It was the second time. The second time he was waking up draped in comfort rather than pain and the second time he questioned what he'd done to deserve such a luxury. He questioned why there was no agony dancing across the skin connecting him to metal, why there was warmth encompassing from all sides.
And he questioned why this was the second time in as many days that he would rather close his eyes and sleep, than shoot up in his usual panic and start swinging.
I think I've grown.
Bucky let out a low grunt, rolling his shoulders back into the softness under him. There was something on the column of his throat, and he flinched at the slide of material against his skin, silver fingers blindly reaching out and grabbing at whatever was tangling around him. His fingers stumbled through the panic but once the pressure was gone, he let out a small sigh, hand coming away wrapped in a familiar sky blue duvet.
It took him a few seconds, but he recognized it as the one he'd woken up beneath yesterday; the muted scent of his skin clinging to the material even after a single night. Pushing up with his other hand, he kept a firm hold on the blanket and frowned, knowing he hadn't fetched it the night before.
"Hmmm…."
The quiet murmur snatched his attention, spine locking into a rigid line as his mind acknowledged someone else breathing in the room with him. Whoever the intruder was, they were tightly wrapped up in a pale blanket of their own; leg sticking out at an awkward angle, and a shock of dark hair spilling over the cushions to brush against the floor.
Bucky couldn't see much beside the stockinged foot and messy locks, but it was all he needed, shoulders slumping back against the pillow. They sunk under his weight and he slowly deflated backwards. "Samara…" he mumbled, almost scolding the woman for scaring him.
A small, quiet cooing sound was his response, but she didn't wake; instead only rolling over and burrowing even further into the covers.
Snorting, Bucky mirrored her actions, settling further into the blanket still covering his body. "How cute," he noted absently, tugging up the cover with silver fingers. Running his free hand through his hair, he sent up a prayer that his own locks didn't look as ruffled as hers. He could almost imagine her mocking lilt now, hand hovering like she wanted to touch as she huffed out; 'bed hair!' before the smile disappeared as she turned her back.
With the thought in mind, he looked back her way, cocking his head as he studied her features, as lax in sleep as they were. The doctor looked better than the previous day, her eyes no longer shadowed by purpling circles, and her forehead smooth and free from worried lines. He'd been, as much as it loathed him to admit it, playing with her when he'd poked holes about her age in the parking lot. He'd wanted her defensive; annoyed enough that she'd correct his assumption without questioning it.
It had worked like a charm, manipulation coming easy to his mind, and he'd learnt her true age before he'd even had the time to close his mouth. "Twenty nine," Bucky frowned again, pushing up and away from the couch with a quietly pained groan. The muscles decorating the length of his legs were moaning a little in protest, unamused he'd forced them into the tight confines of the cushions all night.
Rubbing them placatingly, he looked across the room, eyes sparking in displeasure. For some reason he couldn't help but think she was still little more than a child – how old was he? – but the knowledge didn't even make the soldier in his head falter. Youthful or not, she was good at what she did, and that meant she would succeed more often than she would fail – and while the soldier didn't care for age, it cared for failure.
Of course, then the humane part of his mind kicked into gear and more or less raised hell on the doctor's behalf.
He was having his bad moments with the more human side to him, but even with his irritation, he was worried how he'd think without it. If whiskey eyes flashed his way, he felt nothing more than exasperation for the constant string of comments, but also interest in what could be said next. But if the solider was in charge, would he feel the fond exasperation, or would he only feel morbid fascination? Would he hurt her again?
He grimaced. Ever since the heavy taint to the air yesterday, when he'd thrown the woman against the wall, he hadn't felt the desire to pain her or wave a gun in her direction. Threats, pain – it didn't work. Not with her. And he was happy he would never have to raise a hand in her direction.
He was happy. Not the soldier. Not the training.
But he wasn't the training, and he wasn't the soldier. He was Bucky Barnes.
