A/N: I edited a video for Bucky and Flo that is available on my youtube account (Madelyn Thompson) or you can watch it if you read this story on my Wattpad (Through Time by ashyjade136). Thanks guys!

A Collection of Moments

The following is a collection of moments from Bucky and Flo's lives that are not integral to the central plot, but contribute to their characters and to the future narrative.

Brooklyn, 1984

I all but shove the grainy photograph at Rebecca, holding it close to her face so she can see. "Look, look, right there." I point. "What do you see?"

She squints her eyes, studying it. "I see…." I wait for her answer with bated breath. "A shadow. A person, maybe."

"It's Bucky," I say. "This photo was taken like four blocks from where this high-powered gang leader was murdered. Look, you can kind of see his chin. It's him, it's Bucky."

Rebecca sits back, looking at me like she's worried, lips pressed into a flat line. "Flo…"

"It's him! It makes sense—"

"Sense? I think you left that behind long ago. You really think Bucky is running around murdering people?" She raises her eyebrows, clamping her hands together. "Why?"

"I don't know. I haven't figured that out yet. Maybe-maybe they're forcing him, like they've got leverage or something. Hell, maybe they threatened to hurt us if he didn't do what they wanted!"

"Who's they?"

"Whoever he's working for! Whoever is controlling him—"

"God, Flo." She shakes her head, standing up and walking to the other side of her kitchen. Our tea has long since gone cold, sitting untouched at the kitchen table where I have spread out all my research.

"He's alive, Becca," I say, my eyes imploring her to believe me. "I saw him. You believe me, right?"

Sadness and distance stretches between us, wearing our friendship thin.

"I think you need to get some help, Flo. Try to deal with everything you've been through, all the trauma."

A noise of frustration escapes my throat and I turn away from her, roughly grabbing all my pages of documents and photos that I've collected over the past year. I shove them into a folder and slam it shut.

"I'm not going to stop, I don't need help. He's alive and I'm going to find him." I like to believe I'm a reasonable, agreeable person but on this matter I am unmovable. I will not be dissuaded from this path.

"He's gone! He's gone and he isn't coming back," Rebecca tells me. "You need to accept that and move on."

There's no moving on for me, no moving forward with my life. This is my life. This is all I have.

~O~

Avengers Facility, 2023

Back straight like an arrow and chest open in never-ending kindness, Steve comes and sits beside Bucky. The two of them look out through the glass and to the forest beyond where Flo is talking with Sam. She throws her head back, golden hair running like silk and catching the light as she laughs.

"You're not coming back, are you?" Bucky asks, eyes still trained on Flo.

Steve takes in a deep, sturdy breath. "She'll be ok without me. You both will. You have each other."

A lump forms in Bucky's throat and he swallows past it with some difficulty. Living in the present without Steve scares him, but he's more scared for Flo. She's been through so much and she needs her brother - the righteous, perfect Steve. Not a broken, hollowed out version of Bucky.

"Have you told her yet?" Bucky asks and Steve shakes his head.

"I will."

For a small while they just sit, watching the girl they both love

Steve puts his hand on Bucky's shoulder, clamps it there like an anchor. "You'll look out for her, just like you always have."

Bucky inhales through his nose and finally looks at his best friend. Though Steve sounds sure of himself, there is reservation on his face, just beneath the surface. He needs reassurance. "She'll be safe. I promise," Bucky says.

"Whatever it takes," Steve emphasises and Bucky feels a flicker of anger. If you're so worried, then stay and help me ensure she's alright, he thinks. But he knows how much his friend has sacrificed over the years. Maybe it's Steve's turn to be selfish.

"Whatever it takes," Bucky repeats. "Whatever I have to do."

Steve's broad shoulders loosen a fraction, though Bucky hasn't seem them completely unwind since before World War II, like Steve's been in a constant state of hyperawareness ever since.

"Thank you, Buck."

His hand slides away from Bucky's shoulder. "You know, I never thought it would end up like this. I always thought you'd get married to some girl, Flo'd go off to college and I'd be the one left behind. Now…"

Bucky suffocates his anger and sadness and manages a smile for his friend. "We'll be fine, Steve. And you'll be happy. That's what matters."

~O~

Brooklyn, 2023

When I move into Steve's house after he's gone, I leave his bedroom untouched for weeks. I can't even go in there at first, the pain so fresh and blinding. But eventually, I work up the courage and open the door. His smell lingers on the sheets of the bed, a flannel shirt folded neatly on top of his dresser. I grab it and slip it on, letting it hang loosely on me, the sleeves falling well past my hands.

In the corner of the room is a large wooden chest with intricate carvings etched into its surface. I kneel on the ground in front of it and slowly lift the heavy lid. Inside are a bunch of things, including one of Steve's Captain America uniforms, a photo of Peggy and a large bundle of letters. I take out the letters, tied together by an old string. Some of them are written by Steve, to Peggy, to me, to Bucky. Ones that never got sent, ones that he must have written after he came out of the ice and was utterly alone in an unfamiliar world. There are a few from the 40s, written by myself and him from whilst he was touring as Captain America, putting on performances for people.

