Chapter 10: Waiting For Superman

Summary: In which some things are righted and some things are not.

Notes: Whew. Okay, we're finally back to our regularly scheduled program, people. Sorry for the delay, but it was that usual thing where every time I sat down to post, something came up, or-God forbid-I fell asleep in front of Top Gear WAY earlier than I meant to. So, sorry for that. Anyhoo, I think this might be the chapter some of you were freaking out about. Please, please, please, let me know how you like it. :) As usual, I DO NOT OWN MARVEL. Chapter title taken from the song of the same name by Daughtry. Seriously good, go check it out!

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Bucky figured that bodies being thrown out of second story windows was what most people would call a signal. Jumping into action, he began toward the house, holding his breath as he approached the rocks he'd used to mark out the barrier during his scouting of the perimeter. He let it out as his lead foot past right by it.

God. Bless. Natasha Romanoff.

There were two security agents covering the side of the house on the beach approach, but they were distracted by a sudden cry—masculine in tone—from inside the house. Heart pounding, he was able to snap the neck of one before the second even noticed his presence.

Eyes wide, he raised his rifle to fire off a shot, but he was too slow. Bucky ducked gracefully, coming at him from the side. He wrapped his metal hand around the barrel of the gun and tugged it out of the agent's hands, tossing it aside carelessly.

Jerking in panic, the agent turned and began to dart the other way, but Bucky latched onto the straps of his gear and pulled him over, upside down and right side up, until he was unconscious on the sand.

Bucky stood there, breathless, staring down at him. He was ordinary looking, just the sort of guy you'd hire if you wanted a strong back that kept his head down and his mouth shut.

If he left him alive, that was a loose end—a loose end that could come back and bite him in the ass later. He'd learned that the hard way.

But if he killed him…

He paused, weighing the decision in his mind.

He couldn't keep on tracking a tally. And he'd been labeled a killer long enough. Did he want to do anything to keep the title, no matter how deserved?

Another shout from the house—this one female and decidedly familiar—distracted him from the choice and he left the agent laying on the beach, taking the deck stairs two at a time.

The view he had was enough to shock even him, stilling his feet on the stained wood of the deck, like something out of an action movie, with explosions in the background while the two heroes walked away in slow motion and Darcy giggled against his shoulder at the abrupt silliness of it.

She was there, right in front of him.

After spending the past handful of days sick with worry over her condition, the vision of her now completely baffled him.

She certainly didn't look like she'd been tortured.

She looked…

Pissed.

The man he recognized from all of his late-night file sifting as Aldrich Killian was backed into the corner of the room, Darcy boxing him in.

And Darcy—looking for everything like she was in a Victoria's Secret commercial—was close up on him, crowding him threateningly, as though she wasn't entirely certain what her next step was supposed to be. Her white silk robe was barely decent, knotted at her narrow, hourglass waist and rucked up her thigh, short here, longer there. Her hair was a wild mane down her back and her face was pale from what little he could see of it.

For all his sickening worry, she looked like a Valkyrie, a beautiful bright thing on the attack. He blinked several times to make sure his eyes weren't fooling him—after all, he'd barely slept since this all had started.

They appeared to be in a stand-off, Darcy's hands around the inventor's throat.

Bucky wasn't sure what to do. He'd never seen her look quite that way before. She was milk pale, but she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Her expression was murderous, blind rage in her eyes.

She looked like some sort of avenging angel.

She and Killian were clearly squaring off from where she'd broken her bindings. There was some sort of industrial secure on the floor, ripped to shreds where it had fallen off one of the kitchen chairs, and Bucky raised a brow at the evidence of what had to be her independent escape. The couch was overturned, the side tables were tipped, and there were medical supplies strewn everywhere, the pole with a bag of suspicious fluid toppled over the area rug, leaking.

"Now, let's just take a deep breath, Darcy," Killian was saying in a nice, soothing, harmless voice, his handsome face carefully neutral as he held up both hands in a gesture of trust and innocence.

But Darcy didn't feel like talking. She lunged forward and punched out, hooking Killian in the shoulder, and the inventor stumbled back.

Surprise flickered over his face, and for a moment, he looked something akin to nervous.

Bucky hovered, watching with a tense scowl, desperate to intervene, and, at the same time, unwilling to breech whatever Darcy had taken as her mission.

He vaguely wondered if he'd looked like that as the Winter Soldier: lethal and cold, unfeeling and hot with rage. Of course, who was he kidding? He'd forced himself to watch a lot of the footage—not as much as Darcy had, but more than enough—and the images of himself as not-himself still sat, like a lead ball, in his stomach. The emptiness in his eyes was too eerie to bear.

It completely changed her face.

He wasn't sure he liked it. Of course, she was still his Darcy—she'd always be his Darcy—but cold discomfort slid through his blood at the mirror-like effect the expression on her face had on his memory.

"Darcy—" Aldrich tried again, squaring his feet to face her defensively. "Sweetie, now let's try and calm do—"

He was cut off as she lunged at him again, snapping her leg up to knee him in the stomach, her left fist striking up, flicking his jaw back and his head cracked the wall behind him.

"I'm not your sweetie," Darcy snarled, using her momentum to shove him back further.

He was propelled over the side of the overturned couch, and flipped lithely over right-side up, his own serum giving him his own advantage. Extremis, Bucky remembered from the file.

He'd never asked Tony about the Mandarin. Bucky had found that, since his own…transformation, he had an uncanny sense of intuitiveness with other people.

Tony didn't want to talk about it.

Bucky knew everything, of course. The twisted inventor determined to overcome his own deformity, using injured vets to gain his own means. Tony's nightmares after the Battle of New York. The suits. Pepper's death.

