This is a six part series, each individually divided into three parts. It's born of a sudden 'what if Bucky managed to leave HYDRA first - before Steve was found in the ice?' what would he do? How would he cope? Well, here's a possible answer, set five years after he broke free ...

Bucky Barnes, Off Screen House Intruder

a

He sat on the fire escape and lent against the cold bricks behind him. In the apartment opposite, the lights were out and the blinds down.

For a moment, he felt vaguely resentful towards Mrs Jessica Albright. Four nights observing her and nothing. Her husband thought she was guilty of an affair, but so far? So far she had been slumped before her computer (Thursday), danced to music (Friday), sobbed whilst watching a television show (Saturday) and gone straight to bed (that night).

The only thing she was guilty of was a bad set of lungs and an ability to go through three boxes of tissues. (Which was practically an achievement if you thought about it.)

He wasn't even going to count all the mundane websites she browsed. Health blogs, entertainment sites and online shops where her wish list was longer and larger than the contents of her bank account.

His cell vibrated. The screen cast a dim glow on his face. Janice was calling. With a glance at the dark windows opposite and a sharp sigh, he put the cell to his ear.

Her voice always reminded him of a serrated knife - sharp and grating. "Bucky. Ferguson has paid. We'll break even this month."

Over the road, the streetlight was flickering. A cat slunk through the shadows and a tired pizza delivery bike zoomed over the pothole ridden street. Jessica Albright's window stayed exactly as it was - dark.

(He wanted to pound on her door and demand evidence of infidelity, if only so he could escape this cramped little perch. "Ma'am, are you cheating on your husband?" he imagined asking her. "Would you mind telling him for me? Consider tossing in a raise?" Yeah. That would go down about as well as a meat buffet in a vegetarian restaurant.)

Janice's cutting voice spoke in his ear: "You don't have to finish this job."

True. But: "He's paying well."

There was a pause. And then: "You hate these jobs."

How did she know that? He thought he treated all his cases with the same impartiality.

"You asked me if I wanted to come with you - it's like a sign of the apocalypse."

True - he liked silence. And Janice was not that. The power of quiet, untroubled thoughts without fetter was potent. He would never get used to it. That and the fear that someone was ever looking over his shoulder. Into his mind. Soul. Being. Whatever the hell you wanted to call it.

"Ha! Is that silence I hear? You're not even pretending to be polite." There was a snort of disgust. "Why do I put up with you?"

"There's the wage," Bucky muttered. "She's turned her light on." His words seemed to slip out from between his lips and fall far, far below. Bouncing on the street. Perhaps something would happen now. (A window thrown open, a sign saying: 'Why yes, my husband's suspicions are correct – I'll mail you the evidence. Now do go to a more comfortable spot.')

"And? What if she needs to pee? She's not going to grope her way there in the dark, you know. Maybe her husband is a paranoid chauvinist, insecure because his job takes him away from his wife's side."

"Lights out."

"That was quick. She so needed to pee. But if it was that quick, maybe she wanted to find her cell charger? Hmm. But why didn't she use her cell phone's light? Or perhaps it was out of battery? What think you, Holmes, old chap?"

Bucky cast a glance - it wasn't frustrated, but rather a little impatient - towards the night sky, where the stars smiled down behind a thin cloud. "Janice ..."

"Yeah, yeah. Twirl my lady moustache. Mind my own business. Are you going to admit you're bored out of your mind and wanted my huge butt beside you?"

Bucky didn't respond. (Besides, his seat was far too small for the both of them.) He watched a shadowed figure approach the door to the apartments and- he checked through his binoculars- yes. Ring number twenty's door bell.

In his ear, Janice was still talking. "... at least for sheer entertainment value. So go back to wherever it is you live, get some rest and I'll find you someone who's skipped bail. In the morning though. Heck - I can't remember the last time you went home."

He preferred not to go; he liked the idea of it too much and so hated going back to it. It was the principle of the thing; it was far too secure. Life held no security. Everything was sand; easy to wash away with the harsh tide of fate.

He ran a cold hand over his unshaved face.

Getting poetic in your old age, Buck? The voice was as warm and friendly as it ever was in life.

Across the street, Jessica's bedroom light was switched on and a second later, the stranger was stepping off the street and through the door.

"She's got company," he intoned – into the phone. (He didn't, as a rule, talk to the voice in his head. Well. Perhaps he did. Sometimes. All the time. Did it matter?) "Goodnight."

