Chapter Forty-One


A bitter wind whipped up at the thin layer of snow covering the frozen ground. Bits of ice cut into my face, forcing me to bow my head, tuck away from the onslaught.

The Soldat led the way, a dark figure in a field of shifting white. The world felt hazy and thin. Another dream. Another memory.

Please, not another death.

My entire body was nearly caved in on itself, trying to fight the cold. Exhaustion weighed in my bones, my feet like marble, dropping into his footprints deep in the drift. The Soldat had the harder job of leading the way, having to stomp through a layer of ice before climbing out of several feet of snow — with each step. All I had to do was match them.

Each one felt more difficult than the last.

I was shaking so hard I could barely lift my head to see more than a few feet in front of me. I knew that was wrong, I knew that I should be more aware of my surroundings — but my body wouldn't obey me anymore.

All I could hear was the crunch of my footsteps, the screaming wind, my faint heart. It was difficult to hold down a single thought.

We'd been out here for days. Maybe weeks. Hard to keep track of time. Dead of winter, on the mountains. All I knew was that we had run out of food — perhaps deliberately — and I had to eat whatever I could hunt.

A test of some sort. Couldn't remember what for. Couldn't remember why I had a rifle slung across my back. Couldn't remember the last thing I ate. Something small and bloody.

The Soldat was still somewhere up ahead. Taking us… where? To a target? To the Crucible?

I couldn't see him anymore. Couldn't see much of anything.

The world grew soft, delicate. The wind kissed my numb cheeks and I closed my eyes.

Felt the world drop out from beneath me.

Something catching me.

Two broad arms. One silver. Lifting. Floating on air.

Just barely clinging to the world. Watching the skeletal tree branches flicker across a white sky. The face of the Soldat, cold steel as always.

Silent. Not a word, as he continued to walk. His pace rocked me to sleep.


~o~


When I woke up, I was alone.

The room was unfamiliar and I almost panicked, not remembering where I was or how I got here. Then, just as my heart skipped a beat, the events of last night filtered into my head, slipping past my dream, and I slumped. Took a deep breath. The shades were still closed, with just the slimmest glow of sunlight peeking through the edges. Morning. Squinted, I shifted a little, finding an unexpected weight on top of me. Something soft and warm.

A blanket. I hadn't fallen asleep with it last night. It wasn't exactly freezing in here, but there was no heat, either. The radiator at the end of the couch was cold. Hm.

Rising to a sitting position, I checked my phone. I'd slept for a solid nine hours. It was quiet in here; nice, until I looked around and realized that the Soldat — no, Bucky — wasn't here. The kitchen lights were on, the bathroom door open, no place for him to really hide. I tried not to overreact to that, to remain calm. He was probably out doing… something. No reason to suspect something bad.

The memory still flitted at the edges of my mind, as I looked down and spotted a plate on the floor next to the couch. Covered in a pot lid, I lifted to find an entire plateful of scrambled eggs. And a fork.

Immediately, my stomach growled, and I didn't waste a second to devour it. The eggs had long since gone cold, but that was fine; I scarfed them all down just the same. Didn't even occur to me that it might be poisoned or something; it bothered me as an afterthought. Why would he go to the trouble of saving my life and splinting my leg just to kill me later?

On the other hand, I was also completely vulnerable. It was Saturday, a weekend. As long as MJ didn't break, no one would think anything of my disappearance. Not until it was too late.

But what could I do? I studied the two planks of wood, the strips of fabric tying it all together at regular intervals. Already knew from experience that walking on this would do more harm than good. At least the swelling had gone down from last night. My jeans had dried and I could shift to a slightly more comfortable position on the couch.

Only twenty minutes later would the knob rattle and the front door opened, Bucky slipping inside. He wore a heavy brown jacket, a material almost like burlap. I noticed a tear near his shoulder. Couldn't remember if that had been the last night or not.

"Where did you go?" I asked, before he had even closed the door behind him. His sudden presence had me jumping, and it took a long minute to get myself to relax again. The room was brighter in the daytime (although not by much, with the curtains still closed), and I noted the mud on his boots walking in.