He sighed. He didn't want the sequel here in this Hawaiian beach house, and he was pretty sure that Stark would be devastated by this turn of events. Not only would he be livid and disturbed that Killian was still alive, he'd be absolutely inconsolable over Darcy.

Bucky was fairly certain that in the time he'd known the eccentric billionaire, he only saw the man look that warm and affectionate over two people: Darcy, and his own wife.

Stark was not going to be happy about this.

"Did you get what you wanted, Aldrich?!" Darcy snapped, advancing on him again, more slowly this time, clenching her fists at her sides. "Did you get your freak, the tool you wanted?! Did I turn out the way you'd hoped?!"

"Erwin!" Killian called, presumably for backup.

Bucky calculated that may have been the body he'd seen Natasha throw out that second-story window—his signal—and wondered if the fall had killed her, whoever she was.

"The guards are dead, Killian," Darcy sneered, still advancing. "The Winter Soldier is good at picking off strays, and whoever he misses will be mopped up by—"

"The Spider," Aldrich filled in, growling. "I knew she wasn't on the up-and-up. Thought I had her—"

"Under control?" Darcy smiled. "You think a woman that could marry Captain America would be a woman you could control and predict? No one's coming for you, Killian. You're left with your creation. You know, the girl you had strapped to a chair for three days, no clothes, no food or water, and nothing but injections. You're left with WHAT YOU MADE ME!"

As she stepped forward, Bucky had to blink as she…rippled.

He blinked again.

An eerie foreboding chilled down his spine at the image of her as she moved, her form rippling as she approached, rapidly and only for a split second. Her whole body flickered in his gaze, the air around her crackling with static.

She met Aldrich in the middle of the room and they met in a grappling grip, Darcy's small hands clamping down on his throat just the way Bucky had shown her.

Killian's hands wrapped defensively around Darcy's upper arms, tight, the muscles there cording with effort. "Erwin!" he called again.

"She can't hear you, Aldrich," Darcy snarled, breathless in anger and effort as she tightened her grip, increasing pressure on Killian's windpipe. "Your cat's been hunted down by the little mouse."

"I could say a really cheesy line about cats having nine lives, but I'll save it and we'll just operate under the effect that I already put it out there, shall we?" he half growled, half choked, squeezing, his hands beginning to glow a soft orange.

Darcy held on.

After a moment, the silk sleeves of her robe began to smoke, singe marks appearing, the thin, delicate fabric blackening with char.

Darcy still held her own, but just the tiniest tightening around her eyes had Bucky moving, finally, into the room, his strides long and determined.

"Erwin!" Killian called again, tightening his grip still more.

"She's dead," Bucky said, his voice low. "Took a flying leap."

Aldrich jumped, the color draining from his face, his ears going red.

Bucky snatched him by the hair and yanked him back, the inventor's grip snapping as he slid across the floor on his ass.

Darcy stumbled back and caught herself against the far wall, breathless as she studied the handprints left by her torturer.

"The Winter Soldier." Killian smiled, casual and calm as he hauled himself back up and dusted himself off, smoothing his designer clothes. "I've always wanted to meet you face-to-face. You were always like a…myth, to me, a—"

"Ghost story?" he offered coolly.

The smile again, wide and confident. "You do exist. And quite handsomely, in fact."

He gave him a grim smirk. "I'm told I'm quite the looker."

Aldrich nodded. "Mm," he hummed in the affirmative.

"Won't hurt any less when I kill you."

Killian pouted, edging to the right bit by bit. "Aw. Did I bruise your ego, locking you out like that? Hurting your mate, you're cute little She-Wolf."

Bucky clenched his jaw, but didn't bother to reply, that muscle ticking in his cheek that Darcy had mentioned was scary-sexy.

"Sorry, not sorry. See, I needed what was in her blood. Nothing personal."

He cocked his head. "You sure? Because it kinda feels personal."

Killian struck—or tried to—his hands glowing like something out of an old sci-fi radio show he and Steve would've avidly listened to, trying to guess what would happen next. They were yellow, then orange, then a blazing red, making the air around them ripple with heat.

He lashed out, moving for the sensitive mechanics of Bucky's arm, but Bucky only used it to block him. He struck out with his right hand, catching him in the collar bone.

Darcy lashed out from the other side, bashing him in the head with the flat of her palm.

Killian tore free of Bucky's grip and made a snatch at her, but was blocked by Bucky's arm again. He grabbed at the metal, but when his fiery grip landed, it did nothing but shore up a load of sparks, hissing with heat and steam. His eyes widened in shock, and his face paled as he realized half of his advantage was nearly useless—at least against this opponent.

Bucky wrenched it free and wrapped his bionic hand around his neck, lifting him and throwing him viciously aside.

But Killian bounced back quickly, lunging back up to his feet in time to snatch at Darcy's arm, yanking her close, his Extremis serum at least giving him what appeared to be an advantage there. "See, you weren't complete before, Darcy, dear," he sneered as he tugged on her to keep his grip. "Didn't you wonder why you felt so awful? I fixed you." He smiled. "I fixed you. Aren't you glad? I made you whole again—and better than before. Like me."

Darcy snarled, yanking her arm free with surprising ease, and swinging around with her other arm to nail him in the throat with her elbow.

Killian stumbled back, gasping desperately for air as he clutched at his throat, eyes wide.

Darcy advanced, using his distraction to knee him in the groin, sending him sprawling on the hardwood.

Bucky hauled him up by his shoulder, all his rage pooling in his belly. "What did you do to her?" he growled. "What did you do to her?!"

He merely coughed helplessly, clutching at his throat.

