Sleep had been fitful for him, not much different than usual. But he had anticipated nightmares and there were none. He wondered if his mind were giving him a small reprieve. Perhaps reliving the scenes from the bar over and over in his head as he lay on the floor had been nightmare enough. Though, he supposed he dreamt while he dozed. There was an image floating around in his mind he knew he hadn't seen in real life. You, leaning against a fire escape back in Brooklyn on a sweltering summer afternoon, top buttons of your blouse undone as you drank from a bottle of Coca-Cola with the condensation pooling at your fingers, smiling at him. Whether it was a true dream or his mind wandering places it didn't belong while he tried to sleep, he had no idea. All he did know was that he wanted it bad, much more than he ought to.

Yet, when he was fully awake in the still, darkness of early morning, flashes of the night before kept replaying, reminding him of what he'd done, what you'd seen. He felt the anger and shame burn at the back of his throat, pressing him on as he ran the woods, twice. Past the creek that was now swollen with rain, the muck you'd fallen in hidden under gray water. Past the ruins of a well house where he saw your initials carved into the stone amongst a dozen others. Past a dilapidated deer stand, rusty and collapsing under the weight of years of disuse. He tried to keep his mind occupied with these things and the rate of his breathing and the snap of twigs and leaves under his feet. Anything to push away those thoughts.

It was barely dawn when he finally returned, the morning already proving to be overcast and dreary. The grass was too slick with dew and his mind and body too exhausted from overuse to do his normal physical training. It had been a while since he'd last inspected his weapons and he supposed that could prove a decent enough distraction from his own thoughts. But you would still be asleep and something about the air inside the house was stifling, heavy and expectant, like he was suffocating on his own anxious anticipation. Remembering a table he'd seen tucked away in the back of the shed, big enough to lay out his whole cache, he figured he could set it up outside to use.

After picking his way past the lawn mower and weed trimmer and several boxes of what looked like party and holiday decorations, he finally reached what he'd been seeking. But he gave an annoyed huff at the state of it now that he could see it in full. The table was laying on its side, unfinished both in terms of construction and staining or sealant. He wasn't sure what sort of wood it was made out of, but the top was one solid piece, soft and mostly smooth. One leg was already attached to the under table with three others leaning against the wall, cut and ready to go. For a moment, he considered just trying to dry off the patio table, but it had a stone top which would be saturated at this point. Not good for the mechanisms in his firearms. Besides, judging from the one leg, it was a simple enough construction even he could piece it together.

Hefting everything easily to the shed's work bench, he rummaged through the drawers in search of tools. There was a power drill with a screw bit that he plugged into the outlet nearby. He pulled the trigger and it whirred to life, startlingly loud, but it worked. Another small drawer had an opened box of screws and a nearly empty pot of wood glue, the remnants already dry and cracking. Just as well. Glue took time to dry and he didn't want to wait that long. Screws would work just fine. Perhaps he could go back later and fix it properly, but now he just needed something simple. Double checking, he found all the legs were in fact the same length and started in on attaching them, careful so as not to split any of the wood. It only took about five minutes and it struck him as odd that someone would have done so much work already just to stop so abruptly, especially when everything necessary to complete it was on hand. But he decided not to dwell on that as he sat the table upright on the ground. It wasn't perfect, definitely not polished, but it was sturdy and would work just fine. With a small nod of satisfaction, he hauled it out to set on the patio.

He made quick work of gathering his weapons from each of their hiding spots, stuffing them into his black tac bag for ease of carry along with a couple stained hand towels. Pausing at your door out of habit, he held his breath to listen. There were only the soft sounds of you sleeping, shifting on your mattress. A part of him wondered, just for a moment, if it would be better, easier, to just pack some clothes in the same bag and leave. Take off before you got up and run who knows where. Something wouldn't let him, though. Something unnamed, but solid inside him. Besides, he'd done enough running and it was high time he took his lumps like a grown man. He fucked up and deserved whatever consequences it brought him. Still, if you asked him to leave... If you woke up and told him you thought he was too dangerous to have around, you didn't feel safe, he'd accept it and go. The knowledge that it was a distinct possibility sat like a heavy stone in his gut. It felt almost worse than the memory of the night before. His throat was thick with uncertainty as he returned to his little table to spread out the contents of his bag.

Usually, it took very little time to strip and clean all the handguns. He didn't do it too often, taking apart and reassembling a gun put wear and tear on it, loosening the connections and putting it out of commission sooner than necessary. Made it less likely to work efficiently when needed. He didn't use them enough, or at all since he'd moved in with you, for them to require much cleaning. But at its heart, this little exercise was about distracting himself, so he took his time. Made sure everything was spotless and everything slid together smooth and firm. He was contemplating finding an out of the way spot on the property to practice his marksmanship as he reassembled the last of the firearms and began to wipe his hands clean. Knives would be next.

"Mornin' Bucky."

He froze suddenly at the sound of your voice behind him. It was groggy and unreadable. Licking his dry lips and taking a steadying breath, he turned slightly to look your way, unsure quite what to expect. You were padding toward him from the back door in your house slippers and fleece pajama pants, hoodie zipped up to your chin against the morning air. There was a steaming coffee mug in each of your hands and a sleepy smile on your face. Hair mussed and the corners of your eyelids a little darkened with smudges of leftover eyeliner, you still managed a certain charm about you. The tight coil of his muscles began to unwind, though the certainty he was the cause of the exhaustion written on your face galled him.

