EDIT 3/29/20: added a bit of conversation that I had originally intended but forgot, in the beginning of this chapter. It will be plot important later.


Chapter Forty-Two


"Thank you."

The words were so faint he almost didn't catch them over the noise of the television. Bucky felt the tiniest quirk of his lips.

He still wasn't used to that. Bucky, that is. Calling himself that. Letting her call him that. It had been the first thing that had popped into his head when she had asked. Now he wondered if that was a mistake. It wasn't really his name, was it? Bucky belonged to another man, one that was long dead.

But the Soldatka — no, the girl — no, Amelia — had not actually used it yet.

A relief. (And disappointed. Tried to ignore that part).

The eggs sizzled in the pan in front of him. Protein was the most suitable when healing. Realistically, Amelia should be eating more, and Bucky would have provided if he had more to offer. But he had a limited supply of cash and had yet to find a revenue stream — or another safehouse to rob. The one in DC had left him flush to start out with, but even after a month of very frugal spending, he was running out.

He estimated maybe another fortnight here, at best. But it would more likely be around a week. Then he had to move on.

(Certainly no one begging him to stay).

There was a sadness to that prospect now, when there had been none before. Bucky didn't want to leave, not yet. Not when there was still so much left to say. But perhaps it was for the best. He did not fail to notice how Amelia flinched every time he got too close; the best remedy for that was to never contact her again, after this.

For now, he'd maintain his distance, until she could leave on her own.

Which would be tomorrow. It felt too soon.

"He's looking for you, you know," Amelia said, catching his attention again. This time, Bucky did look at her, met her inscrutable gaze. "Steve. Do you remember him?"

"No." Bucky lied.

"Well," the girl pressed her lips together, taking this into consideration. Bucky's tone had not welcomed further comment. "He's worried about you. He'd want to know you're okay."

Bucky could immediately tell where this was going. Maybe this was her idea of a truce, a peace offering; he wasn't sure, just that she was trying to help. But it was the exact opposite of the help he needed. "I don't want him to."

Amelia blinked in surprise. "But —"

"Don't tell him," Bucky cut her off, fixing her with a look. His tone had a pleading tone to it, so he remedied that with a hard gaze. "Please."

Bucky didn't want anyone to find him. To know where he was. Who he was. The girl was the exception. That was an emergency. And she was… special. Not that Bucky could tell her that. It might give her context, might help her understand why her and not Steve. But he couldn't. Not yet. Probably not ever.

Amelia looked uncertain, biting her lip. They were well aware of that Bucky was a wanted man, a fugitive — telling anyone about him was a risk. Even if this Steve claimed to have pure motivations, that didn't change the fact he answered to higher powers. Or, at least, he did. Bucky wasn't sure how it worked now, with SHIELD gone.

Finally, Amelia nodded, if reluctantly. "I won't."

"Do you swear?" Bucky felt like an idiot for asking, but… Well, he had to make sure. When she didn't answer right away, he cut her another look.

"Okay, I swear!" Amelia jolted slightly, apparently miffed, and glared back. "I swear. I swear on my — ugh. I'm not telling him. Definitely won't be telling anyone else, that's for sure."

Finally, his shoulders relaxed, and Bucky turned back to the stove. He knew this was going to be a short arrangement but he had to know that this wouldn't have consequences down the line. No breadcrumbs for the government, for law enforcement to follow.

Now he could focus on cooking in peace. Bucky supposed he could've put this money to better use. Getting out of the country, for example. In fact, he even had plans for it. Maybe Romania, or Hungary. Somewhere far away, where no one could find him. Where he could be nobody, live out the rest of his days in humble peace, try to hide, stop the damage he's been causing for the last… century or so. But as soon as he saw that girl in the graveyard, Bucky knew he couldn't go ahead with these plans.

Not yet.

Over a month in New York. A month in a city, a neighborhood that was both familiar and not. Bucky knew he was born here, in Brooklyn, somewhere, but that wasn't why he chose this place. At least, he didn't think so. It was just convenient, low-wage housing. Close to her home in Queens. Fayette Gardens. Used to be more houses there, until someone rebuilt. But this was far enough away that he could maintain distance, if he had to.

He had to. But did he? No.

Weak. Pierce's voice echoed in his head. You're weak, soldier.

