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Bucky didn't remember much of the previous night. The bare facts – the ones he gave to Janice in a bland voice – were thus:

1. The man was named John Kastle

2. His house was easy to break into. (Bucky didn't mention that this made him take even more precautions. Meticulous ones.)

3. There were numerous notes that seemed to discredit Mrs Albright's sources. (Odd for someone who was supposed to be helping her.)

4. His cupboards were bare

"Good point with that last one," said Janice with a sharp nod; she'd finally exhausted her lecturing abilities and had actually listened. "Always suspicious. Shady as anything." She shook her head. Her black mane shuddered. "If a man can't stock his cupboards … are you sure they were bare?"

"Yes."

"Wait an everliving moment," Janice stalked to his desk and sat down. Bucky eyed the wood. Did he just hear it groan? "If you followed Shady Dude home and broke in to it … how did he not notice? I mean, I would notice if an intruder came and looked in my cupboards."

(If only she knew … )

"He was in the shower."

Janice's face was unimpressed. "Not cool, my friend. Not. Cool. What if he had heard you and had come charging out in his birthday suit? Hmm. Did you ever think of that?"

As a matter of fact … John Kastle had finished with the shower whilst Bucky was in his house. Bucky had retired to a spider-like position at the end of the shadowed hall, hovering right above John's bedroom. Arms pushing either wall, body tensed.

Ghost Steve had been chuckling. Bucky had been impatient, waiting for the moment he could drop and leave.

But then John Kastle had decided he needed to shave. With the door open. Bucky had waited, tucking away impatience and filing through facts and possibilities in his mind whilst the smell of aftershave and an off-key rendition of a song about roaring was belted out.

No wonder he'd needed whiskey afterwards.

"Bucky? Who was the CIA agent?"

Pulled out of his memories (the novelty of that thought made him want to be still and savour it. He had memories. Miracles happen) Bucky blinked up at her.

"The director's assistant. Undercover, double agent during World War Two."

The look on Janice's face was almost comical. "World War Two. Oh come on. I thought you meant 'we're all gonna die because this information is confidential and men in suites will come knocking if we even think the name'. That was years ago. Years and years."

Yeah. Years and years.

"I'm gonna call Albright," Bucky said.

"Though I love a happy ever after, isn't that jumping the gun a bit? Don't you need a little more evidence?"

"No. I don't. Gut instinct. I'll make it persuasive."

"Whatever," said Janice, standing up. The desk let out a relived sigh. "You need to put a dollar in the swear jar, by the way. Breaking and entering, though useful for business, is illegal as anything."

"Low on rent?" Bucky questioned.

Janice slammed the door behind her.

Silence in his office. The single window with its marvellous view of a wall and a drain pipe cast dull light onto the patch of carpet before his desk.

Bucky picked up the phone. Left a hurried message on Albright's phone. ('Your wife spends too much time online, reads romance novels and is writing a biography with the help of a man who doesn't want her to – nothing to worry about. She hates him. Hire a defence lawyer, cause she's gonna kill him soon.')

And after that, when the phone was in its grimy cradle and tuneless whistling could be heard from Janice, Bucky crossed to the door, locked it, crawled under his desk and clenched his teeth.

'Years and years,' said Janice. This flashback lasted fourteen minutes. 'Years and years' echoed around and around his head like a chant. Strange how things like that could set him off.

It was longer than the last one, said Steve in the frantic humming of his brain.

Shut up, thought Bucky, leaning his head against the desk. You're dead. Let me be.

I'm always be here, Buck.

He plunged his hands into his hair. "Like hell you are," he muttered. "You're dead."

Silence. Steve didn't respond to that. Instead Bucky recalled a promise, made long ago: I'm with you till the end of the line.

"Should have told me you meant a haunting."

Somewhere, someone was talking to Janice. His mind logged the details absently. Time slipped by, Bucky didn't notice its passing. Instead, he focused on looking at the grain of wood, following its path. He thought of John Kastle and the strangeness of his research notes. He did this and pretended that everything was fine; that his hand wasn't trembling and his face wasn't dripping with sweat.

Breathe, Buck. Just breathe.

"Bucky!" There was a pounding at his office door. Startled, Bucky jerked backwards and his head thumped the desk. Stars – he saw them. Vivid and colourful and announcing with a glorious ache that he was to have a throbbing head for at least ten minutes.

It took a moment to settle himself.

"Bucky!"

Sometimes he could tolerate Janice, even find himself liking her. Other times he wanted to throw her out of the window. (This was one of those times.)

Bucky placed his right hand on the edge of his desk and hauled himself up and into his chair. It squeaked in protest. Wiping his forehead, he stood, unlocked the door.

"So. Prepare yourself for a shock."

Bucky stared at her. She was breathing at an abnormal rate (excitement), her face was flushed and her eyes sparkled.

"I'm prepared," he said. His voice sounded bland – it always seemed to be.

"Scene one, enter character b from door one." Janice made dramatic gestures with her hands, drawing herself up to greater height and sucking in her stomach. It was a considerable feat. "You are Private Investigators, aren't you?" she said in a higher pitched tone, broadening her accent.

