"…baby let's ride, we got nothing but time-"

"Mmmm.."

"-you get all the reactions, you're the main attraction-"

"Shut up.."

"-it's no surprise, God I like your style-"

Cursing quietly, a hand reached out from beneath a pile of blankets and swatted at the phone vibrating on the dresser, the melody playing just out of reach.

"-you're the perfect distraction-"

"Fucking.. Where are you.."

He grumbled, stretching further as his fingertips made contact with the device and tried to force it closer.

"-you're the main attract-"

"What?"

Bucky demanded, his voice groggy as he dropped the phone next to his face while peeking out from underneath his pillow. The light illuminated his bedroom, the sun not even up yet as he glared hatefully at the screen.

"Barnes, you awake?"

"Who wakes up this early?"

He mumbled, turning to press his face into the mattress.

"I need your help with something, can you come in early?"

"Are you dying?"

"What? No."

"Then no."

He grumbled, reaching out to turn off his phone as the man on the other end let out an annoyed breath.

"I asked her out, Barnes."

There's a beat of silence as the man pushed himself up, squinting at the phone suspiciously.

"When?"

"Last night."

There was another pause as he dropped his head and sighed.

"I hate you."

"I'll bring you breakfast."

"I hate you only slightly less."

He muttered, reaching out and ending the call as he fell back onto his pillow, letting out a quiet breath.

If it was anything else, he wouldn't bother. But this was Clint, and this was about Natasha. Besides, he still felt like he owed him for his help getting his job in the first place. When everyone else had avoided him, Clint had pushed to get him hired in the forensics department.

Groaning, he squeezed his eyes shut tighter before pushing himself up again and rolling onto the edge of his bed, grimacing at the ache in his muscles. Picking up his phone and staring at the time, he squeezed the device tighter. Sure, he could run his day on three hours of sleep, but Barton would owe him a hell of a lot of coffee for it.

Rising from the warm bed, he shivered at the contact of his bare feet against the cool floors as he padded over to his dresser, rummaging in the darkness for a pair of jeans and a shirt. Stumbling into his bathroom and turning on the light, another low groan escaped him as he blindly turned on the shower and set his clothes on the edge of the sink.

Rubbing at his burning eyes, he pulled out the elastic holding his hair and tugged off his shorts, climbing into the shower and shivering again, his hands running down his face. The heat of the water eased the tension in his chest as he stood beneath the stream, steam quickly filling the small room.

He didn't want to get out, didn't want to start his day yet. He was half tempted to get back into bed and just call in sick. He could say he'd come down with a sudden debilitating case of the Spanish flu that had rendered him bedridden with outrageously terrifying hallucinations. Or he could just say he'd contracted food poisoning.

And he might've done just that if that nagging voice in the back of his head would stop reminding him Clint wanted to talk to him. But then again, why couldn't he have talked about it over the phone? Unless it had gone tremendously bad, which with Clint, was entirely possible.

With a heavy sigh Bucky shut off the water and climbed out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist as he wiped the steam from his mirror, leaving it dotted with water as he looked at his reflection.

Tugging back his hair and feeling water drip down his spine, he turned his face and inspected the dark bruise that decorated his cheek. The pads of his fingers drifted gingerly over the infliction as he winced at the contact, the memory of the fist striking his face all too fresh in his mind.

Backing up and turning to his other side, he inspected the patch of discoloration along the left side of his chest, the marks suspiciously resembling those of a boot. The dark purple and black splotches looked awful, but the pain was worse, like he was being kicked over and over again every time he moved.

He'd known when it happened that his ribcage had been bruised, he'd heard the strike like an echo throughout his whole body. He supposed he was lucky, it could've been a lot worse considering.

Quickly drying his hair and brushing his teeth, Bucky dug around in one of the boxes propped on a shelf and pulled out a compact of concealer. He'd gotten good at hiding the worst of his bruises when he was living with Steve, and now with Wanda he knew it would be no different.

