"Sorry for wasting your time."

"It's hardly your fault, Dr Banner," said Amy. She plastered a tight smile on her lips and tried to keep her disappointment at bay. "I'm just sorry Mr Stark called you all the way here for no reason."

"Don't let it bother you. It won't bother him. He gets a little confused about what I actually do sometimes, that's all."

The tightness in Amy's face didn't ease. No. Stark didn't get confused. Deliberately obtuse, he did that well. But no, not confused. And she was pretty sure Dr Banner knew that too. Amy thought about it all very carefully as she linked her hands behind her back and walked the doctor to the elevator.

"It is an intriguing idea," Banner added, "but I think you'll have to give up on using a spinal cord graft. You might have to work inside the brain instead. I think that's probably why you're having trouble. I'll let Stark know if I do think of anything that could help."

"I'd really appreciate that," said Amy, offering him her hand to shake.

Dr Banner eyed the proffered limb and pressed his own palms together, and then he took the arrival of the elevator as an excuse to dodge the handshake completely.

Amy lowered her arm.

It was the gun. Was it the gun? She'd thought it was concealed under her jacket. She had taken to arming herself after the pool incident. But she hadn't considered how that might look to Dr Banner. Of all people.

"Well, it was nice to meet you, Ms Thomas," he said, avoiding her eyes, stepping backwards when the elevator doors opened. "Good luck with the research."

Amy inclined her head and somehow kept smiling until the doors closed again. She stood alone in the corridor for a few moments, watching the numbers on the display change as the elevator climbed the building. They only stopped increasing when Dr Banner reached Stark's private penthouse suite.

Amy pursed her lips. Had Stark really thought that Bruce Banner would know how to create a system to enable comprehensive feeling in their prosthetics, or had it merely been a ruse so he could ask someone he trusted to check up on her?

She didn't know. She did know that she didn't much like the idea of messing around inside anyone's brain.

Would she give up then, on that particular aspect of the project, if that was the only solution?

She touched her fingers to the pendant of her necklace and slowly walked all the way back to her desk.

She wouldn't- she couldn't go playing around inside Bucky's head- she wasn't sure there was any benefit that she could offer him that was worth that particular risk.

Amy hugged herself, chest starting to ache. She hadn't heard a thing from Bucky since his telephone call almost two weeks earlier. She assumed Hill would tell her if there were any serious developments, but maybe that was a stupid assumption.

The situation in France appeared to have calmed down at least. There was an international task force looking into the incident in Creys-Malville, but the whole episode had already faded out of the main news headlines. Amy could only pray that was a good thing, keep her own guard up, and force herself to concentrate on her work.

She had finally finished all of the simplifications that Stark had requested after seeing her notes on Bucky's arm. They actually had a model to begin testing. Amy had met some of the volunteers for the trials the day before. Soldiers who had been wounded in Afghanistan. Multiple amputees. Strong, brave, incredible men. Men whose lives they could make just a little bit easier.

And then there had been the girl of sixteen. Maimed in a car crash caused by a drunk driver. Amy had fought hard for her inclusion.

What they could provide still wasn't perfect, but she believed it was better than anything anyone else could offer.

Amy had also believed that Stark would come up with the solutions to all of her design problems. However, touch… The simulation of touch still eluded them, as her meeting with Dr Banner that morning underlined. Stark- well, she wasn't entirely sure- but Stark seemed to be losing focus. Amy wondered if he was bored. He had ideas. Hundreds of the things. Maybe he was distracted?

Maybe that was the curse of genius?

Not that it stopped him publicising what they were doing. He was due to host an event for a number of significant industry leaders in the field of biomedical engineering that evening. Amy almost- well, she almost wished he'd sell the patent to one of them. Hand over the model to a group of professionals who specialised in the area.

Because there was a tiny little fear that gnawed away at the back of her conscience. She couldn't shake it off. Not completely. She knew Stark was fascinated by robotics and cybernetics. Knew it. Everyone knew it. She didn't want him to adapt this technology and use it in a suit. No more weapons. It was a promise that Amy had made to herself. A promise she meant to keep.

She sat down at her desk and massaged her temples. Attempting to chase away an impending headache. It wasn't working. And the ache in her head only got worse when she saw Maria Hill walking sharply across the office in her direction.

"Do you have a dress for tonight?"

"Good morning to you too," said Amy, dropping her hands into her lap.

"I'll take that as a 'no', shall I?"

"I don't do dresses."

"No. I guessed as much. Here." Hill handed Amy a card. "Go to this store," she said, but she took the card back before Amy had a chance to even read it and scribbled down a name. "Ask for this sales assistant and say you need something appropriate for a Stark Industries' black tie function."

