Bucky had to admit, Harper had been right about the book she lent him. It was a book about trauma, but went further than a lot of texts by also discussing the physiological and sociocultural effects of various types of trauma. Plus, he had a feeling that the author's experience with the VA and wartime trauma had been a contributing factor to her lending him the book. It was such a compelling read that he finished it in only a couple days, and would've been done sooner if he hadn't found work at the local shipping center. He found himself at the library looking for similar tomes and, when his search wasn't very successful, allowed himself to hope that he'd run into Harper again.
It took a week, but finally it happened. He walked into the café one afternoon after his shift and was pleasantly surprised to see the young woman seated in his usual booth. Her laptop was open in front of her and she was typing away furiously. For a moment, Bucky wasn't sure he should interrupt her, but the promise of more books was too enticing. He ordered a maple coffee and a black tea before heading her way.
"Uh… hey," he greeted awkwardly, then hastily added, "Sorry!"
Harper had jumped at his sudden intrusion, head snapping up to look at him. Looking relieved when she saw it was him, she said, "Oh, hey, James! Sorry, I'm jumpy by nature."
"Mind if I join you?"
"As long as you don't mind my poor company. I have three reports closing today, and two pretty arduous home visits. Well, one visit left now, but I still have those three reports."
"Sorry, I don't want to bother you," Bucky replied quickly, already moving to stand up.
"No, no, no," she shook her head emphatically. "You're not bothering me. I'm just not going to be a great conversationalist. But if you're here to read or something, please feel free to do so."
His fingers drummed nervously on the bindings of the books he was carrying. "You sure?"
"Of course," she nodded.
"Um… since we're both here, I do want to return this to you."
Cinnamon eyes looked up from her laptop and fell on the book she had lent him. She accepted it, slipping it into her bag and asking, "What did you think?"
"I really liked it," he replied. "I tried to find more of his work at the library, but no such luck. It was really interesting, his take on trauma. And it was fascinating to read about his thoughts on the prescribing habits of the VA."
"I had a hunch you might like it. I've actually had another book you may like, it just took a while to run into you again. Here," she said, pulling another book from her bag. "This one is similar, in that she has taken the stance that all trauma, public and individual, needs to be engaged with at a sociocultural level. This one is more about domestic traumas, but it does deal with combat trauma and terrorism, too."
"Thank you," he said earnestly, quickly accepting the offered book.
"Anytime. What other topics interest you? And how cynical can I get with my recommendations?"
"Cynical is good. It tends towards honesty."
Harper grinned widely. "A man after my own heart. That gives me ideas on what to lend you next."
"I look forward to it," he grinned. Suddenly remembering, he added, "I also got you some black tea. I hope this is what you usually drink?"
He pushed the cup toward her, and she looked down, surprised. Slowly, she nodded. "Yeah, it is. Thank you."
Uncomfortable with her gratitude, he opened one of the books he'd gotten from the library and buried his nose in it. Thanks only to his well-trained ears, the former assassin heard her chuckle under her breath before the clacking of her laptop keys filled the space between them, punctuated by occasional pauses to sip her tea.
Bucky and Harper fell into a comfortable routine. They met at the café every Wednesday mid to late morning, oftentimes staying through lunch and until Harper had to go to an appointment. If she got there first, he would arrive to find a hot mug of maple brew on the table, and he always had black tea waiting for her if he arrived first. They would talk briefly about the things Bucky had liked and disliked about his latest loaned book, and then he'd accept the next. Harper would work away until lunch, when she would stop for an hour and they would chat more normally.
She often spoke of work, which was fine. He found himself admiring the young woman more and more for the kinds of things she dealt with. A woman whose grandson struck her multiple times with a television remote and who had threatened to abandon her to a hospital if she didn't give him money. An older man with a TBI whose home had to be outfitted with alarms that would alert emergency services when he left the home because his cognition and mood were so poor he was a danger to himself and others. A man who had smoked so heavily his whole life that his circulatory system was shot and he was losing his limbs one at a time. A child whose mother had died in childbirth who was living with his drug dealing father. He had a distinct feeling that she needed to get some of these stories off her chest, and he couldn't blame her.
"So then he asks me to bring him to the bank," Harper continues, waving her pastry for emphasis. "And I tell him I can't, that's outside the purview of my position, but it was nice meeting him and I offered him a handshake. And then he starts talking to me about how much he likes old American Westerns, and how all of the real cowboys historically used to shake hands as a sign that they weren't going to shoot each other."
Bucky tensed at the turn her story had taken. He frowned and stated, "He threatened you."
