3

Grey Paint

People are unique and amaze me. And apparently consider me their therapist. And dietician.

He's been with us for two days.

I took the first day off and stayed at the flat – spending the day painting the radiators and scrubbing the bath. Aunt Becky spent her morning sitting next to Bucky, reading through his letters (" … ah, this postcard you sent to me from Coney Island. You had a grand time with Steve then. I envied you as I had a great deal of cramming for an exam to do …").

We didn't see anything else of his metal arm – only his metal fingers. Aunt Becky refused to tell me what his entire arm looked like close up.

And then he upped and left.

(My feelings on this event were mixed – on the one hand, no more confusion, and on the other? I wasn't sure ...)

Aunt Becky told me to put together a hearty supper and to make her a cup of coffee whilst I was at it (she also gave me a gentle reminder that salt went with supper and not supper with the salt – there is slight difference, apparently).

He came back in the evening. Knocked on the door. I stared at him and he at me until he told me to move.

Yes. 'Move,' he said. Manners maketh the man, 'Bucky'. If that really is your name. (It probably is. At this point it's either proclaim Aunt Becky to be mad, myself insane, and Bucky a Very Strange Imposter … or just go with it.)

He sat down at our little kitchen table. Aunt Becky proceeded to say grace and then we ate.

In some ways he almost reminds me of Philip when he was at his growing stage – all gangly limbs, very uncertain of himself.

In other ways he scares me – he can sit as still as a statue for hours and his eyes can grow so very blank and bleak. Like the absence of a seal's eyes when it dives beneath a stormy sea.

(...)

This morning I decided that I needed to go back to work purely because money doesn't grow on trees and Bucky doesn't seem to possess homicidal tendencies (and also Aunt Becky flat out told me to get out of the house).

And so – here I am, in my pink bunny slippers and faded blue robe, standing at the stove and stirring the oatmeal.

A shuffle behind me and Aunt Becky appears, yawning and blinking up at me with a cheerful smile.

"Morning, Auntie! Sleep well?"

"Yes, thank you. Coffee and biscuits please." She disappears out of the kitchen like a spectre clad in bright yellow. I've argued over and over for years now that cooking and drink-making is my duty and it's time that Aunt Becky put her feet up.

Only recently has she began to listen.

The oatmeal bubbles and spits and I stare at it and question my life decisions. Why on earth am I going to work at such an unholy hour? It just isn't right.

"Coffee?"

I don't scream. I nearly do, but I am a grown woman and I do not jump. Unless it's a Thursday and I've Had Enough Of The Week. But it's not. So I don't scream. I turn around and there is Bucky standing there, silent and still, in the same clothes he wore yesterday … and the day before.

"Yeah, sure. In the shelf over there. Want a biscuit with it?"

"No."

He crosses the kitchen and opens the coffee cupboard.

"So," I say, turning to face him. "Quick question – I'm sure you're into saving the planet and everything." I hand him a spoon. "Unless you're being taking inspiration from Genghis Khan's Mongols and not washing you or your clothes because you think water is sacred or- is that how it goes? I can't remember. I'm a history buff with no memory. Trust me. Terrible combination. Don't be me when you grow up."

He spoons coffee into his cup. It's quite reverting. It must be; he is ignoring me.

"What I'm trying to say is … do you want more clothes? Do you have others? I'll get you some or you can meet me at the bus stop and we'll have a quick look at one of the stores which close a little later on?"

"I'm fine."

I hand him the already boiled kettle and nod gravely, like a wise sage in one of my fantasy books.

"Yeah. I'm sure you are. But if you change your mind – bus stop. Aunt Becky will tell you where. I'll buy. We missed so many of your birthdays. Obviously. And everyone needs presents. Especially belated ones."

He pours his drink and gives me a delayed nod. I smile at him.

I'm a great believer in smiles, (except when I'm not). But if you smile at a person they will either a) return your beaming smile, b) give a bewildered little smile or c) frown.

He frowns.

