A/N: MY STORY HAS A GIFSET! Sorry, I had to scream it, it's too exciting for me. Fanfiction, and Tumblr, user West of the Glass has created a gifset for The Original Three on Tumblr and I'm SO happy! Thank you, West of the Glass, it's amazing and I love it—and all of you guys should check it out and like/reblog it! Fanfiction won't let us post links, so I'll write it out and you guys can format it properly in your search bar: westoftheglass . tumblr . com (slash) tagged (slash) the-original-three. SERIOUSLY, GO LOOK AT IT! I'm fangirling so much!

Also, thanks for being patient. These last few weeks were so heavy with exams and stuff that it was like, "What is sleep? What is eating?" But I'm on winter break now! I'll still be busy but I'm going to try and write a lot of my stories so I can post at my leisure when spring semester starts.

This girl is going to be the death of me.

This was the first thing that popped into Bucky's mind when Victoria appeared in front of him and Steve—slowly standing up and looking giddy and elated, wearing a flowy dress—and it popped into his mind because she looked amazing and his heart lifted without him even meaning it to at the sight of her.

Then he was horrified at himself—horrified at the fact that…did this mean he was losing it?

For days now, Bucky had fought to keep an icy grip on his mind and heart. He was confused, lost, angry—but more than anything, he was afraid. He was afraid of what had been done to him, of who he was, of being used again. He never wanted to allow himself to be compromised in any way again so he tried blocking all attempts at friendship out.

But he found himself slipping every now and then, his resolve weakening when Steve looked at him with those oh-so-familiar friendly blue eyes and that boyish grin that seemed to insinuate all sorts of boyhood escapades and adventures. He found his resolve weakening when Victoria approached him her prickly-soft way, flaring up like a dangerous rocket one minute and then softening to a gentle blaze the next, grinning wickedly and looking awkward and shy in turns.

She was…

Incredible.

That was the word that had echoed in Bucky's mind after he saw her and he was horrified at his momentary softening. He couldn't let this happen—he couldn't allow himself to trust, to open up, to emotionally connect with someone. People were liars and leeches, and they used and abused. He knew that now and it was a dirty lesson he was never going to forget. He would always look at strange shopkeepers with suspicion, always raise his hackles when someone stared at him too long or loitered near him too much. The world was a disgusting place, he had helped to make it all that more disgusting, and this was why he didn't trust other people or his own heart.

They can't be trusted and neither can I.

But Victoria…Victoria had somehow slipped in. She had barged in and danced in and slipped in somehow all at once. Bucky didn't get it, didn't get how someone could so boldly yet so gently make their nest inside of him…but then again, there was a lot Bucky didn't understand these days. Like himself. Steve was one thing; his friendship was tentative and delicate but more solid and dependable, something Bucky understood and remembered deep down. He felt a pull to Steve that felt more safe and not so…fragile. It didn't make his mouth dry up and his head ache, it didn't make his adrenaline spike the way it did when he was around Victoria. He had somehow ended up sleeping in her room, for god's sake, and he was still berating himself for that. How could he have done that? Where did she get her powers from, to make him open up so easily?

So he couldn't stop himself—his mouth dropped open because she looked beautiful but he couldn't help the horror that came over him, at the realization that she had somehow made him care even when he had vowed not to. She could ruin him, she could destroy him—and worst of all, he could destroy her…and he didn't want to do that. He didn't want to do anything that would ever hurt her—and yet he already had, multiple times. She was Asset 56. One day, she might again be Asset 56 to him, if he ever got twisted out of shape again, if HYDRA got their hands on him again.

What an ugly situation to be in.

He'd noticed her expression falter at his horror and his heart had lurched because the words rushed up in his mouth—No, no, you look great, you don't get it—but if there was one thing HYDRA had really taught him, it was a silent and steely tongue and so he choked on his unspoken words and felt even more horror at the fact that he even cared that she was upset.

What an even uglier cycle to be in.

He tried to make himself shut down after that. Victoria dusted herself off, like she tended to do, and cheerfully said something about going to see the city. Bucky was in no state to argue—he was in no state to say anything to her at all (what would he even say? "I like you and I hate you and I'm scared of you and I'm in awe of you and I want to hurt you and I want to keep you safe"? All of that was true but all of it was so mixed up and stifled, he could never say it)—so he numbly nodded and simply followed Steve, drifting behind like a ghost, as Steve and Victoria chattered aimlessly about the places they needed to go see.

