"I'm back," Bellamy called as she walked in with an armful of brown bagged groceries and shut the door behind her with her hip. It was a mistake she didn't know she was making. Bucky had been peacefully sleeping on the couch, only to jump awake at the noise, sitting halfway up with frantic eyes, breathing hard. "Bucky, it's me," she tried quickly but he was still looking around wildly.

She couldn't put the bags down fast enough and ended up dropping one entirely as she rushed to the couch.

"No, no—don't! Get away!" He shouted, looking right at her but not seeing her, and jumping to his feet, swinging his metal arm, which she had to try and grab to avoid getting hit with. The force of it swept her off her feet backwards, but she clung on, getting dragged back in front of him.

"Bucky! Bucky, you're safe. Hey!" She had to latch onto his shoulders tightly, and then his face to make him look directly at her. "Bucky, listen to my voice and breathe. You're safe. You're safe. Breathe." His eyes were still burning vividly, unhinged, he was still panting, but he held her eyes. His breathing slowed. Finally he took in one breath and shut his eyes, ducking away from her to sit back down on the love-seat.

"I can't sleep." He mumbled with his face in his hands.

"I'm sorry," she told him, catching her own breath. "It was my fault."

"No. It was just me. Again." His head remained buried. Without knowing what to do, she walked back over to the bags, her legs shaking.

"It's gonna take time." She told him, them, as she picked up the spilled contents. It still scared her every single time, his outbursts.

"How long? The rest of my life? What if I'm never okay again?" Bellamy swallowed as she stared down at the soft bag of brown sugar and pack of meat on the ground and sighed as she sat down, there behind the love-seat.

How long? It was all she could think about too. How long until she could wake up and not feel like it was some horrible mistake that she was able to wake up and live her life? But, she knew for certain one day she would be at peace. Bucky didn't know for certain, hell, she didn't know for certain, so how could she tell him any different? Maybe somehow he did have it worse.

"I don't know," she told him with a soft sigh. "I think, maybe to help, it's all about distractions to pass the time. And pretending, maybe. As far as first steps go, anyways."

"I thought you said I shouldn't pretend I didn't do the things I did."

"No, I mean, you've heard of that one phrase 'fake it 'til you make it'? If you tell yourself something—that you're going to be okay, for instance—you keep telling yourself until you are one day." He didn't reply. The lack of one made her words suddenly sound very foolish. "I don't know, honestly. I'm not a psychiatrist. I'm sorry that I can't help you more."

"You're doing more than you need to for me. Don't apologize to me." Bellamy held the bag of brown sugar in her hands, balancing the weight of it between them.

"In the beginning, I didn't necessarily mean it when I said I could help you. But I can now, if you let me. The best I can do, anyways."

"Why would you do that?"

"Because, it's my only way out. I can't go backwards and hate you, especially not after what I know now, who's really responsible. What am I to gain from holding a grudge against you?" He was mute, but she hoped he was listening. "I'm going through something similar as you, Bucky. A new journey, from the bottom up. You're here, we're stuck here. Why not?" He didn't reply again. "I'm trying this new thing where I don't think too much of anything. And I pretend it's easier than it actually is. I'm starting with stuffing myself full of my grandmother's apple pie. Do you like apple?" He sighed, but the sigh turned into a quiet and small snort, before the floor creaked and he stood. She looked up at him as he stepped around the love-seat towards her, picking up the grocery bag beside her. He eyed her as she stood up on her own.

"…Sure. Are you making it now?" She nodded, and he nodded back. Maybe she was leading by example at times when he didn't know what to do. "Did you get the things to fix the armchair? I can do that in the meantime."

"Actually, I was wondering if you could help me. With the pie." He was startled, clearly not thinking he was at a position to disagree, but was still at a loss.

"I, uh…well. If you want me to, but. I've never actually baked anything." Bellamy smiled sheepishly and hid it by turning her back to unpack the groceries.

"Me neither. That's why I'm asking. Maybe two wrongs make a right, eh?" She asked, with a glance to him and noticed his lips twitch.

"I don't think that's how that saying goes."

"Well, I think we can do it. How hard can a pie be?"

Apparently, very hard; her superiority actually came back to bite her. She read off instructions, sometimes twice as they tried to figure out simple things that should've been simple—mounding apples, for instance, onto the bottom crust, or making a the lattice crust on top. Bucky mainly tried to stay back, watching her instead, but helped when her hands were messy. If she asked what he thought, he would only say "Your guess is better than mine," though she didn't miss the way he sometimes eyed her actions skeptically.