"To clean up the mess." Bucky glanced at me once, an appraising look, then turned to the locks on his door. Flicked the first deadbolt, turned a latch. "Make sure there were no others."

"Clean up?" I frowned.

"Threw the bodies in a pit." Bucky said with no change in tone. He wore a glove on his left hand but not the other. I wondered if passerby thought the asymmetry was odd. "Filled it with cement. Should be solid in a week. No one will know they were there."

Okay, well… I guess I couldn't say I was surprised. Or blame him. If someone found a bunch of dead bodies in military gear, it would raise a lot of questions. None that either of us could afford. "They said they were disavowed."

"And they'll stay that way."

A silence followed when I didn't know how to respond to that. It wasn't a quarrel but it felt like it, in a way. A finality in his voice that brooked no argument. There was a tension in the air, unspoken for.

Finished with the locks (having only done half of them), Bucky took off his jacket, picked up the plate I'd finished, and went to the kitchen. The sound of rushing water filled the room as he began to wash the dishes, a small pile already stacked on the counter next to him. The water at least made the silence less awkward, but that didn't change the words dancing at the tip of my tongue.

At last, I said, "And were there?"

"Were there what?" Bucky asked, glancing over his shoulder.

"Others."

"No." He turned back to the dishes. It was hard to see from this angle, but he was still wearing the glove on his metal hand, carefully handling the ceramic dishes with it. I wondered how he managed not to break them. "They were the only ones I ever saw following you."

That caught me by surprise. "So you did notice before."

"Yes." Bucky paused. I could only see the back of his head. Watched as his shoulders bowed slightly, and his voice grew quieter. Ashamed? "I wasn't sure at first. Didn't want to make a mistake. They were careful."

"Not careful enough. I noticed them, too." I decided to leave out the fact that I couldn't tell him or them apart sometimes. There were enough small incidents that I couldn't be sure who might've been who.

"That would have been on purpose," he said, entirely matter-of-fact. "They wanted to spook you. Throw you out of hiding. If they didn't want to be seen, then you never would have known they were there."

I opened my mouth, then clamped it shut. Bucky sounded so sure that I felt stupid for not seeing it earlier. The STRIKE agents were lucky that their stalking had coincided with Bucky's, making me think that whatever I saw of either of them wasn't real. I wasn't sure if it was Bucky's intention to be seen or not, but the fact that the STRIKE agents managed to use my own paranoia against me was not comforting at all. Was I really so easy to manipulate? So predictable?

"They were also sloppy," Bucky finally added, and I looked up just in time to see his eyes focused on me, before he turned back to the sink. I didn't quite catch the look on his face, but I didn't miss the way his brows had furrowed in thought. He continued, "They wanted to intimidate you because they were angry, stupid. They knew they couldn't take you head on, so they had to lay a trap."

I was not convinced. "They used my fear against me. I was stupid."

"You were scared." Bucky corrected without missing a beat. The words were not accusing or disdainful. In fact, it was almost... compassionate, if he could somehow manage it with that unchanging tone of voice. "You were right to be. They were wrong to think that gave them the advantage."

I pursed my lips, taking that into consideration. "If this is your way of a pep talk, I've heard better."

I was only mildly sarcastic. Maybe his words heartened me more than I wanted to admit; maybe Bucky was just trying to coddle me, make me feel better. But that didn't seem like him. Not that I knew him well, but Bucky didn't seem like the type. Before or after the Winter Soldier.

Bucky let out a tiny huff at that, but didn't say anything else. I couldn't tell if he was annoyed or amused.

Clean dishes clinked and clattered as he set one after another to dry on the dishrack. It seemed incredibly odd, watching a super soldier assassin doing the dishes. He had rolled his sleeves up to keep them from getting wet, and I was temporarily mesmerized watching the plates in his arm shift and click with each motion. The air of humble domesticity coupled with the fact that I've witnessed him murder countless of people had the whole thing being both amusing and mildly terrifying to watch.