A vague part of him noted that she was determinedly ignoring him—though whether she was punishing him for his rudeness on behalf of her looks or whether she felt hurt and rejected, he didn't know. People were hard enough to understand these days and Victoria was even more difficult than most people because she, like Bucky, was a little ball of anger and sadness knotted up. The difference was that she also had goodness and glory and hope tied up in her as well. No matter how dark Victoria thought her mind was, Bucky could guarantee his mind was a darker, sicker place.

He followed Steve and Victoria all the way to the base of—what was this place called again? Avengers Tower? What a ridiculously stupid name—and exited onto the crowded New York City street right outside the multiple glass doors that would take them back inside. Victoria and Steve blinked a few times in the brilliant sunshine but Bucky's eyes hyper-adjusted quickly and in the few seconds they took to get their bearings, he had already swept the surrounding area with his eyes, scanning for any suspicious or alarming activity. He'd had several missions in mind glowingly hot, brilliantly sunny lands in the Middle East and parts of Asia. He was used to the blazing sun as much as he was used to the smoke, fog, and night. After all, the deadliest parts of winter could involve the brilliant sun blinding people with the reflection of its light off of dangerous, slick icy landscapes.

Steve tried to hail a cab but no one stopped for him. So Victoria leaped forward, leaning precariously into the street, holding her hand out, dress flaring around her from a slight breeze and a taxi immediately screeched to a halt in front of them.

"Unbelievable," Steve grumbled. "Amazing, the things a pretty girl can get people to do."

Victoria beamed and Bucky smiled slightly to himself at her pleasure. Then he wiped the smile off his face and cursed himself again when he realized that Victoria had yet again made him shed his hard exterior. What was it about this stupid girl? Had he always cared about her so much? In his memories, he remembered loving her like she was his clueless little sister…what the hell had changed?

She saved you, a voice in his head that sounded eerily like the old, smooth Bucky Barnes whispered to him as he crammed himself into the cab, Victoria smushed in between both of them. He inhaled her flowery perfume and tried to ignore her scent.

So did Steve, he argued back, knowing that he was having an argument with his own self.

But you don't exactly have a thing for guys, do you? his mind old-self dryly said. Tiny cute women, however…

That's not enough. There's women everywhere, he thought stubbornly.

And yet, even as he struggled with himself internally, he knew this wasn't true. Pretty women were everywhere—but all those pretty women out there hadn't painstakingly hunted him down and stuck with him even after he'd assaulted them multiple times. It wasn't about looks anyway, it never had been…

He stewed with these troubled thoughts while the cab took them off to whatever mad venture was in Victoria's head. He didn't even notice where they were going, which was completely unlike him, but he was too busy having a crisis to really even care. If something bad happened, he was so on edge that he knew he could easily destroy anyone in his path and not really give a damn or get so much as a scratch. And that included Victoria and Steve at the moment.

Victoria and Steve, for their part, didn't try to reach him. Bucky would have been offended…had he noticed or cared. But he didn't. He kept moodily rubbing his left hand, which glinted whenever a sunbeam struck through into the car, and tried to empty his mind to no avail. He only noticed where they were when the taxi screeched to a halt and Victoria was pushing him out of the cab while Steve leaned over to pay the driver.

Bucky looked up at the boring brownstone building. It looked residential, judging by the multitude of varying window curtains in different windows. He heard the sounds of kids playing some sort of game nearby—a street or two over, perhaps?—and the front stoop was covered with half-washed chalk drawings and one potted plant which had some choice genitalia scribbled on the plot with black marker. Teenagers were apparently no more mature these days than they had been in his day—which was to say, they weren't mature in the slightest bit.

"Well?" he asked testily, breaking his silence, as Steve and Victoria stared up at the brownstone as if it was some sort World Wonder. "Where are we?"

"My home," Victoria said, sounding surprised despite her having known exactly where they were going. "And Steve's home. We used to live here—in this building."

I look up at the brownstone in front of us and it's like a volley of memories come rushing at me, punching me in the face and stomach and neck, making it hard to breathe. I was born here—I grew up here—I never lived anywhere else—

Tripping down the front steps when I was four and skinning my knee.

Sitting on the steps when I was six, moodily watching other little girls walk their prams out on the front walkway in groups of two or three. They knew I was there. They didn't care. I wasn't allowed to join, for some reason. Maybe my hair was too close to red. People still had strange ideas about the Irish back then, even though I wasn't Irish back then.

I mean—I'm not Irish now either. You can't change ethnicities. And if you can, don't let me know, because that's creepy.

Climbing the tree out front when I was eleven and falling out and landing squarely on Bucky, knocking the wind out of him. He yelled at me for that and smacked me. This led to me crying and squarely kicking him in the groin, though I hadn't realized that that was a delicate spot. This led to him dropping to his knees and crying. And the whole time, Steve—who was sick and had another fever, as usual—had his face smashed against the window on the upper floor, goggling out at us.