In minutes he had the dark patch of skin looking a few weeks old rather than just a few hours as he hid the compact back underneath a few of his other things and began to dress. He tugged on his clothes quickly, awake enough now to feel the pulsating headache banging around inside his head like a junior high marching band. One with really loud cymbals.

Pulling his still wet hair back into the tie, he pulled his hand away and peeled off the wet gauze. The cut in his hand was still raw, the glue holding the skin together to keep it from bleeding. If he focused, he could still feel Wanda's fingers brushing against his skin, the coolness of her touch sending a wave of warmth through him as he rummaged through the bathroom drawers until he located an old Band-Aid.

He really needed to make a first aid kit now that he didn't have Steve's to pilfer from anymore. Tugging on his shoes while flipping off the light and submerging himself in darkness again, he maneuvered around the still unfamiliar room until he'd opened his door and crept into the rest of the apartment.

The lights were off in the other room, and Bucky found himself straining to stare at the woman's door. When he'd offered to talk to her last night, the last thing he'd expected was that story to come out of her. To lose her brother like that, no wonder she was so wary of other people.

Until now he hadn't met anyone else touched by Alexander Pierce, and it made him sick to know what he did her and her brother. Is that why Steve mentioned her, encouraged his moving in? Clenching his fists, he moved silently through the hall as he grabbed his keys and jacket from off the table by the door and slipped outside.

Dawn had yet to make an appearance, darkness still hovering thick over the city as he walked down the stairs and towards his bike. He should've made Clint pick him up if he was demanding an appearance this early, but as he turned the engine over he couldn't help the small smile at the sound it made.

The roads were fairly empty, few people up at such an early hour as he sped towards the station, the wind biting at his face and hands along the way. He almost hated to admit it, but the cold and the dark were familiar to him, and it held a warped form of comfort.

Slowing at a stop light, another car idled across from him, the two the only vehicles on the road as Bucky glanced down at his hand. She had been a comfort to him as well. Was that strange? He'd been miserable last night after the fight, and when she'd come out of her room he hadn't expected that reaction, that concern.

She'd looked unconvinced when he'd lied about how he'd gotten hurt, but she helped him all the same. She was kind, and strong too. She'd have to be to still be going after what she went through.

Speeding up as the light changed, he passed the car without a single glance and sped along. Her smile was infectious and her voice was soothing, not to mention her accent one of the most unique things he'd ever heard. Steve had mentioned her family was from Sokovia, but she'd been living in the United States most of her life.

Should he bring it up, or would that be too painful? She'd said her parents had died, and now that her brother was gone too, did she have no one else left? He felt for her, that reality all too familiar for him as well.

Sure he had Steve, but he missed his sister and his parents. He missed his old self too. Did she feel like that after what she'd done? That there was a piece of herself that was gone forever, even though no one could tell anything was really different on the outside?

Glancing down at his left arm, his fingers tightened around the handlebar as his teeth grit together. Sometimes he wished all that he carried were the mental scars. He'd never regretted going to war, fighting for his country. But he'd never signed up for those months of hell.

"How's the Soldier doing today, doctor?"

He could still hear his voice in his mind, like a knife grating against stone.

"Stubborn as usual, Sir."

He shuddered, body trembling as his bike sped faster down the road.

"Well, you know how to cure that, don't you?"

All he could see was red. The blood pooling and the stench of bleach burning his nose. The agonizing picking and peeling and poking and prodding , the sound of tools sawing through bone and the anguished screams that still haunted him in the dead of night.

He hated that damp cell and those laughing words and that smug smile that stared at him as if he were nothing more than a piece of meat. And he hated the silence. The unbearable, deafening nothingness that reminded him of days he wished he could forget and pain that was never ending.