"Stuck me full of needles," Darcy snarled, approaching again.

But Bucky held out his human arm, blocking her.

"What did you do, Killian? I can make you talk. You know that. And if I can't, I'm sure Tony Stark would love to get his hands on you."

Killian drew a ragged breath. "You don't understand. Lukin was slowly killing her. I fixed her. I completed her serum. It was designed to be used in tandem!" And he smiled. "She was allergic—to you. Hah!" And he started laughing, loudly, and with a maniacally-tinged whisper to it.

Bucky hauled him the rest of the way up, growling.

Killian took the opportunity to lash out again, but was blocked by the arm.

Darcy took aim from his other side, yanking Killian's hair back, and the two of them wrestled him to the floor, arms behind his back. "This feels seriously anticlimactic," she muttered, as Killian flailed, trying to get a grip on them with his powerful hands again, and failed. "You gonna kill him?"

He shook his head as he pressed his mechanical elbow to Killian's throat, pausing in silence until his eyes drifted shut and carried him into unconsciousness. He held his own breath, wondering how long Darcy had in her. Serum, or not, adrenaline or not, her body was surely in shock. She'd only go so long. He knew that for a fact, his own memories dancing too close to the surface. "He knows too much; he's valuable."

She opened her mouth to argue, her face a slash of anger and frustration.

They didn't have time to talk, though. Gunfire rained down on them from the deck, and they pressed close to the floor, effectively ending their discussion.

Natasha chose that moment to burst in, breathless, her eyes lingering on them for just a split second in relief. "Time to go. Leave him. We don't have time. There are too many outside. He must've called in support when—" She abruptly cut off, her eyes lingering on Darcy in a rare look of hesitation.

Bucky jerked to his feet, shoving aside the feeling of trepidation that look conjured. Natasha rarely hesitated over anything, rarely looked anything remotely like vulnerable. "The perimeter?"

She shook her head, swallowing thickly. "I'll distract them." She threw a set of keys across the room and Bucky easily caught them. "I assumed you'd want the Jag?"

"You assumed correctly," Bucky replied, palming the keys.

Natasha's lip curled in her signature smirk and she led them out the door onto the drive. "I'll be right behind y—"

But she didn't get to finish as a thug all in black combat gear swung around the corner of the house and raised his automatic rifle.

Natasha ducked.

Bucky dragged Darcy around the other corner just as the rounds fired, the stylish stone exterior of the house flying into tiny little projectiles, dust blooming in the humid air. "Shit," he muttered. "Darce?"

"I'm good," she said, but her voice was soft and low, not at all the hellcat she'd been a moment ago.

Much as he'd suspected, she was flagging, her adrenaline crashing, her body too stressed by all that they'd done to her. He'd learned her well, after all, all her facial tics and vocal cues.

"I'm…I'm fine."

He pulled her more tightly against his body just as she went limp, her eyes slipping closed, her skin awash in a pale, ashy pallor.

"Goddamnit," he snarled as more rounds went off. "Perfect timing." He couldn't get them both out with submachine fire. Himself, sure. He'd go pick off the guy, no problem, and eliminate the threat. But not with an unconscious Darcy. And there was no way in hell he was leaving her here to go pick him off alone. Natasha had said there were too many. The property was likely crawling, snipers in the wings. He doubted any of them were as good as he was, but he liked to be humble once in a while.

He peeked around the corner just in time to see Natasha—having crept somehow around the house, perhaps through the garage—stepping up behind the guard. She looped her arm around his throat and tugged.

Bullets sprayed the air upwards in a tail before rapidly cutting off as she swung him around and down onto his back, where she heeled him in the throat, snapping his neck cleanly.

Their eyes met for just a second in acknowledgement.

Then they both started moving, Bucky cradling Darcy against him as he moved for the Jaguar and Natasha for the BMW.

More bullets ricocheted as he pushed Darcy's door shut, and he ducked, diving around to the driver's side. Breaking human land speed records, he was sure, he ducked into the seat and slammed the door behind him. Had he had the time to spare, he'd have paused to relish the soft purr of the engine as he started up the car.

But he didn't have time.

He threw it into Drive and floored the gas, shooting down the driveway, Natasha hot on his backend in the German coupe.

He only glanced in the rearview mirror once, but all he could see, as Natasha peeled off the main road in the other direction, was concrete dust.

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He kept driving.

He didn't stop.

The only distraction he allowed himself was to reach over and check Darcy's pulse: strong, but thread-y, uneven and sluggish, even though the rhythm itself was hard against his fingertips.

"Fuck," he murmured, looking down to study the dash.

Air conditioning.

Heating.

Digital readout.

Stereo, with—he did a survey of the car—probably ten speakers, all hidden away.

This was a new F-Type, and—he gunned the gas again, listening with a smirk—a Supercharged V8. This thing would haul ass. And it was small and maneuverable, low to the ground.

Thank God.

Okay, so he'd stay with this puppy as long as he could and hope they either hadn't been followed by some good fortune and lack of planning on Killian's part—he winced at the giant loose end they'd left behind—or that their pursuers would be so far behind it would be hopeless.

She looked awful.

Pale as death, her hair in tangles down her back. Her robe was barely covering her, but he didn't dare cause her to stir. There were deep, purple shadows beneath her eyes and though she'd apparently been enhanced, it was clear she'd gone some days without food or water. There were red lashes on her wrists, and—he craned too see around her form, all curled around herself in the passenger seat—her ankles. The silk of the material was charred at the shoulders, torn, and streaked in places with blood.

She looked exactly like he'd felt. Then. In that prison camp.

Gutted and hollow, aching from whatever Zola had decided to do to him on any particular occasion.