Accidentally cracking one of the windows near the ground floor in anger when I was…hmmm, I must have been around fourteen. I was still angry at my mother for dying and leaving me, at that age, was still raw from her death even though it had happened some years prior. I ran inside and feigned ignorance when people asked questions. And no one ever suspected quiet, motherless Victoria Marsden was the one who had broken the window. They blamed a boy I hated and I should have rejoiced but I felt uneasy.

Puking next to the steps one icy winter evening at the age of fifteen when Bucky and Steve snuck me into an older people party and I got pressured into drinking a few glasses of hard liquor from these older girls who thought I was a "right cutie" and deserved to "be treated like a grown up, doll." Steve and Bucky had to half-carry, half-drag me home but I refused to let them take me inside in this state. I puked for half an hour before they took me inside. Bucky politely told me the next day that I was as dumb as Steve sometimes. I'll always remember that. Probably because it's true.

"—the same? Hello?" Steve leans over and nudges me.

"What?" I say, startled.

"Earth to Victoria," he says.

"Earth to what?"

"It's an expression," he says. "It means your head is in the clouds. Come back to Earth. Did you hear me? I asked, do you think it's the same building? Or did they rebuild?"

I look at the building. I'd like to be able to say that I get a magical sort of feeling from the building, a homey feeling, some sign from the heavens that tells me deep inside, YES, this is your home. But honestly, I don't. It's just an average, ugly, dirty brownstone in Brooklyn and it's not I ever paid close attention the brick pattern or whatever when I lived here. Maybe it is the same building, maybe it's not. I'm not getting any homey sort of feeling from it. But at the very least, I know this is the right spot.

"I guess there's only one way to find out," I say determinedly and then I barge in, while Steve calls behind me, "Victoria, wait—"

Okay, in retrospect…I realize how stupid this was. What was I expecting, that the building would look exactly the same and that I would be able to get into my old apartment and that it would look exactly the same and perhaps my father—and maybe even my mother—would be waiting for me inside, back when things were okay?

Yes. Yes, that's what I was expecting.

Suffice to say, that's not how it went.

I burst into the brownstone dramatically…and see nothing. White floors, tan walls, dark brown doors with golden doorknobs and door numbers and stairs at the far end leading upstairs. Nothing looks familiar so far, except the layout—but hey, everyone gets makeovers at some point, right? Even people like me. I race up the stairs to the third floor where my apartment used to be and make my way down the hall, searching, searching, searching for number 366…

It's not here. The place is numbered differently. I'm looking at apartments numbered in the 1400s.

My heart falls and I stand there, wilting in disappointment for a second, until it hits me—I'm such an idiot! My apartment was at the far end of the hall, the last one on the left! My window overlooked the front street! I stride down the hall to the last apartment on the left and look at the number. 1468. Okay, very different from 366…but it shares one number, so that's a good sign…right?

Either that, or you've totally lost it, Fizzy, my mind tells me pleasantly. Want to place bets? I think we both know who'll win.

"Shut up," I tell myself sternly. "I'll not be betting with my own damn mind." I pause. "Besides, then I'd lose and I'd owe myself money, and how would that work?"

"What the…?"

I look up to see a blonde woman entering her apartment a few doors down, arms laden with grocery bags, giving me a strange look. Oh dear. She's seen me talking to myself. I give her a weak smile and a wave and ask, "Do you know who lives here?" and point to door 1468.

"How the hell would I know?" she asks before she enters her apartment and slams the door shut.

Right. I'm in New York City. The city that never sleeps—and doesn't have manners. It's only been about seventy-four years…how could I have forgotten the typical New Yorker attitude already? I'm rude but New Yorkers beat even me by a mile. They'll steal the shoes off your feet if you fall asleep on public transportation.

Okay, maybe not that—but they'd let someone steal the shoes off your feet and they'd just laugh when you woke up barefoot.

I take a deep breath and vaguely wonder why Steve and Bucky haven't followed me in before knocking on 1468's door and waiting while my heart pounds. No one opens the door. Come on—please be home. I knock again, more sharply this time. I wait a few more seconds and then the door opens a crack, the chain on the inside stopping it from opening all the way. I'm looking into the face of an unfriendly looking teenage girl.

"Uh, hi," I start.

"We're not interested in any cookies, churches, or whatever," she says and she starts to slam the door shut.

"Wait! I used to live here!" I blurt in a desperate attempt to stop her.

Thankfully, it slightly works. She opens the door back up a little again and peers at me. I can see fine blonde hair and squinty brown eyes. "What?" she asks. She cracks her gum.

"I—I used to live here," I say. "At this apartment."