He'd have killed that man if he'd had the chance. Destroyed that bastard and ruined his life, just as he'd ruined his. Rip into his body like he had done to him, crush his bones and tear apart his muscles just to watch him suffer and bleed. To make every fiber of his being ache and moan and beg for it to end just let it end.

And yet.. in truth, what could there be done? It was over now, and he was home. Letting out a hitched breath, Bucky blinked away the memories and the hatred and found himself idling outside the police station, his bike parked in its spot and his fingers wrapped like a vice around the handles.

When had he arrived? Had he been so immersed that he'd completely blocked out the rest of the drive? He hated that about himself, the memories that dredged up so much hatred and self-loathing that he forgot about everything else and made himself really believe he could do those things, could really kill someone in cold blood. But if he did, that would make him no better than Pierce, and at that point he might as well just kill himself off too.

Prying his fingers off the bars and rubbing them together, he climbed off his bike and pocketed the keys before striding towards the front doors of the building. Dawn had just begun to settle in, yet there were already numerous cars in the lot. He liked that about the station, regardless of the hour there were always people milling about.

Texting Clint that he was there he ran a hand down his face and stifled a yawn. What little sleep he'd managed to get the night before had been plagued with dreams, and he was beyond exhausted.

He needed coffee and an extremely slow day that would offer him quick release. That, and a friend who wouldn't wake him up in the early morning hours in demand his presence.

Walking through the main lobby and pressing the button for the elevators, he waited impatiently as the chatter of the receptionist and a beat cop floated over to him.

"It was crazy, they just came inside with these two guys, and no one has any clue how it happened."

"Dana told me it was Officer Quill who got the call, but he didn't bring them in, so what's that mean? Was the caller someone he knew?"

Looking over with his interest now piqued, Bucky moved a couple of steps closer.

"What happened?"

He asked, catching the eye of the receptionist who smiled warmly. Tina had always been kind to him, even after the issues he'd had.

"Around midnight a couple of guys on patrol brought in two members of the Infinity gang who were totally beat up! Said they'd gotten an anonymous call and when they arrived they found them all tied up!"

"Tied up?"

Bucky frowned, taking another step closer as the now open elevator was forgotten behind him.

"Yeah, Jimmy said that when he walked in the two guys were out cold on the floor and there was a bunch of narcotics spread all around. Perfect scene for arresting them, those guys don't stand a chance. Can't figure out who set it all up though."

"It was just those two guys, no one else? Did it look like anyone had broken in?"

Bucky asked, leaning against the counter now as the cop shrugged.

"Not from what Jim said, though if it was a dealers den, it probably wasn't the cleanest anyway. They weren't able to get much out of the guys, either. The only one to talk so far said it was a masked man who appeared out of nowhere."

"Well whoever is responsible deserves a medal. Those Infinity gang members are ruthless and they've been running free for far too long if you ask me."

Tina grumped, folding her arms and leaning back in her chair as Bucky smiled.

"If you had your way, Tina, the city would be crime free by lunch."

"Hm, maybe I should run for mayor!"

"Or maybe you should get that head of yours tested."

The cop teased, sparking new banter between the two as Bucky pushed away from them and walked back over to the elevators. Pressing the button again and watching the number tick down, a small smile crept onto his face.

Maybe it really had been worth it then, getting his ass kicked. He'd gotten a few names, and as it turned out, he'd given hope to a few people in the city. The Infinity Gang wasn't as untouchable as everyone thought. At least their lackeys weren't.

Stepping inside as the doors opened, he pushed his floor's button and smiled wider. Deserved a medal, huh? He could get used to talk like that.

As the doors opened again and Bucky slipped out onto his floor, most of the desks were empty save one.

He walked slowly, eyes flitting to where Loki Laufeyson sat perched on one side of his desk, speaking intently into his phone in a low tone.

As their eyes met, the man shot the photographer a hateful look before turning away and speaking even quieter. Making a face at the turned detective's back, Bucky trudged on to find Clint. That man was shady beyond belief, why they'd ever let him on the force he'd never understand. Didn't anyone see how he never actually did his job?

