AN: Joan Crawford was famous for her style and sharp wardrobe in the 1920s and 1930s. Also, some heavy shit goes down in Bucky's memories: references to female child and teen abuse, including implied sexual abuse, in connection to Natasha & the Red Room and other young women the Winter Soldier came across on a mission. In neither of these cases is Bucky the perpetrator of the abuse, but someone who empathizes, having been abused himself.

Thank you so much to everyone who has favorited, followed, or left comments on this story. I appreciate it, so thank you, and I hope you enjoy!

And The Wounded Sing

Part Seven

By: Wynn

"I need pants."

Steve blinks at Bucky over his cup of coffee. Early morning light streams through the living room window, illuminating Steve slumped and bleary-eyed on the couch. Guilt pricks at Bucky for bothering him. He may have slept for sixteen hours straight due to the wonders of scientific innovation, but he knows that Steve hadn't. He doubts Steve slept much at all before Bucky woke. He knows that Steve didn't sleep after, awake when Bucky returned from Darcy's and unwilling to let Bucky clean the rubble from his bathroom alone. Even super soldiers needed rest, but now Bucky stands before him again, demanding something else.

But he needed pants.

Steve blinks at him again then glances down at his bare legs. "Where are yours?"

"In my room."

Steve looks at him a long moment before blinking at Bucky a third time. "But you need pants?"

Bucky bites back his sigh. "Yes."

Steve continues to look. He blinks at Bucky once more, takes a substantial drink of his coffee, and then says, slowly, "What's wrong with yours?"

"They're murder pants, Steve. I can't wear murder pants." He pauses and reconsiders because he could wear them as he had been doing, despite the increasing number of rips and stains. They were functional, and that's all that had mattered before. Functionality. But he doesn't want that. Or not just that. He wants… He doesn't know, but Bucky wants, so looking at Steve again, he says, "I don't want to wear them."

"Okay."

Cup in hand, Steve stands and Bucky follows him as they walk down the hall to the bedrooms. Turning into Steve's, they cross the room to the closet, where Steve pushes open the doors. Neat rows of clothes hang from pale wooden hangers. The amount of shirts and pants, jackets and sweaters arrayed before him overwhelms Bucky. Need had required both him and Steve to obsessively care for their clothes before, neither of them possessing an extensive money for a wardrobe. So this… this…

"It's a lot," Steve says as he glances at his wardrobe. Lifting his free hand, he rubs it along the back of his neck, grimacing a bit as he takes everything in. "I've got, uh, some pushy friends and more money than I know what to do with now, so…"

"So you decide to give Joan Crawford a run for her money with your wardrobe."

Steve gives him a look. "Like you can talk. I remember yours."

"I can talk," Bucky says, taking a leap now and hoping he sticks the landing. "One outfit, pal. For seventy years."

There's a second of silence, long enough for the first tendrils of panic to unfold within Bucky, but then Steve turns toward him and cocks a brow. "And I had such grand fashion choices trapped in a block of ice?"

"Yeah, yeah," Bucky grumbles as he turns to peer at the offerings. "I'm just amazed it's not all red, white, and blue."

Steve snorts and takes another snip of coffee. "Efforts were made. Often. And by many people." He pauses then and a slow smile spreads across his face. "Even Darcy."

Bucky stops in his perusal of the pants and glances at Steve. "Yeah?"

Steve nods. "A pair of Union Jack briefs. Stuffed them in my suitcase before I left London."

The camaraderie between Steve and Darcy, even then, at their first meeting, makes Bucky smile. It fades a moment later though when he remembers how, exactly, their bond has developed the past few weeks, Steve finding in Darcy a soul with whom to angst and commiserate about him and his mental state. The two of them, working so hard, and for what? For—

"You deserve to be happy, Buck."

Bucky clenches his jaw. "Maybe. Maybe not." He pauses then and looks away. "Doesn't mean she deserves to be stuck with me."

"That's not how she sees it. And neither do I," Steve adds.