He'd gotten her back, finally, after what had felt like an eternity.

But that knowledge was cold comfort now.

He tipped his head back and glanced in the rearview mirror at the deceivingly cheerful Hawaiian sunshine, warm and sweet.

He'd just have to hope he was capable of getting them back to New York without either of them getting killed.

With mercenaries and an insane inventor on their tail, God knew what on their agendas. Tony Stark's polar opposite was bound to cause trouble.

But that didn't matter.

All that mattered was keeping Darcy safe.

He huffed out a desperate sigh and glanced down at the GPS.

Sure. He could do this. No problem. Nothing to worry about.

He groaned. "Congratulations on your new marriage."

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Exhausted beyond anything he could ever recall in the last sixty-odd years, Bucky pulled into the tiny motel and parked, taking stock of the pitted lot. Empty, but for one other car, a beat-up old Buick with a rusted out hole where the gas tank should be. He checked Darcy's pulse again and locked the doors.

The office was tiny, the motel a throwback to the ones he vaguely remembered, all one large building, long and low, with little rooms split up, a queen size bed and a half bath. It was rundown, the robin's egg blue paint peeling and the plaster falling off in places. The 'Vacancy' sign was half burnt out and the red neon was flickering.

Perfect spot to lay low. The sort of place people went to shoot up or meet their second wife for a cheap tryst. He'd just pull the Jag around the back and hope their pursuers were far enough back and just enough stupid to miss them.

The little bell jangled as he went in, and the little old lady at the counter glanced up from her cheap romance novel in annoyance. Her black hair was a cheap dye-job and he could see her gray roots from the doorway. Her native Hawaiian skin was deeply lined, but still pretty, if not for her grouchy expression. "I ain't got change," she said.

Okay, then, he wouldn't waste any of his valuable, flagging energy on false charm. "Don't need change, just a room." It was just ridiculously lucky that when he'd grabbed his shorts that awful morning, his wallet had still been in his pocket.

No such luck on his Starkphone, though. They were drifting.

She stood, all business, and set down her open paperback on her current page. "How many? Just you?"

"One other," he offered, determined not to volunteer any more information than was strictly necessary. He'd been doing this long enough that the bad guys would never know all the nuances it took to move under the radar. Hopefully he knew a few they didn't, sixty years of experience maybe paying off in a good way this time.

She nodded, frowning as she punched buttons on her register. "Couple's retreat?" she sneered, apparently playing for wry humor as she glanced at his wedding band. She didn't mention that it was on the wrong hand.

"You have no idea," he replied, forcing a cool smile.

He almost handed over the Stark Company card, but his own reflection in the blank, stylish, statement-making black plastic reminded him that, while comforting that Tony could track them through it, the possibility that Killian could as well was less so. He slid it back into its pocket and counted out two crisp twenties, slapping them on the rundown desk as he read her novel's cover upside-down.

The Soldier's Secret Bride, it read in crimson cursive letters, the ribbon of the printing forming a graceful circle, within which stood a swooning couple. The woman was in a ridiculous red dress with a plunging neckline and a slit up to there. She was swooning against the guy—the husband, presumably—all dressed To the Nines in his dress blues, gold scroll-work and all. He bent to kiss her throat, his gloved hands cradling the small of her back.

He raised an eyebrow.

"Room 12," the woman said, no-nonsense, and slapped the key down on the desk. Then she saw his glance and smirked. "You a soldier?"

He took the key and turned to go on his way. "Depends who you ask."

It was difficult getting Darcy into the room. She wasn't heavy for him, of course, but the dual worries of not jostling her and not being seen by any passing cars was heavy in his chest. Once she was settled on the surprisingly clean looking bed, he rushed out again to pull the Jag around the back of the building.

The room was done all in shades of awkward pink. Darcy would call it '80's Dusty Rose' and the wallpaper was peeling, the tiny flower pattern worn and pocked. The furniture was just as battered. The carpet was stained here and there with things Bucky would rather not focus too hard on. The bed, though wasn't too bad, the mattress seemingly recent, the bedclothes clean and neat. The bathroom had a standing sink and a tiny shower stall. The mirror was cracked in one corner, but otherwise clean.

She was still out when he returned from the car.

There was a bruise blossoming on the apple of her right cheek. Conversely, the red lashes on her wrists and ankles were fading, likely due to whatever Killian had shot her up with. That was one nasty bruise, if it was even coming to the surface.

His heart heavy, he went into the bathroom—also surprisingly clean—and wetted down a washcloth with warm water from the sink, flicking on the cheap TV set on his way past and setting it on low volume.

"Mike, did you want to tell us what kind of weather we can expect over the next few days?" the anchorwoman asked, all bright smiles and sunny, blond hair. "I can see you've got your umbrella all set. Is rain coming our way?"

Bucky rolled his eyes.

The camera switched to the weather map, the suited weather man standing there, sure enough, with a blue umbrella. He laughed. "We've got some storms on the way, Dana, that's for sure." He detailed the rain that would make up the block of the weather for most of the week before handing it over to the sports caster.

Good.

Rain would slow their pursuers down while he scrambled for a way to get them back to the Mainland. Once he did that, they could tear their way back to New York, or at least far enough inland that he could track Tony down.

Darcy stirred, pressing her face against the coolness of the washcloth, her brow pinching in a frown.

He paused.

But she didn't wake.

The news continued, the anchors droning on about local news, a shooting here, Grand Theft Auto there. He sighed as he worked his way down Darcy's body. Her bruises were fading already and the redness where her bindings had been was largely gone.

