I sincerely had not realized it's been, like, 2 & ½ years since I last updated this story.

Chapter Four

By the night of the party, Hermione'd not had any more stints in the time vortex. Oh, she knew the circumstances were wholly unpredictable, but it was quite frustrating. Yes, it meant more uninterrupted time with Bucky, which was a lovely side-effect of this entire mess, but it also stripped her of the ability to observe anything about the vortex, itself. The previous instances when she'd been trapped there, she'd not really noticed anything, because she'd been frankly trying not to.

There was a small part of her concerned that perhaps her time-skips had stopped, altogether. While she now had reason to not consider it an awful notion to simply be stuck here, she still needed to get back to the moment she'd vanished from and make certain Harry was safe. Well, sure, she technically had an approximate 70 years to figure it out, but she was really hoping it wouldn't take her nearly that long.

Though a constant awareness hung over their heads that things could not stay this way—she would, eventually, return to her own time, and he would be sent on missions from which he might not return—Bucky and Hermione settled into a domestic routine fairly quickly in those few days. He was accustomed to taking care of himself, so creating a partnership to handle cooking and washing was not the gargantuan struggle Hermione'd imagined. He was surprisingly open to things being equal between them compared to how she'd imagined a man from the World War II era would be. But then, so was Steve, she realized, as she didn't imagine Peggy Carter was one to take guff from anyone simply because 'women didn't do this, women are supposed to act like that.'

All in all, Hermione figured she'd managed to land in good company.

She'd spent a good majority of her time brushing up on local current events whenever Bucky had to leave her at home to go to some sort of official military meeting or other with Steve and Peggy. Peggy had been good enough to furnish the witch with every recent periodical she could get her hands on—and as it happened, Peggy Carter could apparently get her hands on pretty much anything. Underlining that point, the woman was in the middle of securing Hermione very authentic-looking documentation that would permit her to travel anywhere Bucky did.

Unlike Peggy—an agent of some shadowy, international organization that, from Hermione's understanding, was still getting its legs under itself, who was simply working in cooperation with the United States Military—the documentation for Hermione would identify her as a liaison from British Military Intelligence, sent to work with Captain America and his Howling Commandos. Her exact qualifications and position were going to be so highly classified, one would need the approval of both the US President, and the Prime Minister just to take a peek.

Hermione'd thought that was a little excessive, but she agreed it best not to take any chances. As far as the outward story went, she was a verified genius, and had already survived many battles on her wits alone. It wasn't as though she could argue either point, really. Peggy was good.

The charm linking Bucky to her trips into the time vortex had taken an entire day of tireless magic-stitching. She'd placed it on his dog tags, something he would have an excuse to never take off, but she could take refuge in the idea that now he'd know when she was coming back if, but more likely when, she was torn away again.

It was just before they were to leave for the party—perhaps half an hour, give or take a few minutes—when a military courier dropped off a package containing Hermione's new identity, along with a helpful note from Peggy. Just having finished pulling herself into that lovely white party dress—and that ghastly brassiere underneath—and applying her makeup just as Peggy had the other day, Hermione dropped herself onto the sofa to open the package. After looking everything over, some things she sincerely did not understand, she turned her attention to the note.

Dear Hermione,

This is everything you'll need. Keep these documents on you at all times. In any other case that might seem risky, but I managed to secure credentials so that even should you—God forbid—fall behind enemy lines if your situation finds you accompanying the men to Europe, enemy agents will have far more reason to keep you alive than kill you.

Oh, Hermione wished she could be a normal person and feel disturbed by the very thought. Instead, having lived through all that she had, already, she found comfort in the notion. Of course, she was cognizant from personal experience of a startling number of horrific things one could survive without being killed.

Also, for the sake of backstory, you're my cousin; MI considered it pragmatic to send someone whom I would already be comfortable trusting, as my trust goes a long way with Captain America. Look, it's a long—That last bit was crossed out. American men get all fuzzy when they hear the accent and it'll be easier for them to accept that we're related rather than simply two British women coincidentally running about the same US Military operation with little in the way of verifiable oversight.

See you at the party.

When Hermione looked up from the note, she saw Bucky standing in front of her. She hadn't noticed he could move so silently. Strange. Even if she hadn't heard his footfalls through the apartment, she was accustomed to her spatial awareness telling her when someone was close, and she hadn't felt him move into her sphere of personal space.

Pushing aside her moment of being unnerved by her own faulty perception—perhaps it was simply because they'd been, for lack of a better term, living together for days now and she recognized that he was not a threat—she smiled up at him. He did look quite dashing with his dark hair combed back, and a fine suit that . . . fit him a bit too nicely if she was going to keep her thoughts away from what was under it.

They hadn't discussed what they were to one another, really; nothing beyond him calling her 'his girl,' and her accepting, anyway. It was too complicated. They slept in the same bed, ate meals together, she washed the dishes and he dried—or vice versa—all the while joking and trading stories about their childhoods, their teen years, everything that had led them to that moment they'd met in that terrible laboratory.

But the feelings they were developing toward one another, how they connected emotionally? Not a word. Her heart did sink a little as she watched him whilst he looked over her new, fancy Muggle Military credentials. The smile on her lips lost some of its brightness.

Perhaps it was too scary to wonder at how much affect a person who could be forever ripped out of your life at any moment could have on you.

