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Coffee Girl
Chapter 14: The Problem
Three Months Later
Marcy looked up from her computer as she felt someone enter her office. "Oh, hey Natasha. Welcome back."
"Good to be stateside again," the redhead responded. Natasha was one of the more well traveled agents. Unlike 95% of the staff in SHIELD Central, she did not have an office or even a specified location of employment. She went where the job took her and sometimes it took her away from the country for several weeks at a time. "And how are you doing? I heard you had your skin transplant."
Marcy reflexively glanced at her arm, though the bandages couldn't be seen with the long sleeved button up shirt she wore.
"Yeah, and it's been healing well. I'm actually leaving in about an hour to get the stitches taken out."
"Oh yeah?" Natasha leaned in, curious. "Can I come with you? I want to see."
"You and everyone else can see it tomorrow. I promised Steve I wouldn't show anyone else until he shows up tonight."
Natasha smiled at that, pleased that idiot was finally in a relationship. The two seemed to be good for each other. "How have you two been doing?"
The brunette couldn't help but flush a little, her face lighting up. "Pretty good, actually. Steve seems a lot happier these days, which of course makes me happy. And he's been really supportive through all this. I'm very lucky to have him."
"Yeah well, just remember, he's lucky to have you, too. I mean it."
"Yes, Mom," Marcy shot back while the other woman closed the office door so they could talk more privately.
"So, I have some information for you on your fantasy man."
"Oh gosh, Natasha. Please don't say it like that." It had taken a while before Marcy had found enough courage to talk to someone about James. She had been so embarrassed to bring it up after agreeing with those who insisted that her mystery savior wasn't real. But the dreams kept haunting her; her memories kept haunting her. Marcy knew she had to make sure and Natasha was the person she turned to.
They weren't super close, but friendly co-workers and she had always respected the Black Widow. Natasha wouldn't laugh at her for questioning her memories from a traumatic experience. Natasha did not even give her that placating smile when Marcy mentioned this man James had a metal arm. She had taken the information seriously and said she would look into it and get back to her. That was before she left on her mission nearly five weeks ago.
"I'm honestly not sure if this is your guy, but he's the first person I thought of." She tossed a thin file on Marcy's desk. "We don't have much on him anymore. SHIELD straight up wiped most of its files before allowing the rest of it to be exposed to the public."
Marcy looked at the tab. "The Winter Soldier? I've only heard stories. I thought he wasn't real. And I definitely haven't heard about him having a metal arm."
"Very few people who have seen him have lived to tell about. Even fewer have been close enough to notice. I've seen it. I've seen him. He's very real."
"And hiding from Hydra? That doesn't make sense. He's their top hitman, isn't he?"
"Used to be. Only very recently did we finally find out his real name," Natasha said as Marcy opened the file. There was a picture of a man, very clean cut, paperclipped to the top page. Another picture was of the Winter Soldier in full gear, but a mask hiding his face. Marcy studied the first photo. Add some stubble, imagine the hair grown out...
"That... I think that's him! His name's... James Buchanan Barnes?" James. She hadn't dreamed him up. Relief washed over her like she had let out a breath she had been holding for far too long.
"His friends called him Bucky," Natasha added tightly.
"Bucky..." Marcy balked. "Steve's Bucky?! 1940's Bucky? How is he still this young?"
"Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe they froze him, too. The Winter Soldier was here in the thick of it during the Project Insight incident. Those of us who saw him have been ordered to keep quiet about it. Steve's been trying to track him down since then. He thinks he can... help him somehow."
Marcy sat quietly for several moments, trying to process this new information. I saved you because of the picture, James had said. The picture of her and Steve.
"Have you told Steve about this?"
"No, I think it should come from you," Natasha informed her with a tone that left little room for argument. "You've kept it to yourself long enough."
"I wasn't hiding this on purpose. Everyone got me so turned around, making me believe I just made it up. They probably would have believed me if I mentioned the metal arm, but I was so embarrassed to say anything. I thought it would make me sound even more crazy."
"You always worry too much about what everyone else thinks of you," Natasha accused. "You're going to tell Steve ab out this now, right?"