Bucky felt his eyebrows twitch.

Her voice fell to its normal grating and Janice let herself slump. "Yes. Who are you? Character A – A for Absolutely Excellent, if you're wondering-"

"I'm not."

"Zip it." Janice cleared her throat. "Character A expresses polite interest in potential client. Character B is snooty miss and tips her nose up. Like this." Buck was given an excellent view of her nostrils. "I suspect my husband is having-" there was a dramatic pause "-an affair."

Bucky rubbed his face. Another one? Really? Didn't the people of this city have better things to do?

"Swear jar," ordered the budding thespian standing before him. She assumed her previous posture. "I need to know. The. Truth."

Bucky's hand (gloved, of course) paused. "Did she really say it like that?"

"I love him," said Janice with determination.

"I don't have the time for this," Bucky muttered, staring at the ceiling.

Janice's bosom was heaving and her arms were spread out before her. "He has … abandoned me! To the wild world! To the unkind eyes of humanity! To the cruel fate of the lonely woman!"

"What? Like you?"

Janice's control snapped. A hand was instantly propped on her hip. Her glare would have cheerfully bored into his skull. "If you're going to be this way you can go home to whatever park bench you live on." A pause. "Or under."

Strange. If her words were attempting to be as sharp as her voice it wasn't working. He had armour. Years of words. A clear, monotonous drone that went on and on until-

He wasn't breathing again. Janice was staring, eyebrows arched.

"You're quoting from a romance novel," he said while his chest hurt and burned and his legs begged to run and run and never stop running.

It's okay, Bucky.

Shut. Up.

Nothing's okay.

I can't breathe.

"There's nothing wrong with embellishment," announced Janice. "Nothing at all. And if you're not willing to listen-"

He stood suddenly, launching upwards. The chair clattered backwards and Janice's jaw dropped.

"I'm going. I'm leaving. I'm out. I don't want to listen. Shut up." The words, mingled with expletives, streamed out of his mouth and the only way he could bring them to a halt was to stumble around Janice and out of the door.

She didn't try to stop him.

Outside, the sky was spitting rain and the roads were clogged with cars. He buried his hands in his pockets and walked. He didn't know where to.

Ghosts haunted his steps. Drenched into his skin along with the rain. Into his bones.

Hey.

"Not now, Steve," Bucky muttered, his head tucked downwards.

It's okay, Buck.

It was stupid, but he pretended – just for a moment, nothing more – that he had someone walking beside him with sure strides. Taller than him, wider than him, braver than him. He used to resent it sometimes. He didn't now.

But then a woman stumbled, laden with shopping bags. He reached to help her and glanced over his shoulder.

There was no one there.

A mumbled thanks drifted after him as he walked onwards. The rain grew steadily worse. It was enraged. Bucky took refuge in a doorway to a closed drugstore. The windows were barred and colourful with graffiti.

He watched the rain and it was only the cough that alerted him to the boy at his feet.

"You're crowding me out," said the kid. Blonde hair. Skinny as a rake. Clothes too old and too big.

"Better than being out in the rain."

"For you," said the boy and he looked upwards. Bucky's eyes clashed with a sky blue. Yeah. He wanted to run. Away. Didn't bother. He was haunted today, it seemed.

Resigned, he fell to a crouch. The boy didn't bother to flinch back, but stared. Big blue eyes out of a slim face.

"Got problems?" Bucky asked.

"Guess I have now."

"Name's Bucky."

"Good for you."

The rain fell down and down. Bucky wondered if the clouds ever grew breathless with it all.

He didn't look at the boy. "I'm a PI."

"And I'm a strudel."

Kid has a sense of humour. "Private Investigator."

"Strudel."

"That your name?"

No response.

"If you need help-"

"No, thanks. Fine as I am."

He tried again. "There's a building off Sunrise Ave. You'll find your way in."

"I'm good, thanks."

The rain thundered down. Someone ran past, umbrella held firmly over their head.

"If you need a roof, it's there. Building's old. Full of places no one can find you."

No response. Again.

Bucky didn't bother to glance at his companion, but dug into his pocket. All the change he had – he shoved it all to the boy and stood, striding out into the rain before Strudel could protest.

You paying ghosts off now, Bucky?

The rain fell and Bucky didn't care. He walked in it, dared it to soak him.

"You're wet," said Janice when he entered the office. She was eating. The smell of pizza was hung heavily in the air. "And you owe the swear jar big time."

"Haven't any change. Who was she?"

Janice paused mid-chew. She eyed him and her eyes flickered. Bucky reckoned she'd apologise soon. Not with words, but with deeds; there were three more slices of pizza left over.

"Get dry. Have some pizza."

There. An apology in Italian.

"Thanks. I will. Who was she?"

"Jessica Albright."

Bucky rubbed his face, feeling the cool water droplets dribble off his bare hand. He gave a sigh, and tripping after it, a weary expletive.

Language, said Ghost Steve.

"Swear jar," said Janice.

Thoughts?