Author's Notes: First chapter! It's a bit lengthy and mostly exposition, but I hope you'll bear with me. I put a lot of effort in, and I'm actually rather proud of how it turned out... Enjoy!

I: Out of the Blue, Into the Black

They would come for him – Bucky knew that. When he left DC, he meant to leave it all behind – the death and destruction, the "resets," the souped-up refrigerator they kept him in between missions… An impossible dream. He was a loose end, a job half-done. It was only a matter of time before they would reorganize, hunt him down, and stick him back in the fridge until someone needed assassinating. Hydra was anything, if not thorough. Cut off one head, two more grow back in its place…

But he was tired – tired of running, tired of hiding, tired of sleeping under bridges and in bus stations. It also didn't help that his arm – the cold, metal prosthetic – was partially unresponsive and seemed to be getting worse with each passing day. After every assignment, before he was put back on ice, his so-called "doctor" would give it a tune-up, make sure everything was in working order. But with Hydra temporarily out of the picture, there was no one to hover over him, to poke and prod.

He contemplated the possibility of another cycle in the cryonic chamber. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad – it almost even sounded pleasant. It was like a deep, dreamless sleep – which he needed now more than ever. His dreams were strange, chaotic things. He dreamt mostly of previous assignment, all in disarray. But on rare occasions, he would have visions – visions of a past life. They were foggy, and came in bits and pieces, but sometimes even that was enough to wake him with a jolt, cloaked in a cold sweat… For the last month, he'd been getting less than four hours of sleep a night.

Then there were the "resets." He shuddered at the very thought of them. He could almost feel the electric currents racing through his body. His muscles would seize and he shook violently, fighting hard against the restraints that bound his arms and legs. Nothing – not even the promise of cryonic sleep – could ever make him want to go back to that. But it wasn't as if it mattered, anyway. Bucky wasn't planning on getting caught – even if that meant he had to get his hands dirty again.

He was currently in Pennsylvania, maybe twenty or thirty miles south of Harrisburg. He had gotten there mainly by hitchhiking, and when that didn't work out, he took buses using the money he had taken from unsuspecting pedestrians on street corners and in back alleys. He didn't particularly enjoy mugging people at knifepoint, but he did what was necessary in order to survive, in order to get to Brooklyn. He wasn't sure why, but something about the place seemed to be pulling him in. Unfortunately, Brooklyn would have to wait. He had been walking for two days straight and needed to stop and rest. He soon found himself on the edge of a small town, comprised mainly of fields, forests, and farmland. Not a gas station or rest stop in sight. Amidst all this nothingness, however, were a farmhouse and a barn, hemmed in by fields of corn.

…

As he stepped out of the corn and onto the grass, his eyes trailed up toward the night sky. Out here, there were no city lights for the stars to hide behind. The moon was luminous and bathed everything in silver light. To his left was the barn. The large, sliding door had been left open, so it was safe to say that there were probably no animals here. He gave a sigh of relief. Nothing to cause a commotion and give him away. To his right was the farmhouse. It was old, but well-kept. In the glow of the moon, he could see that it was a pale blue. On the deck, a single white rocking chair sat next to a suspended porch swing, also white. The owners were likely harmless – doubtless an old farmer and his wife. The corn gave the property protection – it was surrounded on all sides, with the exception of a long gravel road leading out onto the highway. If he kept quiet and out of sight, he would be safe here – at least for a while.

Quickly and quietly, he made his way to the barn and slid in through the small space between the door and outer wall. He took care not to open it any further, so as not to raise suspicion. Once inside, he spent a moment by the door, blinking repetitively until his eyes adjusted to the dark. When they finally did, he found four stalls lined up on either side of him – completely empty, save for a layer of old hay on the ground. There may have been animals here at some point, but they were long gone.

In the back of the barn, he noticed a ladder. His eyes followed it up the wall, where it ended just below a hatch. Attic space. Hiding in one of the stalls would be too obvious, but this? This would be perfect. He prayed that it went unused and awkwardly ascended the ladder, unable to use his prosthetic to its full capacity.

As he pulled himself up into the attic, he smiled. It was everything he needed and then some. Whoever owned the place was using it as storage, and by the looks of it, they hadn't been up here in years. Old trunks and other odds and ends were stacked up in a corner, some of them covered by canvas tarps. It was clear that the roof wasn't doing its job. He looked up, noting the gaps between numerous wooden planks. Most everything in the attic was on the verge of falling apart, worn down by the seasons. The canvases seemed to be doing little to help, as well. He took one and shook it out – it would be more useful as a blanket. He moved the trunks away from the wall and lay down behind them. It wasn't exactly comfortable, but it was unquestionably better than sleeping under a bridge, where he was entirely exposed. He fell asleep watching the moon through the cracks in the roof.

...

Bucky woke to a series of loud thwacks. The sun had barely risen, but whoever lived in the farmhouse was awake – and outside. He sat up and looked about him, searching for a vantage point from which he could see down into the yard. At the front end of the barn was a window. The shutters were closed, but they were also vented. He made his way toward the window as silently as possible. Not far from the house was a woman, chopping wood. The vents prevented him from seeing her clearly, but from what he could tell, she was young and lean, with long, dark hair and suntanned skin. He could also tell she was strong – able to cut a log in half with one fell swoop.