"Um…so?" she asks impatiently. "I used to live in New Jersey. Do you have a point?"

"No, you don't—it's just—" I don't know what to say. Hi, I used to live here decades ago, would you please mind letting me in so I can see if it looks the same? "My—my mom was murdered here," I say, wincing at my lie.

The girl's eyes widen a bit and she stares at me. "Um, what? Someone was murdered in my apartment?" I wince again at my lie and she misinterprets it. "Oh—sorry about your mom," she adds in an afterthought. "But what do you want?" she says a bit impatiently. "That sucks and all, but I'm busy, so I need to go—"

"I just want to see inside for a moment," I say. "I was—she was murdered here when I was a kid and I was taken away by…by, um, the police and I've been in…uh, foster homes ever since and I just really wanted to come see my childhood home and see where it—where it happened, you know?"

The girl stares at me for a moment before slowly saying, "Yeah, okay, sorry, I don't let strangers into my—"

"Please!" I say desperately, taking a step forward and holding my hands up in an attempt to show her I'm not armed or anything. "I'm not a criminal! I don't want to hurt you! I'm not going to, like, case the apartment so I can break into it later!"

Her eyes widen slightly as if this thought never occurred to her. SHUT UP, VICTORIA. STOP TALKING.

But I can't—not when I'm so close to my desires.

"All I want is to see my home!" I say, practically pleading now. This is humiliating and degrading, but I think I'll vomit if I don't get to go inside at least once. My home—my walls—they are so close, just a few footsteps away…I just need to get inside, just need to stand in the same space one last time to remind myself that I existed, my mother existed, my father existed, our home existed—

She stares at me but I think I detect a softening in her gaze. She looks younger than me but she's taller than me. She looks me up and down and I can see her come to the same conclusion I've been hoping she'll come to: She's so skinny and she's wearing a dress…how much harm could she really do?

I mean, a lot. I can do a lot of harm with my powers, if I want to. In fact, I wouldn't even need my powers—I'm still a good fighter, if a bit scrappy and wild, and I'm pretty sure I can take this girl without even really trying. But she definitely does not need to know these things.

"Okay," she finally relents. "But real quick—my mom's not home and she'll kill me if she finds out I let a stranger in. If she comes home…pretend you're a school friend."

"Thank you, thank you so much," I babble gratefully as she closes the door, unlocks it, and then opens it wide open for me. I step inside the threshold, quickly taking her in—a few inches taller than me, short blonde hair, brown eyes, wide thin mouth—before turning to the apartment. It hits me like a punch in the gut (man, I've been getting metaphorically punched a lot today; I don't like it. Someone make it stop). The paint, the floors, the decorations…they're all different, of course. But the layout—it's the same.

Of course, that probably applies to most apartments in the building. But this time I do get the feeling that this is…home. Or it was, anyway.

As if my feet are moving on their own, I seem to float down the tiny hall to the first door on the right, right past the small kitchen, and put my hand on the doorknob.

"Hey!" The girl lunges at me and slides in between me and the door, blocking it from me. "That's my room! What are you doing?"

"That was my room too," I say softly, lost in memories now and barely noticing her. "There's a white radiator under the window on the far right side of the far wall, isn't there? And, if you look closely, you can see the letters VM + NF carved into the bottom of it, right?"

The girl gapes at me. "How…holy shit, this really was your room! Who're VM and NF? I always wondered."

"VM is me," I say, "and NF was my fourth grade crush. What was his name? Ned Ford…"

The girl scrunches up her nose. "Ned? I didn't know they actually existed. I've never met a Ned."

"It's short for Edward," I explain.

She gives me a blank stare. "I've never met an Edward either."

Guess it must be a thing of our era.

"Can I go inside?" I say. "I just…I think I may have left something of my mom's behind."

She raises her eyebrows. "And you think it's still there? Listen, I only moved here two years ago. A dozen other people must have come through since you left—"

Try a couple dozen.

"Please," I ask again, more quietly this time. This is not the time for my attitude or brute force.

She must see something in my face—either that, or my knowledge of the inside of the room must have convinced her—because she relents and opens the door. I step into a teenage girl's lair. Clothes thrown everywhere, dresser cluttered with makeup and sprays and bottles, photos of her and her friends tacked on the walls, curtains with pink stripes running down them, stacks of books and magazines laying around everywhere. Not so similar from my room actually, except my curtains were floral, I had comics along with fashion magazines, and…I had no photos of friends. Partly because taking photos wasn't as common as it is now. But also because I barely had friends.