And Bucky, he had put some faith into the woman, had given her the benefit of the doubt because he believed she deserved it. With the way she looked to him, looked after him with careful hands and doting smiles showed she deserved nothing less. It showed that she cared and it was strange to know something like that. To know that the smile was fond because that's how she felt towards him, instead of how she wanted him to think she felt.
Bucky moved towards her on light feet, crouching beside the couch as the frown continued to deepen around his lips. She was breathing softly, lips parted slightly as small bursts of air snapped through white teeth. Watching her chest lift and fall, he copied the pattern, breathing in time with her as he calmed the mess of his mind.
"Ngh…" Samara's nose wrinkled up, and one hand batted at the assassin's features, almost like she knew someone was hovering close by. The man backed away obediently, watching as next the hand moved to smooth down her face, brushing away the wayward strands of hair tickling her cheeks. "Hm."
Bucky lifted a brow. "You can't even stay quiet in your sleep," he snorted, rolling his eyes as he leaned back, putting his weight on his heels. "At least it'll never be boring with you around."
Pushing up, he glanced over the room before checking in on the female once again. In the time it had taken her to deal with the woman yesterday, the one he'd seen wearing white, he had peeked around in the 'private' section of her house. Only to make sure he wasn't walking into anything dangerous, of course. And other than the small journal under her mattress – which he'd first thought was a really sad book, but turned out to actually be her diary – her room had been rather dull.
Hopefully her study would prove to be mildly entertaining. He needed a distraction to keep him busy until the woman was awake.
Heading out of the dark living area, he wandered into the hallway, eyes searching for the heavy wooden door as his ears listened to the still flickering television. He'd been in the room alone before, when he'd been searching high and low for a needle, but he hadn't had the time to really snoop – which was a damn shame in his opinion. He'd seen multiple filing cabinets waiting to be rifled through.
The familiar weight of the door handle sat in his palm, and with another check over his shoulder for whiskey eyes, he pushed it open. The warm smell of aged books and rich perfume hit him as he wandered in, tickling his nose with familiarity. But even despite the welcoming scent, he almost felt like he wasn't welcome; like he was trespassing on forbidden territory. He hadn't felt that when reading the diary, but he felt it now, and it struck him that the doctor probably cared more for her work than she did for her own life.
Bucky peeked up at the slightly open door, fingers trailing over the top of the oaken desk. It would be fine. She was sleeping and would remain asleep for a while yet – and even if she did wake, she'd be too tired to scold him properly.
There were a few folders littering the surface and he thumbed through them, reading about one – "Jennifer Atherton?" he murmured, skimming over it quickly before dismissing the words. The papers hit the floor, and he moved onto the one hiding beneath it. "Nina Adams?"
The woman in white?
Opening the file, he pressed a silver finger against the page, dragging it downwards as he looked over it. The words were uninteresting; dull and altogether not worth his time. Snorting, he went to push it from the desk as well, bored, until he noticed the photo's dangling provocatively from the corners. They were meant to document the work the good doctor had completed, that much was clear by the photo of the woman's lower body and – Bucky blanched and looked to the next photo, catching the head shots innocently thrown in.
The added photo was almost childish, both females grinning at whoever was hiding behind the camera, but at the same time it was so Samara that he couldn't –
Wait.
Bucky frowned, thrusting the photo closer to his features. He knew that woman. He'd seen her with the blonde – with Steve – during the fights. He'd shot her on the highway, a clean hit through the shoulder after she'd done something to his arm.
He clenched the silver fingers together in memory, the echo of the shock shooting through the wiring. It hadn't been a pleasant feeling, almost painful, but he liked to think he'd got her back with the well aimed bullet.
"So what are you doing here?" he grumbled, narrowing his eyes at the ajar door hovering a few feet from him.
Samara wasn't…
No, she can't have…
The doctor had been confused yesterday, muttering about how idiotic it was to come to a cosmetic surgeon for something so tiny. The annoyed gleam to her eyes had been genuine. She wasn't aware of just who the red head was, not like he was, but the female apparently knew the doctor enough to decide she was worth investigating.