It was hard not to get lost, between watching the girl and falling into the memories of another man's life. Once, Bucky found himself at the 1942 World's Fair. A bright red hotrod that could fly. Another time, one a date with a pretty girl in a blue pinstriped dress, on Coney Island. Buying hotdogs and cotton candy with a skinny blond boy with bloody knuckles. That same kid, throwing fists at some bigger guy before Bucky joined in. That same kid, in the passenger's seat as Bucky drove them to yet another recruiting station, in another state. The fourth time, it wasn't going to work, it was never going to work, but Bucky couldn't tell his best friend no. Don't say I didn't tell you so, buddy

They haunted him. He hated them, but wrote it all down, just in case. Didn't know why, but it helped to organize his mind. To remember his plans and every other thought in his head. Every thought that belonged to him and him alone. His memories weren't in order and rarely had context. Maybe he could fit them together eventually, create a tapestry that told the story of his life, from beginning to end. Bucky wasn't sure if he actually wanted that. Keeping the journal was, at worst, a hobby. Just something to do.

All Bucky wanted was to go to a place that had no ghosts, no memories to haunt him. He'd been all over the world, but surely there had to be a few pockets that hadn't been soiled by HYDRA.

And there were ghosts here, in this very room. Bucky just pretended they didn't exist.

The last few days were hectic. Aside from keeping the kid fed, Bucky was busy making sure no one found out about what happened. Taking care of the bodies, cleaning up the evidence. The weekend made it easier, convenient. Sanitation Duty, as he might've called it once, was not one of his strong points, but Bucky knew enough to get the job done efficiently and effectively. Many of his comings and goings were to surveil the area; he wasn't dumb enough to return to the scene of the crime after disposing of the bodies, but keeping an eye out for any increased police activity, or news by word of mouth. And, sometimes, just to clear his head.

More often than not, it was just to think. To give the girl some space.

Amelia seemed enraptured by the game show, whatever it was, when he delivered her a plate of eggs and, this time, two plums. "Well, at least I won't get scurvy."

That earned her a baffled look. Amelia, perhaps embarrassed by a joke that didn't reach, flushed and looked away. She quickly stuffed some eggs in her mouth and mumbled, "Never mind."

He didn't begrudge her… whatever that was. Bucky retreated to what he thought was a safe distance, before eating his own meal — a combination of protein bars, fruit, and water. It was not the most indulgent, although Bucky appreciated modern foods, the ones with intense caloric and nutritional value. Sure, those companies seemed to trade in tastiness for health, but Bucky had lost his sense of taste a while ago. It was only now just starting to return.

Amelia, at least, seemed to enjoy the plums, so much so that he handed her some paper towels to clean up the juice running down her chin from eating them so fast. This time, her flinch wasn't so bad, but maybe it was just a fluke.

He was lost in thought when Amelia broke the silence again, her voice raised over the sound of the game show.

"So, like," Amelia spoke around a mouthful of eggs. "Where do you sleep?"

He didn't understand the question. "What?"

"Well, you know," she gestured around the room with her fork. "You're always coming and going, you were gone all last night? Where do you usually sleep?"

Bucky gave her an odd look, then nodded at the couch. "Right there."

She blinked, taken aback. Looked around, then back at him. "Wait, I'm… am I sleeping in your bed?"

"It's not really a bed. But yes." Bucky wasn't sure why she was focusing on this. Why she was so concerned. He'd slept in worse places. On the ground, in the dirt, no roof over his head, no walls to keep the cold out. He wasn't sure if saying that would make her feel better. Whenever he overshared, like with the body disposal, Amelia started to look uncomfortable.

"And you're just telling me this now?" Her eyebrows shot up.

Bucky had no reason to tell her until then. "You asked."

"But where do you sleep, then?" Before he could answer that, Amelia followed up with: "You just gave up your only bed for me?"

"You needed it more." Bucky was starting to see this was making her distressed for some reason. So he tried to reassure her with: "Don't worry about it. I've had worse. Don't sleep that great anyways."

It didn't work. Amelia studied him for a long moment, frowning. "...If you say so."

Thankfully, she did not bring it up again; Bucky was not going to compromise with her if she thought she was doing him a favor. He could see her working it out in her head, pretending to watch TV. He was not making her sleep on the floor.

Looking at Amelia too long brought odd memories. Sensations, really. Not of the Crucible. Someplace warm, safe. A distant, tinkling laugh. A flash of blonde hair, brown eyes. The smell of cooking — casserole, honey — humid and comforting. Music playing on a boombox. Accidentally crushing a tiny cassette tape in his fist.

Entirely random. Completely displaced from context.

He tried to ignore it.

Once again, Bucky would leave in the evening, after making sure Amelia was fed. Despite her earlier comment, she didn't ask where he was going or what he was up to.

