It wasn't a Tuesday, but she and Bucky were stopping by Susanna's Café that early morning before their trip, for coffee to go. It was meant to be a quick and subtle in-and-out…but they weren't expecting the McGrath's to be there as well.

"Bellamy! Bennie!" Flora greeted them with excited splendor. "I never thought we'd run into you two on any other day!"

"Something spurred us to stop by here, a bit spontaneously. Great minds think alike, eh?" John said with a tight smile.

"We're actually just stopping by for coffee to go, we've got quite the trip to make." Bellamy explained, trying to be short but courteous.

"A trip?" Flora exclaimed. "Grand, my, to what whereabouts? Are you two flying out somewhere? If it's the Bahamas take me with you!" Bellamy smiled, but knew they were never going to get out if they didn't give a straight answer.

"No, actually, we're off to the Arlington Cemetery, to pay our respects to Sergeant James B. Barnes. His birthday just passed about a month ago, of course, and we figured what better time." There was no way she could have predicted the way John's eyes began to widen.

"Did you say, Sergeant James Barnes? The Howling Commando?" He questioned with more than his usual intenseness.

"Yes, the very one." John stared back with a powerful emotion she couldn't name, and nodded. Bucky was growing concerned beside her; she knew he was wondering if he had somehow committed more atrocities he wasn't aware of, but neither she nor Bucky could have anticipated what was really stirring Mr. McGrath.

"Sergeant Barnes saved my uncle back in the second world war." The look she couldn't name she realized was reverence. Bellamy sent Bucky a pointed look.

"He was a great hero." She agreed meaningfully. Mr. McGrath seemed to have to steady himself.

"We would be honored to join you today in your visit, if you'll have us. I have my own respects to pay." Bellamy glanced first at Bucky, who nodded once, before she nodded too.

"I don't see why not."

Though the Arlington National Cemetery was expansive, it was almost impossible to miss the great monument near the center of the park. It was beautiful and grand, bronze, and built to be proud and towering with meticulous detail, and Bucky had not taken his eyes off of it for even a second.

"He just…needs a moment." Bellamy murmured quietly to the McGraths. The trio of them stood a bit away behind Bucky, holding two bundles of flowers. Mr. McGrath nodded in easy understanding.

"Of course."

Bucky approached the monument alone, standing and staring upwards first at Steve, and then at each of the men, before he stopped in front of his own. The resemblance to anyone else wasn't there; it was hard to see when he wore a cap with his shoulder-length hair and scruffy facial hair, but at the same time, it was there. She wondered if he saw it too.

As she stood there, the sun in her eyes, she looked away and instead began to gaze over the many gravestones surrounding them, all names of men and women with individual stories she didn't know. It made the corners of her mouth pull down as she realized there were two people buried here, and she knew their stories perhaps all too well.

"Excuse me," she murmured to the couple and took one last glance at Bucky before she started away silently. Despite never coming back, she knew exactly where to go. When her father had been buried, every detail of the ceremony had been engrained in her head, maybe even more so when she attended her brother's funeral. At that point in her life, she'd actually began to wonder whether she or her mother would be the last of their family standing.

Soon, her steps slowed, because she could see a name coming into view. Scott Burke, it read simply. Her father was always a short-and-sweet kind of man. Maybe she was like him in that way. A little ways away was Bronson Burke. There was a knot forming in her throat. It felt too surreal.

When her father had passed, she thought only of ways she could make him proud from that point on. He was a steady but commanding force demanding change, demanding peace of the world. She wanted to be relaxed but firm in her conquests; different means for the same cause. When her brother passed…it defined her life. He believed so much in S.H.I.E.L.D., in serving, she now wondered if she only joined S.H.I.E.L.D. to carry on his belief, in his memory. All for naught.

It took her a moment, staring at two white marble grave markers, to realize these two men—the most important men in her life—gave theirs so she could continue on. Her ability to take in air, albeit shakily at the moment, was a gift.

You'll have to kill me before I ever let you hurt my girl.

Her breath hitched; it was almost as if she could even hear those words coming from her father's tone. Did his voice waver? At what point in her speech did his heart stop?

Take me. Leave her alone.

Bronson's death had been more traumatic. That day, in a windowed elevator overlooking Kuwait, she thought her biggest problem was getting stuck in the elevator and being late to their meeting. Until the Winter Soldier pulled the shaft open. She'd always thought her brother was fighting to stay in the elevator with her. Her knees grew weak under her as she realized he'd been fighting to get out, to keep her safe.

Now on her knees, she was closer to the names. She read them both over and over until she didn't know what they meant, until she couldn't read them anymore with her blurred vision of tears. A gasp escaped her as she touched both of the headstones with both hands. Her heart twisted in her chest—she couldn't take the feeling. Harshly, she blinked the tears away and shoved herself to her feet. When she turned away on her heel, she ran straight into him. Bucky. It was Bucky.

At the sight of her, ragged, his eyes darkened in concern, his face pleading, but also understanding and willing to accept all of her hate, and she realized she recognized the look. He wanted to take her pain away, just as she had wanted to take his.

