Okay yeah so I worked like 30 hours over the weekend since it was prom weekend for the little high school kiddies and also opening weekend of Spider-Man 2. My apologies on the delay…

I had to make a professional facebook page for my art and animation, so check it out at facebookDOTcom/kimwagnerart

As always, questions, comments, concerns, predictions, etc—leave a review :D

Chapter 13

"Hey, Big Guy, the little lady here can't carry you to her car, and I'm really in no shape to do it myself." The voice seeped into his consciousness and prodded him towards the surface. "I'm gonna need you to wake up."

"Something's really wrong this time," a worried voice stated. "He hit his head pretty damn hard."

A hand lifted his head up near the base of his neck and gently poked a tender spot. He let out a breath at the sudden pain he wasn't expecting and his eyes flew open. Tony and Clara hovered over him, but the bright sun had him shutting his eyes as he sat up.

"Are you okay?"

"Headache," he muttered, moving to stand.

Clara pressed down on his shoulders. "Just sit for a minute—you've been out cold for almost an hour. I had to fight off everyone who walked by and wanted to call an ambulance—I convinced them you were narcoleptic."

Whatever that meant. "I'm fine," he grunted, standing anyways. His head was throbbing where it had made contact with the concrete, but he was otherwise stable on his feet. "I don't remember falling."

"You were out cold before you even hit the ground," Clara explained. "You stopped walking, I turned around, and you just collapsed to the ground. I didn't know what to do so I called Stark."

"We'll need to get your head looked at by Banner when we get back," Tony said, crossing his arms. "There was a bit of a problem—I couldn't get the guy I originally wanted out here this week."

"What? Then what are we gonna do?" Clara asked.

Tony held up a hand. "Taken care of already. SHIELD was heavily monitoring a neurosurgeon, ironically. I contacted him, we talked a bit. He'll be here by lunch tomorrow."

"How do you know he's not Hydra?" the soldier demanded.

"I know you're Hydraphobic, but I'm Tony Stark—master of questioning SHIELD and everything in it," Tony muttered, walking away. "Trust me, Tin Soldier. I did my research."

Clara blew air between her lips loudly and looked up at him warily. "He means well?" she smiled.

"He's familiar," was the only response. "I feel like I've met him before."

"C'mon. Let's go back to the car." Clara motioned for him to head down the path first and he obeyed. "So…"

"What?"

She fidgeted with her fingers and pressed her lips together, smiling. "Did you—you know. Remember anything?"

He let out a short laugh. "Yeah."

Noticing his change in attitude, she felt a little more hesitant, wondering how much more she should press on about it. "Happy or not happy?"

"Not happy," he muttered, opening the driver's side door before heading for his door on the other side.

Once they were in, she leaned around the driver's seat and pulled four books out of her bag, holding them out to him. "You don't have to read them, but they're here if you want them. Keep them for a while."

The Soldier took the stack and laid them in his lap. Each book was different, but two were clearly much older than the others. He opened the cover of one of the older ones. The date on the first page was from 1942. The other was from 1939. He picked up a third—1988. The last one was from 1995 and wasn't completely filled.

A picture slid from the pages and fluttered to the ground at his feet. He could see the worn edges, the deteriorated image before he even picked it up.

"Is this how you recognized me?" he asked quietly, looking over the photo. She had been in a white dress, hand laced with his; he'd been in full uniform. It was taken a couple of days before the expo.

"Clara's eyes flicked over to the photo for a second as she drove. "No, not that one. She had a couple of pictures of you, but that was the one she was using as a bookmark in that diary."

"Thank you."

Clara smiled at him. "Keep them as long as you want—they were collecting dust in a box in my closet back in DC."

He flipped open to the first page of the oldest one, immediately recognizing the loopy cursive writing. Flipping through the pages, something in his heart jumped when he saw the name Bucky appear more and more often.

Deep inside—and he'd never admit it to Clara—he was looking forward to clearing some things up with Steve.

XXX

Clara had thankfully left him to himself when they returned to the tower, wordlessly pressing the button for the rooms they were staying in and the button for Tony's office. She'd offered up only a smile as he got off the elevator, diaries tucked under his flesh arm.

That's how he found himself sitting on the floor, back against the door. It was the easiest way to secure the room—he blocked the only entrance with his eyes on the window.

He flipped open to the first page of the oldest diary, skimming the words quickly, noting only the content. The first few pages were about family, friends, her day, and trivial things like her dresses. The first entry he found with him in it had been from the night they'd met in the bar.

He was really very sweet, she'd written. He promised to take me dancing again sometime. He better keep that promise. No good starting off something if he can't hold up a deal.