Once you got close enough, you held one of the mugs out and Bucky took it easily. The fleeting sweep of your fingers against his nearly warmed his hand as much as the heat of the ceramic. It reminded him just how cool it was outside, threatening goosebumps up his arm as he nodded in thanks before taking a sip of the black coffee. You cradled the other mug in your hands and glanced at what he had been working on. A pang of concern shot through him when your smile faltered a second. After last night, the sight of the weapons might be upsetting you. He'd shown them to you before, but they were hidden and maybe the reminder that he could have a gun or knife in his hand at any moment terrified you now. It took him a moment to get past his own dire thoughts to realize it wasn't the mini arsenal you were looking at, but the table itself. You reached a hand out to smooth delicately over the wooden surface.

"Is this... Is this the table from the shed," you asked, crouching down to check out the underside. "The one that was in pieces?"

He nodded when you looked up at him and had to wet his lips and mouth again. It had been half a day since he last spoke. "Yeah. I'm sorry. Should've asked first."

"No, Bucky. It's okay," you shook your head gently as you stood. The smile had returned to your face, a little brighter than before. "You did a good job putting it together. Maybe later we could go pick up some paint or stain or something and you could really make it yours."

His heart thundered in his chest at that. Certainly didn't sound like you were planning on kicking him out. That was a start, a relief, undeserved but welcome just the same. He watched you admire the table a moment longer, not sure why it seemed to strike a chord with you, before you finally took a sip from your mug. Your nose scrunched almost immediately as you swallowed your mouthful, tip of your tongue sticking out between your teeth in a look of disgust. A smile tried tugging at the corners of Bucky's lips despite himself, so he hid it behind his own gulp of coffee and an eyebrow raised in question. You both knew you weren't a fan of a plain cup of joe.

"Need the caffeine. I was up pretty late," you answered, forcing down another sip. That horrible twisting in his gut started again, and you must have read that distress in him, because you fixed him with a gentle look and turned to press your shoulder into his, surprising him with the familiar gesture. "Wanted to make sure I was awake if you needed me."

Bucky had lost count of how many times he considered knocking on your door that night. Just like he had after that first dinner with Steve. But though you had been comforting and understanding in the alley behind the restaurant, a part of him had dreaded the thought that you might have changed your mind about it, given time to process and think and calm down after the incident. His brain just couldn't comprehend how you could be so... so accepting, even now. Bringing the mug back up to his lips, he finally ground out in response "I didn't want to bother you."

"Bother me," you asked in a surprised laugh, as though the idea of it was ridiculous. You powered through another gulp of coffee before setting your mug on the table to look him square in the eye. "Bucky, you are not a bother to me. Ever. You could've knocked on my door any time. I know last night was rough on you."

There you went again, being so goddamn caring. Jesus, he didn't deserve it or the gentle way you spoke to him or how close you were standing. How could it not bother you? He could rationalize before; you'd only heard of the things he'd done from other people. Now you'd seen it with your own eyes. You'd seen him rampage through a public venue, seen him attack someone, nearly kill them. You'd heard people shouting in fear and the strangled noise the man had made under his hand and the animal snarl in his own voice. And still you looked at him like it didn't change a damned thing for you. Maybe Steve had been right last night, about you not shrinking away.

The feel of your fingers sliding across the back of his right hand pulled Bucky from his spiral of thoughts. His grip tightened on the coffee mug he held there as your thumb brushed over his skin, palm pressing against his knuckles. Those same knuckles he'd nearly driven into a man's face. He itched to flinch away, your touch so tender, so delicate, he wasn't sure which of you were more likely to break. But he couldn't because he wanted it. Wanted it so fierce and hot and vicious, just like his dream of you. You were looking him dead in the eyes again, not a trace of fear or mistrust. Only a kind, coaxing smile.

"I'm here if you wanna talk, Bucky" you said gently before offering a slight squeeze of your hand around his. "Whenever you're ready."

And like that, you let him go, his skin suddenly feeling cold where you had touched him. You grabbed your mug, barely controlling your grimace as you took another sip, then turned like you meant to leave. His heart sank in his chest with a sick thump. As nervous as he had been to face you that morning, now that you were in front of him, he had the sudden wild need to keep you near. Before he knew what he was doing, he was saying your name, more urgent, desperate, than he had meant. You stopped abruptly, turning back with a curious, concerned look that he couldn't meet for a moment.

Bucky opened his mouth to speak, feeling like he needed to say something. No, he wanted to say something, anything. He just didn't know what or how. Tongue sliding over his lips again, he turned back to the table, head ducked so that his hair obscured you from his view. There was just so much shit rattling around in his brain. But then, in his peripheral, he saw you set your mug on the table again. He could sense your fingers slipping between his metal ones, entwining them together firmly. It wasn't the same as with his right hand, but it still brought him a modicum of comfort. And that grew when he felt you lean some of your weight against him, hugging his arm to your chest and pressing your cheek into the sleeve of his shirt. Glancing over, he expected to find your eyes on him, but instead they were turned down, your face neutral except for the tiny lines of concern in your brow. The steady rise and fall of your chest, your heartbeat against the sensors in the metal plating, lulled him and helped uncoil the tension in his muscles even more, untwisted his tongue.

"I thought... I thought I was doing better," he finally spoke, quiet, though he could hear the gravel in his voice as he sat his coffee next to yours. He knew no one else was around to listen in, but sometimes it was easier to talk softly, like he was sharing a secret. He didn't need to be loud with you. "But I guess I'm still just the monster they made me."

"You are not a monster, Bucky," you countered, tone definite, if a little appalled. You pulled back to look into his eyes, though you still grasped his hand tight. "Monsters don't hurt over what they've done the way I know you do. And you have been doing better. You are doing better."