I kneel by the radiator and look at it. I don't even think it works anymore; maybe they left it in here to give it charm. Sure enough, I can see the faint VM + NF scratch near the bottom. Shivers run down my spine when I realize that it was my hand that made that scratch…over seventy years ago. I might have rubbed shoulders with this girl's great-grandmother… I stand up so fast I bang my head on the low edge of the window and stagger backwards with a hiss of pain, rubbing my head.

"I do that all the time," the girl says, snickering.

"I used to too," I mutter. "I forgot. Right…the thing I needed…" I look at her apologetically and say, "I need to go into your closet."

She rolls her eyes. "Of course." She slides her closet doors open and says, "Is there anything else you need to go through? My underwear drawer, maybe?"

I ignore her and kneel on the ground, feeling inside the wall for the hole. They've remodeled the apartments with new paint and new floors over the years, but I'm sorely hoping they missed this little corner…and—

YES!

My hand plunges into something soft, where the wall is decaying because water leaks in from the shower on the other side, and I reach in, shuddering as my hands touches dust and dirt and probably rat droppings, groping for…for…for the small velvet pouch I find inside. I yank it out, blowing away the brown dirt and gray dust that covers my hands and stare incredulously at the small velvet pouch. It's covered in dirt and grime, but nothing a good cleaning shouldn't fix. And inside…

"Whoa," the girl says, kneeling by me curiously. "I can't believe you found that. How long has that been there for?!"

"Longer than you can guess," I say tiredly.

For the first time, the girl looks at me suspiciously. "Who are you again? What's your name?"

"Valerie Manor," I say distractedly, turning the pouch over in my hands. "I don't want to get my dress dirty—do you have a bag I could put this in?"

"What's inside?" she asks, leading me to the kitchen.

"A stupid necklace my mom gave me when I was a kid," I said. "It's worthless but…it has sentimental value, you know?" Without meaning to, my hands have gotten sweaty and I clutch the bag a little more tightly. Little does she know…it has sentimental value and commercial value. If she knew how much the necklace inside this bag is worth…she might not let me leave the apartment without giving it to her. She might say it was found on her property so it belongs to her—and she'd legally be right.

Not that I care about laws or anything, but it'd be a hassle to knock her out and then make a run for it in this nice dress, you know?

Luckily, she seems not to actually care to see the necklace—probably because the bag is so filthy and disgusting (seriously, it looks like a rat pooped on it fifty years ago)—and she thrusts a plastic bag at me. I drop the velvet pouch in, tie the bag shut, and then quickly wash my hands in the sink while she watches me in mild disgust.

"So I'll just be leaving now," I say, backing to the door and opening it from behind me. "Thanks for—"

"Victoria, are you done?" Steve suddenly appears in the open doorway behind me and I startle, leaping forward and away from him. "Hello," he says politely, to the girl who's staring at him first in bewilderment—then in appreciation—and then in slowly dawning recognition and shock.

"Oh my god," she says.

"Time to go," I say to Steve hastily.

"Oh my god—"

"Really time to go," I hiss, because Steve is staring at the girl in confusion as well, as if she's some friend of ours that he should know.

"OH MY GOD, YOU'RE—"

Steve gets the hint now and he gives the girl a hasty smile before grabbing me like I'm some sack of potatoes or a football or some other small and useless object—

I take it back. Potatoes aren't useless. Potatoes make the world go around. They're delicious.

Anyway, he grabs me and hightails it out of there, moving so quickly that my feet would probably have been broken if they'd been touching the ground. But they weren't, because he's carrying me like I'm a damn baby, so it's okay, I guess. We race down the stairs, my teeth slamming together, and finally I smack Steve back on the ground floor and say, "Let me go! She's not chasing us! This isn't an action movie, you idiot!" and he lets me go, looking sheepish.

"Guess I'm used to just running without thinking," he says. "But who the hell was that?"

I shrug. "No idea. Just the girl who lives in my old apartment."

"And now she knows we're in New York," he says critically, rubbing a hand through his blond hair. "Now she's going to Tweet about it or blog or whatever kids are doing now and everyone will know we're here. We need to get going."

"She'd never have known we were here if you hadn't shown up," I say as we push our way through the doors back outside. "And besides, who cares if she talks about it on the Internet? No one will believe her, she didn't get photos."

Steve looks nervously up at her window. The curtains are still. "She didn't get a photo…yet. Come on, let's at least get out of sight. Bucky," he calls. Bucky's been leaning against a tree in front—a different tree, not the one I climbed—with his head tilted down and arms crossed, as if he's fallen asleep standing up. But he stands up the second Steve calls his name and I know he's been alert this whole time. Just bored.

"We done here?" he asks.