Yet another question burned on my lips. I wasn't sure how to phrase it, which was more pertinent to me right now. "Why did you… why were you there?"

"I was following you," He said automatically, like he'd rehearsed it. "I told you that."

"I know," I said, growing frustrated. It seemed like he knew what I wanted to know and was avoiding having to give an answer — I had to get specific, had to make him address it. "But you didn't have to save me."

"Yes, I did," Bucky replied, almost immediately. Again, not what I expected.

"Why?"

He hesitated, struggling for words. "Because — Because I had to."

"You had to?"

"Yes."

I had no idea what that meant. Why did he have to? Because of orders? Was some element of his protocol still in place? Or because he wanted to? That idea alone brought its own slew of questions. So I kept pressing. "Why?"

"I —" Now Bucky seemed at a loss for words. He kept his back to me, maybe to avoid my eye contact (I'd been staring at him this entire time). Shoulders tensing, hands coming to rest at the edge of the sink. Maybe considering his options. He looked around quickly, grabbed the keys off the counter. "I'm gonna get some food. Don't move."

"What —?" My surprise was cut off by the slam of the door, making me wince. I stared at the many locks, dumbfounded. I couldn't hear his footsteps as he walked away. My shoulders sagged, and my head dropped. Maybe that could have gone better.

We did not speak to each other for the rest of the day. Something about that conversation, coupled with this entire situation — broken leg, stuck on a couch in some stranger's apartment, body still aching from last night's fight — drained me of any spirit and left me distinctly uncomfortable.

I didn't want to be here. I didn't have a choice. Just because Bucky saved my life once didn't mean I was suddenly okay with him now, like it made up for everything that happened before.

With him gone for the time being, I considered my options, tried to explore — what little of there was to see around here. Managed to get up and get myself to the bathroom on my own; even super soldiers had needs that couldn't be denied. The bathroom was small, just barely enough room for me to sit with my leg extended; but like the rest of the apartment, it was clean, if old, and smelled faintly of cheap soap.

It was an awkward, stumbling affair and my leg hurt the worse afterwards. But at least no one was around to witness me humiliate myself when I fell almost immediately upon standing up.

When Bucky returned a few hours later, I pretended to be asleep. Not so I didn't have to talk to him (he made it pretty clear that he didn't want to talk), but so I didn't have to look at him, be reminded of every terrible memory still locked inside my head.

So what if the Soldat carried me back to the Crucible when I had collapsed? So what if he had once sworn to eliminate anyone who tried to take advantage of me in the Crucible? So what if he had walked away when I had gone back to save the twins? So what if he tried to catch me when I fell off the bridge? So what if he shot the knife out of Natasha's hand?

It didn't change anything.

Did it?

They were not the actions of a mindless machine. I could be as angry and vengeful as I wanted and I still couldn't deny that fact.

The Soldat had gone against protocol for me. I didn't know why.

For his part, Bucky left me alone. Didn't initiate conversation, didn't ask any questions. If he knew I was fake-sleeping, he didn't mention it. He moved quietly about the apartment. With my face turned to the back of the couch, I couldn't see what he was doing, but it sounded like some light housekeeping — cleaning up the mess from last night, taking my empty plate; a rustle of curtains, perhaps checking outside. His footsteps were near silent, even wearing boots. Unless he made some secondary noise I had no idea where he was at any given moment.

The quiet was enough to lull me into actually sleeping. My leg still ached, and moving too much still hurt, so it was just easier to pass the time like this.

At some point, when the light was dimmer behind the curtains, I drifted awake to the sizzle of something frying in a pan. Eggs. Oh, and bacon. A short while later, I heard the gentle clinking as a plate was set next to the couch again.

This time, Bucky did address me — just a slight nudging of my shoulder. "Dinner."

I took my time to get up and eat, waiting for him to step away until I did so. It took all my strength not to flinch when he'd touched me, and it wasn't entirely successful.