Bucky felt his teeth grind together as he threw the papers to the ground, leaning heavily against the table. Where did I go wrong? Gripping one hand in his hair, he tried to sort through how the female assassin had known where to find him. He'd been careful, had spotted the camera on every street corner and avoided the ones that would lead them straight to this house.
Damn it. The Russian had found him in under a day. What could she do in two?
With the thought caught behind his eyes, he lost interest in the warm room, now stalking towards the closet he'd peered in before. There was clothing in there, maybe a little loose fitting sure, but it was spare clothing. He cycled through it, remembering the sizes the doctor had murmured yesterday before grabbing a few of each article. Fists full of material, he headed out of the room, glaring at the ground all the while.
He didn't get away from his handlers, from the soviets, all so another group could attempt to pin him down. He had gotten away once before, and would be damned if he couldn't do it again.
And again, if he had too.
The guest room's door was open, the bed in disarray and missing some blankets, but he wasn't interested. Like all the other rooms, it had another few other doors – one leading to the bathroom he'd used before, and another he had yet to open. Yanking on it, he was pleased to find a few older, musty jackets hanging delicately, and…
Bucky grinned.
What the holy hell was touching her face? And why was it touching her face?
Samara brushed at her cheeks impatiently, wrinkling her nose at the small tickle. "The hell is…" she grunted, flinging her body up and rubbing furiously at her face. It took a few seconds for the sensation of bugs crawling over her face to fade, but once it had she let out a thankful sigh; slumping over as she looked over the room.
Everything was in one piece, thank goodness. No fires. No dead people. No assassin on the other couch.
Shit.
The doctor shot to her feet, almost tumbling to the floor when the blankets tangled about her feet. "Gah!" she cried, hitting the ground and knocking her teeth together. "Damn it all, that hurt…"
Footsteps hurried to where she was lying in a pathetic mess on the ground. "Are you oka – Samara? Why the hell are you on the floor?"
"Taking a short vacation." Flopping onto her back and glaring up, she snorted in annoyance. "What the hell are you doing out of bed?" she demanded right back, wiggling wildly in an attempt to get away from the bed covers. "What? Wandering around my house and perving in all my drawers? By the way, uh, all that porn you might've found? It's not mine, promise, I'm actually holding it for a friend."
Bucky quirked up a curious brow. "I didn't find porn, and I wasn't perving in your drawers," he defended, watching her legs kick out before bending at the knee. His silver fingers were gentle as they gripped the blanket and tugged, rolling her out like a burrito. "I was busy with something."
"What something is that exactly? My friend's impressive porn collection?"
"No," the assassin – she was sticking to the title, screw you – muttered, reaching out to now pull her to her feet. He seemed to take her hand with far too much care, like he was expecting a pound of pressure to split her skin and as focused on it as she was; she stumbled and almost lost her dignity to the cushioned ground. She caught herself just as the man smiled blandly, "With our back-up plan, actually."
Samara perked up, absently brushing away imaginary dirt. "What? We have a back-up plan? Okay, that's awesome," she decided, grinning and bouncing on her feet. "What is it? If something bad happens please say I get to dramatically jump from a high window? Ride a motorcycle? Shoot a gun? No wait, scratch that last one. Guns are bad and I do not condone them."
Bucky just listened, strangely subdued as he shook his head. "No to all of that. You're fragile; if you fell from a window, you'd hit the ground in a truly spectacular fashion. But I suppose I could always find you a motorcycle, if you really wanted one," he allowed indulgently. "Whether I let you drive it on the other hand…"
"I'm not that fragile," the doctor pouted, taking advantage of the strange mood. "I survived being flung against a wall in a truly spectacular fashion – I think I could survive driving a two wheeled vehicle. I do well enough with four."
"I see. Ever survived being shot at?"
Samara winced. "Well, uh, no, see Buck, normal people don't get shot at."
"Ever survived a fist fight with a super solider?"
