After crawling through the hours long security lines and falling asleep for the hour long ride plane ride from DC to Newark Airport, I sat listening to the flight attendant point out the emergency exits and how to put on your oxygen mask (before helping others with theirs), clutching Bucky's journal in my hands and hoping I hadn't made a mistake. The pilot announced that we were about to start our twelve-hour flight to Bucharest, Romania, and I knew I wasn't going to sleep a wink.

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I had always been obsessed with history. Historical fiction was my favorite genre when it came to books and movies. When I was younger I would go hiking and pretend I was traveling with Hawkeye from Last of the Mohicans, Mr. Darcy from Pride and Prejudice was my ideal, and Jamie Fraser made me pine for time travel. I constantly felt out of place in my era, like I was born at the wrong time—even though I dig the 21st-century medical advancements and social changes—I just found the past fascinating.

My parents, dad specifically, were big into history too, so maybe that's where I got it from. Most parents would consider their child majoring in something like history a waste of time and money. Luckily for me, my dad was the one who got me a job at the Smithsonian and I was up to my ears in history.

And I loved it. I was in my element.

Then the day came that I was told my assignment would be in charge of the Captain America exhibit. I nearly groaned out loud. The 20th century was a bit too close for it to be of any real interest and anyone can drop five facts about WWII at the drop of a hat but ask them about the Battle of Culloden and crickets.

I spent the first night sullen and flipping through pages and pages of pictures and information. Until I flipped on him…James Buchannan "Bucky" Barnes—Steve Rogers best friend and the only one out of the Howling Commandos to die working to take down HYDRA. After devouring journal after journal both from Rogers and Bucky, and ones donated by friends and family I became obsessed.

It wasn't long after I had gotten my assignment that they pulled Captain America out of the water of the North Atlantic. And a few months after that I was given permission to go to New York to visit him to get some one on one time with him to bulk up the exhibit at the Smithsonian. I feel guilty now but I really just wanted to hear more about Bucky, I soaked in the look on Steve's face when he mentioned his best friend.

I had gone over to the dark side there was no denying.

After two years I had made the Captain America exhibit the biggest at the Smithsonian and made my way up the ladder at the museum. I was working late, as usual, all I had was a cat waiting for me at my apartment. I liked working after hours, it was dark and quiet, and I could stare at Bucky's pictures and reread the journals about him without the concerned glances. Which, considering Jaime's love affair with Thomas Jefferson, I think I am okay.

After glancing at the clock I realized it was almost midnight, and I figured time to go home. I hadn't seen any of the security guards in a while, I would let them know I was leaving.

I stepped out of my office and nearly walked into a man standing in the middle of my exhibit.

The flight or fight instinct in the man was apparent as he shifted his weight from foot to foot uncomfortably, but I think he was trying to figure out which exit was closest.

"I know the museum is closed." He swallowed hard, the bill of his baseball cap kept a dark shadow across his face.

"Only by a few hours," I replied back.

"I…didnot want to come during the day." His voice was rough like he hadn't spoken in a long time.

"We do offer private after hour tours…"I noted the long brown hair tucked behind his ears, the large frame, and then I wondered where the hell the nighttime security guards were.

"I should do that," He tilted his head upward, the shadow cast off his face- I think the oxygen was sucked from the room.