Dust motes circled the room, passing in and out of the sunlight coming through the windows that early September afternoon. Steve Rogers was stretched across his bed, arms crooked behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling, sans regalia and lost in thought.

The list of contacts that Wanda and Pietro had obtained from the Sokovian government officials, of those who were purchasing the abandoned HYDRA equipment, had been looked into. A few names had cropped up as repeat buyers, and they were taking precautions with investigating those people. Thus far, a couple had turned out to be legitimate purchasers, but of those remaining, a few had been labeled as false names or dummy holdings for others, blocks effectively placed so that no further digging could be done. It seemed that the Avengers were making their presence a little too well-known, and all activity with the suspicious parties had ceased. Weeks of work, and now nothing to show for it. Okay, perhaps 'nothing' was a harsh judgment, but it all smacked of the situation with Loki's scepter, and that was a course of events he did not care to repeat.

However, they would be remiss in ignoring the curious nature of the names, and therefore endeavored to at least keep an eye on them. They could surface elsewhere, either among the contacts they had whom had successfully infiltrated the black market operations around the world or maybe even in an unrelated field entirely. The whole situation did not sit well with Steve; he had a feeling the people behind the false names and holdings would make a harder stance sometime in the near future. He just couldn't pinpoint when. But dwelling and brooding—his wife's choice of words, not his—would ultimately get him nowhere. And there were other concerns to deal with that day.

After all, viewing houses could be classified as such. Preapproval for the VA loan they had applied for had finally come through (both he and Holly had agreed to that course of action, as they both did not want to be beholden to the First National Bank of Stark on the issue), making the time spent on getting the paperwork in order worth it. Within a few days, they had found a realtor willing to work with them on that score—John was an older guy, impressed with the credentials of his client but tactful enough to not always elude to it. In between the missions and the meetings, Steve had some free time to start looking with Holly, and that was on the docket for the afternoon. After a few moments of peace, of course.

"Bus is leaving, Steven! Miss it at your own peril," a voice called from beyond the door, Holly's impatient tapping of her foot exaggerated to the point of him being able to hear it almost perfectly. Shooting a look up at the ceiling once more, he scrubbed at his face with both hands. His few moments were up, it seemed. And going by her use of his full first name, it would be best not to linger.

"I'm coming, I'm coming, sheesh," he groaned, pushing himself off the bed. Snatching up his favored navy jacket from the top of the dresser, he paused to cram a ball cap on his head, too. With both articles situated on his person, he slid his hand into his pocket, completing his civilian wear by perching aviator sunglasses on his nose. The tried-and-true method of passing amongst the populace had remained just that, and he wasn't about to meddle with it. No matter how much Holly teased him and the others for it.

She was waiting for Steve in the hall beside the front door, one arm braced along the wall and her fingers tapping to an unknown beat. As he closed the bedroom door and crossed over to her, she smirked, raising her hand and rattling the key ring. He rolled his eyes, picking up the pace to meet her by the door.

"The one time you're ready before I am..." he trailed off, adjusting the cap and zipping up his jacket. They both had a preference for punctuality, but more often than not, Steve was the quickest prepared of the two. Knowing the truth of his words, Holly canted her head, flicking her hair over her shoulder.

"Exactly. I've got to live it up while I can," she shot back, sticking her tongue out at him and chuckling. Exiting the apartment, he locked up behind them, tripping after her as she hot-footed her way down to the elevator bank. Exuberance flowed out of her, and when he caught up to her, he couldn't help but return the smile she had on, albeit with a smaller one.

"You're practically dancing, doll," he noted, his arm coming around her shoulders and pulling her closer to his side. They matched step as they walked through the compound, but all the while Holly seemed to maintain the energetic pace she'd acquired. Not to say that she was ever lethargic, but the air around her seemed to spark and pop. Having seen it before, he recognized it for what it was. His thumb brushed back and forth along the sleeve of her blouse and he snickered. "A little excited, huh?"

"I've got a good feeling about today. I really do," she said, looking up at him in earnest. Hell yeah, she was excited, and a little nervous, too. She'd managed to look up the information on two of the places John would be showing them that day, too eager to wait on the showing itself. Granted, she would've been sent the information anyway, but still...

In any case, she had hopes for the first jaunt out to look at houses. Maybe they would get lucky, maybe not. She couldn't wait to find out.

"Well, let's hope the good feeling pays off and we actually find something we like," Steve remarked cautiously, jabbing the button in the elevator to take them down to the garage level. It was unlikely, in his eyes, that they would find something that early on. The image of Clint's farmhouse floated into his mind's eye, the home his friend had made. That was what he wanted: just a home. Buzzwords like "character" and "open concept" flitted through his brain, and he was hard-pressed to hold back his frown. If there was one thing that could be said about apartments, it was that they were fairly straightforward and simpler.