My smile dies a natural death. I fight back the questions which keep besetting me. Questions like: Where have you been? Why do you have a metal arm? Do you have nightmares – there was so much tossing and turning and moaning last night that I nearly came in to wake you, but then I didn't because of the many Unknowns. What did you mean 'you've killed people' (because I think you meant other than the ones you killed in the war)? And why do you seem to be so, so grief stricken at one moment and really, really lethal in the next?

Also, if you are not Bucky I will skin you alive with a rusty teaspoon and roast you over an open fire. Probably. Or I'll just call the cops and say Very Bad Things about you and your mother and your mother's mother. Trust me. You'll be terrified.

I look him up on a leaked S.H.I.E.L.D database.

Like my intelligence, there's nothing there.

Okay. I'm lying. Also like my intelligence, what I do find is very sparse.

What Ida finds (Heavily Paraphrased):

James Buchanan Barnes, close friend of Steve Rogers (CAPTAIN AMERICA). Was in Howling Commandos. Worked with Captain America in bringing down key HYDRA units. Was captured. Was found. Fell off a train. Dead.

Words on a screen that do little justice to what actually must have happened. I've tried to put myself in Bucky's shoes. But it's impossible. He's probably faced horrors that I couldn't even dream of.

"Do you want some oatmeal?" I ask my silent companion.

He looks up from staring at the kitchen floor and glances at the oatmeal.

"It's very good for you – gives a great start to the morning."

He blinks.

"Just great." I continue valiantly, stirring the oatmeal. "You don't have to have some, but it's important to eat in the morning. Science shows that it's the most important meal of- You know what? I'm rambling. I'm so sorry."

"Okay," he says, and I find myself smiling at him.

"Right. It'll be done a moment or two. I have to keep stirring it or it goes horribly lumpy. And then it's disgusting and gag-worthy. Do you want salt on it or honey? I tend to have honey. Scotsmen have salt. And I'm not a Scot. Er. Clearly. Though my parents had a bit of Irish in them. I think." I'm talking to fill the silence – sometimes empty chatter is comforting.

A bit like a sheet of paper covering the cracks. For a little while it covers it, but then you need something better to do the job. But for the moment, paper-talk will do. Besides – it's all I've got.

"So … what do you say? Do you want to try both?"

He sips his coffee and his greasy brown hair hangs down either side of his face. He needs a shower. Or not. Can you shower with a metal arm? Can he remove it? I give a hasty glance at his metal fingers which hold the handle of the cup. What must it be like-? I don't know. Something in Bucky's face discourages that sort of questioning.

"Salt," he says at last. "I'll have salt."

"Really? Okay then. Your taste buds must be different to mine. Not that that's a bad thing. I put too much salt on everything though; I can't seem to taste it. Which is the reason why I have honey. Strange, huh?"

I glance at Bucky who is staring into nothing. He looks almost … devoid of hope? So I talk: "Even if you don't go shopping, I can get a razor for you. If you want."

"I'll be fine."

Yeah, of course you will. In all your bearded glory. Though, of course, there is nothing wrong with having a beard. I'd have a beard if I was a man. Wait. Would I?

I blink. See – this is the reason why I should have stayed in bed; a perfectly rational creature can descend into a colossal pit of daftness for want of just one hour more of sleep.

"Right, grub's up!" I take three bowls and serve the oatmeal into the bowls. Then I put salt on Bucky's, a generous dollop of honey on mine and a little milk on Aunt Becky's.

And with a little tray assembled for Aunt Becky (coffee, biscuits and oatmeal) I take it in to the living room where she sits watching T.V.

"Dreadful," she comments. "That little girl who got kidnapped the other day still hasn't been found."

"The poor kid," I remark, giving her a kiss on her white hair and placing the tray on her lap.

"No salt?" she inquires with her eyes twinkling.

I don't deign to reply, but give her a wink on the way out.

