PAINT UNEDITED, ORIGINAL

by Songbird's Tune

you could call it accidental therapy. ida doesn't. / bucky barnes fix it / post ca:ws / ENTIRE story in one chapter / forgive me

Title: Paint
Category: Movies » Captain America
Author: Songbird's Tune
Language: English, Rating: Rated: T
Genre: Drama/Hurt/Comfort
Published: 04-07-14, Updated: 10-03-15
Chapters: 28, Words: 80,019

Chapter 1: Painting the Background

Painting the Background

Or

A Prologue of Sorts

There was someone else sitting next to her, looking down with empty eyes.

Beginning. Middle. End.

Every story has one – don't they? Yet the stories we find beneath the covers of books are different to the ones we find in real life.

For one thing, they aren't as clear cut. Real life has a thousand conflicts, a book has only a handful.

And beginnings … beginnings in books are a clear thing – they start at chapter one, the first word. That first line

Beginnings in real life are often difficult to define or put one's finger on. Often they can creep up on you, completely unawares. Sometimes they can start with a boom, other times as a soft whisper in your ear.

My beginning – or the beginning of this tale I'm going to relate to you, was quite easy to spot. Or perhaps it wasn't.

For one of the main figures in it, the story began with one word – Bucky. But he didn't remember that for a while.

For me, it began with walking into my living room.

Every beginning is different, isn't it? Even for those in the same story.

Middles are a muddle – a thousand dissimilar threads in a confusing tangle. They often seem like the end – the very, very End. But they aren't. The darkest hour precedes the dawn, as the saying goes. For my middle, I remember anguish and the wish to lift a burden that wasn't mine to shift. But I guess that was my Aunt's wish as well, though she was never one to express it in so many words.

Endings … ah, but I mustn't spoil mine, though I might say that it was a bittersweet one, which is both the best and worst type of ending.

I ought to set the scene a little – hadn't I?

"Secret Government Organisation Uncovered" was one of the more unimaginative newspaper headlines in those weeks. "Spies Among Us" was another.

The world for those employed by S.H.I.E.L.D was tipped upside down and everyone else thoroughly enjoyed reading about them. Though some experienced a terrible sense of paranoia and panic – ("Big Brother: A Reality" ran the Daily Bugle) – others found the existence of a James Bond-esq type organisation was absolutely with-no-doubt-about-it awesome.

("Awesome Sauce!" was the title of a post in one of the more popular blogs, followed by the sub-header of: "… and they had gadgets too!").

I found it interesting reading – who wouldn't? A world of espionage and agents and secrets had landed in our laps and we hadn't had to pay a single dollar for it. I mean – who knew that the parasitic (and terrifying) Hydra had organised the Starks' death? Poor Tony Stark. Poor, poor Tony Stark.

And then the list of all those who were going to be killed (for the good of humanity. Yeah, right. The good of humanity my foot) by Hydra was published by one intrepid blogger and those who were on it were equal parts frightened and proud.

My brother was one of them. I was the one who was frightened and he was the one who was bursting with pride (he knew he was intelligent and brilliant, he told me over the phone. I informed him that his PhD in Electrical and Electronic Engineering rather pointed in that direction and he needn't have to rely on a death-warrant to confirm it).

But forgive me, I'm wandering from my purpose.

While the world was finding the database and history of S.H.I.E.L.D and Hydra fascinating, my Aunt sat in her comfortable chair and knitted a jumper for Philip and a pair of thick, woollen socks for me. Hers was a peaceful existence – until her door was knocked on one evening and she shuffled in those big slippers of hers to open it.

Ready for a bit of a shocker? My Aunt is actually my mother. My adopted mother, that is. She and her husband fostered me – even had a hand in naming me (Ida, they named me. After Aunt's own aunt). I grew up calling them Aunt and Uncle and when I was officially adopted, the names stuck.

My younger brother is the biological child of Aunt Becky and Uncle Scott and lives several states away, though his presence is frequently felt by the often uttered request to forward his post (which he never got around to sorting out).

Every day, come rain or shine, I trot down four flights of stairs and catch the bus which takes me away to my very lively job of angry customers and constantly ringing phones.

Every evening, at five o'clock, I leave the office and its insults and complaints behind ("I ordered pink – pink! This is salmon coloured!") and return to our cosy little flat.

But one day (or once upon a time, if you prefer your stories to begin that way) I came home. And my Aunt wasn't alone.

There was someone else sitting next to her, looking down with empty eyes.

And that, that was where my story begins. For everyone.

Chapter 2: Part One: Jury: Chapter One - Blue Paint

Part One: Jury

Blue Paint

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

– The Raven, Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a time … it all began.

But before a beginning, there must come an ending – the End of What Came Before. The End of Normalcy, in my case.

I'll tell you about it – take you there with me, so that you can breathe the same, ordinary air as I did then, feel the same, ordinary wind rustle through my hair and leave the office with the same, ordinary sigh of relief that I always gave.

And then, over the threshold of home we'll step and the ordinariness of our shared day and my life will simply go 'poof'. Together we'll watch as 'normal' is remade and redefined so that it has as much to do with the former way of things as a cow does a comet.

Ready?

There are approximately two and half flights of stairs which separate me from freedom. As my feet – attired in sensible low heels – take each step, I feel as though I'm shedding the stress of the day and leaving Mrs Harper and her shrill requests for a refund behind me. For three hours she bounced from me to Amy and back to me again. Some people don't understand the meaning of a politely phrased 'no'.

I think I'll be replaying our (many) conversations in my dreams, mashing them up into one weary, repetitive record: "No, ma'am, I'm afraid that as you have had the product for the past two years and therefore exceeded the guarantee- ma'am, it doesn't matter how much it cost y- The fact that you ripped it doesn't- it isn't a fault of the product ma'am, riding a motorbike in priceless- I'm afraid I can't ma'am. Yes, you may speak to my manager. My name is Ida. Yes, I'm aware it's old fashioned; I wasn't consulted on my nam- Yes, ma'am. Good day, ma'am."

The very last step I take with a bounce and then it's through the grimy, glass doors and out into the bliss of honking horns, whizzing cars and rushing pedestrians whose troubles with such and such product aren't poured into my ear.

A single sigh – quick and short – and I'm away.

My steps are quick because, really, I don't want to miss my bus. But quickened steps don't stop me glimpsing the headlines - black and grim against grey paper - as I walk by a newsstand.

"THIRD THREE YEAR OLD MISSING. THE KID-NAPPER STRIKES AGAIN?" is written in exactly the same font that proclaimed the marriage of the 'king and queen' of Hollywood, yesterday. I stop and walk back to get a closer look at a face of impish innocence. Missing. Poor kid. I wonder what horrors you are enduring.

I'd better go though, or I'll miss my bus. The walk home isn't the most pleasant one I could think of and I'd rather avoid it. The wind whips my hair into my face and I remove the chestnut strands from my line of vision as I leave the musty scent of newspapers behind me.

Problems with short hair? I could list twenty of 'em. Not the least is the constant mystery of disappearing hair clips. Though that's has more to do with my faulty memory rather than my hair length.

As soon as I get home I'm logging onto the S.H.I.E.L.D expose blog (the Buckler) and reading the latest findings which are presented by the hard working bloggers in a nice, coherent manner. They always link their source material and I like viewing the original documents as well as their take on things.

Hmm, wonder if S.H.I.E.L.D would be able to find the missing kids. We'll never find out now.

A taxi whizzes by, faster than the rest (amidst many a honking of the horn), and I'm reminded once again that I really shouldn't dawdle. Night is drawing closer, and and the streetlights will be on soon.

On the bus I dig into my purse and recover the book I'm reading, it's a book of poems. Philip has been ribbing me on my usual reading material (thrillers, romance and detective novels) and has demanded that I read 'higher' things to improve my intellect.

I haven't read Poe since high school, but find his 'the Raven' more fascinating than I did back then. I've got my own back on Philip by reciting (or writing) the line of 'quoth the raven, nevermore' every time he asks a question. And sends me an email. And makes my phone let out an obnoxious 'ping' with a message. Childish? Yes – very. Satisfying? Oh yes.

I even wrote it on his mail.

Kipling's 'If' keeps me going all the way home. I speak it in my mind, mouthing the words and feeling the rhythm of the thing rise up and down. I've read it three times by the time the bus stops with a hiss of the breaks.

It's my stop and a hasty scramble to get the book into my purse and myself off the bus.

My key into the door, a quick check for mail and then I'm climbing the stairs. The same ones which I hurried down this morning seem to have grown in height. I wish they'd get the elevator sorted. But – what am I thinking? It's been broken for a year now. I've complained four times already and now I simply can't be bothered to send another complaint.

Besides, I tell myself as I huff ever upwards, it's good exercise. And I need to exercise as (and here a note of self-condemnation creeps into my thoughts) I never go to a gym, much less belong to one.

Finally. At last. At long last, I've reached the top and am facing our door with its peeling blue paint and tarnished golden letters proclaiming our flat number (the '2' of our twenty-three is tilting downwards. I really must fix that).

A key in the lock and I'm pushing the heavy door open.

"Aunt Becky, I'm home!" I announce in a jaunty fashion, dispelling the lingering fear that one day I might return home and find her, find her … well, it doesn't bear thinking.

But she doesn't reply and my throat seems to develop a lump and instead of taking off my light green coat and hanging it up, I simply drop my purse onto the hall floor and open the door to our living room.

And there she is, sitting on her comfortable black chair with her knitting needles in still hands. Her face is turned, but when the door opens she looks at me and gives me a small smile. Wrinkled lips pull back to reveal a single tooth and her eyes look over bright and her face, pale. But she is the very best sight I've seen all day and I start to smile back when I see the man sitting next to her.

He's sitting, leaning on his arms with elbows on his knees. His jacket is a brownish colour and a baseball hat is lying neglected on the floor.

He looks like a down and out – what with the beginnings of a beard and the short greasy hair hanging over his face. But then, he could be at the very peak of fashion. Fashion is very hard to follow these days.

But the question that conquers all others is: What is he doing here? Followed closely by: Who is he?

He gives me a glance – using the very least amount of effort he needs to do so – and I'm met with eyes which look … empty.

I shiver - and it's not a good shiver (the 'my-favourite-author-has-finally-published-the-sequel' kind). It's more of a shocked reaction to what I see in his eyes. They aren't empty, after all.

They are hard to describe. The eyes of a wounded animal, perhaps. Or maybe it's the look of someone who has had the world crumble down around him. They look shocked and withdrawn.

But at the same time they have a … nothingness about them. A lethal nothingness. Strange, that.

The moment passes, his eyes dip down and settle on the floor and Aunt Becky is speaking: "Ida dear, I'd like you to meet-" and here her voice trembles (not much, but enough for me to feel anger towards whoever dared to cause it) "-your Uncle. Uncle Bucky."

Did you see it? Did you see the 'poof' as the wisps of an ordinary life vanished? I didn't – not until my bruised and battered body lay on a cold, metal floor and I was left alone (so very alone), was I able to lay my finger and say 'here - here it ended, yet here ...

... it also began'

A/N:I originally planned to post this chapter up at the weekend, but thought that maybe it would be better to celebrate the beginnings of this tale with a double posting. So – here it is. I would like to thank every one of you who has reviewed, favourited (is that a word?) and/or followed. I only hope that you enjoy this adventure along with me.

Chapter 3: Chapter Two - Green Paint

Green Paint

Well, shave me down and call me a mole rat; you've found another mammoth! - Sid the Sloth

Here are three facts about myself:

1. I own an old, beaten up green van which is always at the mechanic's

2. I loath white chocolate but adore black

and

3. I don't much like surprises

So when Aunt Becky says: "Ida dear, I'd like you to meet your Uncle. Uncle Bucky." I receive an unpleasant jolt of surprise but I'm not given any time to respond, for she speaks again: "And would you go and put the kettle on. Bucky," there is a certain hesitance in her words, "what kind of drink would you like? Tea? Coffee? Water?"

He raises his head and stares at her. "I don't know."

I'm certain a frown wedges itself on my brow. How … strange. Well, the whole situation is beyond strange but not knowing you preferred beverage is quite strange. But then, he may just be indecisive. Or then again he may genuinely not know his favoured drink which is rather strange and … I'm rambling.

"Coffee," he says suddenly. Abruptly. "I'll have coffee."

The question of 'how do you take it?' hovers on my lips but Aunt Becky is giving me a warning look, so I simply turn and go back into the hall to the kitchen, fighting down the urge to tower threateningly over them both and oversee their conversation like one of those gangster bodyguards.

… but as I'm not wearing a black suit or sunglasses, I can't do it without looking ridiculous, so getting the coffee is my only option.

I'll give him a black coffee, I think as I fill the kettle and switch it on. He doesn't look like the type who has milk – I imagine a bitter black would do him nicely. With the kettle on and a cup ('Don't worry, be happy' painted on the side, along with a bright yellow smiley face – a gift from Philip) ready- No. I'd better change that. It doesn't quite seem to fit him.

The cup is exchanged for a plain white one and the instant coffee is mixed with boiling water. Will he take sugar? I'll give him one. No, no I won't.

My mind is numb, yet racing at the same time. A paradox. Two actually: one, how can my mind be numb yet full of questions? And two, if this is Uncle Bucky, why does he look much, much younger than his younger sister?

Paradoxes. Why can't life be simple?

When I walk back into the living room, I have a cup of black coffee on a tray with a little, ceramic jug of milk and some lumps of sugar perfectly balanced in a little pyramid. I try hard not to allow my frown and not a little amount of fear onto my face.

What if Aunt Becky has been conned by- I look at his face and shove a stool towards him with one foot. The magazines (The New Yorker and one of the many home owner ones: "Chic Bathroom Flooring" it proclaims) slide off and I set the tray down.

No. It isn't that.

"So … " I say, suggestively. Come on, Auntie, give me something to work with – you can't just say that this man who looks at least as young as Philip is your long dead brother without a little explanation.

But she doesn't say anything. Rather, she smiles at 'Uncle Bucky' and tells him how she and Scott named me after Aunt Ida – can you remember her? she asks.

He looks at her and frowns. No. He can't.

He stirs his coffee and takes a hesitant sip. It's like he doesn't know what to do with himself. I sit down next to him on the couch (maintaining my distance – but not too far from Aunt Becky) and try not to be nervous.

"So – where have you been?" I ask him.

He sets his cup down and watches me. His eyes are almost … haunted (perhaps I imagine this – I'm better at reading voices than faces) and even his silence is disquieting.

I swallow, stare at his gloved hands instead of his face and pursue my line of questioning – Aunt Becky's words are far too absurd to be a reality. Surely.

"We, er, I was always told that you died in the war."

He still looks at me.

I've got a lump in my throat and it ain't moving.

"Okay. Um. Have you- I mean were you, er-" This is ridiculous. "Were you, er, iced?" My voice rises at the end, going up a pitch. I clear my throat and rush hurriedly on. "Like Captain America?"

Captain America.

That gets a reaction. But it doesn't look like he wants to answer it. "Maybe."

"Bucky is going to stay with us for a while." Aunt Becky announces, stopping me from questioning him further. "He's been away and now it's time for he and I to get properly acquainted." The knitting needles clink as she drops them, leans over and pats his knee. "Letters can only go so far – I've still got all yours, Bucky. Perhaps you might take a look at them later."

He is grateful for that. I don't know how I know this. Perhaps it is the look he gives her; a quick glance, but it is there – the gratefulness, I mean.

I begin to feel distinctively out of touch.

"And we'll have to look through the photographs. I've got a few albums. You sent me quite a few, you know. You always looked like you had a marvellous time, though I don't suppose you would have told me if it wasn't true."

We are silent and the clock ticks away, and suddenly I feel absolutely tired – by work and paradoxes. And my Aunt's acceptance of a paradox. And my small, niggling feeling that there might be truth in the paradox sitting on the same couch as myself (I haven't read all those S.H.I.E.L.D. files for nothing, you know).

"I think," I say slowly and with deliberation. "That it might be nice to have something to eat. The supper is in the slow-cooker – it's chicken," I address, er, Uncle Bucky (innocent 'till proven guilty perhaps?). "I hope you like it though I suspect that I put too much chili in it. If you are staying here then you need a place to sleep – haven't got any bedding with you have you? Sleeping bags? Pillow?"

"No," he says quietly. "I haven't."

"Right. Yes. Okay then …"

"He'll have your room." Aunt Becky has placed her glasses on her nose and looks at me over the top of them.

My eyebrows shoot upwards and then I look at Uncle Bucky- that's ridiculous, even if he is my Uncle, I am not calling a man who looks a little older than my younger brother my Uncle.

I'll call him Bucky.

If he is Bucky.

Perhaps we need to have some DNA testing done. Or maybe the photographs will prove that it is truly he – James Buchanan Barnes. But for now, I can smell the chicken and I'm going to need to prepare my room.

It appears that I will be sleeping on the couch.

I bite down a bit of the annoyance at being displaced. Love your neighbour and all. Though I suppose in this case it would be 'love your long-lost (possibly not, and if so revert back to 'neighbour') Uncle as yourself.

Do unto others.

Would I want to sleep on an old, floral couch which smells faintly of spilt peppermint tea and musk? No, no I would not. He can have my room then, and I'll be left with a peppermint and musk feeling of virtuousness.

The chicken stew smells delicious and great burst of steam spirals upwards as I open the lid. Three bowls are filled, and I take two in to Aunt Becky and Bucky. Ha. That rhymes. Almost. Wonder what Poe would make of it ('quoth the raven, nevermore', no doubt).

Aunt Becky takes hers and I leave her telling Bucky of the miracle of Philip's birth ('I was rather old, the doctors said that it was quite impossible and I had given up all hope of a biological child when suddenly … out popped Philip. Though of course, it wasn't so very sudden. You should have seen Scott's face when I told him …').

She's talking to him. Trusting him.

And he's listening to her, watching her carefully, almost as if she's throwing him a life line. One that is … confusing him?

(You know what? I utterly despise paradoxes).

She's not senile – at least, she's weathered remarkably well for her age; still as bright as a button. Only yesterday did she tell me that she wouldn't be surprised if Philip wasn't part of the whole S.H.I.E.L.D palaver (her words, not mine) I told her that he was far too lazy to do such a thing, and besides, his fiancée wouldn't let him.

She snorted and said that his fiancée had as much observational skills as a rock and wouldn't be able to tell if he was 'one of those alien invaders, dear – Chitauri wasn't it?'

I was left duly stunned (one, by the reference to such a traumatic event that I'd thought I'd done a good job shielding her from and two, by the non-belief in Emma's, er, intelligence) and so I'm reluctant to believe that she has allowed a hobo into our flat and is now talking to him as if he is her long-dead brother.

My own supper I take into my room.

I ignore the pale green walls (green is a soothing colour, and thus it permeates my entire room – even the curtains are a soft lime print) and set my bowl down on the bedside table.

Then I give a sigh and strain my ears for Aunt Becky's voice – there it is; a pleasant mid-pitch with a beautiful little tinkle – and hear the slow accompanying male voice which means that Bucky is talking to her.

I frown and take my coat off, hanging it up behind the door and then kneel beside my bed. It's a little dusty under here but there it is – wedged between a spare blanket and a hockey stick. The photo album is a deep purple and I open it and am confronted with Uncle Scott's face, old and lined with crinkles

His date of birth and date of death still leave me with a curious ache, but if the years don't eradicate the pain, they do dull it. I turn the pages from the Proctor family tree to the Barnes' one.

And … there he is. Looking as dashing as I thought him when I was nine and saw his picture for the first time.

James Buchanan Barnes.

I always thought that Philip resembled him – he has the same wide mouth and eyes that can harden and soften with his mood. The eyes …

There is a picture of him that was taken not three weeks before his death, and I know that if I turn the photograph over there would be a scribbled note: "Becky, picture as requested. Thanks for the soap but it smells of flowers. You're injuring my rep. with the ladies. All's well here. Hope the punk's treating you well. Yours, Bucky."

A cheerful little note but his eyes tell a different story – a harder one.

And then I know.

His hair may be longer. He may have the beginnings of a beard. But … it's him.

Not him in his photo – first taken when he joined the army. Not even him when he was in the 107th. He's changed.

But it's him.

Three facts that I know about Bucky Barnes:

1. He wrote frequent letters to my Aunt

2. He was a lifelong friend of Steve Rogers, right up till his own death

and

3. He apparently has more in common with Captain America than friendship as he is very much alive and looks remarkably well aged for a war veteran. And, oh! He's in my living room.

I … have no words and stare blankly at my green soothing wall. Soothing. Yeah. Right.

So …

Wow.

Uh …

I look at the bed. The sheets had better be changed. The room is rapidly cleaned and I manage to grab a spoonful or two of my stew in between hurriedly cramming everything into the wardrobe, ramming my romance novels as far as I can underneath the bed and stashing my bran-new walkie-talkie thing (Philip gave it to me – as well as its very long-winded name) after them.

I walk back into the hall and hear the trail end of Aunt Becky's words: "… we'll help you Bucky. You can stay here and we will." Her voice is a little weak and a little helpless. I straighten my spine and prepare to do war with Bucky. Doesn't matter that he's come back from the grave (so to speak). If Aunt Becky wants to help him then she jolly well will, even if I have to sit on the man. But I enter the living room and see Aunt Becky with her hand in Bucky's and they both look so, so darn sad that I nearly walk out again.

"Let me help you Bucky, just for a little while. Ida and I- well, you needn't be alone. Stay with us. We won't judge Bucky. Whatever has happened ... please …"

Bucky is looking at her, and the irreverent part of my mind declares that all four thousand and eighty-six of his new-born puppies have been kicked at the same time thus resulting in the look upon his face.

He clears his throat and his voice comes out a little hoarse: "Even with this?" And- what, what is he doing? He's standing and taking his jacket off. And then his long-sleeved shirt.

My mouth by this time, I'm sure, has dropped to the floor. Scratch that – it's dropped clear through to the earth's core.

And then he is standing there, looking down at Aunt Becky and he's got a metal arm.

My mind (ever the comedienne) decides to be a kindergartener and says, in shocked tones: Well … poop, I wasn't expecting that.

Aunt Becky isn't shocked – in fact, she is looking up at him with eyes which are tear-filled and full of sympathy.

"Even with that, Bucky."

He watches her impassively: "I've killed people."

"Of course you did, dear. You were part of the 107th."

He opens his mouth as if to correct her, but changes his mind.

Aunt Becky gestures to the couch. "Bucky … you are my brother. Whatever has happened, has happened. Now sit down and put your shirt on. And eat your stew. Ida's put too much salt in it again, but then … it's much better than the last meal."

He stands still for just a moment – a heartbeat. And then he says: "Okay."

I can read voices – I have them in my ear all day ranting, weeping and yelling at me. This one … holds confusion and, and vulnerability.

But then he looks up at me and the nothingness drops back over his face like the curtains at the end of a Broadway show.

My kindergartener scuttles away with a snigger and I grab my metaphorical jaw and close my mouth. "It hasn't got too much salt in it." I say, instead of the obvious jumble of words (the basic meaning of which translates to a huge: Wha-?!) "It's got too much chili."

Because really, these things totally happen every day. Why - long-dead Uncles frequently appear looking remarkably well aged for dead men and all have, have ... metal arms.

An everyday event.

Nothing unusual about it at all.

It's not suprising, shocking or stunning.

You will forgive me for commenting on the salt.

A/N: Once more ... a big thank you to everyone who favourited, reviewed and followed.

Chapter 4: Chapter Three - Grey Paint

Grey Paint

"Now why would you go and do a thing like that?"

– a question I ask of Life every so often.

He's been with us for two days.

I took the first day off and stayed at the flat – spending the day painting the radiators and scrubbing the bath. Aunt Becky spent her morning sitting next to Bucky, reading through his letters (" … ah, this postcard you sent to me from Coney Island. You had a grand time with Steve then. I envied you as I had a great deal of cramming for an exam to do …").

We didn't see anything else of his metal arm – only his metal fingers. Aunt Becky refused to tell me what his entire arm looked like close up.

And then he upped and left.

Aunt Becky told me to put together a hearty supper and to make her a cup of coffee whilst I was at it (she also gave me a gentle reminder that salt went with supper and not supper with the salt – there was a difference, apparently).

He came back in the evening and sat down at our little kitchen table. Aunt Becky proceeded to say grace and then we ate.

In some ways he almost reminds me of Philip when he was at his growing stage – all gangly limbs, very uncertain of himself.

In other ways he frightens me a little – he can sit as still as a statue for hours. And his eyes can grow so very blank and bleak.

This morning I decided that I needed to go back to work purely because money doesn't grow on trees and Bucky doesn't seem to possess homicidal tendencies (and also Aunt Becky has hinted that I mustn't neglect my work).

And so – here I am, in my pink bunny slippers and faded blue robe, standing at the stove and stirring the porridge.

A shuffle behind me and Aunt Becky appears, yawning and blinking up at me with a cheerful smile. "Morning, Auntie! Sleep well?"

"Yes, thank you. Coffee and biscuits please." She disappears out of the kitchen like a spectre clad in bright yellow. I've argued over and over for years now that cooking and drink-making is my duty and it's time that Aunt Becky put her feet up.

Only recently has she began to listen.

The porridge bubbles and spits and I am ready to sink to the floor and question my life decisions. Anything that forces you to wake up to a sharp, ringing alarm at an unholy hour in the morning should be rethought.

"Coffee?"

I start. And turn around and there is Bucky standing there, silent and still, in the same clothes he wore yesterday … and the day before (note to self: must buy him some more).

"Yeah sure. In the shelf over there. Kettle's on. Want a biscuit with it? Oh-" I say conversationally, "would you mind making a noise before 'appearing' like that, it doesn't have to be a big one – just you know, clear your throat or, or cough or sneeze." I demonstrate each option as he crosses the kitchen and opens the coffee cupboard.

"I'll try."

"Awesome." I give him a thumbs up. "And um, how do I put this? Do you have any other clothes? Because, if you want, I'll get you some … or you can meet me at the bus stop and we'll have a quick look at one of the stores which close a little later on."

"I'm fine."

"Yeah. I'm sure you are. But if you change your mind – bus stop. Aunt Becky will tell you where. And, um, I'll buy. Because we've missed so many of your birthdays. Obviously. And everyone needs presents. Especially belated ones."

He pours his drink and gives me a delayed nod. I smile at him.

I'm a great believer in smiles, except when I'm not. But if you smile at a person they will either a) return your beaming smile, b) give a bewildered little smile or c) frown.

He frowns.

I let my smile die a natural death and fight back the questions which keep besetting me. Questions like: Where have you been? Why do you have a metal arm? Do you have nightmares – there was so much tossing and turning and moaning last night that I nearly came in to wake you, but then I didn't because of the many Unknowns. What did you mean 'you've killed people' (because I think you meant other than the ones you killed in the war)? And why do you seem to be so, so grief stricken at one moment and really, really lethal in the next?

Call me paranoid but I haven't looked him up on the leaked S.H.I.E.L.D database.

Two Reasons Why I've Not Looked Bucky Up on the S.H.I.E.L.D database:

1. I'm afraid of what I'll find

2. What if someone is monitoring all the searches? What if they are after him? There are too many what ifs.

Instead, I watch him. Yeah, I could be classed under 'Stalker' (or 'Sort-Of Stalker') but I call it more 'Protecting my Aunt and Feeling a Little Concerned over my Long-Dead-Not-Dead Uncle'. Perfectly reasonable and logical. (Oh, all right. I'm an honest person - Aunt Becky is probably annoyed with my in-no-way obvious hovering and thus has heavily hinted that it would be a good thing if I returned to work).

"Do you want some porridge?" I ask my silent companion.

He looks up from staring at the kitchen floor and glances at the porridge.

"It's very good for you – gives a great start to the morning."

He blinks.

"… or not." I continue valiantly, "You don't have to have some, but it's important to eat in the morning. Science shows that it's the most important meal of the day. You didn't have any yesterday but-"

"Okay," he says, and now it's me that blinks awkwardly. What? He's going to have some. Really? Behold the powers of Ida's Persuasion!

"Right. It'll be done a moment or two. I have to keep stirring it or it goes horribly lumpy. And then it's disgusting and gag-worthy. Do you want salt on it or honey? I tend to have honey. Scotsmen have salt. And I'm not a Scott. Er. Clearly. Though my birthparents had a bit of Irish in them. I think." I'm talking to fill the silence – sometimes empty chatter is comforting.

A bit like a sheet of paper covering the cracks. For a little while it covers it, but then you need something better to do the job. But for the moment, paper-talk will do. Besides – it's all I've got.

"So … what do you say? Do you want to try both?"

He sips his coffee and his greasy brown hair falls over his face. He needs a shower. Or not. Can you shower with a metal arm? I give a hasty glance at his metal fingers which hold the handle of the cup. What must it be like-? I don't know. Something in Bucky's face discourages that sort of questioning.

"Salt," he says at last. "I'll have salt."

"Really? Okay then. Your taste buds must be different to mine. Not that that's a bad thing. I put too much salt on everything though; I can't seem to taste it. Which is the reason why I have honey. Weird, huh?" The porridge is bubbling happily away. It's almost like a swamp chewing bubble gum. Pop! Bub blub blub. Pop!

That's a very weird analogy. Ida – I tell myself silently - your mind is weird.

I glance at Bucky who is staring into nothing. He looks almost … devoid of hope? So I talk: "Even if you don't go shopping, I can get a razor for you. If you want."

"I'll be fine."

Yeah, of course you will. In all your bearded glory. Though, of course, there is nothing wrong with having a beard. I'd have a beard if I was a man.

I blink. See – this is the reason why I should have stayed in bed; a perfectly rational creature can descend into a colossal pit of daftness for want of just one hour more of sleep.

"Right, grub's up!" I take three bowls and serve the swa- porridge into the bowls. Then I put salt on Bucky's, a generous dollop of honey on mine and a little milk on Aunt Becky's.

And with a little tray assembled for Aunt Becky (coffee, biscuits and porridge) I take it in to the living room where she sits watching T.V.

"Dreadful," she comments. "That little girl who got kidnapped the other day still hasn't been found."

"The poor kid," I remark, giving her a kiss on her white hair and placing the tray on her lap.

"No salt?" she inquires with her eyes twinkling.

I roll my eyes and don't deign to reply.

Bucky is sitting at the kitchen table when I return. And his face is … well, it isn't anguished. It isn't full of grief. Rather it … oh.

I put too much salt in it.

Again.

"How about some cereal instead?" I say cheerfully.

He agrees and I ought to be offended, but I'm not. I give him a conspiratorial grin. "I put too much salt in it, didn't I? It's the bane of my cooking."

I fix him some cereal and then look at the clock. Oh dear, I'd better dash.

And so I do.

Sometimes I can really impress myself with just how fast I can dress.

Work is busy – but then it always is – and I snatch a bar from the vending machine and drink a coffee at lunch time. The coffee resembles mud and the bar leaves chocolate stains on my fingers.

I sit in a little cubical in an office without any windows and with plenty of artificial light. The phones are always ringing and there is a constant buzz of speech. The lights are bright and white – no soft yellow for us. Soft light is for wimps, anyway (or so I assume our managers think).

Amy, my manager, has so many meetings today that I joke with Kevin (tall, Korean heritage, a Brooklyn accent and dressed with a polka dot tie which is always askew and purple sneakers instead of smart shoes. He gets away with it because of his dimples) by the water cooler that in our company, they have meetings about their meetings (and meetings about the meetings which were about the original meetings), then we scurry back to our phones and the often shrill voices of disappointed customers fill our ears.

It's more interesting than Sales, though.

Today passes quickly and is especially busy. I only have one pleasant phone conversation – a customer is so overwhelmed and happy with her purchase that she cries. I cannot decipher what she bought but through her weeping she tells me her life story. Young, newly single with a puppy that has just recovered from worms. Oh, and her mother is in the military.

And she's lactose intolerant.

And she hates carrots.

People are unique and amaze me. And apparently consider me their therapist. And dietician.

I leave work and embrace my freedom and natural light with enthusiasm. On the bus I can't be bothered to read – instead I ponder how quickly everything can change, and how humans can adapt to it – case in point: the Avengers, the Battle of New York and three 'helicarriers' playing 'Let's Explode'.

The bus slows to a halt and a hiss.

It's funny – I don't expect it but there he has, standing with baseball cap jammed on his head and hands (both metal and flesh) jammed into his pockets.

He gives me a nod and I have to compute the fact that he is there and I haven't a clue as to how to shop for a man.

I smile at him. "Hello! Did you have a good day?"

"Yeah."

I shift my purse on my shoulder and remind him gently: "You know, this is the part where you continue with: 'and you?'"

A short "and you?" is uttered.

"Oh very well, thank you." I respond politely. "Two blocks away and there's the clothing store – it's a small one which always has a sale. We can get nicer things for you later on, but this trip we'll just get the bare necessities. Ha. Like Baloo the Bear in the Jungle Book. Have you-? No? You don't know what it is?" I hum a few notes but his face remains as blank as ever.

Right.

Okay then.

But then, I am humming a Disney song to a war-veteran who was thought to be dead but isn't and also possess a metal … arm. Somehow my little tune seems trivial. But then my usual stubbornness kicks in and I refuse to consider 'The Bare Necessities' as trivial.

We walk in silence and it isn't awkward. This bit of the neighbourhood is a little … well, it's rough. Always has been. It's rather comforting to have Bucky by my side.

At the shop we entire and the bell tinkles out a welcome to us and a warning to the sales assistant who is sitting on a stool at the far back, engrossed in a magazine. She doesn't look up.

Of the t-shirts I grab several black ones and then a blue one. The wall behind the clothing rack is coated in a peeling grey paint and the whole shop seems a little grim.

In the centre is a basket full of men's underwear – priced at exactly one dollar and seven cents. I hope they are of a reasonable quality though anything that cheap is potentially a little suspect. I don't exactly enjoy handling men's underwear, but one must be practical and so I summon Bucky from looking a little blankly at pants.

"Do you need to stock up on these?" I gesture to the underwear and pretend that I'm actually pointing to hats. Lots and lots of hats.

He walks over to me – silent steps which both spook me and intrigue me – and stares at the underwear like it's an alien and he's from a primitive tribe.

Er …

I turn to walk away but can't help give a suspicious glance at the underwear and then back at him. Why is he so-? Oh. He's not looking at the underwear. He's looking at the price - at the big, black writing on a crusty bit of old cardboard.

$1.07

I open my mouth to assure him that 'don't worry – missed birthdays remember?' or 'it's cheap but they don't look like they will fall apart' but he just … leaves. Walks out of the door with quick strides which a romance novel would compare to a panther ('on a deadly prowl' … sigh! Faint! Swoon! My word, I've really rotted my brain) and I, personally (based firmly in the real world) would compare to the walk of a man who really doesn't like underwear or price tags.

I glance back at the price tag, I'd better-

$1.07

Oh!

Bucky was in the 107th.

I dump the t-shirts on the basket, swivel my head to look at the sales assistant and send a quick, apologetic look which she doesn't catch but makes me feel better. Conscience appeased, I head out after him.

Cars are whizzing past; rushing to get home, I suspect. There are a few pedestrians on the sidewalk and ah! There he is with his baseball hat further down and so I increase my strides until I'm practically running.

Perhaps it set off a flashback – the price, I mean. We haven't a clue what he's been through and maybe the '$1.07' has really affected him. I really ought to look Bucky up. No, no I shouldn't. He'll tell us when he's ready. Or maybe not. He's affected by the price of underwear for goodness' sake (and that isn't funny. In the least. Darn you, Ida. Show a little compassion. Ha! You can't laugh when you're out of breath now can you? Serves you right).

Oh great. I've lost him. No, I haven't – did he turn a corner?

I tighten my grip on my purse as I follow him. This is a rough neighbourhood with hardly anyone in sight. Should I turn around? Where has he gone?

Oh, is that him? Why has he turned into an alleyway further on?

I enter in after him. It's rather dark and gloomy. Only a single beam of dying sunlight shines through the grey into the alleyway, peeking in a hazardous way between two, tall buildings. Litter is everywhere and, and I swallow and say, "Bucky?"

There is a silence.

But then, I hear a rustle behind me and I turn.

It's so sudden. So fast. So swift.

My purse is snatched and my hands automatically clutch at it. I'm not prepared for the sharp bite of a blade on my upper arm. Not prepared for the fist which hits me in the stomach. Not prepared for the hissed comparison to a female dog.

I'm folded at the waist and my purse is gone for my hands have gone to my stomach. I'm wheezing for breath and am unready for the blow to my cheek that sends me sprawling back against the rough brick wall. I hit my head and land on something squishy and slick.

My head is upturned and I see the figure above me - can make out the grey outlines of his face and I'm so, so grateful that it isn't Bucky.

A foot hits me on the chest and all I can think through a bizarre mixture of relief, pain and panic is: this isn't over, but it isn't Bucky and oh God help me.

And then there are groping hands and now I'm fighting, scrambling for my life. My hand reaches beneath me and I grab what I landed on and swing whatever it is at my attacker.

It is a dead cat.

I think that it stuns my attacker but it doesn't me. I kick my foot out and it collides with something - his leg? - and I hear the 'whoosh' of air which means I've hit something painful.

But the kick launched me backwards against the wall and I clonk my head again. Stunned, the world and its grey colours and red bricks and litter whirl around and around and suddenly I can see the blood on my arm – a dark red in the dim light.

The last time I saw blood like this was when I was trapped on the streets of New York two years ago and the woman in front of me was impaled by falling glass. I can remember that split second when the sunlight hit the pane and turned it golden.

But then it hit the woman (she was huddling in the street, on her knees with her hands protecting her head), and it turned red.

Well, there red was everywhere then. More than the amount dribbling down my arm right now, but it brings to mind that other terrible, terrible red.

They gave Free Therapy to all citizens of New York, and my therapist thought I was in shock. I disagreed. I wasn't in shock – I'd just buried all the events of that day: the screams, the monsters that came from the sky and the frantic struggle to get back to Aunt Becky and the horrible question of 'was she alright?'

But now I see the blood and it all comes back.

I look upwards and see my attacker lean down, his fist pulled back. I can't help it. Before, all I could do was let out grunts and take sharp intakes of breath but now, now I scream because I'm frightened and bravery is as elusive as a slippery eel.

But suddenly, suddenly he's gone. Whisked away. Pulled backwards.

And someone else is leaning over him, just in front of me. Another fist is raised and the thud of a metal fist hitting flesh and bone is the strangest sound I've ever heard.

This isn't a movie with buckets of fake blood and special effects. There isn't any music – heart pounding music that makes the action seem so cool. The only background track is the traffic not far from here – the honk of the horn and the occasional squeal of the tire.

My thoughts are a haze and I'm gasping for air and grasping at anything, anything at all that resembles sanity and reason and normalcy.

The sight in front of me is vicious and I can't think because that man hurt me and yet- the fist is a blur and it's rising and falling and the figure gripped in Bucky's right hand is limp and lifeless- oh no.

A quick, disjointed chant echoes around my head and I cannot decipher it save only for a few repeated words: Aunt Becky mustn't know … Aunt Becky will be so sad … Bucky mustn't … else Aunt Becky … he can't …

My voice is hoarse and, and maybe it trembles, maybe it doesn't but it's there and it's screaming out in panic: "Bucky! Stop!"

And suddenly the fist stops punching and Bucky is looking at me, and I at him and it's silent but the hum of the traffic is still there. Shadows are etched upon his face and I can't see his eyes – can't see their expression. But I can feel his gaze.

Isn't it odd that I don't think at all? All I do is note the incredible sticking powers of Bucky's baseball hat, still siting firmly on his head.

And then my attacker is dropped to the floor like a rag doll. And Bucky's gone.

I pull myself up to my knees. My cheeks are damp and bruised. I don't know what to do. Oh – look, there's my purse next to the dead cat.

I crawl over to it and fumble through my possessions. I'd better call 911. Yes – that's the right thing to do. A scratched and grimy hand reaches up and wipes my cheek.

Okay.

Take a deep breath.

Worse things have happened.

Don't be stupid and start crying.

It could have been worse.

I'd better make two calls - one to nine-one-one and the other to Aunt Becky.

"Aunt Becky?" I say to her after I've made the other call and my poor heart has stopped thinking I was running a marathon. "There's been an accident- no, it's okay" [it's not okay] "everything is fine" [apart from my attacker, who I crouch over shuddering at what could have happened and feeling sick over what has] "I'm just ringing to ask you to turn the supper down, I'm going to be a little late. No, no – I'm not crying. I've just been … cutting onions."

I close my eyes and breathe a prayer and then I sit down, beside a broken glass bottle, an overturned garbage bin and a dead cat. Beside the man who attacked me. I can't tell his age. His face is too bloodied.

I don't cry. I'm sensible, you see. So very sensible.

A sensible woman with dampened cheeks.

And my therapist's diagnosis is finally right after two years: I am in shock.

The blood is soaking my top and I wonder – as I did on that day when the heavens opened out of the blue and death came through – wonder how reality can include this.

How?

It doesn't seem real.

My head hurts.

It's very real.

I close my eyes and hear the approaching sirens.

A/N: Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later. The Winter Soldier hasn't exactly been cutting carnations for the past fifty years or so and this story isn't really going to be a rom-com or comedy capers.

I've posted this early because ... Happy Easter!

Once again - thank you for all the kind reviews, favourites and follows.

Chapter 5: Chapter Four - Yellow Paint

Yellow Paint

"We seek him here, we seek him there
Those Frenchies seek him everywhere!
Is he in heaven? Or is he in hell?
That demmed Elusive Pimpernel?"

– Baroness Orczy

The engine splutters and in the mirror I can see a grey puff of smoke billow behind me. I grit my teeth and hope that I don't break down.

But then, if I do – I do.

I've got bigger things on my mind right now.

The bigger things that are on my mind:

Where is Bucky?

and (most importantly)

I left my coat on the bus

Funny, isn't it? My thoughts could sweep through panicked memories or play those awful minutes on a loop. And they try to – when looking for Bucky becomes monotonous and every slouching figure is someone other than him, then the memories come like a flood and my mind latches onto one little fact - I left my coat on the bus and therefore it didn't get sliced by the knife.

A car blares its horn behind me. I switch gears and step on the gas.

I was going too slowly.

His name was Shaun, the police told me.

The exchange of names was not mutual. Or perhaps it was, but on my side I stretched and marred the truth until it was like play dough that once was a bright blue piglet and now is a blue pancake. The truth is blue but the shape it takes is different; some of the facts stay the same, others depart. Change shape.

I can't tell the truth. I know I should, I know I ought to. But I simply can't.

It isn't the fact Bucky is my Uncle. It isn't the fact that Aunt Becky would be upset if the truth came out into public view. It isn't even the fact that he is a war veteran, a hero from the past who fought for our freedom.

He is dangerous. There is no doubt about it. The fact was shown to me - punctuated by every punch and sound of metal against flesh. He could cause harm to Aunt Becky, yes.

These are reasons – reasons that should have made me open my mouth and spill the beans. Good reasons. Sensible reasons.

But I didn't tell the cop – even when he looked at me with brown eyes that held a hint of compassion at the stumbling rantings of a bruised and shaken woman with pen poised and questions ready.

Why?

Because, because that morning – yesterday morning – I saw hopelessness in Bucky. When he arrived I saw emptiness. When he spoke, I heard vulnerability.

Call me a fool – an idiot even. Any sane U.S citizen would march up to the cops and inform them of the dangerousness of their house-guest. At the way he beat my attacker up. At the lethal silence in which he can sit and his (potentially) deadly past.

But the thing is … is that, well, he didn't beat me. It wasn't me that he hit. He hit my attacker. My attacker.

Yes, he may have overdone it – perhaps he saw demons and mistook Shaun's face for theirs.

But it wasn't me he was hitting and he stopped when I called.

He stopped and, and somehow … somehow I can't do it. Can't say a single word to implicate him. Even though the sounds of those moments echo in my ears and play before my eyes whenever I close them.

Good thing I'm driving my old van then, isn't it?

Aunt Becky is either wholly lacking in sympathy or is remarkably wise for she hasn't let me stay still. Today I was supposed to rest and dose myself with painkillers. I'm dosed with painkillers but in no way am I resting.

I've been sent to look for Bucky. I nearly said something to Aunt Becky about a needle in a haystack but held my tongue from spitting out my protests.

I glance at the map sitting on the seat next to me. I really oughtn't to be driving. But when Aunt Becky fixes her gaze on you, you don't have any option but to do exactly what she says.

Besides, it's a life lesson for me - something about using a rickety gear stick, yelping in pain and making sure I don't run anyone over.

I'm just cruising the streets – and … if I wasn't so, so this then I would feel like a creep. A stalker who drives here, there and everywhere with nothing but a vague idea of places where a certain missing Uncle might be.

So far the missing man has stayed precisely that – missing.

I've tried to get myself in his mind-set – to think like he would in order to find out where he would go. They do that, don't they? In cop TV shows and in real life - to search for people.

So far all attempts – naturally - have ended in abysmal failure.

I must be a terrible person but some small part of me is so, so grateful to him. Because Shaun has been in jail before. For, for … I can't say the word. Can't even think it.

I want to close my eyes but I can't because I'm driving and so I keep them open and refuse to consider the 'what ifs' and 'could haves' which feel like the edge of a cliff and to indulge in them is to jump into a bottomless pit of fear.

But I'm grateful to Bucky – rather a bloodied Shaun then a hollow me, is the thought that plays at the edge of my mind. But when I think this I think of Shaun's face and I feel so terrible that I should be glad that he was like that.

But, if Bucky hadn't …

These thoughts are troubling so, as I strain my eyes and watch for Bucky, I think about my coat and how to retrieve it and wonder if I had anything valuable in the pockets. No, I didn't. Nothing but a packet of mints and used tissue.