"Yeah, let's go around the corner," I say, speaking my first words to him since this morning. He ignores me and avoids my gaze and I grit my teeth in frustration. What is his deal? He's been acting shifty around me ever since this morning! I gave him space earlier but now I'm about to snap and roughly shake him around the shoulders and demand to know what's up.

We head down the street and turn left. On the left—on our side—is another row of brownstones. On our right is a small green park with a tiny playground, some benches, and some large oak trees dotting the park. At the far right end of the park is a small area with two basketball hoops, where teenage boys are playing basketball.

"Let's go to the park," I say, crossing the street.

"Is this…?" Steve asks in wonder, silently asking us if this is the park from our childhood.

"No," I say. "Where has your memory gone, Steve? We never had a park this close to home. This used to be—an apartment building, I think. If I'm not mistaken. And I'm never mistaken."

"Except when you are," Steve jabs, taking a seat on one of the benches and looking around in interest. I sit next to him and look at the plastic bag in my hand. It has a smiley face on it. I crinkle the bag, bending it in such a way that the smiley face now looks like it's frowning.

"What's that?" Steve leans forward in interest.

"Something of mine I found in the apartment," I say. "A necklace my mom left me. I hid it in the walls back then—don't ask why. I think I was trying to be a spy or something."

"And you found it after all this time?" he demands incredulously. "Let's see it!"

I smile sweetly and hand the bag to him. "It's covered in rat poop. Be my guest."

"On second thought…" Steve pushed the bag back towards me. "We'll have it cleaned and then look at it."

"My thoughts exactly."

We sit there for a moment and watch Bucky, who's gone and leaned up against tree a few feet from us. "What's with him and trees?" I mutter.

"Is something wrong with him?" Steve asks. "He was fine this morning—but then he got all silent and moody all of a sudden."

"Why are you asking me?" I ask.

"Because if anyone put him in a bad mood, it was probably you," Steve says and then he gives me my trademark sweet, mocking smile. "Right?"

I'd punch Steve—but he's right. He could probably never put Bucky in a bad mood. This is somehow my fault (as is most everything in the universe. World War II. Pushing Daisies getting cancelled. Pluto getting classified as not a planet anymore. Yeah, I know about that—and it's probably somehow my fault, too). I don't know what I've done but I better go and apologize for it before Bucky regressed back into his really moody self…the self that involves throwing me into walls and giving me a lot of back pain.

I hand Steve my bag, get up and wander over to Bucky and say, in a low voice, "Hey, I'm sorry."

He's staring blankly at the kids running around on the playground off in the distance and for a moment he seems to not have heard—but then his eyes focus and he snaps to. "What?"

"Don't make me say it again," I say. "I don't apologize twice. Apologizing once feels gross enough."

"What are you apologizing for?" he demands. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"Well, obviously I did, since you went all silent and annoying ever since I came back up from getting dressed!" I say in irritation. "Steve says you were fine before that. So what, did I offend you? Did you think I looked ugly and it ruined your day so badly that you felt like you couldn't speak another word? Did an ex-girlfriend wear a dress like this once? Whatever the heck it was, I'm sorry, alright? But will you just get over this silent and deadly thing? It's getting annoying and what's more, it's making Steve worry and you really shouldn't be doing that, Bucky." I fix him with a beady glare and I'm gratified to see his cheeks turn faintly pink. "You can get as mad at me as you want but don't make Steve Rogers worry about you, okay?" I say in a lower voice. "That boy's spent the last four years feeling lonely and missing us and beating himself up over your death. He doesn't deserve this crap." I take care not to look at Steve. He can probably hear us but as long as I don't see him hearing me defend him, I won't be embarrassed by acting like such a mother hen.

Bucky swallows and opens his mouth and I think he's going to make a grand apology or something—but all that comes out is, "You don't get it."

I wait to see if anything else follows and them impatiently say, "Seriously? That's all you're going to say?"

He scowls. "Why the hell can't you leave me alone? Why do you keep trying to turn me back into your golden boy? I'm never going to be that guy again so stop wasting your breath waiting."

"I never said you had to be him again," I say, stung. "Did you forget everything I told you at the diner? I told you it was okay if you didn't become the old Bucky again! But I told you that it was time to become someone new. Is this who you're choosing to be? A moody, silent asshole? Because those guys—they exist. I would know, I've picked fights with them too." One of my scars seems to sting at the memories and I rub the back of neck without thinking. A guy tried to cut me there once. He nicked me. Then I nicked him—right in the eye. "And no one likes them," I continue. "No one said you had to be our 'golden boy' again. But you could at least try to be somewhat likable. Like how—" I hesitate. "Like how you were when you stayed in my room. Why can't you just be…why can't you just be a little nicer? Smile a little more? We're not going to kill you, you know."