The flutter of anxiety began to grow in Marcy's chest. She did care too much about what people thought of her, especially Steve. Would he be mad that she sat on this information for so long? Their relationship was still so new. She didn't want to be the cause of tension. But it would be even worse if she continued to keep it from him.
"Yes. I'll tell him when I see him tonight. As soon as I figure out how I'm going to tell him I've been keeping this from him."
"He'll understand, Marce. He knows you wouldn't have done it on purpose if you knew."
She let out a long breath to calm herself. "What about the other person I asked you about? Any luck on that?"
"Nothing so far. Haven't found any information on a Dr. Steadman- no first name- working for either SHIELD or Hydra at any time. Just as Fury said back when you first told us about him." She paused. "Any specific reason why you need to know about this guy? According to you, he's dead now, so what does it matter?"
Marcy just shook her head. "To be honest, I don't really know. I just feel like there's something more about this guy that I should... I don't know... remember, maybe? Just let me know if you find anything. And thanks, Natasha. Sorry to take up your time."
"Hey, no problem. We're friends, aren't we?"
Marcy blinked at her. Sometimes she couldn't tell with the redhead. Then she smiled. "Yes, I guess we are."
.
"And the big reveal!" Marcy announced, unwrapping her arm grandly as if she were presenting some sideshow.
"I've been looking forward to this," Steve said as they both sat together on her couch.
"You and me both," she agreed as the bandages fell away. "Finally, no more annoying stitches stretching or holding my skin together."
The revealed flesh was still red and puckered with tiny little holes where the stitches had been. But everything was now filled in and the skin was looking on the mend. Marcy experimentally poked at the new graft where the rectangular hole had been. She was pleased to find proper sensation from the transplant when she touched it.
"Not too bad," Steve said, taking his turn to lightly touch it.
"It still looks pretty gross, you can say it. They want it to keep healing on its own for a little while longer to make sure the grafts take. After a few weeks they'll bring out The Technology to help with the scarring. Then it will really start looking better."
"I think it looks fine," Steve insisted. "Not gross at all."
"The one on my thigh might change your mind. It's still pretty nasty."
"Can I- do you mind if I see it?"
Marcy flushed a little, not expecting that request. She was wearing a loose skirt, something she had grown used to since having to walk around with heavy bandages. She carefully hiked it up, revealing no more than necessary.
"Oh yeah, it's still a little oozy." He reached to touch it anyway.
"Ouch!" Marcy suddenly barked and he jumped back in fear.
"Ha! I got you," she laughed.
"Marcy! You are terrible!" The last word came out like a growl and he lunged at her. She squealed and tried to flee, but with his own wounds now all healed, he was far too fast. He grabbed her in an unbreakable hold and growled again into her shoulder while she flailed. He blew a raspberry into her neck and she screamed anew, trying to get away.
Steve continued to hold on tight as they both fell onto the couch, laughing. That laughter quickly turned into a few breathless kisses before Marcy held his face in her hands and kissed him all over his forehead, nose and cheeks. Steve closed his eyes in bliss, bathing in the affection.
"Okay, now let me go. I have to fix my hair since you messed it all up."
"I like it better this way," Steve murmured. "It looks nice all disheveled."
"Yes, I want to go to the restaurant looking like you just ravaged me in the car. Thank you, Steve."
He burst out laughing. Marcy took advantage of his loosened hold and slipped out.
.
"You can go easy on the bread sticks," Steve teased. "We haven't even gotten our orders yet."
Marcy looked down, realizing she had just decimated her third piece. Her body always liked fighting stress with food. It was the reason she always had to keep an eye on her weight.
"Ha, you're right. They're just really good," she said sheepishly, daintily covering her mouth as if she hadn't suddenly pigged out. It was a half truth, the bread really was quite delicious.
"Is everything okay?" Steve then asked. "You seem distracted."
She was. She still had a great big secret she had to tell him. When Steve arrived at her home, she had genuinely forgotten about the James issue in the wake of showing off her healing wounds and just being goofy and laughing with Steve. She was quickly reminded of her secret in the car. At first, she thought she would tell him at the restaurant. Then, she worried the news might agitate him. It wasn't a good bomb to drop in the middle of a public setting.