He examined her but found nothing out of the ordinary. Just the deep shadows under her eyes, and her tangled hair. He couldn't do much for that right now…

He studied the bedclothes again and determined they were pretty immaculate compared to the rest of the room in general.

Sighing again, he very carefully positioned her on her back, holding his breath in the hopes he didn't wake her.

When she continued to slumber, he undid the knot of her silk robe and slid it off her, one arm, then the other, gliding the slippery material out from under her back, revealing her ribs, more visible than the last time he'd seen all her skin, not four days ago.

He winced, running the pads of his fingers over her narrow waist, her hips sharp against his palms.

She stirred again, murmuring softly.

"I'm sorry, baby," he whispered, pulling back the sheets. Flinching, he tucked her in, his heart squeezing hard in his chest as she curled in on herself.

He stood in the doorway for a long while, worry clawing at his gut as he palmed the Jag's keys. There was nothing else for it. He had no choice.

And besides—she'd rather proved that she could hold her own, and a number of times, now.

Sighing again, he left her there, locking the door behind him and peeling out of the parking lot going much too fast, in the direction of town.

He followed the highway signage and eventually pulled up to a small, ordinary looking strip mall and got out, surveying the largely empty parking lot.

The pharmacy had all the assorted toiletries they'd need, and the little tourist stop next door took care of the rest. He'd long ago learned to make his stops few and multi-tasked.

The tourist place had no one in it but for two young girls, poking around in the back. The guy at the counter glanced up from his tablet and nodded to him, picking up the remote to change the channel on the TV blaring behind the counter.

He went to the back, sighing at being consigned to wearing 'I-heart Hawaii' t-shirts for the foreseeable future. At least until they holed up somewhere with a mall. He'd kill for a big box store right now—kill. They had a wide array, though, so he stood there for a few minutes, surveying the least obnoxious choices. Surf boards, tropical flowers, beach sunsets… Ugh.

A giggle caught his attention and he glanced left to find two eyes staring at him from behind a rack of board shorts.

One of the girls.

Those eyes were wide and green in her young face. Too young. Barely fifteen, if he took a guess. She was blond and thin—very thin—which only drove home how young she was. She'd barely filled out, lacking all of Darcy's full curves.

Her friend nudged her and they laughed again, looking away, blushes coloring their faces. Her friend was blond as well, with a high pony and shorts that were so short they left little to the imagination. Good God, what had happened to feminine dresses and pretty skirts?

Feeling old—which felt strangely familiar and comfortable—he ignored them and went back to the shirts. Spotting some that seemed innocuous, with just printed 'Hawaii' logos on them, he pulled four off the shelf, two in blue, and two in gray, pondering Darcy's size, before stepping back again to survey things.

Another giggle, considerably closer now, made him jump. Sighing, he rolled his eyes, taking a deep breath in an attempt at containing his impatience. For God's sake…

It was laughable, really. Almost. Had they not noticed his arm? He was in only a t-shirt, the mechanical appendage completely exposed. If they knew who he was and what he was capable of, they'd run for the hills.

Of course, that hadn't scared Darcy off. She apparently found some of that stuff 'edgy', as she'd said. Somewhere between scary and sexy. Scary for other people—apparently that made it sexy. He wasn't sure how he felt about that…

He turned and hooked around the back for the racks with shorts, chewed on his lip for a second, did a little math in his head, and pulled off two pairs for Darcy, smiling as he scooped up a pair of leggings and snatched up some board shorts for himself.

But as he turned for the flip-flops with a grimace, he found his way blocked.

"Hi," the first girl said. Pony Tail giggled behind her.

He raised a brow. Braver than he'd thought. "Hi," he returned, trying hard to be kind, despite the icy shards of fear and anger still rushing through his veins.

"I'm Lucy."

He sighed. "Hi," he repeated, turning to move around them.

"What's your name?" she asked, voice high and nasally, and he had the errant though that Darcy would've called her a Valley Girl with a roll of the eyes. Not that he knew what that particular reference meant yet.

He clenched his fists, the idea wandering through his head that wouldn't it be just an appropriate touch of dark humor if these two were really agents from HYDRA, and the two of them were seriously screwed? "James," he said shortly, seeing no reason not to be honest. Lies only complicated things down the line.

"That's really cool," she chirped, glancing at his arm. So she had noticed… "Is it real?"

He sighed, standing and staring at the sandals in irritation. This was all he needed—two pubescent admirers. He was flattered, really, but he seriously did not have time right now to let them down easy. And he was so taken that he figured most other guys—insecure as they would likely be—would laugh and call him whipped. Not, of course, that that described his relationship with Darcy in the slightest. He was comfortable enough in his masculinity to admit that he was head over heels and totally okay with it. "Yes," he relented, selecting a pretty pair for Darcy with a jeweled clasp before spying, with relief, a pair of slip on board sneakers for himself. Thank God, no flip-flops. Flip-flops did not lend well to high-speed chases in a Jaguar.

He saw at least one high-speed chase in their rather immediate future. He'd always been one to prepare.

"Really?!" Lucy asked, cheeks pinking. "Um…listen, we're going to a party later. On the beach. You should come."

He skirted around her, making a bee-line for the register and the clerk, who gave him a sympathetic look as he turned the volume down on the television. "Thanks, but, uh…no. I'm good."

"Oh," Lucy said, looking disappointed. "You're too busy?"

He set everything down on the counter. "I'm too old. And a little too taken."

Very, very taken.

Pony Tail burst out laughing as Lucy's face turned bright red. "Oh, God. I'm sorry."

He smiled, handing over more cash. "It's okay. Thanks, though."

The two of them made their own bee-line to the door, and the chime sounded as they rushed out.

The clerk was smirking as he handed over his bag and Bucky wondered if he was blushing too.

