Steve had been back inside the house for some time when he heard something unusual again. It was a sort of scraping noise coming from one of the back rooms of the house. He walked the length of the hallway without making a sound. The door at the end was partly open. The room was dim. As he approached, he could see a side table holding a lamp and a few small things, and the edge of a bed. He looked further into the room.

The only sign of movement was the woman he had sworn to protect standing near a window, half the curtain drawn aside. She wasn't aware that he was in the doorway. She was facing a full length mirror and he could see only a small part of her reflection.

Steve knew he shouldn't be looking. He was brought up better than that. So why didn't he stop? Standing there thinking about it being wrong wasn't making him turn around like he should. Her elbows bent as though to put her hands on her hips. She was pulling up her top.

Leave now, he ordered himself. He disobeyed.

She pulled the hem of her top no higher than her ribs, drawing his gaze to the small area of exposed skin he could see on her side, the soft curve of her waist. Her hand ghosted over her abdomen which was hidden from his line of sight.

There was a screech of metal and a bang against the outside wall. Steve started forward into the room at the sound, looking for any breach in the wall. At the same time, she had jumped away from the mirror, her arms raised, hands splayed, eyes wide, face frozen in shock when she saw him. She was too startled to recognise him in that instant.

"Move away from the window," he waved her behind him to his left. She pressed her hands to her temples and padded barefoot over the plush carpet to his side.

"Are you hurt?"

"No. It's the shutter, the catch on the wall is broken."

Steve sidled up to the window cautiously. The shutter swung towards the pane, its hinges whining. He opened the sash and fastened both shutters closed, then locked the window.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to come into your bedroom," he said, passing by her to leave the room so she could have her privacy. "I thought you were still in the laundry when I heard a sound." He noticed her hands worrying the hem of her top as she followed him into the living room. "You're feeling OK?"

"Fine," a blatant lie.

He nodded, accepting that she wasn't obligated to reveal herself to him, either physically or emotionally. "Alright, in your own time."

The feeling of guilt came as he'd anticipated. He shouldn't have looked for as long as he had. He couldn't blame it on feeling protective, though he did and that was something he probably needed to think about. She had brought out his protective instincts so quickly. How had it happened so quickly?

Was it because he found her attractive? The way she moved, the way she made him feel when she looked up at him? How her voice had been so soft during the night? Or was it something in her that lay deeper, something intrinsic?

He could stare down into her dark eyes all he wanted. The fact was, he'd been alone too long, and without female company of any kind for even longer. Simple as that, he told himself.

o o o o o o

Steve ran his fingertips across the spines of the books lining the shelves. So many of them were coffee table books wearing shiny jackets, photo journals, wildlife and geography guides, memoirs of world explorers, histories of ancient civilisations, design and architecture books. Some names he recognised, like: Audubon, Ansel Adams, Cezanne, Tesla, Hemingway and Beryl Markham. Many he didn't, like: Georgia O'Keeffe, Robert Frank, Angela's Ashes, and Maya Angelou.

He was sitting hunched over the coffee table poring over one of those books when he heard her returning from finishing the laundry. He felt the back cushion of the sofa dip beside him as she leant her elbows on it.

"Mary Cassatt," she said looking over his shoulder. The book was open on a full colour reproduction of a painting. "You're interested in art?"

"Yes. I haven't heard of Cassatt or seen her work before. It's hard to believe she wasn't French. The way she blends warm and cool skin tones is extraordinary."

"The pastel paintings are my favourite."

"I've never been interested in domestic scenes or family portraits but these really are somethin'." He leant back and tilted his head to look up at her to see if she was marveling at the beauty of the paintings as much as he was.

She smiled as she met his eyes, "luminous", then looked at the portrait of mother and child in the book and sighed sadly.