The insistence in your voice bit at him. Bitterness rose in the back of his throat and he ground his teeth against the onslaught of it. He shook his head slightly as he looked away again. How could you know how he hurt? You didn't have the flashes of memories, didn't have blood and death seared into your very being the way he did. Still, the feel of your soft fingertips sliding through the stubble on his cheek made his jaw unclench. When you urged his face back toward you, your expression was gentle and understanding, and he wanted it to be true. He wanted to believe in himself the way you seemed to believe in him.

"Bucky, what you're going through doesn't ever really go away," you told him, sadness and regret heavy in every syllable. The way you brushed the hair from his face before curling your fingers carefully against his jawline, your thumb gently caressing over his skin, was its own form of solace as you continued. "It's with you forever. You just learn to manage it. You learn how to carry it better, how to let others help. Last night was a setback. They happen. They're human. You are human."

"I almost killed someone last night," Bucky breathed out in shameful argument, though there was little fight behind it.

Your hand moved from his face to rest at his chest, giving a gentle tug at the front of his shirt. "But you didn't, Bucky. You didn't kill him."

"I wanted to," was his sour admission. That spark of hatred ignited in him again at the memory, serving only to fuel his anger and guilt. It was hard enough admitting it to Steve, but you deserved to know, too. "I wanted to kill him with my bare hands. Because... because..."

"Because of me," you whispered with such surety, looking away. He caught a flash of pain and sorrow on your face as you moved both your hands from him to turn and pick up your cup for a grimaced sip.

In that one fraction of a second, Bucky realized you blamed yourself. For all of it, the things he had done and almost did. His chest clenched as he recalled what he'd said in the alley the night before, how he'd said you should have known. He never meant to put it on you like that, it was the panic, the fear of you getting hurt. Hell, even the idea of you just being upset now, especially because of him, caused an unexpected tightness in his throat, so that his response was a choked, somewhat alarmed "You stopped me."

"You stopped you, Bucky," you replied after swallowing your mouthful of coffee. Over your shoulder, you offered him a pointed look. "You could've just as easily ignored me, pushed me away and done it anyway."

"No," he blinked, voice low as he shook his head. And it surprised him just how true the words felt, just how sure he was. "No, I couldn't have."

Your brow furrowed gently before the barest hint of a smile ghosted across your lips, too soon hidden by the cup in your hand as you took another drink. Bucky contemplated his own coffee a moment, taking a gulp of it. Even quickly cooling, it tasted good to him. He could tell the little things you'd done to try to make it even better. A pinch of salt. A dash of cinnamon. Even though you usually didn't drink it yourself. You were always doing things for him. You made coffee for him. You cooked for him. You wrecked your sleep for him. Smiled for him. What had he done, before HYDRA or after, that warranted the kind of care you gave him? Because he sure as shit hadn't done anything during that made him worthy of a damn thing.

"I'll never understand it, sweetheart," he found himself saying into his now-empty cup, interrupting the silence that had fallen between the two of you. "Why you waste your time and energy on a fucked up thing like me."

There was an indignant look on your face when it suddenly snapped toward him, your mug meeting the table with a firm thunk as you set it down none too carefully. Though he was certain the laundry list of things he'd done in his life to deserve a look like that was a mile long, in that moment, Bucky was at a loss for which one it could have been. With your jaw set, you drew up to your full height. Shoulders squared and a bit of fire in your eyes, anyone else might've been cowed by you. Shit, the tiniest piece of him was even a little intimidated, if only because he wasn't sure what to expect when you opened your mouth to speak.

"Now you listen here, James Buchanan Barnes, and you listen good," you began, voice stern, authoritative, but without much ire, though your finger was pointed at his chest in warning. "You don't decide what is and is not worth my time. I decide that. And goddamn it, Bucky, you are worth every second. Every ounce of energy. You're worth all of it. Just 'cause you don't see it doesn't mean I don't. I know you don't think much of yourself right now, but I think the world of you, Bucky. I think the world of you and I… I… I know Steve does too. And Sam understands what you're going through and wants to help. Even he thinks you're doing better and he's trained to see that in people. And-"

Bucky recognized the way your voice began to pitch upward, the strain that overtook your brow and the edges of your eyes. It happened in front of him a time or two before. You'd get worked up, flustered, overwhelmed, and you would start to flounder for words to cover it up. And just as quick and easy as you always reached for him when you seemed to know he was starting to spiral wild inside, his fingers moved to brush gently against your elbow. The gesture seemed to calm you, words trailing off in a deep, quiet breath. You shot him a sheepish look even as his hand skimmed down the fabric of your sleeve to take hold of yours. Turning your face away like you were ashamed, your eyes lit on the table and you let out a little sigh.

"The table was my sister's project," you breathed low. The wobbliness in your voice tore at him and he squeezed your hand tighter as he tried to think of what he could say. But you squeezed back and continued to speak, sounding raw. "Obviously, she didn't finish it. Seems kinda fitting, you coming along and finally getting it put together. It's not done though. Still needs work. Don't give up on it, okay Bucky? Don't give up like she did."

An ache settled deep in his chest when your eyes met his again, glistening wet with unshed tears. And Bucky knew you meant more than just the table even as he shook his head in a silent promise. Before he knew what he was doing, his left hand slid up to cup your cheek. The sight of metal fingers on your soft skin seemed almost sacrilegious, yet you leaned into his touch so he didn't dare pull away. You looked up at him doe-eyed, lips parted in question, scent of sweetened coffee on your breath as it fanned across him. It made his heart stutter. But the flush that bloomed on your face threw the nearly invisible scar on your cheek bone into more prominent relief. Tasting the guilt of it acrid on his tongue, he slipped his thumb across the thin line, like he could soothe it away just for the wishing. And he couldn't feel the warmth of your skin there the way a part of him so terribly wanted.