As the elevator slowed to its stop, Holly glanced up at him once more, contemplation bleeding through the excitement.

"We might. We'll see."

"Hmm," was all he could grunt back, traipsing after her as she led the way to her blue Buick.

Holly climbed behind the wheel, allowing him the chance to ride passenger, let his mind drift as they sped down the track away from the base. The first house on the list was roughly twenty-five minutes away (according to the irritating voice on the map app on her phone), cutting it close for the cut-off of travel time that they were willing to put up with for a commute. Trees and greenery rushed past as the car turned off the frontage road, the mountains peeking through the gaps in the canopy every now and again. The radio nattered on, tuned to a jazz station that was fairly tolerable. Companionable silence sat between them, but it did not last terribly long.

"How did the call with the publisher go?" Steve asked, looking at her curiously. The night before, he'd come home to find her holed up in the private office. Peering through the crack in the door, he'd caught the harried look on her face and how her free hand was gesticulating wildly to the air as she spoke with the literary agent she'd hired. When she'd come out about a half hour later, she just shot him a muted glare and warned him to not ask. He figured it would be safer to wait at that point, instead thinning his lips and instinctively reaching for the bad comedies she often turned to for solace. As far as he knew, the last two months had been spent negotiating a contract over her book's rights, amongst other things, and it seemed that the entire ordeal would still be mired in negotiations for the time being. Holly's eyes flicked over at him, a sigh driven slowly out her nose and her fingers flexing around the steering wheel.

"It was okay...kind of. It started out that way." Another glance, another sigh. "They're being rather insistent on not wanting me to use a pseudonym." It was a decision she'd made after their marriage; she didn't want to draw extra attention onto them both with her submitting works to a publisher. There was enough publicity around them as it was. The excuse for detractors to pick up her story and judge it solely on her name was distasteful. She grimaced then, foot pressing down a little harder on the accelerator pedal. "They'd rather I use my married name; it would help sales, or so they tell me. I told them no, again, and they backed off...soon enough. Can't say how long that will last."

"If you want to use it, you can and you should," he murmured softly, his focus on his hands in his lap. He didn't want her to limit her chances, in any form. "Don't hold back on my account."

Her jaw set as she negotiated a left turn, and she snorted. "It just seems like they have a lack of faith in the manuscript to sell without having you attached to it, even in an oblique way. And while you are merited a thanks in the book for helping me get off my ass and finish it—"

"Very kind of you, by the way."

"—It's not about you at all." Holly glanced him out the corner of her eye, some of the intensity of her expression softening. "No offense."

A corner of his mouth turned up, his gaze raising to look out the windshield. "None taken."

"They don't have the right to tell me what to do, and they don't have the right to bully me into trading on your fame just to sell it. Especially since I haven't signed anything yet," she reiterated. That was the crux of the matter: her book's subject material had nothing to do with Steve personally. The narrative was about a young girl developing powers and going on a rescue mission to save her mother and others like her from government control; there was no mention of Captain America anywhere in the plot. They'd made it sound like if her last name wasn't attached, it wouldn't get very far. That was discouraging; not having her married name on the cover shouldn't take away from the content, and that was something the marketers weren't considering. Her thumb rubbed against the wheel in her grip, and she continued, "If they keep suggesting it, I'll walk, and try again elsewhere."

Steve observed her for several seconds, her resolute expression and clear gaze making his heart swell with pride.

'That's my girl.'

"Not many people have that much integrity," he declared aloud, a sardonic smirk on his lips. Noticing it, she shot one of her own back at him.

"Well, I'm not many people, am I?" Holly pointed out. One hand came away from the steering wheel and cupped the air. "If I was, I doubt you'd be in this car right now, looking at houses on what should be your day off."

He dipped his chin, brightness invading his gaze. "Or it could be because we're married, and I have it on good authority that pissing off a wife this early on is less than ideal."

Snorting audibly at that, she rolled her eyes as her fingers laced with his, their joined hands resting on the center console.

"Good to know where your priorities lie, Nerfherder."

"Of course, Princess."

Turning off the main road, the captain barely had any time to adjust to the change from tar to gravel. The crunch and grind of it under the Buick's tires, and the pings of loose ones cracking off of the undercarriage made him shift in his seat. In comparison, Holly was calm, her sharp gaze concentrating on navigating and her foot sure on the pedals. One minor lurch over a carved rut in the road made them both jump, and Steve tilted his head back against the rest.

"We really need a new car," he muttered in a low tone, his fingers curling around the overhead handle.