So, more irritable than when he'd started, he got back in the Jag and high-tailed it back to the tiny motel as three o'clock rounded.

Much to his relief, the door was still locked.

But much to his frustration, Darcy was still curled in a tight little shape, out cold. Whatever had been done to her was serious if she was out this long. It had been hours, now. He glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Six hours, in fact.

In his experience, nothing good ever came from being out that long. If he'd had his phone, he'd have called Bruce, but—he looked around the room—there wasn't a landline in here either.

Cursing under his breath, he sat gingerly down beside Darcy over the covers. "C'mon, dollface," he murmured to her. He picked up her hand, feeling her skin for pallor, but she seemed fine. The pulse at her wrist had evened out now against his fingers. He reached up to run his hands through her hair and over her skull, but found everything smooth and intact. No bruising, no redness, no nothing. Her color looked perfect and her pupils—after a careful check—were even and normal.

Her heart rate was average to high—but they'd already established that was due to the serum—and her neck and spine were perfectly intact.

Sighing, he tugged the blankets off to take stock of the rest of her, trying not to feel cheap as he ran his hands along her arms and legs, feeling each joint as he went along.

With the exception of some blood streaked along her right arm—obviously where they'd injected her—there wasn't a scratch on her. He studied the injection site, but that appeared closed up and healed already also.

He sighed again, slumping half over in the bed, propped on a hand around her waist. "Well. We're in a pickle, aren't we?" he asked her, unsure why he was bothering when it was clear she wasn't going to spontaneously reply.

God, he'd kill for his Starkphone too, actually. Kill someone.

He just hoped Killian hadn't found it anywhere. There was information on it that shouldn't be out there—especially with the bad guys.

So he dragged himself up, checked the lock again and went into the bathroom. When all the nasty stuff had gone down, he'd been out for a swim and he'd spent the last four days covered in a thin layer of salt water. It was making him itch. He didn't want to know what it might be doing to the mechanics in his arm—Bruce and Tony would flip out.

He left the door slightly ajar and turned on the spray, stripping down with rushed relief. He stood under the shower head for so long he lost track of time, the water scalding hot, hissing on his bionic arm.

Some honeymoon.

He knew Darcy would blame herself and the episodes that her serum plagued her with. Of course, it wasn't her fault. It was HYDRA's fault. Anger coursed harshly through him and he wanted to punch the off-white tiling in the shower and watch the porcelain crack and crumble into dust.

They couldn't catch one Goddamn break, could they? One short span of time where the world wasn't falling apart around them.

And Darcy. Darcy deserved better than this. Darcy deserved to be able to sleep through the night, and to be able to get through the day without a headache, and to be able to recognize her own body.

God, even for him, the transition hadn't been so bad.

His old friend despair reared his ugly head and Bucky was overcome with a wave of homesickness so strong that for the first time in years, he wanted Sarah back.

Of course, he'd always wanted her back, ever since that awful night…

But the power of that old grief was suddenly so strong he wanted to curl up in a little ball and hide, like he did when he was a small boy.

She always knew what to do. And if she didn't, she sure as hell was there with a slice of pie and the warmest hugs he'd ever been able to find anywhere.

She'd been more a mother to him than his own real one.

He wanted to go home.

Home, home.

So badly, his chest hurt.

Things were simple there. There were no Neo-Nazis, no crazed scientists, no suicide bombers, no rogue agents, and nothing to hurt his Darcy.

He wanted to go back to February. It felt like a lifetime ago now, Valentine's Day. Those few weeks after she'd moved in had been perfect. Sleeping in, coffee in the morning, a little training, some ops. Darcy pressed against him at night, her ring glinting newly off the low light. A warm bed. Someone to come home to.

The thought that they'd had it so firmly in hand barely long enough to enjoy it made his stomach clench in frustration.

Was it really so Goddamn much to ask for a little peace and quiet?! Really?! Hadn't he earned as much? Hadn't Darcy endured enough in the past six months? Three weeks. A lousy three weeks? They couldn't have a lousy three weeks without their lives going to shit?!

He took a deep breath, trying to keep his strangle hold on the soldier within, his black eyes blazing, railing against James Barnes' hold on him. He was just managing to wrestle him back into his cage when the door creaked and he jumped, nearly slipping on the linoleum as he caught himself on the wall.

"Jamie?"

He wrenched the shower curtain back.

Darcy stood there, looking weak and uncharacteristically frail, her eyes deep in her face, her hands in a death grip around the sheet wrapped around her, clearly pulled and dragged from the bed.

For a long moment, he just stared at her, processing the image of her upright and conscious, alive and breathing.

"I woke up and you were gone," she murmured, hunching her shoulders.

Heart pounding, he reached for her silently, tugging the sheet free and tossing it to the floor as he pulled her over the threshold and into the shower with him.

She clung to him, silent and shaking, tucking her face against his chest, her forehead against the spider web of scars that were all that remained of his wrecked left shoulder.

A thousand questions darted through his mind, but suddenly none of them seemed an emergency when she was finally here, in his arms, alive.

They stood there, under the spray for what felt like an eternity, Darcy trembling while he stroked her wet hair down her back, his face tucked low against her shoulder.

She didn't speak. She didn't move. She barely breathed.

They soaked each other in.

Finally, as the water began to cool, he ventured out with tentative feelers. "There's a small chance the honeymoon's over," he murmured over the spray.

She pulled slightly back, a tired smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, loosening it. "A small chance, huh?" Her voice was a tangle.

He nodded, reaching around her to shut off the tap. "Infinitesimal."

She shrugged, looking down at her hands. "Well, damn."