"I can dress myself."

"Not to Mr Stark's standards."

Blow delivered, Hill turned and marched away, without offering as much as a goodbye.

Amy stared after the former S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. She did love their little chats.

..ooOOoo..

"Do you know how many women would literally kill to have these measurements?"

Amy watched the chirpy young sales assistant drop her tape measure into her pocket and begin fluttering around the dressing room. The woman was being paid to sell clothes. Really, really expensive clothes. Amy didn't put much stock on a single word of flattery that dripped from her lips.

"I'm going to go out on a limb and guess literally none."

Amy was standing in the middle of the room, feeling like an idiot. Or a doll. Or an idiotic doll. She'd never been any good at this sort of thing. She tried not to sigh audibly. It had to be nice. Being a man, going to one of these fancy parties, when the only thing you had to worry about was choosing a nice pair of cufflinks.

"I think we should try blue," said the woman. "It'll bring out your eyes. Ooh, no, or maybe red, that would look amazing with your hair," she enthused, flicking through dresses on a rail. "Lengthwise, I'm thinking-"

"Long," Amy said, without compromise, as she checked her watch.

"Really? Well, that would give us scope to go with something backless or strapless, and we'll have to think about underwear too, of course."

"Why?" Amy groaned.

"You'll want the proper support," said the woman breezily, and then she gave a little flirtatious smile. "And if it's for a special night…"

"I told you, it's just for a work event," said Amy, through her teeth.

"That's a pity." The woman's face fell. "Okay, well shoes too. You'll need those, naturally."

Amy bit down on the inside of her cheek.

Okay. This was. This was a new and unusual form of torture. Right?

Several lifetimes later. Or just a short two hours in the real world. Amy emerged from the store, weighed down by a number of bags. The only one that gave the illusion of being considerably lighter than the others was her purse containing her wallet.

Well, she had a dress at any rate.

She hadn't chosen red or blue, and she certainly hadn't been thinking about Stark's reaction when she'd picked it. So silly of her. To want to look beautiful for a man who wasn't even here to see.

Amy hailed a cab and collapsed onto the backseat. She picked up her phone and checked her Twitter account purely out of habit.

Her newsfeed had exploded. She sat up a little straighter.

Captain America had been sighted a quarter of an hour earlier at Dulles International Airport in Washington, D.C.

That was wrong. That had to be wrong. Yet Amy poured over her phone and scrolled through Tweet after Tweet purporting the same thing. Still. It might not be genuine. It wouldn't be the first fake sighting she'd seen reported. And no one seemed able to produce a photo. So it was probably a false alarm.

Probably?

She started chewing her thumbnail.

Could she risk the indulgence of hope?

Whatever the answer, Amy searched for a plane ticket back to the capital. Found a flight that left in a little over an hour and began reserving herself a seat. It wouldn't hurt. Just to check this out. Just for her own peace of mind.

She got all the way to the point of paying for her ticket when a message popped up on screen.

Credit card declined.

Amy scowled at her phone.

No way was that right. Not unless the store had just overcharged her by several thousand dollars. She tried again. With a different card. That one was rejected too.

What the hell was going on?

The cab dropped her off at Stark Tower, and Amy was no closer to solving the problem. The driver had to run after her when she walked inside without any of her bags. She took them with a frazzled thank you, and then hurried as quickly as she could manage up to her apartment.

She dropped the bags the second she made it through the door, and turned on her computer. She needed to contact her bank.

The phone on her bedside table started to ring. And ring. And ring. It was an internal call that she finally picked up when she couldn't ignore it any longer.

"Ms Thomas. May I remind you that you are not authorised to leave New York until 0600 hours tomorrow morning."

The voice on the other end of the line was male. The accent British.

"J.A.R.V.I.S.?" said Amy, as understanding began to dawn.

"A temporary stop has been placed on all your credit and debit cards to ensure that this stipulation of your contract is enforced."

"You can't do that!"

"You have been booked on the 0843 flight to Washington, D.C. tomorrow morning. The terms of your contract clearly state-"

Amy slammed down the phone.

Hard enough to crack the plastic.

And when that didn't give her a crumb of satisfaction, she picked up the whole thing and hurled it against the wall.

She wanted to scream. But she told herself to calm down. She'd agreed to this- but it had never felt quite so much like a prison sentence before. Damn it! She had no car in New York. No way to hire one either apparently. Steal one? She could do that, but she doubted that leaving Stark Tower was an option before morning.