Bucky gives a short nod, his throat constricting at the echo of Darcy's own words from the night before, from their time in the motel when she disavowed him of blame for her nightmare. She chose him before from a picture in a history book and again in the diner when she consented to go with him and again and again in the weeks after. Bucky knows this. He knows. And he wants her, he wants it, to be with her, and he thinks she reciprocates because he remembers and he understands the meaning behind a look and a blush and a touch that lingers. But it didn't make it right.

Breathing in, he tries to articulate this to Steve. "Darcy… She keeps giving, and I keep taking. I know she's not here against her will, but— but I feel bad because I don't. Feel bad, I mean. I'm a goddamn mess, and I shouldn't start… But I want to and I can't stop myself. Maybe I should wait—"

"No."

Bucky looks up. Steve stares at him, his gaze solemn and direct, no room for argument within them. And Bucky gets it. He doesn't look, but he feels Peggy to their left, forever enshrined in her burnished frame.

"I'm sorry," he says now. "About you and her. You two never getting your shot. You deserved it."

Steve dips his head. Bucky wants to rip the Red Skull from existence when he smiles and shrugs and tries to brush past the pain. He wants to do it again when Steve says, "She's still alive."

Bucky blinks at him, unable to respond.

"She's in a home," he continues. "Close to D.C. She doesn't remember sometimes, but when she does, she's still sharp." He pauses then and glances to the side, to the picture of Peggy on the wall. Bucky almost looks away at the expression on Steve's face, too open, too raw with grief. "She helped me. I was having some… trouble with the world— S.H.I.E.L.D., really— but the world too and what it had become. The compromises that were made. And this was before I learned about Hydra," he adds. "Fury told me to deal with it, to accept the world as it was, but Peggy… She helped me. She said that sometimes… sometimes we had to start over. That we couldn't go back." He looks at Bucky again, direct, so earnest in his appeal. "She's right. We can't go back, but we can go on."

"Have you?"

"A little," Steve admits. He sucks in a deep breath, only to stop his response when he grins. "The one, uh, lady— woman that, um, appealed to me… I, uh…"

Bucky doesn't even try to hide his smirk. "Shame the serum didn't help you with talking to dames. Or about them."

Steve narrows his eyes at Bucky. "She's Peggy's niece. Grandniece. You'd flounder too trying to talk about that. And to it— her. Talk to her."

Bucky's jaw drops. "Another Carter?"

Steve nods again. "Sharon. She's a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. Or was. Actually she's the one that Fury assigned to watch me."

Bucky stares at Steve a moment, dumbfounded, before he starts to laugh. "Damn, Stevie. You sure know how to pick them."

"That's not the half of it." He waits for Bucky to compose himself then he says, "You want to know the cover they gave her to watch me? A nurse. In the infectious disease ward."

Everything snaps shut within Bucky. He stares down at the floor, trying to compose himself once more as a bright burst of anger flares within him, as the urge to find and hurt the people who did that to Steve, to make him think of his ma so that he'd trust that broad, rises within him. "I didn't think Carters played those games."

"They don't. Or at least I don't think they do." He pauses and huffs out a sigh. "Natasha swears that Sharon protested the cover, but Fury overruled her. Still…" He shrugs again and turns away, ostensibly to reclaim his coffee cup. He takes a drink and Bucky takes a breath and then Steve says, "Now that's a reason to hesitate. Not yours."

It wasn't. Darcy knew him, had seen the worst of him, and was still here. And he'd seen the best of her. Of course he wanted to know more. And maybe… maybe he deserved it. At the very least she did, and if Darcy wanted him, cracked mind and all, then he could give it to her.

Bucky turns back to the closet to scan the clothes. He settles on a dark pair of slacks, but as he reaches for them, Steve shakes his head and pulls out a pair of denims instead.

"Here," he says, thrusting them at Bucky.

Bucky blinks at them and then at Steve. "They're nice and all, Steve, but I'm not going to work in a factory."

"No. You're making breakfast for Darcy."

Bucky gives Steve a look, which becomes a glare at the cheeky grin that appears on Steve's face. "If you're just gonna bust my balls about it, why'd you even bring me in here?"

The grin vanishes. "I'm not, Buck. Seriously. This is what people wear. They only dress how we did for special occasions." He holds the pants out toward Bucky, his gaze again earnest but also a little sly when he adds, "Like when you really take Darcy out."