Brooklyn was nice at night. Bucky never wandered too far; tonight, he wandered to the waterfront, by Little Odessa. The streets were still busy with nightlife, restaurants and taxis and late-night places. Narrow streets were only pedestrians and cyclists were allowed. Luxury condos that had not stood when he was last here… however long ago that was. A few clubs, where he could feel the pounding beat through the sidewalk. The smells and signage felt vaguely familiar, but not in a sense that he belonged here, but that he had seen similar things, somewhere else. A culture that he knew, but was never his.

The moon gleamed down at Bucky as he leaned against a railing overlooking the water. The air was fresher here, a stronger breeze that didn't quite cut through his clothes. A couple passed, hand in hand, didn't notice him.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky could see the ghost of the frail blond boy again. This one was the most persistent, the most constant. The boy leaned on the railing next to him; didn't say anything, but his appearance told its own story. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing bony arms and nimble hands. Too-large pants that needed both belt and suspenders. A pair of old shoes, more tape than leather. Fingers stained black with either charcoal or grease — Maybe both. A fresh bruise under his eye.

The boy couldn't have been more than fifteen years old. His small build made him look even younger.

It was a far cry from the man who had fought him on the helicarrier, but Bucky could recognize the same face when he saw it. The same strong nose, the serious brow, the hair.

The boy's mouth moved with words Bucky couldn't hear. The way he smiled said the boy was telling some kind of joke, or funny story.

Steve.

The voice echoed in his head, answering a question Bucky hadn't asked. Cold radiated up his shoulder where his metal arm touched the railing. He pulled away, leaving the water and the ghost behind.

It would follow him for the rest of the night.


~o~


Bucky was surprised Amelia was still there when he returned that following morning.

She was already up when he returned with a small bag of fruit. Bucky didn't normally shop daily, but this kid was eating all his food faster than he could replenish it. He hoped that meant that leg was healing. Or maybe she was still growing. Could be possible. She was, what, only fifteen, sixteen? Bucky was too afraid to ask.

"Don't you have school on Mondays?" He wasn't afraid to ask that, however. Bucky wasn't sure how schools worked. It's been a long time since he ever sat in a classroom. Did they still function the same, almost a hundred years later?

"It's May 4th," Amelia said, not looking up as he came to sit on that little milk crate across from her. She was engrossed with her phone, apparently in communication with someone. Her thumbs fairly flew across the little keypad of her phone. Bucky could barely keep up with whatever she was typing. "Memorial day for the Incident. The state of New York decided to make it official, to honor the lives lost that day. Most schools and businesses are closed to observe it."

The date sounded familiar, although Bucky couldn't remember where he last saw or heard it. Amelia recited it all with practiced ease, almost robotic. Like she'd heard it a lot, or was reading off a page. No emotion, except for the slightest scrunch of her nose.

Something about this was… off. She was acting differently than she was yesterday. It seemed to Bucky she might be avoiding his gaze. "What's the Incident?"

Her thumbs paused over the keyboard. Eyes flicking up, surprised, but not looking at him. Out the window. "Oh. That's right. You weren't there."

Bucky waited silently as Amelia scowled back down at her phone. "Exactly a year ago, the city was attacked by — by aliens, I guess. Giant space portal… thing in the sky. SHIELD couldn't stop it due to some kind of sabotage beforehand, so they send in the Avengers — a totally new, untested team of uniquely gifted and specially trained blah blah blah — you know. Superheroes. It was crazy, but it worked. Protected the city so well that less than a hundred people died in the initial assault. Today doesn't have an official name yet, but some people call it Avengers Day because of them. Has a better ring than Incident Day, at least."

Bucky was rendered utterly speechless (not easy to tell but true nonetheless). Aliens? Superheroes? Giant portals? It sounded like the sort of thing he'd hear on the radio, back when they still did shows like that.

The memory took him by surprise — Bucky was caught between two moments. This one, trying to understand everything Amelia was saying; and the other, a vague image of sitting next to the living room radio in a warm apartment, braiding a girl's hair as she sat in front of him, both listening to a man's voice as he told a fantastical and terrifying tale of alien invaders on tripods.

Bucky shook his head to clear away the distracting thought. "That sounds… bracing."

Amelia snorted. "Yeah, well, everyone likes to share their stories from that day. Kind of a mutual bonding experience. I think it's called collective trauma or something."

The term was new but Bucky understood the sentiment well enough. It was a tradition as old as time, sharing war stories. "What's yours, then?"

