, refills it, and then hands it back. She sits back down when she is finished, giving him a faint smile.
He sits back, watching her. This tiny slip of a woman sitting across from him. Standing, her forehead would scarcely meet his chin. Men twice her size have cowered before him. But she reaches out to him. Provides food. A warm home where he feels, if not completely at ease, then at least not unwanted. A bit less like a loaded machine gun that no one trusted their backs to.
He finishes the second bowl in silence. As soon as he is done, she sets the bowl and cup in the sink, and gives him an assessing look.
"You must be exhausted. I'll go make up the guest room, and pull some stuff together for a shower. I don't think I have any clothes that'll fit, but I can wash what you have on, and it'll be ready once you wake up."
He nods, watching her go. She turns back at the last moment. "Um, stupid question probably, but are you, uh, waterproof?" she asks, gesturing vaguely towards his cybernetic arm.
"Yes."
She thinks for a moment, nods. "Good." There's a pause. "I'm really glad that you're here, Bucky," she says, and then continues on her way.
He blinks, and tries to ignore the tightness in his chest. She's a good person, he realizes. He should leave now, while she is out of the room. Run as fast and as far as he can. Nothing good will come of him being here. He'll end up hurt, or she will. The cost for inviting him into her life. But, as much as he tries to stand and walk for the door, his legs refuse to do his bidding. As scary as staying is, he is not ready to go back into the cold. Just one night, he tells himself. Long enough to sleep, to recharge. Just enough rest to see him out of the country. He'll leave first thing tomorrow, if fate will give him just this one chance at peace tonight.
A short time later, Amelia returns. "You're all set. Do you want me to show you up?"