In the Still of the Night

A/N: Hey guys. I know it's been a while since I updated, but I'm a busy person! My birthday was last week and I'm getting ready to go back to school at the end of September (quarter system, yay), so I haven't really had time to write. But here's this chapter and I hope you guys like it!

This chapter took a bit of time to write, too, because I had to do a good amount of research on it. I wanted it to be accurate, so I researched information like what the region the characters are in is like, what the room looks like based on the set design in the movie, etc. Hopefully that attention to detail makes the story a bit better.

Lastly, I cannot thank all my readers enough for the support this story has gotten thus far. I have over 7000 views! That's WAY more than I was expecting from this story, and I'm not even halfway through it. So thank you all so much!

Read, review, favorite, follow – do all that stuff to make me happy! Also, don't forget to visit my profile page from time to time as I put updates and things related to this story (and my other stories) on there. :)

-PenPaperParadise

Chapter Thirteen: There'll Always Be an England

One week later.

London was different from what he had pictured. A lot different. For some reason, he had this hazy vision of London as this pretty, bustling town that was bright and full of old buildings and interesting people. But when the Winter Soldier visited it for the first time (in present memory), he found it was quite different from his imaginings: the city was full of honking cars and it was smoggy and gray. The people were bustling, but all of them looked like they were in a hurry and most of them were talking animatedly on cell phones. The buildings were tall and sleek, not old and charming like he had somehow remembered.

The Winter Soldier had never been to London...had he? He wasn't sure. For all he knew, he could have lived there but he would have no memory of that. A few things were coming back to him, slowly but surely, but most of the flashes of memories that came upon him were difficult to make sense of. They were usually just images of people or places or objects that appeared in his mind's eye for a second and then disappeared as quickly as they came on. He found it all very confusing – and therefore frustrating. He had to keep a lid on his rage these days, otherwise he would snap. And being in the bustling city wasn't helping.

When he arrived in Winchester, however, he found that the town was closer to what he had pictured England to be. It felt more quaint and old-world; many of its buildings were stone and there was an arched stone bridge he had walked across. He had passed by a grand cathedral where, even at dusk, many tourists were milling about and snapping pictures. The soldier had almost stopped and admired the cathedral, but his mind barked at him to complete his mission. London will always be a city, changing and growing and adapting to a new world, but the Soldier had to appreciate the towns like this one that kept a hold on their past values and traditions.

It didn't take him long to find the Merryweather Rest Home that was just outside the main hub of the city. By the time he arrived at the convalescent home, it was just past dusk, so he decided to wait a few hours until everyone inside was most certainly asleep.

It was the middle of the night when he broke into her room.

He had peeked into her window from outside to make sure she was asleep. Her room, thankfully on the first floor, was dark and he saw a person lying in the bed that was against the wall adjacent to the window, which confirmed that she was blissfully unaware of what was about to happen. The soldier quietly snapped the window latch with his metal arm, breaking it and allowing him to push open the window as quietly as he could. Tapping into the stealth techniques he had learned while he was the Winter Soldier, he silently and efficiently climbed in through the window, pushed past the green patterned curtains, and landed soundlessly on the carpet.

He looked at the person sleeping in the bed. She was very old; he knew this because of the intel he had done on her, of course, but he saw it in her physical appearance. She had silver, curly hair that rested just past her shoulders and framed her lined face. She had wrinkles most prominently around her mouth and her eyes, which were currently closed lightly because she was sleeping comfortably. She looked peaceful, and for a fraction of a second the Winter Soldier considered just letting her sleep and abandoning his plan...but he thought better of it.

However, he wouldn't wake her just yet. He looked around the small convalescent room which had a few pieces of furniture, including two small nightstands on either side of the white bed, a small brown table with a white tea tray resting on it, and a plain brown armoire. He passed by the tea table because all that held was the tea set, a small yellow vase, and an empty glass. He went to her armoire, which was on the opposite side from the window, and examined the picture that was taped onto it. It was a crude drawing of an apple tree on a little hill; so crude, that it looked to be drawn by a child. The soldier found that curious. Was it drawn by her child? No; according to her file, they would be all grown up by now...A grandchild maybe?

The soldier disregarded the picture and opened the armoire soundlessly. Its only contents were clothes, shoes, and a jewelry box that, after he looked through it, held nothing of real value to him. He closed the armoire doors and went over to the nightstand to the left of her bed. It was rather messy, with a white flower-patterned lamp taking up most of the room. Next to it was a pink tissue box and a small, round jewelry box. He opened it, and inside it was empty. Nothing on that nightstand was helpful to him so he crept over to the other side of the bed to look on that nightstand.

The other nightstand was even messier, if that were possible. A pair of glasses, a ball of brown yarn, and a glass of half-drunk milk were among its boring contents, but something that caught his eye was the photos propped up on top of various papers and notebooks. One photo was of a woman and two children, a girl and a boy. The soldier remembered from the information he found on her that she had two children, so was this her in the photo? That could very well be a possibility because the photograph was black and white and she looked young. The other photo was of the same woman but with a different girl. This girl probably wasn't her daughter; she was different from the other young girl in the first picture. A niece, perhaps?

The soldier looked away from the photos and glanced at the woman. She was still asleep, but he felt like he was running out of time: the longer he stayed, the greater chance of her waking up or someone walking in and seeing him. He carefully picked up some of the papers on the nightstand and looked at them. One was a colorful calendar of events for the rest home for that month; one was a hand-written paper with names and phone numbers written in a neat list; one was a statement from a life insurance company...There was hardly anything here.