Bucky would once more leave while I was eating, and hadn't returned when I was done. He hadn't said where he was going and I hadn't asked — a little scared, after he told me what he'd done this morning. Still, for whatever reason, I tried to stay up until he came back. But minutes stretched into hours, and as night fell I couldn't keep my eyes open. The healing process just made me sleepy, and I decided not to resist any longer.

Slept like the dead. When I opened my eyes again, it was Sunday morning. Bucky still wasn't home, although if the new plate of eggs was any indication, he had returned at some point. It left me a strange sense of both relief and disappointment. I was now more curious than ever what he was doing when he wasn't here. If he wasn't stalking me, what else was he up to?

With nothing better to do, I decided I was getting real tired of just sitting on my ass staring at old wallpaper, so I'd do something about it. Not an easy endeavor.

The first step was rotating myself so both feet were on the ground, then half-dragging/half-hopping over to the far end of the couch, reaching over and pulling the drapes open. Glorious morning sunlight streamed in, filling the room with much needed vitamin D. So bright, in fact, that I flinched, and had to wait for my eyes to adjust before I could see out the glass door. Out past the gentle sloping landscape of Brooklyn, out to the glittering river beyond, opening out to the ocean.

After that, I just tried to entertain myself somehow. Managed to turn on the TV, but about an hour or so in I wanted to change the channel; not wanting to walk back over there, I tried to look for the remote but couldn't find it. Not stuck between the seat pillows of the couch. It might have fallen underneath, but getting down there to check was a slow process. It involved carefully lowering myself to the floor, always keeping my right leg oriented below me so it would take my weight, instead of my left, which remained fully extended, unable to bend or twist (it wasn't beneath the couch, either).

What I found instead was something else. My fingers hooked around a piece of fabric, some kind of strap, and I pulled. Out came a backpack, rugged and worn. It didn't weigh much and appeared to be empty. Until I opened the flap and found a ringed notebook inside. Its cover was bent and its pages were rumpled, clearly well used. What was this? Why was it under the couch?

There were other things inside. What looked like several passports. A bundle of hard cash. I was just about to pull the notebook out when I heard the knob rattle again, and quickly threw the backpack and its contents back under the couch. Sat back up just in time as Bucky walked back in — it had been a little over two hours since he left.

This time, he had with him several plastic grocery bags in one fist. But as soon as his eyes cast about the room, then landed on me, sitting with my leg on the floor — his entire body tensed. At first I was sure he knew I'd found the notebook, until he said, "Why are the curtains open?"

"Wanted something to look at." Because I was pale as it was, because I wasn't getting all my nutrients, because I just wanted to do something.

He made a sound of annoyance and immediately went over. When he passed me, I flinched before I could stop myself, but he didn't seem to notice, just snapping the curtains closed again. The room turned cool again as the sunlight vanished, and I tried not to pout. If I didn't have something to entertain myself for however long I was going to be incarcerated here, I was going to lose my goddamn marbles.

I watched as Bucky strode past me again, trying not to flinch again while commenting, "This place has a nice view."

"Not why I got it." He grumbled.

I couldn't really begrudge him for being paranoid, considering my mindset for the past couple weeks. It's not paranoia if you're right.

At any rate, it was the first exchange we'd had in almost twelve hours. It felt a little weird, and I didn't really take this one to be any more positive than the last. Maybe Bucky was in a bad mood. Or maybe he was always like this. But I surprised myself when I kept talking. "You still haven't said how you pay for it."

"And I told you not to move," He said just as quickly, dumping the bags onto the tiny counter. I watched as he took out a clutch of plums, a carton of eggs, some orange juice. When he opened the fridge, I was taken aback by how little there was in there. More shelf space than there was food.

"I only went to the bathroom," I said, a little snappishly — his tone had been irritated, as if I'd snuck out of the house or something. Not just trying to get a little sunshine and work out the pins and needles that had been building in my foot.

That seemed to surprise him, and Bucky turned to me for a moment, looking sheepish. "Oh. Sorry."