The Battle of New York did a number on the city – two years later and while much of the damaged areas are rebuilt, there are parts where the buildings sit there with gashes and scars. These are mostly in the already run-down neighbourhoods.

These are the places I drive past and through. Looking for an elusive figure.

But no – he isn't there, of course he isn't.

I'm an idiot and my arm hurts and my chest aches and I need to put more gas in the van. I wind down my window, because the air-con is broken (of course it is). I see shadowed figures flit behind a hardware store that looks as though it needs to use some of its own products and hear a cry for help.

The cry is cut off.

I slow the van down for a few moments, and strain my ears. I bite my lip. Call 911. Report what I heard.

And then, I drive away.

I'm already battered and bruised and I don't have a metal arm. But I still feel the guilt. And my chest hurts and I know that it has nothing to do with yesterday.

I go home and call the bus company about my coat. Aunt Becky tucks me in bed like I'm a little girl again and brings me a cup of tea.

She strokes my head as I fall to sleep.

Day Two

I'm up and driving before eight o'clock. Lying in bed reminded me of lying in the alley and I kept tensing, expecting a blow.

I can't even bear to sit at my computer and search for Bucky's past. Illogical and stupid of me, I know. But I can't help it.

I've phoned work and they understand – Amy is all consideration and I now know what it is like to be on the receiving end of our customer service.

We're good.

I'm beginning to get to know New York a lot better. It's really big. Ha. I've lived here for so long that I forget that my own little piece of neighbourhood is one of thousands. It's so easy to narrow down the world to make it better for us to live in and understand.

Right now, I feel like a single syllable in a dictionary – small and insignificant. Looking for a needle in a busy haystack of homes and shops and skyscrapers and yellow cabs. I'm trying to hide, I guess. Delude myself into thinking that if the wheels of my van keep turning and I keep moving than thoughts and memories can't catch up with me.

I'm a fool.

I drive past that neighbourhood again – the one from yesterday. There are a couple of kids hanging around. Teens looking more world weary than they should.

The windows are wound down and I catch the sounds of an argument – same hardware store. Same flitting shadows. Those sitting on the sidewalk - leaning against a rundown fence with cigarettes and beer cans casually held between their fingers - don't pay any attention.

I drive home.

This is stupid – I'm an adult. A fully grown woman. A sensible woman.

I take the next dose of painkillers when I get home and force myself to sit down and read a novel. Somehow the words on the page stay exactly that – there is no magic there, no whisking me away to another time and another place.

I'm stuck on a couch that smells of peppermint and musk with a book in my hands and an aching chest and an arm that has too many stiches in it.

Where are you Bucky?

Philip rings and I tell him about my rescuers – three of them (one young, one middle aged and one almost in his dotage) all with knuckle dusters - who ran to my rescue when I screamed and beat the living daylights out of the man who attacked me.

It sounds stupid, but I stick to it. The mental image is morbidly comical.

He listens for a while, says all the right things and then begins to chatter about his work. I listen as I stand in the hallway and pick at the faded yellow wallpaper with a fingernail.

I nearly thank him for being so normal, but instead simply tell him that I love him and that if he talks back to his boss like that again, he probably will be fired.

He laughs and I hang up.

Day Three

Today I wake up and feel as if everything is okay. Back to normal. But then I catch a glimpse of my bruises in the mirror and becoming a weeping mess. Aunt Becky shuffles into the small bathroom and rubs my back.

I tell her it's PMS.

"Of course it is." Her eyes see too much.

"I'm a coward."

"No dear … every woman goes through the same thing."

I gape at her and a reluctant grin works its way onto my face. "I'd better look for Bucky today. I bet I find him too – third time lucky, you know."

She smiles and I realize that we are paper-talking. It's very effective.

"What's for breakfast, Auntie?"

"Don't think you're getting out of that one, dear. And shouldn't we have a look at your arm? Change the bandages?"

Aunt Becky may look old – wrinkles may chase each other across her face. She may seem as frail as a china doll, but … she's there when I need her. Like now. I give her a one armed hug and a smacking kiss on her white curls.

She understands.

Before we eat breakfast she says grace, and adds at the end: "And give Ida courage and strength. Help her beat back these fears and memories like Muhammad Ali beat his opponents. Amen."

I smile and pretend my eyes aren't watering. Only Aunt Becky …

Even though it's raining today and the windshield wipers are slow and make an appalling noise, I feel almost … cheerful.

Evening comes far quicker then I think possible and I drive by that neighbourhood again. There is a sharp crack and I think it's my van playing up again.

Only when I park the van two blocks away from home – the only parking space I can have – do I realize that it wasn't the van. It could have been a gunshot. The thought makes me pause in locking the van. But then I push the key firmly in my pocket and force myself to think of other things.

The stairs are horrible to climb and I pause at every third step.

I really wish they'd fix the elevator.

I arrive home and open the door. Yes, I haven't found Bucky but the last three days have served a purpose – brought it home with every awkward and painful shift of the gear stick.

The purpose of searching for a missing Uncle when the odds of finding him are lower than the Dead Sea:

Therapy

Aunt Becky is wise and I troop through the hallway, burst open the living room door and open my mouth to announce my belief in her wisdom and the probability that I'm going to need to keep driving for another couple of days. Or weeks. Or years.

But I don't say anything.

Only feel a very real sense of déjà vu.

"Hello, Bucky." I say. "Where on earth have you been? I've been looking for-" I don't complete the sentence because Bucky isn't vulnerable, hopeless or empty.

He looks like he's in hell.

I don't think- I don't think-

Yes, I don't think that paper-talk is going to fix this.

A/N: I do apologise for the absence of Bucky from most of this chapter. But trust me in that this serves a purpose. Honestly. Things are going to liven up around here in the next few chapters. Thank you very much for all the (lovely) reviews, favourites and follows. To the anon reviewer who corrected me on the name of Baloo the Bear – thanks :)

Chapter 6: Chapter Five - Green Paint 2 point 0

Green Paint 2.0

" … as delicate as a butterfly's wing …"

My first thoughts are selfish, and I feel so very guilty for thinking them.

Good people, you see, good people would immediately cross the room, put their arms around the broken hearted individual and offer them unlimited comfort and unconditional love.

Good people don't – and I repeat this to you, future Ida. Make a note of this. Stick it in your non-existent diary and hammer it into your unloving skull – Good people do not think: 'I can't handle this anymore' when they see someone who looks like Bucky does right now.

Good people don't feel like giving up.

Good people are perfect.

And you, you are not.

He is haunted. Look the word up, kid. Look it up and the definition is Bucky. His eyes are red and swollen. I'm staring at him, as is Aunt Becky who sits as still as a statue on her black seat. He's looking at my painting of Angel Falls which hangs over our gas fireplace.

None of us speak. I slump onto the couch (and also uncomfortably onto another one of those home owner magazines). The magazine slips to the floor, with its centre spread of a woman with a perfect smile with perfect white teeth sitting on a perfect cream chair. And her hair is brown and all … bouncy.

I blink and discover in myself a certain resentment towards that glossy woman who looks so perfect. She doesn't belong here.

And then he speaks with a voice that is rough and broken. Not like glass – but more like a cracked clay pot; its ragged edges rubbing together.

"I remember."

That's all he says. He doesn't need to say much more. His voice says it all, carries a weight about it.

What are you supposed to say to that? It is too much – questions, thoughts, and feelings all bubbling together in a cauldron that spits and burns and to say something is to tip it over and let the scolding liquid burn us all.

"I remember," he says and he turns so that he is facing us both, looming over us yet not really seeing us at all. "I remember what they did to me."

"Do you know," he questions and his eyes – dark eyes. Blue eyes. Terrible empty eyes – scour my mine, "what they did to me?"

I shake my head slowly and my chest feels very, very bruised.

"They made me," he closes his eyes and when he opens them again I see the moisture there. "They made me a … a monster."

He sinks to the floor, onto his knees and buries his head in his hands. He stays still for a heartbeat.

What happens next I prefer not to remember. I've buried it deep – deeper than I buried the memories of the Battle of New York. I've pushed back the sound of fragmented – Russian, is it? Or German? Or both – into a damp, cold cell. I've stuffed the sight of a broken man behind it. It is strangely … oh, to say sacred is laughable, but rarely do you see a man so tortured, so torn, so damaged as the one I saw then. I've locked it all away and thrown away the key.

Only, I think the door will burst open again. It feels strangely weak. I can't stand this. My chest hurts, my arm throbs and I wish, I wish … I don't know what I wish.

I don't know how long we've been sitting here – hours it feels like. Hours upon hours that have piled up and are a heavy weight upon us all. He stopped weeping a long time ago. The wall bears the mark of his fist – he didn't hit it with metal, but with flesh and bone which now are bruised and crisscrossed with spilt and bleeding scratches.

He is propped up by the wall with one knee supporting an arm and the other leg stretched out before him, touching the magazine that's still open with the glossy picture of that perfect woman with her perfect white teeth.

He looks utterly spent.

A hollowed husk. He is staring and I wonder what he sees – not me, sitting on the battered couch with tangled short hair and whose face is frozen and damp. Not Aunt Becky who has sunk against her seat looking completely shattered.

It's the lull after the storm.

Or … perhaps the peace in the middle.

His head leans against the wall and I wonder absently if the grease in his hair will make a mark on the cream paint. Like the crack. But different.

I stand on numbed legs and stagger into the kitchen. Swallow some painkillers. Boil some water. Coffee and tea for everyone. And biscuits. You mustn't forget biscuits. Biscuits make the world go round – are shaped like it too. In a 2D kind of way.

A blanket. Yes. I need a blanket.

I leave the kitchen and go to the hall closet – our linen slash cleaning closet. I tuck a soft blue blanket under my arm and go into the kitchen. Aren't people in shock given blankets?

(Huh. I wasn't given a blanket. Was I? I can't recall.)

One step at a time. They climbed Everest, K2 and all the other seemingly impossible mountains. One step at a time. (Lots of people died in the numerous attempts too. Pessimism, I salute you).

I assemble a tray and go back into the living room. Aunt Becky looks at me and she is tired and worn like an old piece of beautiful embroidery that's faded with time.

My chest hurts and my bruises are throbbing again – everywhere ... stomach, head … just everywhere.

I whisper to Aunt Becky to follow me and this time it is I who tucks her into bed and puts a warm drink and three biscuits on her bedside table.

"Look after him," she murmurs as I leave the room. "Be careful."

I return to the kitchen, retrieve the tray and blanket and approach Bucky carefully. My knees creak as I kneel beside him and place the tray down on the floor. I don't look at his metal hand but awkwardly drape the blanket over his shoulders and slide the tray with its coffee and pile of biscuits over to him. The coffee slops and splashes and soaks the biscuits with the jerking movement.

Question: What does one do next?

Answer: Not a clue- ah! But perhaps you have some options:

1. Retreat to your room and a romance novel. You've done all you can and my dear, dear self, you deserve a break. All things considered.

2. Hug him. He looks like he needs a hug.

3. Give him your childhood teddy bear, a romance novel and offer to drive him around in the van. For therapy.

"If you want to … talk," I say instead. "I'm here. Because sometimes it helps. Talking, I mean. If you talk it out then it might go away. Not completely, erm, not yours by the looks of it. Oh, sorry I didn't mean- What I mean is that sometimes, sometimes talking helps. And I'm here. To listen. Look, I'll sit over there and read about Dukes and fiery spitfires and er, you can talk to me when you're ready. Okay?"

He utters a low: "Yeah."

I let out a breath and give him a nod.

He looks so darn pale and hurting – like a living wound that's bleeding and open and raw. And I can't do anything but find a romance novel and sit on a couch with tea that has too much milk in it and a biscuit that I keep dropping, spreading crumbs everywhere.

I swallow and try to concentrate on the words. I can't read a single one.

It is so silent that I can hear my wristwatch ticking.

Bucky moves and I peek over the top of the book. He's drinking the coffee. Slurping it actually. He looks up and I try to pretend that I wasn't staring at him like a concerned mother hen.

Quack. (Oh wait, that's a duck.)

Did he just say something-?

"Upside down."

Yes, yes he did.

I lower the book. "Sorry, what did you say?"

"It's upside down." His hand makes a small gesture. "The book."

I glance down. Ah yes. The Duke of Pembroke is proving that the Alpha Male can even be suspended, upside down, and still,er, hold (maul would be a better word) the love of his life. "Oh, yes. So it is." I smile at him again. "Thanks."

I begin to read in earnest now. But like yesterday, the magic just isn't there. The Duke has slapped the poor-but-in-no-way-plain Jane. I glare at the pages. The Duke is simply an arrogant man who needs to be punched. Repeatedly.

Memories rise up again and I shiver. No. He doesn't need to be punched, I decide - knocked out and shipped to Timbuktu will do perfectly well. With a dead rat stuffed down his pants.

"I'm an assassin." The words interrupt my thoughts and I frown. Did he just offer to off the Duke? No, Ida, you silly creature. Bucky can't read thoughts and besi- did he just say he was an assassin?

I lower my book and look at him. I'm too worn out to be surprised.

He looks at me – the young Bucky from the album, the one that fought in the war and the one who I meet just this week all wrapped up into one man looking at me – the gaze of a tired, weary man. "They made me forget … over and over … so many times ... until I fought him – that was the spark, till the end of the line' he said. … he didn't fight back … the stupid punk didn't fight back …" He drains the coffee down with a single gulp.

"Have a biscuit," I suggest, to fill the awful silence.

Metal fingers close around the digestive biscuit and take it to his mouth. "Do you know," he asks me, with biscuit crumbs falling. "Do you know how many people I've killed?"

"No," I say simply.

"My name," he says after a while. "My name's James Buchanan Barnes."

It's like he's assuring himself of the fact. So I agree with him: "Yes. You are. Though we call you Bucky."

He blinks, nods and eats another biscuit.

"I could call you Uncle Bucky, if you want." I say stupidly because I can't bear the look in his eyes.

He blinks slowly.

"Or … just Bucky. Right. Okay then. Bucky it will be."

Another biscuit disappears.

Time ticks on.

"They put me in cryogenic stasis." He tells me with bleak eyes. "In between. They … froze me."

Ah.

Er.

"I fell down into the valley. Into the ice. They found me. They should have left me for dead."

He stands wearily. The crumbs fall to the floor along with the blue blanket.

"They should have left me for dead."

I rise, leave the mauling Duke to drop onto the floor beside the glossy woman. "You're going to stay – aren't you? I … it's not good for you to disappear like this. Not right now. Look – I'll bring you a warm milk if you go to bed. Right now. You can listen to some music – classical, old timey … whatever you like, to keep your thoughts occupied. But stay … because, because you aren't in … cryog- whatever it is stasis- er, frozen. And, and you won't be. Ever again."

"What if I want to be?" he asks. "You don't think when you're like that. Everything … stops. What if I want to be?"

How do you answer a question like that? How? My tongue runs amuck: "Than that would be … stupid. Foolish. Because it's alright to halt everything but in the end … you wake up and you have to face whatever it is that you're hiding from."

He gazes at me for a moment and then goes to my room and when I bring him a warm milk he is lying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. I don't think the green paint is soothing him.

"I put a bit of cinnamon in it," I tell him. "No salt."

The glass hits the bedside table with a clink. I hesitate in leaving him. "You can call me … if you need anything. I'm just down the hall."

I think I imagine the whisper of a 'thanks' as I leave.

I change into my pyjamas ('gimme a hug' says the bear on the front of the top), make my bed on the couch and close my eyes. Shaun hovers above me and hits me over and over again. I don't fight back.

My eyes open. The grey light of dawn has worked its way past our flimsy curtains, but this isn't what awakens me. It was a bump from my room. Why is-? Confusion falls off me like a drape and I sit bolt upright.

Bucky.

My eyes fly to the crack on the wall – barely discernible in the shadows, but still there.

Is he leaving?

He shouldn't – not like he is right now. Or was, because this is today and that was yesterday. I leave the couch, nearly trip over that blasted book and open the living room door, yawning.

My light is switched on – yellow beams have crept underneath the door and flooded the hall carpet. I knock.

No response.

I can't be bothered to be sensible – I never am when recently summoned out of my sleep. I open the door.

My First Thoughts Upon Seeing What Bucky is Doing:

Huh? Is … he … Wha-?

"Bucky … what are you doing? And, erm, why have you moved the bed?" I sit on said bed, noting the rumpled covers.

He continues to draw. My green wall is covered in a black spider's web. Or at least, that's what I assume it is.

I blink and rub my eyes, noting the empty glass on the newly moved bedside table. I strain to see what he's doing. It isn't a spider's web, that's for sure. The last green space on my wall is now covered in black letters. He's writing.

He stands up and drops the pen on the floor – it's a permanent, black ink pen.

He takes a few steps backwards until he is against the bed's wooden headboard. "It's the names."

"Alright. You've written names on my wall." I nod in perfect understanding. Then I frown. "Whose names?"

He spares me a glance. His eyes are empty and blue. "The people I've killed - their names."

I look at the wall, blink and rub my eyes again. "That's, that's a lot of names."

He runs his fingers through his hair. Rubs his face. Stares at the black ink with the eyes of a hypnotized man. "Yeah."

Questions. There are always questions with Bucky. Here's one, for instance: you mean these are the people you've killed since you were apparently dead? And another: you're feeling the guilt, aren't you? I can see it in your eyes, hear it in your voice.

"These aren't all of them - only the ones I remember."

"Bucky … are you sure?"

"Yeah."

That's all he needs to say. And by golly, he'd better not say any more.

I stand and reach out, touch his bare arm hesitantly. "Bucky. I … you …"

He turns his eyes toward me and I straighten my spine. One step at a time, Ida. It's the same for him too. "I think I have an old t-shirt of Philip's hanging about somewhere. You can put it on … and …" he shifts and my eyes see, for the first time, the star – the red star – on his metal arm.

Bucky …

That's why he spoke Russian then.

"And we'll have breakfast and, no – you need to have a wash first. I'll get you a spare toothbrush – I really should have thought of that earlier. I'll do you breakfast and then-"

"No."

No, he says. No, my foot.

"Bucky." I gesture towards the wall. "Whatever this is … we can deal with it. Later." Like I will, mentally. For the next four hundred years. "But first you are washing and I am making breakfast and then you will eat it. And if you don't … then I'll make sure I put salt in it."

He is frowning. So I hammer my advantage home: "Lots of salt. Now, I'm going to take some pain killers because my arm hurts and- wow, your fist looks so much better than last night. Right. Never mind. Now go to the bathroom and do whatever you have to do, please. I'm begging you, Bucky. And after that we'll have breakfast and sort out whatever needs to be sorted out."

He's looking at the wall again. I want to tap him on the shoulder but … I'm scared, alright. Of him. Because when I look at his metal arm I see a clenched fist and I see it rise and fall, rise and fall and I hear the smack of metal against cheek.

No, no Ida … it was Shaun. Not me. He did it to Shaun. Not me. He saved me.

"Bucky?"

"Okay," he says and I give him a smile – a big beaming one that is out of place here. Here with the soothing green wall with names upon names written on it. The names of the dead. I wonder-

No, Ida. It doesn't bear thinking.

Breakfast.

He has cereal. I have porridge. We both sip from cups filled with scalding coffee.

"Hey … Bucky?"

His eyes meet mine. I swallow nervously, pretending it's the painkillers stuck in my throat. "Thanks."

A brief frown and then he remembers what I'm thanking him for.

"You … you saved me and, and I, well … you didn't add a name. To the wall, I mean. You … did good." Sure, Shaun is in a coma, but he isn't another name on the wall. And he stopped when I called.

"So … thanks, Bucky."

He nods slowly.

I take a sip from my coffee. Aunt Becky isn't up yet.

A spoonful of porridge.

Yeah, this needs more honey.

And for this moment in time we have a strange, fragile kind of peace that feels as delicate as a butterfly's wing.

Yes, there's a crack in the living room wall, and yes, there are names (so many names) scrawled in black ink on my bedroom wall. Yes, he has a metal arm and I have bruises - of mind and body. But … right now. Right now the coffee is scalding, my porridge needs more honey and we are both being silent, and we are both … being normal.

For a little while.

Please … I hope this lasts.

But of course it won't.

But for now … my chest doesn't hurt quite so much.

I give a small smile to Bucky and take another sip of coffee.

Goodness, but it's hot.

A/N: A huge thank you to everyone who has taken the time to review this story. And follow. And favourite. Thanks. One more, folks, one more chapter and the end of Part One: Jury will have been reached. And then off into Part Two: Judge we'll go ...

Chapter 7: Chapter Six - Red Paint

Red Paint

"… darn you Hollywood, for making me believe that all bad guys have terrible aim."

I can't believe this is actually happening.

Blood. Blood is everywhere. I've got it on my hands, on my torso, on my arms. How are you supposed to fix a bullet wound? Apply pressure and wait for medical assistance?

Great. No one mentioned the fact that when you apply pressure your hands aren't exactly free to call 911 - hence, no medical assistance.

There is a scream and Bucky has, has … well, he's punched someone. Clear over the garbage bins and through a window.

Clearly he isn't going to be the one to call 911.

We're behind that hardware store.

I should have stayed on the couch this morning.

The kid is breathing strangely now – great, whistling breaths. I push down with my hands, feel the warm blood ooze between my fingers.

"Hold on, honey," I tell the bleary eyed teen. "You're going to be alright." She's looking up at me, dazed and bewildered. I sniff and hope that somehow, this is a dream. I look up. There's a man with a knife behind Bucky. He leaps forward, with blade ready.

"Watch out!" I screech.

But even as the words leave my mouth, Bucky has turned and whacked the man over. One punch and guy goes down like a toppled tree. How … how did he do that?

The crack of a gun sounds behind me. I duck – too late. Strange, bullets don't whistle; they crack and by the time you have warning, they have already 1) hit you, 2) killed you or 3) missed you.

Or, in my case, there is option one and a half – graze you. My shoulder, to be exact. I look down and notice the thin line of red that has cut itself through my white, rose-printed top and is spreading like a river overflowing its banks.

Oh. Wonderful, I think dazedly. After all that kerfuffle in high school, now would be the time I turn into a poet.

And also: darn you Hollywood, for making me believe that all bad guys have terrible aim.

In a blink, Bucky has moved and I hear a clonk as a gun hits the ground, followed by a thud that signals its owner's fall.

Three figures emerge through a doorway, another appearing behind that broken window. Guns are fired and it's like I'm in a strange, unreal dream. A bullet sears my ear – a burning touch - and I duck, pushing my hands down harder on the girl's stomach. Her top is soaked with dark red and- and- her eyes are open and fixed, a little frown wedged between her brows.

She's dead. The fact hits me like a sledgehammer. I don't hear anything else. Only see her - her face. I hear no hard-drawn breathing, even though I strain for the sound of it.

I push harder on her wound, maybe, maybe I just need to add a little more pressure and her eyes will flicker again and her pale brown face will be flushed with colour.

Just push down a little harder, Ida.

You can do this.

Auntie, I can hear my childish voice asking. Why do people die?

My arm is snatched, the world whirls and it takes me a moment to realize that someone - oh. It's Bucky - has hauled me over his shoulder.

Everything tilts and it takes another moment to realize that he's tossed me into a dumpster; the one by the alleyway's opening.

It's so cold. I'm shivering and my teeth are chattering like the rattling lid of a pan of boiling water. Fine – the weather isn't cold but I'm cold. A paradox. No, no it's not – it's shock.

I hear gunshots and feel the dull thud as bullets dent my shelter.

How did this happen … how the heck did this happen?

How It Happened

by

Ida's [very helpful] Memory

Conversation between Bucky Barns and Ida Proctor:

Ida: Hey, Bucky. You know … er, we didn't get those clothes for you, right? Shall we pop out and get some?

Bucky: …

Ida: Bucky, honestly. Sitting and staring at the wall isn't healthy … particularly that wall.

Bucky: It's what I did.

Ida: [laughs a little nervously] Yeah, [clears throat] I know. But … you still need clean clothes.

Bucky: [words omitted due to content (though perhaps they were Russian, in which case: aszchlsdjfsk)] has that got to do with it?

Ida: Er. Nothing. But – look, you've been wearing those clothes for days now and-

Bucky: I'll get some more.

Ida: That's the spirit! Come on I'll grab a sweater and then-

Bucky: Later.

Ida: …

Bucky: Ida. Leave.

Ida: Wha-? Alright. I'll leave you alone but, but I'll be back. I promise. And, listen … I'm going to go for a drive, and just in case you want to come … I'll wait five minutes for you, outside. And not a minute after. Okay … so … er … see you.

Ten minutes later, in the old green van:

Ida: Bucky! Hey … I wasn't expecting you.

Bucky: …

Ida: Fine, I was hoping you'd come and- never mind. Let's go.

Ida: [stalls van] Ha, I mean it's the van … it's always like … this. Sometimes.

Bucky: …

Ida: [mutters] You don't have to look so darn interested.

Bucky: [after several minutes] I can hear you.

Ida: [sighs heavily] I just can't win …

Driving past neighbourhood where Ida heard gunshot:

Ida: I rang 911 here, once. Two - er, three? – days ago. And I'm pretty sure I head a gun being fired.

[sounds of shots heard]

Ida: Like that – it really sounded just like tha- oh. Oh no. It sounded just like that! Bucky - my cell phone, quick! Call 911. It's in my bag. This is a gang war. Or, or, or a terrorist attack. Nononono.

[Bucky opens door and jumps out of moving vehicle]

Ida: Bucky! What on earth are y-?! The van's still running, you moron. I mean, no – you're not a moron. Sorry. Oh great, where's he-

[Ida slams on breaks, scans neighbourhood]

Ida: Where did he go? [mutters] Aunt Becky is going to kill me.

[climbs out of van, locks door]

Conversation between Ida and her Conscience:

Ida: This is probably a bad idea. I'm going to be shot. Killed. Slain by a bullet. My blood will paint everywhere red.

Ida's Conscience: You can't just leave him. You know what happened last time. If you do leave him, I will torment you for the rest of your life.

Ida: … gonna die.

Ida's Conscience: Torment … for the rest of your existence. Every moment. Every breath. Every time you close your eyes. Every time you try to sleep. Every second of every day … tormented.

Ida: I am so doomed. There are literally gunshots sounding every second.

Ida's Conscience: Walk faster!

Ida: Alright, alright I'm going. Everything's gone so quiet … this is so, so strange. And scary. But mostly scary.

Ida's Conscience: Oh no! What if we do die – who will look after Aunt Becky? Turn back! Turn back! Call 911 and leave.

Ida: Philip will look after her. And I can't call 911 – because of Bucky. I've got to find him and stop him from … from … something.

Ida's Conscience: [admiringly] You make a very good martyr.

Ida: [approaches hardware store, cautiously. Nears renewed sounds of shouting, shooting and swearing] Oh yeah? Well, you are clearly very delusional.

The next few moments pass in a blur. Ida recalls only stumbling once (however, she did this three times and stubbed her toe once) but remembers (vividly) coming out from the small alleyway at the side of the hardware store and finding a large space behind it, that looked like a mutation of an abandoned warehouse (with no roof) and a graffiti skate-park.

And also a morgue.

Not that Ida has ever been to a morgue before. But this is a mutated form of one. Four bodies lie in unnatural, tangled positions on the floor.

From the shelter of her alley, she can see that there are people hiding behind garbage cans, in doorways and behind piles of rubbish and abandoned crates. With guns, firing at each other.

And Bucky.

Well, they fire mostly at Bucky.

Bucky who is a blur; Bucky who looks like a very, very frightening action hero; Bucky who is currently leaping from a low roof and onto an unsuspecting baggy-pants wearing, gun-toting man's back.

Ida – always normal, always sensible and always sane – becomes, at this point at least, convinced that her mind has been shipped off to LaLa Land. These things just. Don't. Happen. To. Her.

Well, obviously life didn't get the memo.

Because they are happening.

That's it, she tells herself. I'm going to get my cell phone. This is really, really bad.

Guns are shooting and a girl with spikey black hair and ears covered with more piercings than skin races from behind a dumpster, across the opening, towards Ida.

She crumples and Ida belatedly hears the shot. She can't help but run forward, can't help but stare, panicked at the red spot which spreads and spreads over the girl's stomach.

Apply pressure, she thinks, phone forgotten.

But then guns are fired, knives are thrown. Bucky tosses someone through a window. Ida gets shot – and is very, very lucky. Twice. The girl, less so.

And then Bucky throws Ida into a large dumpster.

And that – that is where she is now.

Remembered by: Ida's [in no way faulty] Memory

With thanks to: Ida, Ida's Mind, Ida's Conscience and Bucky.

I'm alone in a dumpster, trying not to think about what is beneath me, trying not to imagine what's going on around me. I move, slightly and slowly. Oh – look. I can see the sky. That cloud looks like … I see the dying girl's face again; the way her eyes begged for something whilst her mouth moved and only whimpers came out.

The way everything stopped (her breathing, the look in her eyes) and I didn't save her.

No, no – mustn't think. Must not think.

Another bullet hits the dumpster. Someone swears and I hear pain in his voice over the thudding of my heartbeat.

That someone is close by. I can see the hand – pale and white and coarse - gripping the side of my refuge, at my head's end. Fingers with the nails bitten to the quick.

The other hand comes over.

Oh.

Uh.

Um.

There … is a gun in that hand. Loosely held. Pointing at me.

At my head.

At the head which is mine.

My head.

What do I do?

What do I do?

I can't move. That's for sure.

Alright, he hasn't pulled the trigger yet. Break it up, Ida. Break up the problem like you do in customer service. And breath – you know, the little thing that keeps you alive? Yeah? That thing. Do it. Oh, wonder of wonders, I've forgotten how.

Nope, there it is.

Right. So, if you keep still then … he won't notice yo-

He's resting his head against his hands. I can see a mop of dull, brown hair. If he raises his head he's going to be faced with the view of a petrified woman covered in blood, in a dumpster.

Don't raise your head, I chant in my mind. Don't raise your head.

Please.

So, of course, he does.

I'm never being polite again.

He has black bruises beneath sunken eyes, his face is covered in red blotches and his hair is scraggly and thin.

It happens in a moment – a thousandth of a second. I'll never know what keeps me here and what stops me from being blown head first into eternity.

I move, you see. Jack-knife into a sitting position as the whole dumpster shudders with a shot. And I don't stay still – I'm on my feet and with the speed of a startled hare or deer I launch myself over the end of the dumpster.

Another bang.

Searing pain.

No time for it.

A quick survey of the … yard? shows me the bodies lying on the floor. I'm in a crouch with my back against the dumpster and a rough bit of wall touching my left arm. I can't see anyone – just the bodies on the floor.

But I can hear him.

I can't run else I'll have a bullet in my back quicker than you can say 'we're not in Kansas anymore'. No, time to put my non-existent black belt to good use.

The best defence is a good offense. I hope.

Thoughts run like ticker-tape on caffeine through my mind, yet everything is so slow. This is someone else's life, I think as I hear the crunch of footsteps on broken glass; not mine. I'm watching a movie. This isn't me.

I'm in an invisible fog. Watching someone's life through a window pane.

Everywhere hurts.

This is real, I think. And I wish it wasn't.

I want to give up, but I can't.

I want to lie down and remember that girl's face. No, I want to forget. Give in. I'm so scared. My hands are shaking. My breathing rattles. My heart is beating so loudly that my ears are filled with its thump. I can't do this.

I can't.

I think of Bucky. Of Aunt Becky.

'For England and St George!' echoes faintly in a distance chamber of my head. (Really, my mind has no reverence for crucial moments.)

And then I see the tip of his shoe. A heartbeat. My left hand clutches at something.

In one motion I grab the rim of the dumpster with my right hand, haul myself up and bring what is in my left hand down hard onto his upper arm.

He goes down, spasming almost, clutching at his arm.

It was glass, I realize dumbly.

It was glass, I think as I stare at the blood trickling down my hand.

I've killed him, I think.

Then – no. He isn't dead. He's rolled up into a ball. Moves about. Jerking convulsively and swearing like a sailor in a hoarse voice which rises at the end of every word. Crying like a wounded animal. Clutching at his arm. Doing all these things in seconds, in moments, whilst I stand and feel like I'm reading about this. This isn't me here. It can't be me.

Someone swears behind me and I grab the fallen gun off the ground (and feel the gravel clog my fingernails and the rough concrete scrape the backs of my fingers) and swivel.

(I've watched movies, action movies, you know. Only here there is no choreographed fight scenes – only instinct. And precious little at that.)

She's got a gun too.

She's wearing a blue 'Hello Kitty' tank top. Choppy blonde hair frames a snarling face with decaying teeth and spitting eyes. Her arms are skinny and you can see the difference between the wiry muscle and the flesh which hangs loose.

Paradoxes. Again.

"Drop the gun," she says.

She curses when I don't.

She thinks I'm being stubborn.

I'm not. I'm not.

I can't let go.

I can't.

So we stand with guns trained on each other. Mine is heavy and wavers and I feel the trigger with my slick and wet fingers. Her gun is steady.

My fingers convulse; shaking so, so badly.

I pull the trigger.

I don't know why I do it – maybe it's the shaking of my hands, or a slight movement of the girl opposite me that causes my mind to spasm in panic and my finger to jerk and pull at the metal.

I pull the trigger.

And the girl opposite disappears in a blur even as a gun fires. She just goes … sideways. Oh. It's Bucky. He's taken her out. Tackled her like a football player.

I lower the gun.

And he straightens. She's gasping on the ground.

This is-

I can't-

I-

There are sirens in the distance – piercing as they come ever closer. Bucky is at my side, pulling me by the arm.

"Run!" he barks.

I really can't do it. Everywhere hurts. Everywhere aches.

The world is as real and as sharp as glass cutting my skin. It hurts too much.

I think I'm going to be sick.

The sirens are closer, so close that they overwhelm my ears and all of a sudden the world swirls and twists again and I feel the solid metal of Bucky's arm as he chucks me over his shoulder and runs.

I watch – upside down – as we leave that awful place. He's taking me away – away from the alleyway, from the dumpster. I have a nice view of the ground, broken bricks and – was that a needle? We're on a tiny road now and Bucky's still running. I'm jerked and jogged but he runs with a strange smoothness and in his calmness I find a meagre ration of strength.

And then suddenly I'm placed on a hard surface and I blink.

I'm sitting on a bike; straddling a motorbike, to be more accurate.

There is no time to think, I nearly fall forwards but Bucky slides in in front of me and I lean against him. He does … something fiddly with whatever is up front and the engine rumbles.

"Put your feet up," he tells me and I blink – huh?

There is a shout and I turn – look down the narrow strip between two old grizzly buildings towards where … it ... happened.

A figure is there, clad in blue.

A cop.

I feel a jolt of relief: the police – they'll make everything better … won't they?

But suddenly we are flying forwards and zooming down narrow streets and zipping around corners and the wind whips my hair and I clutch at Bucky, feel the roughness of his jacket and realize that whatever we do, we can't go to the police – because how on earth can I explain it all away?

My memory shows me a picture of a green wall and so many names.

What would they do to him?

I hold onto Bucky and close my eyes.

Right. I need to make sense of this, this, well – whatever just happened.

Making Sense of the Thing Which Just Happened:

1. Clearly we interrupted some sort of … gang battle?

27. Why did Bucky jump out of the car?

412. I stabbed someone in the arm. With some glass

699. Why didn't I call 911? Dumb. So very dumb.

10,589. I shot at someone.

8,005,042. In conclusion … I have no idea what just happened.

The engine slows and then cuts and I open my eyes to see that we are at the back of some apartments. Great. Another alley. (If I wasn't so weary I would say that I really, really dislike alleyways.) There is a fire escape – grey and rusted – stretching upwards.

Bucky gets off the bike and pulls me off too. The bike falls to the floor with a dull clunk and suddenly I'm hefted up and – woo! I'm on the fire escape and the ground is down there and I am up here and this is clearly a Very Bad Idea.

Bucky leaps up, catches hold of the lowest bar and hefts himself onto the fire escape with me. He gives me a look and his eyes are cold, but maybe that is just me. Everything is cold right now.

"Wha-. Where are we?"

"At the back of your apartment."

Okay then.

He puts his arm around my shoulder and lifts me up. He glances behind me.

"You're shot in the backside."

"Oh," I say dazedly as we go upwards, each footsteps making a muted clang. "Really?"

"Yes."

"Mm'kay."

Another flight of winding metal steps. There is a dragon in my stomach and it twists and turns and I rather think that the contents of my stomach wish for an abrupt relocation to someplace more … airier.

"It's just a scratch," he says.

Another footstep.

This is like climbing Everest.

Honestly, it is.

"That's nice," I say and sniff. Somewhere in between climbing out of my green van and being dumped on the back of a motorbike my eyes have been overflowing with liquid and my cheeks are damp. Very damp.

It feels like days, months – years, but we are here. Bucky opens a window (how, I don't pay much attention and to be brutally honest, I don't much care) and we are suddenly surrounded by familiar walls.

Green soothing walls.

But even these look alien to me – the bed has moved, the wall bears the names of dead people and I haven't slept surrounded by green for a week.

But still, I leave Bucky staring at the wall and force myself to go to the bedroom door and call Aunt Becky.

"Yes, dear?" she responds from the living room and her dear, dear voice makes me want to bawl helplessly.

I walk – not without great effort and aid from the walls – to the living room and peer around, not so that she can see my body, but so that I can see her.

She's knitting and doesn't look up when my head pops into view.

"I didn't hear you come in" she says.

"We- er," I can't tell her. I honestly can't.

So many stupid 'cannots' I've been running into today.

"I'm just going to … change and put the dinner on."

She's reached a difficult point in her pattern and so she peers at her handiwork (a cream sweater, for Bucky no doubt), tuts under her breath and speaks absently: "Alright then. Is Bucky well?"

"Yeah," I say and I think my voice cracks. "I think so."

I turn away and look down the hall.

Huh.

I walked aided by the walls and, and where I put out a hand to hold myself up … is a trail of smeared red. Red paint. My blood on the wall.

No, not all of it.

That poor kid's blood.

Painting my wall.

I hold back a sob.

Bucky appears from my bedroom and gives me an assessing look before walking forwards and hauling me back into my room.

"Where are your medical supplies?" he asks after dumping me on the bed.

"Kitchen, second cabinet above the counter. On the left."

He disappears, leaving me just to sit and stare.

And then he's back and he's disinfecting and stitching and handing me painkillers and I feel swept up in a blur and don't even blink when I have to shift so that he can stitch the wound on my bottom and swamp it with enough disinfectant to sterilise a sewage plant.

I'm sure, in another time and another place I'd find this mightily embarrassing - but right now? Right now I'm done.

"Why did you get out of the van?" I ask him with no accusation in my voice. Just bland inquiry.

He raises his head from tending to my shoulder.

"I thought … I-" he bends his head again and I feel the cold touch of metal fingers on my arm and the sting of a needle piercing my skin.

I look at the wall and see the names.

"I thought I was in a mission. It was a …"

"Flashback?" I suggest.

"No," he says and snipes the thread. Huh. I have green stitching. Green to go with my room. Wonder where he found the thread. I blink. "A memory. I was … a little caught up. The sound of the guns … reminded me of something."

"Oh."

We don't speak for a little while and I can hear the noise of the television – Aunt Becky must have just switched it on. "… the so called 'Kid-Napper' is now in police custody … " booms out a newsreader and then his voice fades and I know that Aunt Becky has lowered the volume.

I remember seeing one of his victims in the paper. So they found him after all. I hope they found his victims. Hope that they are alive.

An image of a pale brown face flashes in front of my eyes and I fight it and force the overwhelming feeling of distraught sadness backwards.

Bucky speaks: "You lost blood – not enough to need a transfusion. Stay in bed awhile. Rest."

"The bike," I say. "What are you going to do with it?"

My shoulder is bandaged. Now it's my hand's turn. My head is swimming and I feel faint and sick. But I have important questions to ask: "And my van, what am I going to-"

"I'll get it back for you," he promises. And then: "Sorry."

"For what?"

"For," and he gestures to my wounds, "this."

"It's fine," I say automatically.

"The gun had no ammo left," he tells me and I look at him, puzzled.

"The gun you had," he clarifies. "It had run out of bullets by the time he reached you round the dumpster."

"So I stabbed him in vain?" I question. I cut my hand for nothing?

"No," he says quietly. "He would have killed you with the knife he had in his pocket."

My mind flits to another memory: "Wait a sec … does that mean that the gun that went off when you … tackled that girl-" (or woman. How old was she? Early to late twenties?) "-was actually … hers?"

"Yes."

"Ohhhhh …" I say and find myself teetering on the cliff of 'what ifs'. "Then … you saved my life."

"Yeah."

"More than once – you tossed me into the dumpster as well." Huh. Don't think I've said something like that before. My sense of humour gives a wane chuckle and disappears again.

"So … " I really want to clarify this. "Was it a gang war?"

"Perhaps. I found some drugs-"

"You what?!"

"I didn't take any," he assures me.

"What?" I choke.

"Didn't bring any back with me," he corrects himself and finishes binding my hand. "They were probably contaminated."

"The cops will find them … right? The drugs, I mean."

"Yes."

"Oh my word – will they find my van? It's a little ways from where, where it happened but could they trace me to-"

"Maybe."

I give him a half-hearted glare for being so truthful (sometimes you just want to hear comforting reassurances, regardless of the truth). "I'm doomed."

"No," he says. "No - you're not."

And then he stands up, wipes his hands on a rag, goes to the wall, kneels down and picks up the pen. And writes 'Unknown x 3'.

He doesn't look at me when he stands again, but he directs a question at me: "Do you want a drink?"

"Yeah … " I smile at him – a very weak and a very wobbly smile. "Yes, please."

And he leaves the room.

I can still hear the low murmur of the TV. Aunt Becky's okay. But how to tell her about all this? Should I? She clearly is going to notice – I've got a band aid on my ear and bandage on my shoulder, to mention only two of my new collection of wounds. (Oh, and I'm also going to have trouble sitting down.)

I open the bottom drawer of the bedside table, look blankly at the romance book that stares up at me. Close the drawer. Cast my arm underneath my bed and feel for my teddy bear.

I don't care if it's childish but I curl up and bury my face in Winnie's musky fur. And then I lay very still for a very long time.

End of Part One: Jury

A/N: Whew! What a whopper of a chapter that was – and the most action packed one so far. Thank you for all the lovely reviews you've written and the follows and favourites you've clicked. I'm taking a wee holiday so look out for a new chapter of Paint in two weeks or so.

Oh, addressing a question that I've been asked a couple of times regarding the future of Bucky and Ida's relationship (platonic or love?): quite honestly, I'm not telling – I'm holding all the cards to my chest and revealing them one chapter at a time. No spoilers from me, I'm afraid : (

Chapter 8: Part Two: Judge Chapter 7 Washed Paint

Part Two: Judge

Washed Paint

" ... And no, my mind is not sensational. I'm just taking precautions."

I've told Aunt Becky the bare bones of what happened. I don't tell her of the dead teenage girl (… blood everywhere … soaking her top … brown skin turning pale like a sunset losing its rosy blush … she's dead … why doesn't she breath … please … why don't you breath … ) or of the man I stabbed (… glass sticking out of his arm … he's rolling on the floor … I did it … I did this …).

During this last week I've hobbled around and tried to clean – washing the counters, the cupboards, inside the cupboards, catching up on the laundry, rewashing the clean laundry – as best as I can. I've scrubbed the hall wall, you can't see the blood there anymore.

I've made cups of coffee and left them to grow cold. I've started reading romance novels and left them after reading only a paragraph. (Dukes are stupid anyway.) I've even tried knitting, but when you've got a wound on your bottom … it's hard to sit down. (I'd rather not think of the gymnastics I pull every time I visit the bathroom.)

When I sleep I dream, so I try not to sleep very much. But eventually tiredness pulls my eyelids down and I sleep and then I dream. And I wake up determined not to sleep again. It doesn't work very well.

Yesterday, the bus company sent my coat to me. The delivery man knocked on the door and stared at my face. At the fading bruises. I smiled politely and took the brown package from him. "Good day," I said and closed the door softly in his face.

Last night I slept with my green coat clutched in my arms. It hadn't been touched by Shaun or hit with a bullet. Not like me. Unlike me, it was normal. Today I've worn it everywhere I've gone. Yes, it's silly and it's childish, but to me it represents Before and it gives me … gives me … a little peace.

When things get a little too much and breathing is astonishingly hard to do, I go and sit next to Bucky. (Unfortunately, even with careful manoeuvring this is still a literal pain in the backside.) We go over the photo albums and I pretend that everything is dreadfully ordinary and Bucky, would you like another coffee?

He doesn't.

We've read all his letters home, or rather I have. He stares at the wall most of the time. And yes, by wall I mean that wall.

Right now I'm lying on my stomach on the couch. Aunt Becky is reading quietly with the radio turned to a low murmur. Bucky is in his room, still.

My voice is muffled by a cushion. "Auntie, I'm worried."

The radio is clicked off and I can hear her putting her magazine aside. "I know, dear. So am I, about you."

"Me? I'm perfectly fine, Auntie. Well … a little bit not but I'm on the mend. I hope anyway." I turn awkwardly so that I'm on my side, facing her. Her hands are folded on her lap and she looks at me … Oh. Why haven't I noticed how tired she looks? How worried?

I smile at her – a smile that I hope tells her everything I can't put into words at the moment: Auntie, please don't worry about me. I love you so much. I'm okay. I'm fine, yes it's a lie but I will be fine. These type of things take time. Remember two years ago? We'll be fine. I love you. Don't fall ill worrying yourself. Please.

I clear my throat. "No. I'm, I'm … I'm worried about Bucky." The words come in a rush now: "It isn't healthy. He's sitting and staring at that stupid wall and doing nothing but remember and I really, really don't think it's good for him. Like, at all."

