I do not own Captain America anything.

Except the digital copies. They are all mine. Mine, I say! ;)

I Am Machine

One Step Back

Dammit, Bucky. I thought I told you no more bullshit.

And she had. Oh, she said it cute, as a way to lighten the unbelievably heavy situation in which they'd been entrenched.

But she'd meant it.

And after he'd left, she'd known she sure as hell wasn't sleeping anymore that night.

So she'd done the only thing anybody ever could do in that situation.

She threw herself at her computer.

Pretty purple laptop with an external harddrive. Loads of memory.

And of course, internet.

She set a timer first, knowing once she got ensconced she'd forget her morning preparations.

Throwing both her and Simon off their routine.

And her day would be even more shot than it already was going to be.

With that done, she logged on.

Google search: Winter Soldier.

She knew that the government (like, all of them) kept track of internet usage and interests.

But she also knew that typing in Dante's Paradise Lost would score her a hit too.

And she had to know.

Unsurprisingly, she was rewarded with loads and loads and loads of conspiracy theorists.

Some of which were more stoned out of their minds than the squirrels at Woodstock.

And some who were closer to the truth.

She found some supposed photocopied documents but they were so heavily redacted, they were barely legible.

HYDRA.

SHIELD.

She remembered this vaguely.

A whole big disaster in Washington, D.C. almost two years back.

Government secrets dumped on the Internet.

Natasha Romanoff, Russian spy turned good guy.

Captain America, pursued by the bad guys.

Like anybody could ever take down Captain America, jeez.

She'd paid attention for a while.

But it was so far away so she kind of let it go.

Because Simon and the day to day trials and tribulations he was still working through were much closer.

She was about to shut it down and call it a day when she had another thought.

It was a long shot but . . .

Google search: James Buchanan Barnes.

Let's see if he's related to Elvis or some-

What?

What?!

WHAT!

Son. Of. A. Bitch.

Unbelieving, she had stared at the screen.

Scrolling and scrolling and expanding and minimizing.

1917. 1945.

Steve Rogers.

Captain America.

James Buchanan 'Bucky' Barnes.

Surely, surely, n-

There was a picture.

Oh my God.

I'm going to effing kill him.

By the time he showed up, happier and more relaxed than she'd ever seen him, she was so blue with fury and rage she barely even noticed it.

Show up at my house in the middle of the night, scare me to death, tell me you're an ex-psycho assassin, and show me your metal arm.

But please don't tell me you're also a hundred freaking years old.

'Cause that's the weird part, right.

Oh my god.

It was just so much to process, do much to deal with.

And she wanted to be understanding, she really did.

But it was a lot to take in. Even more so than she had imagined.

And there was Simon to consider.

Was he safe around a man neither of them apparently knew at all?

And so she understandably freaked out.

And really let him have it.

". . . not to lie to me anymore!"

". . . organic to the conversation . . ."

". . . not some delicate little glass flower . . ."

Adamantly demanding . . .

"What else are you not telling me?!"

And finally concluding with . . .

"And I already told you that I can't have people in my life that I can't trust!"

She stopped then, gasping for air, her mind a mad scramble.

Staring at him as he stood there.

Mute and statue-still with an entire world of emotion, sorrow and guilt and regret and misery . . .

Good grief, how does he always have so much emotion pouring out of his eyes all the damn time, jeez, Bucky . . .

. . . flooding out of his scruffy face.

And she knew her decision was the only one she could manage, the only one that gave them both what they needed.

He opened his mouth and she didn't want to hear anything more from it until she'd had time to think this through carefully.

"No, please don't say anything . . ."

Because she wasn't going to get anywhere with his whipped puppy dog face and fallen angel eyes filling up her little apartment.

"Today is Sunday . . ."

She needed to understand what was best for her and Simon.

Where this guy was going to fit in her life. What she could afford to feel and allow and what she could not.

She needed to think.

She needed to get away from him before she punched him in the pouty face.

So . . .

"I need you to go."

She didn't touch him, god, she couldn't, as she crossed in front of him and opened the door for him to leave.

He watched her silently and she had rarely felt worse.

You're sending him out into the cold grown up world all alone. Without a sweater.

A nonsensical phrase. From a quirky kids' cartoon. That did not make her feel any better in its astute accuracy.

So he started to go and she found herself reaching out . . .

Dammit, you pushover . . .