Bucky is sitting at the kitchen table when I return. And his face is … well, it isn't anguished. It isn't full of grief. It's like an orangutan if an orangutan had heard that orange was a terrible colour and they should pick another only they can't, because nature and biology and oh! The shame! Oh! The tragedy. Oh! The humanity-

… oh.

He's grimacing.

I put too much salt in it. Again.

"How about some cereal instead?" I say cheerfully.

Bucky looks at me and gives me a Look. (I do not try and fit an analogy to it. But if I were to, it would be the look of a man who is trying to show that what you said was the Blatant Obvious.)

I ought to be offended, but I'm not. I give him a conspiratorial grin, and fix him some cereal. A glance at the clock leaves some panic - I'd better dash.

Sometimes I can really impress myself with just how fast I can dress.

Work is busy – but then it always is – and I snatch a bar from the vending machine and drink a coffee at lunch time. The coffee resembles mud and the bar leaves chocolate stains on my fingers.

I sit in a little cubical in an office without any windows and with plenty of artificial light. The phones are always ringing and there is a constant buzz of speech. The lights are bright and white – no soft yellow for us. Soft light is for wimps, anyway (or so I assume our managers think).

Amy, my manager, has so many meetings today that I joke with Kevin (tall, Korean heritage, a Brooklyn accent and dressed with a polka dot tie which is always askew and purple sneakers instead of smart shoes. He gets away with it because of his dimples) by the water cooler that in our company, they have meetings about their meetings (and meetings about the meetings which were about the original meetings), then we scurry back to our phones and the often shrill voices of disappointed customers fill our ears.

It's more interesting than Sales, though.

Today passes quickly and is especially busy. I only have one pleasant phone conversation – a customer is so overwhelmed and happy with her purchase that she cries. I cannot decipher what she bought but through her weeping she tells me her life story. Young, newly single with a puppy that has just recovered from worms. Oh, and her mother is in the military.

And she's lactose intolerant.

And she hates carrots.

People are unique and amaze me. And apparently consider me their therapist. And dietician. But that's okay, I am ready for it.

I have the best – the very best - 'mmmhmmm, is that so? What a pity!' voice you've ever heard.

I leave work and embrace my freedom with enthusiasm. The sky is overcast and threatening, but it doesn't quite dampen my mood. On the bus I can't be bothered to read – instead I chose to ponder Deep Things. How quickly everything can change, and how humans can adapt to it – case in point: the Avengers, the Battle of New York and three 'helicarriers' playing 'Let's Explode'.

(And then I stop. Because memories and memories and more memories and blood and heaven help me, I can't cope with remembering some things.)

The bus slows to a halt and a hiss. I climb down quickly, hoping to leave the bad memories behind me, abandoned and unwanted.

It's funny – I don't expect it but there he has, standing with baseball cap jammed on his head and hands (both metal and flesh) jammed into his pockets.

He gives me a nod and I have to compute the fact that he is here and I haven't a clue as to how to shop for a man.

"Hello! Did you have a good day?" I greet him.

"Sure," he says.

I shift my purse on my shoulder and deepen my voice: 'And you, Ida? How was your day?"

He stares at me and I'm pretty sure it's not because I'm stunningly beautiful.

Truth:

Bucky is not staring at Ida because she's stunningly beautiful.

"My day was just great, thank you." I respond in my usual voice. "Okay. Two blocks away and there's the clothing store – it's a small one which always has a sale." I check my wrist – which come to think of it, doesn't have a watch on it but oh well. "It will be open for another two hours. Let's go."

We walk in silence and it isn't awkward. This bit of the neighbourhood is a little on the rough side. Always has been. It's comforting to have Bucky by my side.

At the shop we entire and the bell tinkles out a welcome to us and a warning to the sales assistant who is sitting on a stool at the far back, engrossed in a magazine. She doesn't look up.

Of the t-shirts I grab several black ones and then a blue one. The wall behind the clothing rack is coated in a peeling grey paint and the whole shop seems a little grim.