The ironic smirk flitted from her face. "I don't have one. I wasn't there."

"Where —?" Bucky stopped himself mid-sentence, remembering the answer before he could finish. Even still, it earned him a critical look; Amelia's finally meeting his gaze, her face carefully neutral, but her eyes narrowed, flinty. Of course he didn't need to ask. Bucky already knew full well why she wasn't there.

She had been in the Crucible. With him.

"...Right." Bucky murmured, ashamed as he looked away.

"Anyways," Amelia forged onwards, as if that little moment had never happened. He doubted that earned him any favors with her. "I don't have school until tomorrow. Right now I'm trying to convince my aunt to let me stay with my friend today, and go with her to school tomorrow. I can't skip school without anyone noticing, and I have an appointment that will definitely cause suspicion if I don't show up, so — yeah. Today's the last day."

Her tone on that last sentence was not necessarily happy, just matter-of-fact. Bucky was sure she was just itching to leave, but most of what she said had fallen on deaf ears. Bucky was too busy thinking on the date. Why it sounded so familiar…

"May 4th," he said, mostly to himself. Bucky's eyes were focused on the floor between them, deep in thought. He saw out of his peripherals the girl frowning at him. Bucky didn't fully notice. He finally remembered where he saw the date last.

On Hedy's tombstone. "That's — that's the same day your mother died."

Across from him, Amelia went very still. When he glanced at her, Bucky saw how her eyes had glazed over, her expression cracking at the edges. Her voice was hoarse. "Yep."

"H-how —?"

"Our neighborhood was the epicenter of the attack," she cut him off. That robotic tone again, with a harder edge. "A… a thing fell on our building. It collapsed. She — she was still inside —"

Her voice broke and she stopped, shaking her head. Bucky stared at her, not knowing what to say. Honestly, he might be panicking a little, because he had no idea how to handle this, how to take back what he said. Anything that would take away a reminder of what was probably one of the worst days of her life right now. Amelia appeared as though she might cry; if that happened, Bucky would never forgive himself.

But she didn't. Sniffed once. "You — you said you knew her. That night you saved me."

"Oh," Bucky had to admit, he'd hoped she'd forgotten. He didn't want to talk about this, talk about what this topic would lead to. But he could see the look on her face, how much she needed something right now. "Y-yeah, I did. A long time ago."

Her expression was vacant, gaze unfocused towards the window. "W...what do you remember?"

Bucky considered very long on how to answer that. Admittedly, it wasn't much. Mostly a random collage of moments and images, nothing that really tied them together except for a young woman with brown eyes, and blonde hair much like the girl sitting before him. But. But. Bucky knew enough. He knew he was Amelia's father.

But she didn't know that. She didn't need to know that. Amelia just wanted to know about her mother; he could do that. Bucky could do that without ruining it.

"Not much," He shrugged; it wasn't necessarily a lie, just underselling the truth. Bucky didn't want to get her hopes much in case it wasn't what she expected. "There was this hit that went wrong. Barely got away. Took a bullet. Maybe — maybe two."

Bucky pointed to a spot on his right bicep, then to a spot on his back. He still remembered the bullets firing from behind as he had run, ripping hot across his skin, burning. He recalled his own wounds more than the kill itself. Couldn't remember what (likely stupid) mistake he made that exposed him. Just tearing across rooftops before they could catch him. One wrong step. Then falling. "She found me half-dead in an alleyway."

"She didn't take you to the hospital?" Amelia asked skeptically, frowning.

"No. I might have asked her not to," Bucky said, scratching the back of his head. The Soldat never asked. But he wasn't sure if he had been the Soldat by that point. "Took a blow to the head when I had a fall. I-I don't know who I was then. But maybe she took pity on me. Enough to hide me in her place and not call the police. Patched me up. Saved my life." Bucky paused. "I think she was a nurse or something."

Amelia was quiet, absorbing this. "Nursing student. She hadn't graduated."

"Oh." Bucky genuinely didn't know that. Or couldn't remember. Hard to say which. "Well, she had… talent."

It felt like a poor thing to say, but a faint smile quirked Amelia's lips. It was gone again before long, but he was still glad to catch it. He'd never seen it before.

A silence fell between them. Bucky wasn't sure what else to say. What he had said so far had been entirely the truth. He supposed he had more to offer, but he wasn't sure he wanted to give it just yet.

"Do you remember anything else?" Amelia. "Why you didn't — how did you — how did they find you again?"