Whether or not you could tell where his mind had wandered, Bucky had no clue, but after a lingering moment you reached up to rest your hand over his metal one. The sensors in his palm registered the slightest increase in pressure before you were gently pulling his hand away. You blinked rapidly, shaking your head with a gentle sniffle. Trying to compose yourself, a weak smile tugged at the corners of your lips as your eyes fell to the table again, though your hands still held his.

"At it again with the arsenal, I see," you commented, a hint of self-disparaging laughter cutting the nasaliness of your voice.

Bucky was willing to play along with the change of subject, gnawing a bit at his bottom lip as he offered up a slight nod. "Yeah. Finished with them just before you came out."

When you let go of his right hand to brush your fingers tentatively over the grip of the closest handgun, he felt the fine muscles in his palm spasm involuntarily. But he ignored it, instead watching as you eyed the weapons curiously. "Do you have to clean them so often? Like once a week or something like that?"

"No, was just... something to do," he admitted and gave himself a wry snort. You spared him a glance, as though you wanted him to elaborate, so he cleared his throat gently before continuing. "The more often you use one, then more often you should clean it. Causes unnecessary wear and tear otherwise."

"I gotcha," you nodded in understanding, voice already evening out. Turning back to look at him, you raised an eyebrow. "Have you not been using them? Even for practice?"

Bucky shook his head with the barest of shrugs. "Probably should soon, though. Just to make sure they stay in good working condition."

A thoughtful expression crossed your face as you let your fingers slip from his metal ones to pick up your coffee mug, cradling it between your hands to sip quietly. It occurred to Bucky then that after he first let you see all the weapons he had, you'd never questioned why they were there or where he kept them hidden. He caught how you started a bit at the sight that day when he invited you in, yet you didn't press him on it. There was the possibility that you didn't care, though Bucky couldn't buy that. Not with what your sister did. The idea that you trusted him despite that wasn't lost on him, even now when he still wasn't entirely sure he could trust himself.

"If you want, I could go get dressed and show you a place that should be okay for shooting," you offered after biting back the final glowering gulp of your coffee.

He regarded you a moment, considering the suggestion. You looked mostly recovered, though red still tinged your eyelids from trying not to cry. The change in subject to the contents of the table had seemed like grasping at straws at first. Now, you seemed sincere, a bit eager, even. Maybe you needed the distraction right now as much as he did. Feeling a strange little smile threatening to tug at the corners of his lips, Bucky ducked his head in a quick nod. "Yeah, alright. Let's do that."

"Great," you replied, sounding a tad excited as a bright grin spread your face. You grabbed his mug, holding it up to silently ask if he wanted more, but he passed with a raise of his hand. "Alright, I'll go change. Be back in a minute."

It wasn't until you turned back at the patio door to give him a renewed smile that Bucky even realized he'd let his gaze trail after you. He hadn't meant to stare, his mind somewhat preoccupied by the quick determination in your walk and the gentle padding of your slippers on the concrete and what he thought might have been a poem itching at the edge of his memory that he couldn't quite grasp. Byron, maybe. After you disappeared into the house, Bucky went about gathering the weapons up into the tac bag again. The bag was slung carefully over his shoulder so he could use both hands to pick up the table. No sense in leaving it outside when there was room in the shed. Besides, if it meant so much to you, that would be the best place for him to work on it whenever the two of you managed to get the rest of the supplies. You were already outside, clad in the same hoodie, but with jeans and tennis shoes, heading in his direction when he stepped back into the yard and he decided to wait for you.

"Do you have any old bottles or cans you don't want to keep," Bucky asked when you reached him.

You offered him a curious knit of your brow before realization dawned. "No, sorry. But..."

Brushing past him, you made your way into the shed. He watched you rummage through a few of the decoration boxes, tip of your tongue sticking out from the corner of your mouth in concentration. You made a little triumphant cry when you pulled something from one of the boxes. Then, you turned your attention to the work bench, opening and shutting a few drawers as you searched. A minute or so later, you presented him with a package of colorful balloons and a staple gun. Bucky blinked at you for a moment, but couldn't suppress the smirk that grew on his face at the expectant shrug you gave him. It was hardly conventional, but it was clever, resourceful. With an amused snort, he took the items from you to stuff in an outer pocket of his bag, looking up to find a hint of smugness cross your features.

You led him out past the shed through a small, overgrown field that pitched downward slightly, pock-marked with a few weed-cocked stumps. It grew rockier the farther out you took him until you stopped several yards from where trees began to grow again. Through the trunks and sparse foliage, Bucky could see a cliff face jutting up behind them. The slope of the ground pointed straight at it, any shots that might miss their mark would embed in tree or soil or rock. The line of sight was decent, even with the trees, just enough distance between them and far enough away from the road that it was unlikely someone could stumble into the line of fire without being seen. It really was a good spot to do some target practice, outside of a standard shooting range.

"Here ya go," you said, giving a wide sweeping gesture at the scenery before him. "Think this'll work?"

"Yeah, it'll work," he nodded as he slid the bag from his shoulder to set on the ground.

There was that gentle pride he saw flash through your smile again before he crouched down to unzip the main compartment and pull out one of the pistols. Your voice came with a curious edge from above his head. "Gonna do some shooting now?"

"Just a few rounds each. Make sure everything's firing properly," he replied, checking the magazine before popping it in. Technically, he was going about it backwards, cleaning the guns before using them, but he was rolling with what the day brought him and he could always clean them again later.

"Would it be okay if I stick around to watch," you asked, tone polite, cautious, but clearly interested.

Bucky's eyes shot up to you, somewhat taken aback at the question. Part of him was hesitant, uneasy that you'd be so comfortable seeing him practice those particular deadly skills. Then again, you witnessed him at arguably his worst in quite some time and hadn't shied away. And he would be lying if he said he wanted you to leave. So, he nodded in agreement as he stood, watching your face light up a little before you went to sit on one of the stumps a couple yards behind him.