She dragged a hand through her hair and paced the small apartment. Her limp got worse the faster and more agitated her steps became. In the end, she caught sight of her computer screen, sat down, opened up a word processing document and started typing furiously.

..ooOOoo..

"Thomas. Smile would you? You're throwing off the aesthetics of the whole room."

How the hell was Tony Stark still alive?

That was what Amy wanted to know. The sheer number of people he went through life infuriating was astronomical. She watched him stroll by her hiding place, a radiant Pepper Potts on his arm, and she kept her lips exactly as they were- downcast and mutinous.

Eleven hours. Eleven hours and she could get on a plane and fly to Washington and look for Bucky. That meant eleven hours of hell that Tony Stark had subjected her to tonight. Amy was not happy. She moved through the party of chattering, laughing people like a ghost. An angry spectre at any rate. She skirted the edges of conversation, never engaging, never truly wanting to be seen.

The evening dress didn't help. Silver. Satin. With a halter sweetheart neckline. She'd worn her hair loose to hide the scars shot through her shoulder. The single solitary reason that she had come to the party at all was to meet some of these biomedical engineers. But of course, no one wanted to talk business tonight. The few men that she had tried to engage in debate earlier had been far more interested in ogling her breasts.

So, before she'd snapped completely and punched one of these industry experts in the face, Amy had found a dark corner by the bar to wait out the clock. She pulled out her cell phone. Checked all of her online sources. No updates. No further sightings. Nothing new all day.

She twisted the chain of her necklace around her finger, and then looked up with a frown as the bartender placed a wine glass in front of her. Okay. Odd. A wine glass full of fresh orange juice?

"I didn't order a drink," she said slowly.

"It's from the guy over there."

Amy's frown deepened.

"What guy?"

The barman turned and looked over his shoulder.

"The one standing- oh." He looked confused. "He's gone."

Strange.

Well, stranger.

Amy started to frown with something more than simple irritation.

"What did he look like?" she asked.

"I don't know. Tallish? Dark hair, I think?"

Amy's heart skipped a beat. It didn't mean- it didn't have to be- she was sure there were lots of tall, dark haired men… who would go to the trouble of buying her a drink… and then disappear into thin air?

"Did he say anything?"

"Well, yeah. That was a bit weird too, to be honest."

"What? Why? What did he say?" Amy demanded. She pressed her hands flat on the bar and leaned forwards.

The barman shrugged his shoulders. He edged towards another of Tony Stark's guests, someone who looked slightly less deranged, probably.

"Told me to watch you didn't drop it. Said you weren't too great a handling surprises."

No, well, there might be some truth in that warning.

Because Amy felt like she was about to have a heart attack.

She took a few quick steps towards the other end of the bar. Stopped. Looked around. It was dark, crowded, she couldn't see- anything- anyone of interest. And then she glimpsed a door shutting to her left. It didn't mean anything. Not really. Just that someone had stepped out into the corridor for a breath of air.

That's what she told herself, even as she gave chase, bursting out into the corridor. The empty corridor. Her heart was still racing, but now every beat was accompanied by a little twinge of pain.

Was this what it felt like to go crazy?

She turned around, almost tripped over, as she heard another door click shut behind her.

It could be a trap. It could be HYDRA. It wouldn't be the first time that they had infiltrated Stark Tower. But Amy picked up her skirts an inch or two as she quickly walked the length of the corridor to see for herself. Except there was nothing on the other side of the next door either. Just a line of locked offices, and a set of French doors that led out onto a balcony.

Doors that were standing open.

Inviting?

Amy swallowed hard. She still had her gun. Concealed under her dress. Holstered at her thigh. So if it was a trap, at least she had a weapon. And- and she just- she had to know…

She walked forwards. Legs shaking. Glad she had opted for ballet pumps tonight. Her knee couldn't cope with heels. Lucky really. Or else she would have fallen over her own feet by now. She stepped out into the slight chill of the evening and looked from left to right.

There was a man standing at the far end of the balcony.

The only man in the world who mattered.

Amy pressed a hand to her mouth and stared into the twilight. Her heart was beating a tattoo inside her chest. She had needed it to be him so very, very badly. But now she had finally found him, she could barely remember how to breathe.

Bucky. Bucky was leaning against the balcony railing, forearms resting lightly against the metal guard, staring out across the bright lights of New York.

Amy took a step towards him. And then another. Slow and steady. And impossibly shy. Her whole body was pulled tighter than a violin string. He was wearing a black tuxedo that fit him to perfection. His hair was shorter. Not as short as the old black and white photos that she'd seen in the Smithsonian. But yes, shorter than she remembered. He looked as handsome as sin, looked so far out of her league that she may as well try to touch the stars as reach him. Her slow footsteps stilled to a stop.