That handsome mouth of his was set in a grim line as he shook his head, his gaze stilling on the print before him. "I don't like this. You realize what this means?"

"That I could end up in situations where I'll tortured within an inch of my life?"

His broad shoulders sloped as he lifted his attention from the documents to meet her eyes. "It's not funny."

"I wasn't joking." She stood, delicately extracting the papers from his hands and then lacing her fingers through his. "I know I look fragile, but I promise you, I'm not. I know you're scared for me, and I'd be lying if I said I'm not, but if I shied away from everything that scared me . . . ." Her gaze darted about the ceiling in thought before turning to lock on those lovely blue eyes. "You and I would never have met."

He didn't look any happier for her explanation.

"Bucky, please. I am telling you, I will be fine. I do things that scare me every bloody day!" When he still looked unmoved, her mouth went running off without leave of thoughts as she said, "I climb into bed beside you every night, don't I?"

There. A crack in the metaphorical armor as one of his brows crept ever so slightly upward and his chin ducked toward his throat. "You're scared of sleeping next to me?" he asked, his whispered voice barely a tumble of sound.

"Actually . . . yes." She nodded, swallowing hard. Hermione could feel her cheeks warming under his scrutiny. "Only the reasoning is entirely different."

He tipped his head to one side, his eyes never leaving hers. "Explain it to me."

She knew it wasn't her imagination that they'd moved closer together as they stood there. The ruffled hem of her dress brushed his legs, crumpling in the slowly narrowing space between their bodies.

Her breath hitched and she managed to start forcing out words. "Honestly? I can never sleep through the night, so I spend minutes to an hour, maybe, awake and just lying there and . . . you're there. You turn in your sleep so we're facing each other." She had to push out a sharp exhalation that locked in her chest before she could continue. "And it's all I can do not to touch you. To reach out and run my fingers over your lips. To lean closer and kiss you."

Bucky let out a heavy sigh, his head shaking. "Good thing you're the one awake at night, thinking all that, and not me."

She was close enough now, she shivered a little at how the points of her breasts—thanks very much, 1940s bra—brushed his chest through their clothing. "Why is that?"

A half-smile played on his lips as he lifted his hand, still tangled with hers, to stroke the line of her jaw with a delicate fingertip. "If it were me having those thoughts, I don't think I'd be able to stop myself. Ya know, since apparently kissing me scares you."

Hermione nodded, recognizing that he was poking fun at her, trying to take the edge off the tension between them even while adding to it with a simple touch. "It terrifies me," she said, seeming in a bit of a daze as she continued staring up at him, feeling the whisper of his breath on her mouth as he leaned nearer. "Because I know it wouldn't stop at a kiss . . . and we'd—" she forced quick gulp down her throat—"we'd already be in bed, so . . . what would happen next, well, I can imagine we might not let up 'til breakfast."

"I think you're underestimating us." His arm wrapped her waist, even with her hand still in his.

"Am I, now?" With the way he was speaking now, his mouth just over hers, so close the soft skin nearly touched, she doubted she was underestimating their ability to abstain. "You think that's not how things would happen."

Bucky smiled, his lids lowered over those beautiful eyes, giving his expression an alluring, dreamy quality. "Oh, no, it would, but I'm pretty sure we'd end up 'not letting up' until lunch. Maybe dinner."

Oh, he meant stamina. Of course he did. Hermione couldn't help but laugh, even as their lips finally met. She wasted little time, darting her tongue into his mouth, teasing and caressing. He blindly swept the phony documents out of their way as he fell into a sitting position on the sofa, pulling her down with him so that she straddled his lap.

Maybe they didn't have to go the party, he thought, as she at last unlaced her fingers from his to run her hands over his chest beneath his jacket. His own fingers sank into her sleek, pin-curled hair, cupping the back of her head. He pulled her tighter against him, the noise of crinkling fabric filling the room as he mostly broke the kiss, pulling back only enough to catch her lower lip between his teeth.

A knock at the door shattered the moment. She turned, huddling in his lap, his arms still around her, and covering her face with her hands as he practically growled the words, "Who is it?!"

"Sorry, guys. Peggy sent me to pick you two up," Steve answered through the door, in a tone that made Hermione think he probably guessed what he was interrupting from that lovely animal sound Bucky had just made.

"I should go fix my makeup, then," she whispered, planting a quick kiss against Bucky's jaw before she slipped from his lap and started toward the bedroom. She shook her finger back at him, calling over her shoulder just loud enough for his ears, alone, "But we, uh, we will be picking this back up when we get home tonight."

Bucky snickered, nodding as he stood from the sofa and ran his hands over himself, smoothing any wrinkles from his suit. "Yes, ma'am!"

Checking his hair with his fingers, he steadied his breathing and crossed the living room. Opening the door, he met his best friend's eyes with a bland smile, trying to give no hint of his exasperation over the poor timing. "You know, you didn't have to come get us. We were just about to head over."

Steve cringed just a little. "Uh-huh."

Brow furrowing, Bucky asked, "What?"

His lips folding inward, trying to hide a grin, Steve replied, "Well, uh, you're . . . you're kinda wearing Hermione's lipstick."

Slapping his hand against his mouth—okay, maybe Steve had needed to come get them—Bucky turned and headed for the bathroom.

Steve laughed, shaking his head as he stepped into the apartment and closed the door behind him to wait. "War never prepared us for this."