"It smells right. That's a good sign, huh?" She asked after it was in the oven and her apartment suddenly smelled like warm cinnamon dappled Granny Smiths. Bucky nodded, but his eyes were far away.

"My…mom used to bake a lot. My dad's favorite was apple, and she would make it every fall, with my sisters' help." Bellamy felt herself smiling. Maybe this was some kind of aromatherapy, jogging some long embedded memories from his mind. She was aware of how powerful the five senses were, but had yet to really understand it until now as she watched his eyes flicker like the warm glow of a candle.

"Was it your favorite too?" Bellamy pressed lightly. Bucky frowned a bit, before he chuckled, looking down at his worn shoes.

"It's actually coming back to me now; I hate apple." She started, before she guffawed, unable to contain it. He chuckled again. "I had too much once, got sick. Scarred me enough for me to remember, I guess." She laughed outright again.

"Well. Damn."

Bucky stood close enough to watch but far enough away as she removed the pie from the oven, unable to wait to cut into it as she placed it on the counter. She froze—next to the cooling pie was the sugar, brown and white, untouched and unopened in their bags.

"Bucky…" she began, unable to take her eyes away before glancing at the pie. "Did we forget the sugar?" He snorted, and she bit her lip, but couldn't stop herself from smiling.

They soon found out there were several things wrong with the pie. It hadn't baked long enough, which left the crust doughy and the apples hard. The missing sugar of course was the main thing—Bellamy had apparently been much too focused on not allowing herself to forget the cinnamon.

"Maybe it was a blessing in disguise." She sighed, with a shake of her head, down at the disastrous creation.

"You're not going to try it?" Bucky asked, and she sent him a look.

"Are you?" He shrugged.

"I think we owe it that." Almost with reluctance, she cut them two slices and took a bite, not before shaking her head in disbelief. It wasn't anything she didn't expect it to be, she had already guessed what it was going to taste like and had been right; it was disgusting. She put her plate down with a face, eyeing Bucky he stood across from her, chewing thoughtfully. Finally he swallowed and she raised an eyebrow.

"That's horrible." He said, and she laughed. He chuckled and put the plate down. "I mean, it's only because I don't like apple."

"I thought we agreed on honesty, Barnes." He raised his eyes.

"It's the missing sugar, then." She rolled her eyes.

"Sure, sure. I'll spare you now and try to make a decent dinner. Please tell me you don't hate spaghetti, or should we just stick to cereal again?"

"No, no. Whatever you cook is fine." He began inching backwards, out of the kitchen. Understandably so. "I can try to fix the chair now." He had everything he needed, and they both worked doing separate things. Tonight, it was wood glue and spaghetti. As she cooked, she would watch him when she was certain he couldn't see her stares.

Their prior conversation almost felt imagined, it was unlike any talk she'd had with him before. The lighthearted chatter and scattered laughter was something, now that she had recently experienced it, felt that she had taken for granted. It was almost like unlocking an achievement, seeing Bucky in that state. She only ever saw him suffering, or in a state where he wasn't in control. With light ease, she cleared her throat to prepare him for her incoming question.

"So, you had sisters?" He did, she knew that, but she hoped he would remember and be able to tell her more than what she could read in a file.

"I did. I had three, I think." Bellamy grimaced down at the noodles boiling at his uncertainty. "I was the oldest. I don't know what happened to them." The question wasn't the best, she realized only after she was unable to take it back. He had paused his work when she glanced over her shoulder to check on his state. "I hope they lived nice lives." She decided not to say anything more.

"Are you and your grandmother close?" It was him who spoke next after a long moment.

"Were. She liked to antique shop. When I first told her I got my own place, she took me to her favorite shops and we picked out a lot of things."

"I'm sorry." It was like they were both striking out with the questions.

"Don't be, she's at peace now."

"All of these things meant a lot to you, and I just came in and ruined them. It was a bad idea, bringing me here."

"Stop doing that." She told him with mild sternness as she reached into the cabinet to grab plates.

"Doing what?"

"Torturing yourself. I chose to bring you here. It's not your fault, how you react. Plus, I'd say my place is on its way to being in better shape than before you came."

"It's a good outlet, fixing everything. I feel like I'm finally doing some good. Being helpful."

"You are. I was just, never here before. I neglected everything." He stood, entering her view again and brushing his hands.

"It should be good to go now, just needs a few days to dry."

"Thank you. Dinner's ready now, too."

Eating with people never really bothered her before, and it never bothered her, eating with Bucky before. But now, in that moment, it felt like something needed to be said. Behind him, she could see the armchair. To her genuine surprise, it looked good as new. No one would be able to tell what had ever happened to it.