"I'm sorry," he choked out, as though he couldn't breathe himself. If she started swinging at him in that moment, he would've taken it. "I'm sorry," he would keep saying with each punch she gave him. But she didn't. She couldn't. It was never going to help her; their agony was mutual.

Crying wasn't helping her either, but she couldn't stop it, even when Bucky's own face broke more and more with each tear that slid down at hers. Helplessly, he stood in front of her. Realization struck her as harsh as lightening to her heart as she noticed the black makeup stain on her brother's shirt. Helplessly, she walked straight into him, pressing her face against his chest.

And after a moment, she felt his hand against the small of her back. Then the other, against her shoulder blades, until he was gently holding her to him. His touch was only there if she really focused on feeling it, but once she did there was no way to ignore it—really, it felt as if he were holding her together. Slowly then, she raised her own arms, and they could barely find their way completely around his torso. Her fingers latched together behind his back, and after she sniffled, she realized there was a faint sound to be heard over the silence between them. His heartbeat was beside her ear, pounding fast. Steady. Bellamy focused on the sound of it. Eventually it slowed, and as it did, her tears stopped.

He was musky and disheveled, and the longer her arms stayed pressed against his back, she could feel the layered fabric was damp. It was a warmer day in D.C. and he was much too layered. It didn't bother her. He never let go, not until she pulled back lightly.

His face was rosy and not the one she'd been imagining in her mind. She focused on it, studying and pressing into her mind his features and allowed her mind to scream at her how very wrong it was, being in the arms of her brother's physical killer. She switched her mind off to listen to him as his lips parted to speak, hesitantly briefly, before he said,

"I hate seeing you cry." Apologetic. Ashamed. Somehow, his cheeks grew redder. It wasn't something she was used to as a person, but she stood there, and she turned her heart on, listened, and waited. His arms were comforting in a clumsy way, wanting to comfort but not knowing how. It was helping though, even if he didn't know. And so, she pressed her face back to his chest and forgave her shame.

"I'm okay." She told him when she could finally pull away. "It's the first time I've been back since they passed." Her hands rubbed her eyes, ridding them of their blurriness. Bucky stood back, his eyes distant.

"I was here before." He told her. "Before I ever started looking for you, I was looking for me. I went to the Smithsonian a lot, it was the only place that helped. I found out I was supposed to be buried here. One night, I came here, but I didn't know what I was looking for."

"You were just a ghost." She murmured in understanding and he turned to her. "That's what they always called you."

"Fitting. Ghost. I didn't know who I was, it didn't help me."

"Does it help now?" She asked. He swallowed, and she wondered the same, glancing back at the gravestones. "Well, let's go back. Maybe I can help." She tore her eyes away and reached down and grabbed the bouquet that she never noticed slip from her hands.

"Wait," he said, grabbing her arm just like the day at the hot dog stand, though this time, he was gentler. "Maybe I can too." He slid his hand down her arm until it reached the bouquet. "May I?" She frowned but let him take it. Carefully, he divided the flowers in half.

"…What are you…" But it was clear what his intentions were. With somber movements he leaned down and placed half of the white carnation bouquet in front of her brother's grave, and paused, handing her the second half. She accepted it, but kept one flower before she carefully placed the remaining down over her father's resting place. He raised an eyebrow and she invited him to walk with her with a gesture of her head. "C'mon. I still have to honor another fallen hero."

The McGraths were still there in front of the monument, standing now with another elderly couple. They had placed their bouquet of poppy flowers down already amongst the many other gifts adorning the monument.

"If it weren't for Sergeant Barnes and Captain Rogers, my uncle most certainly would have passed in combat, and I very well could be here visiting him." John was saying as they got closer. "Instead, I grew up with a father figure in my life. I owe these men everything." Bellamy quietly placed the single white carnation down at the foot of Bucky's statue.

"It's always nice to see younger folk understanding the importance of those before us." The unknown woman told them with a polite smile. She had short dark gray hair, with extra wrinkles around her eyes and deep parenthesis on either side of her mouth.

"Yes, our history is very important." Bellamy replied graciously, and glanced at Bucky before going on. "Every child is taught nowadays in history about the Howling Commandos, and their impact, along with their sacrifice, and how Sergeant Barnes was the only one to give his life in service. We came today to honor him. Often times, the focal point was placed on Captain America, but even he has gone on record to say how much the Howling Commandos depended on Barnes. He was their protector, and he died doing just that. He died a hero much too soon before his time."

"There's nothin' more tragic than a man who never got to start his life." The unknown elderly man agreed solemnly. "A man that noble deserved that, at the very least." Bucky swept his gaze over each of his former comrades while his finger swiped over the raised names, lingering over his own. He ran his finger over it again and again.

"I hope one day I can become as good a man as any of these." It was a side comment, not really meant to be heard by anyone else but himself. But she was there, right beside him, and she did hear it.

