No Copyright Infringement Intended.

-2-

James returned around lunch, sneaking in through the window again. Because of course he did.

Tilda probably wouldn't be surprised if that continued to be a theme.

"What are you wearing?" He asked, staring at her.

She glared at him. Oh, could she see the resemblance now!

"Your mother's clothes. Because mine are inappropriate, according to Babyfaced Bucky."

There was a beat of silence.

"It looks -"

"Ridiculous? Old fashioned? Hideous?" Tilda suggested.

James blinked.

"No, like I should go get you your own clothes. Is there anything else you require?"

Who knew the most feared assassin of their time could be kind?

Tilda sat up, sighing.

"Period typical underwear, probably. It would be awkward to explain my own stuff to Mrs. Barnes if she ever catches sight of it."

James tilted his head, but nodded regardless.

"Found a forger. Your cover name is Matilda Gott. I'm James Gott. My mother was Bucky's paternal aunt. Our parents are both deceased. Lost the farm in the Depression, moved here to find work."

Tilda nodded.

"What's your job?"

"Used to be a clerk, so hope I'll do that again. We'll see if someone hires me."

She sighed.

At least he knew how to behave in this time.

"I doubt you'll be able to work," James cautioned her. "Or if you find something, it'll be worse conditions than you can imagine."

Tilda flopped back on the couch, looking like a Victorian lady having a fit and not caring one whit about that. Considering the circumstances, she had a right to throw a fit. Or two.

"Well, shit. I'll go mad if I'm stuck at home all day. No joke."

James nodded.

"I won't be drafted. As soon as they see my missing arm, I'll be stamped 4F, and sent home."

Tilda opened one eye.

"Figured. Assuming we're stuck here for - a while, what are you planning on doing? You're exempt from fighting."

He stared at her.

She continued: "You don't have to stick around forever, either. I'll manage somehow. Seriously, I won't hold you to that fake marriage."

James sat on the old love seat. "I won't leave you stranded, doll. This is my fault."

Tilda cursed herself. Shouldn't have opened her big mouth earlier.

"I'm pretty sure it's the fault of whoever the hell was attacking you with magic. I mean. You're not to blame for this debacle."

He stared at her for a long time.

Then James threw a jewelry box at her.

She caught it, wondering which store had been broken into.

"Too bad. Already got the rings and the certificates."

Tilda grinned.

Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.

Oh gods, it was that bad.

Every day after work, Bucky would attempt to teach her how to behave like a lady from 1939 should.

Which was hilarious, considering he was a white man. And absolutely clueless.

Thank the stars that she wouldn't get her period for at least two or three weeks. That on top of everything else would have broken her. Bucky too, possibly.

However successful the behavior lessons were, he also taught her how to use the stove, how to make coffee, laundry - which was hilarious in so many ways -, and how to style her hair.

James mostly spent his time lurking in the background, half-hidden in the shadows.

He napped for a few hours here and there, so she'd never seen him asleep. Even though, they objectively shared the couch.

'To get used to being a married couple.'

Bucky hadn't been comfortable with that, but left them be after taking one look at the expression on James' face.

Tilda hadn't asked any questions as to the origins of her new clothing, shoes, or jewelry. Sometimes, ignorance was really bliss.

However, they all fit suspiciously well.

In a similar fashion, James had organized suits for himself. To fit in better with the crowd.

He had been to several job interviews, wearing a glove over his metal hand.

So far, everyone had rejected him.

Tilda wondered if he'd be able to get a job as a clerk after all.

She hadn't gotten further than: "No honey, we don't hire married women."

This time period sucked.

And then, about a week in, Bucky announced that his family would return the following day.

"Congratulations, your first deep cover mission," James muttered while Bucky went on and on about rules and admonishments.

No one was listening, so she couldn't be sure.

"Fuck you too."

"Oh, sweetheart, you can always dream."

She poked out her tongue at him. "You wish."

Before James could retort anything, Bucky very aggressively cleared his throat.

"As I was saying-"

Tilda held up a hand. "Honey, I've met people before. I can actually hold a conversation without embarrassing myself, my ancestors as a whole, and you. Is there anything actually important we have to take into consideration?"

Bucky slowly raised a hand to his forehead.

He didn't say anything. Just rubbed the bridge of his nose.

She had not the foggiest idea why.

"No, apparently not. Wonderful," Tilda clapped her hands. "Let's pretend we are all normal for however long until Jay and I have an apartment and at least one of us has an income."

James smirked, but Bucky huffed. Then heaved a deep sigh.

"Lord, give me strength," he mumbled, raising his eyes to the ceiling.

Tilda ignored that little tantrum with the ease of someone who worked in a customer service position.

"Great."

As it turned out, the Barnes parents didn't mind so much meeting long lost family. Especially when they saw James side by side with their own son.

"Of course you'll stay with us!" Winifred declared, ignoring her youngest daughter's pout.

Tilda thanked her profusely. "Thank you so much. We'll be out of your hair as soon as possible."

That seemed to relieve the younger generation.

Winifred Barnes simply waved her off.

"Stay as long as you need. We'll be glad to have you with us."

Bucky nodded, as did his father.

The girls looked less convinced of that.

Tilda could hardly blame them, seeing as their home was being invaded by virtual strangers.

"Now then, tell me how you met, dear."

Which is how Tilda got suckered into helping to prepare dinner with the rest of the female family members.