"The chair looks fantastic, Bucky. I can't believe you fixed it." He was caught off guard by her praise, and she too wasn't expecting the warmth that came from her voice. She never realized how much that chair meant to her. Brushing the back of his hand against his mouth, he glanced over his shoulder to look too, or maybe he just wanted to look away from her; she hadn't missed the look of surprise colored doubt in his eyes. It was as if every good thing she told him he still couldn't believe, still had to question.

"Oh. Yeah. Glad I could." Back down his eyes went to the food. His throat cleared. "This is really good, too."

"Better than the pie?" She questioned, wearing a half-smile, and he chuckled.

"Yeah….um, thank you." The confusion must have been obvious in her eyes. "For cooking." It was the first time he'd ever done so.

"Oh—of course." They continued dinner. Nothing had to be said anymore.

Bucky lingered as she washed dishes. He reminded her of a shy new student, not quite sure what they were supposed to be doing, or how they were supposed to be acting.

"It's okay, I've got it." Bellamy reassured him, and tacked on a small smile to try and make him believe it. He hesitated, before he retreated back into the living room, where he began to examine the broken bookcase, likely his next project.

"I know you don't like to, but you need your rest." She told him as she finished and dried her hands on a kitchen towel, watching him by the bookcase. "You should try to, at least."

"Maybe." He concurred, but didn't take his eyes away from his work.

"I'm going to sleep. Goodnight, Bucky." Finally, he glanced her way.

"Goodnight."

"Don't work too hard." His glance this time was accompanied with nothing.

Inside her room, her door remained unlocked. Her gun remained put away, in her nightstand drawer. She slid in between her sheets with ease, and when she let her hair loose from its tight ponytail, she felt herself come undone completely, and out came a light sigh from the events that had made the day feel so long, but in a good way.

For the first time in a long time she felt truly, genuinely, at ease. Her phone began to buzz beside her, and she read the caller ID. Mom. It increased the light feeling inside her.

"Hi, mom. Is everything alright?"

"Hello, dear. Oh, fine, fine. I was actually wondering how the pie went? I haven't had it in quite some time too, was it as good as I remembered?" Bellamy chuckled and ran a hand through her hair.

"It was great, mom. Better than I thought it would go."

"So you didn't have any trouble?"

"Oh, I certainly did. But I think it was for the better, in the end."

"Well, it's all a learning experience, I suppose. I remember it took me years to finally get it." Bellamy hummed an agreement under her breath. "Alright, I'll let you sleep. I just wanted to check in."

"Okay. Goodnight, mom." She paused before she allowed herself to smile gently. "I love you."

"I love you more, Bella." Her mother's voice was melodic, lovely and loving. "So much. Goodnight." Bellamy hung up and fell back against the pillow with the same gentle smile. How foolish was she to forget a mother's unconditional love, the feeling of such a powerful warm love. Naturally, her next thought was of a father. Her father. And she found her eyes watering, her smile wavering.

Upwards at the ceiling her eyes stared, imagining the night sky behind it and the constellations in it, sparkling next to the moon with her shining light overpowering any and all of the lights of New York, of the world. With the picture painted, it was easier to feel a bit calmer again.

"I love you, dad." She whispered as she dabbed her index finger to her eye. "I love you, Bronson." Now, finally, she reached up to turn out her light and curled up on her side.

The bookcase with its missing chunk had been no problem for Bucky to fix, finished in a day's work. Actually, he had begun to run out of things to fix. At night, he still had trouble sleeping. It was hard to check on him because he never slept, but when she snuck out to take a peek, she'd mainly just find him wide-eyed, resting and staring up at the ceiling, either awake with torture or staying awake to keep himself away from the torture.

One night, she awoke sometime after midnight but sometime before dawn. Her sleep schedule was chaotic now, not orderly as it used to be. Her door was open, and out farther in the living room, Bucky's sounds brought her even more out of her sleepy state. Not by his cries of pain this time, but rather, the sound of movement. There were noises of shuffling in a box. She stumbled out of bed and yawned as she walked into the living room.

There he was on the floor, sorting through the box of vinyl records Steve had given her long ago, when he drew her name for a new "Operation," called the Secret Santa initiative, brought to fruition by one of the level one agents who thought it would help make Steve feel more at home with S.H.I.E.L.D. Really, it kind of seemed pointless; it wasn't like Steve didn't know what Christmas was. If anything, it had backfired, since Steve—still not liking her very much at that point and only tolerating her because they worked for the same side-had drew her name. The record player, another antique, was the saving grace. As soon as Steve caught wind that she was in possession of one, information he had gained through a very helpful Phil Coulson, he had stopped being apathetically polite and looked at her a bit differently, like there was a chance she were normal and maybe more relatable to him than he thought.