Perhaps he hadn't thought of it until now. I dropped the attitude after that comment, not really willing to give the former Winter Soldier any sass. Leaning forward, trying to get a peek around the counter that seperated the kitchen from the living room, I said, "So, you still haven't said how you get money."

Well, I knew now. He'd gotten it from somewhere, a whole stash. From HYDRA? Or SHIELD? Likely stolen. At the very least, I doubted he was working any kind of steady job, but I still wanted to see how he'd answer.

"You ask a lot of questions for someone with a broken leg." Another deflection, as he sorted food away, between the fridge and the cabinets. Apparently unbothered by my curiosity aside from mild annoyance. Clearly didn't find me to be any sort of threat.

I wasn't sure if I was okay with that or not. According to the flinches my body made every time he got too close, the feeling definitely wasn't mutual. "Well, what else am I going to do?"

"You could try sleeping."

I frowned. That sounded like a subtle way of telling me to shut up; a unique experience, since no one had ever really said that to me before. "Maybe later. Where's your TV remote?"

"Side table drawer," He said, pointing first, then looking. I felt stupid for not thinking of looking there before. The side table was at the other end of the couch, and I had to move my ass over there.

I had just started to lift myself up when I heard a sigh, then footsteps.

"No, no," Bucky muttered, shaking his head and coming over, stopping me before I could move my way over. I shifted back down again, clenching my fists for a moment while my heart raced. But he just reached for the drawer himself, pulled out the remote and held it out to me. "You need to stop moving."

I hesitated in taking it. Bucky was being serious, but that wasn't why I paused.

My eyes caught on a bandage around his wrist. I frowned, tilting my head to get a better look, to see the faint patch of pink bleeding through. It still looked fresh. "Is that from the other night?"

Bucky looked at me, confused, then down at his arm, and seemed to sigh. "Oh. Yeah."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Didn't want to worry you," Bucky muttered, and as if to make a point, he pulled at his sleeve, rolling it back to cover his wrist, hiding the bandage from sight. He paused, cutting me a look before glancing away. "Didn't think you'd be concerned."

I blinked. My first instinct was to be offended — of course I cared, why wouldn't I — but as I gave it a second to mull it over, I sort of understood where he was coming from. Why would he expect me to? I'd already treated him with such hostility, and to be honest I hadn't considered he might've actually gotten hurt.

The guilt that caught me came out of nowhere. He wasn't wrong. I hadn't cared at the time. "How did it happen?"

"Got clumsy." he just shrugged, like it was a mistake. "Didn't see the knife until too late."

"How bad is it? Does it hurt?"

Bucky raised an eyebrow at me — the first distinct expression I'd seen on his face in all that I've known him. It left me shook, even if it was just a small shift. Some combination between bemusement and disapproval. "...It's fine. Don't worry about it."

"But —"

"It will heal." Bucky cut me off. Again, no room to argue. He dropped the remote onto the couch next to me. "Just pick a channel."

And with that, he left. Back to the kitchen, pans clanging as he started to pull something together. Sitting there, I didn't know what to do but stare at the TV screen blankly. I wasn't sure why the fact Bucky was hurt bothered me so much. Just the fact that he was willing to risk it, just to save my life. Hadn't made any mention of it at all. I wasn't sure, but I was starting to think Bucky had done all it of his own will. Because he… wanted to.

If he hadn't, he probably would've said so. If he had been ordered to in some fashion, it wouldn't have been so difficult to tell me. There was a clear, clinical easiness to just relaying something he'd been told to do, programmed to do. At least, that's what I thought. And while I wouldn't necessarily call myself at ease around him, I was growing more certain what Bucky said was the truth; he was no longer the Winter Soldier.

Still, I wanted to say what I had meant to say. He was doing all of this, and for what? Just to help me? Took a knife for me and said nothing? And I felt doubly stupid, guilty for taking so long to notice it. For not wanting to engage with him at all.

Flicking through channels, I landed on a boisterous game show with a lot of music and a loud audience. Coupled with the sound of something cooking, it filled the room with noise, comforting.

My words were little more than a murmur, hidden beneath it all. "Thank you."