"There is nothing wrong with this one," she countered mildly. Though she'd never explicitly stated a love for her car, there was an undeniable connection. It was understandable; it was her vehicle, and it had been with her through college, all the way to moving to the east coast. She did not take kindly to the suggestion that it was not good enough for their purposes. In her mind, what he'd said would probably have been akin to her being critical of his bike.

"Let me rephrase that: we need a car that can handle upstate back roads better than this one," he amended, dropping his hand down as the turns morphed back into straight road. That was a little easier to deal with, but he shuddered to think what it would be like once winter came. Ice and snow blanketing every inch, horror stories from his childhood of people being buried alive upstate surfacing in his mind. A snort and a snicker met his words, and Holly's eyebrows rose.

"You just want an excuse to buy that big-ass truck you were looking at." Off Steve's incredulous glance, she shook her head at him, fighting to keep a smile off her lips. "You were using my computer and you didn't close the tab; don't act surprised that I know about that. Should just be grateful you weren't looking at a van or something."

The mental image that swam up in both their minds made them laugh, more so her than him. Once it petered off, though, he shrugged, drumming his fingers against his knees.

"It would be good to have the second option," he said, wanting to make his case. "I can't drive the motorcycle during the winter again."

A sharp chill ran up his back at the thought. Though he had driven his motorcycle through all kinds of weather, it was getting tougher each year to stand the freezing cold and ice even with the appropriate gear. When it wasn't part of a mission, naturally; he could hardly concern himself with the weather on a mission, unless it would slow the team down in some way. The model of truck he'd been looking at was similar to the one he'd driven back when he and Natasha were on the run. Even when hot-wired, it ran smoothly and he liked the space of it. Something like that would suit their purposes right down to the ground, he'd figured. A minute or two of quiet passed, the end of the lane coming up swiftly. A small farmhouse was perched at the end of it, a maroon SUV parked and waiting for them. Upon being spotted, a heavy-set man with black hair and a wide smile waved to them, ushering them to stop. John was timely, and more than ready to show them around, it seemed.

Holly's dark eyes lit up, and she looked at Steve, reaching over and teasingly tugging on the bill of his cap.

"Let's worry about finding a house first before adding another expense on, okay?"

He nodded after a few seconds, chancing another look at the realtor and the looming building behind him. One thing at a time, he thought.

"Fair enough."

xXxXxXx

"Come on."

"No."

"It will take less than five minutes to do it," she crooned playfully, her fingers curling around his wrist.

"It would take less than five seconds to drop this, and yet, here we are, still," he responded, matching her tone with false cheer as he covered her hand with his.

They'd been going back and forth for a couple minutes on the matter, ever since they were sure the realtor had gone downstairs. He'd left them be, to talk to one another about the house itself. On the whole, it was a decent house. It was only about twenty years old, with the right amount of bedrooms and a semi-finished basement. There was even a bonus space up in the eves of the house, converted into a bar area. Granted, it was a palace of wallpaper and old appliances, but neither of the couple seemed to be bothered by that. Upon their request, he'd gone. After all, they did have much to discuss. Or so he'd assumed. Rather, Holly had bid him go with false pretenses, an idea in mind since they happened upon a particular room. Standing in the upstairs hallway, peering into the shared bathroom with Steve, she'd been attempting to goad him into doing what she'd asked, and he was not too fond of the idea at all.

The room was cramped, with the current homeowners having somehow finagled a bathtub and separate shower into it, with the shower cut into the wall just behind the door. On top of being narrow, it had the shower door coverings she remembered from her early childhood, complete with gold chrome edging and the warped ripple effect. It was a far cry from what they had at the base, that was for sure. And upon its discovery, she truly, genuinely wanted to see if her husband, a man standing at six-foot-two and built like a brick wall, could even squeeze into the tiny space.

"I swear, I will give you twenty bucks if you get in that shower and can stand up in it with the door closed," she promised him, eyes glittering with mirth. Steve sighed, tiring of the back-and-forth. The cubicle reminded him of the ones at Camp Lehigh, as well as some from the hotels he stayed in during his USO tour. It could be tough, but it was doable. Shooting another look into the bathroom, his eyes narrowed a fraction when he glanced back at his wife.

"...Money first, or no dice, doll."

Faced with the choice of putting up or shutting up, Holly reached into her pocket, retrieving the small wallet and extracting the bills as requested. Handing them off to Steve, she heard him muttering about it being the easiest and stupidest way he'd ever earned twenty dollars as he tucked them away, and she felt her grin grow wider. Ushering her in first, they slid sideways into the bathroom, the outer door having to be partially closed to allow the shower door to open. Rolling his eyes, he looked at her once more, her shooing hands gesturing for him to get it over with already. Jerking the door open, he was forced to duck, the header of the shower door no higher than his chin. Squirming and turning, he grunted under his breath, pushing himself into the back wall and getting his body situated in the tiny space. Evidently, the current owners were definitely not his size. If it had been 1941, the shower would have been more than ideal for him, but now...