At the end of the night, she decided, she would invite him in and they would have a talk on the couch. She was still trying to figure out exactly how she would tell him. The wording would be crucial to get him to understand why she had kept it a secret all this time. Until then, she would have to pour on the charm before he got too suspicious.
"You know what I was thinking?" she deflected, resting her chin on the back of one hand. "Now that I'm feeling better, we should go out and do other stuff, not just dinner and movies all the time."
"Yeah?" he asked, one brow raised curiously. "What kind of stuff?"
"I dunno. What about paintballing?"
Steve chuckled. "I would decimate you in paintball."
"You could try to decimate me," she challenged back, "if you could find me. But I'm pretty sure they'd let us be on the same team."
"Have you done it before? Do you even like it?"
"Doesn't hurt to try; maybe I will like it. What kind of things would you want to do?"
Steve blinked at her a moment. Such a question had never crossed his mind. "Things like what?"
"Anything. Base jumping, kite flying, deep sea diving, flower arranging. Anything you want. What do you like to do, Steve?"
Again, Steve blanked at the question. What did he like to do? He recalled when Sam had asked him if he could do anything else besides work for SHIELD, what would he do? Steve still didn't know. He didn't have any interests, any hobbies, he was just... there. Sure, he could face villains and fight for freedom and the innocent day and night; but when the fighting was over, he just sucked up air and thought about the past. Tony had teased him, calling him the most boring man in America. Maybe he was right.
"Well, what did you do when you were young?" Marcy continued to prod. "Before you joined the war; what did you do for fun?"
Steve paused as he thought back. That was another man's lifetime ago. It felt almost like it had happened to another person. "My friends and I would play baseball," he offered. "We liked to watch the Dodgers play, too."
"Ah," Marcy said, looking frozen in her seat and none too happy with the answer.
"You don't like baseball," Steve surmised.
"Can't say it's my forte. But maybe you should get some guys from SHIELD together and play sometime. It would be fun. Or go with your friend Sam to a game."
He raised a brow at her. "You won't even come to a game with me?"
She gave a pained look. "I'll come to one game if you promise to buy me any food I want."
Steve laughed. "Of course you will."
"And in the meantime, let's try some other things. There's got to be something we both enjoy doing together: cake decorating, barrel racing, dancing..."
"Oh, I can already tell you I can't dance," Steve cut her off.
"Me, too!" Marcy agreed with excitement. "We should totally take a class so we don't suck!"
Steve found himself grinning again. It was rare for him to not be smiling around Marcy. She brightened up his dull, linear life. She was a rainbow in his plain, white world. Half of what popped out of her mouth surprised him. Every time he saw her she was doing something new. Now, she was pulling him into her multifaceted world and he felt very lucky to be invited along for the ride.
At that moment, the waiter arrived with their plates of steaming pasta. The conversation was put on hold as they received and assessed their orders.
"Okay," Steve said after they were left to themselves once more. "I'll tell you what: you come to a Dodgers game with me, I'll take a dance lesson with you."
"Done," she agreed. "Though some of those lessons aren't just a single-" Movement at the large window behind Steve caught her attention. There stood a man, gazing in at them, watching them. Their eyes met, locked for a solid second, then he quickly walked away into the night. Marcy's blood ran cold and she shot to her feet without thinking.
Steve instantly keyed into her alarm and stood as well. His soldier's instinct to protect kicked in as he followed her haunted gaze to the window. But he saw nothing there.
"Marcy, are you okay?" he asked gently as he moved around the table to touch her arm. "What happened?"
She quickly shook herself and took her seat again, embarrassed at her actions. "Sorry, it's nothing. I just scared the crap out of myself for no reason." She gave an awkward laugh. Her heart was pounding again. She willed it to not be a panic attack. "I thought I saw a SHIELD agent I used to know walk by the window- one of our agents that died. But it was just someone that kind of looked like them. I feel stupid now."