Aunt Becky raises a hand to her head and I think: stupid! Are you trying to make her ill?

But the words keep coming – I can't seem to stop them. I can't speak to Philip. I can't talk to Bucky. I've spent too much time talking to myself. "It's just not good. At all. I mean, he's got so much stuff going on. In his head, I mean. The memories … that stupid wall. Those guys – whoever those guys were – were completely evil. What they've done to him was – and is - terrible. And you know what? He's also got all the memories of World War Two and all the trauma of that to sort through as well."

I bury my head in my hands and try to stop my worries bubbling out. I can't.

"And you know what? Sitting and staring is so stupid! Keeping it on his chest – all that trauma and memories and suffering – is the unhealthiest thing he could do. I'm scared, Auntie."

I raise my head and stare at her. She's always had the answers for me, always.

"I'm scared. What happens when everything goes kaboom? When the memories get too much, the trauma overwhelms him – what in the world will happen? I'm so scared. For him." I've seen what he can do. "And for us."

A dreadful thought scorches its way through my mind – what if everything proves too much and he … he ends it all?

Oh.

Wow.

Ida, don't even go there.

Don't. Even. Go. There.

Aunt Becky lowers her hand and she looks so terribly old that my breathing hitches and I look away. See? Look what you've done to her?

"What do you think, Ida?"

Her question is quiet and peaceful.

My answer is not. "I don't know, okay?! I don't know. I never know! I've never had to deal with something like this before." How the heck can I know?!

Goodness gracious! Where did that come from?

Delusions of Ida:

Thinking that the teen years had passed years ago. Clearly they have left a residue.

I take a breath. A single one. I pray. I've been doing that a lot recently. Praying, I mean. It helps. That and breathing – trying to take calm breaths. Deep breaths. To combat the panicky ones.

"I guess … " I mentally scramble for ideas. I accidently find one. When Bucky and I look through the photo albums he always seems to stare the longest on the ones with- "Maybe … Steve Rogers, you know - Captain America? Actually … I think. I mean he's the one who … Auntie – he's Bucky's friend … was with him through the war and … I actually think out of everyone he could be the one to help him."

Aunt Becky gives me a smile. "Well, go find him then."

She turns the radio on, picks up her book and hints that she might be persuaded to have a cup of coffee.

I smile.

But then the smile slides off my face like water off a duck's back because … how on earth am I going to find Captain America?

I get Aunt Becky's drink and place it beside her.

"Ida?" she says as I turn to leave the room.

I look at her.

"I love you."

I blink.

And smile to hide the ache that comes with her words.

( … blood everywhere … if I apply more pressure than she'll be alright … she'll breath again … won't she? … won't she? … )

Life is so fragile and delicate. It ends too fast, too soon. It hurts to love and be loved, right now. It hurts knowing that what I have, I'll lose.

( … a gunshot … her eyes … her eyes … are blank … empty … )

Every second is bringing me closer to the moment when I'll be left on my own, with only memories to love. But … I would rather be rich in the love she gives and have her memories when she departs, than be a beggar and keep nothing at all.

( … she's dead … she's dead … )

"I love you too, Auntie." I linger for a second. "Uh, why don't you turn the radio up? Isn't that the program you like?"

"I didn't want to disturb Bucky."

"Don't worry about that," I smile at her. Because, really if I'm going to find Captain America for Bucky than he can jolly well put up with listening to a gardening show.

Oh.

I pause at the bedroom door.

Could Bucky hear us talking about him?

I gulp.

Come on, Ida. It's not that bad. At the most, he'll hear how much you are concerned about him. At least you didn't mention the fact that you think he might be contemplating suicide.

Oh. Yeah. That's a comfort.

Especially considering what you are going to ask him now.

Imaginary Future Conversation between Ida Proctor and Bucky Barnes:

Ida: [in a cheery voice] Hey Bucky! I'm going to go and find Captain America so that he can give you therapy!

Bucky: … I don't need him.

Ida: Uh, yes. You do. I'm going to find him and you will cooperate.

Bucky: No-

Ida: [steamrolls over Buck's reply] So, I'm going. Er. Bye? And oh, by the way, don't, er, go and um … kick the bucket while I'm gone.

Bucky: …

Ida: … or when I get back. Just don't, you know … off yourself.

Bucky: o.0

Ida: Okay. This is awkward. Cut!

I tap the door and enter.

"Bucky," I start.

He looks away from the wall to stare at my feet.

I lean against the bedhead. "Look, I'm going out and, er, I'm worried about Aunt Becky. Could you keep an eye out for her?"

Yes, I'm blackmailing him. No, I'm not ashamed.

I wait for an answer. He nods, slowly. And when he speaks his voice is a little hoarse from disuse: "Yeah. Sure."

"Oh, thanks Bucky, Listen – I'll pick up some clothing for you. Dinner's in the freezer, just pull it out and pop it in the oven and it should be okay. Thanks again, Bucky."

He looks back to the names. There are so many names …

I nearly leave but … I've got to make sure that he understands that he needs to stay alive.

And no, my mind is not sensational. I'm just taking precautions.

I speak again: "And if Aunt Becky has a heart attack or a stroke, the aspirin is in the cupboard. Call 911 and-" it suddenly occurs to me that I'm being very, very cold-blooded by using Aunt Becky like this. I squash the rising guilt. "-and, just make sure that she stays okay. These things can come on very quickly-"

Oh dear, I'm worrying myself.

"She'll be safe." His voice is low and certain.

"Because you are looking out for her." I smile and place even more emphasis on my words. "And paying close attention to her."

Man! I should just add a conspiratorial wink and finish up with; so you can't do anything stupid while I'm away. Okay?

He must be able to tell that I'm up to something because, for the first time, he makes eye contact. Awkward. I feel very awkward. This is for you, Bucky. Please ... be safe.

I'm worried.

"Bye!" I add, and then shuffle out. I'm just going to find Captain America for you. You know, to give you lots and lots of therapy.

I really hope this works. I've got a good portion of the day to start my inquiries and I know just where to go.

Right.

I look down at the sheet of paper clutched in my hand. Memorize the address. It's not too far but thank goodness Bucky brought my van back for me. I wonder if I'll be able to drive it.

Better take a few painkillers.

I walk through the hall and carefully avoid looking at the wall. I know I've scrubbed it. I know that the red has gone. I know that not a drop of blood remains.

Only, it does - In my mind I can see it as plain as day. It's her blood.

( … she's dead … I couldn't save her … )

I keep my green coat firmly on when I leave the flat.

A/N: I'm back from my voyages! I flew over New York at night and all the city lights were there and it was a nice experience. The End. : )

Chapter 9: Chapter Eight - New Paint

New Paint

Of course. She got her sarcasm from watching television broadcasts of Tony Stark

She repeats herself for the second time: "Captain Rogers isn't available."

She has short black hair, black bangs which look Egyptian and skim her eyebrows and a nose like a hawk. And she thinks that I'm a dedicated 'fan girl' or a grateful devotee.

Me – a fan girl? The last person I 'fan girled' over was Hans Solo. And then Indiana Jones. I can't summon the energy to be embarrassed. I am only faintly bothered. In fact, it is all rather amusing. Apart from the fact that I'm trying to help Bucky Barnes who was Steve Rogers' best friend and can you not see that this is important?!

Of course I don't say that. For obvious reasons.

An Extremely Infuriating Receptionist

When I first entered the Avenger's Tower, I was overwhelmed. It was big. Big and elegant. Every line was smooth and screamed 'modern'. The receptionists were seated behind a huge, grey metal desk and every single one of them looked intimidating.

I waited in line and got the most intimidating one of the lot. Because, of course I would do, I thought fatalistically.

I cleared my throat and plunged into the speech which I had memorised all the way to Midtown, Manhattan. "Hi, my name is Ida Proctor, I'm looking for Steve Rogers and wonder if you wouldn't mind passing a-"

The Receptionist, with her name tag declaring her 'Sarah', looked down her glasses at me and said in very clear and precise tones: "Do you know how many people have come in and ask to see Captain Rogers?"

"Er. No?" I said.

"Quite a few, would you believe," she said. And then her voice grew gradually more scathing and certainly more cutting with every carefully pronounced syllable: "After all, he isn't a national figure of importance who recently saved hundreds of thousands of lives, and thus has many people writing thank you cards, sending gifts and visiting the Avenger's Tower in hopes of seeing him."

I was taken aback. You don't usually expect the receptionist of the building of 'Earth's Mightiest Heroes' to have such a sarcastic tone. Helpful and heroic, yes. But then, Tony Stark is one of the Avenger's so perhaps it is not too surprising.

She spread her fingers out on the desk, displaying perfectly manicured, cherry red nails. "Captain Rogers," she said, in a clear attempt at patience, "isn't available." [To you was the clear implication] "He hasn't been, He isn't and he won't be."

This was hopeless. But I was on a mission and my head was aching. "Ma'am, I really don't-" How exactly do you say something without really saying it? I came up with the excellent phrase of: "This is important."

Sarah clearly didn't think so, but she nodded her head and her wrinkled, coated-in-brilliant-red mouth pursed in thought. "It usually is. Tell me – was it your boyfriend whose life was saved? Your uncle? Sister? A friend?"

I cleared my throat. "Actually, it was my brother, but-"

She looked triumphant and let out an 'ah!' that Sherlock Holmes himself would have been proud of.

I was losing patience and my head was really aching. I needed pain killers, but most of all, I needed Steve Rogers to descend from his throne and come and help Bucky. I'm not particularly charitable when I've got a raging headache, I'm afraid. "But this is really important. Look, can you just give him a message from a friend. 'Til the end of the line', that's all you need to give to him. 'Til the end of the line.'"

The [Suitably Dramatic] End[ing]

Remembered by: Ida's Memory

She repeats herself: "Captain Rogers isn't available."

I'm standing, my feet are aching, and so are other parts of me that I don't really want to mention. "Look, this is really important. All you need to do is to pass the message on-"

"If you wish to send a message to Captain Rogers, you could always write a card or leave the message on his fan website." She's rather exasperated now but gives me the sweetest smile she can manage. It isn't sweet - it's sharp; like the edge of a shattered glass. Glass … I shudder. Best not to think about that. No, really. I mean it.

Don't. Think. About. It.

( … glass in his upper arm … blood … he screams … writhes on the floor …)

I'm pulled back to reality with a start. She's smiling still, and writing something down.

"Let me write down the website for you and then you can go home and pour out your feelings, thanks, messages and a recipe for carrot cake on the message board. Is that alright?"

I look at the piece of paper she has handed me. And then back to her.

"Oh," she says, now warming to her subject and aim of patting me on the head. "You can also purchase his merchandise at our online store – all proceeds go to our Veteran's Fund and the Rebuild NYC charity."

I take the paper. If all else fails- oh, who am I kidding?

"Look, this is very nice of you and all, but I really, really need to give a message to Captain Rogers and I'm prepared to stay here all day, every day until I do. Understand?"

"Then," and her crimson lips curl carefully over the words, "I'll have to call security, won't I- Good afternoon, Ms Hill!" Her voice changes. Her manner changes. Even her posture changes.

The woman who has approached the desk and skipped the line is of medium height with dark brown hair scrapped back into a ponytail.

"A message from Tony Stark, no doubt," Sarah says, her eyes lighting up.

Of course. She got her sarcasm from watching television broadcasts of Tony Stark- wait.

Quick Train of Thought:

Captain Rogers is on the Avengers

Tony Stark is also on the Avengers

Ms Hill works for Tony Stark

…

Eureka.

"Excuse me," I say, interrupting a flow of information from Ms Hill's mouth (phone lines are down ... why haven't adminstration sorted it out yet ... Mr Stark is displeased ... ). "But you work for Tony Stark, yes?" My words rapidly fire out of my mouth: "I've got an urgent message for Captain Rogers and you really need to get it to him-"

Sarah opens her mouth. Irritation and anger flashing across her face like beacons on a hill. Ms Hill simply looks at me, her face a pleasant, blank slate.

"-tell him 'til the end of the line'. Please, please get Tony Stark or, whoever, to tell Captain Rogers 'til the end of the line'. It's really important. Please. He'll know what to do."

I don't actually know that. In fact, I don't know if he'll even remember the phrase. I didn't, until it presented itself in front of me on the way here. But I hope he does. I can't give out Bucky's whereabouts. Not yet. This is all I have.

Ms. Hill nods, and opens her mouth to ask a question.

Sarah is torn between looking serious and openly smirking – she's called security and says as much in Very Important Tones. She chooses to smirk as two, heavy set guards appear from seemingly nowhere.

Quick Train of [Non-Related] Thought:

I dislike smirking.

In romance novels, in films and in real life

When somebody smirks I want to slap them.

It is a sign of immaturity and arrogance [the smirking, not the slap]

Even though Sarah is clearly older than me, she is smirking = she is arrogant.

And also immature.

I really dislike smirking

"What is your name?" Ms. Hill questions. But the guards are advancing and I have so many injuries and memories that I back away, eyes wide. They have guns.

"Please," I mumble, backing away.

The guns are so big. So horrid.

Concern for Bucky forces the words out of my mouth: "Tell him."

The guns are coming towards me.

( … the crack of a gun … her blood soaking my hands … a frown on her brow … dead … she's dead … )

Can you blame me for running? Scuttling away like a badly frightened mouse?

I blame myself. After I run out of the building, running as fast as I can. After I reach my van, several blocks away. After I slump on the hood and breathe frantically – in out, in out, in out, my breathing puffing like a train. Then, when my breathing calms and I feel my aches and pains … then I blame myself.

What I should have done:

Stood true and calm

Answered Ms. Hill's questions

Exited the building with dignity and grace

But I didn't because of my stupid inability to leave what happened alone. "Dear God," I pray out loud, uncaring of the odd looks I may receive. "Help me." Sometimes the simplest prayers are the best ones; my one gets the point across.

And then I climb into my van and start the engine and turn on the radio. Music blares forth and I switch channels whilst navigating the fast moving traffic. Anything to take my mind away from my head ache and the pain in my bottom (there's a joke there, I'm certain). Switching to a news station is interesting, and I listen until the program ends and the actual news is read.

"In other news," says the smooth voice of a news anchor, "the criminal known only as the 'Kid-Napper' has escaped from solitary confinement in Ryker's Island-"

I turn it off; it's depressing, especially when you are completely helpless to help. I think of Bucky – another case of helplessness. Captain Rogers is probably going to be a no show, I think gloomily. I'd better prepare a backup plan. I rub my throbbing forehead.

Dusk is settling in around the city like a blanket gently floating down from the sky, reflecting pink and red in sky scrapers' many windows. I stop at a couple of stores. I've eaten (greasy French fries, a salad with sauce that I spilled on my pants, and a coffee that was scalding) and now I've got a few errands to run. I manage to locate some sand paper, a bucket of green paint, and several items of clothing for Bucky, the very last copy of today's Daily Bugle that the newsagent's had and last, but not least, grab several bars of the darkest chocolate that I can find.

And then – tired, worn and feeling more drained than I have in a very long time – I go home.

A/N: A big thank you to you who reviewed - your reviews put a smile on my face. I shall now endeavor to respond personally to future ones, because really, they deserve a proper response and not just a 'thank you' at the end of a chapter. Originally, Ida was supposed to visit Peggy Carter ... yeah, that didn't work out very well for various reasons. I'm rather pleased with the way this one turned out, thought. Improvision and a surprise visit from Ms. Hill made it (in my humble opinion) seem to work. If you recall, at the end of CA2, Maria Hill was working for Stark. I made use of that fact.

By the way, you can find me on tumblr at awritingreader dot tumblr dot com. Feel free to pop over there, if you so wish :)

There! I've rambled long enough. Adieu and 'till next time!

Chapter 10: Chapter Nine - No Paint

No Paint

"They pulled your strings like a puppeteer does a doll."

Usually, I like to think of myself as a patient sort of woman. After all, I sit behind a desk and listen to people's complaints for a living. But, I've got ants in my pants, to quote … whoever first used that expression.

Usually, I like to think of myself as a sane kind of woman. After all, I was raised by Aunt Becky and Uncle Scott, who were pinnacles of sanity and common sense. But, events have slapped and hit me into a misshapen wreck of trembling nerves and desperate thoughts (and apparently, melodramatic, desperate thoughts, a cynical little voice inside of me suggests. I tell it to be quiet. I am allowed to be melodramatic – heroines in romance novels are, and with far less cause).

Usually, I would think things through. I would be content to wait. Living teaches you patience. I've lived, I was patient.

But now … now …

Now, if Captain Rogers doesn't come, I have a backup plan.

A rather shaky, completely stupid, wildly improbable plan. But to heck with it, I've got marks and scars and this is no time for sense when my sanity and Bucky's life are on the line. And there's probably some illogical logic in there, but I'm not looking for it.

I'm standing in the kitchen, holding a cup of the strongest, foulest and bitterest cup of black coffee I've ever had. My fingers rub the counter and I stare down bleakly at it. Plan, ah yes, the plan. My ingenious, definitely rather stupid plan.

A Very Stupid Plan:

Get Bucky to do something other than stare at the Wall of Death by:

[PLAN WITHELD BY IDA'S SANITY]

It's insane. Basically. I try not to think of the details of it – this, the insane plan. The plan which is insane. Insane is the plan. The plan of insanity. The plan- oh, I've used that one already.

I swallow. Take a sip of the coffee. Taste the bitterness and embrace it like a long lost friend. Things like this, I muse, keep me docked to the 'now' rather than off and adrift in … memories.

No, don't go there, Ida.

I take another sip. Burn myself in my hastiness. Serves me right, I suppose.

I can't help but keep on glancing in the phone's direction. I wish it would ring. It didn't last night. I wish that the voice on the other end would be the deep, good ol'American voice of one Captain Rogers:

"I hear that my buddy, Barnes is still alive. Want me to take him of your hands? I'll take care of him, get him the best therapist money can buy. Hey! While he's recovering you can come and see him – on Mondays, and bring around the old photo albums. It'll be great, scout's honour. Hey, I bet he'll be smiling in no time at all."

And I'll nod and hold the phone in my hand and beam at the wall because my external wounds will heal, Bucky's past will be fixed and I can go back to the ordinary, everyday things. Like my job. And Aunt Becky can look hale and healthy again.

"Why, gee – thanks, Captain," I'll say. "That's so good of you!"

Yeah. I put my hand on my head and wonder if you can get addicted to pain killers. Probably.

Aunt Becky has already poked her head around the door and is sitting in her chair again. I need to take her out somewhere. But the elevator is still not fixed and she can't really go down the stairs. At least, I won't let her.

Private Mental Images of Mine:

Captain America calling. Captain America coming round. Bucky smiling. Captain America carrying Aunt Becky down stairs. All having a tremendously fun and healing outing.

Enough! The coffee cup meets the counter with a clunk. Coffee sloshes and leaves a black puddle that drips onto the floor.

Ants are in my pants, I tell myself.

'Still in shock, Ida?' Sanity questions. That was days ago. I'm fine.

I am also a liar. A blatant one.

And then I straighten my spine and march in all my pyjama clad dignity to Bucky's door, and knock on it with as much restrained force as possible.

There is a silence, almost like a snake coiling, ready to spring. I swing open the bedroom door, hit the light switch, put my hands on my hips and stare down at the man whose eyes are already open and watching me.

Tough love, I think. To be loving I have to be tough. Bucky will sink down and down until someone yanks him out of it. I'm not strong enough, but I can give the first feeble yank until Captain Rogers comes along. And if he doesn't. I'll go on steroids, hit the gym, pump iron 'till I look like an ape and then, then I'll grab that man's arm and snatch him out of his troubles as easily as a ten-ton weight smashes an eggshell.

"Bucky, you are going to get out of bed," I let my words fire out of my mouth, sharp and precise. He's no customer I have to placate. He's my great Uncle with a bionic arm and a truckload of guilt. "You are going to shave. I am going to cut your hair. You are going to wear some clean clothes. And then you're going to move your backside and stop thinking about the guilt of your past and start thinking of your actions of today – of the things you can actually change and affect. Now, get up!"

And then I turn, ready to trudge out of that room. But, at the door I stop and look back at him.

He's sitting up in bed, looking at me, puzzled.

I give a determined nod of my head. "Up, Bucky. Or I'll shave all your hair off."

He touches his tangled hair and raises his eyebrows, taken aback. Good. At least his eyebrows are still working.

"Or I'll dye it. Pink."

He blinks. Surely a man from 'the olden days' wouldn't want to wear woman's colours. Weren't gender roles more defined back then?

I nod again. "And douse you in woman's perfume."

"Why?" he asks.

Why, he asks?! Really?

"Get up," I snap.

Tough love, I remind myself. Tough love.

And then, as I close the door, I hear the rustle of the bed sheets and I know he is getting up.

I go back into the kitchen and clean the coffee up.

Breakfast is oatmeal that is, surprisingly, not too salty. Bucky sits there with freshly shaven cheeks. I made him use my razor - you have to be practical in times like these.

I sit at the kitchen table and wonder if anyone has had times quite like these.

Aunt Becky dozes in her chair, in the living room. The lines on her face have grown yet more pronounced and I see, as clear as day, her face in my mind's eye – the drooping mouth, the weary, yellowed eyes that contain sorrow and a glimmer of hope, the wisps of white hair that encircle her face.

At times like this my heart aches, as if someone has put their fist in my chest and squeezed so very tightly.

I sip my coffee, move the oatmeal about with a spoon and look at Bucky. In the extraordinary, it is best to dwell – and ponder – the ordinary. It anchors one. For instance – how exactly do I cut Bucky's hair when I haven't cut anyone's hair in my life before?

And no,the doll I shaved at the tender age of four doesn't count. But if it did, I eye Bucky's hair again and confront a ghastly thought: well, he's doomed.

In the end, I look it up on YouTube.

Cutting his hair is difficult. I wash it in the kitchen sink as having a shower with a metal arm doesn't seem quite wise, and then I take some scissors out and a comb and try to persuade myself that this, this is going to be fine.

It isn't great but it's done. It's something in-between a military buzz cut and … a shaggy dog look. Not wonderful, but if you look at him from one side he looks a little like a … what is that word? Hipster. Yes, that. He ought to have some black-rimmed glasses for that though. But isn't a metal arm 'out there' enough for a hipster?

His hair is sort of clumpy.

Oh alright, I'll be honest - I butchered his hair.

Snapshot from the Reinvention of Bucky Barnes:

Ida: [snipping hair]

Bucky: [quiet]

Ida: [gaining confidence, maybe this isn't so hard after all. Continues snipping]

Bucky: That was my ear

Ida: [confidence = depleted]

Evening. The phone has rung only once – Amy, from work, asking how I was.

"I'm fine," I say.

She's in a hurry, rushed. "That's great. Listen – when can you come back to work?"

"Week after next?" I say. Maybe by then I'll be … normal again.

There's a disapproving silence.

"Next week, then?" I amend, dully.

"That's great," she says again, this time with relief.

I put the phone down with a click and stare at it for a little while. No, it doesn't ring. I wish someone (a certain someone) would call. But it stays silent.

I turn away.

And now the evening has flown by and Bucky is sitting on the couch with a romance book in his hands. I had to shove something in them after supper, and that was the nearest thing. I don't think he's reading it though. Oh boy. I hope it's not that one with the-

Oh. Great.

It is.

I sit beside him, attempting to engross myself in a day old newspaper. It isn't working though because the phone isn't ringing, and Captain Rogers isn't knocking on the door and asking to take all my troubles away.

And then he fidgets (Bucky, not the missing All-American Captain) and turns two pages at a time.

"Good book?" Aunt Becky asks from her seat.

"Morals have declined," says Bucky absently.

"I hate Dukes," I say firmly, for no reason other than to say something.

"This is a viscount."

"You know," I say, because Bucky has put the book down and is going to walk out of the door. To the Wall, in all probability. "If all the regency romances written were real … then, then the entire society of London would have been filled with wallflowers and handsome, devilish-but-with-a-broken-past rakes. And then the true catch of the ton would be the man who stands out the most – the ugly man. The pudgy one. The one who stoops and snorts and sneezes and is generally quite repulsive."

Bucky is staring at me but I continue on firmly lest he moves towards the door again. "It's worth thinking about, Bucky. Maybe that's the reason why the so-called 'heroes' are such a catch, and so popular to read about – because they are different and stand out more. Because they are more atheistically pleasing or have an overriding personality."

"Hitler was different," Bucky says quietly. "And yet half the world rose up against him. I-" and a frown twitches on his brow and I know that he is remembering. "I fought against him. Not because he was different, but because what he did was wrong. Evil."

"And because the ladies loved the uniform," mutters Aunt Becky, who is knitting.

"Then the places switched," and his voice is low and old and tired. "And I became … like him. Evil. Killing."

Did he just- did he just-? No. He didn't – did he? Did Bucky just compare himself to Hitler?

"But I didn't do it for his reasons," he looks at Aunt Becky, and then at me. "I did because they told me that I would bring order. Give the world freedom."

He closes his eyes and then opens them. Looks at me.

He's broken, I think and tell myself the prickling in my eyes is from dust motes.

"And I believed them," the whisper is quiet yet so, so filled with unshakable guilt.

God help us, I whisper, because I can't.

But I can try.

I straighten my spine. "Bucky, they brainwashed you. There's no doubt about it-"

"I should have known."

"-oh, really? They put you in the- they froze you. If they can do that and keep you alive then there is no way that they didn't have the technology to leash you to their will."

"I remember," he murmurs looking down. "I believed them."

"And they lied." I say, making my words like sledgehammers, hopefully smashing away untruth. "Because they were twisted and perverted. You trusted them in your vulnerable state-" there is no way it wasn't otherwise "-they used you, Bucky."

I think of the Wall.

"They pulled your strings like a puppeteer does a doll."

"And I danced," Bucky says. His voice increasing in volume. "I danced their tune; did their work because I believed them. I did what they told me to do because I – me, myself! – believed them."

Aunt Becky says nothing, only looks at Bucky and the compassion in her eyes outshines us all.

"Then why aren't you dancing their tune now?" I ask. "If you believed them so vehemently then tell me Bucky, tell my why are you here now?"

"Because …"

He doesn't have answer.

"Because, you found out the truth, Bucky Barnes. You woke up from your frozen state, broke from those strings. You realized what they had done to you – brainwashing you over and over again - and now you've woken up."

"I'm a killer," he says and his face is so hard, when it was just a moment ago so crumpled. "And that's all I am."

"No," I say and snatch the newspaper. Shove it in front of his face. "This is a killer." I jab my finger at the Kid-Napper's face. I stab the same finger into Bucky's chest. "You are not a killer. They brainwashed you. You were the gun in their hand to use at will. You aren't the gun anymore, Bucky. And I know you don't want to be."

"How?" His voice is soft – nothing but a whisper. He looks at me as though I have answers. I don't. I never had. I just have … trust. Faith. Hope.

Things as hard to touch as it is to grasp the wind, things that are the building blocks of life.

"Because you stopped hitting Shaun when I called. You saved my life, twice. Killers don't do that, Bucky. You came here because you needed answers – wanted to find the truth. Killers don't seek out their kid sisters. Killers don't cover walls with the names of the dead – they don't stare at it; at the guilt they see in every name."

"It doesn't change the fact that I killed those people."

"No, nor does it change the fact that it was them pulling your trigger. Oh, they may not have been there in person but they were there."

"No," he shakes his head and his voice is insistent. "I believed them – it was my fault. I should have fought it – their brainwashing, their words. I should have realized. But I didn't. And that makes me guilty."

I hate that word. I open my mouth to argue, to dispute, refute.

But Aunt Becky opens her mouth.

"You know the truth now, you don't believe them anymore – Bucky Barnes, you get out there and prove what you are now – not a puppet, not a killer but a good, outstanding brother of mine." Her whole frame trembles with the force of her words and she waves a knitting needle at him. "Get out there, and get that low down filthy scum who harms innocent kids."

I look at the Kid-Napper's face. My eyes widen. Is she-?

"Get out there and get that man in prison. And-" she adds as she settles back into her chair and her usual, peaceful disposition, "it doesn't matter if you give him a few bruises while you're at it. Don't kill him though," she says in the same voice that asks me for a cup of tea every morning, "You're better than that."

And then she smiles at me, her gaping daughter and at Bucky, her frowning brother.

"And I don't believe that." The smile changes into a grin. "I know that."

The knitting needles start their clicking again.

A/N: I probably should apologise for taking such. a. long. time to get this chapter out. I've been using up all my words in an original fiction, I'm afraid. But it has dragons so I'm fine with that. Thank you for sticking with this story, my friends, and reading, reviewing and following.

Until next time!

Chapter 11: Chapter 10 - Future Paint

Future Paint

It is a little disappointing really. When you are fighting crime, you except to have a more glamorous base.

Basically, I'm hoping that Uncle Sam has just this minute passed a law which states that hacking into a police network is perfectly fine and dandy as long as your intentions are honourable.

Otherwise, this is illegal.

On the scale of one being stealing an office paper clip and ten being bringing the government to its knees … this is a four? Maybe.

See, Ida? Not so bad.

Right. This is wrong.

But there is a murderer out there – a child abductor who snatches innocents from their homes, I tell myself.

Still wrong.

But he's on the run and the police haven't found him yet. He could be harming a child as we … er, awkwardly mind-speak to each other.

The police will find him. They have done and they will do. This isn't some crumby detective show where the police can barely tie their shoelaces let alone arrest the obvious murderer.

But … but it's breaking the law!

Fine. I'll march up to a cop and confess to everything. Once we've done this. And Bucky is in a stable state again. And far, far away from this.

I peer over his shoulder whilst his fingers work rapidly over the keyboard.

"How long?" I whisper.

Bucky's voice is flat, "I'm retrieving all possible records of the Kid-Napper from the database. Five minutes. Your computer's slow."

"I know," I assure him.

The silence seems heavy. The space is cramped.

Well, of course it would be. We're both crammed into the back of my green van. On a street. At night. In the middle of New York.

Oh, and we're mooching off someone's Wifi.

Another law broken.

Is there a law about stealing someone's Wifi?

If there is …

I swallow.

Try not to panic.

(Really, after all I've been through I'm worried about stealing someone's Wifi?)

Fine, I'll just … leave a note and a couple of green bills through the owner of avengersrawesome63's mailbox. Though I haven't a clue as to where that mailbox is.

But the owner's name is somehow quite … endearing. And yes, that is definitely guilt speaking. Because we are stealing from them.

It could be worse. We could be sitting in their kitchen and eating their Pop Tarts.

There is something wrong with me.

Surely there is.

Because who would break into someone's house and eat their Pop Tarts when there would be jewellery to be taken.

Wonderful, Ida. Marvellous. You're thinking like a regular thief.

It's just Wifi.

Not someone's jewellery. Or Pop Tarts.

I sit down on an upturned bucket, leaning my head against the side of the van. Stare at the back of Bucky's head. The light from the computer screen halos his freshly cut hair, glowing as the only light in our cramped quarters.

Bucky's wearing his jacket and sitting on another bucket.

I'm not sure where – or how – these buckets got into the back of my van. Philip probably.

It is a little disappointing really. When you are fighting crime, you except to have a more glamorous base.

This is not glamorous. Not at all.

What Our Base Does Not Contain:

Several screens, blinking with information which would no doubt be useful but would look very random.

Modern Equipment. And no, my laptop is not modern. It is, in actual fact, primeval.

A weapons cache. (No, strike that. That would turn us into drug lords. No. No it wouldn't. That would be a drug cache. Note To Self: Google drug lords and whether the collective of drugs is known as a cache. Then delate search history).

Sleekness. Metal sleekness.

Wheelie chairs.

A computer nerd.

What Our Base Does Contain:

My laptop. On top of a stool taken from the apartment.

Buckets

Bucky. Bucky who is sitting on a bucket. (It is tiredness that makes me compose a small ditty to 'Bucky Who Sits on a Bucket.' I am not usually that … juvenile. I hope. Oh, who am I kidding. I am.)

Dust. (I am going to clean this van first chance I get. Maybe.)

A horde of novels that I picked up at a boot sale and forgot about.

Me. Who is not a computer nerd.

I rub my knee, feeling the softness of my pants. Wondering if the softness of my pants is the only thing normal about this situation.

Running a hand through my short, untidy hair, I close my eyes. Hoping for- I'm not sure what I am hoping for.

Oh yes. Yes I am.

I am hoping for peace. For the satisfying conclusion to this, this … well, to this.

Hope is fragile, I remind myself with a small huff. You have to protect it from the wind of doubts. But what can I do when the doubts are so strong? When I see bleakness in my future and the possibility that this – this – won't have a satisfying conclusion?

I grip my hands together. Squeeze.

This isn't a book.

This doesn't have a guaranteed happy ending.

We could fail. We could fall. Captain America might be a no show. The Kid-Napper could escape undetected. Bucky might not recover. Aunt Becky could succumb to illness.

And through it all, I would be watching. Knowing that this isn't a story I could put down, a page I could turn.

This is it – my life. I've only got one, and the one I have is held together by the slenderest of threads.

I can't breathe, I realise.

The glow of laptop and the soft sound of keystrokes fill the van, but I can hear the bleak darkness hovering in the corners of the van. Oh it doesn't speak. I'd be submitting myself into the loony bin if it was.

But it presses. It whispers soundless things.

Things which paint a future so very terrible.

Terrible 'what ifs' fill my thoughts.

But that doesn't make them 'will be's'.

I still hold the delicate threads. Everything hasn't collapsed. Not yet.

My hands fall loosely by my side.

So pray, Ida. Pray and watch and act. Because here and nows make the future. Form today, form tomorrow.

I clear my throat.

Address the back of Bucky's head.

"Bucky?"

His fingers continue to move over the keyboard.

Tap, tap, tap.

The only sound in the van.

"Bucky. You know that star on your arm?"

His fingers still.

"How about … how about we get it off? Because, it isn't you anymore. You aren't an assassin – you're your own man now. Surely … surely we should get it off. I've got sandpaper and we could-"

"No." The sound is gruff, yet soft. A paradox of emotions in a single word.

"Can I ask why?" I pull at the fabric of my pants. Why wouldn't he want to-

"It is who I am. Who I was. It will remind me-"

"Remind you what?" I demand.

He turns in one smooth motion. I can't quite see the look in his eyes as the light is behind him. But I can feel his gaze. "Remind me of who I was. Of who my makers are."

"No. No, you don't get to do that Bucky." I feel anger swirling. I grit my teeth. He doesn't get to do that. He is going to get better. Who he was made to be doesn't – and shouldn't – define who he is now. "You've already got the memories. You've got a metal arm, for Pete's sake! You don't need their label on you. That isn't you. I mean, yes, you've got a metal arm and they gave it to you but … but it's your choice how you use it. A tool is only as good as the person who, who wields it. That star is their mark. Their ownership. And they do not own you. Understand me Bucky?" I lean forward, until our heads are only a whisper apart. "They. Do. Not. Own. You."

He draws back. Suddenly. Without warning.

Turns back to the laptop and his hands – both metal and flesh – begin to move across the keyboard.

There is silence between us.

I wonder how long it is until morning. I forgot to wear a watch. I hope Aunt Becky is sleeping well.

And then, then suddenly he speaks. And when he does I feel my breath whoosh and my head grow light with victory.

"Sandpaper," he says. "But you can do it."

A/N: So I dropped off the face of the earth. And that is all I've got to say about that. I'm sorry. I really am. When I finally - finally - decided to pick up the threads of this tale, I had to find the plan for the story and suffered a spurt of panic when I couldn't find it. *Spoilers* I did. Find them. And thus this chapter.

On a brighter note, I've managed to self-publish a book. On a darker one, I've left you - this story's readers - in the lurch. Forgive me.

Until next time!

Chapter 12: Chapter 11 - Faded Paint

Fading Paint

Does all vigilantism take place during the night?

Here's a tip: when on the hunt for a man who kidnaps children and commits unspeakable atrocities, don't – and I repeat – don't read a thriller about a man who kidnaps children and commits unspeakable atrocities.

It isn't a great idea.

It isn't even a good idea.

It is a terrible idea.

Thank you and goodnight and I'm going to sleep with a baseball bat nearby.

Here's another tip: sometimes TV crime shows portray the police as more useless than a brainless gnat. Which I would like to point out is completely untrue. Unless it's a case like this and then … yes, the police are more useless than a brainless gnat.

It's three thirty in the morning and the police database that we hacked into is … useless. Completely and utterly useless.

Bucky says all the information attaining to our Kid-Napper has been wiped. There isn't a back-up. It hasn't been classified and hidden behind a hundred firewalls (or whatever techno-gabble is in current use).

He said that at two-fifteen.

I picked up a thriller from that horde of novels and used the dim light from my laptop to read. It was a bad idea. The author is ... well, he has problems.

Bucky is hunched over the laptop screen and there is a quiet clatter of keyboard and mouse.

I turn the page and strain my eyes to read on. It is ghastly and horrid and terrible, but I need to know how it ends. Will the children be rescued? Avenged?

Bucky leans back and rubs his eyes. "Found him," he says quietly, and I detect a note of triumph in his voice.

"Where?" I ask, looking up from my book.

"On a message board."

"Okay. Can we get to him? Pass the information to the police? Shut him down?" Questions trip over my tongue and I ignore the fact that I mispronounce 'information'. It is late. My brain is both sluggish and terrified. Idiotic reading material.

Bucky turns toward me. The bucket he is sitting on creaks. His hair is rumpled with the passing through of many fingers.

(Goodness, I am tired).

"Someone's wiped the police database."

He's looking at me. Meaningfully. I wish he would toss me a bone. It is three-thirty in the morning and I've been reading a gruesome book.

"So," I say, dragging out the 'o' until I have an 'oh' moment of my own. "Someone is protecting him."

"Yes." I can't see his eyes but I'm sure they glow with the light of: 'isn't Ida an intelligent person'.

"And if we turn this information over to the police … someone will protect him … again. And by the time the police get to his location he will have been notified."

"Yes."

"And have gone."

"Yes."

"We're going to have to do this-"

"-on our own."

Oh. He finished my sentence. How nice.

"I've pinned down his location – he's on a message board via his smartphone."

"And his smartphone is … where?"

Bucky leans forward, elbows propped up on his knees. Chin resting on fist. "With him."

Very informative. I close my book. "When can we get him?"

"We need some supplies first."

I nod. Is now the time to ask if we can head home and can I please find a washroom to … Scratch that last bit. My body aches and my wounds – of which I have many – sting dully.

"What do we do when we find him?"

"Bring him to justice," is the answer.

I'm really hoping that Bucky's form of justice is in line with the Law. We could place the Kid-Napper under citizen's arrest and hand him over to the authorities with the information that someone is hacking the database.

Which we wouldn't know. At all. Because we are upright American citizens and would never, under any circumstance hack into confidential databases.

I brush my hair from my face and rub my neck.

This is going to be interesting.

Summary of What Happens Next

There is a return to the apartment and a weary climb up the stairs because the elevator is still not working.

I collapse onto the couch. And wish I hadn't read that book.

I don't sleep well but wake up to Bucky shaking me. We have lots to be doing, he tells me with a single meaningful glance.

For me, that means making coffee.

Beautiful coffee.

My laptop doesn't make the cut. It isn't good enough and so, after a hasty breakfast, a quick consultation with Aunt Becky (yes, she'll take her tablets. No, she isn't tired. Yes, she's eaten enough and hadn't I better be going?) and a changing of my bandages, we are off with a cough and a splutter of my van's engine.

After parking – a feat which deserves a medal – we enter an Apple store. Bucky selects a suitable laptop and I gulp at the price. You could feed an entire village of starving persons for that amount of money. But I hand my card over and dutifully sign the terrible amount away.

The attendant is a man with long brown hair and a beard. He tells me that his name is Aaron and that he has recently moved to New York. The Avengers are here, he says. Isn't it great?

I nod. There goes Aunt Becky's birthday present of the finest and most expensive wool. Still, will the metaphorical head of a caught Kid-Napper be better?

And note the metaphorical.

We return home. One laptop richer and several hundred dollars poorer. I unbutton my coat and make a great effort not to glance at the Bag of my Pennilessness.

And then I have a brainwave.

The Brainwave:

Apple Computer = needed technology

There is a need to accompany Bucky. From a distance = more needed technology

Philip gave me a set of highly-technical-with-a-name-that-is-strange walkie talkies = needed technology

I dive under my bed and present their box to Bucky with a great deal of suppressed fanfare.

He examines it. And nods. Once.

Lunch is thrown together quickly in the celebrated form of a take-away. Aunt Becky tucks into her Chinese with relish, displaying as much skill with chopsticks as she does with knitting needles.

Bucky eats his absently.

I don't eat very much. Poke at the food? Yes, of course. It is a worthy pastime and I can draw an owl and a mutated dog with my food. But eat it? All of it?

No. I simply can't.

Hunger satisfied, Bucky retreats to his room with the laptop. Aunt Becky continues to eat slowly with the radio on in the background (classical music floods the living room). And I? I pace the hall carpet. Up and down. Up and down before returning to the kitchen and taking the trash out.

My stomach feels as though someone has wound it all up in knots and I feel vaguely ill. I walk up the steps to our apartment. Each one takes me closer to my doom. My peril.

And no. I'm not being dramatic.

I'm being very dramatic.

A Curious Fact:

Vigilantism wasn't my dream career at high school. Owning a florist shop, however, was.

Drawing in a shaky breath I stare at the '2' of our apartment number. Still crooked. I haven't fixed it yet. I might leave it – it is endearing and distinctly home. It reminds me of crisp mornings of darting out of the apartment, slamming the door behind me and bounding down the stars.

It reminds me of the hope of a promotion at work, of a sale at that favourite clothes store of mine (the one that closed down three years ago), of a walk through New York's sidewalks with Aunt Becky, of uncomplicated life.

I don't want to change it, I think stubbornly, fiddling with the hem of my purple sweater.

I won't.

I should … probably open the door.

Probably.

Or … I could just … stay out here. And hope everything goes away.

But no. Just hoping a thing will happen doesn't do much. You must go forth and conquer one's foe. And mine is something nonphysical – the mental healing of an injured man. A battered soul.

Enough postulating.

I open the door and walk steadily into Bucky's room.

"Ready?" I say.

Bucky looks up, he is sitting on the bed, leaning against the bedhead with the new making-folk-penniless machine on his lap.

"Tonight," is all he says.

Very well. Tonight. I can cope with tonight.

Though … does all vigilantism take place during the night? Is it an unwritten rule?

To my surprise, Bucky elaborates: "According to these patterns, he'll be at home. During the day his habits are sporadic. Difficult to nail him down."

"Home?"

"New location," he amends.

"Ah … because the cops know his last one?"

Bucky gives me a Look. With a capital 'L'.

I give him a small smile. Yes, I may be a bit thick, my dear, but I've had hardly any sleep.

The kitchen provides a sanctuary, but I see a neglected packet on the side. Oh. I am supposed to be sandpapering a certain star off a certain someone's metal arm.

Right.

I can do this.

I head back to Bucky, taking determined (if a little unwilling) steps.

To paraphrase Nike: Let us do this.

Bucky stares at the screen as I sit beside him. His sleeve is rolled up and I am determined that this star is coming off. I've never seen his arm up close – it almost seems delicate with all its metal work. There is a nearly imperceptible buzz of … something underneath. Electronics. Must be.

Still, I rub up and down. Careful at first, and then with more effort and 'umph'.

A frown is wedged on Bucky's brow and it is almost as though he is doing his best to ignore my noble attempts at Star Eradication.

His lips are thin, I decide as I glance up after a particularly powerful scrape. Like Aunt Becky's – though hers are wrinkled with age.

One corner of the star has faded and my own arm aches. I lean back and heave a sigh.

"It's taking a while. But we'll get it off, Bucky. Just you wait and see."

He doesn't dignify me with an answer.

"Did I ever thank you?" I ask, tilting my head back and staring at the ceiling.

A minute ticks by, and then two.

"For what?" he asks finally, eyes still fixed on the computer screen.

"For you know, the whole 'saving my life' thing. The second, er, time." I probably should repaint my ceiling. Apartment maintenance and all that. The sandpaper is rough in my hands. I should probably stop gripping it so hard.

"No," he says.

"Oh. That's rude of me. Sorry. I mean, thank you. I, er, I'm glad that you … that you did."

"I put you in that situation," he minimises a window filled with technobabble and opens another. "It was up to me to extract you."

"Thank you. All the same."

He doesn't reply, and I go back to rubbing his arm with sandpaper.

"Do you think I'm damaging it – your arm?"

Seconds tick by. He taps away at the keyboard.

"Get it off," is all he says.

And so I do.

Rubbing my adopted mother's long-thought-dead brother's metal arm's Soviet star which is a symbol of oppression with sandpaper.

You've got to have perspective, after all.

Darn it, my own arm aches though, not to mention my other injuries. I'm going to need another painkiller, I think.

And do I have to sit on my bottom all the time?

I'm not going to lie – I've got nerves. Even my nerves have nerves. My hands are shaking a little and I feel rather lightheaded.

I close the apartment door behind me and follow Bucky down the stairs.

We're doing this.

Outside it is raining – pouring down and down. Streetlights reflect in puddles and shine off the dampened sidewalks.

We dash to the van and it is with relief that I clamber into the front seat. Bucky slides in beside me and pulls his baseball cap firmly down upon his head.

Rain is dripping off it.

"At the end of the road turn left," he says in monotone.

"Right. Okay. Whew! Engine started first attempt, that's good. Left you say? Yup. I can do that. Totally. That car is parked wonky, where do they think they are? A theme park with bumper cars?"

"Second right," Bucky says a couple of minutes later.

"Right. I mean, yep. Right it is."