Bucky turned his head towards her the second she stopped moving. And now Amy was caught. The soldier had her in his sights, and he was never going to lose focus now that he'd found his target.

She felt the weight of his gaze as it traversed the length of her body. He didn't rush. He seemed to take in every detail. Attention finally settling on the pendant she wore around her neck. His pendant. Amy raked her teeth over her bottom lip. She wasn't sure she told her legs to start walking again, but they did so anyway, carrying her to within a couple of steps of Bucky.

This close she could feel the tension rolling off him in waves. See it in the staged ease of his position. She took one step closer, tipped her weight onto her toes and peered up into his face. He stood straight. Stared back down at her with an intensity that she might have found frightening- had she not been able to match it.

She hadn't forgotten the way his body dwarfed hers, but perhaps she had never been so conscious of the differences between them before. Dressed up as a gentleman, he had never seemed more dangerous. All raw, leashed, masculine power. Oh boy. He could destroy her with a single word.

Because there was no smile on his lips. No softness in his eyes. He had left to fight. And it had left a mark. It always did. Inside, Amy started to tremble. She continued to search his face, drinking in the sight of him, noting all the subtle changes, the signs of stress, searching for any of injury, looking for the man she loved.

He looked different. He was different? He didn't look lost anymore. But nor did he look happy. He didn't look like the sort of man who would write postcards or call a woman sweetheart.

But then again, he didn't look much like a man who would call himself Bucky either.

Oh.

Amy could have slapped herself. She was still an idiot. An idiot who couldn't see what was staring her in the face. But she hoped she could be forgiven. Whatever it was that was worrying Bucky, whatever was bothering him to such an extent that he was hiding behind this stoic façade, she rather thought she had it within her power to set his mind at ease. Rather hoped she was the only one who had that power.

Slowly, oh so slowly, Amy started to smile.

It began at one corner of her mouth and gradually lit up her entire face. Her heart settled back into its natural rhythm and the pain in her chest evaporated.

"Amy?"

He breathed her name like a prayer.

And she saw all the cracks in his armour.

Swept aside the veil and saw his uncertainties.

She couldn't as yet find her voice, so she reached out a hand and touched him instead. Pressed her palm flat against his chest and felt the rapid pounding of his heartbeat. Amy gazed up into Bucky's face, and then she threw her arms around his neck and held on desperately.

All of the tension dropped away from his body. She felt the walls crumble. Felt his arms lock around her waist and draw her closer, lifting her momentarily off her feet. Tightly. Fiercely. Amy held onto Bucky until her arms started to ache. And then she held on for a little bit longer.

"Do you ever just knock on a girl's front door when you pay a visit?" she asked, laughing softly, to keep from crying.

She couldn't seem to stop touching him, now that she had started. She relaxed her hold, but kept her hands clasped behind his neck, kept her body pressed tight against him.

"What would be the point, Amy?" Bucky asked, stroking his fingers across her back. "You're not behind your front door. I wasn't going to wait until you were to see you."

Ah. Perfect answer. And yes, she was still smiling. So hard her cheeks hurt. She loved the sound of his voice. The roughness. The urgency. Loved being able to watch his lips as he spoke. Loved seeing the banked fire that now smouldered in his eyes.

Well, of course she did, she loved everything about him.

Bucky lifted his right hand to cup her cheek, and her breath caught in her throat. He stroked his thumb across her skin, and Amy felt as though she had just been touched by a livewire. The current flowing between them sparked and fizzed. It burned through her soul. He wasn't playing anymore. But then, neither was she. She smoothed her hands down his chest and caught hold of the lapels of his jacket. Pulled his mouth down for a kiss. The kiss. It tasted of whiskey and heat. Of the sorrow of too many empty days. And the ache of too many lonely nights.

"How are you here, Bucky?" Amy whispered the words against his lips, unwilling, unable to pull back.

In fact, she kept kissing him, savouring every moment, every buss, every caress, loving the heavy pressure of his mouth and the talented sweep of his tongue, loving the flex and grasp of his hands on her body.

She had almost forgotten the question entirely by the time she gave him liberty to answer.

She rather thought Bucky was struggling to remember it too. So she combed her fingers lightly through his hair and made the job even harder for him. She smiled as he closed his eyes and visibly fought to focus.

"Fury's given Steve a new mission," he said, voice husky, eyes opening to roam her face. "One that meant I could come home."

Amy nodded her understanding.

"To New York."

"No, Amy. To you."