Bucky's pulse jumps at the thought of stepping outside the Tower. He tries to cover by snatching the pants from Steve and pulling them on. "This isn't a date," he grumbles. "And I don't think the government's gonna want an enemy of the state stepping out for drinks."

"You are not an enemy of the state. You never have been. You were a prisoner of war, and we'll do whatever we have to do to get your life back."

Bucky glances up at Steve, shocked at his intensity. Steve sends him a tight smile. He pulls in a slow breath and tries to ease down, swallowing once before continuing. "That's what I'd been talking to Pepper about. She was giving me some advice on lawyers she and Tony know, about whether any can help us."

Us. The word rattles around Bucky's brain, nearly knocking him flat as proof of how much they were helping him, how much he hasn't even known about, too caught up in his own mind. He pulls in a breath like Steve and tries to speak. "Steve, I wanted— You've done—"

"Only what you'd do for me. What you've already done."

Bucky releases a gasp of a laugh. "I don't think forcing you to wear a sweater and eat your broth is the same as taking on the U.S. government."

"It is to me."

The simplicity of the statement stuns him. Throat swelling, Bucky looks away, down to his feet bare on the floor. He nods at Steve, unwilling to argue back and unsure if he wanted to what he could say. Of course it would be the same to Steve. To the end of the line. He hoped that it never would be for Bucky, that Steve would never need him this way, Steve deserving so much in life, but if he did, if he needed, Bucky hoped that he could, maybe, someday, do the same.

"So," Steve says, clearing his throat to gratefully brush past the moment and place them both upon solid ground. "What do you think?"

Bucky peers at the pants. They were long in the leg by a few inches and tight in the thighs, but he could move and it was movement… it was movement that mattered. No. Bucky presses his lips together. No. Movement mattered, but it wasn't everything, and he could… he could choose something he liked, something that wasn't practical or functional or resistant to weapons. Teeth clenched, he continues his perusal. Did he like them? He needed a mirror to— Bucky tenses at the thought and a chill rushes through him, the chill of cryo and the doubt at what he would see, but he fists his hands and bears down because this was real, it was real, it was real, he was real—

"Buck?"

"I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I—"

"Hey." Steve grips his arms, his hold warm and sure upon Bucky. Air rushes into his lungs and out again, gushing forth in a shaky breath as Steve says, "You don't have to decide now. Just try them out for a while. See what Darcy thinks. Then decide."

Bucky nods. The movement's as shaky as his breath, but it's enough to compel Steve to release him and take a step back.

"What do you plan to make for breakfast?"

"Eggs." The word cracks like one, jagged in the middle. Breathing in again, Bucky focuses on the ground beneath his feet, on the gleam of sunlight through the windows, on Steve and the thought of Darcy. "An omelet. I read how to make them last night. There's one with fruit, and I thought— the strawberries…"

Steve nods. "Use whatever's in the kitchen. And if there's stuff you want that's not there, just tell me and I can have it brought here."

Bucky nods too, intending to leave for the kitchen then, the thought of making another decision exhausting, but a thought stills him once more, one that, this time, makes him smile. "Can we get Doritos?"

Steve blinks at him a moment before raising both brows. "Doritos? Like the chip?"

Bucky nods again.

"The bright orange chip? That one? The one that looks like a traffic cone."

Bucky cocks a brow. "Respect the Dorito, Steve."

If possible, Steve's brows inch higher. "Respect… the Dorito."

"Yes."

Steve blinks a third time. "Really?"

As before, with Darcy and the markhor, Bucky needs every ounce of his training to help him resist the urge to laugh. Narrowing his eyes, he says to Steve, "No judging until you've tried. And even then, no judging."

Steve presses his lips together. Bucky thinks he's trying to smother a smile. "Okay," he says as they turn for the door, and for a moment, Bucky thinks that Steve's going to sling an arm around his shoulders like Bucky used to do to him before the war, but he doesn't. Steve just bumps his shoulder against Bucky's as they pass into the hall, and Bucky doesn't know if he's disappointed or relieved.