. . .to him almost against her will.

"Bucky? Please come Thursday, okay? I mean it."

And she did, she really did.

She thought she did.

She missed him, god, she missed him.

He wasn't a daily presence but he was someone she missed when he was supposed to be around and wasn't.

She pushed herself to keep Simon's routine and care and attention.

They finished a puzzle.

He went to school.

She blogged. With much more struggle and effort, she might add.

And of course, she thought.

About Bucky.

At first her anger was supernova hot and she stewed in it, determined to stay good and mad.

But then, it started to cool.

And she started thinking about him.

God, 1945.

So long ago.

So much he had missed.

Desegregation.

The Moon Landing.

Woodstock.

Disco.

Chernobyl.

All of the 80s.

The fall of the Wall.

Nirvana.

George Freaking Bush, Jr.

And so, so much more.

All the things that seemed like ancient history to her, just part of the world.

But had changed so much in less than a century.

She was pretty sure the assassin hadn't gotten to partake in free love and platform shoes.

Ripped plaid and the advent of the digital age.

He must feel so lost and all alone all the time.

Brainwashing and assassinations aside, how did one acclimate to such a culture shock?

Was he ever himself? Or had he been asleep the whole time until his friend . . .

Must've been Captain America when he crashed into the Potomac last year.

. . . had woken him up?

And what was it like now? Did he remember everything or was it like a scratched record that skips during a song?

She spent an abundant amount of time researching the nineteen forties.

Documentaries and old photographs and articles.

Thinking, thinking, thinking.

Jeez, everybody looked and acted so different back then. Clothes, everything.

Do women just freak him out now or what?

And she kept looking, she kept thinking, she kept searching.

World World II, swing dancing, men's clothing, and popular slang terms.

Brainwashing. Rehabilitation.

Hungry for information and knowledge and understanding.

Hungry to know him, to understand where he was coming from.

Until it hit her like a mack truck to the face.

What if someone is watching and I'm leading them right to him?

What if they're like him, unstoppable?

What if they try and hurt me and Simon?

And terrified, she slammed shut her laptop and had to shake the low grade terror washing over her.

Oh my god, is this how he feels all the time?

And she could not stop her tremors.

It did not change the fact that he had lied to her. Kept excessively important information from her.

And that, above all else, Simon's safety must come first.

Even before her own strong pull . . .

Nothing's more important than Simon. Nothing.

. . . toward helping this man.

So naturally, she went back to her friends.

Online.

The ones who could be faceless.

The ones she could carefully send words-turned-binary-turned-words to.

And omit anything incriminating well before pressing send.

She hoped.

Hey, Whodunit, I need some help with a guy.

You? The ice queen?

Yeah. He's been lying. Wasn't who he said he was.

Does he hurt you? S?

No. Just weird.

Was he bad? Tell the truth! Are you a secret hybristophilic?

Amelia opened up a new window.

Google search: hybristophilic.

And burst out laughing at the information that popped up.

No! What is wrong with you?!

Okay, okay, just checking. Keep ya knickers on. ;)

You stay away from my knickers. ;)

Seriously, then. Is he bad? Was he bad?

I think he's trying to reinvent himself into somebody good.

You gotta trust your gut.

My gut needs antacid.

Bottom line: How does he treat you? How does he treat your son?

She chewed her lip.

Decently. Like he's just grateful to have friends.

Then either accept him as he is or send him on over! I could use somebody like that in my life!

Amelia grinned.

Tapped her fingers mindlessly against the keys while she let her mind absorb this advice.

That matched the conclusion her own mind was trying to draw.

And she realized she was almost done thinking. Which was good because it was Wednesday evening.

Okay, thanks for the advice. I'm out.

Anytime, honey. Ciao.

Then she closed the laptop

And sat staring out the window for a long time.

Hybristophilia: sexual attraction to someone specifically because the person is a violent criminal.

God bless Pinterest for throwing that little MCU joke/definition randomly onto my feed along with a picture of Tom Hiddleston's Loki. *facepalm*

And yeah, we all know how this chapter ends. But this spot just seemed right.

Thanks to brigid1318, cairistona7, tamarabvillar, Ruby Rosetta Red, brynerose, and eileanskye for continuing to review. You all sure are dedicated, thank you!

Thanks also to MirandaAnnette144 for adding your support to this story! :)