Bucky slowly shook his head. "They knew I was still in the city somehow. I decided to leave before they found us. I remember arguing about it. She didn't want me to go, she thought I'd be safe so long as I kept my head down. But I didn't have a choice. I couldn't stay. I wanted to, but I just… I didn't know how to make her understand who made me. Who hunted me. So I left. Not long after that they caught me."

It was the most Bucky had said that entire weekend — in a long time. But it felt like an excuse. A terrible one. Like he was running away, a coward. Bucky still couldn't remember the exact details — only a very specific one, that he would leave while Hedy was in class, it'd give him a two hour head-start — and the best he could hope for was that his plan had been successful.

Only it couldn't have been. Not if Amelia was here. Not if she had been in the Crucible.

And Hedy was dead now. Only she could really say if his true intent was understood or not.

"You were trying to protect her." Amelia's words broke the silence, and when he looked up, Bucky was slightly startled to meet her gaze. It was uncertain, but at the same time… grateful.

But Bucky had to be realistic. "I don't think she saw it that way."

He remembered Hedy's tears. How she told him she was pregnant. The news had cut him to his core; maybe Hedy had hoped it would convince him to stay, but Bucky only saw it as more reason ever to get the hell out of Dodge. Less than a week later, he'd vanished. No word, no good-bye. Leaving nothing behind so she wouldn't look for him.

Bucky didn't share that with Amelia. He didn't like the idea of her head being filled with any chivalric notions about him; but it was not worth ruining her life with the truth. He had no doubt that's what Hedy would have thought of it.

"No, I don't think she did," Amelia agreed, with a watery smile and a small laugh. It was a sweet sound, if rueful. She wiped at her face where a few tears had escaped, her hands dropping into her lap. Loose hair shielded her face, but not the choked sobs that followed.

"I'm sorry," he said, unsure of what exactly he was apologizing for. For making you cry. For hurting you. For abandoning you. For all this. For everything.

But Amelia only shook her head, hand pressed under her nose. She seemed to struggle for a moment, unable to speak, but continued to shake her head until she said, "I'm not — no, its okay. I just.. thank you. For telling me about her."

He caught a glimpse of another weak smile behind her hand and Bucky knew Amelia's gratitude was genuine — although didn't understand why. Everything he just said was awful. Bucky didn't see why she found any of that useful, or comforting. She was crying, damn it, and that didn't feel good at all. He regretted all of it.

Whatever he felt about it, Amelia clearly felt different. She didn't ask anymore questions, and more or less cried herself back to sleep. Bucky was filled with the inexplicable need to hug her, to help make it go away, but he dared not try. The helplessness would not abate, however, and he had to settle himself for tucking the blanket around her after she'd fallen asleep.

Maybe one day. A small, hopeful voice said. Bucky immediately dashed it away. There would be no more one day. There would be none at all. She had suffered enough as it was.

Approaching her at all had only been done out of necessity. Bucky would not have done it otherwise, not even if he really wanted to. He'd been a nightmare. A monster.

And monsters didn't seek forgiveness.


~o~


Amelia was gone early that next morning.

Bucky had left early to get food down in the market, in the early hours when no one was there and the vendors too sleepy to ask questions. The sun had only just peeked over the lowest rooftops when he returned.

The couch was empty. The blankets folded neatly, the pillow resting neatly on top at one end of the couch. The broken pieces of wood and strips of cloth, left in the milkcrate, to be disposed of as he saw fit.

Something heavy and sad filled his chest, and Bucky felt his shoulders droop as he kicked the door shut behind him. He'd hoped, at least, to say good-bye before he left. To wish her well. At least see how she felt without the splint. All a stupid notion, when he had no intention of strengthening their connection, but…

He wanted to.

Maybe she was in a rush. It was school, after all, and it was far away. She had a lie to maintain, after all. Or maybe she wanted to get out of here as soon as possible, leave before she had to deal with him again.

Maybe it was all of the above. Or none at all.

Sighing, he set the grocery bags on the counter, already resigned to the quiet life he had before. As it should be.

Then something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye.

A note. Hanging by a magnet on the fridge.

Bucky stared at it. Then pulled it off. Squinted at the chicken scratch written on a ripped piece of paper:

Thank you. Sorry for taking your bed. And eating all your eggs. -Mia.

He smiled to himself, although it was twisted with a sense of loss. He'd keep this, as a reminder. And not in no small part to the fear that he legitimately would forget about all of this — but it was nice to have a small memento. To have a scrap of Amelia's (frankly terrible) writing.

Bucky didn't think he'd ever see her again.

He would be wrong.