We pull up at a stop light. I drum my fingers on the wheel and watch the windshield wipers attempt to keep the rain at bay. They aren't doing a grand job.

"So … " I say in the silence. "I should have asked this before but, how are we going to apprehend the Kid-Napper?"

The light turns green.

"Without fatally injuring him."

"Ida," Bucky speaks at last. "You need to stop worrying."

"I'm sorry, but … yeah. First time doing this sort of thing, you know. Er, I guess you could call me a noob. But. This is a bad plan, isn't it Bucky? I mean … what on earth were we thinking?"

"Right here."

"How can we bring down a criminal? If he's got any captured children, will he harm them when we extract- ugh. Aren't there cops for this sort of thing? Innocent and good cops? I mean-"

"Ida. Stop."

"The SWAT?"

"Ida."

I laugh a little. "It's nerves, I'm afraid."

We make the turn. Drive further on.

"Sorry."

"It's fine."

"Thanks."

Half an hour. We've been driving for half-an-hour. With the exclusion of Bucky giving me directions, neither of us have spoken.

Only the patter of the rain speaks. On and on.

An Admission:

I should probably be mature about this. I'm sure plenty of others have attempted to apprehend a man who abducts children. I'm certain that they did it as coolly as a man eating peanuts.

Time drags on. Bucky fiddles with the walkie-talkies. They have a name: Communication Personnel Icarus Meets Sun.

Philip made them. And named them. (He should have named them: Quoth the raven, 'nevermore.' No? No.)

Five minutes tick by.

"Pull over – we're here."

And so we are.

Here.

It's a grim looking building with broken windows and doors with peeling paint. Trash is littered outside and weeds shine dull in the street lights, squashed and splattered by the heavy rain.

"Well," I say. "We sure know how to pick 'em."

Bucky glances over at the apartments and looks back at me. "Other side."

"Oh. Oh."

The other side is in a little better condition. The sidewalk is still cracked, but the building itself possess fewer cracked windows.

That's got to be a bonus.

"It's marked down for demolition. Apartment complex is planned here but the contractors are tied up in legal work. Been this way for years." Bucky passes me a CPIMS. It's slim. Almost the size of a USB stick. Too sophisticated to be called a walkie talkie.

"Put it in your ear."

I examine the black device in my hand. Ah, so it has something that comes out and that is how it fits in. Right.

"Hello." I glance over at Bucky who has his fitted in his ear. His baseball cap is pulled low on his head and with his jacket on he looks … ordinary. "One, two, three, Roger can you read me-"

"I can hear you."

"Through the Communi- CPIMS?"

"Yep."

"Should I … come in with you?"

"No. Sit here. Keep in contact."

"Right."

He shuts the door and crosses the road. The rain still pours, splattering the roof and hood of the van. The silence - or rather my solitude - is eerie.

"Hello?" I tap the ear piece. "Bucky?"

"Here."

He's even more monosyllabic than when face to face.

Transcript from the Communication Personnel Icarus Meets Sun

IP: Bucky … is he there?

[Thirty two seconds later, there is a crackle and then a gunshot]

IP: Bucky? Bucky?! What was that?

[Voice of Ida growing increasingly frantic]

IP: Bucky. What is going on? Okay. Obviously you can't speak but-

[There is the rustle of movement]

[A man's voice can be heard in the distance]

IP: …

[Thudding sound]

IP: [Smothered exclamation]

IP: …

IP: Not to alarm you but-

IP: [a stifled screech]

Fin of Transcript

Bucky is, no doubt, doing Important Things. (To do with guns and last time I checked he didn't have a gun. Take a deep breath, Ida. It's going to be okay. Maybe). I get that. And I don't like being constantly cast into the role of 'Damsel in Distress' but, I am nothing but honest and honesty compels me to admit that when a man approaches my van, striding grimly through a darkened street with flickering streetlights, I am prepared to swallow my pride and meekly ask for help.

(And let's not forget that it is raining and this is a perfect set up for my impending doom).

He is of medium height, with the hood of his hoodie pulled over his head.

Oh.

This isn't going to end well.

I flick the locks again, just to make sure.

It doesn't deter him though. He doesn't pause his stride, but simply pulls his fist back and, in one smooth movement, shatters the passenger door.

Ida's Mental Thoughts:

He's not.

Is he?

He is.

and

Gahlsadkjflsjflajdfla … !

"Bucky," I say with impressive calm as I fumble for the door handle. "I have a situation."

His hand reaches through the broken glass and searches for the handle. I can't see his face, but I'm sure that it's grim, foreboding and dastardly.

The door opens. He's in the van. Well, his foot is. He actually has his foot in the van- His hand has a knife-

This is not okay.

My door finally opens and my sneakers hit the ground with a squelch.

Showing bewildering dexterity, he hauls himself over the seats and snatches (or slashes, I'm not entirely sure) at me. His arm is out of my door. The rest of his body will follow soon, but I think he is snarled by a seat belt.

"Ida? Situation?" Oh. You finally speak up, do you?

I slam the door with all my strength and give a shaky huff. "Someone, er, someone came and, er, I think I've broken his arm."

"Someone came?" Bucky gives a grunt, as though he is hefting something.

"Uh. Yeah. He was all villainous. And thuggish. I slammed the door on his arm."

The rain is making short work of giving me an impromptu shower.

"Bucky?" I whisper hoarsely.

"Ida, you need to get to-"

"There's another one."

"Another man?"

"Yes."

"Ida, I need you to run."

"Yeah, I'm. Already. Doing. That."

My sneakers hit a puddle and if they weren't already soaked then they are now. I'm gritting my teeth. I think my heart is attempting to match a lion's roar and that didn't make any sense because- because-

"Into the building," Bucky says. "Second left, down the stairs."

I can hear the footsteps of my pursuer, pounding the road, the sidewalk.

Nearly there.

I think I'm getting cramp.

Through the door.

Second left? I can do that.

It's dark in here.

So dark.

Who needs terrifying music? I've learnt that there is nothing more terrifying than the sound of rain thundering against a roof, the noise of a fist armed with knuckle dusters smashing a van's window, and the thud of footsteps.

Footsteps which follow me.

A/N: Thank you for reading/reviewing/following. That you continue to read this is wonderful. There is, perhaps, one more chapter to go in Part 2. I say perhaps because sometimes I have brainwaves. Just, you know, sometimes. Not always.

MAY YOU ALL HAVE A HAPPY AND GREAT NEW YEAR!

Chapter 13: Chapter 12 - Paint Over

Paint Over

I've always thought that before my death I would think peaceful thoughts.

When I was sixteen years old, I went to see a horror movie. It was the 'in' thing to do and so of course I went along. I didn't want to feel 'out' of it in my group of friends. Didn't want them to think that I was uncool or way out of loop.

If I concentrate I can almost hear Melissa drawl out the y in way. 'Wayyyyy out of loop, if y'know what I'm sayin' and then she would pop her gum just as she popped that 'p'. (I thought that that was a-maz-ing. Total height of cool).

But – and here comes the moral of the story. (Well, you could call it the punchline, if you wanted to be more accurate). I never saw another horror movie again. Not even peer pressure could make me go back to see that sequel.

You see, I think I've missed the second left.

And I'm currently crouching beneath what can only be a partially rotten kitchen table.

I can hear my pursuer. The crunch of his footsteps on the rubble littering the floor. The heaviness of his breathing.

If I stay very still and hold my breath … perhaps I can survive this.

Perhaps.

The urge to run, as far away as possible, rushes through my limbs, bubbling in my brain.

Run, run, run.

But I stay still.

"Where are you?" Bucky's voice through the CPIMS roots me to reality and shatters me at the same time.

He is there. But I can't say anything.

Because there is a man in the same room as me and he is currently looking for me.

Whoever thinks horror movies are exciting is stupid. So, so stupid.

Tears are stinging my eyes and I'm quite sure my hands are shaking.

There is no light in this room – only a terrifying blackness which seems so delicate. As if someone can reach through the dark and touch me. Kill me.

God, I pray. Help me.

"I'm coming."

Bucky's coming. That's good. Isn't it?

The man – my pursuer – crouches down. I can hear the groan of his boots, the rustle of his clothes, the rasp of his breathing.

"I know you're there," he says.

Holding my breath, I move not a limb. Not even when pins and needles shoot up and down my left leg and I feel light headed. My heart is racing, beating so very fast.

"But where? Now that's a question."

There is a breath of wind on my face and I think he's put his hand under the table and nearly touched me.

Oh no oh no oh no oh no.

Leaning as far back as I can without making a sound, I scrunch my fists up tight and hope as I have never hoped in my life.

I'm going to pass out. Be sick. Scream. Anything. I don't think I can hold still anymore.

There is a creak of a floorboard and he is reaching further in. His hand passes just below my knee.

And then – then with speed of a striking snake, my leg is gripped.

I launch myself backwards with a yelp. I kick at his hand, putting all my weight behind the effort.

He swears and there is the sound of his head bumping the table.

With one more frantic movement, I kick out at the solid darkness – at him.

And then I run. I can see the doorway, for beyond it a streetlight shines through the open front door and touches the hallway. I hurl myself towards it. And crash into wall behind it. Pushing myself away from the cold wall, I whirl around. The dim light shows another door – the one I missed.

A hand grabs my arm.

I nearly lose it then. Well, if I haven't lost it already. But then a voice whispers, "It's Bucky." And I know that maybe … it's going to be alright.

This feeling is spoiled by the crack of a gunshot from the kitchen. The bullet thud into the wall behind us. In a blink, Bucky has us through the door – the one that I missed - and sprinting down the stairs that are just beyond it.

We clatter down into the basement. The room is empty, abandoned and small light bulb hangs at an angle from the ceiling, shedding gloomy light on the littered, uncarpeted floor, and the body slumped in the corner.

A Glance at the Body:

Blonde hair. Beard. Chin rests on chest. Gun lays in an open hand. Jean-clad legs stretch out. Boots are tough and splattered with mud.

No blood stains, save for the blood dribbling from mouth.

Might be alive.

Needs help.

"Bucky?" I ask, slowing down as we pass the body.

Bucky glances back at me and grabs my arm, pulling me away. "No," he says.

I nod. Snatch a deep breath. Everything is going to be okay. Probably.

Bucky pulls me to an almost indistinguishable door that is painted the same off-yellow colour as the walls. As he yanks it open and pushes me through, he catches a glimpse of my face. Whatever he sees causes him to pause – only for a moment – but his words come quickly, "I'm sorry. For taking so long."

I don't even try to smile, but I do manage to croak out a polite: "That's perfectly fine."

Aunt Becky would be proud of me.

And then we are through the door, and down another flight of stairs.

Something that Ida wonders:

Why is Bucky going down rather than … you know, escaping?

The smell is the first thing that hits me. It is heavy, thick and choking. What meets my eyes (I would say astonished gaze but to be terribly honest, right now I wouldn't be surprised if a Latin-quoting cow suddenly appeared in front of me) is a hodgepodge of animal cages.

Animal cages. Piled one on top of each other, standing against the narrow walls.

Rats and guinea pigs squeak as we pass them. There is a long electric light flickering above us. I would call it cliché but … this is real life. Real. Life. Real life, with animals that are thin, bloated, hairless. strange colours and that one over there … is that one dead?

"Bucky, this- I hope this isn't-"

Bucky doesn't glance behind him, simply walks quickly to another door at the end of this … experimentation lab? (It is either that or the Kid-Napper, if this is his place, has an immense love for rats and guinea pigs. Somehow I doubt it).

Opening the door, he leads me through it. Into a room with foldable tables lining the walls. Their white tops are stained but clean and a multitude of electronic equipment rest on top of them. On my left, there is are, well, the only way to describe it is 'a rather large amount of science palaver'.

I can only recognise a few test tubes and microscopes. The rest are rather high-tech. And I haven't got a clue as to what they are.

"What is a man wanted for child abduction doing with all this?" I ask Bucky as he speed-walks me to another door. This one, however, has a lock. A massive circular device that looks like it belongs to a bank, rather than the basement of a run-down apartment block.

Glancing over my shoulder, I clear my throat. "Aren't we being chased Bucky?" Anxiety quickens my words. "What if that, that man comes? And why didn't we simply run out of the front door?"

Releasing my arm, Bucky crouches in front of the lock. His face is expressionless as he touches several buttons. "They've been alerted."

"Oh. So … our only escape is to run to the basement?" My voice raises at the end of the question. I'm sorry, but his actions make no sense.

Some Logical Logic:

When chased, one runs away from danger. One does not back oneself up against the wall. And wait for death.

I run a shaky hand through my damp hair. "Sorry, I'm nervous. Um, you know with the whole, 'people are trying to severely injure or kill us' part of this."

There is an electronic bleep and a click. Bucky opens the thick door, and then he looks at me. His eyes are … well, there is nothing to them. "You didn't have to come."

And then he strides through the door.

"Uh, yes. Yes, I did."

He shuts the door after I hasten through it.

A light flickers on and I look up at Bucky's face.

"I'm going to find Jones-"

"Who?"

"The Kid-Napper," he supplies.

"Ah." That's his name, then.

"And I'll protect you." He glances at the room we are in. There is a bed – almost in the manner of a dentist chair – right in the middle. A dentist chair on steroids, surrounded with a multiple of metal contraptions and screens hanging down. "But," Bucky says as he strides towards it. "I will find him."

"Oh." I wrap my arms around myself and let my eyes roam the room. The walls are whitewashed and dusty spider webs cling in the corners. And there – just to my right, is another door. An ordinary door.

There is a crash behind me. I whirl around, staring at the 'this-looks-like-it-belongs-in-a-bank's-safe' door.

"Bucky?"

He is frowning at the dentist chair.

What the so-called 'Dentist Chair' resembles:

A steam-punk torture device. With plush cushions.

"Five minutes," he mutters.

"'Till what?"

He runs his hand along a metal helmet at the head of the chair.

"Bucky?" His face is troubled. I reach out, touch his arm.

Looking up, he blinks – almost as if he shoving a memory away. "Until they break through."

It feels as though someone has rammed a lump down my throat.

"What, what are we going to do?" I question as another crash sounds.

He pulls one of the screens toward him and switches it on. "Escape through the door."

"Which door? There are two doors. Bucky? Come on … What is that?"

The screen begins to reel off random data. And by 'reel off' I mean that it starts talking. Out loud. "… is ready to begin simulation … human component required … I repeat, human component must be in place … last human component mutation level of three point seven … seventy percent initialisation … update required in databank … "

It is as though someone has physically struck Bucky. He stands there, motionless. The door shudders alarmingly. A muffled shot. Are they shooting the lock?

"… test subject is unresponsive …"

"Bucky, I think we need to go," I say, nerves fluttering in my voice.

"... scanning is complete … "

"Yeah."

" … test success …"

Another shot. Another shudder.

"… zero …"

"Now."

"… new component required …"

Wait. What?!

His arm – the metal one – shoots out and yanks the screen off the wall. Wires spark and hang loose, but he doesn't stop there. Swiftly and methodically, he destroys the chair. He is a blur to me. Sparks bounce off the floor. Metal clatters onto the floor.

Another shot. Another shudder.

The chair – or whatever it is – is trashed. Completely.

A control panel hits the floor near my feet. I shove it away from me with my foot. Because … because I don't think I want to know what this machine does. Because, whatever it really is … is evil.

Human components?

Leaning down, Bucky picks up something. I'm not certain as to what it is, but it is small and has several wires hanging dismally off it. He puts it into his pocket and grabs my arm and pulls me towards the door. It opens with a reluctant groan and we slip through it. Thank goodness it isn't the one that they are shooting at. It would be shattered in a moment. The room beyond is shrouded in shadow, and smells strangely of stale coffee.

A light switch. That's what we need. Anytime now.

Oh. Wait a minute. I fumble in my coat's inner pocket and retrieve my cell phone. My palms are sweaty and my fingers tremble as I switch it on, turning the brightness up to maximum. I hand it to Bucky.

"For light," I explain.

He takes it and shines the screen out before us.

Stairs.

But then, of course, because we are in no way misfortunate, there are the unmistakable sounds of footsteps running down those stairs.

Bucky plunges the cell into the depths of his jacket pocket, pulls me against the wall besides the stairs and … and then we wait.

Questions Ida has:

Why are the Bad Guys/Goons/Baddies/Evil Villains only now coming down these flights of stairs? Why didn't they do that before, instead of attempting to break through the locked door?

Wait.

Are these dumb goons?

Surely not. That's a Hollywood myth.

We don't wait for very long. The outline of a large man thunders down the stairs, so close that I could reach out and touch him. I don't. But Bucky does. (Though touch is too nice a word). Bucky decks him.

There is a thump and the man falls, slumped over the bottom steps.

I scramble up the stairs, Bucky in front of me.

We've reached the top. But we don't stop.

There is another door. Locked. Bucky breaks it down.

As simple as that.

I don't blink, raise an eyebrow, or feel any sign of surprise. I simply leap through it, ducking my head so that the shattered wood doesn't catch at my hair.

Another flight of stairs.

Up we go.

A hallway. Not the one from before. This one is in an L shape. We round the corner.

And there, at the end, standing beside an open door and under a weak light, is a man. He is dressed in a rumpled grey suit, wears purple sneakers and holds the strap of a man bag in one hand, and talks to a short, stocky man with no neck to speak of.

Oh, did I mention what Grey Suit was holding in the other hand?

No?

A gun.

An Interesting Thought:

In movies, arcade games, books and a multitude of other media, to reach the 'boss' the player/hero has to go through several levels, each one growing harder.

They have to overcome increasingly difficult adversity.

They have to earn it.

Generally – and I'm just putting it out there – they do not accidentally run into the boss.

It's him – the Kid-Napper. His face has been plastered across the media. And here he is. Standing there. With a gun in his hand.

Bucky doesn't stop running. He barrels forward, so fast that I'm sure he's breaking some sort of world record. The man – Jones – raises his gun. He fires, Once. And he misses, for the instant he pulls the trigger, Bucky ducks to the side.

(And me? Coming to an abrupt halt behind Bucky? I don't get hit. I know. Complete miracle).

Jones doesn't have a chance to pull the trigger again. He's bowled over with a whoosh and then a heavy thud as Bucky rams into him. The gun clatters to the floor. Bucky doesn't stay down. With a flick of a leg, he sweeps the stocky man off his feet.

His movements aren't graceful - they are brutal, swift and lethal. There are no ballet-like steps, nor kung-fu litheness.

When the man leaps up, Bucky punches him. With a metal fist.

Please no. Not again.

But there is no 'again' for, with a crack and several crackles, Bucky's body shakes and trembles.

Jones … didn't. Couldn't.

But, then he did.

When Bucky's arm lashes out, Jones' fires a Taser. (A Taser, grabbed from a man-bag).

It hits Bucky's body, shaking it with convulsions.

Oh.

No.

I don't say a word, hitherto I have hung back – too dazed by Bucky's movements to do anything.

But now I've got to.

Before I know it, I am running. As fast as I can. It isn't a choice that I make. It isn't a path I chose – I am too much of a coward to consider this closely. If I thought about it … then I would freeze. My body weighed down with fear. Instead, I simply do.

Because Jones drops the Taser as Bucky slumps to the ground. And he reaches for the gun. The gun that is several feet away from him.

I run. Feel my wet sneakers hit the floor. My legs force me onwards, launching myself forwards with every step. I haven't got that far to go.

This could be it, I think. The end of me.

But the final thought that I hold onto as I hurl myself at Jones is simple:

No.

I hit Jones as he leans down for the gun. I slam into his side and all is a daze as I tumble over, he with me.

I pull my knee up, ready to disarm him. That's what you do, isn't it? But I miss (of course I do). For a second – a mere second – I think that I can do this. I can subdue this man and get Bucky out of there.

But the second ticks by.

Have you ever felt fear? Truly felt it?

Tonight I've learned that it comes in many forms – in silence, in sound.

And now … now I find it in a man whose hands find my neck and squeeze.

There is fear in strength.

Jones doesn't look heavy – he is rather slight, but he is no weakling.

I stare up into his shadowed face, eyes wide, struggling with every ounce of strength I possess. I stare and wonder: how could someone do this? Why would someone do this? Why would someone. Do. This. To. Anyone?

God help me.

With his hand still around my neck, he pulls himself into a crouch above me and presses a knee into my ribs.

There is fear in pain.

I've always thought that before my death I would think peaceful thoughts – wistful, bittersweet ones too. I never thought that my final thoughts would be hazed in a panicked cloud – that my final breath would be squeezed out of me with wiry fingers.

It feels like hours – a lifetime of struggle, of a desperate battle for breath – but it can only truly have been half a minute.

The fingers disappear, Jones is snatched off me with a whine of a metallic arm.

I bolt upright, backing up against a wall and clutching my throat. Staring at Bucky who pounds Jones with his fists. Both metal and flesh.

Deductions of Ida's Sluggish Brain:

Bucky is punching Jones.

(My throat hurts)

Lots.

(My throat is throbbing)

And lots.

(Breathe slowly, oh but it hurts)

Wait. He's going to kill him.

"Bucky!"

But Bucky has already let Jones drop to the floor like a discarded puppet.

"Thank you," I try to say. But something isn't right. My voice. What has happened to my voice? Someone's rubbed sandpaper down my throat and, and, and I can't swallow.

No. No. No.

Bucky is shaking me.

"Ida. Look at me. Breathe."

I am looking at you.

He draws my cell out of his pocket and dials with one hand. Three bleeps. 911. He looks up. "We've got to go now," he says, putting the cell to his ear. "The Kid-Napper is here. Subdued. Back door."

And then he crushes my cell phone with his hand. One squeeze and that is all it takes.

Crush! My cell phone – gone. (Ha, sounds like a punchline of some stupid joke).

He lifts me up, stands back to see if I can stay upright on my own.

I can. I can do this. Really, I can.

I'll simply not swallow.

That'll work.

"Let's go."

He takes me by the arm and marches me through the door.

The rain is pouring outside. Pounding the ground with huge drops. But it doesn't muffle the sound of shouts. Shouts. Behind us.

Bucky tosses me on his shoulder and runs.

We make it to my van. Don't ask me how, but we do.

I am slumped in the passenger seat, beside the broken window where the rain finds its way in and drips onto my sleeve. Bucky drives. I shift on the sodden seat. Lean my head back, close my eyes.

Soon, I tell myself, soon I will be home and I can collapse into the peppermint-and-musk smelling arms of my couch. I can cuddle Winnie. And I won't care if Bucky thinks me childish but I can and will cry.

"Sorry," Bucky's voice breaks our silence.

I'm sure that I sound like I'm speaking Klingon, but I squeeze the words out: "What for?"

"I … shouldn't have taken so long. In coming."

I stare at his profile and feel the rain touch my skin. It is a cool rain.

"Both times."

"Okay," I am being very economical with my words.

What Ida Actually Means:

It's okay, you only took thirty seconds or so to recover from a Taser shock. You were in time to save me, and for that I am so very grateful. This isn't the greatest time for me to die, as you may well have notice.

Aunt Becky wouldn't like-

Oh no.

Aunt Becky is going to kill me for letting myself get nearly killed.

And I know that that sentence doesn't make any sense but, you are her brother and you must have been acquainted with her death glares.

And look – that first time? You were probably fiddling with the lock on that door and came as quickly as you could.

Or perhaps you thought I could save myself, which regrettably seems to be contrary to reality.

Apparently, I have been cast into the role of 'Damsel in Distress', but I must point out that my everyday life has never been about self-defence, fighting or crime of any sort.

Though I would like to add that, while I may not be able to crack a safe or an opponent's jaw, I can placate your hurt feelings and get you a refund AND a new jacket WITHOUT a hole in the sleeve WITH free shipping. And if that isn't a useful skill, I don't know what is.

But truly Bucky, I'm happy for you. You didn't kill Jones (I hope) and he's going to be brought to justice for his crimes (thank goodness) and you've got some evidence to see what on earth is going on in that lab (I think).

Well done, Bucky.

I am truly proud of you.

And you know what? I think Aunt Becky will be too.

(Just please don't tell her that I nearly let myself get killed because I miss-aimed a knee to a man's neither regions).

Bucky clears his throat. "We'll get you something. For the pain."

"Thanks," I croak.

"I didn't kill him," he says five minutes later.

Jones?

He glances at me, sees my frown.

"The man in the room. He fired at me. I didn't kill him."

I give a small smile – see, progress? We can – maybe – paint over a few of those names.

"I broke his jaw."

We have plenty of time.

But one day, Bucky, I promise myself and him as the windshield wipers creak their arms, wiping the pounding rain away, one day that wall will be painted over.

There are many things to fear in life. So very many. And some have left their scars on me. On Bucky. Their wounds hurt and they throb and they ache and they quaver and they are always there, ready to pounce in the dark of night.

But ... nothing will conquer hope. Not in me. Never in me.

And Bucky, perhaps he is discovering hope. Redemption as well. Things long denied to him – things frozen in the back of his mind, his soul.

Are those tears on my cheeks?

It must be the rain.

I touch my bruised throat, bite back the panic. I can still swallow. If only a little. Ida, give it time. It will heal. Oh but it hurts. I nearly died. No, I mustn't panic. I won't panic.

I will rest my head against the headrest, pretend that the rain is a shower long overdue, and that I am using that wonderful smelling shampoo.

Ha. That rhymed.

It hurts to laugh, but thank God – truly – that Jones didn't squeeze the humour out of me.

Bucky glances at me, "Okay?"

I nod. "You?"

He frowns. The answer comes several long moments later: he gives a slight shrug with his shoulders.

Fair enough.

I'm still going to find Captain Rogers though.

End of Part 2: Judge

A/N: My word, I was up till midnight typing this chapter up. Plot twists! Drama! Lots of arm grabbing! Near death experiences! Once I had finished I felt rather drained (though that possibly had something to do with my cold and the lateness of the hour).

Finishing a 'big' chapter like this always leaves me a little on edge - is it okay? Laughably dramatic? Suitably serious? Just the right amount of humour and plot progression? But nope. One must be strong. This is it, and the plot must move along.

Thank you for reading and reviewing and have a great weekend (or week, depending on whenever you are reading this)!

[Part 3 - Executioner will be coming along soon. In which a Falcon and a Patriotic Person just might be appearing and several !Major! revelations are revealed, mix 'em all together and we have, ladies and gents, an explosive finish]

Chapter 14: Interlude: Paint a Picture

-Interlude-

Paint a Picture Why Don't You?

An excerpt from the Imaginary Diary of Ida Proctor

Dear Diary,

Today was interesting. The morning was good – blue skies and a bird singing just outside the window. Had a peek at it and couldn't identify what bird it was. It was sitting on a grey drain pipe and chirping away for all its worth. I nearly threw a shoe at it in a fit of temper, but made morning coffee instead.

Felt very virtuous and restrained. And unwilling to lose a shoe out of the window.

Last night, I woke up to Bucky shaking me. Apparently I screamed. Though personally, I think it was more of a rasp than a scream. Voice isn't great. Bucky made me drink soothing tea. Think it had lemon in it. He gave it to me with an unidentifiable Look when I thanked him.

We sat up for a while and I rambled on as I tend to do when sleep deprived. Though it must be noted that I have never rambled using hand gestures, eyebrow wiggling, monosyllables, and scribbled words before. I think I was 'talking' about genetics. And woolly mammoths. And work, which is looming large on the horizon.

Bucky said that I wasn't ready for it. I said my bank account wasn't ready for me to give up on work. Bucky frowned ferociously. (Or rather, his eyebrows twitched. The ferocious half of his frown was my own imagination).

It was then that I belatedly realised that I couldn't go back to work with a voice that had hopped on the first plane to Timbuktu.

I went to bed in an immature huff [This line is stricken through. Repeatedly.]

And then I went back to sleep on the couch, surrounded by peppermint and musk. I have decided that they are the very best scents in the world. Bucky sat in Aunt B's seat, watching me. I gave him a Look and he switched the small side lamp on and picked up the nearest book of mine.

And he read. For the rest of the night. It was both comforting and a little uncomforting. There is something disconcerting about a man sitting in a seat near you as you fall to sleep. Well, I hope that 'The Secret World of the Underdog: Travels through Time with the Unfortunate' gave him plenty of mental fibre to chew on.

It could have been worse. It could have been 'The Dark Duke's Dangerous Secret', although I think I flung that one in the trash. (The heroine had no backbone and fell in love with the hero when she was in the air in an experimental hot-air balloon and he was down on the ground. It would be like falling in love with an ant. And also the hero was more like a villain. An awful, awful villain with sideburns).

He wasn't staring at the Wall and that, in itself, was a victory.

But in the end, I was glad that he was there, for I started to choke in my dreams and he woke me up before I could bring the apartment block down with my screams. And – most importantly – wake Aunt B up.

Went to church this morning. Aunt B gave Bucky a stern Look, and Bucky came along quite meekly. We sat in the very back. The sermon was on forgiveness. It was good sermon, but my attention wandered.

There was a man three rows down who reminded me of Jones, which reminded me of my throat and his fingers which, in turn, nearly sent me into a panic attack just as we stood up to sing, 'Abide with Me'.

Bucky's metal arm began to hum rather oddly during the second hymn and Mrs Emulston, two rows down to the left, turned to give him a severe Look. (There were a plenty of Looks today. I used most of them, to be honest. When you are unable to speak, you have to use alternative methods of speech. AKA: Looking).

Fortunately, it stopped after a minute or two, but clearly tasering and metal arms don't mix. Perhaps I can somehow explain everything to Philip and enlist him Saving Bucky.

I feel terrible that I don't feel like I can trust this to him. I mean, he would love Bucky, I'm sure but … oh, I'm an awful person for feeling so unsure. I ought to trust him but what if he has connections and those connections want Bucky? What then? [The above paragraph is stricken through several times over. The words: 'I'm an idiot' is scribbled beside it, is severely underlined and has exactly three exclamation marks following it]

Afterwards, when all were lined up to leave the building and shake the pastor's hand, I realised who it was that I was standing behind.

My ex-fiancé, can you believe? I haven't thought about him for years. But there he was – shaking the pastor's hand. He obviously noticed me out of the corner of his eye. "Ida," he said, touching his moustache nervously and glancing wildly (though the 'wildly' part may have been my imagination) around for escape (my imagination may have embellished that part too).

I stared at him placidly (yes – placidly!) and he looked me up and down. "You look different," he offered gallantly and the pastor looked on in amusement.

"And you are exactly the same," remarked Aunt B from beside Bucky. "Pity," I thought I heard her mutter.

The pastor choked a little whilst he shook my hand.

Mark stood in front of us still, barring the steps. "Haven't seen you in what, five years? We should meet up some time. Go for a coffee."

I blinked at him. As you do. I'm still a little bewildered – I thought the reason why he ended it with the abruptness of a bullet shattering a watermelon was because I was too boring. Too usual. Too normal and not at all exciting.

He stepped back to let us pass and I tried to say: No, thank you. I hope you have a nice life and marry a femme fatale.

What came out was … was … actually, I prefer not to remember what it sounded like. Here's a hint: sandpaper and chalkboard.

Upon hearing my [the words 'very melodic' are squeezed in here as an afterthought, to great sarcastic effect] voice, he paled, glanced at my throat and then over my shoulder and hurriedly retreated with a hasty, "See you around."

Aunt B tutted and we nearly made it out of the parking lot before my name was called. Or rather, bellowed.

Mrs Emulston bore down upon us with a thunder cloud above her head. She thrust a pamphlet for a women's shelter into my hand and glowered at Bucky. I was bemused at first, but then realisation dawned: she thought that I was in an abusive relationship. As had Mark.

My scarf obviously didn't work in hiding the bruising.

It was very kind of her. Aunt B didn't find it amusing – she's taken the whole 'nearly getting strangled' bit rather hard. Bucky had his poker face as firmly fixed on as his baseball cap was on his head. And I? I gratefully spluttered out my thanks in a not so graceful way.

Mrs Emulston told me in no particular terms that she would be happy to help – and she cast a fierce look at Bucky – in any way possible.

Mrs Emulston is not a woman to mess with. She looks like a female version of Einstein, sans moustache, with white and grey hair sticking up like an electrified bush, dark tweed pants and a monstrosity of a ruffled, pastel top draped over her ponderous form.

She is one of those people who require a double-take. And then a second one, just to make sure. She also enjoys a good chin wag with Aunt B, though we have not been attending as regularly as we once did, and thus do not see her as often.

Aunt B assured her that I was quite all right and introduced Bucky as a dear family friend. Mrs Emulston departed casting dubious looks in Bucky's direction.

After that, we caught a yellow cab home and Bucky helped Aunt B climb the stairs. She appreciated the gesture and patted him on his arm, only to yelp when a fizzing noise emitted. She patted the wrong arm and the metal arm is definitely playing up.

I suggested to Bucky he could fiddle with it as I made supper. He didn't, instead he went back to contemplating the device he retrieved from that-

I do not wish to think about it at the moment. On a side note, there has been no news regarding the Kid-Napper. We might have to go after him again. I really, really don't want to, but if Bucky can do it, so must I but- [here, the sentence trails off, and is stricken through with a careful, deliberate line]. We shall be fine, of course.

Supper happened. [The sentence of: I think I might have over salted the gravy, overcooked the chicken and burnt the potatoes is scribbled over with obvious guilt] Upon further contemplation, I do not think it was my best attempt.

Bucky's face was priceless, proving once and for all that it is impossible to brood, feel guilty or go through mental anguish when faced with Ida's Cooking.

And then the apartment door was knocked, and I answered it.

And didn't recognise the man at the door.

No.

Not at first.

When someone walks off a TV screen or out of a photo album and stands outside your door, you have to give a good few blinks and mental shakes before reality sinks in.

But still, there he was.

Real.

Flesh and blood and dark blonde, right there, in front of me.

"Does Ida Proctor live here?" he asked.

A/N: and so it begins ... Thank you for reading this story, and to all who have left a review - anon or otherwise. Y'all (if I am allowed to use the American expression) are very lovely. Like an amazing cup of tea which is brewed to 'just' the right colour. Was that too much? It totally was too much. Oh well ...

[Reasons for an Interlude: Wanted to write story. Couldn't write proper chapter as otherwise occupied. Had an idea. Used Idea. Wrote Idea. Here is Idea]

'till next time ...

Chapter 15: Part Three: The Executioner

Part Three: The Executioner

Paint-ently Surprised

All my speeches are short and hoarse. Attempted strangulation will do that

There is rather a lack of forks clanking plates this evening.

Bucky sits, quiet and still, and stares down at his plate. Either he finds the yellow floral pattern to be pleasing, or he is intrigued by the supper.

"It's modern art," I nearly tell him, but hold my tongue instead. "Or burnt offerings," I almost add.

If I didn't know her better, I would think that Aunt Becky is gingerly prodding the mashed potatoes with her fork and looking as though the possibility of tasting them is extremely loathsome.

Good thing I do know her better.

The tiniest portion of burnt mashed potato is scooped onto her fork and cautiously eaten.

Aunt Becky has an excellent poker face; the only thing that gives her away is the hasty sip of her glass of water. And the rueful expression she exchanges with Bucky.

She is tired today – when is she ever not? – and her eyes are weary. And yet there is still that gleam in her eye when she addresses me. (Probably to escape taking another bite).

"You were wise," she says in a manner which is very much a conciliatory pat on the hand.

"What?" I ask.

Bucky raises his eyes and looks at his sister. His brow twitches.

I cannot resist. He is sitting next to me.

I risk a painful protest from my ribs and kick him in the shins – a gentle tap, but one with meaning.

The Meaning:

Don't look so sceptical at Ida's wisdom, Bucky.

He glances at me, his frown deepening. I narrow my eyes. He turns his back to Aunt Becky.

"You were wise," Aunt Becky clarifies, "not to marry Mark."

Bucky dips a forkful of mashed potato into the swimming pool of gravy. It's like watching a train crash. I look away, feeling rather insufficient in the culinary department. Ah well. I never had high aspirations there. Which, I suppose, is fortunate.

Wise? Not marrying Mark? I wouldn't call that wise. I'd call that something that simply happened. A natural progression after someone calls you 'normal' and 'boring' and says he's looking for someone exciting. Ha. That's almost laughable now.

"If," continues Aunt Becky placidly, with a definite twinkle in her eye, "those Helicarriers hadn't have crashed, I don't think Mark would have been in any danger."

Bucky chokes on his mouthful. Not dramatically, not hugely with great coughs. Just a small choke or two.

Guilt rises and I pluck my own glass of cool water off the table, grab his metal arm and shove it into his hand. There is a 'click' as metal meets glass.

"Quick, Bucky – drink. I'm so sorry."

Bucky gulps the water down and wipes his mouth, sending a look which could be called 'a glare' in Aunt Becky's direction.

"Now, now, Bucky," Aunt Becky says. "There's nothing wrong with saying that."

"The Heliacarriers would have killed millions," Bucky says, his mouth set in a grim line.

"They would've killed Philip too," I tell him. "But they didn't. Kill anyone. They failed."

A New Aspiration of Ida's

To speak in monosyllables, thus being kind to my throat and voice.

Inspiration? Bucky Barnes.

There is a knock. I frown – is that the front door?

Aunt Becky raises her eyebrows at me and I move my chair backwards, it groans in protest against the kitchen floor. I'm rather glad to abandon the chicken and mashed potatoes and the gravy and did I mention the shredded cabbage?

No?

Well, let us forget that. Erase it from memory and never, ever think of it again.

"I wasn't being disrespectful," I hear Aunt Becky say calmly as I leave the kitchen and enter hall with its scrubbed cream walls. "In some things you must either laugh or cry …"

I don't hear the rest, for the door is knocked firmly again and I quicken my strides. I don't glance through the peephole, though goodness knows I should have.

The door whines a little as it swings inward. Is it a delivery? I can't remembering purchasing anything. Oh … unless it was the book series I ordered several months back that never actually turned up.

The man who stands outside is tall, clad in jeans and white t-shirt and a leather jacket. His hair is blond and his jaw is defined, blue eyes look down at me. I have the disconcerting feeling of being thoroughly examined in a single moment. Which sounds rather ludicrous when you think about it.

"Does Ida Procter live here?" a deep voice asks and for an instant I know disbelief.

A good, full-bellied what?!

No. It can't be.

But it is.

Truthfully.

In reality.

Captain Steve Rogers. Standing there. In front of me.

"Yes," I say after a moment. "I'm Ida. Procter. Ida Procter and," I have to catch my breath and can feel the unsure, uncertain smile pull at the edges of my mouth, "you came. Really came. You're here and …"

"Yeah," he says with a polite, honest smile. "I'm here. Er," he glances down the hall corridor and then over my shoulder. "You left me a message, ma'am?"

I nod. "Yeah, I did." And know I have no idea what to do. Uncertainty grips me. Have I betrayed Bucky by contacting Captain Rogers? I hope not. He's looking at my throat. At the bruises. I recall my voice, and realise I've forgotten how terrible I sound. "Um. Accident," I say, gesturing with limp hands.

"Must have been some accident," he says. "Steve Rogers," he puts his hand out. I shake it, it's big and calloused. "Pleasure to meet you."

"And you."

"The message?" he asks firmly.

I glance over my shoulder. What do I do? How … reality is different to dreams and hopes. I want Steve Rogers to fix it all. I want Bucky to heal. But …

Yeah.

But.

"Will you help him?" I ask in a rough urgent whisper.

"Him?" The question is fired at me so quickly that I blink.

"Him," I repeat. And then, because Steve Rogers mustn't enter the apartment with illusions, I ask: "Who do you think he is?"

Truth

We're playing the pronoun game

"Bucky." One word. So full of … everything. And then: "So he's here."

I dip my head. "Yeah. He's here." I widen the door, offer a polite smile of my own. "We're eating supper," I nod my head in the direction of the kitchen. "You can join us if you want."

He nods and stares past me, rolling his shoulders and it's almost as if he's slightly unsure of himself. Reluctant. Hesitant.

But then, who knows? I don't.

He follows me as I lead him into the kitchen. I enter first and Bucky is still sitting there, in the same position that I left him. Only, he is looking at me and he knows. He heard our voices. He must have done.

His eyes slide off me to the man who stops, to stand beside me.

"Bucky," Captain America says.

And Bucky looks down at his plate. He doesn't say a single word.

His silence rings a clanging note of alarm that bounces around and around my brain.

What have I done?

What have I done?

Aunt Becky has no such compunction. Nor does she lapse into dramatic silences. Instead, she twists slowly and with grace in her chair, holding the back of it as she greets our visitor.

"Steve," she says. "It's been a long time."

For a second, he simply stares at her. And then: "Becky?" He gives a huff of disbelieving laughter. "Is that really you?" After a moment, the reality of what he sees sinks in. He leans down – bending his tall, towering frame – and embraces her feeble one. Touching her cheek gently, he gazes into her eyes. "Becky … you grew up."

"It's me," Aunt Becky confirms softly with a slight catch in her voice. "And of the two of us, I can see who's aged better." She's smiling at him and I have to look away because this hurts. It's so bitter sweet and those aren't tears in my eye because I am a sensible woman. He would have known her as Bucky's kid sister. The little girl who liked to follow after the both of them. Ah yes, Aunt Becky used to tell me the stories.

Bucky's gaze is locked on his dinner plate. His right hand – the one of flesh and blood – is holding his fork, resting against the blue chequered table cloth. His left arm is encased in his long sleeved t-shirt and his tell-tale hand is hidden beneath the table.

Suddenly, his eyes are on me and I try to tell him with my eyes that I'm so sorry if you feel as if I've betrayed you. I only brought him here because I thought that he might help you. Look – he's already helping your own sister; see how her eyes look less weary? Please Bucky. Don't hold this against me.

It's almost as if Aunt Becky's weariness has lifted and settled upon my own shoulders. It's a heavy weight. So horribly heavy. I wonder if there are any summer retreats for those overloaded with troubles; a place where time freezes just for a little while – just enough for me to recover.

"Ida?"

Aunt Becky is talking to me. I smile and attempt to concentrate on her words. She wants me to pull out the seat beside her and serve Steve some food. And I do believe that she has just hinted that maybe Steve would prefer a light snack and not a heavy supper.

She doesn't want him over salted, obviously. I don't feel hurt or stung – I grew up with Philip who was my younger brother and still managed to be a pigtail puller and a continual tease. And, I actually agree, this meal is …

Well.

It isn't going to get a five star rating from a critic, and that's a fact.

"The supper's good," a low voice states. Conversation – whatever there is of it – grinds to a halt. Steve and Aunt Becky look at Bucky. Bucky merely takes a sip of my water. Is he- Actually- But why would he-?

Sabotage.

I kick him under the table before rising. Because, yes he is who he is with all that history dripping in red and black behind him and an arm of metal … but he's just ...

"Then, supper's good," Steve gives a little grin and pulls out a chair beside Aunt Becky.

He's doomed, poor guy. No doubt about it.

Attempting to hide my pained grimace, I retrieve another plate from the cupboards. Chicken that looks dried and tastes drier is placed in the most appetizing position I can think of. Mashed potatoes dotted with the black remains of their charred brethren joins the chicken. I attempt to place a portion with the least amount of black … bits … on the plate. I fail. It still looks like it has a bad case of chicken pox. Black chicken pox.

And then comes the cabbage. And the gravy. Ah yes, the gravy. It actually is very brown. A nice deep brown colour. A warm brown. A nice brown. (if you think about the colour, I've learned through trial and error – but mostly trial, then it doesn't taste so bad).

I'm drizzling it on the potatoes and wondering why my head feels so light and hazy, when someone touches my elbow.

Bucky.

"I'm going to the room," he says, putting his plate on the side. I note that he's made a good attempt at it.

"Do you want a coffee?" I ask. "Tea? Milk? Water?"

He is standing very close to me, and I frown up at him. Is he okay? Well, of course he isn't but … Guilt. Yes. I am feeling guilty. I shouldn't. But I do. He doesn't glance over my shoulder at Steve, but he does tap the Destined Plate of Doom with a finger. "The room," he says and my frown deepens.

The room?

I picture the bedroom – the green wall covered in black scrawl, my small wardrobe, the lime-printed curtains, the mirror with rust frosting the edges, and my bed that Bucky is currently borrowing. The room?

The answer rises up before me.

The wall.

He doesn't want Captain Rogers to see the wall.

"Er, there's a green can of paint in the hall cupboard." Bucky looks puzzled. I feel the need to add: "In case you feel like painting the wall."

I don't tag an obvious eye wink at the end of my short, hoarse speech (all my speeches are short and hoarse. Attempted strangulation will do that). He understands. Captain Rogers won't be allowed near the wall.

It's a private thing. A confession. A wall of guilt.

I am given a nod and Bucky leaves the room without speaking a word to Captain Rogers. Captain Rogers who watches him leave with troubled brows and turns his attention back to Aunt Becky. I place his supper in front of him. At least it smells alright. That's something.

"Do you want coffee to go with that, Captain Rogers?" I ask.

"Call me Steve, please, and coffee would be great."

As I make the coffee, I slip my pain meds out of the cabinet. Swallowing them is torture, but it can't be helped. Hopefully, I'm healing; but I'm quite sure that's a lie that I'm telling myself. Because I've taken a knee to the ribs, hands to the throat and I really think I should stop obsessing with myself and get on with life. Ha! As if it were that easy.

I pour the coffee into the cup. It's the "Don't Worry, Be Happy" one and it feels appropriate for Captain Rogers – no, Steve - to use.

Will Bucky leave because Steve is here? I ask myself.

No. He won't. He said that he would be in his room. So surely … surely he means to stay. You know what? I'm going to stop overthinking this. I'm not going to worry about the strange noises that Bucky's arm sometimes comes out with-

Note to Self:

Steve could help with this? Maybe? If he and Bucky actually talk.

-or the fact that the media hasn't reported that the Kid-Napper has been caught. Or that that chair we found and the animals we saw and the-

Not going to think about it.