He chuckled, pulling the towel he'd grabbed earlier off the shower rings and wrapping it around her, pressing a kiss to her bare shoulder.

She flinched, then frowned. "Sorry."

He secured the towel around her, then one around his waist, and lifted her into his arms. "Don't apologize, dollface." He carried her back to the bed and set her down on the edge, crouching in front of her. "You want me to stay or you want me to keep my hands to myself right now?"

The frown deepened. "Don't go." She swallowed thickly. "I'm…confident enough in my independence to know when I want…when I need you close."

He winked, tugging at the towel and pulling it loose, and she let him dry her off. She even gave him a little laugh when he ruffled it through her tangled hair.

"I'm gonna say 'sorry' anyway," she muttered.

"You're breaking the rules, but I guess I have no choice but to allow it," he said, sighing resignedly. "Why, specifically?"

She swallowed again. "The only time anyone came that close was to…stick me with something," she said, her voice small, though she tried for casual and smooth. "There was that one time Nat came over…but then she slapped me."

He narrowed his eyes.

"She was playing along," she added.

He nodded. Good, that sounded more like it.

She peered at him. "You're not gonna…ask me…about it?"

He tugged the towel out from beneath her and folded it up, calm and methodical. "No."

Her brow quirked. "Why not?"

He sighed and folded the towel over his metal arm, bent over her and ran his fingers through her hair. "Because if you're asking me that question, then you're not ready to talk about it. Take it from someone who knows." He pressed another kiss to her head and crossed back into the bathroom.

When he emerged, dressed in a Hawaii t-shirt and a pair of board shorts, it was to find her asleep again, this time tucked into the covers and clutching the pillow to herself, her hair a curtain behind her.

((()))

"Say your goodbyes," Bucky said as he shut the passenger door.

Darcy leaned out the Jaguar's window and smirked, her tired face turned up toward the sun. "Should I be sad we're leaving this hellhole?"

He snorted as he climbed into the driver's seat. "Hell no." He squeezed her thigh. "Drink your coffee."

She smiled tiredly. "Yes, sir." She plucked her Starbucks cup from the holder and drank.

Bucky started the car and shifted the purring engine into gear.

Darcy settled back in her seat and let the wind whip her—now tamed—hair around her face, enjoying the heat of her Dolce Latte sliding down her throat. Numerous questions zoomed around in her head, but as those questions only led to other questions that she wasn't sure she wanted to stare in the face just yet, she packed them up in a box in her head, labeled it 'Later' with a permanent marker, capped it, and set it all aside, the flaps folded neatly shut.

"Alright?" he asked sometime later, his voice low. "You need Advil, there's some that I stashed in the glove compartment."

She sighed. "Nah. I'm okay."

This pronouncement, she knew, wasn't really a truth that either of them believed, but as it was widely accepted as nothing more than a figure of speech, this idea wasn't broached either.

His hand settled around her thigh again and stayed there as he drove one-handed, his metal fingers steadying the wheel as his warm human ones wrapped around her leg. "Love you," he murmured.

She nearly missed it over the wind, but turned to give him the biggest smile she could muster—which wasn't much, really—and lay her head on his shoulder. "I know."

They drove for what felt like forever. The Jaguar whipped down the highways and they barely saw any traffic at all, which Darcy thought was weird. She tried to recall the amount of traffic in the old syndications of Magnum PI she'd grown up watching with her grandmother, but couldn't recall that much hillside traffic there either.

He asked her, once, if she wanted lunch, but as her appetite was still playing tricks on her, she declined. He didn't stop either, his mouth shut in a tight line.

The Jaguar was, however, a bit of a gas guzzler and it didn't take long for her to be able to tell that he wanted to ditch it, but didn't. Both times they stopped, he got exactly twenty worth, went in, paid with cash, and came back out, locking all the doors behind him. It took her longer—shamefully long, really—to realize that he wasn't using his Stark card because transactions on plastic were traceable.

She wondered if Tony was beside himself, looking for them.

Clearly, Bucky didn't have his phone.

She looked down at herself.

Hawaiian t-shirt and shorts—in her size. She wasn't sure how on earth he'd guessed her waistline so perfectly, but then, the Winter Soldier had skills even she couldn't quantify, so should she really be surprised? So, obviously he'd gone out while she was comatose—

She ducked away from that thought, too, before it could bloom into memories of her time with Aldrich Killian. She couldn't look too hard at any of that yet.

Finally, they stopped—late—at another little motel. This was one much cleaner than the last and was on the coast. Bucky's driving had been clean, but light-speed all day, so safe to assume they'd crossed perhaps a narrow part of the Big Island. He'd be looking, now, to get them back to the Mainland.

He locked her in the room and went out again.

She stared vacantly at the TV, watching an ancient rerun of Oprah and wondering what the hell had become of her life, until he came back with three bags.

"What's all that?"

He set it down, his broad shoulders tight. "Food. It's been too long, especially for you. You're going to eat, got it?" His voice was soft, but it was clear she wouldn't be allowed to argue.

Smirking at his Mother Bear attitude again, she slid off the bed. "Relax. I'm hungry."

They ate their sandwiches in silence and Darcy wished he'd brought soda instead of bottled water.

As she watched him pick at his chips, his brows drawn in worry, a thought occurred to her. "Hey. I haven't had any episodes."

He visibly flinched, then set his chips aside. "I know."

She blinked. "So…what do you think that means?"

He sighed. "Frankly, I don't wanna know."

She chewed on her lower lip as she studied him.

"You can hold your own, though. That was pretty clear."

"What do you mean?"

He finally raised his gaze and looked her in the eye. "When I finally breached the house again, I found you scuffling with Killian. You looked like…" He hesitated, his eyes tightening.