Bucky looks away from me, focusing on the kids again.

I decide to finish meanly. "Because, believe it or not, Bucky Barnes, there are people who've had worse done to you. What happened to you was not okay—it was a crime against humanity. But there have been people who've had worse. What do you call people who are survivors of the Holocaust? Have you ever looked it up? The things that were happening while we were just…hanging around Brooklyn? The things those people lived through and saw? And there are survivors who tried to live life after. And not just them—people going through genocides and wars around the world. If they can try to find happiness in the crappiest of times…then so you can. You jerk," I add, to make my speech a little less sappy, and to my immense relief, I see the corners of his mouth lift up slightly. Like, just one centimeter. But that's good enough, right?

We stand in silence for a moment. He's looking at the kids beyond my head and I'm staring at the houses across the street behind his back. Glancing at Steve, I can see he's staring around, looking a bit lost in thought. I look back at the house, thinking hard for a moment, eyes tracing the windows and doors and front steps. Did anything I say get through to him? Did I sound like a preacher at a church? I didn't mean to. It's just, it's true, isn't it? There are people out there who've been through a hell of a lot worse things than we have—even though we've been through some really dark stuff—and they try to live their lives and be good people. I guess it's sort of a disservice to them if we sit around moping and hating everybody. I mean, that's kind of what I did those four years I was homeless in D.C…but at least I kept fighting, kept stealing, stayed alive. For what, I don't know, but I tried. All of those nights spent sleeping in sleeping bags, under stolen tents, acting out Shakespeare to myself and making up stories. I tried to live. And it's frustrating to see Bucky completely shut down and not even want to try at all. Does that make me heartless or impatient? Crap. I'm not cut out for this therapist stuff.

As I'm agonizing over all this in my mind, my mind keeps focusing on this one random guy leaning against a streetlamp across the street. He's staring in our direction but he hasn't moved. It's his stillness that eventually makes me pause and focus on him more closely. Has he been standing there this whole time? What is he pulling out of his—?

I react before I can even think, yelling, "BUCKY, MOVE!" and slamming into him, knocking him aside, just as something white hot slashes past my arm and knocks me on my back. And then everything happens so quickly. I lay on my back, gasping, world spinning in circles above me, and try to get up—but my arm is on fire and it hurts like hell to move it. I can hear the sounds of furious fighting and male grunts and yells around me and little kids screaming and running away and then the sounds of teenagers shouting, "Oh shit, oh shit, someone call the cops!" and the whole time, the world is spinning and why the hell can't I get up or move any part of my body, I'm stronger than this—

Someone grabs my limp body and hauls me up and when my head flops forward, panic sets in. Did I somehow get paralyzed?! I think I once said that I'd rather just die than be paralyzed and that totally still stands true. A life as a paralyzed person, I couldn't do it, oh god, no way in hell—

My hair falls into my eyes and I see my left arm is soaked in bright red blood and then the person holding my arm is throwing me over their shoulders like a rag doll and running. I can't even open my mouth to scream. All that happens is that my mouth opens so slowly that all I can do is let out a whispered croak. All I can do is scream in panic in my mind while I hear Steve and Bucky both yelling, "VICTORIA!" behind me. Why aren't they following? Who's holding me?

LET ME GO! I scream in my mind.

Great plan, Victoria. Just scream at them in your mind, because they can totally hear you.

Who the hell is holding me?

All this speculating is useless. I know—we all know—who's captured me. It doesn't matter who's physically holding me…it only matters who he's working for: HYDRA.

They've gotten me. I don't know how but they've found us and they've gotten me again. Was I the target or was Bucky? The gun was aimed at him and I took the bullet for him—but I'm the one they dragged away. Maybe they intended to take him and Steve out and then kidnap me. Maybe I wasn't supposed to get hurt. I hope my injury throws a wrench in their plans. I'd gladly take another dozen bullets if it meant ruining their plans.

My stomach is churning from fear, from hanging upside down, and from all this jostling around as the man runs down the streets and then throws me into a blacked out van that I think has its doors open and waiting. I'm not sure. I can't see, my hair is in my face. He throws me into the van so hard I hit the opposing wall—DAMMIT, that hurt, you bastard! I scream mentally—and hit the ground. Someone slams the door shut and shouts, "Go, go, go! We don't want Rogers and Barnes getting on our tail!" and I hear a screech as they hit the accelerator and race off.

I lay on the ground, facedown, hair in my mouth, and all I can do is stare at the ground while tears trickle out of my eyes. I didn't mean to cry. I'm not a crybaby, normally. But this is a little more than scary and worse than being kidnapped is the fear that I'm paralyzed somehow. I don't know how a gunshot to the arm could paralyze my whole body but I don't care, because panic is threatening to completely overtake me. I can barely suck in a breath and if vomit rises up in my throat, I'm going to choke on it. Like actually, physically choke on my own vomit and die.