Don't think about it, Ida.

And … you know, give the coffee to Steve.

Small things, I remind myself. Small baby steps. One step at a time and you can climb a mountain. Though you could possibly die without the equipment needed: the snowshoes, the oxygen tanks, the ropes, the food, the guide, a compass or even better, a GPS …

Maybe I shouldn't think along the lines of that analogy.

I place the coffee in front of Steve and slide into my own seat.

Steve thanks me politely and takes a forkful of mash potato with gravy drizzled on top.

It is then that I realise that though I thought Bucky eating the supper was a train wreck, it is Steve who is the true tragedy.

His face.

I don't think I'll ever forget it: The first unsuspecting taste. The realisation. The desperate struggle to appear polite. The barely hidden grimace. And then … then the anguished swallow.

Aunt Becky disguises her chuckle with a cough. I find my own supper to be suddenly absorbing and possibly holding the secrets of the universe.

Steve takes a hasty swig at his coffee, disregarding the fact that it's boiling and he's probably scorching his throat. "Wow," he says with watering eyes. "That has taste."

"Ida's meals," says Aunt Becky with a benevolent smile, "always have taste."

"Oh really?" asks Steve, doing a wonderful job at hiding his dismay. "Did you teach her?" he asks, as if saying the punchline of a joke.

Aunt Becky laughs and I reply sturdily, "I'm self-taught."

"Ah."

I start to take a forkful of supper and then admit defeat and lay my weapon down.

"Bucky liked it," Steve says.

Remembering the subtle grimaces that Bucky occasionally gives over his oatmeal, I can't hide the smile that slips out.

"'till the end of the line," Steve says suddenly. Abruptly. "Did … did … was that from Bucky? Did Bucky tell you to say it?"

"No." I sigh and rub the table cloth with my finger.

"He didn't, huh?" Steve looks deflated. "Then who did?"

I glance at the door – to the hall. Can Bucky hear us?

"I did," I admit. "I, er, well I thought that a reunion would go down well."

"Yeah, it's been spectacular so far," Steve says. He looks at Aunt Becky. "No offense."

"None taken," Aunt Becky says sturdily. "Tell me, are you planning on staying around?"

Steve nods.

He doesn't say anything, yet he says so much with a single nod. It is a pity that I don't understand the language that he's using. Is he hopeful that Bucky will speak to him? I am sure he will. Eventually. If he sits on him. Or tasers him. (No – I would rather he didn't do that. That was an awful thing to see).

Now whether Bucky will ever speak to me again is another matter.

But he spoke to me about the room and he wouldn't have done that if he wasn't going to give me the cold shoulder.

I think I may be overthinking this.

"Do you want to stay here?" I ask, forcing the words out and facing the possibility that I might have to give up the couch. Perhaps Aunt Becky won't mind me sleeping in her room, though truthfully the bed is small and she likes her space.

But who am I to deny Steve Rogers AKA Captain America the welcome embrace of a peppermint and musk scented couch?

"I've got a hotel," Steve tells us.

I eye my plate and admit complete defeat.

A Newly Confirmed Fact:

Ida Proctor cannot cook.

"Look, shall we order takeout?" I ask.

"What a wonderful idea," Aunt Becky says a little too eagerly. I eye her, feeling a wee bit betrayed.

Steve nods.

"Right then," I say, rising from the table. "I'm just going to check. What Bucky wants." I would be more eloquent but … I'm not up to being eloquent right now.

I leave the kitchen before Steve can rise from his chair, and slip down the hall into my former bedroom.

"Bucky-" I begin, but he interrupts. He is sitting on the bed, legs folded, laptop on and all sorts of wires, which I had no idea he had, linked up to the … whatever it was that he took from the chair.

Another Newly Confirmed Fact:

Ida is too weary to bother with semantics

"Five hour drive. Pack essentials, the CPIMS, and the first aid kit." He snaps the laptop lid close and stands, his hands buried in his pockets. "We'll leave as soon as possible."

"With the van?" I ask, startled by … well, everything. I'm hungry. I wanted takeout and now the thing that is going out isn't the food – it's us. I have principles. Food before possible death. It's a newly elected principle but it still stands. "What about the window?"

"I'll fix it."

"Okay," I say, silencing any protests because my throat will not let me speak them in all their copious volume. "Danger?"

He shrugs his shoulders. "There will be. Possibly."

"I don't like the 'possibly'."

He ignores my remark.

"Er, that thing told you where to go?"

There is a flicker of a smile. Probably at my expense, but peasants can't be choosers. (Wait. What? I'm pretty sure that I've got that wrong.)

"Yeah," he says and I know that it must be much more complicated than that. Call me a fool, but I really cannot ask questions. Not right now. Perhaps I should. Perhaps I wouldn't be in this situation if I had asked questions and used my brain.

But right now?

I'm going to trust Bucky.

And I'm going to follow him like a lost puppy in want of a home. I'll stick with him and perhaps, when he's better, Aunt Becky will lose the tiredness that sits about her shoulders like a heavy, black blanket. Maybe she'll perk up. Maybe she'll … she'll …

Be young again. Only that won't happen. Bucky and Steve are older than she is, yet the grave is closer to her. It breathes down her neck and I refuse to let this situation hurt her. She's worried about Bucky? Fine. I'll fix Bucky. He needs it so very much.

Perhaps Steve will help. Perhaps he won't.

But Bucky sat up with me last night. When I screamed from the nightmares. And I'll … I'm going to see this through with him. For him.

Yes. I'm an idiot. But I've made my choice.

Sometimes things in life aren't clear cut or black and white and yes, I'm probably going to end up in a worse shape than I am now – which is a terrible thought - but … well, I think Bucky is slightly better than he was before. Chasing after this Kid-Napper is helping him.

And we're stopping a really sick person – if all those clues are adding up to, to …

[I'm not letting myself think about that part. It's too heavy. Too real. Too frightening]

I should ask questions. And I will.

But not now.

I'm just going to cling on. I might survive it. I might not. Gracious, I hope I do.

Who knows?

Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

Oh great.

Now I'm being morbid.

And you know what?

The 'What' You Know

Maybe Bucky will go with Steve. They'll clear up this mess and save the day. Bucky will be a Repaired Human Being and not need any therapy and I will stay safely at home eating takeaway with Aunt Becky.

It will be delicious, relaxing (if I'm dosed up on pain meds) and who knows? Perhaps a good programme will be playing on TV.

Yep. That'll work.

A/N: And so it begins ... Welcome back! We're here and this is gonna be good. Thank you for reading this and have no fear in lengthy gaps in postings. I'm determined to have this out and finished by the end of next month. Who knows? I just might make it.

I wrote this chapter twice. Twice! This one is completely different to the original version. It fits the tone of the story much better. Any thoughts as to Steve's arrival? The Beginning of the End? I'm here and I'm ready to hear- ... yeah. That's cheesy. Ahem. Sorry. Forgive me.

Thank you for reading/reviewing/alerting/favouriting. Have a great week. (Or weekend. Whenever you are reading this.) Until next time!

Chapter 16: Chapter 14 - A Coat of Primer

A Coat of Primer

'Carrot Cake, by Ida Proctor, AKA Salt Water, Flour and Grated Carrots, with a Leeetlleee Bit Of Icing to Garnish'

In the end, the only one who eats takeaway is Aunt Becky. We leave her with her feet propped up in the sitting room, a blanket over her shoulders, coffee and biscuits on an easily reached tray and takeaway cartons delicately sitting in her lap.

I close the door and listen to the click of the key in the lock. I suppose that if I had a very gloomy disposition, I would wonder if this would be the last time that I hear it; the very last time that I will see the slipped digit and the peeling paint.

But no, I do not have a gloomy disposition - merely a practical one. One that tells me that, sentimental or not, I should fix the '2' and repaint the door.

One that tells me that Captain America - Captain America! – is going to help us in whatever this is.

What this is:

Digging away. Who is the Kid-Napper? What does he do? Why does he do it? Where are the missing children?

He agreed to help us. Or, truthfully, it happened naturally. We didn't ask him to come – I walked into the kitchen and began assembling a first aid kit. Bucky followed, leaned against the doorframe and informed Aunt Becky that we were leaving and would be gone for the night. And no, he wasn't as eloquent as that.

What Bucky said:

"We're going. We will return tomorrow at twelve-hundred hours. Lock the door and don't open it until then."

Steve had straightened in his chair, eyes alert.

"Perhaps," said Aunt Becky to Steve, "perhaps you can get a bite to eat on the way."

And that was that.

He was coming and we were eating on the way.

No one objected to me accompanying Bucky. Indeed, it seemed to be an accepted fact. Part of me – the part which now sits on the not-quite-dry passenger seat and stares rigidly ahead – wishes that someone had stood up and said something.

The Something They Would Have Said:

[Compiled by Ida's Idle Imagination]

"Look here, Ida," this from a British Gentleman who is dressed in pinstripes and wears a bowler hat, "there's no use you going to this thing. Bucky has Captain Rogers now, whether he likes it or not. See how close Captain Rogers keeps to the van on that marvellous motorcycle of his? He's not going to let his old chum get out of his sight, say what!"

"Yeah," drawls a Classic Cowboy with a devilish glint in his eye, "you're shot to pieces, darlin'. Got a graze on your shoulder, bruises on your throat, busted ribs and let's not forget the-"

"A gentlemen," says the British Gentleman, clearing his throat, "never mentions such indelicate subjects."

"You mean her butt?" asks the Classic Cowboy, confused. "You're talking about the graze on her butt?"

The British Gentleman coughs awkwardly.

"What's wrong with saying 'butt'?" asks the Classic Cowboy. "That's what it is, ain't it?"

The British Gentleman emits a heavy sigh. "Yes. Rather. Ahem. My point is, that Ida needn't accompany Bucky. She is wounded and requires rest and quiet, and let us not mention the psychological wounds-"

"What do you call her butt?"

"The logical course of action," says the British Gentleman firmly, "is that she stays behind."

"Hey! What do those guys call people's butts?" calls the Classic Cowboy to a hitherto unmentioned bystander.

"Unless, of course, Bucky is taking her as a 'comfort blanket' as he has linked her presence to a certain control over his actions. In which case, of course, Ida's presence – or near presence – is crucial to him. The poor chap needs every bit of help he can get."

"What else do you folks call butts?" muses the Classic Cowboy. "Behinds?"

"I still object," the British Gentleman says loudly, "to Ida having to be carted around into the presence of danger. It's simply shouldn't be done."

"How would they say it?" asks the Classic Cowboy. "Oy! Old chap," he attempts a British accent that sends the Gentleman of that Nationality into anguished heart palpations, "I've had my behind grazed with a round object that shot out of that ol'gun." The Classic Cowboy clears his throat self-consciously. "Wait, do you call bullets bullets? Or do you have a different word for them too?"

"Please stop," the British Gentleman begs.

"Butts," says the Classic Cowboy, shaking his head in disbelief.

"You contacted him." Bucky's voice breaks the monotony of the hum of the van and the dull roar of Steve's motorbike behind us.

Jolted out of my thoughts, and feeling as though I have been doused with a bucket of cold water, I glance at him. He stares ahead – as he should because, of course, as a driver of a vehicle he has immense responsibility and also, how do I put this delicately enough that it doesn't scar my conscience?

He's not on my insurance. As in, if we crash then-

The cardboarded and duct-taped window flutters with the beat of the wind.

I think my car insurance is going to slay me, dump my body, and take the bottom out of my bank account so that it is nothing but an empty abyss that will never, ever be filled. But (ha, the Classic Cowboy would- Okay. It's true. My maturity levels have gone haywire. What am I? A pubescent boy giggling in the schoolyard? I'm supposed to be a poetry devotee and a grown adult not, not this.) –

"Ida."

I withhold a sigh; it appears that I can't avoid this conversation. Funny, I never thought that Bucky might not want to have Steve about. But he will, I determine in the privacy of my head, oh he will. "I thought," is my throat easing? No. Still, I've got to speak. I think silence could be more harmful than speech at the moment, "that he might help you."

Bucky clenches his jaw.

"Grip the wheel too hard," I tell him. "And it'll come off."

Bucky shifts in his seat, and his white knuckles regain their colour. I notice that he's shaved and bears no resemblance to a homeless man, unless of course, the homeless man was dressed in Philip's old Yankee's t-shirt, Bucky's jacket and baseball hat which he has somehow still kept, in which case, yes, Bucky would look like a homeless man. Which doesn't make much sense, when you think about it.

And-

I bring my frantic thoughts to a halt and clear my poor, abused throat.

"I was worried," I admit in a voice which would have been soft had I not nearly died by strangulation.

Clenching my own jaw, and curling my fingers in my lap, I stare into my lap and wonder when my life became so very complicated. But it isn't complicated, is it? I contacted Captain America because his former best friend needed someone who had fought beside him, who knew him, who – by all reports –would help him. Truly.

And also, now is not the time for an existential crises, for goodness' sake Ida – get a grip. You are a grown woman. A. Grown. Woman.

And another also … you should probably stop giving yourself pep talks, referring to yourself in second person and finish talking to Bucky.

"You should have told me," Bucky says.

"You would have left."

He doesn't deny it. Instead, he glances at me out of the corner of his eye. I catch the glimpse and smile. Nothing beats a good smile. Nothing at all. Though … oh wonderful. Now he looks a little bewildered.

Silence.

The engine hums on with the occasional cough. Fast cars shoot past us, their lights dull in the twilight. My seat is still wet and I shift uncomfortably. I've my pain medication with me, thank goodness. I don't know where I'd be without it. Though perhaps I should have brought some bandages with me. But I changed mine before we left this evening, surely that will be alright. I've always got the first aid box.

I give the passenger window a sideways glance full of disappointment. If it wasn't broken, I could rest my head against it.

Time ticks by, the sun slips away and the road stretches on and on. Tired old trees line the highway and the dull headlights of passing cars dazzle my eyes as they flash by.

"Do you think we'll get to the bottom of it? Of this?" I am twiddling my fingers together in an effort to stay awake. Sleep weights my eyelids like a pair of sumo wrestlers sitting upon their opponent. Which is a very strange thing to think, but there you have it; don't judge me until you have walked a mile in my moccasins. Not that I have any moccasins. But you – or I – get the picture.

Bucky's face is briefly illuminated by the flash of a passing car. "You'll stay in the van. Or at the motel," he says instead, voice calm and words deliberate. He doesn't say: you'll be safe, because we both know that anything could happen. Anything at all.

A glass pane falling from the sky. A bullet fired, pounding into your belly. A knife slashing your skin. Hands, wrapped about your neck.

I release a breath that I didn't know that I was holding, it is a shaky one. I don't like thinking these days. It … avoidance. Yeah, that's it. Avoidance. I need to avoid these kind of thoughts.

It's the best way to deal with this.

"We'll have CPIMS?" I confirm.

He nods.

Good. We'll remain in contact. Not that I can do much good. But perhaps it might be a comfort to Bucky, or more truthfully, to myself.

"I'm sorry, Bucky," I say abruptly. "That I didn't tell you about Steve." This is going to hurt my throat … but I have to. "I didn't betray you, you know. But I was really worried. Like, really worried and … that was the only thing I could do. Really. I didn't think he would come; that he would get the message." I laugh, not in humour, not in amusement. In fact, I'm not quite sure why. Nerves? Please Bucky, I didn't betray your trust. Honest. And if I did – if you think I did – forgive me. Please.

"The lady at the desk – do you know what she said? She suggested that I contact the message board … pour out my feelings. And write my thanks. And what was the last thing? Oh yeah." I gingerly touch my throat and wince, but the memory is slightly funny, I suppose. "And give a recipe for carrot cake."

I catch a glimpse of Bucky – his skin shines pale and white and shadows linger in all the grooves of his face. He looks at me just once.

"I know, right? I mean … really? Carrot cake? Come on. You can do so much better than carrot cake." My throat hurts – a repetitive refrain, I'll admit. I'm not used to it – this battering. The aches that dwell in my bones and go on and on. The wounds which sting and are so uncomfortable and which hurts so badly.

But I can't stop talking. Not yet. Not until I'm sure that Bucky won't give up, that upon his return, he'll leave. He can't. Not yet.

He isn't ready.

And if I can help – if I can use my poor little voice and put it to good use and chatter about carrot cake. Then I will.

It's worth it.

"Aunt Becky," I say, forcing my voice to rise a little, for the engine gives a puttering coughing fit, "says that you shouldn't put vegetables in cake. One should never go with the other. Like whiskey and water."

Bucky frowns – I'm sure of it. A subtle twinging of his brow which has vanished by the time the next car passes.

"When you drink whiskey," I say in my best impression of Aunt Becky. "You drink whiskey. And when you drink water, you drink water. Only a idiot mingles the two." I'm sure Aunt Becky would smile in amusement should she have heard my mimicking. "She said that she overheard her brother saying-"

And then I blink. And glance at Bucky.

"I told her that," he says. And it doesn't sound like a statement – more like a question.

"Yes. She's quoted you for years, you know."

I can only see the inky outline of his face, dimly lit up by the dashboard lights. I wish I could see his expression more clearly.

"But still, carrot cake?" I change the subject, for somehow I know that some things oughtn't to be touched. Not yet, at least. "Who would follow a recipe by me? You could probably entitle it-" I hold my hands out in the air, framing imaginary words "-Carrot Cake, by Ida Proctor, AKA Salt Water, Flour and Grated Carrots, with a Leeetlleee Bit Of Icing to Garnish'."

"Cakes too?" Bucky asks. Is that amusement? The minutest amount fringing his words?

"I over-salt cakes too," I agree, appropriately ashamed. "I can't help it; it's my weakness."

Bucky clears his throat. His eyes flick up to glance at the rear mirror – yes, Steve is still there, faithfully following. "Always?"

"Yes. Some people have bad judgement with what men to date, I just have bad judgement when it comes to salt. I don't like under salting things."

A huff from beside me. "Yeah."

"You needn't be so slow to agree," I tell him, feigning offense but feeling pleasure at gaining a small drop of good emotion from him. "That's just … in-salt-ing." I laugh at my own joke – a chuckling laugh that is quite the opposite of the so called 'ladylike'.

"Insalting," repeats Bucky, signalling to turn off the highway. He glances at me – just once. And … is that a smile; a small smile? Or is it a trick of the light? "Clever," he says.

"Thanks," I say politely. Can I stop talking now? Will he mind? Did he smile – truly? Or is that simply my too optimistic imagination? Yeah. It was probably that.

Things That You Should Never Do:

Sit in a wet seat. If you visit a gas station to use those facilities? Yeah, the guy behind the counter is probably going to think something about that wet patch on your pants.

Thank about where you are going; if you are going to hunt down the origin of a chair which looks horrible, terrible and dreadful all rolled into one and packaged in a layer of 'Sickening' it's a bad idea.

Suddenly remember that someone crushed your cell phone in his metal hand and you haven't got a cell phone. Again: bad idea.

Confide this information to the silent Bucky and the listening Steve at aforementioned gas station with aforementioned wet patch on the behind of your pants.

Forget to pack spare pants.

There are times when I don't think that the world takes me seriously. For instance, we're trying to do something that is actually very serious and here I am, standing with Steve – Captain America – and Bucky and telling them that 'hey, I don't have a cell phone' whilst embarrassingly aware that I have a wet patch on my pants and it ain't on the paint leg.

If you know what I'm saying.

I try to be mature and adult about it, but I do tell Steve in a casual aside that 'it rained a lot and the window is broken and the seat is wet and, ha ha, isn't it funny how much duct tape we've used and wow that's a nice bike and Bucky, do you want to eat anything? No? I'll just go and sit in the van and er, chillax whilst you guys talk. 'Night. Oh. Haha. I mean- Yeah. I'm just going to go.'

I may be exaggerating a little, but I have learnt a vital fact.

A Vital Fact:

I fail at casual asides.

Things like this make me realise that though one may be attempting to do something serious, one must also cultivate one's sense of the ridiculous. Like wet pants. And damp embarrassment.

The hours tick by; slowly dribbling past us. I think I must have fallen asleep once. Or – and let's be honest – twice. Or – let's be brutally honest – thrice.

I offered to take over driving, yet Bucky shakes his head and glances at the general vicinity of my ribs.

Good. I'll just sleep then.

But it's hard and shadows and gunshots and screams echo in my ears and my eyes fly open to find the interior of the van to be dark, and the puttering of the engine to hold a strange kind of comfort.

"Dreams?" Bucky asks once.

I nod. I've talked too much as it is.

But I've got questions though. For one so proficient at asking questions in customer service, you would think that I would ask Bucky for the important details of what we are doing. But I don't. Not really. I know where we are going: the address. That's true. But I'm not sure why we had to leave this evening.

Perhaps because there is the possibility that someone is in danger; an innocent.

After all, some of the Kid-Napper's victims have never been found.

The thought makes me want to hurl; to be violently ill on the van floor.

So I don't think of the children. I won't think. If I think, I will … well. I won't cope. And I must cope. Because.

Just because.

I pray though.

Because somehow … somehow I don't think that this is going to be easy.

Like a storm cloud in the distance, or the weather man's serious face when he announces that 'Hurricane So and So will reach the shores of Such and Such at this or that time' something is coming.

Or rather, we are going towards it. Driving towards it in a van that coughs and putters, accompanied by someone who just might be the one to help Bucky. To understand a little of him. To save him.

But still we head towards it.

Our dark storm cloud; our hurricane.

Were there ever such fools as we?

Alright, I'll face a truth – perhaps I do have a gloomy disposition.

a/n: readers, dear beloved readers - we have reached over one hundred reviews. One hundred! And nearly a hundred alerts (ninety-six, if you want to be precise). Might I say thank you? Especially to Spongyllama who was the hundredth reviewer. And every single one of you who has read and reviewed and alerted and favourited this story: Thank you. Look at what dizzy heights we have reached!

'til next time!

Chapter 17: Chapter 15 - A Brush of Panic

A Brush of Panic

I'm sure Steve is reliable. He has to be. He must.

I've always reluctantly known that I would miss my job should I leave it for an extended period of time. And now I have. And I can't feel anything towards it. The mere thought of picking up a phone and telling a customer that 'no, he can't have his money back if he doesn't have the product warranty and … sir, I must ask you not to swear at me' makes me want to curl up into a ball and weep.

But then, to be dreadfully honest, so does the thought of opening the van door and – even worse – exiting my poor, abused vehicle. Who in their right mind would ask me to do that?

(Ordinary things are feeling extraordinarily hard to do.)

We've pulled up on your typical suburban street outside a typical suburban house sitting quite smugly, surrounded by a white picket fence.

I open the door. Exit the van. The door shudders as I do so. It – and coincidentally, I – have not recovered from the Man Who Broke The Window. We broke his arm, I think. Whoever said that revenge is sweet has clearly lost their minds. It isn't sweet when it's self-defence. It's panic so real that you can taste it.

I feel the touch of my low heels on the sidewalk. (I'm wearing heels because my sneakers are wet. And at home. And really, a wet pair of pants is one thing, to have two wet items of clothing would be sheer misery).

Bucky approaches me with a large bag slung over his shoulder.

It's the bag I used when I left to visit the Grand Canyon four – five? – years ago. It reminds me of adventure, of sheer dizzying awe at the size of canyons that stretched on and on, as far as I could see. And now Bucky carries it and the tourist badge that I have so carefully sewn on the side is caught in the street light.

I've been saving that bag for another adventure – I'm going to go to Paris, one day. I'm going to roam its streets and eat chocolate and croissants and pretend that I'm a heroine and this is my grand adventure. Aunt Becky will come too. She'll sip black coffee besides the banks of the Seine and watch couples cross the bridges, hand in hand. And now that bag is here and … and the Paris Dream is so far away that the dim stars above my head seem closer.

"It's a safe house," Bucky says to me, striding up the short, gravelled drive. The shadow of a tall tree reaches over the house, its branches stretching over the roof, hiding the night sky above it.

A crunch of a footstep behind me. Steve is following too.

He is probably wondering what we are doing.

He hasn't asked.

Yet.

Or perhaps he already knows.

He was a S.H.I.E.L.D operative, after all. Perhaps he still is. I don't know – I haven't read The Buckler for a while. Ages, in fact. For a moment, I miss it terribly.

We approach the completely ordinary house and climb the porch steps. Instead of unlocking the door with a key, Bucky places his thumb over the key hole. Light glows around his finger and I start in surprise when a low click sounds.

Huh. Not so ordinary then.

Bucky opens the door and steps over the threshold. His steps are soft and for an instant, I imagine him as a thief – slipping in and out of buildings with ease. So very silent. So very skilled.

Steve closes the door behind us and we blink in the sudden light. Bucky moves away from the light switch and dumps the bag on a long brown couch. We're standing in a living room. To our left, sleek wooden stairs disappear upstairs and ahead there is the kitchen. Bookshelves line the walls and warm, red throws are flung over the two couches.

At first, it seems like a pleasant homely home – the type in which you expect to hear the running footsteps of children and the calls of their mother to hurry up and come downstairs for supper. I walk towards the bookshelves. Bucky has disappeared upstairs and Steve stands in the middle of the living room looking about him, hands held loosely by his side.

The bookshelves are heavy with dust, and the books themselves? They're new. Their spines aren't cracked. They look as if they have been transferred from a bookshop to this bookshelf without being opened at all.

I don't touch them.

I turn away from them. Realising that this is a sterile house. No one lives here. The furniture has hardly been used. It's like walking through a ghost town.

It's awful.

Someone clears his throat behind me.

"So, you and Bucky, huh?"

I wrap my arms carefully around myself, glad that I chose to wear a black hooded jacket. It's a warm one. My pants may be wet but my upper body isn't. I'm rather grateful for small blessings. "Pardon?"

Steve nods at my body. At the bruises at my neck.

"We ran into some trouble," I tell him. Trouble. It's a bit of an understatement really.

"Plan on running into anymore?"

I shrug. "Only an idiot would do that."

A small grin twitches at his mouth. Blue eyes show a weary twinkle. "Yeah."

"Thank you," I say suddenly. "For coming."

He smiles. "My pleasure, ma'am."

"It's Ida," I tell him. "Just Ida."

"Well, Ida – thanks for contacting me."

Silence. The house echoes with it. I don't tell Steve that I had to contact him – that in that moment he was the only thing that gave me the slightest bit of hope. I don't tell him how Bucky looked - how utterly and immeasurably damaged. Neither do I describe how frightened I was.

I don't tell him any of it.

"I'm going to stay here," I tell him. "While you and Bucky look for … whatever it is we're looking for."

His eyebrows rise. "You don't know?"

"I don't want to know," I admit softly. "I think it's going to be terrible. Whatever it is."

"You know," Steve says, burying his hands in his pockets, "I have no idea what we're talking about."

Oh. I shift my weight onto my left leg. He followed us; driving for nearly five hours … and he had no idea why? Suddenly, any uncertainty I ever had over him simply goes 'poof'. Five hours. Five hours and no clue as to why he was following us. Surely, surely this is a good sign. I have to believe it.

"Have you heard of the Kid-Napper?" I ask.

He frowns. Shakes his head. "I've been out of the country. It took a while for Stark to get hold of me."

"He abducts small children …" I loosen my arms and admit the awful truth that I very much wish is false, "… it looks like he experiments on them." A weak smile, full of nerves, of tension pulls at my lips. "We thought we caught him but …" I shrug my shoulders.

"It goes deeper." Bucky is standing at the foot of the stairs, Steve turns, unsurprised. He heard his footsteps, I think. I, on the other hand, did not and my small startled jolt jars my ribs. I'm going to need more pain meds soon.

Bucky strides forward with a small black case in his hand. He drops it on the couch and kneels beside it. Opens it.

You know those action moves where the enemy assassin opens a case and there, in all its glorious glory, is a gun?

Yeah. Well. On this occasion, the movies are right.

Because in front of me, in all its glorious glory, is a gun. With a lethal looking knife lying beside it.

Bucky glances up at me, his eyes both defiant and shrouded in question. He's showing me who he is. Who he thinks he is. Asking me with silently if I will still accept him; allow him to live under my metaphorical roof and sit beside his own frail sister.

Or maybe I'm reading too much into it. But, I don't think so.

I clear my throat. Because a weapon is a weapon. What matters is the man who pulls the trigger, and his reason for doing so. "What kind of gun is it?" I ask softly – though of course the questions sounds rough and harsh. Strangulation, you know. Attempted strangulation: lethal to voice workers and singers everywhere. Fortunately I'm neither of them. Unless you count my job … in which case: bother.

I give an intelligent sounding 'oh' to Bucky's answer. Although, truthfully, I wouldn't be able to repeat the name if I tried. It's got digits and letters and sounds very official. And lethal. Let's not forget that.

(… the crack of the gun … blood … everywhere …)

Clearing my throat, I give a tight smile and swipe my hair out of my face.

Bucky stands and touches my arm. "I'll need it," he says in a voice with no emotion. Yet, somehow I think he is attempting to comfort me. I smile.

Ida's Smile, Translated

Me? Troubled? I am happy and relaxed as a morning in June, when the birds sing and the sun casts its warm light of the dew drops which twinkle like grounded stars. I'm not smiling as a coping mechanism. I'm not using it to make everything seem normal. That would be stupid. Obviously.

I'm not sure that Bucky translates my smile correctly. Still, he says, "In the basement there's a surveillance station. You'll monitor our movements using CPIMS." And leaves me feeling a little winded. Because, clearly everyone has a surveillance station in their basement. I'm sorry – what movie set have I wandered into?

This shouldn't be happening.

At all.

I mean … it's … it's just not right. Surveillance station in basement.

That's not normal.

At all.

I force myself to appear calm. It's a struggle but I don't think I fail too miserably. Is this the straw that will break the metaphorical camel's back? (Of course not, Ida, I tell myself. Don't be a wimp).

Bucky is talking to Steve now. He looks him in the eye. "We've got two hours."

He's asking him if he is in. If he's going to follow him. If-

"What are we waiting for?" Steve asks, not a tremor in his voice. I think he understands though – I think he understands what Bucky is offering him: a hand; the bricks to begin to rebuild a broken down bridge.

"Ida?"

I follow after Bucky as he leads me past the kitchen and down the stairs tucked away behind it. The room is dimly lit and is large, yet the only items in the room are … you know those flickering screens and fantastical technology that action movies often have?

Yeah.

A version of that?

Is here.

In Bucky's basement.

Covering a corner of that basement.

This is possibly one of the most surreal things that has ever happened to me. Actually, I'll amend that – it's one of the must surreal things to happen to me which hasn't attempted to kill me. Or anyone else.

So, if I look at it in that light, it's a good thing.

A surveillance station in a ghost-town type suburban house's basement.

Oh-kay. Swallow. Accept this.

Bucky is already leaning over the keyboard – a metallic affair with each key lit up by a blue light. Philip would be having puppies if he could see this. A few keystrokes and the monitors burst to light.

"Controls are easy. I've linked up the CPIMS to the system. You'll be able to overhear Steve and I." He rolls a high-backed chair out. "Sit. See here? If I need info of any kind, type what I ask. Relay the information. The mic will pick it up."

I sit on the seat, feeling the instructions wash over me. I'll just pretend that this is part of my job. Steve and Bucky can be the upset customers, and I'll be their very calm customer service provider. I'll be calm. Really I will.

"Here." Bucky touches the smooth metal below the desk. A drawer slides out.

I look up at Bucky. The light of the monitors flicker in his face. He is serious. So very serious. "If there are any intruders," he says. "Use it."

I glance back down at the gun.

I'm not horrified, God forgive me.

I'm comforted.

Because I remember terror and I remember fear and my throat hurts so much and … and now, at least, I'll have a chance.

Bucky plucks the gun out of the drawer. It fits in his hand as if it's its long lost home. He demonstrates – just once. And then he places the gun back and I feel the weight of a metal hand on my shoulder. I can hear its low, ever present hum. His arm needs fixing. I hope that the noise isn't serious.

We look at each other for a moment. I summon a smile. It may not be perfectly genuine. It may not be completely confident. But it's there and that, in itself, is a victory. "Goodbye, Bucky," I say. "Be safe."

His hand drops.

He steps away. Jerks his head in a short nod.

"And you," he says. Carefully.

And then he leaves.

I watch him climb the stairs and then turn back to the monitors.

And then I heave a sigh.

Ida's Surveillance Stalking

[Roar of motorbikes muted from audio recording]

[Bucky] ...

[Steve] So, know where we're going?

[Bucky] Yes.

[Steve] … are you going to enlighten me?

[Bucky] ...

[Steve] Well, okay then.

[Bucky] Ida. How long?

[Throat clearing from Ida Proctor removed]

[Ida] Hold on-

[Steve] Ida? You're on here?

[Ida] What? Oh. Yes. I'm on here. Bucky, er, I think I've switched something off.

[Bucky] Try again.

[Ida] Er, Bucky? This monitor says something about an overdue-? Er, um … well, it's says it needs to update the system and, well, I've got fifteen minutes before it switches off. And updates.

[Bucky] It's going to shut down. I need you to override the CPIMS system and install a file marked, 'four-oh-six-three-twenty-five-systemoverride'.

[Ida] Okay … how do I do that?

[Bucky] In the bottom left hand screen, there should be a display marked 'Layland'. Select it.

[Ida] Done! Oh wait. Bucky … erm. That screen has gone black and it's got all this weird … code … Okay. What, er, what do I do next?

[Bucky] Type in-

[Connection with CPIMS is severed]

[Ida] Bucky? Bucky? Steve? Are you there? I can't hear you. Are you there?

[Over CPIMS]

[Bucky] … forward slash oh-two-seven …

[Ida. Alone. In basement]

[Ida] Bucky, I can't hear you. Really. Are you there? Please be there? Is everything okay? The monitors are doing something. They're closing down. Bucky? Steve?

[Over CPIMS]

[Steve] … go back to her?

[Bucky] Ida? Come in. Ida?

[Steve] She's not answering.

[Connection with CPIMS is re-established]

[Ida] … Bucky? I can hear you! What's happening?

[Steve] The connection has failed. We're going to come back, Ida.

[Ida] Oh, no – that's fine. Please don't worry. This thing is just updating. It won't take that long, I'm sure and er, if you've got the location, please go. Because …

[Connection severed]

[Ida] ... this is important. I'll be fine. It's a safe-house, right? Which hopefully means it's safe.

[Over the CPIMS]

[Steve] Are you sure her location is secured, Bucky?

[Bucky] Yes.

[Steve] She's fragile.

[Bucky] Yes.

[Steve] But we're still going.

[Bucky] Yes.

[Steve] Somehow, I don't remember you being this quiet.

[Ida the Lonesome. In basement]

[Ida] And … and the- er, Bucky? Steve? The screen has gone … it's got some sort of message on it. Technobabble. With routers and … is that a warning? Bucky … Bucky? … I think this is-

[Computer Powers Down. Commences Update. End of Recording]

"-bad," I finish, my throat hoarse and the basement seeming suddenly so very empty without the noise of motorbikes and rushing wind. So, I must wait then. I lean back in my chair and rest my head, staring up at the ceiling and its dim square lights that look both modern and sterile. It could be an operating theatre's lights. Though truthfully I have never been in an operating theatre. And if I have, it is through documentaries and TV shows, which isn't quite the same.

The monitors are all blank now. The messages on their screens have faded into black. Even the keyboard lighting has faded with a low whine.

I sit and feel as though a plug has been pulled from me; as if all energy has been drained and I have nothing left, only to sit here and wait. Is it wrong that I do not feel very worried for Bucky and whatever it is he will find?

He has Steve.

And I'm sure Steve is reliable. He has to be. He must.

Aunt Becky is safely tucked away in New York.

For the first time in weeks, I let myself … be.

I'm not going to remember. I'm not going to do anything.

Here, in the musky, dust ladened basement that feels too much like a movie set to be real, I'm going to … breathe.

I let my eyes fall close.

Yes.

Breathe.

And so I can. And do.

And if the seat seems to grow hard, and my throat aches terribly and my ribs throb … I'm going to ignore it.

I don't know for how long I sit there, simply being. But when the monitors suddenly blink on, I nearly leap out of the chair and onto the grey carpeted floor. The monitors switch on. And then off.

And then another messages blinks onto the main screen – the largest one that sits in front of me.

I look at the message. Look and feel dread begin to encircle my heart and squeeze.

Allow Remote Access?

If that doesn't sound foreboding, I don't know what does. I mean, Bucky … it isn't Bucky. Is it? Would he want me to click on the glowing blue box in which the cold, detached words says: Yes?

Or would he want me to click on the equally cold, detached words of: No?

Not even the font helps me to decide – it's a completely professional, neutral one.

Who would want to access these computers from a remote location?

I'm not as well versed as some people are in the realm of technology. I have the everyday skills that are needed to navigate a life in the twenty-first century, but nothing terribly bright or astounding. I know how to run a scan for a virus, install a program and deal with my email competently, anything worse – like that time when a virus held my computer for ransom – and I call Philip.

But Philip isn't here, and neither is my cell phone.

I glance around – and this huge empty space takes on a sinister aspect.

No. I will not let myself think like that.

No one is going to walk down those neat stairs descending down to the centre of the basement. No one is coming and no one maleficent is attempting to access these computers.

But even so, I am not clicking 'yes'.

I'm not.

An Argument Between Ida and her Conscience:

Conscience: But what if it's Bucky?

Ida: But what if it's not?

Conscience: What if Bucky needs to access the computers to save the lives of children hovering on the brink of death?

Ida: He'd call an ambulance.

Conscience: What if he needs to search help in disabling a bomb?

Ida: What? Bomb squad.

Conscience: Really? Are you really going to go with that? Risk the lives of innocents?

Ida: He'd speak to me over CPIMS.

Conscience: What if you haven't connected to the CPIMS and this is his way of doing so, so that you can talk to him?

Ida: I can't risk it.

Conscience: It isn't going to explode if you click 'yes', you know.

Ida: I'm. Not. Clicking. It.

Conscience: Well, this is going to be weighing on your conscience then. Forever.

Ida: …

Conscience: Oh, wait.

I battle myself for a while – arguing for and against clicking 'yes'. It could be Bucky. It might not be Bucky.

The long and short of it is: I have no idea what to do.

At all.

All the rest of the monitors are blank and 'yes' and 'no' are the only two options given me.

Tired. I lean my heavy head on my hand and let my hair fall over my eyes.

And then something blinks on the screen.

Remote Access Activated

Did I think that dread squeezed my heart? Ha.

Right now?

Right now it sits at the very bottom of my stomach and … Dear God, I think I'm going to need You.

The monitors blink and reveal what I presume to be the desktop. But someone – not me - is controlling them. Someone who is clicking. Clicking. Typing code. Typing …

I feel ill.

And so very, very vulnerable.

a/n: ... and so Bucky, Steve and Ida have gone against a fundamental principle: Never. Split. Up. Next chapter: We go against a fundamental principle - and the POV spilts up: First Person with Ida (as usual) and Third Person with Bucky.

Thoughts? What could possibly be happening? Will the intrepid trio ever meet again?

'til next time!

Chapter 18: Chapter 16 - A Dollop of Pain

a/n: for artistic purposes [read: dramatic effect] the author's note is popped here. This chapter ... well, Bucky's POV is written. I'm not sure if it's written well, but then, 'beauty is in the beholder' and all that sort of thing. Perhaps it's the same with writing … Anyway, onwards and please do enjoy!

A Dollop of Pain

The question to ask, Ida Proctor, is: what are the consequences of your actions?

Bucky

With a dying thrum, the motorbikes' engines' are switched off. Bucky swings his leg over the bike's saddle and stands, looking at the house.

It's remote, surrounded by trees. A five minutes winding drive off the main road. The stars shine silently above and only the porch light that glares at them shows their location. And its weak points (of which there are too many to be truly comfortable with).

There is the crunch of a foot upon leaves behind him and Steve's voice rises over the night sounds that are all about them.

A memory – an old one, frayed at the edges – hovers at the end of his mind. When he was based in Britain, England, the food was crummy and the coffee, not strong, but it was the night that bothered him the most. No crickets chirped.

There was silence, punctuated by the roar of planes passing low overhead. But there were no crickets. He missed that.

An eye blink and he's back, Steve's speaking and Bucky knows a distant wish that all his memories were as harmless as the last.

"Pretty remote," Steve remarks, standing beside him.

Bucky has an intense feeling of déjà-vu, but it's been a long time since he allowed emotions dictate his actions.

"Are we going to sweep the area, look for any hostiles?"

They're still standing quite still, shoulder to shoulder, facing the house. Steve turns to face him. Bucky's arm makes the zinging hum that he needs to get fixed at some point. Preferably sooner, lest it negatively impact any future … missions … he has.

You are my mission.

An echo of words flung in Steve's face, when confusion reigned; terrible, overwhelming confusion.

No.

He won't allow himself to think. Not right now.

"No," he says, gritting out the word and striding forwards.

"We're just walking into it then," Steve says. Not a question. Not a query. Just a statement of fact. Steve clearly doesn't think it's the wisest thing to do, but Bucky has his reasons and besides, 'til the end of the line'.

'til the end of the line.

Yeah. He isn't going to think about that either. He'll file it away. And bring it out to ponder, oh … how about never?

(Some things are too much like swallowing razor blades to be countenanced, as he's certain Ida would say. He'd add his own truth to it: some memories are too painful to recall. If you ignore the truth, then perhaps the truth will ignore you).

But Steve, and all the memories that have ever come back to him - a train … explosions … Steve calling his name … and even long before that – tell him that he will stick with him.

'Til the end of the line.

"I found a chip," he finds himself telling Steve as they reach the porch steps. "It was duplicating its information and sending a copy to an IP address located," and his hand touches the door handle, the other, his gun, "here."

"So," says Steve quietly, "this could be a lucky find, or an ambush."

"Yes." The door is unlocked. "You should have brought your shield."

And then Bucky opens the door. Not in a dramatic tug, but a soft pull. The door opens with a creak.

Inside is darkness.

The house is large – seven bedrooms, at least. Couple of en-suite bathrooms. Basement that in all probability leads to a concrete complex beneath their feet.

It's a hallmark of organisations like HYDRA, he thinks. Taking something iconic – like SHEILD or a house – and turning it to their own use.

Clever.

He's encountered too many such things in the past to think that this is luck. This is an ambush. Clear and obvious. Someone could have hidden their IP behind hundreds of others. But this address was the only one listed.

It's less than an ambush, actually, he notes as he treads on wood floors and finds a light switch. (He doesn't have the benefit of his mask and its night vision). It's less of an ambush and more of an invitation.

Which is the reason why Steve is here.

(Because no matter what happens, Steve won't let him forget. Not again. Bucky knows it. It's a reluctant security).

He locates the light switch. The room is flooded with light. It's a hall. Long. He measures the distance – it's a second nature to him.

Knowledge is – and was – power. Which is a thought that leaves a bad taste in his mouth. The irony.

Who the hell is Bucky?

"Reckon our hosts will turn up soon?" Steve asks.

"Not yet," Bucky says as they sweep the house. Upstairs – nothing. Downstairs – nothing. Kitchen cupboards are empty. Counters don't have a speck of dust on them. Fringe, empty but switched on.

It's the basement. Whatever is ahead of them is in the basement.

He stands by the door, and looks at Steve. The same Steve who is an ever present haze in his memories. Sometimes he dreams of Steve looking at him bitterly, horror in his eyes. He sees everything. All the death. All the missions.

He sees, and he judges and he – James Buchannan Barnes – is found wanting.

Guilt – so heavy that he wonders why his shoulders don't crack under its weight – slips over him. But not now. He ignores it. Pushes it away from him. Builds a dam and leaves it there. It'll crack soon, it always does.

'… you're going to move your backside and stop thinking about the guilt of your past and start thinking of your actions of today,' he remembers Ida saying. He doesn't know where she gets it from – Becky? Or were her biological parents wordy motivational speakers?

He pushes these thoughts away too.

No distractions.

"There's a possibility of hostiles," he informs Steve, for lack of anything to say.

Steve nods his head, a smile twitching. "Yeah?"

Bucky opens the basement door.

"Yeah," he says with a glance at Steve. He remembers easy familiarity. Once.

Ida

Have you ever watched those movies in which hackers battle it out? They shout out phrases like: 'They're getting into my firewall' or 'they've infected my hard drive'.

Or something like that. To be honest, I'm not wonderful at movie trivia and at the moment I'm facing six screens and someone who is attempting to write a line of code which looks vaguely disturbing.

(Initiate Program: Takeover, for example. Takeover what?).

It almost feels like I am missing someone to shout dramatic phrases too. Only mine would be a little less jargon ladened and more like:

"They've got control of the mouse!"

And:

"… they're talking to me."

Because, yes they are.

Through the speakers.

It began after five solid minutes of what I like to call 'Attempt To Keep Calm Whilst Pressing Random Buttons and Hoping That It Isn't Bucky At Other End'.

There was a crackle that made my heart give a painful – and a little panicked – 'whoosh'.

"Ida Procter." The speakers emitted an eerie voice that was both computer generated and very human. "Adopted daughter of Rebecca-"

"Who's this?" I asked.

"You're trespassing," said the voice. A typical American voice with a tinge of annoyance at being interrupted.

"Trespassing?" I asked, feeling both relieved that it wasn't Bucky at the other end, and panicked because it wasn't Bucky at the other end.

"Take your hands off the keyboard," the voice orders.

"I'm afraid I can't," I said.

And I still can't.

And the Voice is growing increasingly more annoyed.

Transcript Between [Unknown User] and Ida Proctor:

UU: Take your hands off the keyboard

IP: Sorry. Can't.

UU: Don't click that.

[Clicking sound on IP's side]

IP: Who are you?

UU: The question to ask, Ida Proctor, is: what are the consequences of your actions?

IP: Are you threatening me?

