"So… you seem rather… distant today," I commented carefully as Bucky and I ate lunch. Gran was taking the day off from sightseeing because the past few days had wiped her out so she was in the spare room relaxing—with the door open so she could hear everything. My eyes flicked up from my sandwich to look at his. He sighed and glanced up at me.

"I can't get that image out of my head," he admitted quietly. "You and Steve dead. Sam out cold and probably dying. I stabbed you in the heart and shot Steve in the forehead."

"Is there anything I can do?" I asked, wishing I could be more helpful.

He shook his head. "No. You've done plenty enough already," he answered.

"Bucky," I whispered, reaching across the table to take his hand—his normal one. He almost twitched out of the way before letting me hold it. "I know it must suck. And I know that I don't understand all you've been through. But I want to help however I can."

"You don't have to. It's not your burden to shoulder."

"But you don't have to bear the weight alone!"

"Yes I do. Everything was my fault. I did horrible things. Doesn't matter that I wasn't in control of my mind. I still did them. The blame is on no one else but me."

"Bucky, you're my husband," I pressed. At least for now, I added silently with a facial expression of lifting my eyebrows and glancing upwards with a purse of my lips. "We vowed to be there for each other for better or for worse, did we not? Please don't shut me out. It kills me to see you looking so… despairing! Hurt. Lost. Scared. Whatever. I hate seeing you like this!"

"I know, sweetheart. I just don't want to talk about it."

"I get that. But I don't want you to suffer alone!"

He gave me a thoughtful look. "I'm not alone. The suffering is mine to bear but just being around you makes it easier to endure. And for now that'll have to do. Because as much as I want to tell you everything, I'm afraid if I start, the horrors of my past will never stop. And won't stay in the past."

I nodded and gave his hand a comforting squeeze. "One day, then. Maybe."

He gave me a single nod. "Maybe," he promised.

I noticed his distance the whole day—he hadn't even been this reserved since I first asked him to pretend to be my husband. Maybe he had when I first met him, but that was to be expected way back then when he'd barely recovered. Or so I'd been told. For a moment I almost couldn't remember the silent, reserved man Steve had introduced me to in that small café in Brooklyn. He hadn't necessarily changed since then, but he'd opened up to me more and let me be closer to him—to the point that he trusted me touching him. I wasn't stupid. I knew that wasn't a privilege he granted to everybody. I'd seen him flinch away from other people—even the team.

He still let me play games with him throughout the afternoon. I was trying to distract him. But occasionally he looked up and got a sorrowful expression on his face before turning back to the checkers board or the cards. I could play checkers a bit better than chess but not by much. I totally beat him at Uno too, but he beat me at pretty much everything else. The look in his eyes whenever he searchingly stared at my face indicated that he kept seeing me lifeless in his mind's eye.

I was leaning over to move my SORRY! Game piece when his eyebrows furrowed. "What's this?" he inquired curiously, tugging the collar of my T-shirt down to reveal a bit more of my chest.

And the bruise that his solid hit had developed.

I shrugged. "Just a bruise. Nothing major. I've had worse," I replied nonchalantly.

He took a deep breath and leaned back. "That's where I hit you in my sleep isn't it?" he asked—but he sounded like he already knew the answer.

I sighed. "Yeah," I admitted. "But it's fine. It doesn't even hurt—unless you push it."

Bucky set his forehead in his hand and heaved a huge cleansing breath. "I can't believe I did this," he muttered. "I can't believe I hurt you. I'm so sorry. I'm still a monster and I can't even protect the ones I care about the most."

"Hey," I interrupted. "It's fine. I'm fine."

I wondered if it was a good thing or a bad thing that he dropped the subject completely and refused to say another word about it. I wondered if I even wanted to know. He picked up a card and moved his game piece accordingly, still looking thoughtful and pensive but wouldn't answer me directly when I asked what he was thinking about.

"Hey, remember that one move we did last night that almost clocked that other couple in the head?" I asked.

He buried his face in his hands. "Oh man. Yeah. I feel so bad about that," he muttered.

"It reminded me of this one time when I was in high school, I was in the swing club. I had this one partner—good friend of mine—and he spun me too fast and I couldn't get my arm to go straight in time. I hit him square in the jaw with my elbow. The kicker was he had braces at the time. I hit him so hard that it cut his lip on his braces. Made his mouth bleed. I felt horrible. Went and got him ice cream afterwards. He laughed and brushed it off but even though I can laugh about it now, I still feel guilty when I think back on it," I told him. He chuckled.

"What was his name?"

"My partner?"

"Yeah."

I blushed. "No joke: we called him Tony."

"Really?"

"Yeah. It was always kinda funny. When he had his braces he was nicknamed Iron Man or Iron Face—depending on who was talking to him. We gave him a lot of teasing about it even though there's no connection between him and Stark at all apart from the same name."

"You should tell stories about your high school life more often," Bucky commented teasingly.

Success! I'd distracted him. It took all my self-control not to do a victorious fist pump.

"I probably really shouldn't. I was the opposite of a troublemaker but when things happened to me, they were always so dramatic—like the universe was making up for my lack of quantity by giving the shenanigans quality," I said sarcastically. Bucky chuckled as I heaved myself to my feet and went to the kitchen. "Hungry? Should I make some dinner?"

"A bit."

"Hey Gran! We're gonna have dinner!" I called.

"Okay, butterfly!" she replied, emerging from the spare room as I started to pull some things out. Bucky stood up and crossed to the kitchen. Gently he put his hands on my hips and pulled me away from the cupboards.

"All due respect, doll, but you hate cooking," he said softly. "Let me make something."

"Oi!" I protested. "I can make dinner!"

"No it's okay. Spend some time talking to your grandmother. I'll cook dinner."

"Let him be, butterfly," Gramma Howell murmured quietly. "You can let him cook every once in a while."

"I know. But he always makes breakfast nowadays. I feel useless!"

"Don't. It just means he loves you." Gran pulled me back over to the sofa and sat me down. "Now, tell me your side of the story about when you entered the elevator covered in that bluish goo. What happened beforehand?"

I rubbed my forehead as Bucky bustled about the kitchen. "Oh," I muttered. "It was Mr. Stark's idea for an adhesive that wasn't just glue. He thought mixing the chemicals in an open-topped beaker wasn't going to be a problem. And then when he heated it up too much, it exploded all over us—but mostly me because I was closer. I wasn't even supposed to be in the lab! I was supposed to be helping Vision and Wanda sort through some files from the SHIELD dump."

End Note: This is late. I wanted to post it around Christmas Eve... but I forgot. And I was busy. Which is fine because I assume you were all busy too. Even if you don't celebrate Christmas.

To "Unicorn Brownies (Guest)": Yes! You caught up! Welcome to the present!

Thanks for reading! Happy New Year if I don't update before then!