Steve seemed unconvinced. He gave her that worried, protective look that she was beginning to dislike whenever he threw it her way. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"I'm fine." She motioned him to sit down again. "I just startled myself for no reason. Maybe I'm a little stressed or something." But inside, her heart was still racing. Though she knew it was impossible, Marcy was sure she hadn't been mistaken in who she saw. It was Conner. How was he still alive? She had watched him die.
"Is this... the first time you thought you saw one of your fellow agents who has passed?" Steve asked.
"Yes," she said with clear irritation in her voice. "And it was a mistake. He just looked like someone I knew; it wasn't really him."
It was Conner, she knew it was. Why wouldn't she admit it? Why wasn't she telling Steve? Her brain was having trouble processing this information and figuring out the correct response.
Her finger tapped an anxious rhythm on the tabletop before he reached across the table and placed his hand over hers.
"Are you okay? It's fine if you want to leave. We don't have to stay here."
With her free hand, Marcy pressed it to her chest and let out a few deep breaths. Her heart was slowing down. Good. Steve understood her panic attacks. He was always so patient about it. It made her love him more. She gripped his hand.
"No, I want to stay and eat with you. I'm okay. Just even a small surprise gets the heart racing for a second, you know? I already feel better now."
Steve watched her carefully, but his shoulders relaxed as she smiled at him. "Okay. Just know I'm here for you if you need anything."
She grinned. "I know. You tell me all the time, you big marshmallow. Maybe too much."
"I can never tell you too much," he insisted with comic seriousness.
She grinned bright, warmed by his expression and his words. God, she was already so ridiculously in love with this man. He probably had no idea how bad she had it for him. She always wanted to do right by him. She never wanted to let him down.
Then why hadn't she told him the truth of what she saw in that window? Because Agent Michael Conner, dead or alive, was a person she never wanted to talk about with Steve. Her next partner after Clint, and her last. She had stupidly fallen for him, too, as her stupid heart fell for all her partners. But Conner had not only rejected her, but took every opportunity to humiliate her in front of her fellow agents. When he was informed of her extra abilities, he seemed to hate her even more.
Marcy had sucked it up with that living hell for as long as she could. It was too embarrassing to admit to Fury why the partnership wasn't working out. Even more embarrassing if she were to talk about it with Steve. He was Captain America, he was perfect. All she wanted to do was impress him so he would never find out how pathetic she was.
And what would Steve even think if she said she saw her dead ex-partner staring at her in the window? And Michael Conner was dead; this was a solid fact. Wounded in the field, Marcy had watched him die as she tried everything she could to keep his heart beating. There was no way the man in the window could be Conner, and yet it also felt like there was no way it couldn't be. Maybe she was going crazy, or maybe it was the guilt and stress of keeping something important from the man across from her playing with her subconscious.
Even though she loved being in the warm light of Steve's affection, she suddenly wished she had agreed to just cut and run so she could go home and figure all this out.
.
When dinner was over, they drove back to Marcy's house. As usual, Steve walked her to her door, lingering as she fished for her keys.
"Do you want me to come in?" he asked.
Usually, the answer was yes. With Steve, "coming in" meant snuggling on the couch and watching a movie or talking all night at the kitchen table while eating snacks. Normally, Marcy would selfishly hoard all the time with Steve she could get. But tonight, her racing brain greatly needed time alone to think.
And she still hadn't told him about Bucky. She wanted to, but she just couldn't stomach that difficult conversation after being frazzled by the ghost of her dead partner all night.
I will tell him tomorrow, she promised herself. After a good night's sleep and I'll be ready to do it. The second I get to work, I'll tell him.
"Sorry, I think I'm going to have to call it a night," she said with great apology. "You know I love being with you, but I just feel like I need some quiet time to get my brain to shut off."
Steve, being the amazing person he was, again understood. He liked having his own time alone as well. "It's fine, Marcy. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Let's do something fun this weekend, okay?" She quickly said, wanting to leave the night on a lighter note.
"Deal," Steve leaned over to kiss her cheek, but Marcy caught his collar and gave him a proper kiss on the mouth. Steve returned it wholeheartedly before pulling away.
"Good night, Marcy."