Her account of the events matched up with what he remembered, however short that memory was.

We danced for a long time—I enjoyed myself more than I had thought I would. After we left the bar, later than I had intended to, he walked me home like a true gentleman.

He flipped to the next entry she had written, a couple days after they'd met.

I met Bucky at the diner on the corner today by accident. I was on my way home when he called my name from across the street. My heart had never beaten to hard in my life. Especially when he asked me to have lunch with him. He said he was waiting for a friend and had quite a bit of spare time and wouldn't mind spending some with me.

While we waited for our order, he told me about his closest friend, Steve. Bucky says Steve is the closest thing he has to a brother. The way he spoke about him—the look on his face was so fond, so gentle. He says I can meet Steve real soon if I wanted, but that implies I would be willing to see him again.

He's a sly one, that Bucky…

The soldier flipped through a few more entries of similar content, unsure of the words he was reading. The person she described with such fondness felt so familiar, like a memory just out of reach. This person was on the tip of his tongue, but it still felt like a foreign concept to him, that he was this person.

While none of the entries were sparking any memories, he trudged on, hearing Connie's voice in his head reading her own words into his mind's ear. Something bubbled in his chest and set a warmth in his chest and a chill in his veins.

Oh, my heavens, I don't think the words I am about to write down here will do this night justice. Bucky came and picked me up unexpectedly and took me to a picture. It was wonderful. He held my hand the whole time, his fingers fitting between mine like they were made to be there. We walked all the way back to my place. Slowly. He pointed out stars and constellations Steve had told him about. We got to the doorway and he took my hands in his and kissed me until I thought I'd suffocate.

He continued to read through her entries. Time flew by and he wasn't sure when it had happened, but the sun was no longer visible out the window. He relocated to the bed, turning on the bedside lamp as he adjusted himself against the headboard.

By the end of the first diary, nearly eight months of time had passed in her stories. In his mind, he was piecing together something. Bucky—he had gone through some changes. This was not the person he'd read about at the Smithsonian. This version of himself was a lot happier with the world around him. He had yet to experience the war.

And the soldier knew exactly the point in Connie's diaries that he'd gotten the draft. He himself couldn't remember the date the letter had arrived, but the tone of her entries changed. There was an entire week and a half of no entries after one in particular where she mentioned that he barely looked at her. After that, the worried tone of her writing seemed to carry on and on.

Then came the entry he was expecting.

Oh, this is awful. I don't even know what to do. Bucky has been drafted. Everyone of age knows it's bound to happen to them one day, I was just so caught up in everything that was going on with us—how well it was going, too!

I feel blindsided, like I've been slapped. More than that, I feel foolish. I should have seen this coming. But Bucky's face the whole dinner when he finally told me. Do you know what this fools first concern was? Not himself! Steve!

I couldn't contain my emotions at that point. The most selfless person I have ever met in my entire life is going to go lose his life somewhere overseas, away from me, away from his best friend and his family.

What if he doesn't come home? Oh, heavens, I don't even know how Bucky is handling this. He must be terrified…

The tense muscles in his arms and back began to ache with fatigue and he wondered how long he'd been that tense. Forcing himself out of that world, he closed his eyes and rolled his shoulders, listening to the whirring in his left arm.

After a few minutes, he returned to the pages, plowing through the next handful of entries—she described in a melancholy filter how he would leave for training, coming home too exhausted to see her, much to his own disappointment, but just as much hers.

The entry of their last night together before he shipped out was an emotional rollercoaster. According to her, the day started out wonderful—Bucky had shown up at her place in full uniform with a new haircut and a bouquet of flowers.

He told me he was going to buy me a late lunch and then we would stop by the expo before going dancing all night. But there was something in the way everything happened that I should have known something was wrong. I was just so blinded by his happy mood, I don't think I wanted to spoil it for him. Bucky just hadn't been Bucky in a while.

It was what he asked me that began to tip his hand, I think. He asked if any of my friends were available for the evening.

"I won't be around for him anymore," he had begged, the soldier remembered suddenly. "I just want to find him someone—anyone who will bethere for him."

She apparently had found out after they'd enjoyed their night, as he was walking Connie and her friend home, that he was going to be shipped out the next morning. She'd been furious. Angry—shouting at him, hitting him, crying. And he had taken it all, apologizing profusely.

This was not a man he remembered being, the soldier decided. Entry after entry following his departure—each was the same in both tone and content. She described her increasing feelings of depression and anxiety of him being at war, wondering, worrying if he would come home breathing or in a box. Or worse—with a mind far too damaged by the war to be anything close to the charming man she'd come to know.

If only she knew…