Hooking a foot under the edge of the door, he pulled it back, planting it squarely as the door clanked shut. His arms were raised, brought up to avoid the other accouterments in the space with him. He had done it; Steve had gotten himself to fit in the shower. Beneath the applause at his effort, he could hear the laughter Holly could barely suppress. Looking out at her over the header (shifting to make the shower head stop digging into his shoulder), he shook his head, the corners of his mouth threatening to rise.

"Oh my God, it's like you're trapped in a tiny, plexiglass prison," she squeaked after a few seconds, a hand covering her mouth as she tried to calm down. He furrowed his brow at her, groaning aloud as he laid his palms flat on the ceiling above him, tilting his head back against the tiled wall. Well, she wasn't entirely wrong about that. After a moment, he heard shuffling and rustling, and before he could ask what she was doing, he heard the click of a shutter. Snapping his head forward, his eyes widened as Holly tapped the button on her phone again, a second photograph of him in his precarious position taken. Smirking to herself, she refused to meet his aghast stare, instead nodding proudly. "This is so gonna be used for the Christmas card this year."

"Hey, you didn't say anything about pictures!" he cried, causing her to jump a little. Giggling, she took off, stepping quickly out of the space to escape his wrath. Attempting to follow her, Steve was at first stymied by the door, the plexiglass sticking for several seconds before he pushed it open. Ducking under the top edge, he stumbled out, his hip slamming against the sink as his legs got tripped up by the raised lip of the shower. Another peal of giggles rolled up the stairs as a muted growl rumbled in his chest. "Holly!"

When John inquired about their dubious discussion later, ultimately they could only tell him they wished to see the other properties lined up for the day. The captain was idly rubbing at his side, and Mrs. Rogers merely smiled, with no further explanation given.

xXxXxXx

The next house they went to see was a fixer-upper opportunity, one of a few on the list, and they weren't quite sure what to make of it. They did at least agree to checking out the property, and decided to withhold expectations. Both Steve and Holly had concluded that if a ready-made home was not available, they could afford to purchase a place that needed some care and updating. Hard work was not something they were afraid of, and it was a way to make the house their own. They'd already researched a couple properties that had fallen into that category online, and while they like certain aspects of them, they wanted to keep looking just in case. They weren't totally sold on those homes, and they just wanted to keep their options open.

The drive up to the second house was disconcerting in and of itself; while shaded drives were common in their area of the state, the wooded thicket they pulled up to had a decidedly ominous feel to it. It was fifteen minutes away from the last place they'd looked at, and already a half hour from the base. Something about it made the captain fidget in his seat, and his wife had slowed the car down significantly. A breath of relief flowed out when they reached the end of the run, with John waiting for them. He nodded forward, beckoning for them to get out and join him. When they climbed out of the car, catching sight of the house itself, Holly gasped and Steve grimaced. The nonexistent expectations of the place had plummeted significantly. The picture they'd seen of it did not match the reality.

Worn shingles were falling from the roof, the dark wood of the siding bleeding through a poor paint job. It was a two-story, which was in its favor, but the broken glass and creaking shutters were off-putting. The porch looked unsteady, and the outbuildings visible from their position were ramshackle, at best. The trees surrounding it swayed in the breeze, creaking and snapping when a particularly hearty gust brushed them.

It, frankly, looked like a hideout for a serial killer, and Holly's imagination was running wild when that description for it popped into her mind. As well as that, she was the daughter of a contractor; so much of the place screamed "not up to code" that it wasn't even funny. It would cost less to pull it down and build a new house, she surmised, her husband being of the same mind in that moment.

Wary blue eyes cut across the roof of the car to the perturbed dark brown gaze, a silent conversation passing between them in a matter of seconds. They had reached total agreement on that particular property in less time than it took for them to get out of the car.

"...Nope," Steve pronounced, immediately opening the door and sliding back into the vehicle.

"Absolutely not," Holly concurred, following suit after raising a shoulder up at John where he waited by his car. The realtor witnessed their refusal and sighed, climbing back behind his own wheel.