Again, the dark haired woman grimaced and shook her head, understanding that she was, more or less, being scolded by the man. "Uh again no, mostly because I have no freakin' clue what you mean when you say super soldier?" Samara cocked her head, frowning as she took in the words. "What even is that? I mean, super? You talking about your best bud Rogers?"
Bucky grunted at the mention, nostrils flaring. "Steven Rogers was injected with the super soldier serum," he muttered. "Now do you have a freaking clue?"
Realising she may have crossed the line into the no-no territory, she moved on. "Kay, well, good for him. I'll bake him a cake or something – but what were you saying about this back-up plan? Don't think I didn't notice your slick little subject change," she snorted, folding her arms against her chest. "If there's not at least one dramatic get away, I'm not doing it. I refuse."
The man sighed and waved at her to follow him, walking from the room and back towards her study, where his footsteps had originated from. The door was propped open, and something in her gut tightened nervously. She would rather he had looked through her drawers, then through her work. And how had he even gotten in there? Hadn't she locked it?
Samara tangled her fingers together, nervously wringing them out as she trailed close behind him. "What's going on in here?" she asked quietly, studying the twin backpacks littering the once bare floor space. They were from her hiking days, expensive and sturdy, but covered in dust from a lack of use. It wasn't that she didn't like the great outdoors, it was just that her job didn't.
Bucky crouched and started idly rummaging through one. "I need you to grab some clothing. Practical, so none of your skirt and heels, understood?" he commanded, looking up with a stern expression. "And I want them in here. Also, any form of ID you might have."
Ah. Now she could see it - a back-up plan at its finest.
"Your back-up plan is to get the hell out of dodge?" she questioned slowly, moving towards her desk where a plastic sheet identified her as a doctor. The medical license went straight into the bag. "Not that it's not a good plan, but uh, you see I'm this thing called a surgeon, and I can't exactly up and leave my work without an – an explanation!"
Bucky straightened, features not even displeased by her announcement. "I know. And that's why you're calling your assistant and telling her a family emergency just came up. You're taking an extended leave, because you don't know how long you'll be away, but expect a while," he ordered, picking up the sleek phone from the desk. "Now Samara, I don't care what you say, but I want you to get rid of this thing you call a surgeon."
Samara took the phone, blinking when cool fingers brushed against her own. "Extended leave. Family emergency," she parroted, biting her lower lip until it swelled red. "Is this a back-up plan? Or the main plan?"
"Phone."
Whiskey eyes dropped quickly, roaming over the dial pad as her fingers tapped in different digits. Right, she could easily do this. She was going on an extended leave, because her… oh uh, her mother was… um
"Hello, this is Doctor Samara Masons office, how can I help you today?"
Samara continued to nibble on her lower lip. "Hey Rachel, it's me again, aren't you in a little early today?" she squeaked, backing away from the man as he went through each bag, and his own mental checklist. She could see his mouth moving, but couldn't read what he was saying from the full lips alone.
Rachel sounded about as nervous as she did. "Oh, doc, it's uh, it's you?" she breathed, rapid typing sounding suddenly. "I was just, well catching up on some work you know? Thought I might get ahead. For the person who replaces me."
Person who what?
"Replaces you?" Samara echoed, confused. "Why would someone be replacing you?"
"Because you're going to fire me!" Rachel almost screamed down the line, voice turning somewhat hysterical. "Because I can't keep my mouth shut and I feel terrible and oh my god, I'm a terrible human being. But my student debt was so much, and I just really – it was weighing on me, you know? And I thought I'd feel better without it, but I feel worse!"
Samara blinked once. "I'm confused. Still."
"She bribed me. She bribed me and I let it happen."
That wasn't helping, not in the least. "Okay, we're going to start this again. You were bribed? And I heard something about your student loan in there, I think?" she frowned, running a hand through her hair. Nearby, the assassin was gesturing to his shirt, one eyebrow waved and she swatted a hand back at him in response.
"The red head. Nina – uh Nina Adams? She's not actually Nina Adams. She's that female super spy I was trying to tell you about yesterday and she basically just paid for my education."