"Yeah, that's how I took it," she nodded.
"And you have to go back there?"
Harper blinked at him like it was obvious and said, "Well, yeah, in a few months."
"You shouldn't have to put yourself in danger to help someone like that," Bucky scowled.
To his surprise, Harper laughed lightly. "James, I go to my fair share of dangerous places with some fairly threatening people. Many folks don't take kindly to some lady from the government coming into their homes to make sure they're doing right by their parent or their kids."
Now that he didn't like. He had only known Harper for about six weeks, but she had already proven herself to be a compassionate, selfless person. Why did someone as good as her have to be put in danger? He remembered, too, the area she was living in. He insisted, "Still, you shouldn't have to deal with that."
"Trust me, I'd love to drop all the assholes off my caseload, but that's not right. Just 'cause life hit you and you turned into an asshole doesn't make you ineligible for someone to care about you, to help you."
Bucky tried to ignore how uncomfortably close to home her words hit, and continued, "Okay, but that still worries me."
"Thanks," she smiled softly, catching him off guard. "I appreciate your concern. Seriously, I do."
"Why do you do this? Why do you stay at a job that could be dangerous, which only affords you a home in an apartment building that doesn't guarantee your safety?"
Harper sighed, dropping her pastry to her plate. Her eyes fell to the tabletop, and a frown marred her features. Suddenly, she looked older, more fatigued. "Well, life wasn't supposed to turn out this way."
It was easily the darkest sentiment she had shared with him. He had thought her a young, exceptionally bright woman who was headstrong enough to take the shit her job handed her and conquer it. But now, he wasn't so sure that wasn't just a carefully constructed veneer.
As soon as that glimpse beyond her usual front emerged, it disappeared as Harper began asking him about what kind of book he wanted to borrow next.
He moved silently through the shadows, eyes and ears alert for any sign of a guard. The mansion he found himself in was richly decorated, but he didn't take note of his surroundings other than to watch for security cameras and to map out escape points. He ducked beneath a large window, lest the moonlight streaming through the glass cast a shadow that could be picked up on a security feed. This is how he continued down the long, silent corridor.
Finally, he stopped before a double set of doors. He knew from studying the blueprints of the house that this was the bedroom of his target. Silently, he pushed down the door handle and slipped inside the room. Blue eyes roamed the bedroom, ascertaining an escape plan before he moved to the massive, canopied bed. His cybernetic arm pulled back the semi-opaque curtain, revealing a woman sleeping on her stomach. Dark hair spilled over the pillows.
Without hesitation, the Winter Soldier positioned his Uzi just over the back of her head, silencer already firmly attached to the barrel. His finger squeezed the trigger. Blood and gelatinous matter sprayed across the assassin and the canopy behind him. He reached out with his prosthetic hand, intent on verifying that his target had been eliminated. With a tug, he rolled the corpse onto its back. His breath caught. Staring back at him were light brown, almost reddish eyes. Blood and brain matter stained her espresso hair and the pillow beneath her head as the wound leaked.
Bucky didn't even have time to bolt upright before the bile burning its way up his throat forced him onto his side. He had taken to sleeping with a bucket nearby, but he didn't have time for that either. His stomach emptied itself and then some, as hot, bitter tears streamed from his eyes and mucus from his nose. Everything in his nightmare had been from an old memory, except for the identity of his victim. Why his subconscious had cast Harper in the role, he did not know. Maybe it was because he couldn't quite shake his suspicion of her, or his wariness about connecting with another person. What he did know was that absolutely no harm would befall her by his hand.
"What're you doing for Christmas?"
Bucky looked up from his book, surprised by Harper's question. He hadn't given the holiday any thought, but he supposed that it was just a few weeks away. Decorations had started appearing around the city, but he had barely spared them a glance. His life had become a slightly busier form of routine. Library, market, shipping center, coffee with Harper. "Nothing, really. What about you? Will you be going home to spend the holiday with your family?"
"Nah, can't afford to," she sighed. Brighter, she asked, "Since you're not tied down to any plans yet, you'd be more than welcome to join Aslan and I for Christmas dinner."
Bucky hesitated, and Harper picked up on his unease almost instantly. She looked crestfallen for a moment before quickly rearranging her expression to an understanding smile. "But I can totally get making other arrangements. It is Christmas, after all. You totally don't need to feel pressured to spend it with the crazy cat lady who blabs too much about her shitty job and her books."
"It's not that at all," Bucky corrected her. "I just feel like that would be intruding."