She remained on the porch as he stepped into his vehicle and only shut the door when he began to pull away. Once the door was closed, she leaned against it, suddenly feeling exhausted as she listened to Steve drive away. She already missed him. She liked him in her house. She loved his masculine contrast against her mother's frilly furniture, she loved his presence among the empty rooms. He made her feel safe and calm; but also guilty.
Tomorrow. She would tell him everything tomorrow and never keep another thing from him again.
The light in Marcy's kitchen turned on by itself. She froze, holding her breath. Immediately, the image of the man she saw in the window came to mind. Did he follow her home? She had guns in the house, but nowhere near a convenient location. She began to fade when someone from the kitchen spoke.
"It's just me, Marcy," came a male voice. "I'm not going to hurt you."
The voice wasn't all that familiar, but something about it caused curiosity to outweigh her caution and she crept into the kitchen.
There sat James at the kitchen table, boots propped up by a second chair; as if all Marcy's thoughts of him had summoned the man out of thin air. He looked near to how she had seen him before: black Kevlar, exposed metal arm, dark eyes and hair. He still had a few days stubble decorating his jaw as if it refused to grow or be cut. Only this time, James seemed healthy and at full form.
"He's not just your friend anymore, I see," the man quipped with a smirk.
"James," Marcy blurted out, her jaw working to find words. "You're here." She looked him over again and again. "You broke into my house?"
At that question, he dropped his feet from her chair and stood, finally looking contrite for his sudden appearance. "Yeah, sorry about that. You were gone and I didn't-"
Marcy was suddenly hugging him, her arms tight around his torso. He was solid, real. He was everything she remembered. She nearly cried at the confirmation.
"I'm so glad you're here, alive. I worried so much about you. They kept trying to make me believe you weren't real, that I dreamed you up."
James stood stiffly in her arms, unused to the physical affection. It was so foreign to him, it almost felt like a physical pain. It made his heart ache to be held. It made him ache to be cared about like this.
"I'm real," he said in a thick voice.
She suddenly pulled back, her hands now on his arms. "Why didn't you say something earlier? Steve was just here. I can call him back. He would love to see you!"
James instantly frowned, backing away from her touch. "If you call him, I'm gone."
"Are you serious? You would just steal out the window like a mature adult, would you?"
"Just because you trust the old ball and chain, doesn't mean I do."
"You trust him," Marcy accused. "I know exactly who you are, James Buchanan Barnes."
He winced at the sound of his full name as if the truth physically hurt. "I see."
She reached out to him again, taking his metal hand in hers. "Thank you for finding me."
"You left me your address," James reminded. "Thought I'd take you up on the invitation."
Marcy suddenly pulled away. "Ugh, you need a shower." She moved around him, pushing at his back to steer him down the hall toward the bathroom. "You get clean and I'll order you some food."
"You're not going to cook?" he asked with disappointment.
"I would have if you gave me proper notice to stock my fridge. Show up suddenly late at night and you get take out."
James let it go at that. Hot food was hot food and he couldn't remember when he last had a real, warm meal. His stomach growled as Marcy shoved a towel at him and shut the bathroom door in his face.
In the stark, white bathroom hemmed with painted seashells and starfish, James couldn't help but feel he had just fallen into another world. This life of normalcy was not where he lived. He didn't do kitchens with wooden tables and chairs, bright lights and sterile bathrooms that illuminated all that he was.
As James stared at himself in the mirror, he felt like darkness in a world of white. He was everything the rest of the world was not. He was foreign, weird; a sub species made from pieces of the norm, but unable to trick the normal world into believing he was still a part of it.
Yet, here he was. He did not have to leave his world of shadow and encroach upon the everyday, but he did. He willingly stepped into the real world, willingly risked being spotted and judged by those that weren't anything like him. And for what? What was he doing there? What had called him to the address hastily written on a ragged piece of paper?
He kicked off his boots and stripped himself from his gear, standing naked before the mirror, appraising himself again. So many pieces of him looked like them, but he felt made of other stuff. The only piece of truth was that metal arm. The arm never lied. It would always tell others that they were not the same; it would always remind James that he was not one of them.