Content that you were safely out of the way, Bucky took position to aim toward the cliff. There was a tree set deep among the rest, nearly touching the rocky face, with a knot some ten feet off the ground. Three shots rang out, loud and familiar, echoing through the cold morning air. Three bullets lodged in the intended target, neatly clustered from years of training and decades of experience. Three was enough for him, enough to see that things worked fine. Any more than that and he worried what could happen. If his mind might fall back into old habits or if the thunderous spit of bullets might drum up dark memories to send him into a panic. He didn't want to chance that happening. Not with a gun in his hand. Not with you so close. Better safe than sorry.

After three shots, he didn't feel any pull on his brain and continued to the next gun. Check the magazine, unload three rounds to dislodge a strip of bark hanging from another tree trunk. Next one, a trio of bullets tore a tuft of grass on the cliff to oblivion. And it continued on. Each trigger squeezed in quick succession. Each aim true. By the time he reached the last one, he allowed himself the smallest modicum of pride for his unerring focus and precision before it was swallowed up again in his mind.

"Everything good," you called out when he'd finished firing, pulling his attention toward you.

Bucky saw you approaching at a considerate pace as he lowered the weapon still in his hand. "All in decent working condition."

"Good," you smiled. Yet he could see you mulling something over in your head as your eyes flicked from the gun back to his face before you stopped a few feet away from him. "So, do you think... do you think maybe I could give it a try?"

"You wanna shoot," he asked, brow furrowing in no small amount of confusion.

"If that's alright," you shrugged, though he could see eagerness hiding behind your nonchalance.

Bucky studied you a moment as he contemplated the request. It was one thing to accept weapons being stashed all over your home, it was something else entirely to hold one in your hand and use it. It hadn't even occurred to him you might want to, especially after learning about your sister. But he supposed you were nothing if not the resilient sort. And if it was something you really wanted to do, far be it from him to say no. After all the things you'd done for him and shown him the last months, he could indulge you this. Hell, if he was being honest, he would probably indulge you just about anything you asked.

With a tilt of his head, he motioned for you to come closer and you complied without a moment's hesitation, pulling up next to him as he asked. "Have you ever fired a weapon before?"

"No," you shook your head and carefully took the gun he handed over to you. He was pleased to see you leave your index finger resting along the frame, outside of the trigger guard, as you gave him a small smile. "But who better to teach me, right?"

"Just 'cause I can do it, doesn't mean I should teach it," Bucky countered with a soft huff, gently rearranging your hands for a more proper grip. "Tried tellin' Steve that, but he never was one to listen."

He saw your forehead crinkle a bit in question, but he was already stepping half behind your shoulder to check your position. "Gun's supposed to be an extension of your hand. Point the muzzle like you're pointing your finger. See that fallen branch down there?"

Your eyes followed in the direction he extended his hand. It led straight to a thick limb that rested partially buried in the dirt between two trees. When you nodded your affirmative, he lowered his hand back to his side. "Now, line it up in your sights and try to hit it."

Another nod and he watched as you adjusted. There was a straight line down the length of your arm which was a good start, but you hadn't braced yourself before you pulled the trigger sharply. The shot rang out, muzzle jumping so that the bullet missed nearly a foot high. With a bit of a startled yelp, the kick of it sent you stumbling back to slam against his chest. He caught you on instinct with his hands at your hips, fingers curling into the fabric of your hoodie and jeans to steady you. Before he could even think about letting go, you turned your face toward him with eyes wide and round and excited, breathing out through a forming smile "Holy shit!"

The shock and delight in your expression was too much and Bucky sputtered out a chuckle despite himself. He ducked his head, trying to regroup, only to hear you giggle brightly as you leaned into him, head falling back on his chest. The unexpected shift of your weight made him hyper-aware of every soft inch of you pressed against him, the gentle vibrations of your laughter almost electric over his skin. Swallowing thick against the dry, pounding heartbeat in his throat, the clean scent of your shampoo having flooded his lungs, Bucky slipped his tongue across his lips before smiling over to find you beaming at him. With a slight nudge, you were standing on your own again, though his left hand lingered at the small of your back. And while he could pretend it was just in case your next shot kicked you just as hard, he knew better.

"Jesus, that was terrible," you groaned in embarrassment, swiping a hand down your face as the other pointed the muzzle at the ground, finger along the frame again without even being told.

"Ah, wasn't that bad," Bucky teased gently with a shake of his head and a scrunch of his nose. "Only missed by a foot or so."

The wry, unconvinced look you shot from the corner of your eye had him relenting with a smirk. "Okay yeah, it was pretty bad. Nothin' you can't work on, though. Aim again, but don't shoot yet."

You did as instructed, taking aim like you had before and he adjusted your arm slightly to brace you better. Then, he held his hand alongside yours as though he was holding his own gun, curling his finger repetitively. "Gotta use the pad of your forefinger. Slow, even pressure. If the muzzle jumps a centimeter, you're off by a mile. Slow and even. Got it?"

"I think so," you answered, eyes moving from his little demonstration back to the target. You fidgeted a little, like you might've been nervous, but there was determination etched in your face. Bucky couldn't help the pride and admiration he felt warm in his chest at the sight.

"Now, take a breath," he said low, moving back behind your shoulder. "Hold it to steady yourself and fire."