Walking to the back of the floor he found the only other desk that was currently occupied with papers spread everywhere, a cup of coffee on one end, and a pastry bag on the other.

The man seated at the desk was about as put together as his belongings, the tie he'd once been wearing now laying half in his trash can, and his jacket slung carelessly over the back of his chair. It was evident that he hasn't shaved since the day before, and there was a stain on the front of his shirt that Bucky was positive had to be jelly filling.

"You look like shit, Barton."

He spoke up, watching in amusement as the man in front of him jolted, papers on his desk sliding to the floor as tired eyes met his.

"So do you. Who punched you this time?"

"What?"

"Your makeup is smudged, genius." Clint mumbled, gesturing a hand up at the photographer's face as he groaned and ran his hands over his eyes. "What time is it?"

"About forty minutes after you woke me up, genius."

Bucky scowled, snatching his phone from his pocket and turning the camera on to look at himself, irritated to find the Clint was correct and a streak of the cover up he had used had been wiped away and was revealing the darker skin beneath.

"Oh, shit, that's right."

"Did you even go home last night?"

Bucky asked, grabbed a chair from another desk and rolling it over, falling down in it and sighing, his side and his head throbbing simultaneously.

"No, how could I? There's too much work."

"Put it aside for five minutes and talk to me," Bucky urged, leaning closer and spinning the man's chair to face him. "You asked Nat out?"

"What?"

"On the phone, you said you asked Natasha out."

"No I didn't."

"Yes, you did."

"I know, but no, I didn't. I said that to get you here."

There's a beat of silence, ice colored hues glaring hatefully at the detective as he pulled away and inhaled slowly.

"You lied to me.. to get me here.. before even the sun was up?"

"Yeah, but look, breakfast as promised."

Clint stated, offering the coffee cup out to the photographer and motioning to the pastry bag as Bucky scowled.

"You're an asshole Clint, and I'm going home."

"Wait!" The man yelped, stretching out his hand to stop Bucky from getting up. "I wouldn't have lied but I really do need your help."

"Too late, get someone else to dig you out of whatever mess you made."

He muttered, pushing Clint away and standing.

"James, please."

He hesitated, turning to look at the man over his shoulder, a pleading look he rarely saw etched onto his face that had him slowly caving.

"What could I possibly help you with?"

"Sit?"

"Tell me first, then I'll decide if it's worth dealing with you."

"We had sex, okay?" The words that leave his mouth weren't the ones Bucky had been expecting, and as his jaw dropped, he found any words of his own unable to come out. "We had sex, and we're probably going to have sex again. Now will you sit, please?" Dropping heavily into the seat and still gaping, Bucky watched Clint turn back to his desk and shuffle through the papers, looking frantically before he bent down and scooped some up off the floor. "Here it is, look. Stop staring and look."

He insisted, shoving the papers at the man as Bucky forced himself to look at the information given to him.

"These.. these are the insurance claims for what was stolen during the last three heists."

He says slowly, taking the papers and skimming over them.

"Yeah, pretty high, right?"

"Everything that was taken was fairly valuable so yeah, they're high payouts. So what?"

"They're all different companies. Different companies, different victims varying in age and race and gender. There's no correlations between any of them, none. I'm going crazy here, Barnes. I can't find anything that would connect the thief to any of them."

"Why are you looking at what was stolen?"

He asked, setting the papers on the desk and grabbing a different stack, reviewing some of the case files.

"What else is there?"

"You've looked into where they live, you've made maps, you've checked to see if they knew anyone who knew another person who knew another victim?"

"I've dug so far into personal histories and the closet I've come is finding out that the first victim's ex-wife's sister in law's daughter's boyfriend's poodle eats the same kibble as their dog." Clint groaned, dropping his head on his desk and grabbing at the back of his neck. "And because of that damn story, Fury is on our ass big time to get this taken care of. The last thing we needed was this kind of media. Not to mention the inside scoop that I'm getting blamed for."

