Disclaimer: I don't own Captain America and its characters, and I have no affiliation with Marvel. I have full rights over my original characters.

A/N: before anything, I'd like to apologize for bringing this update very late. I'd never thought I would get so many positive reactions towards my work, and I'm overwhelmed with gratitude. I'd like to address special thanks to users inperfection, alexma and the kind Guest who took some time to comment my work. It means the world to me.


As he was taking in all of this new data of his past, Bucky's mind began to race. He was hearing voices, glimpses of conversations, and he could see images, fragments of a fair, and a train, and a girl twirling with her silky dress, and all of his visions were mingling in his head.

Careful not to draw attention to himself, Bucky went to the restroom, where he locked himself in a stall and sat on the floor, holding his spinning cranium in his left hand. The metal was cool against his burning forehead, but he hated this sensation of relief it brought him: in fact, he hated everything about that cybernetic arm and the casualties he had provoked with it. If it hadn't been for his severed right arm, he would've been able to stop using the prosthesis, once and for all, but for now and until he would be able to function normally again, he had no other choice.

He cursed in Russian as pain shot through his head, massaging his temple to try and rub it away. But suddenly, his mind cleared itself, making way for a single thought which passed like a gush of wind:

153 Shelby Road

Brooklyn New York City

Bucky got up at once as if struck by lightning, and headed straight out of the museum. As soon as he'd left the building, he began running. He would not stop until he'd reached 153 Shelby Road, Brooklyn New York City, and if he dropped dead on the way, so be it.

After all, he was going home.


It had been two weeks since the landlord had threatened to kick her out, the deadline to her expulsion was drawing nearer and Mary was still jobless and out of money. Her only income had been the 50$ she'd made with her watercolor, and it had all gone into food and a hot sweater. The latter had been the most logical investment Mary could have done, considering the dropping temperatures November had brought, and in anticipation of the heat-less winter she was about to enter. Of course, she was not stupid, and she had tried to find a job like Edmond had suggested: she'd tried everywhere from the most appropriate place to the most unlikely, and she could still hear the bulky men on the docks laughing at her when she had tried to apply for a position of unloader. One of them had even tossed her a fish carcass and rudely told her to go away.

With a heavy heart, she'd finally written a letter to her godfather asking for money, thus burrying the last pieces of pride she had left, but he hadn't even replied. She wasn't very optimistic concerning his potential response, but he would probably agree with the dockers and tell her to handle herself.

A sudden blow of wind hit her face, and Mary sank her chin lower into her scarf, shivering from the cold. She hurried back to her block, eager to return home before the night fell, and she jogged up the stairs in a desperate attempt to warm her body up. However, just as she pulled the apartment keys out of her pocket to unlock the door, something new and unexpected startled her and she gasped loudly. On her downtrodden entrance mat which displayed a yellowish "Welcome!", laid a motionless man curled up in a ball. He wore black hand-me-downs which he had likely obtained from the Salvation Army, a maroon cap, and had long shaggy hair covering his face.

Oh my goodness, thought Mary, her heart stomping in her chest, good God I have a dead hobo on my mat, oh my God why? As if she didn't have enough trouble already, now she had to deal with a lifeless tramp which reeked of crass and a death which had probably occurred hours ago. What do I do, what do I do, why me, God, no. Mary bent down closer to the man, pinching her nose, and she turned him on his back: he had one hand buried in his pocket, and the other was clutching a backpack. Just as she was leaning closer to check if, after all, the man wasn't breathing, he opened both eyes and stared dead into hers.

The young girl screamed bloody murder at the sudden sight of the man's blue irises, and she tried to make a quick exit before she was yanked down and silenced by a hand over her mouth.

"Don't scream." The man said, his voice low and somehow broken, as if he hadn't uttered a word for a long time. "Please."