For a split second, he thought he sensed you shiver beneath his hand, but then the crack of the gun sounded. It didn't kick so bad this time, and you didn't stumble back into him again, but it still missed. This time only by an inch or two. You gave an annoyed snort and aimed again. Another breath. Hold. Fire. The bullet grazed the top of the tree limb, sending a spray of bark spitting into the air. This time, he definitely felt you bounce a little in excitement when you glanced at him as though looking for approval. Bucky smiled slightly, tapping your back with his thumb, and tilted his chin toward the target again. You seemed to take the hint, hunkering a little, getting comfortable to shoot again. Another shot, another graze. Another shot and the bullet tore through the target neatly.

"Yes," you hissed in triumph, pumping one fist as your other hand pointed the gun safely downward.

Bucky chuckled quietly at your animated display, backing away a few steps and trying to suppress the reluctance of it with a small shake of his head. "Good job, sweetheart."

"Told you you'd be the best teacher," you practically cooed as you smiled at him. But then he could almost see a thought flash across your face. "What does Steve want you to teach him anyway?"

"It's not him he wants me to teach," Bucky ground out, trying not to sound as bitter about the topic as he felt. Of course you had caught his little slip and would question it. Then again, maybe a part of him had wanted you to. Moving to sit on the grass, unconcerned with the left over dampness marring the thick fabric of his pants, he rummaged through his bag to start refilling the magazines of his other firearms. With a glance up to your waiting eyes, he urged "Keep practicin'."

"What am I supposed to aim for," you asked, quirking an eyebrow at him.

"Anything but me," was his deadpan response, but he caught you smile before he turned back to the task at hand.

A few seconds later, the crack of gunfire roared. Judging by your grunt, you hadn't hit what you aimed for. "You gonna tell me who Steve does want you to teach?"

"Take a wild guess," he replied with a sour scoff as he carefully, deliberately loaded each round.

"The Avengers?" The thoughtful tone of your voice hanging in the air was drowned out by another shot. When the echo died down, you gave a huff of disquiet laughter. "I suppose they don't need you to show them how to shoot guns."

Bucky looked up at you, firmly sliding the filled magazine into the handgun before picking up the next. You were watching him curiously, so intent on hearing what he had to say. After worrying his teeth along his lower lip a moment, he finally answered. "Steve and Sam thought I could help them all train and prepare for missions, maybe even join them in the field eventually."

"Ah," you nodded, contemplative as you positioned yourself to aim again. "Think you're gonna go ahead and do that?"

"Not so sure I ought to," he admitted, attending to the next gun in the bag. After another round of gunfire, hitting the target if the satisfied noise you made was any indication, he looked up at you again to ask "What do you think?"

You regarded him a moment, expression somewhat pleasantly surprised. "You want my opinion?"

"Course I do," Bucky nodded, a little confused at the look on your face, like you didn't know how much weight your word on something held for him. Enough to make him question his own dark thoughts sometimes. "Never tried to steer me wrong before."

With a considering look, you raised the gun again toward some target unknown to him. Your face was a mask of concentration as you took aim and you barely flinched this time when you squeezed the trigger. The way your face lit up some, Bucky figured you'd hit your mark again. But when you lowered your gun, you moved to kneel on the ground across the tac bag from him, muzzle pointed away with the safety on and your finger wrapped carefully away from the trigger guard. If you truly never shot a weapon before, you were a quick learner and had at least paid attention to the way others held them cautiously.

"Honestly, I think you should give it a try," you finally spoke after settling into the grass, seemingly unbothered by the wet and cold. As if you knew exactly where his thoughts would turn, you raised a hand and fixed him with a serious look. "And yes, even after last night, I still think you should. I'm sure Sam and Steve do, too. It's a chance to do some good."

"Do some good," Bucky repeated, sharp, skeptical, as he loaded the next magazine. "Forgettin' all the nasty shit I done, sweetheart? All I'm still capable of?"

"I'm not forgetting a damned thing, Bucky," was your gentle argument. He glanced over again when you heaved a sigh. "Look, you obviously can't change what happened. It's a part of you now. Far from the only part, but it's there and you can't get rid of it. You have to work with what you've got. Learn what you can from it and put it to good use. Maybe that can be helping save the world. And maybe it can't. Won't know until you try."

Bucky continued the work in his hands silently for a moment, reflecting a little on what you'd said. It was going to take more than the span of a few heartbeats and some nice words, no matter how sincere, to erase his doubts on the subject. But hell if it didn't make him want to consider it that much harder; made him wonder if maybe one day he could prove himself worth a damn, like you and Sam and Steve all seemed to think possible. He found a soft expression on your face, intent on him, watching him think, when he looked over at you. Setting aside his internal musings, he offered you a quirk of his lips.

"You're getting pretty comfortable with that gun in your hand," he informed lightly, finishing his busy work before tucking it neatly back in the bag. "Wanna go for something slightly more precise?"

"Sure," you nodded with a bright smile. And he was rather relieved that you let him change the subject so easily. "Though once I get the hang of this whole gun thing, maybe you could teach me to throw knives next? I could practice with the one you gave me."

"You still have that," Bucky asked, eyes widening. He knew exactly which one you were talking about. The one he gave you to sharpen, in the silent hope you might destroy or dispose of it. The one he saw embedded in the door frame beside your startled eyes after his brain cleared from the violent nightmare memories, cold sweat dotting his skin as a line of blood etched over yours. And you still had it?

You fixed him with a curious look, like you may have thought he'd gone crazy. "You only gave it to me like a month or so ago. Did you think I'd misplace it that quick?"

"Nah, I just…," he trailed off, eyes flickering to your right cheek. "I figured you wouldn't be too keen on keepin' it, that's all."

He knew you finally got his meaning when you reached your fingers up to brush over the practically invisible scar, vision a little distant in thought. Then a sweet and playful smirk crossed your face as your gaze focused on him. "Hey, you gave me that knife and I plan on keeping it, thank you very much. Now, you were talking about something more precise?"