"Like what?" she prompted.

He sighed again, heavily. "Like a Valkyrie, or an Amazon. You were toe-to-toe." His tone faded. "You looked like a superhuman."

She stared at him, into his face, the tightness there loosening until he just looked sad. "And?"

He slumped against the headboard of the bed. "And I…I didn't want that for you."

Not knowing what to say to this confession, she crawled into his lap.

He wrapped his arms around her. "I'm here when you're ready," he murmured against her hair.

They fell asleep like that, tucked against each other.

((()))

"Darcy."

She flinched, grappling for freedom, tugging at her restraints and gasping as they tightened around her entire body.

"Darcy!"

She cried out, shoving against them, pounding with her fists.

"DARCY!"

Her eyes flew open and she was met with another set staring back at her, a deep, clear blue.

She was breathless, her throat dry. "Jamie?"

He didn't blink. "It's alright. Just a nightmare."

She huffed out a breath and looked around. Their tiny motel room was still dark, the still-made bed ruffled beneath them, and the digital clock on the side table read 2:03 AM.

She swallowed, shrugging against Bucky's secure grip around her upper arms, his palms comfortingly warm—even the metal one. "Nightmare. Right." She nodded and his grip loosened. "Thanks."

He didn't speak, and he didn't try to get her to talk, which she was grateful for, her mind swimming with the image of Aldrich Killian and his vicious smile. He just sat there, quietly stroking her back in the darkness, the slow, even sound of his breathing working to lull her into a state of calm.

"Did you sleep at all?" she finally asked, her voice sounding much too loud in the early morning.

He nodded. "A few hours."

"Did I wake you?"

He shook his head. "No. I was up."

She nodded, looking down at her hands in her lap, and swallowed. "I'm a mess, hey?"

He reached up to comb her hair off her forehead, his eyes soft in the dark, even clearer than it had been before her dosing. "To be expected. You're doing well, actually. But you've had plenty of experience with harrowing situations, so that's paid off now."

She breathed out a laugh. "Yeah, plenty of experience running for my life. You know, dodging dark elves, freeing small mammals from the path of rampaging Destroyers, stuff like that. Just run of the mill, you know."

He smiled.

"You thought it all was a hallucination. Didn't you?"

A confused frown passed over his face.

"Before. When I kept waking up during the night and seeing someone on the property, at the beach house. You thought I was hallucinating."

Now guilt flashed there in his eyes and he pulled back a little. "I'm sorry." And his voice was hoarse.

"How could you know it was real?" she asked. "I mean, no one would stop and think, 'Gee, Aldrich Killian must be casing the joint'."

But he was already off and running, his old guilt resurfacing hard—not that she ever felt like she could blame him. How he managed to walk around every day in the knowledge of what he'd been forced to do for sixty years was still beyond her. "We've been waiting for someone to make a move. I should've been more steadfast, I should've trusted you—"

But she cut him off before he could gain any head of steam. "Bruce said that you…had night terrors. In the beginning. He assumed you hadn't said anything because…"

His eyes were tight. "…I didn't want to scare you. I didn't want you to worry about anything you didn't have to worry about, anything that might not even come to pass."

She knew there was more. "But…"

He shrugged. "I never saw anyone. I was watching, and I never saw anyone. I don't know how he must've done it. I don't know…how he's done anything he's done…" He looked away, wincing as though a sharp pain had spiked in his head.

She studied him, slightly suspicious. She'd learned what she hoped were most of his tics over the past year and he was displaying a kept secret. "What do you mean?"

But he only took a deep breath, letting it out in a long sigh. "Never mind. It doesn't matter. What matters is—"

"Don't." She stopped him, staring him down in the dark. "Don't. Please. Don't do that to yourself again. I hate it." If he didn't want to tell her now whatever was ailing him—on top of everything else—she'd never been one to push him. After all, how could she, when he gave her all the space she needed?

His jaw was tight and he was quiet for a long time. Finally, he nodded.

She smoothed a hand down his chest. "It's just a new enemy to fight. And…whatever they did to me."

He flinched again, hard.

She cocked her head. "You know what they did to me. Don't you?"

He swallowed thickly. "No. But…"

She blinked. "But…?"

Another sigh. "It looks like they…fixed you. No way of knowing yet, and there's no way I'm testing it until we're clear of them. But…"

She pursed her lips, watching him grapple with the words. She had a feeling they were harder for him to say than they were for her to hear. She usually got that sensation with him. "You don't think we're clear of them?"

His arms went around her again and he pulled her back into his lap, forcing her to straddle his waist. "Baby, I've been in this business for a long time. If there's one thing I've learned it's that you're never as clear as you think you are."

She sighed.

"There's always someone lurking. Somewhere—usually where you're not looking. They come at you sideways."

Sadness trickled through her again at this pronouncement. "That's why you're never comfortable. That's why you never sleep for long."

Looking more tired than he had a very long time, he reached up again to brush her hair back, his long fingers lingering on her scalp. "Only in the Tower. And only with you. Otherwise it's just another old habit that's hard to break."

She snorted, shifting so they were closer together. "And what the hell about little old me makes you feel…safe?"

He shrugged, a soft, sardonic smile curving his mouth. "You're a secure place to stash all my secrets. All my worst confessions."

She ran her hands up his chest, his t-shirt soft against her palms. "Not all of them," she murmured. "Not yet."

He didn't deny it. But when she leaned forward to kiss him, he did hold her back. "We should try and get back to sleep."

She raised a brow at him at this brush off.

He kissed her chastely on the cheek, but didn't elaborate on his gentle refusal. "Sleep."

And she did.