Can you imagine a more pathetic death? Though I kind of wish it would happen, just to ruin their stupid plans. I can just see the HYDRA agents going, "Hi, here's the girl just as you ordered. Oh, except she got shot and then choked to death on her own puke. Did you still need her then, or…?" to their master or whatever gross creeper they now serve, now that Pierce is dead.

Just as I'm thinking I really am going to either asphyxiate or bleed to death (which is probably not even possible from a flesh wound…but a girl can hope), someone kneels by me and flips me over. I look at him through blurry eyes and try to frantically blink the tears out of my eyes so I can see him better, but my eyelids are moving so slowly that once I've closed my eyes, it takes a good thirty seconds to open them again. And now my eyes are even blurrier. But I think he's wearing a black face mask, so I wouldn't be able to see him anyway.

"Aw, are you crying, sweetheart?" he asks in a mocking tone. "Don't worry, there's no need to be scared. We're not going to hurt you."

My eyes dart in the direction of my shot arm and he understands what I'm getting at. I think he shrugs and says, "Not our fault you decided to play the hero. That shot was meant for Barnes—it was going to go clean through his heart. Still, I expect they'll have shot him and Rogers through the head by now. So you basically took the shot for nothing."

Icy fear grips my heart at his words and he must read it in my eyes because he laughs and says, "Sorry to be the bearer of bad news! But anyway, let's get this arm bandaged up. The higher ups won't like it if we deliver you like this. Too bad you got your nice dress all messed up, they'd have liked to see you all pretty like this."

My flesh crawls when he calls me pretty and it crawls even more when he puts his hands on me to clean and dress my wound. He's wearing black gloves, of course, but it's still gross because those gloves cover his hands, so they're technically an extension of his gross body.

It made more sense when I first thought it.

He cleans my wound off, throws rubbing alcohol on it which makes tears of stinging pain pour down my face (since I can't bite my cheek in pain—it's all I can do to swallow my spit and not choke on it), and he notices this and says, "Oh, right—you can't move, right?"

I stare in his direction. Gee? You think? Wow, I wonder what clued you in. Maybe it was me NOT punching your face into bloody pulp.

"That'll be the bullet," he says as he roughly dresses my wound. "New thing HYDRA's been working on—bullets laced with paralytics that get absorbed through the skin straight into the bloodstream. So if we shoot super soldiers like Barnes and Rogers, they don't have time to get up and kill us before their wound really hurts them. Cause a normal man, he'll get knocked down by a bullet and he won't be able to do much. But super soldiers? They can still fight after being shot, for a little while anyway. And we didn't want that. But the paralytics eventually wear off. Not sure how long but you'll be able to move eventually, so just as a precaution…" He then binds me up, tying my paralyzed arms and legs together by wrapping a thick rope around me like a hundred times. Seems pointless now but when I regain function of my body, I won't be able to move an inch. I have to give them some grudging respect for thinking ahead. This was a pretty clever plan.

As the van races through the streets, I notice that we eventually begin slowing to a normal speed. I assume this means they think Steve and Bucky can't follow us anymore. I pray that this is because we've gotten far away enough and not because—not because—

No. Don't think it. Don't ever think it. Even if it happened, don't think about it.

They're still alive.

They have to be.

I notice the feeling beginning to return in my arms and legs as we keep driving (we must be going far) by all the tingling and pins-and-needles feelings that are going on in my body. I can twitch my fingers and wiggle my toes against my bonds but that's about it. Full function hasn't returned yet, I can tell, but it's coming back and that's all that matters. In the meanwhile…they forgot to account for my face, which has regained full usage of its muscles. And so I open my mouth, take a deep breath, and unleash full hell and fury upon them, screaming obscenities and threats and swear words at the top of my lungs, starling the drivers to the point where one of them shouts, "Jesus Christ! What the—?!"

I keep screaming at the top of my lungs, almost incoherent shrieks filled with threats and mangled swears and pure white-hot fury pouring out, until one of them shouts, "Shut her up, for God's sake! I can't think with her going on and on like that!" I know I'm going to regret this but I keep yelling until my throat feels like it's going to rip, making such disgusting threats that I'm almost shocked by how inventive my threats are getting (this is probably the first time someone has threatened to rip out someone's larynx, make them eat it, make them puke it back it up, and then make them eat the puke) and one of the men—the same one that bandaged up my gunshot wound—leaps into the back and the last thing I see before passing out is his fist reaching up and back and then slamming into my face.