"Right," he mumbled, shaking his head slightly, though he couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips. You really were something else. "So far you've just been aimin at whatever, not really thinkin about it, right?"

There was the barest hint of sheepishness to your nod as he reached into the pockets of his bag. It only made his smile widen when he spoke. "Thought I'd set you up some targets to shoot for."

An amused grin spread your face when he pulled out the package of party balloons. Tearing into it, he found a whole myriad of colors. Blue, red, green, yellow, purple, pink, white. He picked out three blue ones before stashing the package away again. The idea was to blow them up about softball size and staple them to one of the tree trunks. That would provide a smaller area to concentrate your aim. But when he brought the first balloon to his lips and started to fill it, you barked out an unexpected laugh that startle him enough to sputter, releasing what air he'd gotten out.

"What," he asked, eyebrow raised at you suspiciously. You were still laughing, a huge belly laugh that you seemed unable to contain, face bright and delighted as you waved him off a moment, trying to catch your breath. It might have been infectious if he weren't suddenly questioning your sanity. Still, Bucky could hear it creeping into his voice when he tried again. "What the hell are you laughin at, ya crazy person?"

"I just... Your face... Ah, shit," you tried to swallow down your giggles a bit, gasping for air. You shook your head firmly, like you were trying to knock some sense into yourself. After a moment, you seemed to get things under control, though your words were still shaky with laughter when you spoke. "Jesus, I'm sitting here with Bucky Barnes, Howling Commando, Super soldier, world class badass, who is blowing up balloons with his cheeks all puffed out... I can't... I just can't!"

Bucky leveled you with an annoyed glare, though he couldn't really bring himself to be mad. Not when you looked so goddamn happy, so absolutely tickled he almost didn't want you to stop. Especially when you puffed out your own cheeks to mock him and it sent you into another short fit of giggles. Still, he managed a fairly even tone as you came down from that little spell. "Are you gonna take this seriously?"

"Not if you keep making that chipmunk face," you barely got out as you renewed your attempt to calm yourself down, mostly succeeding.

"Well, then I guess we gotta call it a day," he shook his head in a facade of disappointment, watching expectantly for your reaction. "Can't keep practicin if you can't get a hold of yourself."

"Okay okay, no, I'm good, I'm fine," you quickly assured, sitting up straight and sucking your lips in to hold back your laughter. You cleared your throat as you tried to put on a mask of nonchalance. The corners of your lips twitched with the effort to keep yourself together. "I'm fine. Go ahead and do your thing."

Eyeing you one last time, just to see you redouble your efforts to keep calm, Bucky went about blowing up the balloons as originally planned. Once or twice, he caught you covering your mouth with your hand, trying to hide a smile. Each time he'd look at you, silently daring you to start laughing again. You were still hanging tough when he tied off the last one, though he did see you grin as he stood up with the staple gun to carry everything away. He chose a tree a fair distance from where he left you and stapled them down the front of the trunk, careful not to pop them. They swayed a little in the warming breeze. Perfect for adding a little more challenge.

You were already standing up when he headed back toward you. The gun's muzzle was carefully pointed down while you swiped at the bits of wet grass and flecks of mud that clung to your jeans. By the time he reached your side, you were smiling up at him a bit deviously. "So, what do I get if I hit them all?"

"A sense of accomplishment ain't enough for you, doll," he teased, stowing the staple gun back in the bag.

"Uh-uh," you replied in the negative, shaking your head soundly. A thoughtful look overtook your face before you gave a haughty little snort. "If I hit all the balloons, you gotta answer a question for me."

"What sorta question," he asked, unsure if he should be wary or intrigued by the proposition.

"There was something you said last night," you answered casually, like it was just a normal part of any conversation. "In another language. I think Russian, maybe, but I'm not sure. I was hoping you could tell me what it was you said."

The memory was a cinder block laid on his chest. And he wasn't even sure at what point during the morning that weight had lifted for it to feel so heavy now. How long had he gone without thinking so hard about it? Probably about the time you'd gotten tears in your eyes and nothing seemed as important as helping you change the subject to something better. He had to look away, tongue darting over dry lips.

"You sure you wanna know," he ground out around the constriction in his throat. The words he'd said rolled around in his brain, vicious and terrible. "It's not exactly pretty."

"Oh no! No no no, Bucky, I'm sorry, no, that's not the one I meant!" You sounded somewhat horrified, fingers reaching to brush across his cheek, trying to soothe. When he looked at you, you were giving him a comforting, apologetic smile. "I didn't mean that one, honestly I didn't. It sounded like a pretty effective threat, but it's not my business to get into. It's just... its just you said something else. Something to me when I was trying to help you. That's what I wanted to know."

Bucky remembered those words, too. Remembered your face cutting through the fog in his brain, even when he didn't quite recognize it. Only knew it was familiar and bright. That was a much easier memory to swallow. A much lighter thing to think on. And the sympathy and caring on your face now helped the burden. Made it a little easier to set aside for the moment. He had time to worry about it later. Right now, he had a girl in front of him. A gorgeous girl with a gun in her hand and a glint in her eye and a grin on her face like she... You said you thought the world of him. That's what you had said when you started to ramble earlier. It just now clicked in his head, your words and the frantic way you covered them. Now, you could ask just about anything and all you wanted to know was what soft, secret little thing he called you in the midst of everything.

"Gimme the gun," he eventually said, clearing the hoarseness from this throat when he held his hand out. You did as instructed without hesitation, dropping your fingers from his cheek in the process, a somewhat defeated, but accepting look crossing your face. It didn't last long, because as soon as Bucky had checked the magazine and slid it back in, he was presenting you with the grip once more. "You got five rounds left. Hit your targets before runnin dry, I'll tell you what I said."