At Christmas, he gave her an entire box of records he once owned, telling her his personal favorites were on top. She'd meant to organize them but they had instead remained to their fate in the box. She'd never even touched the record player. Ironically enough, or perhaps not, the records that had been on top were the ones Bucky had placed out on the floor in front of him, in a carefully assorted line.

"What are you doing?" She asked, making him jump. He looked at her warily.

"I didn't hear you."

"I was an agent. Can't sleep?"

"I tried. It didn't work. But I saw these." He glanced up at her. "I hope you don't mind." She shook her head.

"Do you recognize them?" She gestured to the ones he had laid out.

"Yeah." He answered her, his tone cautious with the most tentative delight. "I do, actually. Really, it's the first familiar thing I've seen. Really familiar…childhood kind of familiar." His eyes were brighter too as he went back to looking at the ones in the row. She watched him for a moment, her interest peaking and wants consisting of seeing him smile over something.

"What makes them so familiar?" She asked, hoping this wouldn't make him grow gray with uncertainty he often encountered. He looked over at her, his eyes clouding a bit, and she wondered if maybe she shouldn't have bothered asking. His head tilted to the side thoughtfully, however, and she grew hopeful.

"It's all stuff that I grew up listening to. I can hear the songs in my head, and it just, I don't know. Takes me back. I think I do remember a bit about back then, it's there, but…I don't get to choose what I remember. But this, I do. And the movies," he laughed a bit, a breathy chuckle, and she smiled instantly at the sound. "Steve and I, we were the biggest movie fans, we'd go all the time. The day I got my orders, we were supposed to see a movie...and I found him getting beat up in an alley." She looked up, her eyes moving from the vinyl records to Bucky in concern at his stopping point. He was frowning, his eyes dark. "I always protected him."

"Sounds like a great friend to me." She complimented him in an effort to try and keep him here. It was apparent where his mind was heading.

"I was." He murmured sorrowfully. "I nearly killed him."

"But you didn't."

He groaned, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter. I nearly did."

"You didn't. You pulled through. Like he knew you would. He hasn't given up on you, Bucky. Probably never will." He looked at her carefully, as if he weren't sure if he believed her. "Can I sit with you?" Despite all the space, he scooted further away before nodding. "Sounds to me like Steve was a handful."

"He really was. Always picking up a fight with people twice his size, sometimes twice my size. Steve lost both his parents, he was an orphan. I worried about him more, and he needed me sometimes but…he always just insisted he could do it on his own."

"He's stubborn." She agreed. He nodded, but that appeared to be all he was going to say on the matter. She was about to excuse herself to go back to bed and leave him to himself when he spoke faintly.

"…What day is it?" It took her a second longer than it should have to figure it out.

"Tuesday." He nodded, but she was distracted suddenly. "Tuesday…you know, every Tuesday, I used to have a very set routine. I would go to the same coffee shop down the street, Susanna's Café, right when they opened every morning, at 6. I would meet this lovely elderly couple—Mr. and Mrs. McGrath. They've been together for 52 years." Bucky's eyebrows raised. "They found out I lived alone. Worried about me. I told them, lied, that I took self-defense classes. Mr. McGrath told me, 'what about that lonely spot in your heart?'"

"What did you tell him," he asked, turning his body a little bit more to face her.

"I said I worked a lot. Of course. But, every Thanksgiving, they brought me a plate. From their family to me, they would always say—Mr. McGrath was always quite proud of his deep-fried turkey. Every Christmas, they would bring me a gift, usually a book. Every Valentine's Day…" She chuckled, smiling. "I would get a fresh red rose and homemade fudge." When she looked back to him, remembering his presence, he had a small smile, and she stared for a second in wonder. It was a new sight, a pure one, a simple one. Their eyes connected, and it began to fail.

"What happened to them?"

"I just, stopped going." She looked away, ashamed, studying the box instead. "I didn't have the time."

"Well, maybe you should go." She looked at him blankly. "It's Tuesday. I'm sure they'll be there." It was reasonable logic.

"Maybe so." She searched his eyes as he looked down. Bellamy knew what she was about to say, but still had to prepare herself to speak. He had the right to say no, and she considered not going on, but the way his eyes were drying prompted her, pushed her, to say, "Maybe you can come." His eyes widened as if he couldn't even comprehend her suggestion.

"At, at a coffee shop? I can't be out in public."