UU: You're alone, in a remote location, with no form of defence. You're also resisting the efforts of myself. I have a number of … resources with me. Am I threatening you? Perhaps. You are in a very vulnerable position.

IP: You really are threatening me. Why?

UU: The Winter Soldier has been staying in your apartment.

IP: The who?

UU: Is it possible that you don't know his past?

IP: I have no idea who you're talking about.

UU: James Buchannan Barnes.

I sit backwards on the chair, ignoring the protesting of my ribs. It would be a lie to say that my thoughts are racing. They aren't. They flow sluggishly, illuminated by the monitors' light.

The Winter Soldier.

Okay then.

Should I continue to bluff – to pretend that Bucky is a stranger to me? But surely if they know who I am, that I have an apartment instead of a house and that Bucky has been staying with me … surely they know-

I take a deep breath.

The code has started to pour in – typed faster than a mere human could do so, surely. It's so fast that I can't read it.

So I slam my hands on the keyboard.

Because something is off. Something is wrong.

I've tried switching off the computer. It hasn't worked. I can't find the off switch. Nor can I find the actual computer. Is it encased in metal? Is it behind the screens?

I've looked. And … nothing.

Another slam.

"Stop doing that," the Voice hisses through the speakers and I can't control the cold that seeps into the base of my spine.

I do it again.

Because something isn't right and I have no idea what I'm doing but anything that disturbs the Voice has to be good. Right?

"I suggest that you stop your actions else you will no longer be considered as a potential pawn and more of … a collateral damage."

My hands still – out stretched – over the keyboard.

Collateral damage?

Light-headed. I am definitely light-headed. This isn't good. This isn't good at all. The threat, I mean. And the light-headedness but mostly the threat

Collateral damage!

I gulp with a bruised throat and glance over my shoulder.

No one.

Perhaps they have weapons in the walls.

Perhaps …

Logic – both cold and frantic – streams through my thoughts.

The Logic of Ida (put in a coherent, simplified manner)

If someone is willing to kill someone over a random press of keyboard keys, then surely they are doing something Very Important to them.

If they are willing to kill someone who interferes with their Very Important Thing, then whatever it is that they're doing is inherently evil.

If what they are doing is inherently evil and a random press of the keys can stop it, then it must be done.

I smash the keys.

There is a buzzing over the speakers and a muffled swearword.

"Why can't you stop my keyboard from working?" I ask, wishing for a glass of water to ease the pain in my throat.

"That would've been done if it were possible," says the Voice. He – or she – has admitted a weakness. Good. Great. I know a weakness but I don't have a clue what to do with it.

Okay. This is fine. I can do this.

Do what?

Right, right.

"Congratulations on your excellent grammar," I find myself saying in the perkiest voice that a customer service provider can manage with a damaged throat.

There is a notable silence.

With hands that tremble more than I would like to admit, I smash them down on the keyboard.

"Why are you doing this?" I question, because silence – though golden in some areas of life – is not to be borne when facing down a faceless Voice who is currently attempting to do something which I haven't got a clue as to what it actually is and do you realise how strange this situation is? "What do you gain?"

Isn't that what heroes do – ask questions, get the evil villain to reveal his master plot before crushing it underfoot?

(I'm unsure about the crushing it underfoot, and am not terribly sure if someone in real life is dumb enough to reveal their Evil Plan).

"Isn't it obvious? I want the Winter Soldier."

Alright. Maybe not.

For a moment, for a fraction of a second, I can't believe that he – or she – has told me their Evil Plans. And then-

"You want Bucky?"

"So his memories are coming back. Shame. They'll have to go."

My hands hit the keyboard heavily. "Excuse me?"

"Stop!" the speaker barks. "Do I need to threaten you again?"

I glance at the speakers – a thin line of dark grey beneath the bottom three monitors. "Can you back up your threat?" I want to ask. But I don't. Because my body is rather battered and I'd really rather not know if the Voice can give truth to their threats.

"No?" I say instead, hating the cowardice in my voice for betraying me. For making me sound frightened and vulnerable, though of course, both are true of me. But it is one thing to know a fact, it is quite another to actually admit it.

The code is still appearing. I scramble my hands over the keyboard and the Voice swears once more. And here was I thinking that the Voice had class.

"Why do you want Bucky?" I manage to ask.

"The Winter Soldier is a valuable asset to any organisation," comes the cool reply.

"Oh," I say, running my hands over and over the keyboard. "What makes you so sure that he wants to be a valuable asset to an organisation?"

"Stop. It."

The code is jerking, halting, pausing. If I keep this up, maybe … maybe Bucky and Steve will arrive and take over. Only, they aren't here. Not now.

It's just me.

"Ida Proctor," the Voice sounds as eerie as ever.

I pound the keys.

"Ida Proctor, are you aware that even as we speak a force is arriving to apprehend you?"

I should be frightened, I really should. But I'm not. In this small slither of time, in this large basement, sitting in the corner and faced with monitors blinking with code, I feel no fear. It's almost as if this isn't real. This is just a bad dream from which I'll awaken and drink a cup of midnight coffee to calm my frayed nerves.

"Really?" I ask. The keyboard clatters away. My fingertips are beginning to feel sore. "How interesting. You won't touch Bucky."

If that crackle of the speakers is supposed to be a chuckle then I really don't want to know what his laugh is like. Or hers. But I'm leaning towards the Voice being masculine.

"He won't have a choice."

"There is always a choice," I say. "For him – for everybody. What do you want him for?"

Upstairs – I can hear something. My heart leaps oddly in my chest. It isn't Bucky, I'm willing to take a chance on that.

I glance at the screens; at the jittering code.

And then … then I tap at the drawer.

"That's none of your concern," says the Voice.

Sometimes, sometimes there is not time to think. Only act.

And so I do. With sweaty, trembling hands and a mind that feels so empty and yet so full of panic, I tap the drawer. Feel the cool metal beneath my sore fingers.

"Ah, wise choice," the Voice says. "Leaving the keyboard. Perhaps they will treat you with more mercy."

Out slides the drawer.

The gun is nestled there.

Deceptively peaceful, completely lethal.

I don't have much time.

Overhead, I can feel it; they are coming.

The gun is heavy in my hands.

"I would suggest that you cooperate with them," the Voice says.

Off goes the safety.

The code streams down the screen. I don't know why they want it. Perhaps I'm making a mistake; one that I will regret for as long as I live.

But sometimes you have to make a choice; take a chance. Actions have consequences.

And … and I will live with mine.

I aim the gun at the keyboard.

Footsteps pound down the basement stairs.

I pull the trigger.

The sound is deafening. The keyboard explodes, its blue light extinguished. Smoke and sparks fill my vision yet as coughs shake my body, I pull the trigger once, twice, three times.

At the keyboard. At the monitors. At the metal desk itself.

The Voice is silenced. The code is nothing. Nothing blinks or streams or jitters on the broken monitors, where cracks are spread like spider's webs. I turn then, unsure if I will use the gun. Uncertain if it is morally right to do so. But self-defence, right?

I don't know. There is no one here to tell me.

Black figures clutching rifles seem to leap off the TV screen at home and into my reality. They pour towards me. I raise the gun.

Me against them.

Should I pull the trigger?

Is it worth it?

Fear.

It fills every limb.

I've never felt so alive, and so very afraid.

But I don't fire.

Because my indecision eats seconds, precious moments of time.

They reach me.

Black shapes. Large and ominous.

My choice is made.

I'm not sure if I make it or they do.

Because there's not a moment left. Not a breath.

And then … pain.

And after that?

Nothing.

Chapter 19: Chapter 17 - A Splatter of Movement

A Splatter of Movement

Seriously? Do I have an 'Injure Me, Please Do' sign plastered onto my back?

Bucky

The basement – if it could be called that – reminds him of a facility he once visited in Russia. Five stories with each more bland than the last, he recalls concrete pillars and paint peeling off walls. The windows were blackened and if they weren't, the world outside would be grey and pitiless.

He half expects one of his handlers to appear in front of him.

The basement has three rooms – one large and two small. All are empty. Shells of concrete with no furnishings of any description.

"Well, reckon they're going to pop up anytime soon?" Steve stands in the middle of the largest room. He hasn't got his shield. He lost it when the Helicarrier went down-

('I'm not going to fight you,' he says and he lets go of the shield. 'You're my friend').

-and seemingly hasn't recovered it. Yet.

Bucky turns. "Soon."

"What, is that a 'we'll be leaving soon' or 'they'll be here soon'?"

Bucky glances at the concrete ceiling; at the brown pipes which run across it and the cobwebs which cling to every corner.

"Someone wanted my attention."

"Do you know who?" the question is fired back.

Bucky looks at his friend. Memories – has anyone loathed them as much as he does right now?

('You're my friend,' he said. "I'm with you to the end of the line'. But where does the line end? He's killed in cold-blood. He's a cold-blooded murderer).

"No," he says – it's not an admission. Just simple fact.

"So you're walking into this blind?"

Bucky stares at Steve and wonders if his nightmares couldn't produce a more perfect setting. The two of them alone in an abandoned building. Is Steve his judge? Executioner? Will he bring justice to all the people he's killed?

Stark. Isn't Stark one of his friends? How would he feel if he knew the circumstance of Howard Stark's death?

Would his eyes turn hard, then?

He wipes those thoughts away. It's been a while since he's wished for the void of the crypto freeze; where you don't have to think. But then, isn't it funny – he hasn't had to think at all over the years. He stopped thinking after he gave in to the brainwashing over and over again. He had handlers to do that for him.

(Because no matter what Ida says, he is responsible for his own actions. He was the gun, yet he pulled the trigger).

Sometimes he fears that his mind is splitting in two; that the Bucky of Before glares at the Bucky of today and plants him a facer; one that cracks the crypto freeze and smashes him into a thousand pieces.

"Yes," he says, in belated response to Steve's words. "We're walking in blind."

But they're going to be fine. He's faced most things in his career as the Winter Soldier. He doesn't fear much, though he wouldn't like to have to save Steve again. It reminds him too much of the times when-

No.

He glances at him. "Do you have a problem with it?"

Steve shrugs, managing to look amused. "No. Do you?"

"No," is the curt answer and Bucky turns away. He's used to waiting. Many of his missions involved waiting.

There is a clink of metal and he glances down, surprised to see his metal fist clenched.

Yeah. He shouldn't think of missions. Any of them. Not even the ones Before.

"Something wrong with that?" Steve nods his head towards Bucky's fist.

The 'no' in response is even curter than before.

Silence. Steve glances around, alert as ever. Bucky considers giving up, but Steve is here and if they're going to get to bottom of whatever this is, they might as well do it now.

(Privately, he wonders if his standards have slipped. But then he recalls that HYDRA hammered those standards into him and he doesn't find it in him to care. Steve is here, after all, not Ida. Steve can take a beating).

"I looked for you, you know," it's Steve speaking. Because of course it is.

Bucky doesn't grace him with a glance.

"Went all the way to Kiev." Bucky looks at him. Steve's hands are buried in his pockets, he looks relaxed, laid back. But his face tells a different story – he isn't. "Got chased by a buddy of yours. Nearly blew off my head."

Bucky wonders which 'buddy' he's referring to. But then he doesn't care about that either. He had a choice, when he left Steve sopping wet and face bruised and swollen with the damage done by his fists.

He had a choice and he chose, God help him. He left … everything behind. And tried to remember. He's still not sure if that was a good choice or not.

"I looked for you in Moscow, Budapest, India … even went back to your family home. You sure know how to hide, Bucky."

"And Ida contacted you," Bucky states, because he wants the end of Steve's tale wrapped up and finished. He's still not entirely sure whether he ought to be angry with Ida.

"Yeah. Took me awhile to get back – I was knee-deep in a drug ring in Salvador when I got the call."

Bucky stares at Steve, incredulous. "A drug ring?"

Steve rubs his neck, looking a little abashed. "Yeah. We- I was following a lead."

"We?"

"A friend and I," Steve shrugs. "You'd remember him; he was the one with the wings. You tore one of them off."

"Falcon," Bucky states.

"Yeah. He survived the fall, in case you're wondering."

Afterwards, Bucky isn't sure what he opened his mouth to say. But in that moment, there is no time for pausing, for hesitance.

He barrels into Steve as a bullet whistles where his head would have been.

"Thanks," Steve mutters as they both roll over, springing into a crouch.

The trap – or invitation has sprung.

They have arrived.

Ida

My eyelids flutter open and everything appears in bleary focus. I'm being carried. The night sky above me disappears. The stars are replaced by sharp lighting set in a grey metallic ceiling.

"Who are you?" I croak, because my head hurts too much to consider my words. "What have you done? Why?"

"Should we administer a sedative?" a low voice asks and I'm being pushed, jostled by rough hands. I nearly protest. I'm not sure if I do.

The slam of a door.

"No," a hard, masculine voice replies.

An already rumbling engine hums and my head jerks as whatever vehicle I'm lumbers into motion.

I'm slumped against a cold wall on a hard bench. Dark figures are seated about me. I'm going to close my eyes.

Just for a little while.

Because my head-

Seriously? Do I have an 'Injure Me, Please Do' sign plastered onto my back?

I must … do … it's the only … egszplaination ...

A New Fact:

Clearly, I'm not wonderful at being coherent when on the brink of unconsciousness.

Bucky

It is both unearthly strange and completely familiar. Steve is beside him and they are fighting. Their opponents are well-trained; their equipment is the latest. Guns. Ammo. Armour. Even their knives.

Bucky recognises their training. Their fighting styles. It's like reading a book and frankly, he finds it a little tedious.

But Steve is beside him and, without his shield to throw like an overrated Frisbee, he's vulnerable. Or at least, that's what Bucky thinks. Steve would probably protest it. Or maybe he wouldn't.

Bucky kicks a man in the stomach, disarming another in an instant. Gripping the gun, he swivels, pulling the trigger and not stopping to watch Steve's opponent collapse into a heap of limbs and pool of blood on the floor.

Another man. Dressed in black. Armoured vest. Heavy duty helmet built to protect its wearer's head. Bucky slams his fist into the man's head. Bones break. Or was that the helmet? He doesn't stop to consider.

A glance at Steve.

Someone is foolish enough to lift their gun and aim.

Bucky raises his own weapon.

Gunshot.

The man is grovelling on the floor, clutching his shattered wrist. His gun skitters across the ground, unfired.

Bucky rolls on the floor, ducking a man's fist and bringing his own metal one up. The man – tall, thick and strong – smacks the concrete wall and slides into a crumpled heap.

Five more hostiles to go.

He knows a small, troubled feeling – because the hostiles aren't shooting at him. They are shooting at Steve. They are trying to subdue him with ramped-up tasers that he knows aren't officially on the market.

But Steve? They're shooting real bullets at him.

Steve who is leaping, rolling, kicking, jumping. A super solider defeating an army of lesser calibre.

And yes, the correct word is defeating.

Because, with a well-executed kick that sends the unfortunate recipient flying backwards, Steve faces the last standing opponent.

Five paces away, a groaning man at his feet, Bucky crosses his arms and wonders what Steve is going to do.

"Drop your weapon," Steve tells the man. The man stands still and solid, gun clutched in his hands. "Drop it and you won't end up like your friends."

Shifting nervously, the man twitches, his gun moves upwards – a fraction of a movement.

Steve opens his mouth.

Bucky raises his own weapon and fires.

The man screams like an animal and cradles his shoulder.

"Bucky." Steve turns towards him. "Why'd you do that?"

Bucky shrugs. "He wasn't of use."

"He wasn't of use," Steve repeats and pinches the bridge. "Really? You shot him because-"

Bucky has had enough. He strides forward, snatching a gun – a Colt M4A1 – off the floor. He doesn't spare a glance for the men on the floor. "We're leaving," he announces, heading for the stairs.

"Leaving?" asks Steve, incredulous. "And what was the point of coming here? What've we learned?"

Bucky doesn't pause. "Someone wants my services," he says over his shoulder. Let Steve think what he may.

"Oh yeah?" He hears Steve say behind him. "And who's that?"

He ignores the question – he's already answered: he doesn't know - striding upwards. Step after step. "There's a vehicle outside. Ready to transport the Winter Soldier."

"Pretty big assumption, huh?"

He opens the basement door. Doesn't glance at the man behind him.

"They weren't expecting resistance." Much resistance, he adds in his mind. Because he would've fought them. But, perhaps, if there wasn't Ida, or Becky or Steve or memories of another him; another life, he wouldn't have put much effort into it. He walks down the hall, M4A1 at the ready. "Or you."

"Could be some evidence on the, the, er, soldiers downstairs," Steve suggests.

Bucky doesn't bother dignifying that with an answer; the men downstairs won't have a scrap on them. Admittedly, if he were on mission, he would thoroughly check each one. But he isn't. And he needs to get back to Ida.

There's something niggling him about the 'upgrade' that Ida mentioned. Of course, there's the possibility that she's accidentally clicked such a thing (Bucky wouldn't put it past her) but he's learnt to trust his instincts. Or at least, the majority of them.

And his instincts have suddenly decided to switch to full alert as he climbs the basement stairs and enters the hall.

They face the front door.

Steve jerks his head towards the door. "Reckon there'll be more hostiles out there?"

Bucky lets his gaze flash to Steve. He gives a sharp nod. Steve smiles.

"Ready?" Bucky asks and regrets the question instantly. Too many words. He's sounding too friendly - though he doubts Ida would think so. But the question is friendly for him. And he shouldn't be friendly. It's too odd and strange and he isn't friendly. He's an assassin. Or was an assassin. An assassin in flux. Yeah, he'll go with that.

A curse in Russian echoes in his head; he needs to stop listening to Ida and her way of speaking.

"Yeah," affirms Steve and Bucky allows himself a mental slap for becoming distracted. His handlers would- No. He won't think of that. He wipes his mind of distractions and puts his hand on the door handle.

A glance at Steve.

Steve nods.

He's ready.

He doesn't have his shield, but he's ready.

They open the door.

Ida

I suppose it's my fate that I didn't dedicate my childhood to martial arts training. If I had have done, perhaps this situation wouldn't seem so impossible.

The Situation?

You know that moment when you're face to face with a grizzly bear and your heart is pumping madly and you know that you will soon be a scrumptious meal with a side dish of jeans and a sweaty shirt to garnish?

No?

Neither do I.

This is called Procrastinating, Ignoring the Obvious and a Side Effects of being Clonked on the Noggin'

Attempts at humour have failed me to amuse me, though I'm sure that my poor head is producing comedy gold. My thoughts come, thicker and slower than cold molasses. To be perfectly frank, I feel sick.

I'm seated in the metallic interior of what only can be an armoured van. (How do I know this? Movies and TV shows, which are obviously the ultimate source for all knowledge). Sharp white lights run lengthwise in the ceiling and did I mention the fact that there are three men clad in black and they have guns?

Oh-kay.

Ida. Let's breathe.

In and out.

My stomach curdles. The sensation isn't pleasant.

The guard – big and strong with a helmet that reflects the scene about us - next to me shifts just a little. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, wondering what he would do if I relocated the contents of my stomach onto his lap.

'Prime location with an excellent view,' I imagine myself telling my belly. 'Nice, airy, bullet proof and did I mention the customer service guarantee?'

How hilarious.

Oh. Are those tears in my eyes? Am I crying?

No. Bad idea Ida. Don't you dare cry. You don't get to cry. You're going to be fine. (Probably). But hey, just pretend that you are going to be okay.

Breathe.

Everything is going to be fine.

The man – or woman, frankly it's hard to tell – opposite me shifts as the vehicle bounces on a rut. Their hands tighten over their gun.

Who am I kidding?

Self-delusion isn't going to help me. It isn't going to heal my headache. It isn't going to chase my fears away. It isn't going to save me.

It isn't going to take away this terror which is so tangible that I can almost taste it. Because, because this situation is entirely out of my hands, isn't it?

It's like that bad dream where you try to run away but you can't move. It's the panic that bubbles in the back of your throat. The nightmare that lingers even after waking. It's the knowledge that you can do nothing.

All because you didn't take those idiotic martial arts lessons when you were a kid. And yes, no one offered me martial arts lessons but I should have known that this was going to happen. For a tired instant, I consider inventing a time machine and smacking my younger self over the head. And possibly traumatising myself for life.

Another rut.

Another spasm of pain in my head.

They hit my head so very hard.

I can't take this anymore. I can't.

The muggings. The guns. The wounds. The hurt that never, ever stops.

I can't.

My head is leaning against the hard metal walls. I close my eyes.

I feel so helpless. So, so … nothing.

"Who are you?" I ask and not for the first time. "What do you want?"

Silence.

Always silence

The van drives on, rattling its passengers. I refuse to think about the future. About Bucky. About the dried blood on my hands. (Another wound. This one on my head. I'm collecting them, it seems. I really don't want this particular hobby. I'd rather take up golf).

I am, however, faced with the serious dilemma of what I'm going to do when my stomach stages its inventible uprising.

Bucky

"We going to talk about this?" Steve asks over the CPIMS.

Bucky considers ignoring him; pretending that the roar of the motorbike's engine is too much for his ears. But then, that wouldn't be remotely true.

"No," he answers shortly.

"You blew up three trucks," Steve says. "There'll be clean up and people asking questions."

Bucky glances in his rear-view mirror. "And?" he asks.

"You know what? Never mind."

Bucky will never tell a soul about the hard smile that tugs at his lips. Steve is a little annoyed. Good. Better that he is annoyed than guessing at the reason why Bucky blew up three trucks.

(He was carried away. For a moment, he thought that HYDRA had him, once more. That in a strange merge of past and present he was trapped between the two. His answer to the memory was reasonable, well-carried out and completely Ida-but-not-Becky-disapproved: he appropriated a grenade launcher that one of his opponents so helpfully carried and blew up all three trucks. With a single shot).

There weren't any answers as to who or what wanted the use of him. After the stunned silence that followed the triple explosions, he and Steve had searched the bodies of the unconscious men.

(Yes, unconscious. Not dead. Ida would approve of that, Bucky thinks. Though she probably wouldn't approve of the broken bones and bullet wounds, but you can't have everything, can you? And yes, he is ignoring the fact that there could have been men in the trucks when they exploded).

Nothing.

They'd come up with nothing.

Which was vaguely troubling. But the answer is out there, and Bucky is going to find it.

He doesn't let himself think why he wants to – it's a way to avoid the memories; to prove that he isn't controlled by anyone; to make Becky aware that he's changed; to stop Ida from worrying as much as she does; to perhaps gain a little peace (but that's unlikely) – he merely focuses.

It's a strange paradox – to want to remember and wish to forget.

But then, lately it seems he's been wanting impossible things.

a/n: A little moving about and using that little thing called 'Logic' and this chapter was finished. And you musn't question the logistics of 'spolding three trucks with a single shot. It's the Winter Soldier and I'm sticking to that excuse; clinging to it like Scrat does his acorn. So there.

Thank you for reading and until next time ...

Chapter 20: Chapter 18 - A Dab of Puzzlement

a/n: well, here it is. The plot thickens. I'm nursing my finger at the moment. Because I made pancakes and decided to cook the batter and the side of my finger at the same time! Total genius right here.

Thank you for reading and until next time ...

A Dab of Puzzlement

Would this be a good moment to have a panic attack?

Bucky

He knows something's wrong before he puts his foot on the porch step. A thousand things are off. The door, for instance, is open. Now he knows that he locked the door. He also knows that the door is outfitted with the highest amount of security available to him.

This is an old safe house abandoned by HYDRA and appropriated by him. Which, he has a feeling, is one of the stupidest thing he's ever done.

He holds himself quite still and attempts – but doesn't quite succeed – in pushing away a sudden fear that buries itself into the pit of his stomach, burrowing like a sicking parasite.

Beside him, Steve frowns.

"Bucky?" he says, and there is plenty of undercurrent in his name.

Bucky swallows and grips his gun. He glances at Steve. "Perimeter's been breached," he intones in a voice that sounds bland and disguises the swiftly drowned panic.

Steve glances at the door pointedly. "Oh, really?" A pause, concern etches itself between his brows. "Could she have gone for a walk?"

"No," Bucky says, and then he elaborates: "Grazed backside. Bruised ribs."

(She wouldn't have gone for a drive either. Her green van is parked beside the sidewalk, sitting like an abadoned friend).

Steve blinks. "What?"

Bucky lays his hand on the door. Pushes. "Gunshot. Near strangulation. She won't walk more than she needs to."

"Does that often happen?" Steve asks in a low voice as they peer into the darkened hall.

Bucky doesn't reply. Instead, he carefully makes his way into the hall, eyes taking everything in. And then he knows. Without a shadow of a doubt. There have been intruders here. And they haven't even tried to disguise it.

Vaguely, he acknowledges the fact that he's feeling a little sick. He's not even reached the basement yet but his sense of foreboding has grown until it's a cloying cloud. He thinks of Ida – Does that often happen? Steve asked - Yes. Since he's been near her she's sustained multiple injuries.

It's a wonder that he hasn't got her killed.

They are nearly at the basement door which stands ajar.

But then again, perhaps he has now.

"Ready?" This time, it's Steve who asks.

Bucky nods.

And then they descend the stairs, plunging into the gloom of the basement.

Ida

I wake up to a pounding headache and an inability to move. At first, I simply lie there, looking at the white ceiling and wondering why the world spins so very much and – most importantly – where am I?

I'm not certain.

I recall the prick of a needle. The swirl of an upset stomach. The ache of a bruised head. But no, I don't remember anyone telling me where I was. (Not that they would).

The moment of cold suspension passes and reality and all its weight and terror descends upon my prone body. Because it is prone - my body, I mean.

I roll my head to one side. My right hand is tied to the table? Bed?

Wait.

Chair. It's a chair. Just like the one- the one that-

I roll my head to the other side.

My left hand is also tied.

Naturally.

Because why would they bother to tie one hand and not the other? And by 'they' I mean the people who have done this to me. The evil villains.

Evil villains.

Ha.

The two words aren't real enough. Good enough. Some things surpass mere words. Words you can make sense of. You can reduce them down into black strokes. Bigger, smaller, different fonts – it doesn't matter. You can control them.

I can't control what is happening to me. Not right now. I can't reduce it or box it away.

It is cold – that is for certain. And-

Oh.

Bewildered, I lift my poor, pounding head and blink down at my body.

There is a reason for the chill.

And … and …

Well. The long and short of it is …

… is that I've got to breathe.

That's an important task to carry out.

I let my head drop backwards and stare at the ceiling as I have never stared at a ceiling in my life. Breathing. Yes. I must, of course, breath. It's natural. It's a way to keep alive. It's a good thing.

What Ida is trying to avoid admitting:

Yes. Well. You see … I'm not wearing any clothes.

Bucky

Bucky doesn't blink when he looks at the surveillance station. He doesn't crumple in horror as he looks at the bullet holes that pepper it, or smells the smoke which still lingers in the air like a half-forgotten perfume.

He notes that there is no blood; that Ida's gun lies on the floor, abandoned. He sees the chair which has tumbled on the ground; the monitors which are cracked and utterly beyond repair.

"I'm sorry," Steve says in a heavy voice. "We'll get her back, Bucky."

Bucky steps forward. He crouches and plucks a note that has fallen onto the floor. It's a business card. The quality is good. Not too luxurious to be extravagant, but expensive enough to mean business.

The dim overhead lights shine upon the silver font. It's a number. Land-line, not cell phone. He flicks the card over. There's nothing on the back.

It's not Ida's.

It's not his.

"Looks like someone's left a calling card," Steve says, stating the blatant obvious. But Bucky can't hide it completely – the relief that seeps through his veins and loosens the knot in his stomach just a little.

Perhaps she's still alive.

Perhaps he hasn't got her killed.

Yet. A chill seems to touch his spine but it's easily banished, he's the Winter Soldier, isn't he?

(A Winter Soldier without his puppet masters. But he can do this. He doesn't need handlers. He doesn't).

"Bucky?"

He looks at Steve. Steve – that familiar face frozen in time. The face that hides that smaller one; the earnest face of a boy from Brooklyn. A glimmer of a memory – a fleeting moment that fades almost as soon as it dances in front of his eyes.

(The quiet of the alley, away from the rush of cars and taxis, Stick-thin, almost-always-ill Steve's being beaten up, again. Bucky steps in, fists at the ready).

Bucky blinks and the lights shine overhead and cast Steve's face into shadows.

(He isn't just Winter Soldier. Becky's harangued him over and over again. He's James Buchanan Barnes and surely that must mean something too. He was part of the Howling Commando's for Pete's sake, but let's not remember that, hmm?)

… falling …

… falling …

His life gone with the slip of his fingers.

Winter snow. A train rushing away from him. Steve, horrified, watching him fall, whisked away with the speeding train.

"Bucky?"

He clears his throat. Turns to Steve.

"Yeah," he says. "We'll get her back."

Ida

There is a single white sheet over my body. If I didn't know better, I'd think that I was in a morgue but I mustn't be in a morgue because I am very much alive. At least, I hope that I am alive. I'm sure that I would make a wonderful cadaver but I'm pretty certain that I am, in fact, alive.

No. No. No.

Think, Ida, think. You are alive. Everything is going to be fine. Dead people can't move. Can they?

The room is empty and painted in white. Nothing but the monstrous contraption of this … chair … is in here. There is a single door in the corner of this room. It feels almost as if I am in a box. A horrible box. A confining box with a chair that talks in a monotone, emotionless voice about human components.

Would this be a good moment to have a panic attack?

No. You're going to be fine, Ida.

The door opens smoothly and a man in a lab coat approaches me. He's clean shaven with brown hair shorn as short as it can possibly be.

"Ida Proctor," he says, glancing at the tablet in his hand. "Thank you for volunteering for this research."

"What? I didn't." Panic gurgles in my throat. "I mean – I haven't volunteered for, for anything. Who are you? Let me go. Please."

"Ah," he says, his face contorted in a mock expression of thought. "Mmm. No, I'm afraid that can't be done." He clears throat and says: "Initialise Program, human component inserted."

He smiles at me. His teeth are white and very straight. His eyebrows are thin, straight lines. His eyes … eyes are the windows to the soul, aren't they? His are windows, but there's nothing behind them. He smiles at me, and he might as well be staring down at a stone for all the emotion and care in his eyes.

I shudder and something cold and hard touches both sides of my head. With widened eyes and a thudding heart, I begin to struggle against my restraints.

"Now, now, calm down Miss Proctor," he says in a maddeningly calm voice. "Relax. Take a deep breath."

"What are you doing?" I ask and the voice that reaches my ears doesn't seem to be my own – it sounds weak and frightened, as if the speaker was attempting to be very small. I am not very small.

"You're a trading piece; a pawn," he explains as if we were discussing the weather. "Something that can be done away with. We're economising, Miss Proctor; making use of our resources. And you happen to be a resource and I cannot stand by and watch you go to waste."

The chair vibrates and I can feel it beginning to power up.

"Please stop," I whisper. Full power – the hum of the chair takes hold of my heart beat. I feel it through every bone.

Something is shoved into my mouth. Cold metal encloses my head.

"Human component installed. Begin test three-oh-four."

"Don't," I try to say. "Please don't." And it isn't a whisper anymore. It's a scream.

I've been shot at, grazed by bullets, punched, battered, nearly strangled. But nothing – nothing – is as painful as this.

Screams.

Glass etching at my skin.

Weights grinding my bones.

My head bubbling. Fizzing. Burning.

No thoughts. No prayers. No words.

Only an all-consuming pain.

And through it all, the man stands with his tablet and watches with absolute calm because I'm a resource and he's economising.

Bucky

They ring the number from the first phone booth they come across. It's in a small suburban area whose only lighting is the nearby gas station.

"Speaking?" a crisp and classic secretary's voice answers the phone.

"Where is she?" Bucky says in a voice that is calm. Controlled. Steve leans on the phone booth beside him, tapping the cell phone in his pocket. (He's been wanting to say something for a while, but Bucky's being studiously ignoring him).

"Who is this?"

On a whim, Bucky nearly declares himself to be: 'your worst nightmare, foul fiend, hand her over to me or perish at your peril' but then he realises that Ida's romance books aren't quoting material and this is not an amusing matter.

"Bucky Barnes," he says instead, and finds the name to be both foreign and familiar on his tongue.

"Ah," she says. "The Winter Soldier."

Bucky is seized with the desire to reach through the phone line and pummel the owner of that voice. And rescue Ida, while he's at it. But he stifles the thought because this is serious, and if they want to call him the Winter Soldier, they can.

(They will also call him: 'the last thing they see before a sudden and violent death' but he isn't going to tell them that).

"I'm afraid that the information cannot be given out whilst you have your companion with," the woman's smooth voice says. "It is suggested that you lose him before your … ah … friend can be returned to you."

Steve raises his eyebrows at that.

"And when I do?" Bucky questions.

"Then you'll ring this number again. And I wouldn't try to trace it," she says. "It's untraceable."

Bucky doubts that. In his experience everything that can be done, can be undone. With the exception of death and a nuclear explosion.

He hangs up. Steps away from the booth. And tips his head back to stare at the night sky.

"I'm not going," Steve says.

Ida

There is nothing.

No thoughts.

Just pain.

Animalistic pain.

Pain that courses through every vein.

No cleverness, no witty words, no happy thoughts, no silver linings.

Just pain.

Clear and cold and cutting.

Hot and boiling and burning.

No thoughts of Aunt Becky, no hopes for Bucky, no wishes for myself.

I surface to consciousness and gasp for air like a drowning man. But water washes into my mouth and down into my lungs and there is air and there is water and then I fall once more and watch the cold ceiling disintegrate into nothing.

My throat is hoarse from screaming.

Bucky

They are brainstorming in a grimy diner. Cobwebs cling to the corners of the ceiling. The floor is stained. One of the hanging lights in the corner flickers on and off. Their waitress has dyed purple hair and snaps gum irritably. Until she reaches their table.

And then she gapes.

"Dude," she exclaims and Bucky notes that her gum is a violent blue and her tongue even more so.

"Hey," Steve says with a patient smile.

"Like, dude!" she echoes again.

Bucky glances at Steve who is shifting in his seat, clearly a little uncomfortable.

"Uh, could we have a double load of fries, two hamburgers and coffee; black coffee. Please."

The stare-struck girl blinks her heavy eye-lined eyelids before she squeezes one eye shut. "Like, are you him?" she demands.

"That depends," sighs Steve. "Who is 'him'?"

The girl, clearly unable to contain herself, slumps into the booth beside Bucky. Her creased red-and-green cloth apron crinkles and her hand holding her forgotten pad falls to the table with a dull thunk.

"Like, Captain America," she breathes.

"Yeah. That's me," Steve admits, glancing at Bucky.

Bucky is caught in another memory. (The new and improved Steve, arriving in a land dreary with rain, bare trees and bombs. All the gals have their eyes on 'Captain America' and yeah, sure, he's a envious but he's just come through hell and his best buddy has yanked him out of there and is living his dream – finally - and Bucky's going to support him with all he's worth.)

Fly forward a couple of centuries and things are much the same, though he reckons Steve looks a little less idealistic and a little more hardened.

A heartbeat. The memory dims and Bucky finds that his metal hand is clenching so tightly under the table and is that humming sound coming from him?

Yeah.

It is.

The girl doesn't hear it though. She's talking a mile a minute: "… it's like – you're him and he's you and is this really happening? 'cause nothing ever happens around here and now you are here."

"Yes, I am," agrees Steve.

"And I really cannot believe it. This is a thousand times better than running a fan blog. No! Don't look alarmed! I don't run a fan blog, but I read one of yours. Gotta admit though, you're not my favourite Avenger – that's totally the Hulk – but you'll do," she nods enthusiastically. "You've got the whole 'nice dude' going for you and I've gotta admit, you work it."

"Thanks," says Steve politely.

"Though it's not like you're a total wimp, y'know," she hurries to assure Steve, leaning forward and pressing black painted nails to the cream table. "You're a soldier and all but man, doesn't Hulk smash it!"

"Er, yes. You could say that."

The girl grins in answer to the glimmer of amusement in Steve's eye.

"I really can't believe it's you! Tell you what; I'll take your order and you sign it!"

Steve agrees, repeats his order and duly signs the stained notepad.

"Oh," the girl says suddenly, turning to Bucky. "Who're you? A hero? Dude – here's a suggestion. Get. A. Better. Stylist." She chuckles and pretends to whisper to Steve. "Looks like a crow's nested in it."

Steve's eyes flit to Bucky's hair and he grins.

Bucky stares back, because he really can't care about his hair at this moment. He needs to rescue the woman who cut it (and the tip of his ear, if he thinks about it).

"Right. I'll go and place this order," she slides out of the booth and puts her hands out, "this is totally on me."

"No, really-" Steve begins.

"Dude, I'd pay my entire college fund to buy you a meal. Well," she says, looking a little abashed. "Not my whole college fund 'cause tips are totally horrific here, but a good percentage of it. Like, maybe," she screws up her face in thought, "thirteen and a quarter percent?"

"Right," Steve says, smothering a laugh. "Thanks."

She retreats behind a swinging door and Steve turns to Bucky.

"I've got an idea," he says, amusement vanishing with the whoosh of the door.

Bucky waits.

"I – uh, remember that friend of mine? You tore his wing off. He's got skills we could use."

Bucky waits a little more.

Steve sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

"So, he's … well, he's been helping me find you."

"In a drug ring. In Salvador," Bucky reminds him, still a little bewildered by Steve's train of logic. Did he think that the Winter Soldier with no handlers was going to run off to become a drug baron? Bucky finds this a little insulting.

"Yeah. And in Kiev. He's the reason my head wasn't blown off. He'll help us. Military background, keeps his head in combat-"

"Is he the one who's been following us all night?" Bucky asks blandly.

Steve is silent for a moment. And then he nods. "You caught that?"

"I don't need more handlers."

"Is that what you think this is?" Steve demands. "This isn't about keeping you out of danger, Bucky, this is about getting Ida back!"

"Whoa, that's hard-core!" Purple hair and blue tongued is back, burdened with two plates. She dumps them on the table and stares at the two men with shining eyes. "Wait up, though! Let me get the coffee."

She rushes out of the dining area, ignoring the new customer – a man with a dark jacket pulled over dark skin. Black sunglasses shield his eyes. He chooses a booth on the other side of the room, sitting beneath the flickering light.

Bucky blinks down at the plate; a hamburger and a mountain of fries.

"Come on, Bucky," Steve says with a small smile. "When was the last time you ate one of them."

"I don't know," Bucky says, picking up the hamburger.

And that kills Steve smile quite effectively.

"Bucky …" he says, and there's a wealth of sorrow right there and Bucky would rather not deal with it.

"He can come," he says bluntly. "This friend of yours."

Steve nods and the newcomer stands, nearly hitting his head on the flickering light bulb.

The doors swing open and the girl runs out, a jug of lukewarm coffee sloshing in her hands whilst two cups dangle from her fingers and a fold of off-cream napkins are tucked under her arm..

"Now," she says, sliding beside Bucky once more and hurriedly pouring the coffee. "Who's Ida and why does Crow's Nest need anything but a haircut?"

Ida

My name is Ida Proctor and I am lying quite still. Pain has scoured my body, my mind, my soul. I want to weep. I want to curl up into a ball.

But I can't.

So I lie quietly and think of nothing, nothing at all.

But I whisper once. But I suppose it isn't a whisper; it's a prayer.

Please …

Please … what? You may ask.

But I can't answer.

Because some things are bigger than words; some wishes so large that they encompass letters, syllables and sounds; some prayers are too painful to utter.

… please …

Chapter 21: Chapter 19 - A Spatter of Action

A Spatter of Action

Yeah, maybe there's a pot of gold at the end of every rainbow, and redemption is in his grasp

Bucky

Her name is Abby and Bucky is considering the best way to subdue her. (A hand to the throat in a swift, chopping motion, or a pinch of a pressure point. He can't decide which).

She won't stop talking and Sam Wilson is seated beside Steve and she's staring at the both of them with wide eyes and looking at Bucky in a 'can you believe this is happening?!' kind of way.

Bucky can believe this is happening and objects to being made party to hero worship. Though he doesn't say that, of course.

He's aware that it's been little under an hour since the phone call was made and he's growing frustrated. They've got a plan; formed when Abby has disappeared into the kitchens to refill the coffee jug (Bucky considers his coffee consumption nothing short of heroic) or is reluctantly taking a newcomer's order.

Steve has informed them that he's certain that they're under surveillance. Sam Wilson, an irritating man who possesses a contrary mix of quick rejoinders and sudden seriousness, has confirmed it. And Bucky? He'd like to say that he knew it all along, but he hasn't.

He didn't know it. But he guessed it.

"So, Bucky. Long time no see." Sam Wilson is giving him a smile that holds a faint amount of humour and a great deal of weariness. "We've been lookin' all over for you."

Abby's head swings between the two of them like a spectator watching a tennis match. Bucky is tempted to reference Salvador and stupidity, but he has greater things to worry about. Like the rescuing of Ida, for instance.

"Nice of you," he observes in his blandest voice, his eyes flickering to Steve.

"Somehow, I doubt you really think that," Sam says, a note of steel in his voice.

And so begins the plan. Bucky crumples the napkin in his fist. Oh yeah, they wrote their plan down on napkins. Because speaking was out (they might be bugged and it was better to be safe than sorry) and Sam doesn't know sign language and Steve doesn't understand Russian sign language.

"Oh?" says Bucky, attempting to inject the general sense of being offended into his voice (he fails). "And why's that?"

Sam erupts in an impressive display of wrath, slamming his fists down on the table. Coffee mugs quaver and a fry falls from its precarious perch at the edge of a plate.

Abby leaps back in shock. "Whoa."

"You betrayed us!" Sam shouts, leaning over the table. "You betrayed us. We did so darn much for you and you-" a finger is jabbed in Bucky's direction "-betrayed us."

Bucky is an assassin. Sort of. He's not an actor. But this is for Ida. And so he tries (he figures that's gotta be worth something).

He summons what melodrama he possesses (he doesn't have much but Ida's books are a good starting point). "Not as much as you betrayed me."

"What?! You ripped off my wing," Sam slaps a hand to his chest, "how is that my betrayal?"

Bucky is stumped, for a second, he simply stares up at Sam, his mind quite blank. Give him a safety pin, a plunger and a mission objective and Bucky can improvise. But words though?

"Dude," Abby says into the heavy silence. "Wings?"

"Guys," Steve says in warning.

"Shut up." Huh. That came out easily. "Why'd you follow me? Who gave you permission to make yourself my personal saviour?" Bucky leans forwards, like a snake - coiling, ready to strike. "You think you can fix me? Huh, Steve? What made you think I was fixable?"

The best lies contain truth. The best actors take their own experiences and form them into a worthy performance. Only, Bucky is half afraid to admit that this isn't much of a performance.

"Bucky," Steve begins.

"You think that you can make me better? To make me what I was before? Well, here's the thing, Steve: what I was before wasn't that good either. You think Zola was telling us bedtime stories when you found us?"

A newly remembered memory. One that was frightening and horrible and he woke up in a sweat suddenly aware that before he was so naïve, so rash and then the 107 was captured behind enemy lines and Zola was there and what he did … how he experimented with needles and held him down with restraints and he couldn't move … and then suddenly Steve was there, leaning over him and he was tall and no longer asthmatic and Bucky was outside in the blissful fresh air and trooping through the freezing rain with freedom in his lungs and …

He catches his breath and refuses to go on further. But Steve has saved him twice now from HYDRA and why is he still here?

It's a question that he puts to Steve, only he puts as much hatred into the words as he can. It's easy. He just pretends he's talking to himself.

"Why are you still here?" he demands and Steve's face flickers.

"Because I'm your friend," he says. As if it's both the easiest thing in the world.

Yeah. Well. After this is over, Bucky's going to have to discuss the definitions of the words friendship, outright stupidity and lost causes with Steve. (He's pretty sure he's got them all mixed up.)

But 'the show must go on' and so Bucky dutifully brings his fist back and punches Steve in the face.

Abby leaps back with a choked squawk and Sam declares, 'oh hell no," and launches himself at Bucky. Fries go flying and coffee splashes onto the table. Bucky is very obliging and shoves his fist into Sam's face as well.

(He probably shouldn't admit it, but it does feel therapeutic).

And then he pushes himself out of the booth and glares down at Sam and Steve. Sam who's clutching his cheek and glaring daggers and is clearly trying hard not to say a word. Steve who is bleeding just below the eye and is looking so considering.

"I'm going to put it to you straight," Bucky says and it all sounds alien and unfamiliar as the words drip off his tongue. "Leave. Me. Alone."

He turns away. And then casts the words over his shoulder, "I can find Ida on my own."

"I don't need you," he mutters as he storms out of the diner and climbs onto his bike. As he drives back to the phone booth he wonders if he ought to consider a second career as an actor.

Yeah.

No.

Ida

Things Ida Hates:

Talking Chairs

White Coats

Calm smiles

Pain

Bucky

He's supposed to pretend to be upset. He's upset. But he's not certain that he can express it. The last time he was upset – properly and completely – and expressed it, he defaced Ida's bedroom wall with ink and more names than your average graveyard contains.

And let's not forget that time when he broke and he realised what he had become (a monster with a metal arm). (Actually, yes. Let's forget that).

So he thinks he can be forgiven for finding it difficult to express his upset via telephone. But, he's got everything to lose, so he's going to do it.

The phone is picked up.

"Hello?"

"It's Bucky," he says.

"Hello, Winter Soldier." There is a pause. "I gather you've lost your traveling companions?"

"You could say that," Bucky mutters, hearing the plural and noting it as the subtle warning it is (they're watching).

"Very wise."

"Well?"

The woman at the other end spouts a series of digits. Latitude and longitude. Who do they think he is again? Bucky wonders. Because he's certain he isn't a sailor (he hates the void of blue water. Or at least, he thinks he does) or a boy scout (the thought makes him want to laugh hysterically).