"Really," you asked, an astonished smile pulling your lips wide as you took the gun from him again.

"Yeah," he smirked back, ducking his head in a nod. Barely able to stand your excited expression, he tilted his chin toward the tree where the balloons hung and folded his arms across his chest. "Get a move on, dollface. Don't wanna be standin out here all damned day."

Peeking over, Bucky caught a glimpse of you getting into position. Feet shoulder width apart, two-handed grip on the gun, bracing properly. Those little lines of concentration etched around your eyes as you took the time to line up your sights. The same breeze that was kicking up wisps of your hair was jostling the balloons gently. Despite that, he heard you take a steadying breath, then... BANG! The bullet struck an inch shy of the target. A glance showed him your lips pursed in frustration before you clucked your tongue and took aim again... BANG! And the balloon popped in a mini spray of blue rubber.

A triumphant snort left you and your smile was a little proud when you looked over at him. Bucky held up his index finger, one target down, then three fingers to remind you how many rounds you had left. You seemed to understand, giving a sobered nod as you raised the muzzle... BANG! Two targets still hung on the tree. There was almost a growl in your next breath, and he had to hold back a snicker at that... BANG! All that remained visible of the second balloon was a small strip caught in the tree bark.

When your eyes met his again, Bucky flashed two fingers, then one. Two down, one round left. There was tension in your shoulders, determination in the downward twist of your lips. Even Bucky could feel the thrum of anticipation across his skin, though he was a bit torn on which outcome he wanted. Miss, and you didn't get an answer. You might be upset for awhile, but the two of you could always come out and practice again. Hit, and he'd have to awkwardly fess up to the words his mouth had formed when his brain was too rattled to have a filter. And that could prove uncomfortable for the both of you. How you'd take that tidbit of information was anyone's guess. But you were taking aim again, waiting, holding. One target, one round... BANG! The last balloon was gone.

"Ha," you barked loud in celebration. There was pure delight on your face when you turned to him. "I did it! I did it!"

"That you did, sweetheart. That you did," Bucky smiled, rather impressed with how quick a study you turned out to be. After you gave the gun back, you shimmied your hips in a ridiculous little victory dance. He crouched down to deposit the weapon with the others, trying to distract from the sight.

"Alright, c'mon," you urged as he stood back up, offering a huge grin. There was a soft imploring whine to your voice as you bounced excitedly on the balls of your feet, fingers curling into the front of his shirt for a few quick tugs. "You said you'd tell me. Now, spill!"

Seeing how animated you were made Bucky simultaneously amused and apprehensive. He raked his fingers through his hair nervously before finally answering. "You were right, it was Russian. I... I said your name, then called you мое солнышко."

"Mi... milo soyneeshka," you tried to sound out, brow knit tightly.

"No," Bucky huffed a quiet laugh, biting into his lower lip as he shook his head at your unintentional mangling. He repeated the phrase, slowly. "мое солнышко."

"Moye solnyshko," you echoed, much closer this time. He had to admit, despite the clunkiness on your tongue and the circumstances that brought him to know Russian so intimately, he found himself a little smitten with the way your lips formed around each syllable as you recited it one more time. "It sounds pretty, but what does it mean?"

"It means..." He paused a moment, trying to figure out exactly how to explain it. Then he licked his dry lips and hooked his thumbs in his pockets, hoping he didn't look the fool for his fidgeting. "It means 'my sunshine.'"

"Oh," was your gentle breath of a response. Bucky saw something in your face then, in your eyes, as that flush colored your cheeks again. Flattered, bashful, vulnerable; it made his chest feel big as his heart thundered inside. But then you were blinking quickly, shrugging and offering a smirk to cover yourself, like you had let something slip you didn't mean to, again.

"Alright, Romeo," you teased, nudging at his chest playfully as you shook your head. "Well, you go ahead and finish what you're doing out here. I'm gonna go back and get lunch started. Sound good?"

Bucky could only nod, still somewhat stunned at the complicated expression he'd seen on your face. You just rolled your eyes at him, smirking, before you began heading back toward the house. His gaze lingered after you a few long moments, trying to process what had happened, how he was feeling. That look on your face, that reaction, no matter how quickly you worked to hide it... As sappy as it sounded, even in his own head, it had sparked something inside him, something ridiculously like hope. Waiting for it to get swallowed up again, to get snuffed out in the maelstrom of his brain, Bucky busied himself picking the spent casings from the grass. Then the bits of rubber left from the popped balloons. But when he dropped the pieces of litter into the bag to throw away later, that flicker was still there.

And it was still there when he finally reached the house, walking in through the back door to find you in the kitchen. Hell, it may have even grown the barest hint stronger when you turned that sweet smile of yours on him, like you were so pleased to see him standing in your doorway. There was a bit of laughter in your voice when you spoke. "Lunch'll be ready soon. Why don't you go get cleaned up?"

He moved to comply, intent on dropping the tac bag off in his room before hitting the shower, realizing the atmosphere in the house wasn't as thick as it had seemed earlier that morning. As he passed through the living room, something on the side table caught his attention. There was a small pile of mail there, including the county newspaper that showed up once a week. Advertised on the front page was the local Harvest Festival, coming up in a few weeks. The picture they used was of kids standing around a bundle of cornstalks, remarkably like the photo of you and your sister he'd seen the week before.

Nibbling at his lip a bit, Bucky considered the newspaper a few moments. Thought about how happy the two of you managed to make each other today, even after everything that had happened. Remembered how you looked at him, how you told him he was worthy, how you said you thought the world of him. And good Lord, did he want to earn that from you. So given all that and any number of the little moments he could recall between the two of you, Bucky went ahead and made a decision.