In the centre is a basket full of men's underwear – priced at exactly one dollar and seven cents. I hope they are of a reasonable quality though anything that cheap is potentially a little suspect. I don't exactly enjoy handling men's underwear, but one must be practical and so I summon Bucky from looking a little blankly at pants.

"Do you need to stock up on these?" I gesture to the underwear and pretend that I'm actually pointing to hats. Lots and lots of hats.

He walks over to me – silent steps which both spook me and intrigue me – and stares at the underwear like it's an alien and he's from a primitive tribe.

Er …

I turn to walk away but can't help give a suspicious glance at the underwear and then back at him. Why is he so-? Oh. He's not looking at the underwear. He's looking at the price - at the big, black writing on a crusty bit of old cardboard.

$1.07

I open my mouth to assure him that 'don't worry – missed birthdays remember?' or 'it's cheap but they don't look like they will fall apart' but he just … leaves. Walks out of the door with quick strides which a romance novel would compare to a panther ('on a deadly prowl' … sigh! Faint! Swoon!) and I, personally (based firmly in the real world. Ah-hem) would compare to the walk of a man who really doesn't like underwear or price tags.

I glance back at the price tag, I'd better-

$1.07

Oh!

Bucky was in the 107th.

I dump the t-shirts on the basket, cast an apologetic look at the sales assistant and head out after him.

The sky has started to spit rain. Cars are whizzing past; rushing to get home, I suspect. There are a few pedestrians on the sidewalk and ah! There he is with his baseball hat further down. I duck my head against the rain and I increase my strides until I'm practically running.

Perhaps it set off a flashback – the price, I mean. We haven't a clue what he's really been through and maybe the '$1.07' has really affected him. But if he's set off so easily, shouldn't he have some serious therapy?

(Oh shoot. I need to get him some therapy STAT. What if every moment away from a therapist is doing uncountable damage to his psyche?)

For a moment, I think I've lost him. But there he is, around a corner – a grim figure striding forwards. Head down. Hands shoved in pockets.

I tighten my grip on my purse as I follow him. This neighbourhood is one that I've never really ventured into – buildings rise either side of me, their bricks old and worn and weather-beaten.

Another corner – I can't walk as fast as him. He turns down a narrow gap between buildings. It's raining in earnest now – a downpour that grows heavier by the second.

I enter in after him. (Yes, it's stupid but I can't just leave him, can I?) It's rather dark and gloomy. Not a single beam of dying sunlight shines through the grey in the alleyway. Litter is everywhere.

"Bucky?"

I peer forwards. But the rain pours down and I blink it away, wishing I had an umbrella and wanting Bucky to just hurry up and come back and be okay.

Silence, except for the pattering of the rain.

But then, I hear a rustle behind me and I turn.

It's sudden. Fast. Swift.

My purse is snatched and my hands automatically clutch at it. I'm not prepared for the sharp bite of a blade on my upper arm. Not prepared for the fist which hits me in the stomach. Not prepared for the hissed 'bitch!' in my ear.

I'm folded at the waist and my purse is gone for my hands have gone to my stomach. I'm wheezing for breath and am unready for the blow to my cheek that sends me sprawling back against the rough brick wall. I hit my head and land on something squishy and slick.

My head is upturned and I see the figure above me - can make out the grey outlines of his face and I'm grateful that it isn't Bucky.

(Aunt Becky would be devastated. So would I. The miracle of having him back from the dead would be irrevocably tarnished.)

And so I'm grateful and so, so angry.

(AGAIN? I want to rage. I'm still not healed from What Happened in New York and now I'm going to have to cope AGAIN?)

A foot hits me on the chest and I try to fight back – I try. I try. I try. But the blows reign down and there isn't a chance.

And then there are groping hands and suddenly I'm fighting, scrambling for my life. My hand reaches beneath me and I grab what I landed on and swing whatever it is at my attacker.

It is a dead cat.

I think that it stuns my attacker but it doesn't me. I kick my foot out and it collides with something - his leg? - and I hear the 'whoosh' of air which means I've hit something painful.