"It's not an intrusion if I invite you!" Harper insisted. Looking more serious, she added, "Anyway, it's really more about my selfishness. I've admittedly been pushing my friendship on you in part because even a scummy New Yorker is a breath of fresh air so far away from home."
He saw past the barb at his hometown and was touched by the sentiment. "We're friends?"
Her cheeks flushed prettily and she snapped, "Well, I hope so, or else these coffee-books-and-work dates are something pretty creepy."
Bucky laughed lightly and said, "You have a point. I guess I was just surprised that a smart, pretty Bostonian would consider a creepy old guy from Brooklyn a friend."
Harper scoffed and rolled her eyes. "Setting aside the gratuitous flattery, shove off. You're not that much older than me, unless you have aged miraculously well."
You don't know the half of it, Bucky thought. Aloud, he asked, "How old are you, anyway?"
"Twenty-five," she replied. "You can't be that much older than me, so fess up."
Biologically? To the best of my knowledge? "Thirty."
"See? That's hardly any difference at all. Especially when you factor in how slow men mature," she replied with a wicked grin.
"Oh, okay, I see how it is," Bucky chuckled.
"You didn't deny it!"
"I won't grace such a childish sentiment with a response. As an adult, I know better," he jested, stuffing down the realization that he was actually seventy-two years her senior.
"Sure, sure," she rolled her eyes. "Anyway, I've noticed you still haven't accepted or denied my invitation. I can assure you, the food will be palatable and there will be wine. Or beer, or whatever you're into."
Suddenly, the idea of spending his first Christmas with any sort of memory or agency alone felt like an awful prospect. However, spending a night with this kind woman who considered him – well, more accurately, James – a friend seemed much more enjoyable.
"Is your cat friendly?" he asked finally.
"He's super friendly, and barely a cat. He's like a fish-loving dog," Harper grinned widely. "So…?"
"Sure, I'm in. Let me know what I can bring."
"Just yourself," she assured cheerfully.
Bucky heaved a large, heavy crate from the dolly onto the conveyor belt, enjoying the pleasant strain on his muscles. Around him, other laborers did the same, often as team lifts. The other men were all discussing the upcoming holiday.
"The wife won't tell me what kinda gift she got me, so I have no idea what to get her. Don't want to under-shop; that's an immediate argument and night on the sofa. But I can't overdo it either, because then I'm in the doghouse for being irresponsible with money."
"Hey, I'm just hoping the kids aren't disappointed. It's a tight year this year."
"What about you, Albu?"
"Just spending the day with Ioana," the young man replied with a waggle of his brows.
The older men snorted lasciviously. "So porking your girlfriend all day?"
"Maybe."
Bucky didn't much care for the other men's banter, and wasn't happy when the conversation expanded to include him. "What're you doing for Christmas, foreigner?"
"Dinner with a friend," he answered shortly, heaving another crate up on the belt.
"What kinda friend? The kind ya pork?"
"No, she's just a friend," he snapped, unhappy that Harper would be discussed in such a lecherous way.
"Man, women are never just friends. If she wants to spend Christmas with you, she's hoping for some holiday dick."
Bucky rolled his eyes and tried to ignore the lousy advice from the other laborers. It worked until one asked, "What're you getting her?"
"What?"
"It's Christmas, man. Whether she wants your dick or not – which she does – you can't show up to a lady's house empty-handed."
"But she told me to."
"Women always say no when they mean yes, say they're fine when they're pissed, and say they want nothing when they expect something."
Instead of pointing out the fallacies in the other man's statement, Bucky fell silent. Maybe he should get Harper something…
Bucky had spent way too long at the market. It was getting crowded, and he was getting anxious. He had been pacing back and forth, desperately trying to come up with something to bring to Harper's for Christmas. He didn't think he'd ever been friends with a pretty dame before, and had quickly realized he didn't know how to handle such a situation.
The former assassin had spent a considerable amount of time thinking about flowers, but she wasn't a dame he was trying to woo. Flowers seemed a bit much, and he didn't want her to think he was some weirdo who wanted to… pork her. She had been perfectly kind and friendly, and not a bit flirtatious, which he was honestly thankful for. He wasn't going to repay her kindness with anything but the same.
Chocolates or other candy were passed on for the same reason. She said she would have wine, and he didn't know what sort of wine to get her anyway. Not for lack of trying; Bucky had become quickly overwhelmed with the selection. So what on earth was he to do?
A/N: Thank you so much for all of the follows and favorites as well as for the continued support. I appreciate all of the readers who are already coming along for the ride!