Janice launched into a protest before he could hang up:

"Wait! You can't just do that, man. Tell me - is he tall, dark and handsome? They usually are. Unless they're accountants and then they look like road kill or melted bread dough all trussed up in a suit. I bet he's a relative of hers. Long lost." She grew a little panicked. "Go in and shake her, Bucky - let her know that she's letting the team down. Dang it. I hate this. Goodnight."

The phone clicked off abruptly and Bucky pocketed it without a single ruffle in the placid sea of his temper.

See? Right there? Poets would be envious of you, Buck.

Janice often insisted that he needed therapy ('sometimes I think you're sane and then bam! I know you're really mucked up') but he'd often stopped himself from telling her the same. Truth was a powerful thing. If you were wise, you tried to avoid it. (Avoid the mirrors, or at least, the clean ones.) Janice did a grand job of that – she either ate them away or threw all the truth she didn't want or the problems she couldn't face at him. As if he needed any more.

No. It was better not to think of-

Of-

He was stronger than that.

He.

Was.

Stronger.

Breathing was hard. He tried to grip the metal bars of the fire escape to ease the panic, but his grip was too tight; he could hear the metal groaning as his hand warped its shape.

(Cons of having a metal arm? Too many to count.)

He needed to keep moving. Log the data. Take check of his surroundings. Text Janice to make sure she'd turned the single hidden camera off from its power saving option. (They were low budget. Always had been.)

His phone vibrated again. Camera on, the text said. Sitting edge of vision.

More waiting then. He could go home after this. The thought wasn't inviting. Perhaps he would go to his office instead. Sleep with his head pillowed on paperwork. His phone vibrated again: Goin over papers. Like slaughtered forests amount of papers.

Papers? He frowned at the apartment. Papers?

Another vibration: Thumb is aching. She's marking something with a pen. Red. Marking?

Bucky rubbed his face and bit back a sigh.

He didn't bother stuffing his phone back in his pocket. Janice kept typing away. (Arguing. He's real mad.)

Somewhere down the street, a car trundled to a stop and headlights dimmed. A door was slammed and someone screamed an insult.

(Thrown a book him.)

Bucky tried to switch position. His back was aching. Somewhere in the distant fog of his brain, someone laughed at him, diagnosed arthritis and suggested a hot water bottle. Bucky gave a huff of laughter and the cloud of his breath rushed out like an exhaust pipe's smoke.

(Ha. Doused him w/ water. Vase.)

He could be needed, he supposed. Save the innocent Jessica's life and all that jazz. Not his deal if he thought about it. Still, she represented a bill and he didn't want to just break even that month.

(Down w/ the patriarchy! He's stormed out.)

Once, a long time ago, he'd found Janice's language bewildering. He'd been used to other things – words spat in his face. Words slipping into his brain until they felt his own. Words that he'd been told to ignore; to block his ears to.

And then … then he had the freedom of words. And then he meet Janice.

He still didn't understand some of what she spouted, but he knew enough to nod. Nodding meant that a lecture – a long one, peppered with references that he didn't understand - was escaped.

He pulled himself into a crouch. Easing his metal hand away from the bent metal bar. Mindlessly, he bent it back into shape as he waited.

(She's crying. Flopped onto bed. 8* 4 drama. 10* 4 effort.)

Bucky slipped the phone into his pocket. He didn't need to know anything else about Jessica Albright just at that moment. Down the fire escape. Onto the ground, sidestepping a beer bottle and avoiding a cat curled up behind a trash can. Its eyes flicked up at him, seeming to glow. He gave it a sharp nod and moved away.

He stood in the shadows and waited. Calmly. Patiently. Focused.

It was these moments he lived for. When everything melted away and left him with one simple goal. (The key word was 'simple'. When your life was complicated, you tended to long for things just out of reach. In his case: simplicity.)

Did he feel guilt? He often wondered if he should feel guilt for what he did. (Not what he had done in the past – avoidance, remember? - but what he did now.) But no. He couldn't find it in himself to feel guilty. The ability to do so had drained away a long time ago.

He liked to pretend he could though.

It made him feel normal.

Besides, he had bills to pay and if he could find something to give to Jessica's husband – something that was not infidelity, but a lie, a deceit, a secret … yes. That would do it. Might get a raise for it. Take Janice out for something to eat. (Or bring her takeaway; she hated going out into the big bad world, didn't she?)

He was a Private Investigator. The misfortunes and idiotic deeds of others paid for a roof over his head and clothing on his back.

It could be worse - bank robbery. Fraud. Murder.

Warm reassurance, as if someone had thrown an arm over his shoulder: No need for that, Buck. You're doin' just fine.

Thanks for that, he thought. Punk.

Back at'cha. Jerk.

The apartment door was opened. And Bucky was ready; reality snapping into one clear focus.

Thoughts?