But he memorises the numbers and agrees that he'll lose the gun. And then he hangs up.

"I got it," Steve's voice speaks into his ear via the CPIMS. "Don't respond though. We found tracking devices on us. You might have one."

He sounds tired.

"It might be Abby. But, uh, she gave me her address so that Banner could send her an autograph."

It could have been a cover – albeit a good one. Is it wrong that Bucky finds that vaguely amusing?

"It might've been a cover," Steve says unnecessarily.

He knows that. He (almost) suspected as much when she sat next to him – the unknown - when she could have chosen to sit next to Steve – Captain America. But maybe he's just being cynical. Maybe someone else slipped the tracking device on them.

(Yeah, maybe there's a pot of gold at the end of every rainbow, and redemption is in his grasp.)

"Look, Bucky, I don't think you should remove it."

Bucky feels the bizarre urge to roll his eyes, which is very strange. He can't remember ever rolling his eyes and chews upon this strange thing. And then he realises that he's been pondering eye rolling for approximately forty-two seconds and almost relishes it because he isn't thinking like a preprogramed robot and if he wants to think about rolling his eyes, he can.

He almost feels normal.

(And by 'almost' he means 'as far away as Australia is from New York' which isn't 'almost' at all).

(He's clearly more unhinged than he first thought).

(It's Ida's fault).

"Bucky? Are you there? Grunt or cough."

Bucky clears his throat.

"Right. We're about ten minutes behind you. This is a trap, Bucky … but … I've got you."

Bucky doubts it, but who is he to disillusion Steve?

Ida

Three Things That Ida Cannot Stand:

Needles

Prodding

Questions

Bucky

He's not nervous. Nerves were frozen out of him a long time ago. Neither is he fearful. But as he drives up the long, twisting drive lined by towering trees white washed with pale moonlight, he realises that he has a lump in his throat.

It's probably a fry that won't go down properly. Or something.

(It has nothing to do with the future. Obviously. Ida's probably going to be in a bad shape, but she'll fine. He'll get her therapy. You can't expect anything less in a hostage situation. Though, truthfully, he's better at getting rid of hostages than extracting them. But that's semantics and he won't be bothered by it).

"Hey Bucky," a crackle on the line and Steve is speaking into his ear.

Bucky doesn't reply.

"I think you busted Sam's jaw – says you owe him."

No one is there to see the slight smile on Bucky's face. Though truthfully, it's more of a smirk.

"I know you were trying to be realistic," Steve says. "But did you have to hit that hard?"

Realism. In his newly realized and burgeoning career as an actor, Bucky has decided to be as realistic as possible.

There's a chuckle in his ear. "Why do I have a feeling that you enjoyed it?"

Bucky ignores the question completely. Instead, he concentrates on riding his motorbike and analysing his position and attempting to rake his mind for any possible enemies he's incurred. Or anybody who wants to use his own particular set of skills.

It's hard.

Thinking for himself.

(Occasionally he feels like he's drowning. But something pushes him onwards and he keeps struggling for air. Something urges him forward because though it's hard he's going to make it. To where, he doesn't know. Probably mental stability but he's not expecting miracles).

And the answers he comes up are even harder.

He's incurred a lot of enemies.

And – and here he doesn't boast but simply acknowledges a fact – the people who know of him want his skill set. He's the best. A ghost. An ever present shadow on the pages of the history books.

Well, until Steve came along and he saw him and knew him. And the Black Widow – or Romanoff – decided to put everything SHIELD had up on the World Wide Web.

And then he wasn't a ghost. He was a villain.

Ida would say differently though, and that's why he's going to rescue her (though there is the pressing obligation to Becky who will surely have his head if he doesn't bring her adopted daughter back). Ida doesn't look at him like he's the gum on her shoe; like he's a tool to use; a machine to program.

No. When she looks at him he feels like she's the glue and he just might be able to be put himself back together.

(Though, you know, he's shattered into more pieces than a sand dune has sand and the task is utterly impossible … but she cares. And that means something).

She's not the handler who leans over him. Or the man who whispers 'for the greater good' in his ear and orders a hell of familiar pain upon him. She doesn't use him; instead, she'll nearly get herself strangled to save him. And not because he's a good weapon to have in her arsenal, but because … because … maybe she sees something worth saving. (And he'd be lying if he doesn't think her mistaken or if he said her actions don't make an organ in his chest that's been so dead and cold a little warmer).

Short chestnut hair, a nose that's upturned like an afterthought and clear eyes that speak more than her words ever could.

There's a shadowed mansion in front of him and he steels his shoulders.

Yeah, he's going to get her. And she'll be damaged and bruised but she'll be alive. He promises himself that.

Because he's almost gotten used to the over-salted dinners.

Ida

Three Things Ida is Feeling:

Confusion

Pain

Fear

Bucky

The door opens for him and Bucky stands on the threshold dressed in his jeans and beaten-up jacket and feels as if he's missing something.

(His handlers, his weapons, his customary gear, you know – the basics).

"Are you in?" Steve questions in his ear. "We're nearly with you. Reckon there's a few guard dogs about."

The man who opens the door holds a gun and bears a smile. Bucky walks past him, giving a slight cough for Steve (yes, he is in), and cataloguing everything.

It's a country mansion. Old money.

Chandeliers hang from the ceiling and a carpet sweeps up the stairs that open up in front of him. Heavy furniture sit at intervals, tucked up against the wall, and modern art lines the cream walls like methodical soldiers.

(Bucky stares at the artwork and wonders if they let a monkey paint a canvass. In florescent purple).

"Ah," a man, dressed a suit with a scarlet tie, descends the staircase.

Bucky stands at the bottom, hands shoved in pockets.

"Welcome to my humble abode. May Thomas take your coat?"

Bucky doesn't move but stays motionless. He doesn't acknowledge the smartly dressed man with the waxed moustache who steps beside him, hands at the ready to relieve him of his jacket.

"Ah," says Scarlet Tie as he reaches the bottom step.

He's in his mid-forties. He doesn't do hard labour (his hand, the one that is now outstretched, is too soft for that) but judging by his physic, he visits the gym. He's well-kept and impeccably groomed and he has a languid air about him. There isn't a black hair out of place.

Bucky doesn't touch his hand but stands, shoulders in a deceitful slouch. "Where is she?" he asks.

"Oh," says Scarlet Tie, casually withdrawing his hand. He smiles in a manner designed to set Bucky at his ease (it doesn't work) and says, "She'll be with us … eventually. I can't give away my only asset, now can I?"

Oh he will. But he won't be giving her away. (Bucky doesn't tell him this, of course).

"Please," a hand raised, gesturing towards a room off the hall. "Let's discuss this like friends. Do you want whiskey?"

Bucky almost gives a grim chuckle at the attempt at amicability. But instead, he blinks like a new-born owl and follows Scarlet Tie into a room that is covered in heavy furniture. Four large windows reflect yet another chandelier which hangs cheerfully from the ceiling.

"Friends?" Steve repeats through the CPIMS, sounding a little disgusted. "By the way, I'm in position. Maybe you ought to tell the guy to close his curtains. Hey, that's one red neck tie."

Bucky doesn't say anything. (Though yes, that is one red neck tie).

Scarlet Tie settles into a long couch with a light-floral pattern. "Please," he says, waving a hand to Bucky and tapping his feet on the soft rug. "Thomas will pour us a drink. Whiskey?"

Letting the silence settle is easy, Bucky simply sits on the couch and stares at Scarlet Tie. Waiting. Because whiskey isn't going to be the only thing offered tonight.

There is the trickle of whiskey poured into two glasses. Thomas stands in the corner of the room, his back turned.

"My name," Scarlet Tie says, "is John Smith.'

("Original," Steve mutters.)

"And yours," Smith continues with a subtle twitch at the corner of his lips, "is the Winter Soldier, or Bucky Barnes as you're calling yourself now."

Thomas offers one glass full of amber liquid to Smith and the other to Bucky. Bucky who doesn't give the whiskey a second glance. He won't drink it, but he takes it anyway. Takes it with his real hand and feels the cool glass against his flesh.

Thomas glides out of the room with silent footsteps.

Bucky rests an arm on the armrest of the couch. Smith takes a sip of whiskey and gives a satisfied sigh. "I have a proposition for you," he begins. "It's a lucrative position. Nothing like your previous employment."

Employment?

Sure. Go with that word. Because Bucky didn't know what happened to him was employment. He can't quite give it it's proper name - not yet - but he wouldn't call it employment.

Beside that, anything would look lucrative.

Bucky wonders if Smith realises that he's insulted him. No; in-salt-ed him. (Ida would be pleased to know that he's putting her pun into good use. Perhaps he'll tell her about it. Once he's found her).

"I'm offering you," says Smith, swilling his whiskey around in his glass and looking at it with a pondering expression, "the chance," the eyes – a dull shade of blue – rest on Bucky, "to join me in creating a new world."

Bucky is pretty sure that he keeps the flinch from his face but he is this close to upending the contents of his stomach onto the light-grey rug. Because for an instance he can hear Alexander Pierce in his ear.

He can hear the words.

He can feel himself turn back into ... into ...

(The handlers in their white coats are ready.

"Wipe him," says Alexander and Bucky lies there, putty in their hands. He's bewildered. He knew the man on the bridge. He knew him. But Pierce wouldn't lie to him and this is the way things are done and …)

"Bucky," It's Steve. Talking through the CPIMS. The man on the bridge. "You okay?"

Bucky blinks and the phantom images of Alexander and his handlers waft away.

The man on the bridge is talking into his ear (he's Steve Rogers and he's his best friend) and he's here to rescue Ida. Ida Proctor.

There is no chair.

There are no handlers.

His eyes – for a moment dazed and unfocused – snap to the waiting Smith.

And – for a brief moment in time – it's okay.

Because he's on a mission.

And it's one of his choosing.

a/n: John Smith's name was going to be Bernard McVelton. Because my mind – though sometimes preposterous – is nothing less than original. And odd. And contains more cheese than a cheese stall but never mind ...

Right, the idea is that I'm going to be uploading the following chapters every night. Because the Grand Finale mustn't lose its flow.

So join me, and, if you have this story on alert, forgive me for spamming your inbox.

Thanks for reading and until next time!

Chapter 22: Chapter 20 - Apply

Apply …

Cut off one head-

Bucky

"Bucky?" Steve is growing increasingly more concerned.

"No," Bucky says, staring at Smith whose offer hangs in-between them like a stage curtain. Bucky leans forward. Because he's James Buchanan Barnes who-once-was-the-Winter-Soldier. Because he's in the lion's den but the man sitting opposite him doesn't know that he isn't the lion.

Bucky is.

(He channels every emotion, every thought, every determination he has into one bullet. Twitches his metaphorical finger over the trigger).

Bucky smiles, switching the whiskey glass to his other hand (metal chinks upon glass) and resting it on his knee, his free hand hangs carelessly between his legs. "I'll give you a chance," he says blandly. "Give me Ida and I'll spare your life."

(Focuses).

Smith straightens. "I'm afraid that's not possible," he says, eyes assessing.

(Aims).

"You'd better make it possible," Bucky says.

(Waits).

Smith chuckles, humour coating hidden nerves. "She's unavailable. However, once you're fully integrated into our organisation then I'm sure we could arrange a meeting – with her. You do want to see her, don't you?"

"So." Bucky tips his head to the side a little, languidly lifting his gaze to bore into Smith. "I don't have a choice?"

"Well, I wouldn't put it that way …" begins Smith, eyes drifting a little over Bucky's head. Bucky doesn't let himself tense.

"Two hostiles behind you," mutters Steve.

"Do I or don't I have a choice?" he asks, his voice void of emotion.

Smith frowns. "As I said before-"

"Answer the question."

Smith's smile drops off his face. "No," he says.

Wrong answer.

(Fire).

Ida

.

.

.

.

.

.

Eyes drift open.

White ceiling.

Noise.

Eyes close.

Nothing.

.

.

.

.

.

Bucky

In a fluster of fluttering suit and floral cushion, John Smith throws himself to the side. But Bucky isn't targeting him. He's cracked the whiskey glass, the contents pepper the rug.

He swivels and two men, bulked with muscles, collapse to the floor. Glass shards buried in their exposed necks.

"Are you ready?" Steve asks.

Bucky snatches a cushion, and turns, holding it up in one swift movement. It's a mockery of a shield, but it catches the small Taser disk that Smith has thrown his way.

With a crackle of electricity, Bucky drops the cushion.

Smith scrambles backwards, one thick strand of oiled black air drooping down on his forehead. "Now, now … Mr Barnes. Bucky … Winter Soldier. You really don't want to do this."

Bucky allows a slow, crawling smile on his face. "Salvador," he says.

Smith frowns just as a large body smashes into a window.

Captain America, resplendent in glass shards and grass stains, stands and blinks at his new surroundings. "Well," he says. "That would've been easier if I had my shield."

Smith swallows audibly. "I've sounded the alarm," he says, his eyes swivelling from Steve, who's gingerly dusting glass and dirt off his leather jacket, and Bucky, who has crossed to one of the felled man and is appropriating a weapon.

Steve glances at Smith's hand which emerges from his suit pocket clutching a panic button. "So you have," he says. "But, you pressed it a little too late."

The lights flicker off.

There isn't a pinprick of light.

"Good timing," Bucky mutters.

With a curse and a crash, Smith is, no doubt, attempting to escape the blackened room into the equally dark hall.

But then a beam of light, originating in the very same hall, slices the darkness and shines onto Smith's face. "See you've acquired some fashion sense, Steve."

A hand reaches out of the darkness and grabs Smith's arm. The beam of bright light twitches upwards, Steve winces.

"Very funny, Wilson," he remarks dryly, his features shining a dull pale in the light.

"So the power's off," Sam remarks casually and Bucky finds the flashlight shining in his face. "Oh, hey. Did you say the code word?"

(Sam thought that 'Salvador' would be an amusing code word. Bucky didn't share his amusement, which is perhaps the reason why it was suggested in the first place).

Bucky grunts and passes the couch and fallen men to reach Smith. The light follows him like a stage probe.

"So," he leans down, "you've got something to tell us?"

John Smith finds the full light of Sam's flashlight shining in his face. "You won't find her," he says, eyes calm, skin pale. (He's accepted his loss, Bucky thinks).

"We brought you down," Steve says.

Smith laughs, nerves and anger and bitterness shining through with as much power as the flashlight's beam. "You think, I am it?

"No," states Sam in a matter of fact way. "But what you are is a perfect example of what I would like to call: 'woefully unprepared'."

"There will be more of us," hisses Smith, the light casting severe shadows on his face. "Cut off one head-"

He doesn't have time to finish.

(Bucky feels as though the rug has been whisked from under him. But this is no time to feel. Not right now).

Swiftly, Steve punches him and Bucky reaches down, forcing the unconscious man's mouth open and wrenching the poison capsule out of his mouth.

"Oh, man," the shadowy figure of Sam says, sounding offended. "Don't tell me this is HYDRA."

"It would appear so," Steve says, voice heavy.

Bucky crushes the fake tooth in his hand.

"You know, I do not want to know how they put those in-" Sam begins, sounding rather ill.

"What?" says Steve, searching John Smith's crumpled figure. "You afraid of a little dentistry?" he asks over his shoulder.

"All dentistry," Sam insists. "Especially that."

Bucky can feel his eyes turn to him, the half-hidden curiosity in them is tangible. He won't ask the question, but Bucky answers it anyway.

"No," he says bluntly to the shadowed figure. "I didn't."

They never offered the option to him. (The idea is laughable). In the very remote possibility of capture (a very, very remote possibility), he would have been mute. His captors would not have broken him. And if they had broken his body, he would have spilled blood, but never secrets. He was a well-trained dog all right. The best.

Funny how attempting to kill a man on a bridge can change that.

Steve straightens, leaving the beam of light which shines on, unhindered, on Smith's still form.

"There's nothing on him," Steve says. "Search the area?"

It's their only option.

Shouts in the hall. An alarm blares. Red lights flash, reflecting in the tall, sitting room windows.

"Er, Bucky?" says Steve. "What happened to the butler?"

(Bucky wants to punch himself. With his metal fist. Because he should have known that the butler, Thomas, would slip away. He's got to concentrate. This was easier when he was HYDRA's dog. But now he's fighting HYDRA and he will not preform worse when he was free than when he was captive. He refuses to).

"There was a butler?" demands Sam. "Let me guess," his voice is heavy with irony, "the butler did it."

"You're hilarious," says Steve. "Are we ready?"

Ida

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Bucky

Visibility has increased since the lights flickered on not five minutes ago.

Steve and Wilson are downstairs, clearing up the last of the hostiles. He headed upstairs as soon as he could.

Nothing.

(Well, other than a few hostiles and a housemaid who is currently tied up with bed sheets. He's not too proud of that. With the newly remembered memories comes a forgotten sense of misplaced chivalry that he could do without. In his experience, women are just as lethal as men. Except Ida, who is exceptionally lethal to herself).

He's near the landing now, and can hear (and catch a glimpse of) his two comrades downstairs.

"You know," Steve begins he crashes an ornamental vase down on top of a man's head. "You didn't do a great job of turning the power off."

"Hey!" calls Sam, sounding a little offended. "I did the best with what I had to work with. Don't you understand the concept of forward planning?"

"Oh yeah?" Steve huffs as he kicks another man (armoured, black clothing – everyone's clothing is black, it seems – and heavily armed) in the stomach. "What's that?"

"Oh, I don't know, it's a logical, intelligent thing that sometimes some people do."

There is a silence. Steve regards Sam across four fallen – and unconscious - bodies. He shakes his head with amusement glimmering in his eyes. "Never heard of it."

There's a crash and they both look up.

Bucky stands at the top of the stairs.

They look down.

A man's tumbling down each carpeted step. He rolls to a halt at the foot of the stairs.

"So he likes to tear off people's wings and throw dudes down stairs," Sam nods, rubbing his arm (bruised; a fluke hit from a baton). "His portfolio's growing. Oh! Did I mention the-"

"That you object to being punched in the face with a metal fist?" Steve cuts in with a sigh. "Yeah, you might have mentioned that. Repeatedly."

Sam gives a tired grin as Bucky reaches the bottom step. "My own dumbass fault for agreeing to it. But really, your metal fist?"

Bucky pauses at the bottom step. Looks at the man at his feet and feels so bone weary. "Had to be realistic," he says.

(He's not certain why he's telling Sam this, but it's four in the morning, or so the grandfather clock says, and he wants to find Ida. Escape. Disappear from the face of the earth and then sleep. For a very long time).

"Can I just say that you did a great job, 'cause that felt really realistic." Sam gestures to his cheek and grimaces.

"She up there?" Steve asks, hands on his hips.

Bucky shakes his head. She's not up there. This is HYDRA. She'll be in a well-funded bunker a thousand miles away. Probably. Or she could be close by.

In the basement.

(He's getting really sick of basements).

"We'll search the grounds after this," says Steve. "Hey, Sam?"

A look passes between the two men and Bucky doesn't bother to interpret it. Not now.

Sam nods and picks up an abandoned weapon. "I'll just be off then," he says. "Searching for basements. Leaving you two alone to catch up. And bond. Or whatever …" his voice fades as he disappears down the hall.

Steve chooses a different door and Bucky follows after him. It's a library. Bookshelves stretch from floor to high ceiling, a large glass window does the same, overlooking a fountain set in a green lawn touched by the dim light of a burgeoning dawn.

The curtains are heavy with musk and Steve begins searching the shelves. Bucky approaches the heavy oaken desk.

"So," says Steve. "HYDRA?"

Bucky doesn't say anything, but rifles through correspondence. All addressed to John Smith. He doesn't think that there will be anything about Ida's possible location here, but he's willing to take a chance.

"How you dealin' with that?"

(Badly).

"Bucky?" Steve, turning around and raising his eyebrows. "Speak to me, buddy."

Bucky lifts his head and stares at him. What if he told Steve that he's afraid that there'll be handlers at every corner; that he loathes this place and feels the itch put as much distance between it and him as possible?

He fears HYDRA, but more than that, he fears himself.

What if he falls back?

What if the memories that he both hates and hoards slip away like sand through his fingers? What if he forgets Ida, Becky, and, yeah, even Steve?

But he doesn't say any of that.

"We need to find Ida," he says, and lowers his head.

"Hey."

He looks up again. Steve approaches the desk, leans against it. "Y'know it, right?" An awkward clearing of the throat. "I know I repeat it a lot." He gives a small, sheepish grin. "Probably do it again. But Bucky … I'm with you," his eyes are serious, holding so many memories; so much meaning, "'til the end of the line."

Bucky looks at his friend – looks at his friend – and he knows.

Suddenly.

As if it were a truth that was just waiting to be noticed.

Memories roll in – much like in the Helicarrier, but this time much stronger. Frozen images and impressions. A shared laugh. A saved life. A smile. A pat on the back. An argument (though, of course, they never really did much of that). Worry that his friend won't survive very long, not with his ailments. Wondering why this coughing fit was so strong and whether this hospital visit will be the start to a downhill fall. Two ice creams and a wander around Brooklyn. Childish laughter. Football in the street.

He looks into Steve's eyes and knows that he – James Buchanan Barnes, assassin in flux, guilty of much, victim of more – will always have Steve Rogers at his back.

Until the end of the line.

It doesn't matter if they argue, if they fight (they've done both). Time can yank them apart, yeah. It'll do that. Has done.

But Steve will have his back, and he will have Steve's.

Because they're friends.

Because, by some miracle, Steve can look past the decades as HYDRA's weapon. Somehow, he can see the shards of Bucky that still exist. That were frozen. Locked away.

And yeah, Steve's a fool; he ought to put a bullet in Bucky's head for all the things he's done. (It would be justice, after all). But Steve doesn't look at him and see a monster.

For some strange, stupid reason Steve's not his would-be executioner.

He's his friend.

And even though Bucky's afraid for Ida, bone-weary and fighting ghosts that hover like black shadows at his side wherever he goes – he smiles. (Well, it's more of a smirk, but it feels familiar to his face).

"Punk," he says, saying the word but meaning so much more.

Steve's eyes widen and then they twinkle as he smiles. "Jerk."

They both look away from each other. Drop their gazes. Clear their throats.

Bucky finds that he can't quite say anything more, but Steve understands him.

And they've got bigger things to worry about.

Finding Ida, for instance.

Working out how HYDRA is still operating, for another.

There's nothing in the room that they can find. Time is precious and so they leave and hunt down Sam.

Sam who emerges from the large, gleaming kitchen covered with dust and cobwebs.

"I found a wine cellar," he says in a voice that is supposed to be encouraging, but ends up sounding exhausted. "But I don't think either of you drink on the job."

a/n: Thoughts? Wonderings? Complaints?

Thank you for reading, and until next time! (Because we're together in this ... until the end of the line).

Chapter 23: Chapter 21 - and leave to dry

… and leave to dry

"You should probably work on your bedside manner."

Ida

I can't move. At all. Which in ordinary times would perhaps send me into a panic attack. Today? (or tonight. It could be either). Today I'm simply grateful that the pain has drained away. Though unfortunately it seems to have taken my nerves (both literal and metaphorical) away with it.

And my brain.

I think it's taken my brain away with it.

My head has flopped to the side (a clear sign of a light-head-without-brain) and I can see a … tube. Yes. A tube with a liquid that is blue; a blue which brings to mind toilet cleaner. It's disturbing.

The tube stretches from a shiny metal canister beside me and goes all the way into my arm. My arm!

My eyelids are very heavy.

Very, very heavy.

And also: I am made of toilet cleaning fluid.

Truth

I don't drain blood, I drain toilet cleaner. Why haven't I noticed this before?

Nonononono.

Something is wrong.

Because I know I bleed blood. Has my blood been replaced? This is so bizarre. Why would anyone do that? The world is a strange place.

I need coffee. Proper black, as-thick-as-mud, coffee.

I ask the ceiling for it. And when that doesn't work, I ask the metal canister which almost looks like a metallic bust of Homer Simpson's head. Sans ears. And nose. And mouth. And eyes.

Panic.

I think I'm panicking. Because I can't catch my breath because Homer Simpson won't give me any mud coffee and is replacing my blood with toilet cleaner.

This isn't right.

Voices That Ida (Can't Quite) Hear:

A nearby voice speaks, smooth and calm: "Is the subject still under?"

"Not quite. But she's awakening. It's clearly helping."

"Another dose and we can move her."

"Doctor … she won't-"

"Do I pay you to advise me in my own expertise?"

"No – I volunteer. And you aren't an expert. You're dabbling."

"I do not appreciate being spoken to like that, Linda. And I have considerable experience."

"On children and vermin. This is the first adult subject, need I remind you. You haven't even spent time on simulating what could happen-"

"I have spent years on this!"

"Years. You've spent years on vermin. Need I remind you that vermin do not possess the metabolism of full grown humans?"

"No. You need not. Now go and prepare the rest of the subjects for transport. Or are you volunteering to take the place of this subject?"

"How dare you!"

"How dare I, indeed. Do I need economise with you too?"

"No. You need to use your 'resources' appropriately. I'm more use to you coherent and may I add that your 'I am a scientist speech and thou shalt obey me' is getting a little creepy?"

"I told you to prepare the subjects for transport."

"We're supposed to be saving the world; paving a way for a new world! But what do you do? Oh. Yes: Mein name iz Doctor Franz and I shall economize with zis body."

"Your sarcasm is not appreciated. AND NEITHER IS YOUR DOOR SLAMMING!"

I wake up to a heavy and immeasurably aching body.

What happened?

Where am I?

A rustle; the soft brush of cloth against cloth.

"Ah. You're awake."

I wish I could huddle into a ball at the sound of that voice. But I don't move. I can't. I think I will be sick if I do.

Summoning courage, I ask, "Why?" The word hangs in the air, heavy and weighted.

"I believe I have told you, though I think you won't remember. Not just yet."

"What did you do to me?"

He moves slightly and I see the edge of his coat. "Tested you. And attempted to activate you, but-" and there is a tapping sound. A finger on a screen "-disappointingly, my first adult test subject doesn't have the appropriate genome."

"Pity," I mumble. He's not ... he's not going to turn the chair back on though. Is he?

"Not at all," the calm voice drones. "There are other test subjects, and I'm never discriminating as to which I pick."

That's ... "How enlightened of you," I manage to say.

The edge of his lab coat is fringed. He needs a new one. Aunt Becky could hem this one but I don't think she would like him.

I don't.

He's calm. Too calm. Or perhaps it isn't calm. Perhaps he's simply … empty. Empty enough to flick a switch and power the chair up and no please no don'tthingdon'tthinkdon'tthink.

The terror subsides like a withdrawing tide.

I'm not … well … right now.

My brain is ticking slowly, like a clock plunged into a vat of cold molasses.

But it's still ticking.

Somehow.

I think something is dribbling down my cheeks. Wet and warm. Tears?

"Why?" I ask again.

A huff. "I suppose I'll tell you; you are, after all, benefiting mankind-"

"A benefit I didn't volunteer," I whisper hoarsely, but I don't think he hears me. The coat disappears from view.

"-mankind has potential, or rather, forty-two percent of it does. I simply have to activate it. I began on mice and vermin, but … ah … the potential doesn't exist in them, though I simulated it to the desired effect. And then … then I needed to take another step; I must test humanity and what better than the young? With the proper contacts, someone brought me the subjects I needed-"

The words are washing over me. I struggle to comprehend them. But when I do, their meaning leaves me sick.

"The Kid-Napper," I murmur.

I am heard.

"Ah, yes. Jones. He did a good job. Until he didn't. And the resource dried up. And then, when I was aiding a splinter of an organisation that I belong to, I stumbled upon you."

He is smiling.

God, help me.

He is smiling and I can hear it in his voice.

"A wonderful resource that hasn't dried up yet. My former subjects are not quite so fresh, but they'll do."

Cold terror. Fear so great it's like a tidal wave crashing into my body.

Children.

He means children.

Sacrificing children in a mistaken bid to aid mankind; to reach a goal that a few share, but others must suffer for.

God help us.

God help us all.

Bucky

Transcript of CPIMS between Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes:

SR: [nearby barking] You know, I always wanted a dog. Maybe I'll get one.

BB: [silence]

SR: Yeah. I'm not too happy with doing this either. [huff of effort] But when it's a dog or me, I'm going to go with [grunt] me.

BB: There are three dogs, with a possible fourth. How many have you naturalised?

SR: Give me a moment.

[sound of a man verses dog]

SR: Someone's got their math wrong because that makes five.

BB: [silence]

SR: [catching breath] Found anything yet?

BB: Tracks through woods.

SR: Are we talking dog tracks? Footprints? Tyres?

BB: Tyre marks.

SR: Vehicle?

BB: Multiple makes.

SR: [muffled exclamation] Barbed wire. Someone doesn't want us around.

BB: Hostiles heading in your direction.

SR: Oh yeah?

BB: [rustling undergrowth] Found a facility. Bunker. Concrete. Old.

SR: [muffled talk as Steve relates Bucky's findings to Sam] Okay buddy, we'll be with you in five.

SR: [grunt] Actually, it make take a bit [sound of thud] longer. You could've told me the number of hostiles, you kn- [loud bang] [grunt of pain from Steve] [loud rustling]

BB: [silence]

BB: Steve?

SR: [clearly speaking with effort] Bullet through thigh. No bone. Flesh wound. [thud of fist against flesh] Be with you in ten.

BB: Steve …

SR: I'll be fine. Sam says it's nothin' but a scratch. Can you get in? To the bunker?

BB: Yeah. I'm to the left of the entrance. Behind fallen trunk.

Ida

The doctor has left the room and I am alone, feeling infinitely relieved. He's gone and so he can't switch the chair back on.

I'm still held down by restraints though, covered by a flimsy white sheet. To my shame, I can't summon the energy to break free. I feel as limp as a rag doll. As heavy as a semi-truck.

Before he left the room, the doctor said that he would test me again, once we had reached better facilities. Perhaps I will die on the way there; I wouldn't mind. (I can't – I can't go through that again. Ican'tIcan'tIcan't.) Though perhaps Aunt Becky would. Mind, that is. If I die.

No.

No.

I can't die.

There are children here.

A flash of a memory: the cages of mice and rats. I thought that they belonged to Jones, the Kid-Napper, but perhaps they belonged to him. I can't let him treat children as subjects and components.

As vermin.

A whine of a door opening. A woman appears in my line of vision. She won't turn the chair on. Will she?

Short red hair, sharp features and eyes that are quick to dart here and there. She checks the metal canister beside me and then reaches for my arm.

I can't even cringe away from her, though I wish I could. At least she hasn't turned the chair on. Perhaps only the doctor can.

The IV needle is yanked out. I watch as a small globule of blood appears, dribbling slowly down my arm.

"You should probably work on your bedside manner." The words slip out, unfettered. "Customer support and service are one of the most important aspects of any company." Slow thoughts trudge through my mind. "Or organisation," I add.

"That's true," her voice has more of New York in it than my own. "But you aren't a customer." Slender hands touch the canister, and mechanical beeps fill the air.

"No," I slur out. "I'm a victim."

The hands pause.

"You're a tool, ma'am. I wouldn't call you a victim."

"You need a new dictionary," I inform her, feeling heavy eyelids fall close. "And probably a straight-jacket."

There is no reply.

Save only a small pinprick in my skin.

Bucky

Dawn is growing in strength. Stars are fading and a smudged pink can be occasionally glimpsed through the forest canopy. Visibility is increasing. Which is both a positive and negative fact. Increased visibility works both ways; for yourself and your target.

Though, in this case, his target is a set of rusted metal doors (so much for 'well-funded').

This is a forested area with a single track, worn by tyres, cutting through the trees and undergrowth and leading up to the bunker which slouches a little above the ground and is covered in grass and fern.

In his ear he can hear Steve's near silent breath. He'll be here soon, he hopes.

Bucky knows that Ida is here. He's run through the possibilities and this has to be it. She needed to be close by, to be used as a bargaining chip. They couldn't have taken her that far.

He rubs his face.

And waits.

"So, Bucky," Steve's whispering through the CPIMs. "Have you heard of Star Wars?"

Bucky blinks and his brow twitches.

(He's thrown. Star Wars?)

"I watched it the other day. One of them. There's six, did you know? And the last three are the first three and the first three are the last three. Confusing, huh?"

(Yes, that does sound confusing).

"Reminded me of when Falsworth tried to explain a game of cricket. Remember that?"

(In an instant, Bucky is in a bar, it's run down and cigarette smoke hangs in the air like city smog. James Falsworth sits across from them, a chipped mug full of beer in hand. They've come back from destroying a HYDRA base. It was rough. Falsworth decides to explain his country's favourite game to his comrades. It ends in a heated argument between he and Steve whilst the big hearty Dum Dum Dugan loudly insults quality of the beer. It's a good memory. Better than the later ones).

"Do they still play it?" he asks abruptly.

"What, cricket? Guess so. I'll have to check. Hey, want to see a baseball game? I've got tickets. Want to see if the home team is as good as it was. Haven't had a chance before."

A sound of metal groaning rises above the cacophony of morning bird song. Bucky looks up. The bunker doors are opening. He grips his newly appropriated gun. (It's a Colt M4A1. It should serve its purpose).

"Steve. Location?"

"Nearly there."

A sound behind him. Bucky turns.

Steve is crouched behind him, his breath puffing in a white cloud. A grey shadow moves behind him - Sam.

Bucky glances down at Steve's leg; at the blood that stains his jeans.

"Just a scratch?" he asks, in a voice heavy with irony.

Steve shrugs. "I'll be fine."

Behind him, Sam rolls his eyes.

Ida

"Prep her for transport." His voice is tinged with a bit of hope. "Unless we could fit another test in?"

My eyelids drift open.

"Doctor. The alarm sounded an age ago. And we haven't evacuated yet!" Her voice is high and sharp, filled with worry.

My head is stilled lolled to the side. Strangely, I cannot move it. Or rather, not so strangely.

Realization of Ida, Wannabe Sherlock Holmes

Homer Simpson, toilet cleaner and a pinprick: I've been drugged.

"It could be a dud call. Can't you remember the false alarm of last week?" he murmurs.

I can't see him as he is out of my line of vision.

"It's the problem, Linda. This … splintering has left our 'splinter' severely depleted of all our monetary resources. I've practically pleaded on my knees-" (there is a disbelieving huff from the nurse, Linda?) "-for them to put more money into upkeep and, indeed, into our highly important department. But do they? Oh no!"

Linda picks up my hand and presses cold fingers into my wrist. "Here it comes," she mutters. "The rant."

"… how could they allow Captain America to bring us to our knees?! We are HYDRA. HYDRA! Not a flower selling company! We aren't a charity brought down by a whiff of scandal!"

Ida's thoughts:

Oh.

Linda clears her throat and eyes dart to my face, and then away again. "Large pictures have little ears," she says pointedly.

"Little pitchers have large ears," the doctor snaps. "We had goals. We had purpose. I was the head of a department."

Linda drops my hand. It falls, heavy, limp and useless onto the bed. "May I remind you that you were the head of the accountancy department?"

There is quavering silence.

This is too much. My head begins to ache. As if the skin is too tight, the bone too restricting. It will explode. It feels as if it could explode.

HYDRA. And an accounting department. And … children.

And pain. Did I mention pain? The strange stillness that coats the ache of every single piece of my body.

"Why were you checking her pulse?" the doctor demands, irritated. "She's linked up. We can monitor her brainwaves, let alone her pulse."

"Sorry," mutters Linda. "Habit."

There is a rapid knocking at the door, and I can see – just – the figure of the doctor opening it.

Then I know that I am truly drugged. Because there is a butler dressed as a butler on the other side of the door.

(Did I mention he looks like a butler and has a moustache? Like a butler?)

"The rest of your subjects are prepared for transport. Is she?"

A dim memory wriggles in the back of my heavy mind.

And: Is he pointing at me?

"I suppose that there isn't a chance that this is a false alarm?" asks the doctor with a hint of wistfulness in his voice.

"The Winter Soldier has escaped. We are searching for him in the grounds and can't afford for him to find her. You will have an armed guard but you must leave immediately."

It simply has to be a hallucination. Because the voice of the butler is the voice of the Voice. The one from the basement. The one who spoke about collateral damage. And the Winter Soldier. The Winter Soldier who is Bucky Barnes.

Who has escaped?

He was captured then.

And now he's escaped.

And this is HYDRA.

HYDRA who hurt him so badly.

My eyes close.

The last grain of sand tips the hour glass. The last flimsy straw breaks the camel's back.

I want to sob until I have nothing left. I feel open and gaping and I hurt such a lot. I can't do this anymore.

Not the pain. Not the fear. Not the heartache nor the, the …

Why must it be me?

I'm selfish. So very selfish.

Because, in this moment, I long to be very far away from this place. I want to leave all this. Leave everything.

Because I can't take this.

Not the children who have to be saved. Not HYDRA. Not Bucky.

I'm a coward.

No. No. No.

I can do this.

I have to.

It's not like I have a choice.

I lie there upon a chair, listen to the people – can they even be called that? – talk about alarms and threats and subduing, and suddenly I know.

That life is bigger than us.

Bigger than me.

There are children to be saved. Children who have been put through … that. Who will continue to be put through hell. Whose childhood has been snatched away by greedy, economising hands.

Who won't have the chance to watch their loved ones grow old, to let the wind ruffle their hair or wake up to an early morning and a life-giving cup of coffee and a dreary job filled with customers ranting about their woes.

Bucky is out there. And so are the children.

And who am I to lie here and feel fearful when these, oh, these will have far worse things to come?

No childhood. A ruined past.

Lives that will be, and are being, wrecked.

I've had a beautiful life, when I think about it.

It hasn't been one full of money or expensive clothing or a high-flying career. But I've walked down a sun-drenched street and felt rain dribble down my cheeks. I've eaten a cool white chocolate ice cream on a blistering hot day.

I've laughed with my brother and felt my father's hand stroke my head as I drifted to sleep. I've talked to a customer who made me laugh and enjoyed giggling with a co-worker. I've sat on a park bench and felt peace. Ridden a fair ground ride and felt heart-pumping thrill.

I've gobbled up books until my eyes were strained, and then I've switched the light on and read a little more.

I've sat with Aunt Becky; heard her laugh. Shared her smile. Thrown arms about her in a tight hug – the tightest I could manage, as if I could keep her always with me.

I've had friends and gone on adventures. I've loved and have been loved; perhaps not truly as the world thinks, but there are other forms of love.

The kind that wakes early to wake you, because you've always been a solid sleeper and today you have an interview. The kind that sends you a book in the post because it's by an author you love to read. The kind that works from dawn till dusk so that the bills can be paid and a roof can be kept over your little head.

The kind that fights tooth and nail to keep you in their arms; to make you officially theirs. The kind that looks at a baby found, abandoned, in a trailer with nothing but a dirty diaper to her name and loves.

No conditions.

No requirements.

I've had a rich life. A beautiful one. And I will not lie here defeated and so pitifully afraid whilst there are children who are … who have ...

I can't and I won't.

I've got to do something.

I have to.

Because this is bigger than me, but so is a mountain and I've climbed a mountain before.

And as the doctor and Linda and the butler with the Voice stand in my room and speak of how to move me, I'm thinking of how to move them.

But first … did I just twitch my thumb?

Perhaps if I try, I can move my head.

Well, a little.

Rome wasn't built in a day, was it?

I will do this.

I can do this.

Because there's no one else.

Bucky

The metal bunker doors have opened to reveal a black truck with tinted windows.

"You're not going to blow this one up?" asks Sam. "Because that could have your friend in it."

Bucky doesn't let his irritation show. (He's not a complete idiot). "Ready to hijack a truck?" he asks Steve.

Steve glances at him.

Gives a weary grin.

"Of course."

a/n: As a side note, James Falsworth is the English gent in the Howling Commandos and he surely would have explained (or tried to) cricket to all his slightly bemused comrades. Or at least, that's my head canon. And yes, I looked up his name. What?

Until next time : )

Chapter 24: Chapter 22 - Paint

Paint

He was taught never to hit a dame.

Steve

Steve sometimes thinks that nothing will surprise him anymore. But then again, S.H.I.E.L.D had been infiltrated by HYDRA, and, according to John Smith's account, HYDRA hasn't been eliminated.

He admits to himself that he isn't exactly surprised. HYDRA has a nasty habit of springing surprises on you. (Brainwashing your best friend, for one thing. Attempting to assassinate hundreds of thousands of people and using S.H.E.I.L.D to do so, for another).

But this … this is sickening.

And he always thought that he had strong stomach, after the war and all that has happened since the ice.

They've hijacked the truck and he opened the door, expecting gunmen or perhaps the prone body of Ida Proctor.

He wasn't expecting children.

Malnourished children in stained hospital gowns peering back at him with hollow eyes. Children who cringe and flinch away from him and have more in common with wild animals than living, breathing children.

He can't help it when he freezes in his horror. (He nearly gets a bullet in his brain for it, but Bucky's there and the offender is swiftly dealt with).

Heck. (And you know, lots of other stronger and more pertinent language that he will never use).

There are ten of them. All ethnicities. Varying ages; four to ten years, he reckons, but it's hard to tell.

He feels sick, but he hardens his stomach, straightens his shoulders, vows to make every. single. person who has done this pay.

"She isn't here," he tells Bucky. Bucky who joins him, glances at the children; at their faces and mutters 'Jones' under his breath.

"Look," he says, staring at his friend's face washed with grey dawn. "We've gotta get these kids out of here."

Sam stumbles next to them, an arm held tightly against his ribs. And then he sees the children and colour washes out of his face and any injury is forgotten.

Steve forces the words out, "One of us has to get these kids out of here."

Bucky nods.

Sam is still staring, horror in his eyes.

Taking the CPIM out of his ear, Steve shoves it at Sam, "Here."

Sam glances at it. Cracks an empty quip about earwax and looks as if he's going to hurl.

Steve claps his hand on the shoulder, trying to ignore the nearest child who winces. "Sam. Focus."

With a forced nod, Sam takes the CPIM. "Take a pound of flesh," he says abruptly, misquoting Shakespeare terribly and yet meaning every word. "Make 'em pay."

Steve claps his shoulder. Climbs into the van and crouches.

"Look buddies," he says, feeling horribly out of place and utterly helpless. "My name is Captain America-" he figures they might have heard the name; know that he's a good guy "-and we're going to get you home."

"Why haven't you got your shield?" comes a quiet voice from the back. The little boy's dark skin is thin and pale and yet there is a flicker of interest in his eyes.

"Left it at home," explains Steve with a smile.

"Where's Ironman?" questions another child, a little girl with blond hair in a matted mess.

Sam chuckles a little hoarsely behind him. "Upstaged again," he says.

He doesn't mind. And he's going to be 'upstaged' again, if he has anything to do with it. Beforehand, he thought that he and Bucky could retrieve Ida and reconnect while they were at it. A small mission, easily handled.

But now? The children and John Smith's mention of HYDRA are the game changer.

He wonders what else is in the bunker and slips his cell phone out.

He has a call to make.

Ida

For all my grand ideas, I don't think this particular-most-important one is going to work out so well.

Reasons Why This Isn't Going To Work Out So Well:

I am drugged.

I am strapped into the chair.

(Naked. With only a sheet covering me. A thin sheet. Did I mention that?).

I've had a panic attack

And I can't stop shaking

My body is fighting against me. Whatever they put in the drugs … hasn't helped. You know those so called 'happy drugs'?

Yeah. Well. I wasn't given those.

"We can't move her!" The doctor exclaims for the seventh time.

"Security has been breached," repeats the Butler, Possessor of the Voice, for the eighth time.

"Should I administer it?" demands Linda. "With the cocktail of drugs she's got inside of her, this isn't going to do much damage."

It's almost as if I have been locked inside a washing machine and am being whirled around and around and my limbs are moving of their own accord and I can't do anything about it.

"Linda. What are you talking about?" barks the doctor. His calm is wearing thin.

The name of a drug – long and complicated with plenty of 'in's' and 'f's – rolls off her tongue.

"Linda, sometimes I think you possess a dose of intelligences," says the doctor, his guise of calm once more correctly assumed. "This isn't one of those times."

Linda, who had begun to thank him, strangles the thanks in her throat.

"We must leave immediately," presses the Voice. "The other test subjects have already departed. We cannot continue to protect this location."

There is a silence. I feel the prick of a needle, and my body's tremors only serve to make it more painful. Linda stifles an exclamation. The needle is stuck. It must be. She yanks. I don't know if I cry out. I only know that cold races up and down my body and this is a strange, delusional nightmare. It has to be.

It has to be.

If it is, then I pray I may wake, to find Aunt Becky leaning over me with concern shining in her eyes. Or perhaps it will be Bucky who wakes me this time, seating himself beside me on a chair, his silence a comforting haven.

If it isn't-

No.

No.

Don't think.

No – do. This is real. Ida. Focus.

This is real. You are real. This … everything is real, God help me. Everything.

Something That Should Be Noticed:

Linda has rebelled from the doctor. And … I've got another drug in my veins. Which is … I don't have any thoughts on it.

"Already departed?" the doctor asks, his voice impossibly soft.

"May I remind you that I am head of security-"

"Clearly you've done your job astonishingly well," the doctor says with a touch of bitterness. He has moved to stand by me – I catch a somewhat blurred glimpse of him.

"-and that security has been breached," finishes the Voice. "And now you have two options – remove the subject as asked, or remove the subject when forced."

I do not listen to the rest of the arguing – and there is much of it. Instead, I heave and heave. But my stomach has been empty for long time and no relief comes.

I didn't expect it would.

Bucky

Bucky isn't a fan of basements or bunkers. Steve doesn't look like he likes them either.