Sick of staring at himself, at the stranger that stared back, James turned on the water, not even waiting for it to get warm before stepping in the tub and pulling the shower curtain closed behind him. He was used to bathing in frigid water, if he was able to bathe at all. But as the liquid grew steamy and hot, James did not move to temper it as his skin grew red.
The hot water found all his little nicks and cuts, scalding them, finding every hurt. But the pain felt good, cleansing. James leaned into the heat, letting it wash away the filth. Maybe it could wash away his darkness and he wouldn't feel like such an abnormal smudge of black in this white, white room.
When James finally relinquished himself from the world of heat and steam, he found his clothes had been taken while he was in the shower. Strange, he hadn't noticed Marcy enter at all. But then he remembered her invisibility. She wasn't all part of the normal world either, was she? Maybe that was why he searched her out again.
In replacement of his regular gear, a pair of gray sweat pants and a black T-shirt waited for him. He dried and dressed, poking his head into the hall. He was greeted by a large gray tabby waiting by the door.
"Well, hello there, furball."
That cat meowed in greeting before rubbing himself against James' leg. Then he stared at the man expectantly, standing on his hind legs and putting his front paws on the man's knee.
"What do you want, cat? I don't have anything."
The cat pulled back, but his claws were caught in the cloth, pulling the pants down with it.
"Hey!" James barked, fighting to keep his pants up while disentangling a fifteen pound cat from his person. Once freed, he retreated down the hall, hands protectively holding his waistband, before he could lose any more of his dignity. The smell of cooling Chinese food beckoned him to the kitchen.
Marcy was waiting for him, boxes of takeout on the table. In the meantime, she had changed into a baggy shirt and flannel pajama pants.
"Took you long enough," she said. "The food's getting cold."
James wasn't sure how long he stayed in the shower. He had let the sounds of the rushing water take him away from everything. He could be no one at all, just for a while. He may have been no one for nearly an hour.
"Looks like the clothes fit. I thought the two of you would be about the same size."
"The two of us?" James asked.
"They're Steve's clothes. He left his gym bag here a few days ago."
James didn't even think about what he was doing as he smelled the cloth on his shoulder. Did the clothes still smell like Steve? Would he smell anything familiar?
"Don't worry, I washed them," Marcy said, misinterpreting his actions. "Your clothes are being washed right now." She motioned to the table. "Sit. Eat."
James didn't need to be ordered twice. He quickly went to work shoveling generous portions onto an offered plate and wolfing it down.
Marcy sat silently next to him as she watched. He had a nice build under the T-shirt. Leaner than Steve from poor diet, but still strong. The recollection of her dream with him came unbidden to her mind and she recalled how his hands felt on her, his breath on her skin, before she could push those ridiculous thoughts away.
Life wasn't fair. Why couldn't she have such a hot dream about Steve instead? She certainly wanted one. Though, she really hadn't had any steamy fantasies awake or dreaming as of lately, not while her body was still healing. Still, it didn't seem fair her subconscious gave her such titillating visions of random men and none with the man she dated.
"You having any?" James asked, interrupting her thoughts.
She blinked at him. "Um, no. I already ate." With a man she had never had a dirty dream about. Maybe she could fix that if she thought about it hard enough before bed...
"Looks like you bought enough for at least three people," James pointed out.
"Maybe. If your appetite is anything like Steve's, I think you can handle most of it."
At the second mention of the blond man's name, James put his head down and became very focused on his food.
"I haven't told him about you," Marcy said quietly. "I didn't tell Fury, either. All they know is an unidentified man helped me escape Hydra."
James looked her in the face, waiting until he had finished chewing to ask, "Why?"
"As I said, everyone at SHIELD was quick to write you off as some sort of hallucination. You left no trace and no one saw you. I didn't argue with them. Sometimes I questioned my own recollection of you. To be honest, I just confirmed your identity this afternoon. I didn't know you and Steve had history before then."
James narrowed his eyes at her in confusion. "And you were out with Steve tonight. Why didn't you tell him?"
Marcy buried her fingers in her hair, letting out a sigh. "It's been a complicated night. Other things came up. I was going to tell him tomorrow at work. What do you want me to do?"