"You can hide in plain sight. No one will recognize you."

"No. That's not the problem. I can't just, I can't trust myself around innocent people. If something sets me off, I don't know what will happen. I can't hurt any more people."

"I would never ask you if I didn't think you could do it, Bucky. There's hardly anyone there in the mornings, and if the conversation starts down a path that makes you uncomfortable, you can give me a signal and I'll change it. You don't have to talk." He hesitated. "You've been cooped in here for too long. Maybe it'll do you really good. I trust you." He had continued to hesitate, until she had confirmed her faith.

"Do you mean that, really?"

"I do. Just…think about it." He sat conflicted, and she reached out for one of the records closest to her. "Shall we?" He gestured for her to go on, no sign of protest, and she walked over to the record player, frowning down at it uncertainly. Of course, she was sure she could figure it out, but maybe it would help to have Bucky work with something familiar. As she turned, about to ask him for instruction, her words died and were replaced with a gasp to find him already right there behind her. Her fingers nearly dropped the record, but he was prepared to catch it, and they stood staring at each other face to face, holding the record between them. Her heart was pounding in her chest, it was the only sound she could hear in her ears. Something like defeat began to build in his expression, and his hands dropped, immediately taking a step backwards.

"I'm sorry," He apologized instantly. "I figured you didn't know how to work it."

"You're right; I was just about to ask for your help. Please?" She stepped to the side as he half-heartedly stepped forward and took the record silently from her.

Bellamy found herself watching him stare down at the record player as he delicately placed the record on the turntable. Her eyes spread from his jawline up towards his focused eyes, his hand reaching up to brush a strand of hair away, behind his ear. She watched his lips part to speak, until his words brought her back.

"You're still terrified of me." She swallowed and placed her gaze on his hand putting the needle arm down.

"You just startled me."

"That was a lie." Bellamy pursed her lips together. Suddenly music began to play. He stood beside it for a moment before he walked back to the records, beginning to sort through them again mindlessly.

"This is incredible," she told him as she walked back and sat back down on the ground beside him. He was holding a record, paused. Slowly, his hands floated down.

"I remember this song. The night before I had to leave, to go to war, I danced to this." Suddenly, as if he remembered her there, he glanced at her and looked down. "Sorry, you probably don't want to hear it."

"No, no—of course I do." The memories seemed to be coming back to him every day, but the memories before the war were perhaps the purest, and she would be lying if she said she wasn't curious. Maybe he was right that sunrise on the roof; the more she learned about him, the more he became a person, the more she realized he lived only part of his life before it got ripped away. "Were you close to her?" If this girl was someone important to him, she could be key in helping him retrieve more missing aspects of his life.

"No." He replied. "I don't think we were. Just a really pretty girl who was sad to see me go. I've never had a steady partner in my life. I think. But she was really nice. I told her I would write her, but, I didn't." He sat up straighter and put the record back down, into a place in line. He glanced at her briefly, mild curiosity within them. "Never had a special guy?"

"I…uh," The table had turned too entirely unexpectedly, and the sound of her nervous uncontainable laughter hurt her ears. She focused her gaze down to her hands in her lap, feeling his gaze turn into the sun and give her cheeks a burn. "Well, there was one man, some time ago, I guess. We got along well enough. But I could tell he wanted more of a commitment. I couldn't give him that." Bucky looked serious at her.

"He wasn't the one?"

"Oh no. I've never missed him, never thought of him. I think with the one, you just know. Maybe not right away, not like love at first sight. I imagine it just sort of hits you one day." He nodded slowly. His next question surprised her.

"Have you ever been dancing?"

"Not exactly…" She murmured, trailing off.

"Not exactly…? You either have or you haven't."

"Well, I guess I can't really say I have."

"Back then, dancing was a big deal. Wasting the night away, decked out all nice. Every girl just wanted to dance with a nice fella."

"I'm sure lots of girls wanted to dance with you." He looked up and she wasn't expecting to watch his cheeks grow rosy. There was no way to hide it, such an unabashed and unstoppable tint on his skin, and she smiled at the sight, at the daintily absurd idea that she had just made an assassin blush.

"Maybe." He mumbled, still dodging her eyes. "But that was back then." Together, they sat in silence and listened, leaning against the love-seat. The song had ended and he was still sorting through the records, examining them one by one. She'd began to drift away, when he cleared his throat.

"It's almost morning." He murmured, and she glanced at her clock for confirmation. Five o'clock. "You're going to that café, right?"

"I should." She said, standing and stretching. He watched her, looking upwards.

"I'll go with you."

A/N: Thank you for reading, please review!