It was a long shot, that one, and he'd known it. Perhaps the third property would yield better results. Or, at the very least, the couple would be more likely to go inside.

xXxXxXx

Early evening rolled in, the sun's rays slanting across the earth as it went. The blue Buick cut through a small town, the occupants eager to put the day's events behind them. Steve was driving, giving Holly a break. The house-hunting search had taken them all around, each place a minimum of fifteen minutes away from the next. Still, they had asked to look specifically out of any of the nearby towns. They would treasure the privacy (not to mention the defensible nature of such a house) in the future, but at the moment, it just meant that it would take them longer to get back to the base. The little city's buildings idly drifted by, small cottages next door to bungalows, businesses still operating even as the day drew closer to an end.

Soft music played on the radio, one of the piano compilation CDs chiming in the silence. Holly leaned one elbow, propping up her chin in her hands as she looked out the window. There hadn't been much to say after the last showing finished. John promised to take a look at other houses and let them know when he found something new, and so they had parted amicably. She had been placid, contemplative, for the duration of the ride, handing Steve the keys with no qualms whatsoever.

"Three houses down today, God knows how many more to go," Steve muttered, sinking back a little in his seat, hands gripping the wheel. The third place was little better than the first they saw. As a whole, there wasn't much wrong with it; there was significantly less wallpaper, which Holly was glad to see. However, it just didn't...seem like home. And while he'd never owned an actual house before in his life, he had lived in homes. The layouts of his apartment, the one he shared with his mother, the Barnes' digs, even Holly's place in D.C. had the feeling of warmth and comfort. Obviously, any place they looked at wouldn't immediately exude those traits, wouldn't raise those thoughts, but the ones they'd viewed thus far just didn't impact him in any way. He couldn't picture his family at the houses they'd seen thus far.

Steve blew out another sharp breath. It had been promised that the process could be slow and unsuccessful, and it was living up to—or perhaps down to—those expectations. The day's offerings did not bode well for the future.

"Yeah," Holly concurred after a moment, dropping her hand and looking at him. Reaching over, she patted his thigh, sitting up a little straighter. "We'll find it, soon."

An eyebrow inclined at that. "Got a good feeling about it?"

"I do," she replied staunchly, raising her chin in an almost challenging manner. Steve shook his head and grinned tightly, no doubt wondering at her level of confidence so early in their endeavor. Her palm moved off his leg, instead taking up the device settled in the cupholder of the middle console. Phone in hand, her fingers tapped away at the screen, and after a few seconds, she breathed out a low hum of pleasure. Glancing back up at him, she murmured, "Meanwhile, there's another house I would like to take a look at."

Bleakness streaked across his face, and he barely stopped himself from frowning. He was more than ready to be finished that day, but if he had to, he could handle one more.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah, the Pour House," she said, flipping the screen for him to take a swift look at while they were held up by the stop light. The map was opened to directions for a well-reviewed bar in town, the blue line cutting up and away from the tiny car figure onscreen. "It's two streets over and has a grill. I'm starving."

Risking another sideways glance at the phone, Steve pressed his foot against the pedal as the light turned green, pulling into the right lane in preparation for the turn-off.

"I'm definitely willing to check that out," he told her, more than ready for some dinner and maybe a drink or two. Even with a day of disappointment, Holly was salvaging the evening in whatever way she could, and Steve was more than willing to partake in it. At least that was something they were sold on.

xXxXxXx

Mail delivery had been completed, and hidden between the mailers and offers for credit cards or cable television, a neatly addressed envelope sat. Anticipating it, like she had anticipated the others that had preceded it, Natasha took it with aplomb, setting the extras to the side for a moment. Debating whether or not to read in the privacy of her quarters, she instead chose to sit out in the common room. It was all but deserted, her other teammates either working in the public offices or off elsewhere. The Saturday was theirs to do as they liked, and once the captain had truly made himself scarce, the others followed suit.

Well, the others except for her. There was some intel she had to look into, a few sheets forwarded by Maria. She had taken the week to visit the helicarrier, and consequently Nick. He was investigating some missions and claims sent to him by Coulson, who in turn wanted her input. She had a good understanding of the mentality of the agents he had at his disposal, having made it her personal project to look into their backgrounds once she knew of their existence. And she had been working diligently on that for hours, up until the mail drop had come through her slot. She could afford to take a break, and she could certainly take it away from her computer.

She knew Steve had not suggested her responding to Bucky's overtures lightly; he knew, to some extent, the measure of pain and sorrow that she had inflicted was of a similar shade to his friend's, and she could commiserate in ways he could not. So she had conceded to the wishes of both men, in the interest of aiding a fellow human being and to help a friend. And, obeying her own selfish motives, she wanted an excuse to not think of her own troubles.