"Nothing." James shoveled another bite of food into his mouth. "If Steve finds out I'm in town, he'll come after me again. It took everything I had to lose him the last time."
"May I ask why you don't want him to find you?"
James set his jaw, his brows turned down. "I need time." He looked down, staring intently at his plate. "Steve doesn't understand what it's like to have someone mess with your head, take all your memories away from you. For the longest time, even after I dragged him from that river, he was just a blur in my head. He was someone I'd rather not think about. And it took some time of me being honest with myself until those real memories started coming back.
"That's why I stay away, because I remember him. I know him. He wants to drag me back to SHIELD, have all their doctors and psychiatrists "fix" me. He thinks once we're together it will be all rainbows and daffodils. We can pretend nothing happened and we'll be best friends again."
"So, are you saying you're not his friend anymore?"
James raised his head to look her right in the face. "I am always Steve's friend; to the end of the line. But he doesn't get to decide what part of me needs to be fixed. He doesn't get to dictate how I handle Hydra or what they did to me. I deal with my business how I need to deal with it and I don't come home until I'm ready, not when he wants me to."
"I can understand that," Marcy said quietly, looking at her hands resting in her lap. "I understand having to do things at your own pace. But Steve understands that, too. You're going to see him sometime, right? You said 'come home'. Steve is your home."
James breathed out loudly from his nostrils and then gave her a bit of a hopeless look. "I know. I know he's there, I know he'll always be there. But I'm just... I'm just not ready yet."
"Can I at least give him some sort of message from you? Something to let him know that you're okay?"
"No," James said instantly. "Not yet. Not... maybe next time, when I come back, I'll tell you what you can say. Promise me you won't tell him until I say so. Promise me."
She chewed on her lip. She never ever wanted to keep secrets from Steve. Especially something like this.
"Marcy, if you don't promise me right now, I'm out and you will never see me again," James said with a bit of a growl in his voice.
Her heart broke. This wasn't what she wanted. How was she supposed to help James and still be loyal to Steve?
"I will," she said carefully. "I will do this if you promise me something in return. Promise me you'll keep coming back, that you'll take care of yourself. If you do that, I..." God she hated saying this. "I will keep this from Steve for now."
James nodded. "Thank you."
"Huh." Marcy suddenly said, turning her head in intrigue as she stared at him closer.
"What?" James asked, mouth full of food.
She reached out, removing a few strands of damp hair from his face. "You have blue eyes. I never noticed before. Your eyes always seemed so...dark."
James said nothing. Maybe that water had washed away a bit of his darkness after all.
.
Marcy left him at the table to wander the house and come to terms with this new bargain she had made. She wanted to tell Steve so bad. He had been searching desperately for this man for a while, unable to find him. She had James in her house. She could text Steve in secret and he would be here in minutes. But what if James figured it out too soon? What if he managed to flee and neither of them ever saw him again? If she could just keep him around, she was sure she could get him to agree to reveal himself. Steve wouldn't fault her for that, would he?
She eventually sat herself on the couch and switched on the TV. She paid little attention to what was on the screen as so many other things swirled around in her head. Her current guest wasn't the only problem she had to worry about right now.
After most of the food was consumed, James wandered in to sit next to her. How strange it was to sit on a padded couch, watching TV. He couldn't recall ever doing such a thing in his lifetime. He took a moment to enjoy the novelty of it before glancing over at Marcy. She had a tablet in her hands and was flipping through various files and pictures.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
Marcy shook her head as if internal thoughts buzzed around her like annoying flies. "Today's just been a weird day all around. I.." She paused and decided to change her train of thought. "You've been keeping an eye on Hydra, right? You've spied on some of their operations?"
"Where and when I can. But you just agreed you weren't going to tell SHIELD that I-"
Marcy cut him off, pushing the tablet in his face. "Did you ever see this man anywhere?"
James studied the SHIELD personnel file. Agent Michael Conner. The man in the photo had a similar build to himself, light brown hair and a small hook-shaped scar above his left brow.
"Is he a missing agent?"