Steve wondered if she was an artist. Although there were framed prints around the house, he hadn't seen any original works or art supplies anywhere. Maybe a writer. Writers typically had an eclectic array of interests and kept research materials on hand didn't they? He dismissed the idea. He was probably overthinking it. Anyone could have a library like that.

o o o o o o

That night she cooked dinner. He tried to help but it was a bit of an awkward disaster. He didn't know what to do with his hands or feet. When she confiscated a balloon whisk from one hand and an old-fangled potato masher from the other… honestly where did he even find those, in the place where ladles go to die? He was forced to confess.

"You've found me out."

"How did you pull off those hotcakes? They were so good."

He shrugged, "I faked it."

"Whoa, no one wants to hear that!" she laughed.

"My culinary skills end at breakfast," he said, wiping his hands off with a tea towel. "I was never taught how to cook. By the time Ma let me anywhere near the gas stove the flames only came out half the holes and we had a tin pan you couldn't fry an egg in without one side getting burnt while the other was raw."

"How old were you?"

"I don't know, 'round fourteen I guess. Most kids were helping with the cooking by ten, but Ma never trusted the stove or the gas lines. There were always accidents happening in the tenements because of one thing or another."

"You lived in the tenements? In the Thirties? The Great Depression in New York City?" She had read the history and seen the Ken Burns documentary. She'd always been astounded by the spirit of the people during those crushing times. Now to stand next to someone who'd lived through it. Of course she was aware of his heroics during The War, but it was only dawning on her that there was so much more that he'd experienced in his life. She couldn't help but admire him. "That's fascinating."

"Yeah, we all thought it was real' fascinating," he rolled his eyes.

She cringed. "Sorry. Was that a really stupid thing to say?"

"Not to a museum piece like me."

"Oh my God, you're making me feel like the biggest jerk."

"No, I'm the jerk for making you feel bad. After all, you are making Italian for dinner. I couldn't ask for more."

"All is forgiven then, as long as you stay away from the stove and stick to choosing the entertainment," she teased.

He dropped the towel onto the bench and made his way over to the movie cabinet. "Hmm. What goes with Bolognese?"

"Spaghetti Westerns."

"What?"

"Nevermind," she said.

He shot off some titles that sounded Italian, "Roman Holiday, La Dolce Vita, The Italian Job."

"I wish I had gelato…"

"I wish I had a Ducati…" he countered.

"A what?"

"Nevermind," he said.

He looked up from the copy of Gladiator he was holding when he heard her inhale sharply and put down the knife she'd been using to cut the ciabatta loaf.

"Did you cut yourself?"

"I bumped into the bench, it's nothing," she moved slowly after that, carefully.

He helped her carry everything to the table, subtly watching. It had always bothered him when people pretended not to be sick or hurt, and he'd become very good at spotting it when they were. It was a sense he'd developed as a child and it brought back uncomfortable memories.

o o o o o o

He fell asleep soon after she did. He'd been up since they met. She didn't know he'd sat up watching over her all throughout the first night. Although she had shown him the guest room during the day, neither of them left the big sofa. They fell asleep on opposite sides.

Now in that place between drifting and deep sleep he listened to the slow rhythm of her breathing and the quiet rustle of fabric every now and then.

o o o o o o

He was plummeting from a plane into enemy territory. Free-falling without a parachute. Then he was running through the bare trees of the forest. He skidded to a stop at the edge of the treeline. The steep walls of the Austrian fortress loomed over him.

He found his way into the maze of its underground cells. Cell after cell, it was eerily empty. Then he came to the room. The room with the sickly green light. A body was lying on a metal gurney under a mass of glowing electric-blue wires. He saw Bucky's face within the wires that were writhing and coiling like snakes around his body. He rushed over and desperately struggled to free his friend. As he pulled at the wires they stretched and wound themselves around and over Bucky's face until he disappeared. Bucky was gone and the wires flooded onto the floor in a dead heap.

And there she was, lying on the shining steel where Bucky had been. Unmoving, eyes closed, cold.