"Slow down, I'm not following."

Bucky shook his head, setting the files down and grabbing the coffee, taking a long sip.

"She didn't tell you?"

"She who? The hell are you talking about, Clint?"

He watched as the man reached around and pulled a newspaper out from under the pastry bag and held it out to him.

"Front page news this morning, and look at the author." Taking the paper and unfolding it, Bucky stared with wide eyes. "Scarlet Witch, A Thief For The Ages."

Clint spoke aloud, banging his head lightly against his desk.

"Story by Wanda Maximoff." Bucky finished, shaking his head slowly. "Why-"

"It's the flowers, Buck. She knows about the flowers and now everyone knows and that was our only solid piece of evidence. And you know what this means now."

"Copycats."

"Copycats."

Clint nodded, groaning again.

"Who told her?"

"It wasn't me, I sent her away. And while everyone likes her, surely they knew better than to give a reporter information like that!"

"But Fury is blaming you because you're her Godfather."

Bucky sighed, dropping the paper in his lap as Clint turned his head a fraction, staring up at the other man woefully.

"I need to solve this case fast, before anything else is spread. We know absolutely nothing about this thief aside from her probably being a woman, which is another little tidbit she managed to gleam."

"Right, yeah," Bucky chuckled awkwardly, scratching at the back of his head. Okay, so he'd told her they suspected a woman, but he'd never said a word about the flowers. One statement was just speculation whereas the other was their strongest connection to the thief. "Listen, I know you're worried about this, but you can't just stay all night like this. You need to go home and get some rest, look at things with fresh eyes."

"Easy for you to say, your career isn't riding on all this."

"You're being dramatic."

"No I'm not. I just need to accept the fact that in three months I'll be paying my bills with money I make from being the janitor cause that's the only way I'll still be working in this place."

"Yeah, not dramatic at all." Bucky rolled his eyes, standing up and swatting his back with the newspaper. "Go home, Clint. Before you go insane sitting here."

"Too late."

"Thanks, by the way."

"For what?"

He mumbled, his voice muffled as Bucky took a step away and grinned.

"For the win. Thanks to you, the office pot is mine."

"Office pot?"

Sitting up, Clint narrowed his eyes as Bucky grinned wider at him.

"For when you two would end up together, champ. We're all so proud."

"That smart assed mouth is why you always have bruises on your face, Barnes!"

Clint yelled out as Bucky walked backwards away from him, giving him a small salute with the paper.

"Go home!"

"You were supposed to help me!"

"I am, go home!"

"I bought you breakfast!"

"You have day old doughnuts and cold coffee from the break room, don't think I didn't notice, now go home." Bucky yelled back, turning around and immediately stumbling into someone, knocking them to the ground as a stack of papers flew up above them. "Oh shi- Kid, you okay?"

He asked quickly, kneeling down to help pick up the stack of papers that had fallen as the highschooler scrambled for the files.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Barnes, I thought I was far enough out of your way."

The boy apologized as Bucky offered him a smile.

"Don't worry about it, Peter, accidents happen. I should've been watching where I was going. Why are you here this early?"

He asked, standing up and handing the papers he'd picked up to the boy who quickly shuffled them in with his own.

"I had to drop off a few things for Mr. Lang and Detective Laufeyson asked me to take these things to the filing room."

He explained hurriedly as Bucky frowned.

"Aren't you supposed to be at your internship by seven?"

"Yes, sir."

"Kid, give me those and go before you're late getting there. Loki shouldn't have pegged you with this when you aren't even working with his department."

Taking the stack of papers from him, Peter shook his head.

"I-It's fine, I don't mind, really. Besides, I don't think I'll be working at the paper for much longer anyway."

He sighed, dropping his gaze to the floor as Bucky sat the stack of papers on a nearby desk.