"He's supposed to be a dead agent," Marcy sighed. "After he was killed in action, we found out he might have actually been one of Hydra's many planted spies. So it would have been great if he were still dead, but... I could have sworn I saw him tonight."
"Well, you would have been the only one," James said, handing back the device. "Never seen him before."
"Maybe my brain made it all up," she admitted, staring at the profile in her lap. All the stress and guilt was getting to her. She sighed as she tiredly rubbed her face. "Between the two of you, I'm going to get gray hairs before I'm thirty."
James wasn't sure if she meant between him and the man in the photo or between himself and Steve. He didn't ask.
.
The winters in Brooklyn were harsh and bitter; but when it was summer, it felt like the summer would last forever. When they were small boys, they would be out from dusk until dawn with their bats and their gloves, each bragging how they would make it with the Brooklyn Dodgers before the other. Everything was carefree, easy, perfect.
The boys paused in their game as two police officers walked toward their car, a handcuffed man between them. The man was dressed in black, a strange mask over the lower part of his face, as if he were some viscous animal needing a muzzle.
"Who's that, Bucky?" Steve asked.
"Dunno," Bucky replied.
The man turned to the two boys and Bucky could see his other arm was made purely of metal. The man had no eyes, just holes of blackness and Bucky stumbled back in fear as the man suddenly broke away, charging toward them. He was no longer handcuffed. Now he somehow had a large gun in his hand and he pointed it at the gaping blond boy.
"Steve!" Bucky screamed, charging forward. He threw himself in the line of fire, the bullet ripping through his body.
Then, the pain was gone, but Bucky was still running. He raced down hallway after hallway, following another person ahead of him. The place was too dark to see who it was, he just knew he had to keep going if he wanted to stay alive.
They seemed to run forever and it was hard to move his legs. The running was slow, the halls so long. But eventually they stopped and paused in the darkness.
"Is he coming?" Bucky asked in a whisper. "Is it the man with the metal arm? Is he after us?"
"Metal arm?" the other person answered. The voice sounded female. "Look."
Bucky turned, and in the darkness, he saw himself perfectly reflected in the mirror. Instantly, he recognized the Winter Solder, black mask and all. He was the man with the metal arm.
"It's you," a female voice said.
Bucky's reflection disappeared and, instead, there stood Marcy, pointing a gun right for his heart.
"You're the problem," she said flatly and pulled the trigger.
The glass shattered and James woke from his slumber with a sudden inhale of air. Heart still beating a little faster than normal, he found himself curled up on Marcy's couch. Said owner was sleeping on the opposite end, their bare feet mingling in the middle and keeping each other warm. James pulled away, sitting forward and rubbing his face.
It was the dreams again; they were the main reason he refused to go home. At first, when he started to remember, all he ever dreamed about was the lab, the tests, the torture and experiments. But James had come to terms with it. He was angry what had been done to him, but he accepted who he was now, where he was now.
But his dreams of recalling a horrific past quickly molded into nightmarish fiction. The few times James allowed himself enough sleep to dream, they were always about Steve and the monster with the metal arm. That thing that did not know his friend's face, that almost killed him when Steve was only trying to save him from himself.
James, Bucky, whatever he wanted to call himself now, wasn't ready to face the world until he had fully expunged the monster from himself.
A soft sigh caught his attention and Marcy stirred. She stretched with a yawn, hair sticking to the side of her face. "Morning."
James glanced at her. "Nice toes."
She wriggled her pink toes and then stretched her legs in the space his had abandoned. "I guess we both were tired. Did you sleep well?"
James didn't say anything. Troubling dreams aside, it had been the first time he had been able to sleep all night long since the cabin. He hadn't even meant to sleep here, he had just dozed off. What was it about this woman that helped calm that anxious feeling always digging in his chest? How was she always able to break down his guard and allow him to rest?
Marcy didn't wait too long for an answer before glancing at the clock on the wall. "Yikes. I've got to get ready for work. If you stick around, I'll make you breakfast."
As she went down the hall to get dressed, she hoped that would be enough to entice James to stay a while longer. But as she emerged from her bedroom, ready for the day, she found he had already slipped out without a trace.