Then, beneath the last stack of papers, he found a folder. It was a plain manila folder that, when he turned it over, he noticed had a single black and white photograph paper-clipped to the outside. The photograph was of a scrawny young man in a white t-shirt and dog tags. Was he a soldier? the soldier wondered when he saw the tags. He was blond...and looked vaguely familiar...

It wasn't until he opened the file when the soldier finally recognized who he was. It was him. His target. The one he had been trying to learn about for months. Inside the folder was a series of papers, the first one was a profile sheet with the name "ROGERS, STEVEN GRANT" written on the top line. The soldier's heart began to race. This was what he needed; he knew this Rogers person had something to do with his past. Several months ago, when he had fought Rogers, the man had told him that the two of them used to be friends. But the soldier didn't remember that; surely he would remember that if it was true?

The file also contained a few papers and artifacts that he couldn't figure out why they were in there, including a small round picture of a woman – the old woman, though much younger and prettier – and a sketch drawing of a monkey on a unicycle. There were also a few small rectangular cards that nearly fell out of the file that had colorful images of the so-called Captain America on them. Bucky found these things familiar...They were called...trading cards. Yes, that's it. But why were they in this file? Sure, he knew Steve Rogers was Captain America, but why were there trading cards in this file of information on him? Were they important?

Suddenly he heard the sound of sheets rustling and when he spun around he saw that the woman was now awake, blinking in the darkness and staring right at him. There was a moment of stunned silence where the soldier waited for her to move and the woman stared at him, probably trying to figure out who he was and why he was there.

"Who...who are you?" she asked in a frail voice, confirming the soldier's suspicions.

He said nothing. Did he even have an honest answer to give to that question?

"Wh-what do you want?"

"You are Margaret 'Peggy' Carter, are you not?" he asked sharply, mechanically. The woman nodded slowly.

"What do you want?" asked Peggy, this time her voice a little stronger.

The soldier looked at her with cold eyes. "Answers."

As Peggy looked back at him, her brown eyes wide and fearful, he couldn't help but remember those brown eyes looking right at him before. But that's impossible, he told himself, I've never met her before...Right?

But what she said next made him doubt himself even more, if that were possible.

"B...Bucky?"

The soldier froze. That was...that was the same name that his target had given him...that Captain America had given him...when he said they were friends...

"How do you know that name?" he questioned sharply, taking two steps toward the old woman.

Peggy did not recoil when he came near her. "I knew a man named Bucky once...He was part of Steve's unit."

"Steve...Rogers?" asked the soldier, and the old woman nodded.

"They were best friends."

"Were?"

Peggy stared up at him, her eyes softening. "He died. Many years ago. That's why..." she squinted at him in the darkness, perhaps trying to get a better, clearer look at his face. "That's why it's impossible that you're here."

The soldier said nothing. He couldn't give an answer to that; even he didn't know how he was here. His past was so hazy that he couldn't even remember who he was or where he came from.

"You're looking for him, aren't you?" continued the old woman. "Steve has visited before...He said he knew you were alive...He said..."

Her gaze was unreadable, but there was a sadness behind her eyes that the soldier didn't miss.

"You don't remember who you are, do you?"

It was more of a statement than a question because there was a mark of sureness in her voice. He saw no reason to lie to her, so he was honest.

"No. But you remember who I am. How?"

A faint smile came to her lips. "You're not a man I could easily forget."

He took in the gravity of that statement – she knew him, she remembered him, she couldn't forget him – then why could he not even remember his own name?

"How do you know Steve Rogers?" he asked sharply, feeling a frustrating rage rise up inside him but he tried to keep a lid on it.

The sadness returned to Peggy's eyes. "He was my...I knew him from our work in the military," she settled on saying. "You don't remember?"

"No," he replied fiercely. "I don't remember. I don't remember him, or you, or..." He could feel the frustration and fear threaten to spill over but he tried to calm himself down. He didn't want to lose control – for her sake, not his. He couldn't explain why, but something was telling him not to hurt this woman. Sure, she was elderly and probably close to death anyway, but he felt some sort of connection with her. Something he had never felt before...or had he? It was a familiar feeling...was it...friendship?

"What was Steve to you?" he asked. Peggy looked back at him with a confused, blank stare, so he elaborated, "Just now you said, 'He was my...' but then you stopped. He was your what?"

Peggy cast her eyes downward, the lines and wrinkles on her face becoming more obvious. "He was...Steve was my..."

Just then, something came to Peggy's eyes – or did something leave her eyes? She had a blank stare for a few seconds, as if she were remembering something, and then her eyes turned back to the soldier.

"Who...who are you?" she asked, suddenly scared. "What are you doing here?"

He was taken aback for a second – but then he remembered reading about her medical history when he was collecting intel and how she was diagnosed with Alzheimer's not too long ago. The disease, he recalled, altered people's memories and made them forget things. Wonder what's that like, he mused sarcastically.

"What do you want?" Peggy asked, her gaze fearfully fixed on his metal arm.

"I..." He hesitated – why did he have the desire to say it? What if it wasn't true? But he said it nonetheless– "I...I'm Bucky."

Peggy's eyes widened in shock, but then they softened in recognition.

"Bucky..." she whispered. "That name...I haven't heard...A soldier...So long..."

He turned away from the rambling old woman. He realized he wasn't going to get any more information out of her. However, he pocketed the file she had on Steve, thinking that there could be something useful in there if he read it carefully. He went back over to the window and just as he was about to climb out, he heard the woman speak once more.

"I knew a man named Bucky once."

He turned back to look at her, and she was looking straight at him – not as a helpless old woman with an addled mind, but as a woman with sheer determination and sureness etched on her lined face. The soldier very nearly sighed as he climbed out the window.

"I did, too."