A flash of his face – angry, but watchful.

A kick which launches me backwards against the wall. I clonk my head again. Stunned, the world and its grey colours and red bricks and litter whirl around and around and suddenly all I can see the blood on my arm – a dark red in the dim light.

I am transfixed. Remembering the last time …

(The streets of New York. Two years ago. A woman in front of me. A shadow above us. A crash. A flash of glass whirling down. Sunlight hitting the pain. It turns golden. And then there was a thud. Blood. A woman impaled.)

(Panic. So much panic. It roars in my ears and rushes in my veins and I blink and all I can see is danger. I blink again, and all I see is death, all I can hear are screams.)

I look upwards and see my attacker lean down, his fist pulled back. I can't help it. Before, all I could do was let out grunts and take sharp intakes of breath but now, now I scream because I'm frightened and bravery is as elusive as a slippery eel.

Suddenly, he's gone. Whisked away. Pulled backwards.

And someone else is leaning over him, just in front of me. Another fist is raised and the thud of a metal fist hitting flesh and bone is the strangest sound I've ever heard.

This isn't a movie with buckets of fake blood and special effects. There isn't any music – heart pounding music that makes the action seem so cool. The only background track is the rain that pours down and down and the traffic not far from here – the honk of the horn and the occasional squeal of the tire.

My thoughts are a haze and I'm gasping for air and grasping at anything, anything at all that resembles sanity and reason and normalcy.

(Normalcy? When was the last time I possessed it?)

My voice is hoarse and, and maybe it trembles, maybe it doesn't but it's there and it's screaming out in panic: "Bucky! Stop!"

And suddenly the fist stops punching, there's a limp man, dangling from one of his hands, and Bucky is looking at me, and I at him and it's silent but the hum of the traffic is still there. Shadows are etched upon his face and I can't see his eyes – can't see their expression. But I can feel his gaze.

Isn't it odd that I don't think at all? All I do is to note the incredible sticking powers of Bucky's baseball hat, still siting firmly on his head, rain dripping from the rim.

And then my attacker is dropped to the floor like a rag doll. And Bucky's gone.

I pull myself up to my knees. My cheeks are damp and bruised. I don't know what to do. Oh – there's my purse next to the dead cat.

I crawl over to it and fumble through my possessions. I'd better call 911. A scratched and grimy hand reaches up and wipes my cheek.

Okay.

Take a deep breath.

Worse things have happened.

Don't be stupid and start crying.

It could have been worse. It could have been worse.

I make two calls - one to nine-one-one and the other to Aunt Becky.

"Aunt Becky?" I say to her after I've made the other call and my poor heart has stopped thinking I was running a marathon. "There's been an accident- no, it's okay" [it's not okay] "everything is fine" [apart from my attacker, who I crouch over shuddering at what could have happened and feeling sick over what has] "I'm just ringing to ask you to turn the supper down, I'm going to be a little late. No, no – I'm not crying. I've just been … um … cutting onions."

I close my eyes and breathe a prayer and then I sit down, beside a broken glass bottle, an overturned garbage bin and a dead cat. Beside the man who attacked me. I can't tell his age. His face is too bloodied. The rain is washing some of the red away.

I don't cry. And if I do, no one will know.

After the Battle of New York, they dished out therapists like hot dogs from a stand, mine was always short on time but she told me that I probably was in shock and how does that make you feel?

I can answer it now: this kind of thing (shock. distress. violence) makes me numb.

The blood is soaking my top and I wonder – as I did on that day when the heavens opened out of the blue and death came through – wonder how reality can include this.

How?

It doesn't seem real.

My head hurts.

The rain is slipping down my cheeks. If there are tears there, no one will ever know.

I close my eyes and hear the approaching sirens.

a/n: this fic is getting uploaded on to ao3 under the name of 'accidental therapy' (because I like to confuse people, I guess?) It will have different chapter names etc but is essentially the same.