When the knock sounds on the door, strawberry juice stains Bucky's fingertips, and he stares at it, trying not to see blood. At the second knock, his gaze flickers to the clock on the microwave. Too early for Darcy, even for their… date. The word circles like gnat around his brain, but he swats it away, the idea still too strange and dizzying for him to comprehend. Even for breakfast. It was too early for her for breakfast, especially after the past few days. But if not Darcy, then who? His left hand tightens around the knife at the question, but he forces himself to relax. Whoever was at the door was an ally, maybe even a friend, if not to him then at least to Steve. So it was someone then who wouldn't hurt him or Steve, Jarvis watching all.

Placing the knife by the strawberries, Bucky makes his way to the door. Steve currently occupied their only working shower, so he had to open it. He had to talk. And they wanted him to talk. So he would talk. He could talk. He could. Bucky remembers talking so much before. He never shut up before the war, his brain a rushing river of words, of jokes and stories and chatter about the day, about girls and baseball and food and dancing, words and words and words and words. So he could talk. He could.

His heartbeat accelerates as his hand touches the doorknob, and his breath catches in his chest as he turns the knob, and he bites down, hard, on the inside of his cheek as he opens the door, as he sees the doctor— Bruce— on the other side. Bruce carries a small medical bag in his hands, and Bucky tenses even more at the sight of it.

Bruce eases back from the door, not in fear, Bucky knows fear. In politeness at his discomfort. "I just wanted to make sure you weren't suffering any effects from the injection. I don't have to—"

"No," Bucky says, and it's too loud and abrupt, but Bruce doesn't jump. He waits, still polite, still deferential, but not afraid. Bucky swallows and wonders why he's not afraid, but he doesn't ask. He just eases back from the door and says, "It's fine."

Despite the permission, Bruce hesitates.

"It is," Bucky says again. The edge to his voice makes him wince. He tries to smooth the glare from his face, but the small quirk of Bruce's brow indicates his failure. Taking a moment, Bucky breathes in then he tries again. "I'm sorry. I just got plans, so can you be quick?"

Bruce nods. He moves toward the door and Bucky steps back even more to let him pass. He stays by the door as Bruce walks down the hall, as he disappears into the living room, his hand tight on the handle once more. It gives a groan of protest and Bucky snatches his hand away. He closes the door, swiftly at first and then slowly, catching it before it breaks. He could do this. He could talk. He could.

Swallowing, he follows Bruce down the hall.

He sees the medical bag first, open on the table before the couch, instruments arrayed along both sides. Bucky spots a stethoscope and a small penlight to the left and a thermometer to the right, but nothing else. As he approaches, he peers inside. A blood pressure cuff lies beside a few packs of alcohol wipes and a small notepad and a ballpoint pen. He sees no drugs, no syringes, nothing that could be used as a weapon, at least not easily, nothing aside from the pen. He feels Bruce watch him, sees him, from the corners of his eyes, send him a reassuring smile. Bucky swallows again and finally sits down beside him on the couch. He knows he should smile as well, social interactions demanded such reciprocity. Tense, his body stiff like cardboard, Bucky contorts his face into something that may, in a dark corner of hell, resemble a smile.

Bruce ducks his head, but not before Bucky glimpses his courteous smile morph into a genuinely amused grin. His own attempt at one vanishes in favor of a glare. "What?"

"You remind me of a friend," Bruce says as he looks back at Bucky. The same wry humor that greeted him in the gym faces Bucky now. "He has the same, uh, obvious aversion to medical procedures." The lightness in his eyes fades then as his gaze flickers to Bucky's left arm. "With good reason."

Bucky stares at Bruce, torn between discomfort at the blatant reference to his arm and curiosity at this man who shows no fear of him and concocts drug mixes for women who could potentially explode. Bruce lets him stare, reaching, slowly, into his bag for his notepad and pen. As he flips open the cover, Bucky says to him, "This friend… He was experimented on by Hydra, too?"

"Not Hydra. A group called the Ten Rings."

In the cave, the girls sit, side by side, chained to the wall. They stare at him. None show fear. He sees no curiosity either. Just anger and resignation, and his hand tightens on his—

"Bucky?"

