How my visual stalking of a random jogger led to me running shoulder/tit first into a steel-like wall of man that was that very random jogger who happened to be - OK truth time.

When I was a little girl, my parents took me to the Smithsonian. Yeah, I know, most people have visited the museums at one point or another in their lives, but when they took me to the exhibit that featured THE Captain America, while all the other little boys and girls were oohing and ahhing about Steven Grant Rogers, I was more fascinated with his best friend. The man who was beside him laughing with his head tossed back, but his eyes looked haunted. A jaw that was sharp and slightly scruffy in one photo, but later clean as a pin - ARMY regulations and all.

There was something about this man, one of the Howling Commandos. Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, a POW, and Steve Rogers' best friend from back home. Even in the holographic images, the flickering video and the silent film, something about him was charismatic.

When the jogger and the origin of what I knew was a spectacular bruise, told me his name, I wondered how I managed to not put that profile to my memory of him in those exhibits, or later, when he was on the news as a wanted man. His hair was short again, like it was during the war he'd fought in as a soldier, his eyes weren't as haunted, but they weren't clear and free, not even close.

"Bucky Barnes," I repeated, biting my lip. And I watched him shift with a slight awkwardness that looked strange on him. "You were gone too," I remembered seeing his name on the wall that the 'survivors' had erected in memoriam of us. A flash of understanding, that I wasn't connecting him with THAT past, but a more current one, helped ease some of his tension. "I'm heading to one of my favorite restaurants. Or where it used to be."

"It's dark," my lips quirked into a smile without any effort. Well spotted, was clearly implied and his answered in kind. "I mean, it's not safe for you to go alone." I waited, wanting to see how deep of a hole he wanted to dig himself. "Not that you're -" he stopped and took a beat as he stared down at me.

"Would you like to join me for dinner, Bucky?" I was holding back a giggle, but just. "If Romeo's is still open, that is?" I could see his teeth working at his jaw, but he didn't look upset, he looked amused.

Instead of answering, I got a nod and he stepped further out of my way. Taking a deep breath, I stepped around him and led the way to Romeo's, hoping that it was open and maybe I'd be having dinner with a hero.

Romeo's was still open, thank the stars above. And it still smelled the same, tomatoes and garlic and a hint of red wine enveloped us as soon as we walked inside. The hostess was new, or maybe not -

"Brooke?" I stared, trying to place the dark haired beauty, but I wasn't having luck until she smiled and the gap in her teeth made me smile back.

"Maria?" She'd been twelve when - but that was a thought for another time. "Look at you," I tried to hold onto the smile that had come easily at first. "Wow, you've grown," I hoped it sounded natural, but I knew it probably didn't. Not when I still looked the same as I had when she was still wearing Hannah Montana shirts. She was beaming at me, so I guess she was willing to let my awkwardness slide.

"Two?" Her eyes were taking a guided tour of Bucky, top to bottom and back again and I had the urge to laugh. Dear lord, how old was he again? I hated math, but he was at least a hundred years old, right? I couldn't look at Bucky, if I did, God help us all. "Follow me," she took two menus and I could swear she put a little extra swing in her hips as she led the way to a booth.

The tables were still linen covered and had the candle in the wine bottle, kitschy and silly, but familiar. So familiar that I felt the warmth of it down to my toes. I sat first, Bucky insisted, and I did with a shake of my head and then he slid into the bench across from me and accepted his menu from Maria with a quiet thank you.

"Your server will be with you shortly," she offered, looking like she'd much rather linger, but without a reason, she didn't.

"You said this is one of your favorite restaurants?" I looked up to see Bucky studying me, not the menu in his still gloved hands. I nodded. "Any recommendations?"

I considered his question. "I guess that depends," our server approached with water glasses and asked what we wanted to drink. "I'll stick with water, but Bucky?"

He asked for a Heineken and I bit my lip again while the waiter left to get his beer. "You were saying?"

"I was saying that it depends on what you're in the mood for," it came out almost flirty and the heat of a blush started to grow on my face. "I mean, chicken or beef, pasta or pie?"

"Ah," he smiled down at his menu and I saw the same man that had held my attention in the Smithsonian. "What's your favorite?" He glanced up, catching me staring and I looked back down at my menu.

"Depends on MY mood," I thought about it for a beat. "Pizza, I feel like pizza." I looked up and he was grinning. "What?"

"That wasn't SO hard, was it?" The waiter was back with his bottle of beer, and I shook my head.

"Not as hard as your arm," he'd taken his first sip when I spoke and he snorted, forcing the beer to slightly come out, and my eyes went wide. "Oops," I pushed a napkin his way, while the waiter stared at us in bemusement. "You might want to give us a minute." He nodded and shrunk away, while Bucky eyed me and mopped up the spill. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to -"

"It's alright," he was grinning when he wiped the drops off of his mouth. "You remind me of someone," his eyes looked like they were twinkling in the flickering of the candle. "He used to bust my chops at JUST the right moment too."

"I really didn't mean to do it." I couldn't hold back the giggle any longer, and neither could he. "I am sorry."

"I know, doll." He winked, and smiled. "I know."