It was Bucky's suggestion that they go out to the rooftop that night. He'd said nothing more of their visit, not yet, but she held onto the hope that he would while the moonlight bathed them. She herself, she couldn't stop thinking of how somehow, helping Bucky always coincided with helping herself. And help had never been so ambiguous in her life, after working with agencies that specialized in the act. Help wasn't supposed to hurt like this.

Sometimes help was climbing a mountain you never thought you could, and not realizing how much it strengthened your body until you needed it for feats of strength you never knew you could accomplish. The heart, the mind, the body, the soul, they all worked the same in that way. Help wasn't just taking a problem away with a hug. But then…she glanced over at Bucky, and realized, maybe it was.

"Do they really teach you all that in school?" He'd reached the point where his thoughts were gathered and he could speak now.

"They really do. Although, I may be a bit more of an expert than the average person." Bucky nodded slowly.

"Standing there…it felt like no one knew me better than you." Bellamy leaned closer to the edge to inspect the road below them. The busy streets were very much like her jumbled thoughts, so she directed her gaze instead up towards the tranquil moon.

"Well. I think there's one person who knows you better than I do. Than anyone." Bucky stared too at the moon from beside her.

"I can't go to Steve yet." And she wondered why, considering Steve probably had better means of helping him. "Besides. Steve isn't going through the same thing we are." She looked at Bucky and he looked at her, and understood. "I know I can't get to where I want to be alone. I need your help." But how?

"…Of course, Bucky. But…I don't even know what I'm doing. I'm only trying my best."

"I know, and I can't tell you how much I appreciate that. And that's it. It's all I need." She stared at him and he chuckled, but it sounded like shame. "Back at the cemetery when I found you crying and you hugged me…I can't even imagine how hard that was for you to do, just trying to make me not feel guilty." As she stared at his face, now washed silver, she could only shake her head.

"Bucky…" she began but didn't even know where to begin. How could they be on the same page but not at the same time? "I wasn't trying to help you, in that moment. You were helping me."

"But…" Maybe she wasn't the only one that thought it felt wrong—no, it didn't feel wrong. It was supposed to be wrong, but it didn't feel wrong.

"It wasn't "right", that's what you're thinking, right?" He studied the ground with lines in his forehead. "That's what my mind kept telling me. Standing there, close as I could be to my brother and father, and there you were, standing in my brother's shirt..."

"What?" He demanded, looking up sharply. "These are your brother's clothes?" He began inspecting his arms and the fabric with a swiftly growing sickness. She merely nodded. He gave her the same look, before he started shaking his head and began to pull at the bottom of the shirt. She stopped him, grabbing his wrists with her hands. "I can't wear these!" He snapped.

"I'm the one that gave them to you." She told him.

"Because you had to!" He argued back fiercely. She left her hands locked around his wrists and he stared at her without any sense of understanding and she glared back at him firmly, but could feel her eyes beginning to water. Every ounce of fight in him immediately waned.

"I have tried everything. Since day one. To just try and force myself to move on." He dropped his head. "And the only thing that's worked was letting my heart tell me what was right. I listened to your heartbeat and I listened to my own. We're different people now, Bucky." She moved her finger under his chin and made him look up. "We have to be. We have to move on." Tears were threatening to spill from her eyes and his mouth opened in silent pained argument he couldn't find the words to start. "You're one of the only people I would let wear them." He stared between her eyes helplessly, shaking his head.

"Stop lying to yourself." She bit her lip so hard it nearly bled.

"I forgave you Bucky. A long time ago. It isn't me anymore, it's you. You have to forgive yourself. You have to understand how good you are. Please." He finally stopped trying to remove the shirt and she let go, turning away to look out at the city. After a moment, she felt a hand on her shoulder, slightly pulling in the direction back to him, but not enough to force her to. Willingly, she took a few steps back, standing with her back against his chest and his arm wrapped around her, resting now against her collarbones.

This hug wasn't clumsy. It wasn't conventional, but it was a hug, his hug, and it was enough.

"I'll never stop apologizing. I'll never stop feeling guilty." He said lowly behind her ear, his voice raspy. She shook her head ever so slightly.

"You shouldn't feel guilty."

"I do."

She stood there for a moment longer before she turned back to face him.

"I'm tired of crying today. And…you do hate seeing me cry, right?" One corner of his mouth upturned, but he was still frowning, worried. "When I was younger, I was smart enough to know I could win an argument with Bronson by crying, that was until I just outsmarted him the rest of the time. But when I would cry, my father would take me to the kitchen and put me on the counter and we'd eat raw cookie dough. A little bit of health hazard, in retrospect, but nothing ever happened." He smiled lightly.

"So you're saying?"

"…I'll do everything I can to help you, Bucky…as long as you eat cookie dough with me right now." Something like relief washed over his face, and he let out a soft chuckle.

"I can't imagine a better trade off."

A/N: The next chapter will be another from Bucky's POV and I'm very excited to write it and the next chapter. Thanks again for reading and as always feedback is more than welcome and always appreciated!