"I killed them."

There's a long second of silence before Bruce says, "Who?"

"Mission, Afghanistan. Objective, Level 6 targets, five leading operatives of the Ten Rings. Aim, elimination of destabilizing forces that threaten the objective of Hydra and its allies. Mission report, targets eliminated. Civilian— Civilian…"

Rings of raw flesh encircle their wrists by the restraints. Dirt cakes their feet. And he stares, his mouth compressing into a thin line behind his mask. He stares, feeling—

"Bucky?"

He jerks. His knee bangs against the table. The medical bag tumbles to the floor, and Bucky tries to control his breathing, but his throat convulses and his stomach heaves at the memory of the girls, chained and bleeding, at the memory of the girls, standing all in a row, so young, so young, with guns in their hands, and the Soldier stares, waiting for his orders, his mission against the Mandarin, and the one at the end, the small one, the one with the red hair, lifts her head and looks at him, angry and shaking, and he lifts the gun, his feet planted wide on the hood of the car, and she turns, she turns and looks at him, bleeding from where he shot her in the—

Bucky stumbles from the couch. The table overturns, scattering the medical supplies to the floor. Bruce calls after him, but Bucky staggers down the hall to Steve's room. He shoves open the door, not stopping as it crashes back against the wall, and then crosses to the photographs, searching, searching, and finding… her.

The Widow.

Natasha.

"Bucky?"

Bucky whirls at the sound of Steve's voice. Steve stands in the door to his bathroom, a towel around his waist and concern in his eyes.

"I know her," Bucky says, pointing back at the picture.

Steve looks past him, to the picture of Natasha in the 'I'm with Stupid' shirt. He blinks once and then his eyes slide back to Bucky. "You do," he says slowly. "She was with me in—"

"No." His hands tighten into fists. "Before."

Steve nods then and starts to cross the room. "That's right. She said that you two crossed paths in Odessa—"

"No, Steve. Before."

Steve's mouth snaps shut at this revelation. In his periphery, Bucky sees Bruce stop in the hall just outside the bedroom.

"Before?" Steve asks, frowning now.

Bucky nods. The memories press and crowd against him. He clenches his teeth and tries to hold on in the crush. "There was a mission. In Afghanistan. For allies of Hydra. Allies in Russia. And I saw her." His eyes dart to the photograph, to the woman grown and seemingly whole, but in the glass, he sees the girl, slight and seething as she scowled at him. "She was— she was just a kid. But I remember. The look in her eyes…"

He sympathized, though he didn't know why, and he wanted— he wanted to help her. But he couldn't. They watched him. And he saw the box. He knew Herr Zola was there, reporting to the director. But the girls… Bucky closes his eyes and swallows again. The ones in the cave weren't as young as the Widow. She couldn't have been more than five or six. The girls in the cave were in their teens, none, he wagers now, more than sixteen. He stares at them, with no intention to kill, the girls not a threat to him and not his target either. But he feels… The look in her eyes and in some of theirs, the anger, he feels it now, he remembers what the emotion is. Looking at them, he remembers.

And he does more than simply kill the men keeping them.

He makes them suffer.

"Buck? Are you here?"

He is. He hears Steve draw closer, and his mind pitches like a ship on a wave, unsettled by the remembered smell of blood in the cave, by their screams as he draws closer—

"Buck?"

Bucky twists his head to the side, feeling nausea rise again.

"Buck, it's 2014. You're in—"

"I know where I am," he grits out. "I'm just trying not to puke on your feet."

"Oh. Thanks."

Bucky gives a haphazard nod. He points in the general direction of the bathroom, still not sure if he can open his eyes without retching. "Can I…?"

"Of course."

Cracking open one eye, Bucky inches past Steve. As he makes his way to the bathroom, he sees the entrance to the hall standing empty, Bruce no longer witness to his remembrance. Perhaps he had left the apartment altogether. No guilt manifests within Bucky at that, his desire for another medical eval about as strong as his desire for another spin in the chair.