After about twenty minutes, she stopped and wiped her brow on her sleeve. With axe in hand, she started toward the barn. Every muscle in his body seized. Below him, he heard the door slide open and the sound of feet on soft soil. A moment passed, and she left the barn, singing quietly to herself.

Several hours went by. Around mid-morning, the woman left the house and took off in her truck. When he could no longer hear the roar of her engine, Bucky quickly descended the ladder and exited the barn. As he strode across the yard and toward the house, he noticed several things he hadn't the night before. Beside the house was a large tree – probably an oak. An old tire swing hung from a low and sturdy branch. About thirty feet from the tree was a hand-operated water pump. He would drink from there.

When Bucky reached the front door, he tried the handle. The woman had forgotten to lock it. Careless. He entered and wandered through the entryway, examining the artifacts of her life. Photographs lined the walls. Some were black and white and faded – at least a century old. Others were crisp and clear as the day they were taken. Most of them were of she and a woman he assumed to be her mother, to whom she bore striking resemblance. Now that he could see the woman completely, Bucky determined that she was in her late twenties, maybe early thirties. At the end of the hallway, a large photo sat on the floor, propped up against the wall. Upon further examination, Bucky found that it was a wedding photo. If this woman was married, could her husband still be home? The house was silent. He doubted there was someone else living in the house, but he would act quickly.

Once in the kitchen, Bucky went straight for the fridge, pulling cans and jars and packages out of the back and doing his best to rearrange them the way he found them. As he ate, the phone rang. He stood completely still, listening carefully for movement. But he heard none. The phone went to voicemail.

"Liz – it's Caroline. I was just wondering if I should bring anything to the party on Friday. I have some aged wine – 2005, I think – and I've been saving it for a special occasion, but I figured this was special enough. I know you're probably still at work, so just give me a call when you get this. Talk to you soon!"

The message ended. Bucky finished his poor excuse for a meal and returned to the barn, his stomach barely half full. The fridge was well-stocked and if he continued to take small portions for the few days he planned to stay, the woman – or, rather, Liz – would not notice and come looking for him. He would leave early Friday morning.

…

It was dark by the time Liz returned. Her truck came roaring up the driveway, shaking Bucky from his stupor. He had been counting the number of vents on the shutters for several hours now – twenty-four – as there was little else he could do to pass the time. He stood, stretched his legs, and made his way toward the window. Liz parked her truck in front of the old oak tree and killed the engine. As she walked up the front steps, Bucky noticed that she was carrying a bag of groceries – most likely for the party her friend mentioned. That would also explain why her fridge was so full. She entered the house, but reappeared only moments later.

Standing on the porch, hands on her hips, Liz inspected her land carefully. She was searching for something. Was it him? He thought back to the kitchen. Had he left something out of the fridge? Had he moved something out of place? No – he was certain he had left everything seemingly untouched. The property was quiet and that seemed to be enough for her. She turned on her heel and reentered the house, where she stayed for the next hour.

When the hour was up, Liz was back on the porch. She took a seat in the rocking chair, crossed her legs, and pulled what appeared to be a pack of cigarettes from her breast pocket. Lighting a cigarette, she took a drag and began to sing. It was the same, unrecognizable tune from earlier that morning. With time, her singing grew louder, until finally, Bucky could hear her words with complete clarity:

"The King is gone, but he's not forgotten… This is the story of Johnny Rotten… It's better to burn out than it is to rust… The King is gone, but he's not forgotten…"

She finished her song and sat for a moment, as if expecting something – expecting him. Was her song meant to be a threat, or just a warning? Either way, he wouldn't bite. Another moment passed. She dropped her cigarette and snuffed it out under her boot, and then retreated into the house.

Less than five minutes later, she stepped out onto the porch, a shotgun held in her hands. Even with a rifle, she was of little to no threat to him, but he didn't want the confrontation and he didn't want to forfeit his hiding place so soon. He had hoped for at least a couple of days here.

"Hey!" Liz shouted menacingly, tramping across the lawn. "I don't care who you are or what your story is – if you don't show yourself by the time I count to ten, I will come in there and blow your fucking brains out! I've shot vagrants before and I'm not afraid to do it again! One… Two…"

Bucky didn't have much time to think. She was already at three. Should he reveal himself or stay in the barn and let her find him? No matter which one he chose, he may have to hurt her. Perhaps the easiest option was to just go out there and talk. But what would he tell her? At this point, he still wasn't entirely sure who he really was or where he came from. Hydra was now public knowledge and so was the Winter Soldier – unless she'd been living in complete isolation for the last month, she had to know. The question was… Would she believe him? His arm should be proof enough, but he wasn't sure.

"Seven…"

"OK, OK," Bucky shouted, hurriedly descending the ladder. Hands raised, he strode out of the barn and into the line of fire. "Don't shoot."

When their gazes met, Bucky was thrown off guard. The woman before him looked nothing like the woman in the photos. The woman in the photos was spirited and wore a genuine smile on her face, but this one… This one had cold, unforgiving eyes and an ugly scar that ran up her neck and across her cheek. This one looked as though she had seen the very flames of hell.

Author's Notes: OK, so the ending was kind of cheesy. But I promise it will get better! If you stuck with it until the end, I hope you'll consider leaving a review. I love me some constructive criticism.

And if you're wondering, the song Liz was singing was Neil Young's "My My, Hey Hey (Out of the Blue)". The chapter was also named for this song. It's a good one – you should give it a listen!