"You know," begins Steve rather grimly, gun held in hand. "The last time I was in one of these, it exploded."

Bucky glances back at him – seeing his face in the weak, flickering light of the overhanging bulbs.

"Better hope your luck doesn't continue," he says a little dryly.

"Yeah."

They turn a concrete corner. Better lighting streams from above them. The ground actually looks clean and free of mildew.

"I called Tony Stark - Ironman," Steve admits. "The kids tipped the balance, Buck."

Bucky doesn't reply but glances around another corridor. Ducks back.

"Hostiles. Four. Armed," he whispers.

In his ear is the ever-present rumble of Sam's truck, filtering through the CPIMs. Thankfully, Sam has kept quiet. Distraught he may be, but he was a soldier. Disciplined. Trained.

"You take two," whispers Steve. "Any civilians?"

If you worked for HYDRA, as far as Bucky is concerned, you aren't a civilian; you're a leech that needs to be stepped on. Crushed. But he doesn't tell Steve that.

"No," he says instead.

And then they are moving.

Surprise is on their side.

For the time being.

Ida

The sound of gunfire echoes far away. It doesn't seem so very far away to the rest of the room's occupants. It sounds loud and alarming, or so their actions seem to say.

The doctor is frantically speaking and Linda is – I have no idea where Linda is. But the Voice is yelling for back-up and security. How he manages to do this and to thoroughly insult the doctor's ego, self-esteem and intelligence at the same time is quite amazing.

Not that I am in fit state to fully appreciate this.

(If I did, I would probably applaud. Or simply let my jaw drop in wonder. Or use the gap in his attention to run for it. Yes. I'd probably do the last one).

The tremors of each limb have died down – poetically speaking. Bluntly speaking, I've stopped shaking. And heaving.

What is happening or 'The [Somewhat] Logical Deductions of Ida":

There is gunfire nearby. Linda the Nurse has injected me with a long-worded drug. The doctor doesn't know this. I have an entire cocktail of drugs in my system.

Also, I am about to be moved.

I don't know where Bucky is.

I don't know if Aunt Becky is well.

Also – somewhere there are children. Children who have endured a great deal. Children who need to be rescued.

And I can't do anything about the above.

Because I have a cocktail of drugs in me.

Because I can't move.

I am useless.

I can't think. At all.

In these few minutes I alternate between the wildly logical and the terribly dim. My thoughts scramble and then re-scramble.

I lie and the world whirls about me. And I watch, cold and still.

Have you ever had those moments in which you aren't quite sure if you are real or not? The moments in which everything is distant; as if you are an observer looking through a window at the world, quite detached?

I'm in one of those moments now.

And I can't cope with it.

I was brave. I was strong.

Or at least, I thought I was.

But I'm not.

Because Linda's injected me with something and, and … I can't quite feel pain. But reality is swirling around and I stare at the ceiling and I think I must be weeping because I don't know if this is real.

Is it?

Please tell me.

Is it?

I find prayers rise to my lips as panic clutches at everything else.

Help. Me.

Please.

Bucky

He supposes that he should be used to it now – the sudden turns that life throws at you. But he isn't. He turns the corner, stepping over the prone bodies of subdued hostiles and peers into the room they were defending.

He doesn't gape in horror. He doesn't blink. He doesn't scream in rage like an outraged and distraught hero from her novels..

Because there she is.

Lying on a chair.

Pale. Wane. Limp.

Her arms, threaded with raised veins, rest against a flimsy white sheet. Her wrists are tightly bound, her bare legs are too. Her mouth is open and she sobs without sound.

Surrounded by the metallic arms of the chair, she is a far cry from the woman who cooks heavily salted dinners, reads impossibly improbable books and allows him to write names upon her bedroom wall.

He spies a doctor. Standing beside her, hurriedly typing commands into the screen that sits above the chair's head.

And … perhaps it would have been better for the man if Bucky had screamed in rage.

(He doesn't - because he is practical, he acts instead).

Steve

Steve's thigh is throbbing from its wound. He grits his teeth and follows Bucky into this blank little room. The occupants are hostile - all save one. But he doesn't permit himself to dwell upon her. Because- Ah, yes. There's the butler.

The butler who goes down fighting.

He's good, Steve will give him that.

(But Steve's better).

And then there is the nurse.

She screams and tries to run. Steve subdues her, hating it because he was taught never to hit a dame. But when a dame attempts to stab you with a needle, you don't have much choice.

He still doesn't like it though.

He glances at Bucky.

And for an instant, it almost feels like his heart stops beating. It feels (somewhat ironically) frozen.

But then there is the thud of boots approaching the room and he is forced to turn, because someone has to protect Bucky's back and Steve hasn't been able to do so for years.

(Things are different now).

Bucky

He leaves the nurse and the butler to Steve.

The doctor, however, is his.

The doctor who represents every handler he ever had; every wiping he ever endured. The doctor who has harmed Ida. Ida who lies on a chair.

You could call it a chair, he supposes.

Or you could call it it (in his mind, even back then when all was numb, it was always it. The place where they fiddled with his arm. Where confusion reigned for brief moments before the numbness flooded back in).

The doctor doesn't look like anyone special. He doesn't possess a face of evil nor the expression of one mentally disturbed.

He looks ordinary.

Which is ironic, because sometimes the people who are ordinary in appearance are the ones who harbour the worst of monsters.

Evil doesn't have a face. It hides behind any façade. It festers in the soul. It spoils the mind. It blackens the heart.

Yet the face …

He remembers the face of Alexander Pierce, of his handlers, of countless HYDRA operatives. Different faces, yet what dwelt behind them …

He drives his fist into the doctor's face – not enough to kill, but enough to wound. Badly.

(Bones break).

He will draw this out; lance the boil here in this small room where the only furniture is a chair that strongly resembles the one in his nightmares.

Blow after blow – not enough to stun or kill, but enough to hurt.

It's brutal.

Blood spatters on the doctor's coat; onto the walls.

But still he continues. Fists both flesh and metal pounding.

It feels like an eternity. Perhaps it is only minutes. Seconds even.

They took everything from him. His hope. His future. His choices. His life. Stolen. Snatched away from him. They shaped him into a monster – a ghost. They overrode his will. They took his soul. Everything.

Perhaps the doctor is screaming, gurgling. Perhaps he is limp. Perhaps Steve is calling. Perhaps guns crack their bullets in the distance. Perhaps he is screaming. Perhaps Ida is …

Becky. Ida. Steve.

Thoughts. Memories crowd into his mind, clammering for his attention.

His fist stills.

'No more,' Bucky thinks, panting.

All they've done to him – all of it. The brutal washing of his mind, the subtle whispers of ideals not his own, the making of the perfect weapon. The missions, the wipings, the blind obedience …

He lets go of the doctor, dropping the dull weight to the floor.

He leans on his knees. Stares at the unconscious man. The swollen face painted with dribbling blood. The white lab coat spread about the body like fallen, stained wings.

Enough. No more.

Slowly he straightens, turning away from the still form on the floor.

He approaches the chair.

She's as pale as a ghost. Thick rings under her eyes. Wild eyes. Hair that lies in clumps about her, like a limp halo. She's whimpering now; attempting to clutch at her stomach with restrained hands.

He unstraps her rapidly, ignoring Steve who appears in the doorway, heaving and out of breath.

The instant she is free, she folds into a ball. The thin sheet that covers her body crumples with her movement, revealing a back patterned with raised purple veins.

Bucky strips off his jacket and gently – with more care than he thought he ever could possess – lays it over her. And then he leans down and he lifts her – slowly - into his arms.

The room smells of a potent mixture of antiseptic and thick drugs. What drugs, he doesn't know. But a canister of it is broken and drips to the floor, forming a deadly blue pool.

He steps over the unconscious body of the nurse, and then the butler. He doesn't look back at the doctor.

Instead, he passes by Steve and walks through the doorway.

Steve who catches a breath and nods an all clear.

The room – that small, sterile room – is behind him now.

HYDRA once had power over him. But he is free now.

Free.

Because though he may have lost his past, there is the possibility of a future. A future which will not be overshadowed by HYDRA. He's been wounded, but wounds heal. They scar, and he'll bear them for the rest of his life.

But scars fade. Just a little.

And perhaps … perhaps his will.

It's a fragile flame of hope that threatens to flicker out at the first puff of hostile wind.

But he holds Ida gently yet firmly in his arms and hears Steve's footsteps behind him, and the hum of the engine through the CPIMs in his ear (mercifully, Sam has remained silent) … and somehow, the flame grows stronger.

Brighter.

For even though Ida looks bad and HYDRA is not vanquished - for the first time, he truly allows himself to hope.

Just a little.

a/n: ... and so they are reunited at last. What will Bucky do? Will Ida survive her awful treatment? Will Ironman ever show? Where is Sam? Will Steve ever reunite with his shield again? Join me, later [next week. probably] to find out.

This story isn't quite over yet, you know.

Until next time!

Chapter 25: Chapter 23 - A New Lick of Paint

[In Desperate Need Of] A Lick of Paint

Her eyes are fixed on the corpse in Bucky's arms.

Summary. To Bring You Up To Date. By Future Ida:

I was kidnapped. I don't like thinking about it much. My therapist says that I ought to talk about it. I can't. I try to. I think about it [God help me] But thoughts never develop into words.

If I speak, it makes it a little more real.

So I write instead and feel guilty. Guilty because as the words appear on this page, I'm sobbing like an infant. I don't feel it's my right to wake up at night, screaming. I don't feel it's my right to stand at the kitchen sink, dishwater cooling as the thought of a needle brings cold terror to my very soul.

Those children went through more.

Bucky went through more.

Heck. Steve Rogers went through more and he's come out on the other side, defrosted and fighting.

So here are my words regarding my situation:

I was kidnapped by a splinter HYDRA group and experimented on. Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes saved my life. Steve was wounded, shot in the thigh. Bucky faced his past and slugged it in the face. Sam Wilson, AKA Falcon, drove a truck full of children to safety and healing.

I was kidnapped. And I was saved.

And that should be the end of it

… but God help me, part of me is still screaming, strapped to that damn chair.

Bucky

They steal a truck, Steve drives and Bucky sits beside him, Ida still in his arms. He hasn't thought to let her go yet.

She needs medical attention.

A thin sheen of sweat coats her pale brow and she hasn't spoken. Not yet. He doubts that she's aware that she's free. But somehow he thinks she knows; it's one of those things that you can feel to your bones.

Freedom.

He listens for her breath and ponders why they put her in the, the chair in the first place. He'll find out why, eventually.

"Hey Bucky?"

He looks at Steve.

"Abby's place isn't too far from here. Reckon she'll mind some visitors?" Tired though he is, there is a mischievous spark in Steve's eye.

"She'll be overwhelmed," says Bucky dryly, the words seem odd and thick to his ears.

Steve looks as though he will answer, but he frowns. They had transferred the CPIMs to Steve's ear, and clearly Sam is speaking to him.

"Roger that," says Steve. He glances at Bucky. "Stark's sent a medical team to Sam. For the kids. He wants to know if Ida needs a medic."

"Yeah." He looks down at her unconscious head, resting limply against his shoulder. "She'll need one." Or ten.

"Right." Steve rambles off an address to Sam.

Apparently, they are going to meet the medical team at Abby's. It's a half-way point and closer than the nearest hospital. (HYDRA's base just had to be out in the sticks, didn't it?)

Bucky doesn't spare a thought to the girl who might wake up to a couple of battle-beaten men on her doorstep.

"You need a medic too," he says somewhat awkwardly, nodding towards Steve's thigh.

"Oh this?" asks Steve. "I was in much worse shape when you left me the last time."

Bucky remembers dragging Steve to the bank after the Helicarrar crashed so spectacularly. "Didn't want company," he says.

"Oh really?"

Bucky is almost alarmed to find a smile on his face.

"She's gonna be scarred," says Steve after a few minutes of nothing but the hum of the engine. "Whatever they did to her-"

"Yeah," says Bucky.

"In the room-" begins Steve.

"I didn't kill him." Bucky stares out of the window.

There is a measured silence. "That's not what I was asking."

"He looked like a handler."

"Oh. Right." Steve shifts in his seat and winces. His jeans are stained a dark red. Super Soldier serum or not, he needs a medic. Stat.

Abby

She doesn't want to wake up. Like, seriously. A glance at the electric clock by her bed. Seriously?! Who wants to get up at some forsaken hour that no one should have to wake up at?

It's against her human rights. And one of the Amendments (she's not sure which one. Oh great. She's a bad patriot. Her grandpa's gonna disown her).

But someone's knocking on the front door and Mom's on her business trip. Tyler'll wake up and then he'll start crying and then … all things considered, she'd better drag her butt out of bed.

She does so; reluctantly leaving the warmth of her cocoon and feeling like a puppet with limp and really heavy limbs. Stumbling down the stairs is always a dangerous business. Grandma slipped and broke her hip on these stairs.

Abby shoves the memory away – who wants to think of stuff like that in the morning? (Or ever). The memory still rises though, surging into her mind like the waves she imagines riding on that three hundred dollar surf board.

Grandma's lying on the floor, dyed brown hair spread out, she's moaning and oh gosh Mom's not here and what the flub is she supposed to do?

Ack.

Her mouth feels like dirty dishwater.

There's great big shadows standing outside her door. She can see them through the flimsy screen. She's probably dreaming. Yeah. Wake up soon and she'd be in bed.

Nice and warm and dreaming that the Hulk's decided to turn purple and become a da Vinci devotee (what? Her dreams are never cohesive).

She falls onto the door handle and leans against it. Another knock. The door jars with it. Abby's not worried. Like, who would be? Nothing happens around here. It's probably someone with a package for her Mom.

More clothing.

Hopefully this time it isn't a gosh awful pink suit.

She gets that Mom wants to improve the family image – but pink? Mom's no Hilary Clinton or whatever. And a pink suit isn't going to make up for-

Oh. Yeah.

She should probably open the door.

She does so.

And what she sees standing on the porch leaves her speechless.

"Abby," says Captain America.

Like – CAPTAIN AMERICA IS HERE AND OH MY GOSH HE WANTS HER TO BE HIS PERSONAL WAITRESS. RIGHT, RIGHT?!

"Hi," she stutters out, gripping her hands together so that she doesn't pinch her arm or rub her eyes. If this is a dream, she wants it to last as long as it can.

And then she sees Captain America's friend – Bucky – standing a little behind the living hero and her heart makes a painful 'ba-bump' and she's pretty sure that grey is roaring around the edges of her vision because …

…

…

…

She takes a step backwards, pushing the door wide. She can't quite hear Captain America's explanation. Her eyes are fixed on the corpse in Bucky's arms.

He's robbed a morgue, she thinks a little hysterically. He's robbed a morgue and ohmomsgonnakillme he's brought the body here.

"… only a little while," Captain America concludes his speech.

Abby blinks and runs a shaky hand through her bed hair.

"Okay," she says and it's a testament to her belief in heroes that she doesn't kick Captain America down under and slam the door in Bucky's face. "Is it- Is she-"

"Oh. Yeah. She's alive," Captain America assures her rather belatedly. A smile which can only be called goofy twitches across his face and then tiredness sweeps it away. "Thought we'd stop by. As I was saying."

Abby takes another step backwards and rubs sweaty palms on her pyjamas. "Sure," she gets out. She wants to think she sounds totally casual like this happens every day but then she spots the blood on Captain America's thigh.

She gulps.

"The sitting room's just down there," she squeezes out. "You need a first aid box or something?" She took a course once. As an extra curriculum activity. She can squeeze a stuck coin out of a throat but she wasn't taught to, you know, fix a bullet wound.

But hey! There's the internet and her movie knowledge. Besides, she failed that course anyway. But she probably shouldn't mention that.

"That would be good," says Captain America as he and Bucky disappear into the sitting room. Oh gosh, did she forget to clean it last night?

She did.

She totally did.

They're going to think that she's a pig. Resisting the urge to rush in and clean the heck out of the room, she stumbles (sleep is still stubbornly clinging to her limbs) and yanks open cabinets, piling stuff and pans and why do they still have that broken mixer? Mom swore up and down that she'd gotten rid of that?

She comes up with a cracked, green first aid box that is devoid of band aids. But it's got bandages and stuff so she's pretty sure that'll be enough.

Ida

Something has changed. I'm not sure what. I'm not sure of anything really. It feels as if I'm peering through a window of distorted glass and reality is peering back at me.

Neither of us is sure that we like each other.

Reality Check

Survey Carried Out By: Ida's Subconscious

1. Are We [The Body] in a safe place?

No threat can be felt.

2. Is there any pain?

Brain is kindly overriding any pain, though due to recent pay cuts it may well go on strike. Pain Tidal Wave expected in near future.

3. Can We see anything?

Black and very dark grey. Or nothing. Unsure. All is blurred.

4. Can We hear anything?

Murmurs. Low murmurs. Not hostile. Faintly recognizable.

5. How is Our brain functioning?

Badly. The Organ in question is spouting random facts [whale dorsal fins can go floppy and cats only have a single life. HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE?] flashing memories [peppermint, books, gunshots and needles] and is regrettably in a spiral due to unsavoury liquids inserted into Our veins.

6. Can We smell anything?

… senses are overwhelmed … possible body odour detected with a hint of Pine Air Freshener.

7. We've run out of questions.

Really? What the … but …

**WARNING: Abandon Survey. Stomach relocating contents**

Dialogue Between Abby, Steve and Bucky:

Abby: I've got this stuff. I'm not sure if it will be good enough but- Wait. Is she okay? Ohmygosh I'll go get a bowl.

[Abby exits the room. Rapidly]

Steve: Doesn't look good, Buck.

Bucky: [grunts] Hold her hair.

[Abby re-enters room]

Abby: I've got a bowl. Mom's mixing bowl. She doesn't use it but. Oh. She's stopped. Hey. Um. Captain 'merica? Is that … er … all your blood on your leg?

Steve: Sure is. Wanna pass me those bandages?

Abby: … quite a bit of blood. I mean, yeah. Sure. Want some disinfectant to go with that? Do you think we could pour whiskey over it? 'cause I haven't got disinfectant but I'm sure whiskey would be good. It always is. Er, you know. In movies. I think. Right?

Bucky: …

Steve: Sure. Thanks.

[Abby disappears from room once more]

Bucky: …

Steve: Before you ask – No, I won't be drinking it.

[Loud sounds of motors whirring issue from outside the house]

Steve: Reckon that's Stark?

Bucky: It's loud. Obnoxious.

Steve: …

Steve: Yeah. That's Stark.

[A Rather Long Author's Note]: I suppose I ought to be grovelling. My only sort of excuse is that I've had Tremendous Writer's Block and: Life.

This is a short chapter because I really needed to jump start this story. I want to have a long, drawn out and dramatic-but-rather-subdued finale combined with an emotional epilogue [which may or may not happen] and this is my way to moving us forward.

To those of you who contacted me via tumblr [Heavy Breather, I'm looking at you] thank you. And to those of you who have kept reading. Thank you.

I can't promise an instant update after this one because I've got an Adventure Far Away lined up. But hopefully I won't be as lethargic in updating as I have been recently [*cough* and by that I mean I haven't at all *cough*]

Guys, we're gonna see this through. Even if it makes me stamp on a thousand Lego bricks and consume a thousand cups of sage/green tea. Eugh.

If you don't mind, could you drop me a line in that little white box? Let me know how you're getting on. I'd love to hear from you.

Until next time!

Chapter 26: Chapter 24 - Paint Dries

Paint Dries

'Captain, if you're dead, I swear I'll kill you.'

Ida

"Bucky." I think it's Steve Rogers talking, but I can't quite be sure. "Bucky, do you mind leaving the backway?"

There is a slight pause.

"Got a reason?"

One eye slides open. Someone is holding my hair back. A ceramic bowl filled with a frothing blue green liquid is directly beneath me. It is not a terribly wonderful view.

A voice behind me speaks. "I just … Stark's gonna take one look at that arm of yours …"

Stark? As in Tony Stark? I want to ask a question, but it slips away as my stomach heaves and my insides groan.

"Think I can't handle him?" A voice – quieter this time.

"It isn't about handling him," Steve is speaking in a rush. "Buck. Please."

A hand brushes my back. Someone is standing. Someone is gone.

My eyes close.

A young voice asks in bewilderment, "Wait, where'd he go?"

And then a door thuds open and a voice nears.

"So Capicicle, what crawled up your ice and- Oh. Well. I see. Puking Beauty. Is this your version of a date? Because I've gotta say-"

"Stark."

"What, you don't want dating tips now?"

"Stark. This is Ida. She's been experimented on by Hydra and needs medical attention yesterday."

"It's always the quiet ones."

What Happens Next:

Oblivion beckons, unconsciousness threatens, I become a poet and a tidal wave of pain descends.

Everything goes dark.

Lights out.

I don't even have the time to compose a befitting last thought.

Steve

Steve would be lying if he said that he didn't feel a certain, begrudging respect for Stark. Yes, Stark might get on his nerves, but they've had each other's backs and shared shawarma.

(He's not certain what shawarma has to do with it, but he feels as if it was important. It reminds him of World War II, when they'd trudge into base camp and pull out those old cans of beans. They tasted awful, but somehow better, because his commandos were all about him and they were alive and Hydra had lost a foothold).

But still, he's not ready to share Bucky's existence. Not yet.

He wonders if Stark knew what Agent Hill's message meant to him.

The Past. Not Long Ago.

"So, Steve – you dated anyone recently?"

"I don't think that's any of your business, Stark."

"Really. So a short haired, medium sized brunette … isn't ringing any bells?"

"Nope. Not a bell."

"Actually – and correct me if I'm wrong – but don't you refer to them as 'dames', Grandpa?"

"Look, I'm in the middle of a gunfight in South America, do we really have to have this conversation now?"

"South America? You do know that I can find your location with a flick of my fingers. Oh. How's the weather in-"

"Stark, as honoured as I am that you take such interest in my love life-"

"I cannot believe Grandpa said love life. Hey, Pepper! Wanna know something funny?"

"-I've got quite a bit going on here. So please. Get. To. The. Point."

"Was your humour frozen out of you- Oh. Look at that. It was."

"Stark."

"Did you get shot? I hear bullet wounds are bad for arthritis."

"Stark."

"Until the end of the line."

"…"

"Steve?"

"…"

"Pepper, I think I killed him."

"…"

"If he's dead, I am not arranging the funeral. What? You would? Pepper! No! Betrayed - I'm betrayed. Captain, if you're dead, I swear I'll kill you."

"What did you say?"

"Ah, miracles do happen! No, seriously, it's something a brunette said to tell you. Though actually, now that I think about it, she was more of a bronde."

"What? A woman?"

"Yeah, half-blonde, half-brunette. Can I have more gummy bears, Pepper? Have you eaten a gummy bear yet, Cap? I swear these red ones are an elixir. Can you get me some more made? Preferably special edition Ironman."

"Tell me what she said."

"Pepper said no; waste of resources. I beg to differ – some strategic marketing, and boom! We are in the confectionery market. Wait. We already are?"

"Not the gummy bears. The brunette."

"You mean the bronde?"

"Stark."

"Fine. You cannot please some people. Seriously, Pepper – this could be the sweet of the century. An Avengers edition. Now Gramps, she said to tell me to tell you 'till the end of the line'. Is this some sort of code word that will take me, oh, maybe ten seconds to crack?"

"She said that?"

"She also said that you would know what to do; a very ambiguous statement."

"…"

"I traced her, if you're wondering. Her name is Ida Proctor."

"Proctor?"

"You know it? I'm thinking of an Arctic theme for the wedding. What do you think? Wait, don't worry. Pepper will plan it, won't you?"

"I want her address."

"You're in the middle of a gunfight and you want her address? Sometimes, I worry about you, Cap. Okay, that's a lie – I don't. But if I did, I would."

"Get me her address."

"What, you can't say please now?"

"Gunfight. Please. Now."

"Aw, he said please."

Ida

I have no idea where I am – a circumstance which I am rapidly getting weary of. After the first moment of irritation, I realise something.

I'm not in pain.

How strange. I'm not sure how to accept it – the absence of it. Should I be grateful or worried that something worse is afoot?

After a moment, I give up.

I'm not in pain and that is a miracle. An absolute miracle.

What isn't so wonderful is my inability to feel anything.

My legs, for instance. My feet. My toes.

I attempt to wiggle them.

Nothing.

Oh. Perhaps I should look down. No. I can't move my head. Or can I?

This is very confusing.

Voices, like the whir of insects on a hot summer's day, hover in the background. I cannot tell what they are saying.

I think … yes … I'm going back to sleep.

The world can wait.

Bucky

He's tired. Weary and yet relived. Enormously relived.

He can't quite but the reason why into words – it's a jumble of thoughts and questions answered and hope regained.

He tracked Stark, until he was forced to break into a motel's empty room and sleep the sleep of the exhausted. He dreamed – of course he did (he wonders if the nightmares will ever cease) – but when he woke up, to gaze at a ceiling with its peeling orange paint, he knew that for once, his reality was better than his nightmare.

He rose and washed his face. Glanced in the mirror with its long crack. For a moment he sees another him – from a long time ago.

Before the War. Before Steve's transformation.

(Who the hell is Bucky?)

He stares and stares and realises that he's left the tap running and he needs to go and find where they've put Ida.

He leaves through the window and the morning that greets him – late though it is – feels fresh and new.

And for some reason, he's so pathetically grateful for that.

He'll sneer at himself later.

But for now, the parking lot is awash with sunlight, the trees that border it glimmer green, a bird is singing and somehow, something in the general vicinity of his chest greets it all with a glad throb.

Yeah. He'll sneer later.

But right now, he's alive, Steve is, Becky is and Ida is too.

Now ain't that a miracle?

Steve

He sits beside Ida's bed, listening to the steady beep of the heart monitor. Ida Proctor, Bucky's sister's adopted daughter (isn't that a mouthful?) lies on her bed, eyes closed.

You could almost say that she looks peaceful.

But then you look closer and realise that whatever peace she's gained has been hard won. He wonders how she'll cope after this.

He wishes that Buck would hurry up and get here.

The doctors want him in a bed with his leg wound, but he refuses. He doesn't want to miss Bucky when he finally arrives. Stark has finally left him alone – with a gift of his shield.

('Seriously,' Stark said, tossing it to him, 'you need to stop leaving your things around.')

He hadn't seen it since that last fight with Bucky. And now – there it is, propped up by his chair.

There are a thousand things he should be doing. Sam's okay – he's got the children to a safe location where their long, long road to recovery can begin. (Hydra's going to pay for that. If there are any more splinter groups, he'll find them. And he'll finish them.)

But for now, slumped in a chair, he lets himself rest

a/n: finally, I am back! Shorter chapter this time, but no fears - I'm hoping the next one is longer. By the way, once more, thank you for the nudge on tumblr, I'm neck deep attempting to write original fiction and a push in the right direction (i.e Paint) is always appreciated.

My Adventure went well - I didn't die, get arrested or hospitalised so I'm counting that as a win.

I reckon we've got one more chapter to go and then an epilogue.

So until next time, guys!

Take care, be well, live long and prosper and all that malarkey

PS. Please tell me that someone saw that 'I'm a Bronde' ad by J-Lo.

Chapter 27: Chapter 25 - A New CanvasPaint Anew

A New Canvas/Paint Anew

He never thought of himself as a hero

Ida

It's my first day back home, in the apartment.

It all seems a little foreign, as if I've been through hell and come back to something so normal it's strange that this should exist when the other exists also.

I lie on the couch, wrapped up in a blanket. Aunt Becky has been as protective as a mother hen, shuffling back and forth from kitchen to living room until I grow tired from watching her.

I close my eyes.

In the last two months so much has happened – has changed and turned and shifted and jarred and, and …

Breathe.

Just breathe.

A figure looms in the doorway.

It's Bucky.

A Fact:

Every night, for the duration of my lengthy stay in hospital, Bucky sat beside my bed. He didn't read a book out loud – if he thought to bring one, that is – or hold my hand or exchange small talk. He simply was.

For some reason, his figure in that uncomfortable plastic hospital chair kept the nightmares at bay.

"How are you?" I ask through chapped lips. (I need lip balm, but right now I really don't want to reach over to the coffee table for it.)

He leans against the doorframe, arms folded. "I'm good," he says. "You?"

"Wonderful," I tell him with a smile. "Amazing even."

"You're full of it, Ida," he says quietly.

"Yes. Well, that's probably true." Full of a cocktail of drugs, that's for certain.

"Aunt Becky's gone to bed," he says.

I blink. It's that late already? "What time is it? Is she okay?"

"Nineteen hundred hours- seven pm."

Silence falls between us. He stands, I stare.

Bucky

He doesn't know why he's standing here. But somehow, her blanket covered form, stretched out on the couch, has glued his feet to the carpet.

She doesn't look well. But then, she doesn't look on death's door, so that's probably an improvement.

Suddenly, she speaks. As always, he never can predict what she is going to say.

"Did you use the green paint?" she asks.

"No." He moves forward and snatches her lip balm from the coffee table. An old copy of the New Yorker slips off onto the floor. He offers the pink balm to her.

"Thanks," she says. "Mind pulling the lid off?"

He does so, kneeling beside the couch and presenting the lip balm to her like a knight does a favour to his chosen lady-

(He is never, ever reading another of Ida's book. Ever.)

"Do you want to?" she mumbles, frowning as she applies the balm.

He looks at the pink lid he holds in his hand. Turns it over. Studies it. Pretends it contains the answer to all things and meaning of life itself.

"Maybe," he finally offers.

Because what she's suggesting is more than a simple coat of paint over some words on a bedroom wall. It's far more than paint on a brush, coating a wall.

"There's paintbrushes somewhere around," she says, handing the balm back to him. She smiles – it's tired, but her eyes are warm. "Bucky - it's your choice, you know."

More double meaning.

Carefully, he replaces the lid and sets it on the coffee table. The New Yorker is also replaced, its rousing article on the state of the US economy ignored.

"Is Steve coming today?" she asks, changing the subject.

"Not tonight." Steve has come nearly every day. He says he's searching for an apartment, but he always ends up crashing on the living room floor. (Brooklyn apartments aren't cheap.)

Bucky always keeps his bedroom door firmly closed when he's here. He trusts him, of course he does. But he doesn't fancy showing his worst to someone who is one of the best men he knows.

(Though, to be honest, most of his living acquaintances are on the shady side of the law with job titles such as 'assassin' or 'unpleasant doctors with questionable motives'.)

"Wilson's got something for him."

She doesn't ask what, she simply nods and rests her head on the pillow.

"Heck of an adventure," she remarks suddenly.

He stares at her, bemused. "You'd call it that?"

"Hmmm. Does 'Visit to Dante's Seventh Level of Hell' sound better?"

"I'm sorry," he says. Because it's all his fault. If he'd stayed away, nothing would have happened. She wouldn't be lying there like a broken doll. Becky wouldn't be exhausted with worry. It would just be … better.

"Don't be an idiot," she says, yawning. "I shouldn't have said that. 'Don't quote or mention literature if you can't quote or mention it accurately'. I'm not sure if it's level or layer of hell. Hence the old saying I just made up."

"Clever," he says with a reluctant grin. "And it's level."

"Look at you, all literature-ly. And yes, I am fully aware of the fact that that isn't a word."

They are quiet for a little while. Bucky doesn't know what to say next:

Thank you for welcoming me and nearly dying because of my actions?

She'd scold him.

Thank you for taking care of my baby sister?

She'd cry. And then scold.

You can't cook if your life depended on it?

She's fully aware of the fact.

Ida

"I'm glad you came to stay," I say suddenly, lowering my voice so it doesn't shatter the silence. "Aunt Becky would've been devastated if you were alive and didn't visit her."

He chuckles. Mocking. Not me – but himself. "I shouldn't have," he says, raising his eyes to mine. "If I could redo it, I wouldn't come."

"But-"

"She wouldn't have known," he says suddenly – bitterly. "You've seen her, Ida. She's tired. Ill. Yeah – I know. You can tell. She'd buried me years ago – got used to it. 'Deceased Big Brother – War Hero'. Someone she was proud of. I shouldn't have come back. The dead shouldn't come back."

"And now you're being melodramatic," I can't help but make a very undignified sound. "If you were a zombie, I'd understand." I lean forward on my pillow. "But you're not – are you?"

"She-"

"Zip it." My voice is sharp and I can't help it. "If you're going to say all that then ask her. Ask her what she wants and don't be an absolute idiot."

His jaw is clenched. Both hands – metal and flesh – are fisted.

"What's happened has happened," I say, trying to make him understand. It's hard though. So very hard. "And now here we are. All alive. All safe and sound."

He gives a disbelieving huff.

"And you saved me from any midlife crises I might have in my future. After this experience, I'll be grateful for late buses and customers without a drop of sense. So really I ought to thank you."

A reluctant laugh. "Midlife crises?"

"Aunt Becky loves you," I tell him. "You're her brother and when you had no one, you came home. Home doesn't have conditions, you silly man. There's no list of forms you have to fill out before coming inside." I smile through tears.

(I'm tired, feeling sentimental and I'm on extremely odd and hard to pronounce medication. So there).

Bucky

"She was your home. Your family, Bucky," Ida says quietly. "And you came back to her. She would have accepted you whatever you were, whatever history you brought back with you."

He watches her, listening to her words. Its hard to believe what she's saying. Hard. But perhaps … perhaps and maybe and possibly … they could be – potentially – true.

"That's what home is," she says with a smile. "And whether you know it or not, you've got one here."

She was adopted, he remembers. His little sister and her husband accepted her, and made her part of their family. Their home.

"You too," he says suddenly. He doesn't know what they imply, he only knows that the words ought to be said.

"Thank you," she whispers.

Ida

Sleep finds me easily. I'm always rather tired these days.

Bucky

He sits with his back against the couch, staring out at nothing. His knees are bent and his feet rest against the coffee table.

He doesn't know how long he sits there. But he sits and thinks of his past – mostly dispassionate. HYDRA's grasping fingers feel far away tonight.

(Not too far. But … far enough).

Time slips by.

Second by second.

He never thought of time as a luxury before – and now it is, and it's all his to spend.

Minute follows minute.

His memory isn't completely whole, but it's there. He hadn't thought of memory has a luxury before. But then, if he had, HYDRA would have made sure that he would have forgotten the thought.

Hour chases hour.

He's not a good person. He's never thought of himself as a hero – not even before that fall from the train.

Then he followed Steve because Steve was, well, Steve.

Before Steve found him, before he fell into HYDRA's clutches that first time, he joined the army because it was expected; he was young, fit and healthy. His country needed him. He liked the idea of being in a uniform, of excitement and adventure. (Besides, the girls loved it.)

But the possibility of being a good man, a hero, was always there. And maybe, in a way, he was.

But not anymore. He's sure of that.

Utterly certain.

(The black words scrawled upon Ida's bedroom wall prove it.)

But even though he knows what he can't become, he knows what he won't go back to being.

And he might not become a hero or even a good man but whatever the opposite of what he was, he'll be.

He's no longer a puppet.

Dawn creeps through the window, vying with the street lamps for who can shine the most light. The curtains were never closed.

His back is aching, but he doesn't move.

Ida

I wake up with a start. Faceless figures and memories best left alone fall away in a rush, like a blanket slipping to the floor.

"Ida?"

"Bucky?"

"Yeah."

The living room isn't fully lit yet, but I hear a rustle, and he is turning to face me.

Has he sat there all night?

"Are you okay?" I ask him.

"Yeah."

"The hall closet?" he asks, his voice low and quiet.

I stare at him for a moment as clarity and moderate intelligence click into place.

"For the paint?" I whisper. "Are you-?"

"Yes."

I sit up. I ignore the pain. "Really?" I ask, though truthfully it is more of a demand.

Bucky kneels. I rub the sleep from my eyes and blink at him. I really shouldn't insult him by asking if he means it but-

"Really?!"

"If you want," he says slowly. Each word is full of quiet determination, "you can help. If you want."

"Bucky," I whisper, hushed. "Really?"

A soft chuckle – disbelieving, a little off-balance. "It's just a wall."

"It was never just a wall."

Quiet. Then- "Yes."

"Okay." I wipe my forehead. "Yes. Very well. Okay. Umm … paintbrushes … are in the-"

Actually, where are they? An important occasion such as this cannot be held up by a lack of paintbrushes. It should be against the law.

"-kitchen cabinet above the stove."

"Stay here," he says.

I sit back against the couch, enfolded in peppermint and musk. I can't help it – a prayer of thanks slips out, so relieved and so very, very grateful.

I may be making more of this situation then it is. Maybe. But he's going to paint over that awful wall and maybe, just maybe it means something that might be a little wonderful.

With silent steps, he walks passed the living room door. The hall closet opens. Quiet rustling. The door is carefully closed.

A creak. Is he in my bedroom?

Another creak.

I stare at the grey outlines of the living room furniture, lit with the faint light of faraway street lamps. I sit and squeeze my hands, twisting my fingers and staring at the door.

And there he is.

He walks quietly and doesn't speak, but picks me up – blue blanket and all – as carefully as one does a new-born baby.

Together, we leave the living room and then it's into my room. He sets me down on the bed, carefully propped up against a few pillows.

With a soft groan, my bedroom door closes and the light is switched on.

And there it is, the wall.

Name upon name.

Bucky's past.

Bucky's guilt.

He's staring at it, and I at him.

"You might need a spoon to open the paint lid," I say abruptly, breaking the silence. I can't hide my wobbly smile. I'm rather certain I'm crying but it could just be waking up so early and not taking my painkillers.

He blinks, as though coming to from a dream and turns to look down at me. "It'll be okay," he says, and I'm not sure if he's speaking about the paint lid or himself.

Taking the paint brush from its perch on the bucket of green paint, he pushes one metal thumb into the lid. It opens at his first attempt. He hesitates in dipping the black bristles of the brush into the paint. And then, then he dips it in and stands up.

And there it is.

The first brushstroke.

Green covering black.

(It would be more poetic if it were white, my brain informs me. I tell my brain to shut up.)

Bucky

It's hard. These are the names of people he has killed. No – not he, the assassin HYDRA made him into. He can't do this. He's guilty. His soul is black as sin. His hands are stained red with their blood.

There is a creak of the bed behind him.

He stares at those names and remembers them dying. He did it. He killed them. He felt no mercy and gave them none. How can he do this – erase his wrong?

A hand touches his arm – soft and gentle.

He looks down, and there's Ida Proctor. She doesn't look at him, but carefully takes his hand and guides it and its brush against the wall.

(What is she doing? He did this and he didn't feel a single thing when he did. He was the perfect soldier. The ultimate killing machine. No emotion. No guilt. It was him – all him.)

A name wiped out. Nothing but a faint black outline beneath the green. He stares.

(It was all him.)

"Do you mind putting more paint on it?" Ida asks quietly.

He glances down – it's a sharp glance. She returns his look, her eyes are serious. "You're name is James Buchanan Barnes," she says, her voice infinitely gentle. "You are a big brother and a firm friend. You've been through hell and come out alive. Bruised, battered and scarred, but alive."

(He's being forced down, his handlers are about him. 'Wipe him,' a disembodied voice says.)

Her hand grips his arm.

(He's staring into a face of someone he knows.)

"Bucky, you aren't this wall. You never were, you know. You were used and you were broken, forced to do things you would never have chosen."

(He's pleading with them. Begging them all. Who the hell is Bucky?)

All about them seems utterly still. A drip of green paint is dribbling down the wall, leaving a green trail against the black words.

(No one answers.)

Her words are urgent. "You're free now, Bucky. Free."

Bucky nods at last.

He bends, shoves the brush into the paint and slaps it on the wall, sweeping down with one great stroke. Ida leans against him and he brushes on. Name after name disappears beneath the green.

(I'm sorry, he's saying in the depths of his heart. I'm so very sorry.)

It's his real hand that he uses, but he switches the brush and puts that one around Ida. Paint covers the metal hand but he doesn't care.

(Forgive me, he thinks. I didn't have a choice.)

Time slips by. The names are vanishing. The paint is thick, dripping and dribbling, but he doesn't care.

(I was never given one.)

Ida

We sit on the bed when it's done. Side by side. My heavy head leans against his shoulder.

All the names have gone; you can't even see their black outline beneath the green paint. You can't even tell they were ever there.

"They still died," Bucky says suddenly.

"Yes."

"I didn't have a choice."

"You didn't even know you had one."

"I do now."

I shift my head to find a more comfortable position. (His metal arm no longer hums – courtesy of Steve and Steve's contacts). My smile is dimmed only for want of my medication.

There is so much I wish I could say. All in one big rush.

Here's to new beginnings, Bucky. To finding your way – wherever that may be. May you find happiness, or may happiness find you.

You deserve it, you know.

But above all, may you find peace – a deep, restful and abiding peace.

I'm proud of you. So very, very proud. Aunt Becky will be too.

For all the bad they made you do, do some good. For each life they made you take, save one. They didn't give you a choice, but oh Bucky, you have one now. You have limitless choices.

And I know you'll choose well.

I know it.

"Yes," I tell Bucky. "You do now."

/

/

a/n: For the latter half of this chapter, I listened to 'Courage and Kindness' from the latest Cinderella film (what?). It starts off so very gentle and ends up beautifully triumphant.

Thank You!

… for reading, reviewing, for alerting and supporting. I don't think this story would have been finished without you. (Though it isn't quite finished. On Saturday I'll be posting the epilogue.)

From this Wednesday to Sunday, as an enormous 'thank you' for reviewing or even just simply reading – I'm putting a book of mine ('Our Intrepid Heroine' by Ness Kingsley) for free on Amazon. It's a little different to this, quite short and written in a different tense and style, but I had a giggle writing it and I hope you do to reading it. But either way - thank you.

Until next time!

Chapter 28: Chapter 26 - Paint Me An Ending

Paint Me an Ending

You can usually sum up a story, can't you?

Beginning. Middle. End.

Every story has one – don't they? Yet the stories we find beneath the covers of books are different to the ones we find in real life.

For one thing, beginnings almost always begin with an ending – the ending of what came before.

And it has to happen; one journey must end before the other begins. My normal life stopped when Bucky entered it – an ending and a beginning. But this period of my life ended when Bucky left it – and ending, and yet also a beginning, for does a tale ever really end? Is anything ever truly certain?

Bucky didn't leave, even though he did.

He came back – because we were his home and he was also ours. His path was different though, as it always was. We merely hung on for a little of it, and got badly bruised for the great majority of it.

Aunt Becky died a year after Bucky arrived. It was peaceful. It was quiet. Bucky didn't make it to her bedside – crime doesn't wait for anyone - but he made the funeral.

The world is changing, it always is, but now more so then ever. I cling to what normalcy I can, and visit my therapist when I can't.

Apartment 23 feels empty, so I bought a cat and named it Becca. I hope Aunt Becky wouldn't mind. She's buried beside Uncle Scott. Side by side. She would have wanted that. I miss her more than words can say.

Bucky visits when he can and I cook him a meal and he pretends to enjoy it. It's a tradition of ours, and even though I take cookery classes now, I make sure to oversalt his meal.

I'm rather certain he would miss it.

Philip and I don't talk very much now. I'm not sure why. Ever since that chair, it's as though I look at the world through a fogged-up window and can't quite relate to any of it.

My therapist says it's PTSD. I tell him that he's off his rocker. Politely, of course. He nods with equal politeness and tells me that I'm an outrageous liar.

Bucky tells me that the children that HYDRA experimented on are doing as well as can be expected. It's funny how people in search of a better world for all mankind tread on so many others.

Beginning. Middle. End.

You can usually sum up a story, can't you? Mine would go a little like this:

My name is Ida Proctor. I've no middle name. I was adopted by two people who loved me. I like fall mornings and a good book. Once I met a ghost from the past. He lived, but he suffered. He covered my wall with the names of the dead. Together we had an adventure or two, he healed his scars and I received a few.

In the middle of it all, perhaps he found redemption – perhaps he seeks it still. My bedroom wall is painted over, and a picture of the three of us – my Aunt, he and I – hangs in its place.

I know he lives still – right now he's attempting not to gag over a somewhat liberally salted lasagne. I know he does his best to fight evil where he finds it – on a plate, or in a back alley.

When I think of heroes, I don't think of him. When I think of great men, I don't think of him.

But when I think of someone who sees his demons and defeats them every day, when I think of someone who rose above what others tried to form him into, when I think of a brave man, a good man – I think of him.

The man who found himself again.

James Buchanan Barnes.

FIN

a/n: So we've finished. Finally. After over a year. And really, it's all down to you who have read, reviewed, alerted, and kept me motivated to keep on scribbling this story.

Thank you.

In the comics, Bucky really does have a sister, an unidentified nephew and a neice and an aunt called Ida. I took this idea and legged it - and thus this story came into being.

I've had marvellous fun writing this and it's been a great adventure – even if I've had to bluff my way through bits of it (like tech speak – who knows that stuff? And what would Maria Hill say if she came to the reception desk? And ugh! how on earth am I going to write Bucky himself! - the reason why there wasn't too much of him speaking in the beginning.)

But I like to think I got there, in the end.

I know it may seem a bit rude to ask, but genuinely – what do you think? Did you hate it, love it, like it, want to set it on fire or point out all those really awful typos? *bows head in shame* I really would like to know.

Special thanks to JuliaAurelia, Qweb, tinseltown, MariMart, Spongyllama, Biskitty, primadea and squirrel1464. And you too, Sailor Pandabear – that last review of yours made me grin. (If I've left out your name, please do forgive me. If I've got your name wrong – sorry!). You guys rock and made this story happen.

If anyone decides to review in the future – thank you.

And now, finally I can read all the other Bucky Barnes fanfiction out there – I've been forbidding myself from indulging thus far. But now … : )

Better dash – I'm rather certain that the dinner might be burning.

Take care all, and once more – thank you for reading!