For the first time in years, her best friend was missing from her side, halfway across the country and out of reach. She didn't begrudge Clint the time he was taking to spend with his family. In her opinion, no one deserved it more. His sons and daughter needed him, his wife needed him…they needed him away from SHIELD, from the Avengers, and he could finally grant that wish. Natasha could not, in good conscience, beg him to return. Nor could she implore Nick Fury to be at hand, either; the fractured organization needed his steadying hand elsewhere. The two solid forces in her life since her defection and subsequent transformation all those years ago were out of reach, and while she did have others to fall back upon for support, it just wasn't the same.

Not to mention…Bruce…

Violently, Natasha shook her head. She was quick to divert her mind from thinking of him, to squelch the rogue ache in her heart at the thought of even his name. The ache that, as time went on, was starting to lessen, bit by bit.

Still, she was determined to make the best of the situation, and here was an opportunity to do so. Bucky's letters, though not always pleasant, were a welcome source of distraction. Initially, she had viewed the correspondence in that simple way, but she quickly learned that it was in no way simple. Deep down, she'd understood that much, but even she was unprepared for the level of escalation the letters had taken over the last nearly five weeks. The darkness, the doubt of his convictions, harkened to her, compelling her to read and listen, just as she'd promised she would do. The compulsion to respond was something she could not quell, drawn as she was to the mystery of his mind. Like Steve, he was a man out of time, but the summation of his character could not be held to just that (to be fair, neither could the captain's). Half-forgotten memories, a life broken of will and want, a mind forever split in half between truth and deceit…it was fascinating, from any outsider's standpoint.

To Natasha, though, it was the honesty of the experience that drew her in. It was that she was a few steps ahead of him on the road, and she could turn back to see him progress, knowing that it was only a short time ago that she had been in the same position. And in it, she could also see smatterings of the man he once was, and was trying to recover. The secret moments, interspersed with the bleak ones, were what made the letters worthwhile.

The first couch she came across was her chosen perch, her body unfolding languidly across the cushions, the glow of the evening's light met with the artificial overhead bulbs, warm glows and stark brightness meeting one another. Sliding a finger under the lip of the envelope, she easily broke the seal, pulling out the notebook paper within. At first glance, she could see the handwriting was sloppily done, denoting haste and a general sense of discord on the part of the writer. Raising an eyebrow to herself, she began to read.

Natasha,

It's a good thing we're communicating by letter. It's past midnight as I'm writing this, and somehow I doubt you'd be pleased if you received a telephone call from me at the moment.

I can't sleep. Hardly a surprise, for someone like me, but it's no less disturbing. Guess I was due for a bad night; I've been doing fairly decently, all things considered. Not great, not terrible, but well enough to get by, feel like a normal human being. Evidently that can never last long.

Faces. I keep seeing the faces of the ones I've killed, all blending into one, each one screaming or crying out to be spared. Their voices are so loud, like a hundred sirens going off at once. They're all begging me to let them live, and no matter how much I try to fight it, I still pull the trigger. Each one in agony, and I pull the trigger again. Double tap, I think someone called it once. One in the heart, one in the head. I am inside myself, and at the same time, I'm outside, doing my damnedest to stop it from happening. And then...I'm in that room, in that chair. Mission report, I have to give one on command. Completed or failed. Shock of white light around me, burning through my skull before freezing in the ice. Before I know it, I'm out again, and it starts over. It always starts over.

Sometimes I don't just see the dead ones. The ones who survived are there, too. I'm not sure what is worse. Being haunted by the dead, or by the fearful.

It's better to stay awake in that case, instead doing that for eight solid hours. At least I can write; the computers are shut down at eleven o'clock every night and the television is positioned in the room that allows sound to carry, and so it can't be used late by design. Smart bastards.

Sorry to say that I am taking you at your word, once again. Granted, this is less graphic than some of the other things I've told you, but the sentiment remains the same. It's times like these that make me really question what in the hell I'm doing here. Whether or not I deserve to be here, deserve to...well, to even live.

Natasha, I know that you've barely told me anything about your own experiences. But I do know that you understand enough. Do the nightmares ever stop, or at least lessen? How...how can I reconcile the past with what...who I am becoming? Is it even worth it?

Will the screams ever stop?

I know this isn't appropriate subject matter for a letter, but then again, hardly anything we've ever written to each other could be considered that. How you can kid with me about the incident in Odessa is beyond me...but at the same time, I do appreciate it. I know what it cost you. It is a shame that I've deprived you of the joys of wearing a bikini. Granted, I had to look up exactly what that was, but now that I know, it's a shame. A damn shame; I bet whatever you do have makes up for it, though. At least you can still wear sleeves comfortably. Any loose fibers get caught in the plating on this arm, and it becomes a cut-off, whether I want it to be or not.