"Well, we're from the same part of Iowa, but Jay is from one town over. We went to the same school. He's always been quiet, but with a heart of gold. Not that anyone could see beyond his arm," she rolled her eyes dramatically, accompanied by derisive noises from Winifred's direction. "So, he asked me to the school dance, very sweet. Of course I said yes. The rest is history."

Winifred cooed, winking at her out of the corner of her eyes.

Her daughters rolled their eyes.

All the while, Tilda grinned. She could learn to like this woman.

"He's not much of a talker, is he?" Becca muttered.

Tilda shrugged. "I talk enough for both of us. Jay is a bit shy, that's not a bad thing. There's a lot of men out there who like to hear themselves talk entirely too much."

Winifred laughed.

She turned to Tilda, still smiling. "You'll fit right in, dear."

With that seal of approval, the work basically did itself.

A few days later, James finally got hired. He was to work for a warehouse, clerking.

It was situated close to the Navy Yard, but whoever tried to mug him would get a bad surprise heading their way.

In the meantime, Winifred quickly noticed just how inexperienced Tilda was with household chores and happily took to mentoring her.

Becca and the littler girls tried to stay clear as much as possible, which suited both parties well.

James had to escape for solitary walks several times a day. All the noise and people probably overwhelming his senses.

Tilda sometimes wished he'd ask to let her accompany him, but then she reminded herself that he wasn't obligated to do that and definitely not if he needed peace and quiet to cope.

His napping continued.

One night, she woke up to him standing guard from the love seat. Reading a book by the light of the moon, not staring at her like a complete creeper.

On the other hand, he seemed to love his job.

Tilda had never seen someone so excited to do mathematics and paperwork. The paperwork praise songs! Holy hell, her man needed a cool hobby to balance out the dorkiness.

Jay was rapidly losing his scary assassin points whenever he rhapsodized about the Mountain of Paperwork.

She also suspected that he was spying on something or someone.

Shrugging, she supposed that blackmail never went amiss. Especially not in their rather precarious situation.

Sometimes life gave you recovering World War Two vets turned international terrorists and you had to make the best of it.

That he brought her trinkets every once in a while helped.

Tilda always thanked him sincerely and allowed him to spoil her. She never asked where they came from.

Becca did once, as the bravest of the girls, and he simply smiled.

Then said something about it being faulty, having fallen off a truck.

Strangely enough, no one else dared to ask again.

About two months after their arrival, James had saved enough money for them to move out.

"It's your birthday gift," Tilda told an exasperated Bucky.

He rolled his eyes at her. "You're incorrigible."

"And don't you forget it, genius."

James grinned at them from his favorite corner, leaning against the wall in what passed as relaxed for him.

On moving day, Bucky drummed his friends together to help them move the furniture into the apartment they'd selected together.

All of the furniture, from the bed to the couch, was pre-owned, but neither of them minded. It wasn't like the could just stroll into the closest IKEA and test the mattresses.

Most of the aforementioned friends trained in the same gym, which meant they were all rather stocky. Thicc, in modern parlance.

(None of them could hold a candle to James, which seemed to frustrate most of them. Especially when he carried a heavy wooden cupboard by himself.)

Then there was Steve Rogers.

Within minutes of meeting him, Tilda tried to banish the picture of a small chihuahua snarling at the world. It didn't quite work.

But at least it explained a lot about Bucky. And why he was just rolling with things instead of panicking or throwing them out on their ears.

Steve wasn't allowed to carry anything heavy, but he still tried to pull his own weight. Despite the fact he was pretty much immediately wheezing worse than Tilda's great-aunt after running a few hundred meters. In flats. (And Auntie I had asthma.)

The rest of the group mostly left him be, only one or two teasing him about something to do with advertisements.

When Tilda asked, everyone avoided her eyes and/or blushed.

Probably not the safe for work version then, she thought, rolling her eyes. Men.

Always the same, no matter the date on the paper.

Steve helped her sort everything into the respective cupboards and closets. There were a bunch of mismatched cups James had brought home one day. Or actual silver cutlery she was pretty sure had been liberated from someone who could afford it. Probably.

Actually, living with James was a lot like living with a kleptomaniac cat, now that she thought about it.

A kleptomaniac cat with excellent eyesight and wonderful taste.

Either way, they had enough linen, clothes, shoes, plates, etc. to get by.

Even an old couch.

Winifred showed up when everyone was enjoying their thank you beers, inspecting the apartment.

"You'll still come for Sunday dinner, won't you, dears?"

Tilda didn't have the heart to say no. "Of course, we wouldn't dare miss it."

She'd be glad to miss going to church though. Holy shit that was effing awkward.

Eventually, they had their new home to themselves.

Tilda hadn't known how loud the Barnes household actually was until she was alone with the assassin who she was fake married to.

And, like in every good fanfiction with any self-respect, there was only one bed.

(In a distant part of her brain, her friends went: "And they were roommates." "OMG, they were roommates." God, she missed them.)

Bucky had given James intense side eye over that, but Tilda wasn't worried.

First of all, Jay still liked to spend his time lurking in corners or napping. Which really added another point in the Cat Column...

And second of all, he'd never tried anything. Literally, anything touch related.

If it was necessary for their cover, he always projected his movements well in advance.

Tilda appreciated it. Although she wouldn't mind a cuddle session, to be honest. Or two.

But she could respect his needs as well.

And despite everything, the way he loosened up a bit around the Barnes's, he was still a highly traumatized veteran assassin.

So, to conclude, Tilda preferred being knife-free over cuddling an unwilling ex-assassin. It was just common sense. Really.