"What? Why, what happened?"

"Nothing, really. Just.. balancing an internship and a part time job with school has been really difficult and I should be dedicating my time to one specific thing, not letting my uncertainty get in the way of both places."

He shrugged halfheartedly, the words sounding strange coming from the boy as Bucky folded his arms suspiciously.

"You have an interest in photography and in forensic analysis, you're allowed to pursue both options. And I certainly haven't heard any complaints about you from anyone in this building, which means someone at the newsroom did."

"It's not a big deal, I-"

"And what you said just then doesn't sound like you, it sounded like Stark."

The boy's face turned a shade of scarlet as he looked pleadingly up at the man.

"Mr. Stark only has my best interests at heart. He's helped me a lot and if he thinks I should be dedicating my time to one place instead of two, well, maybe I should be."

"He does like you a lot, I've never seen him take a shining to anyone quite like you before," Another flustered look brings a small smile to Bucky's face. "But if you can handle both the internship and the job, then you should do both."

"But-"

"It's ultimately up to you, kid. But it's your choice, not Stark's, and not mine. Yours."

Staring at the ground, Peter nodded a couple of times before looking up.

"Thanks, Mr. Barnes."

"Go on, get going."

"The papers-"

"I'll handle it. Go on."

"Thanks."

He nodded again, tugging on his backpack and running back towards the elevators as Bucky sighed. Stark was going to smother that kid if he wasn't careful. Everyone knew how much Peter meant to him, but he also didn't need to try and protect him from everything. He shouldn't have given him the internship if he didn't want the kid out searching for stories. Looking back over at the stack of papers, Bucky gathered them up and carried them back over to Loki's desk.

"File your own paperwork."

He said gruffly, dropping the stack in front of the man who glared in his direction.

"Excuse me?"

"Parker isn't your secretary, he doesn't even work on this floor. File your own paperwork and leave the kid alone, he's got enough on his plate."

"Get lost."

Loki muttered, turning his head away as Bucky stared in shocked silence. When had he ever not had a fight with Loki? He looked about as bad as Clint though, with dark circles prominent under his eyes and raw spots on his nail beds, so instead of arguing Bucky turned and walked to his own desk slowly, trying to determine when exactly the pigs would start flying.

Sitting down with a sigh and booting up his computer, he blinked a couple of times before stretching out the newspaper again and glancing over the story. The cover photo was a picture of a single rose that looked almost as pristine as the ones at the crime scenes.

"Scarlet Witch."

He spoke softly, drumming his fingers along his desk. What had persuaded her to use such a name? Scarlet from the flower, obviously, but why a witch? Because the culprit managed to get out so easily and without being seen each time? Or because they had no current leads?

'On top of spotless crime scenes, it has been confirmed that the elusive thief leaves behind a single red rose concluding each robbery, the immaculate flower a calling card for the suspected woman who has managed to appear, and disappear, as if by magic.'

Skimming the article, he found the words were crafted intricately, describing various opinions and an almost praising tone for the thief. Obviously Wanda found them entrancing, but the question was why?

"Scarlet Witch, fitting name, I guess."

He mumbled, running his fingers down his face and looking up as Clint trudged towards the elevators, his belongings in hand and a file clutched under his arm. Leaning back in his chair, Bucky picked up a pen and twisted it between his fingers, staring intently at the back of the man's head.

He couldn't believe there were absolutely no connections, perhaps there was an avenue Clint just hadn't searched yet, a hidden lead right under their noses. But he'd seen all those papers, he'd looked into just about everyone and everything.

Glancing down at the newspaper again, he sat up and squinted at the photo. The flower, that was their lead. Clint had looked at the victims and the objects and the insurance companies and the weird poodle kibble, but he hadn't checked out the flowers yet.

Someone had to be buying those flowers, and with how pristine they all seemed to be, they had to be buying them from the same location. And where there was a business, there were security cameras.