Underneath all of them is a weathered old letter. It is the only one that remains unopened, the seal still stuck down.

On the front of the envelope is written James Buchanan Barnes in my handwriting. I run my finger over the cursive letters and place it down, away from the others. I find a letter written by Steve to me and slip it out, unfurling the paper carefully.

Flo,

I hope you're alright, especially with the rain we've had the past few weeks. Actually, I'm not sure if it's been raining in New York, but it has been here in Chicago. This isn't a bad city by any means, Bucky would love it here, but I miss home like nothing else. And you, of course.

I slam down the letter before I can read any more, my eyes welling with tears. It takes me several minutes to get my breathing back under control and stop myself from sobbing. I carefully pack everything away and close up the chest, but at the last minute decide to grab out the unopened letter that I wrote to Bucky so many years ago.

When he returns home later that day, after his court-mandated therapy, I greet him in the kitchen.

"How was it?" I ask.

"Fine." He's being curt, which means it probably didn't go fine.

"Do you…need anything?"

"No."

I nod, leaning back against the kitchen counter as he makes a cup of black coffee. He's barely slept these past weeks, opting instead to drink copious amounts of caffeine that we both know has probably zero effect on him due to his fast metabolism.

"I went through some of Steve's stuff," I say quietly and Bucky pauses.

"Are you going to clear out his room?"

I quickly shake my head. "No. No, I'm keeping it just the way it is, just in case…" I trail off. I can't say it aloud, not to Bucky.

"He's not coming back, Flo."

"I know. I know that." I pull at a loose thread on Steve's shirt that I'm wearing. "But I still want to leave his room. I like it the way it is."

Bucky doesn't comment on this, just takes a big gulp of his coffee.

I slide the letter out of my back pocket and hold it out to him. "I found this, in Steve's stuff. I'm not sure how he got it, I know he was given some of my things after he came out of the ice."

Brows furrowing, Bucky reaches out and gingerly takes the letter from me.

"I wrote it a few days before I found out that you'd died, falling off that train. I never got to send it. But I wrote it for you, so you should have it."

He looks down at it, doesn't open it. I'm glad; I don't want to be here when he reads it.

~O~

With Flo out interviewing for a job at an ice cream shop, Bucky has the house to himself. It's been a few days since Flo handed him the letter and he hasn't yet had the courage or fortitude to read it. He knows the feelings it'll bring and he cowers from them, already so consumed with emotion from his reoccurring nightmares and crushing guilt.

Sitting on the couch, a picture of Steve and Flo staring him down from atop the fireplace, he opens the envelope. A photograph slides out first. It's in black and white and quality is poor, but Flo and Rebecca's smiling faces are unmistakable. They're both young and unburdened and beautiful, grinning with glee and holding each other tight. Bucky tucks the photo into his pocket, intending to keep it on him. He pulls the accompanying letter out and begins to read.

My dearest Bucky,

First and foremost, I want to wish you and Steve all the protection God has to offer and I pray, as I do every day, that this finds you both safely. I pray you protect each other as fiercely as you have since we were small children.

Annie Conway just received news that her father was killed. The devastation on her face wounded me like it were my own, paralysed me with fear. I dread the day that news like that comes for me.

I'm sorry for my dark thoughts, I promise that most days I am happy and optimistic and eagerly awaiting your assured return.

How is Steve? He writes that he's fine, happy. But I know the burden of leadership and responsibility weighs on him more than he'll ever tell me. He'll tell you though and I trust that you will in turn convey what he says to me, even if in doing so, you upset him. As his sister and only living blood-relative, I believe it my right to know how he truly fares. I know you'll disagree with that, but really you should reconsider. I celebrated my sixteenth birthday last week. I'm practically all grown up.

I write so much of Steve, but don't think that I've forgotten about you.

How are you?

Answer me honestly and with the whole truth or don't answer me at all. When you lie, even on paper, I know it. I don't know what you've seen or what you've had to do and I acknowledge I'm fortunate that I'll never have to, but I want you to know that I love you all the same. Whatever you've done to win this war, whatever sins you think you've committed, I love you the same way I loved you when I was four years old and you would carry me in your arms everywhere. The same way I loved you when I was ten and you helped me care for mama while she was sick. The same way I loved you when I was eleven and you punched Jimmy Higgins in the face for tugging my hair. The same way I loved you the day you left to be a hero. You are a hero, you know? The people of our country adore and idolise Steve as our beloved Captain America, but you're my hero too. You are never lesser than him, not in my eyes.

I don't have more time to write, I have to get to school and Rebecca is yelling at me to hurry up, but I'll write again soon and I hope you'll answer this letter if you have time. I know you're busy, but even an acknowledgment that you read it would do.

I've enclosed also a photograph that was taken of Rebecca and I at school. We were allowed to wear lipstick and everything, though it doesn't show up brilliantly on film. I hope you like it anyway, make sure you show Steve.

I'm thinking of you both, always. Return home soon, before Christmas would make me joyful beyond words, though I will understand if that's not possible.

Above all, be safe.

Yours, now and always,

Florence.