Passing by Steve, Bucky claps him on the arm, trying, with the gesture, to reassure him that he hasn't gone, that he won't, secure for now, the victims of this recalled rampage at least deserving of his torture. He receives a small smile in return, but the worry doesn't quite diminish from Steve's eyes. Bucky wonders if it ever will. It never had for him, despite Steve's protests against his hovering, not even when Steve more than doubled in size and became as strong as an ox.

The steam from Steve's shower envelops him as he steps into the bathroom. Bucky nudges the door closed and stands in the lingering warmth, breathing in and out, slow, deep breaths that let him focus on the feel of the air his lungs and of the door behind his hands, slick and firm. The past demands, the men on their knees as he raised his knife, the Widow— Natasha— and the rest of the recruits all learning how to kill, but Bucky resists. Darcy would arrive soon, and Steve was already here, and he needed to stay. He hears Steve through the door, opening his closet and beginning to pull out clothes. He'd fought with the Widow in D.C. They'd hidden behind Steve's shield as Bucky fired the grenade. Then he'd chased her and shot her and aimed again for the kill, only stopped by the arrival of Steve.

Had she lived? She had when he shot her in Odessa, and that wound had been significantly more dire than this latest one. If she did, did she remember him? His own memories of his youth were a fragmentary haze, but then a figure like the Winter Soldier hadn't populated his childhood like he had hers. If she did remember, she hadn't told Steve. The surprise in his eyes when Bucky said he remembered her had been too genuine. Maybe her memory had been modified like his. Bucky clenches his hands, anger swooping fast and hot through him. Any group that willingly allied itself with Hydra was capable of such monstrous actions. And the way she had fought, the skills she had, he figures her group had used her just like Hydra had used him, as a weapon, as a tool to use. What use had a tool for feelings? Or memories? Or—

Jerking forward, Bucky reaches for the sink and cranks open the hot faucet. He drenches his face and beard, scrubs at his neck and hands, and then ducks down and douses his entire head. The water slides down his chest and back and soaks his shirt, he feels the heat burn, but he continues on, twisting his head to take in a mouthful to wash away the taste of bile still in his mouth, his rage at Hydra and at his twisted life. Him, her, the girls, the Starks… how many others? How many more made victim against their will?

Bucky closes his eyes and breathes in the steam billowing from the sink. Mist covers the mirror when he lifts his head a few minutes later, his anger suppressed but no less abated. The glass reflects to him a blur of a man. Bucky eyes it a moment before turning away. Darcy would be here, and he needed… he wanted to be here.

In the bedroom, Steve stands half-dressed before the picture of him and the Widow— Natasha. She had a name, like Bucky did. He needed to use it, Natasha a part of Steve's team and likely to pass through the building sometime, if only to assess him. It's what he would do, if the situation were reversed.

"Is she alive?" he asks as he draws closer.

Steve nods. "In France." He glances back over his shoulder at Bucky. "I asked her if she'd come in and talk to you, but—"

Bucky quirks a brow. "She declined to help the nut who shot her twice?"

Steve stares at him a long moment, his mouth compressing as it always does when Bucky makes a slight against himself. But the expected harangue doesn't come. Instead, Steve says, "No. She wanted your permission first. Clint, too." He points to the man in the photos with the bandage on his nose, the man with the bearing of a spy. "And Sam." The hardness fades from Steve's face then and a wry smile appears. "Basically they all told me to 'cool my jets.' Or, as Clint said, 'You've already unleashed Stark on him. Give him some time to adjust before you introduce him to the rest of our crazy."

His gaze slides to the hall at the mention of Tony.

"He's okay," Steve says, moving toward him. "Tony's not mad about what happened. Well, he is, but not at you."

Bucky looks at him, his heart in his throat. "Did he say something to you? Or Darcy?"

Steve shakes his head. "Tony wants you here, Buck. He's just… He's angry. At Hydra. For you and for… everything. We all are."