I suppose it's odd, my rambling like this, but at the moment, it's helping. As if I didn't get enough help these days. Perhaps I should just declare myself an emotional and psychological invalid and be done with it. When I wrap this up, I might head out to the training space in the barn. Out there, I can be as angry and as loud as I want. The only things I'll disturb are the owls and the squirrels. So long as I don't damage any more equipment; I may or may not have bent a bar out of shape. Tell Fury at your own risk. Or the doc, for that matter, though she probably already knows and hasn't said a word.

I think it's time I finish this. I'm going to write Steve next, and when you both get your letters, you can talk about how strange they are, and how off the rails I've become, even with the events of the past providing more than enough evidence of that. And even though you've told me that it's ridiculous to do so, I do hope you're doing well. Or, at least, better than I am. Still, I feel a little more on an even keel than I did earlier, so that must mean something.

Thanks, Natalia.

—James

The smile she had been sporting (unknowingly) upon opening the letter had flattened, pensiveness overtaking her features. She had known actively corresponding with Bucky would, more than likely, cause her to revisit her old memories, the ones she tried so hard to push away and forget. Flashes of a childhood that was no childhood, of chains and blood, of nightmares and loneliness awaited her in the dark. There was no escaping them; she had learned that lesson all too well in May. And while she no longer bore Wanda any ill will for her actions—because, in her place, she couldn't say that she would've made a different choice—the vision inflicted on her could not so easily be put aside.

She, too, had wondered if the screams ever would stop. In her heart, she knew that they would only be quieted from time to time. They would never fade. And perhaps that was the point: so she wouldn't forget the horrors, wouldn't forget who she had been. If she forgot, she ran the risk of becoming that girl again. Becoming that monster.

She couldn't forget; it would be truly unforgivable if she ever did. It would dishonor her, and the memory of those taken by her hand. Natasha could live, breathe, but she would not neglect the memories, or run away from them. And that was something Bucky needed to know.

Nodding once, she withdrew to her private apartment, heading straight to the office towards the back. Scooping up a sheet of paper and a pen from the lower drawer of her desk, she went back out into the main area, taking a seat at the corner banquette, coffee table retrieved and pulled up to act as a desk. With Bucky's letter placed within reach, she uncapped the pen and preparing to tell him just that.

A knock against the nearby wall pulled her out of her thoughts, and her bright gaze swept up to meet the tired brown one staring back at her. Gently, she laid her pen down, adopting a friendly expression despite the interruption. Colonel Rhodes—Rhodey, as he preferred to be called infinitely over his first name, which was also James—stood there, leaning against it. The War Machine was decidedly under-dressed, for once, forgoing his stiff button-downs and slacks for actual, honest to God jeans and a long-sleeved tee. She'd figured he'd be spending his evening elsewhere; most everyone had abandoned the common area when in search of things to do with their days off, and he was no exception to that rule. Clearly, he wanted something, but she did no more than smile and wait for him to speak up. He ran a hand over his scalp after a couple of seconds, and hooked a thumb over his shoulder.

"Nat, hey. Wanda's trying to make some sense of the received reports that Pietro sent over. She was wondering if you could help her out with some of them." Rhodey crossed his arms, shaking his head to himself. "On top of them being in code, they're in Russian. And when I asked her if it really was all that different from Slovak, she, well...it was better to make a quick exit after that."

She arched a perfectly-shaped eyebrow, barely suppressing a smirk. While one could never say that Rhodey was unintelligent, his knowledge of languages didn't exactly extend to the Eastern European regions of the globe. It was a wise move for him to leave after making that remark.

"The Vision isn't available?" she inquired aloud. Of all the team members, she would have expected the girl to reach out for him first. He would have no trouble with decoding and translating, though perhaps he could misunderstand nuances. Nuances that Natasha would be able to identify from a mile away.

Rhodey lifted a shoulder, flapping a hand in the air superfluously.

"He and Sam are on maneuvers with the trainee agents, getting them whipped into shape," he explained, unconsciously standing at attention. "Inspection is coming up soon, and they need all the help they can get."

Natasha's gaze dropped, settling on the papers before her, a small grin coming to her lips. "Don't want to disappoint the captain, huh?"

The smile he sported had a hard edge to it. "Or the sergeant, or the two colonels who will be reviewing them."

She dipped her chin, recalling how Fury had said something about being around for the newest batch to prove themselves. The poor recruits were going to have a tough time of it, no matter how much Sam attempted to help them.

"Careful, your superiority complex is showing, sir," Natasha muttered dryly. Rhodey spread his arms wide, the gesture unmistakable.

"Hey, I wish them all the best, and have high hopes for the new batch." He paused, considering something, a knowing gleam entering his eyes. "Also, high expectations. They knew what they were signing up for."

