A car engine hissed and moaned as it cooled, having suddenly gone from full speed to no speed in the span of a few seconds. Smoke rose from beneath the hood, soft and slow in the midnight light.

Gravel crunched beneath the soles of his boots, the night air cool on his skin. A man crawled toward him. The fine lapels of his suit were singed and torn and his hands left bloodied prints across the ground.

"Help. My wife. Please...help."

Tongues of flame lapped over the edges of the hood now. The paint hissed its complaints to the heat. Bucky reached down to grasp the man by the hair. He struggled, but there was little strength left in his body.

"Howard?" A woman called over the crackle of the fire. Her voice shook, quiet and weak.

Bucky clenched the fist of his metal hand and drew it back, every muscle in his body winding up to strike.

He jerked awake, sitting bolt upright, sheets clenched to his chest. His breath came in haggard gasps, the sweat on his skin raising a chill that enveloped his whole body. And then he was shivering.

You are safe.

Your mind is your own.

But there, in the unrelenting press of the darkness in his bedroom, it was difficult to convince his reeling mind. With shaking fingers he sought out the lamp on the bedside table. Warm light flooded the room and he felt himself relax as he took in the familiar walls, the framed photo Steve had given him, the crumpled pamphlet Sam had jokingly pressed into his hands when they had passed an evangelist on the street. Bitterness swelled at the sight of it. As if God would have mercy on his soul.

And there, carelessly discarded after dinner at a local bar the night before, was his sweatshirt. Piled in an ungrateful lump against the wall, it covered the meager nightlight he had installed weeks prior under Sam's suggestion. It was dim enough to allow for sleep, but bright enough to help bring his scattered mind back after a nightmare. It had been weeks since the last time he had woken in a cold sweat, panicked and disoriented, and the feeling was not welcome.

Swinging his legs off the bed, he stood, welcoming the grounding feel of the cool air on his skin. The halls were empty, as they typically were at this hour. But when he opened the door into the kitchen, a tall, slim figure stood in the blue glow of the refrigerator's utility light.

Miranda.

He hesitated, standing there in the quiet of night and taking her in.

It was rare to find a moment when she was not putting up a front, hiding behind an air of arrogance and overinflated confidence. Maybe it was that fakeness that rubbed him the wrong way when it came to her. On paper she was everything they needed, a comrade he should be able to trust with his life. And yet he couldn't stop himself from wondering what remained when the rest of that show was stripped away.

She stood at the counter in the shared kitchen with her back to him, unaware of his presence. Soft rifts of music lulled from her headphones in the hushed silence only the midnight hour could offer. Her body swayed lightly to the rhythm.

He could not deny that she was a fine specimen of a women. Her legs were long and fit, fine lines of muscle accentuated by the sharp shadows cast by the refrigerator light. The shirt she wore was loose and backless, revealing the evidence of long hours in a gym. He had found that he liked the look of a woman who could handle herself in the field. Such a differing opinion from the soft, delicate women he sought out in his youth. Some many times in the last few weeks he caught himself thinking that maybe she was the type of girl he thought he could like.

She scooped a spoonful of jelly and spread it across the bread on the counter before holding it in her mouth as she laid one side of the sandwich over the other. Slowly she slid the spoon from her lips, and glanced back over her shoulder at him. One dark brow was raised in question, a devilish smirk on her lips.

"Like what you see Barnes?"

And then she would open her mouth, and he would come to his senses.

Instantly, he could feel his hackles raise. His fingers tightened over his biceps. "I'm trying to decide if I have the self control to deal with your shit tonight. I don't think the Director would appreciate a late night call to report your demise."

Miranda wadded up the napkin she had been using, and in a lazy aping of a basketball player, shot the napkin into the wastebasket across the room.

The Dutchman never misses.

"Don't worry, soldier. I was just leaving."

She pulled the headphones down, settling them over the fine line of her collar bone. He could see darkly inked lines stretching out from her right shoulder and reaching for the column of her neck. She sauntered towards him, taking a larger than necessary bite from her sandwich. Her hair was shorn short on one side, fading out into the skin at the base of her neck. The rest was a messy mass of dark curls that stuck out in an edgy bob.

"And I think you would find me a more worthy opponent than you give me credit. One of these nights we should go a few rounds." She stopped a few feet from him, her eyes raking down his body. He knew she knew exactly how uncomfortable it made him. She wore no makeup, a stark contrast from the dark smokey effect she typically wore. A light dusting of freckles played on her cheeks. Her silver eyes flicked back to his, and the innuendo in her voice was clear when she spoke. "You might even enjoy yourself."

The smirk never left her lips, but the joke did not reach her eyes. Dark circles smudged the skin there, and despite the swagger in her step, her body was drawn tight. Her shoulder bumped his as she passed. She did not look back at him, but instead simply pulled her headphones back over her ears and disappeared into the darkness of the hallway beyond.

He blinked once and then moved away from the threshold and into the kitchen. Every move he made felt loud in the quiet night. The clang of his bowl, the clink of silverware, even the crack of the seal on the milk carton felt like too much. By the time he sat down with his cereal, he was wound tight, unsure if he even wanted the midnight snack anymore.

Only a few minutes of solitude crawled by before he heard the shuffle of footsteps in the hall. For a moment he thought it might be Miranda, and armed himself for the confrontation, but he relaxed when he recognized the familiar gate.

"This is a happening place tonight, apparently," Bucky said as Sam meandered into the kitchen, his tone carrying a bit more bite than he had intended.

Sam pulled open the refrigerator door. "You ran into Miranda then, I take it."

Bucky grunted an answer.

"Man, you really don't like her do you?"

Bucky shrugged a shoulder, absently stirring his cereal.

"She's good at her job." Sam said. "Probably as good as you."

"She's cocky and arrogant. And she always, always has some kind of smart ass comment."

"So do I?"

Bucky leveled an unamused look on his friend. Sam held up his hands in surrender.

"She was pretty quiet most of the day. Whatever happened in that parking garage really spooked her."

"So you think she's holding back information too? Something about that whole scene doesn't sit right with me."

"Do murders ever sit right? Much less one performed by some kind of satan worshipping crackpot?"

Bucky put a spoonful of cereal in his mouth. "A crackpot who disappears into thin air?"

Sam shrugged, setting a glass of milk on the island beside Bucky.

Bucky rubbed a hand over tired eyes. "It just seems like there is more going on here than meets the eye. More than she's letting on."

"She's never going to admit anything to you if you are walking around with your barbs out."

"And she is any different?"

Sam shook his head. "You always feel like you've got something to prove when you are new."

"She's not trying to prove anything. She's demanding respect that she hasn't earned."

"Look man, I'm just sayin'. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar."

Bucky narrowed his eyes at his friend. "How's it coming with that shield? Don't think I didn't notice those wings today."

Sam was clearly unamused by the shift in subject. "It just don't feel right. Like I'm pretending to be someone else. Can I ever really fill those shoes? I am just a man."

"So was he."

"You know that's not true."

"What made him great was his humanity. Not that serum."

"Yeah. But it didn't hurt nothin' either. You think that kid from Brooklyn would have been able to go toe to toe with Thanos?"

"Yeah. Toe to toe and lose?"

Sam sighed, shaking his head.

"Look. All I'm sayin' is that Steve didn't go it alone either. You've got support around you."

"Yeah, well, I remain unconvinced I'm going to be able to do the job without any of that super juice. I can't even throw the damn thing right."

"I can't help you there. I never really did understand the physics."