Bucky nods, but he can't hold the look, overcome again by the thought of all of them helping him. He understands their need to, he remembers it, he remembers feeling it, with the girls and with Natasha, with Darcy in the diner, the rage that had flared within him when he caught sight of Hydra running for her, Darcy pinned back against the door of the diner with nowhere to run, with nothing by a shock prod she couldn't use in her hands. And even before, with Steve and the rest of the Commandos, with those in his unit that couldn't endure the torture of their capture and from their captors, with the kids on his block that were too small or too foreign, with Steve and his sister, and his breath stills then at the thought of his sister. He had forgotten her, forgotten Becca, and the rage that possessed the other possesses him again at what Hydra had stolen from him and what he was just now, with sweat and blood and broken gasps of tears, getting back.

A knock sounds on the front door then, a cheery series of raps that indicate Darcy, and the quick pound of Bucky's pulse begins to amble away from anger to something softer, something better. He licks his lips and breathes in and tries to shed the rage.

"You want me to?" Steve asks as Bucky turns for the door.

Bucky shakes his head. Darcy had seen him in worse, soaked in blood, broken and bruised from their escape from the diner. Water would be fine. Water, but not sweat, which breaks out on his palms and face as he strides down the hall. He wipes his hands on his pants, but the gesture does nothing to calm his nerves. His gut flutters and twists and his mouth goes dry as he rounds the corner for the foyer. Bucky feels a bead of water drip down his face. He swipes at his hair, shoving a hand back through it to push the strands from his face. Then he opens the door.

Darcy stands on the other side, in denims like him and another soft sweater, a dark red one this time, smaller than those she's worn before, one fitted to her body, and Bucky tries not to stare at her but he does, Darcy lush and soft and whole and gorgeous. She burns away the fury within him, leaves him lust-stunned and dizzy. Breathless, he watches as she lifts her head, but before she meets his eyes, she goes utterly still and her jaw drops open.

"Are you serious?" she asks after a moment. Bucky cocks his head at the elevated pitch to her voice, at how she waves a hand at him from tip to toe. "The jeans and the shirt? Really? Really?"

Bucky glances down. His tee clings to most of his chest, the white cotton transparent in many places. He hadn't noticed, or he had, but only in observance of its occurrence, not in recognition of its effects on others. But now he recognizes. And he remembers. He'd been attractive before, all his life really, women giving him second and third glances, and some men too sometimes, both before and during the war. He'd observed the effects of his physical proximity upon Darcy. He knew he could make her blush, as he makes her blush now, but he hadn't quite understood, conditioned as he was to transcend the physical, to abolish all concepts of self.

But now he does.

Glancing up, he finds her lips parted and eyes locked on his thighs, at maximum capacity in his current pair of pants. In the spirit of experimentation and giddy, sly seduction, he shifts, leaning now against the door. Her eyes go dark and her breath stills in her chest, and Bucky can't help the beginning of a grin that comes to his face.

"Why?" she asks. "No. How? You said you knew how to shower. This… this…"

"I do know. But I'm a dirty boy. I have to wash away my sins."

Her eyes snap up to his and narrow. "I don't think that's meant to be a literal thing."

"Everything's literal to a Catholic, doll."

Darcy arches a brow. "Doll?"

The grin unfurls then, imbued with all the swagger of Bucky Barnes, born and bred Brooklyn boy. "I could go back to dugong, if you want."

"I thought we had moved on to the M's."

Bucky tilts his head to the side. "Didn't peg you for a moll."

Darcy raises her other brow.

"Gun moll," he explains. "Dame who runs with gangsters."

Darcy takes a moment to respond. Bucky watches as she cocks a hip and studies him, letting her eyes slink down from head to heels. His breath quickens at her perusal, at the way she purses her lips. He feels the gaze as a caress, and the urge to kiss her rises within him, but Bucky remains still, the pendulum arc of his emotions that morning giving him pause.

"Gangster," she says after a moment. "No. A tall, dark, and mysterious stranger in a diner with a shady past and a bag full of guns?"

She lets the implication hang in the air, the most overt either of them had been to this between them, this attraction that Steve told him to seize and his fear cast into doubt. Darcy moves toward him now to enter the apartment. She peers up at him as she passes by, her blue eyes bright and her cheeks still pink, and his brain shorts as he catches the scent of her shampoo, at the warmth of her hand as her fingertips brush against his metal hand, setting the sensors alight.