At the sound of the man's polite plead, Mary softened under his grip, her breath still quick but more steady. "I'll let you go if you promise not to scream. Ok?" He had a heavy American accent, but also a hint of Russian notes in his voice. She nodded, and he let her go. They both stood up and eyed each other curiously, each of them too stunned to say anything. Mary finally tried to speak, but all of her words came tumbling out of her mouth at the same time, resulting in an incomprehensible blabber.

"What are you- who are- why- you can't- what is going on- I..." Sighing deeply, she tried to be as intelligible as possible. "What are you doing here? Do you need... food, or something? Is it too cold outside?"

Bucky was surprised by the kind tone of the girl's voice: he had just assaulted her after giving her the scare of her life, and she was concerning herself with him. He was not used to people caring anymore.

"I just... I'm- this is going to sound weird, but..."

"I just found you sleeping on my doormat, I can handle another shot of weird." This time, she even offered him a smile.

Bucky took a deep breath in. "I think I live here."

There was a span of silence where Mary just stared at the man, speechless and wondering whether to laugh or remain silent.

"Uhm..." she began. "That would be... 'sorta problematic, since I live here. And I have for some time now. I think I would've seen you around, don't you think?"

"I know, it's just... listen doll, I had a really bad ...accident, and i can't remember things really well. One of the only things I remember is this place," he gestured towards the door, "although it was different in my days. This place is the only home I know, and I thought maybe..."

He didn't say anything more, and Mary frowned. He was obviously lying, and yet he seemed sincere at the same time. But taking him in? That was written down in Mary's mind under the things she shouldn't be doing, in first position and underlined four times in bold colors.

"Listen, random guy sleeping on my porch, I would really like to help you but..." As she spoke, she was backing into her apartment, unlocking the door and slowly opening it. "I have problems of my own, and I really can't afford..." Just as she was about to close the door on him, the man blocked it with his hand, producing a strange metallic wheezing.

"Please. You're my only hope."

She looked up to see his imploring blue eyes in the middle of a face contorted with pain and despair, eyebrows knitted together and jaw locked. At this instant, she couldn't help but remember the day she had been kicked out by her godfather. Larry and Hank had packed up the scarce things she owned and put them on the sidewalk, before escorting her to the front door of their cozy house.

"Larry, you can't do that to me..."

"Of course I can, I'm doing it right now. Honestly Mary darling, I don't see why you're making such a fuss about this, you're all grown up and it's high time you started emancipating." She could still see the mockery and pleasure in her godfather's eyes as he was discarding himself from her.

"Larry, please." She'd pleaded. "You're the only one I have."

"I hope you enjoy yourself in New York, honey." This was the last thing he'd ever told her, before slamming the door shut and locking it.

She didn't know how long she'd fazed out, but she realized she had shut the door on the stranger. A single tear was wetting her cheek, so she quickly wiped it away. Cursing herself for being so responsive to other people's distress, she opened the door again. The scruffy-looking man was still there, sitting miserably in the staircase and still clutching his backpack. Mary silently joined him, smoothing her pants before sitting down. She was very close to him, but curiously he didn't seem to reek so much anymore, leading the girl to think she had imagined all of the previous events.

"Hey, dude. You have to realize I'm... very deep in debts, also very much struggling to survive. I can't help everyone who comes knocking on my door with puppy eyes and a tragic backstory." It felt really weird to talk like this to a stranger, especially when the stranger in question was much taller than her, much older and extremely intimidating when you looked at it. "But I'm not heartless. I know what it's like to be alone. When I was alone and hopeless like you, I wished everyday that someone would help, but no one did." The man looked at her intently now, his eyes deprived of pity but full of understanding. "If I can make a difference for someone, I will do it. So why don't you come in, have a bath and tell me your story around a good cup of coffee? I have the feeling you have a lot to talk about, big guy."

"Bucky." The other mumbled as she was getting up. "My name is Bucky."

"Nice to meet you, Bucky. I'm Mary"


At last, here is the first chapter of Home: I really hope you enjoyed, and if you did, please let me know by commenting, adding me to your favorites and following me and Home.

Yours faithfully,

SB~