Samara blinked again, making it twice that long lashes had brushed against her cheeks. "Nina Adams…" she repeated, watching the man now stiffen before stalking from the room. "Wasn't actually…"
"She said it was a matter of national security!"
"All I did was get rid of some skin tags?" Samara murmured, rubbing a hand over her eyes. "Alright, you know what, no. I'm not dealing with this. You can. You're not fired, but you're going to call all my appointments for the next few weeks – the next few months and tell them I've cancelled. I got a call this morning; my step mother had a heart attack. I'm taking an… an extended leave."
Rachel was silent, breath hissing through the phone. "Wait, so I'm not fired?"
"Next few months. Clear the schedule. Heart attack. Extended leave."
"Yeah I got that, but I'm not fired? You sure?"
Samara closed her eyes and dropped the phone back into its handle, teeth grinding together as the past few minutes wreaked havoc in her mind. Okay so that friend she'd mentioned to the assassin the day before, was quickly falling back in her ranks. She was leaning a little closer to the whole acquaintance thing right now, maybe the mutual family friend you know well enough to smile at.
Rachel wasn't meant to betray her, damn it. She was a student? A book wormy girl who got along with her boss even with the odd ten year difference between them.
A student now free of all her debt.
Her mind now flashing to the amount of money she forked out for her own, she sighed. No, she understood it. Now all she had to understand was who this red head really was…
"What are these meant to be and why do you own them?"
Samara looked up, catching the plaid pyjama pants clenched in silver fingers. "It's cold in the winter," she argued weakly, pointing to the phone. "I got rid of the surgeon thing. But I can't seem to shake government assassins from the list. That red head yesterday? I think she was one of your buddies down at SHIELD, was it?"
Bucky flinched, before his features fell into complete disinterest. "The red head?" he echoed, moving closer and revealing the pile of clothing wrapped around his flesh hand. She could tell from where she was that the clothing was her lazy day style – all sweatpants, jeans and plain crew neck tees.
"Your sudden interest in a back-up plan wouldn't have anything to do with that would it?"
He dropped her gaze, shoving the clothing into one of the bags. "It might, yes," he admitted, letting out a sigh. "But it also might not. Is this enough clothing? Do you have anything you can't bear to part with?"
Samara opened her mouth, ready to argue before she slumped in defeat. "No, I don't really get sentimental," she murmured, wiping a hand down her face. "They paid off my assistant yesterday so I'd have the appointment with her instead of whoever was my original. But I don't understand, all she did was talk and ask me to do my job?"
The assassin frowned, mimicking her action and scrubbing his features. "It would've been me," he breathed out, straightening and looking up towards her. "She would've wanted to see if you were hiding me, or trying to hide from me."
"I didn't…" Samara couldn't help but look towards the door. "She didn't…"
Bucky tried to smile. "Hence the back-up plan. I don't know if she did. But if she comes for us, I want to be prepared," he decided, clapping his hands together. It was a strange sound, and she winced thinking it must've hurt but the man showed no sign of discomfort. "So this is your backpack, and this is mine. They have food, water, clothing and your identification. I've also put some of your running shoes in there, and found some hygiene products. Is there anything else you think we might need if we need to leave?"
Samara frowned, and her lower lip ached when her teeth went back to it. "My wallet?" she offered, patting down her pockets uselessly, before hurrying from the room. "It's right… uh…"
"I don't have to tell you how important this is, do I?" Bucky drawled, leaning against the wall as she rustled through the bowl of keys by the door. "I don't have to say some spiel about how, because you've helped me, you're a wanted criminal as well?"
Wanted… Wanted what?
"I thought you worked for the good guys?" she murmured, holding out her wallet.
Bucky gently pried it from her fingers, his smile terrifying but still attractive because he was a little shit. "I don't remember saying that," he purred, but the heated words fell flat as he wandered away.
Here we go – so apparently I lied when I said there was action in this chapter because nothing happened. Nothing. Apart from whatever that *waves wildly at writing hovering above* is!
Next chapter. Hold me to it.
Taila xx