There wasn't a doubt in her mind that the four men would put them through their paces, determined to have the best of the best rise up and meet the challenge. With Rhodey so recently out of service, there would be a lot to live up to.

"No kidding. Yeah, I'll help..." she trailed off, her eyes darting to the letters again. The movement was tiny, almost disinterested, but the man looking upon her noticed the bent of her posture. After a moment, she scooted forward in her seat again, vaguely hooking a thumb down at the sheets of paper before her. "Tell her I'll be there in about twenty minutes or so. Working on a project of my own."

"Okay, I'll let her know," he murmured, pivoting to go. She bent her head, retrieving her pen right away. However, she did not hear his retreating steps, nor did she feel his presence beside her disappear. Glancing up, she could see him looking at her thoughtfully, almost as if he were examining her. Her bright eyes narrowed, almost at the same time his did. "You doing alright?"

She canted her head to the side, her expression deliberately blank. "Yeah. Can't complain."

It was his turn to raise an eyebrow. "Well, you could, but you don't."

So much left unsaid made the pause that followed loaded. Rhodey was not ignorant, nor unobservant; to be either would not have allowed him to progress as far with the Air Force as he had. And while he had no details of what had gone on privately before he'd officially joined the team roster, he had enough sense to see that the smooth, mysterious veneer that he had been exposed to before the mess with Ultron had been cracked. The depths were unknown, but the disturbance on the surface rippled, if ever so slightly. Not to mention the numerous rumors that had to abound about her, anyway.

The statement was not made in malice; if anything, genuine concern seemed to decorate his features as he watched her. She could find no fault in him for reaching out, even if she had not asked for it.

"No point," she breathed, barely above a whisper. The faintest appearance of a line creased her brow,

For a long moment, he stood there, meeting the fierce stolidity of her gaze before he sighed. Tipping his chin up, he idly scratched the back of his neck for a second before blowing out a sharp breath.

"If you ever decide there is a point, you got plenty of open ears to listen to you," he told her quietly. If she did not want to speak about it, then that was her choice, but she had to know that she did not have to put things off indefinitely. Rhodey had worked with a number of spies in the past, many of them similar to Natasha in a lot of respects. In some areas of life, he concluded that she would be too far gone to come back from the brink, too much changed from the others to do so. But that did not mean she had to be unreachable. They were on the same team, working towards the same goals. At the very least, they could depend upon one another, if nobody else. Pointing to his own ears, he smirked, covering his seriousness with a smirk. "Including these two."

Carefully, while still maintaining her neutral expression, she nodded, her physical acquiescence enough to assuage him. She did, however, back it up verbally as well.

"I know. Thanks, Rhodey."

Waggling a few fingers back at her in farewell, he departed for the elevator bank. Sighing low, Natasha returned her attention to her letter, the name staring up at her from the blank sheet as she pondered what had just occurred.

Rhodey wasn't wrong, in extending his offer. And there was a point…but the point was not enough, did not merit the attention she had once thought it deserved. She could take care of herself, always had done so. But she didn't have to do so alone. Barton had taught her that, long ago, and the truth of it was reinforced by her new teammate, her new friend. One new friend.

Exhaling softly, she twiddled the pen still in hand, tapping it against her temple for a second or two before starting again, starting afresh.

Dear James…

A/N: Oh, things are moving along, now. Enjoy the fluff and the fun. By the way, I have the funniest mental image of Steve trying to get in and out of that tiny shower, holy crap...

Well, it's September, the house-hunt begins, and Natasha and Bucky's correspondence continues. I am aware that not all authors go through the situation that Holly is—some of them have had very easy times, others harder—but eh, can't have it be perfect for her. And Rhodey finally makes it in to the story other than by vague referencing. Whoo.

By the way, I know one of you reviewers told me about VA loans, and I thank you for that. You get a digital cookie, even if I'm blanking on your name at the moment (sorry!). I know the process for it isn't very simple, as I've probably made it seem, but it has been nearly five weeks since the idea of getting a VA loan was presented in the story; I figured that would be enough time for preapproval, at least. Thanks again!

I'm a few hours later than usual with posting, mostly because I got scheduled to work on a day where I normally write, and so my time was taken up, but...well, it's out now! Can't make any promises in regards to the next chapter, but I do hope it will be enjoyable.

Also, not to be that person, but in case you missed it, I wrote a little one-shot about Holly and Steve's second date, taking place between Ch. 21 and 22 of At Day's End. It's (very simply, I know) entitled The Second Date; In case you're interested in more fluff, go check it out. You can find it under the My Stories tab on my page. :)

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any pop culture references mentioned in the text. I also don't own anything from the Star Wars franchise.

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!