A/N 1: Enjoy, guys. Thanks a million times over for sticking with me (and Bucky and Darcy) on this journey.

Love Never Dies

Darcy hates Virginia in the wintertime. She hates it more than she hates DC in the wintertime. Somehow, down in the southern portion of the state outside of Charlottesville, the weather seemed caught between cold and hot. There was a chill to the air, but that air felt thick and heavy. At least up where she lives it's just plain cold. She may dislike the frigid temperatures, but she appreciates the consistency.

Sitting on a collapsable chair in a field off of a dirt road—because that is where they hold press conferences in this town apparently—Darcy shivers, her pen dragging a streaky line of black ink on her notepad. She frustratedly sighs and sits back in the uncomfortable chair, stretching her aching back muscles. She has been crouched for twenty minutes jotting down ideas for her article. It is doing wonders for her already-screwed-up spine, which has been a mess since puberty decided to grace her with a chest five sizes too big for her small stature. Curse Grandma Lewis and her horrendous genetic makeup.

Another breeze flows through the sticky air. Darcy is on the verge of giving up and heading back to her motel. Usually, when she is tasked with out-of-state assignments, she is fine with that plan. But her motel sucks. Her room is tiny, smells like the gross combination of old milk and sweat, and the shower runs either freeze-your-blood cold or melt-your-skin-off hot. And she is pretty sure the man behind the till is a murderer. Or a rapist. Or both. He stares after Darcy whenever she enters the shabby, apricot-painted building. Also when she leaves. His grey eyes are very off putting.

She looks up at the podium, bringing the hand that holds her pen up to shield her sensitive eyes from the blaring sun. A few other reporters are still here. Maybe they are all staying at her motel. Or maybe all of the accommodations down here are as bad as the one she got stuck with. Her boss called her after she arrived last night to apologise for the setup. It was such a last-minute story that he didn't have time to find her anything else.

Darcy doesn't believe him. She thinks it's payback for that time she refused to go out on a date with him. Which is ridiculous, because it's his own fucking rule that coworkers can't date.

But we're not coworkers, Darcy, he had said.

She had been incredibly tempted to say she was working with HR and every other one of her female coworkers to get him fired when he said that, but she held her tongue. The pleasure of seeing him dragged out of the office sooner rather than later will be satisfaction enough.

"You look miserable."

Darcy jolts. Her hand drops to her lap and she looks to her right. A tall man, dressed in an expensive-looking dark blue, pinstripe suit and a deep brown hat—a hat, like this is 1950s Hollywood and not a town in southern Virginia in the year 2018—approached and sat two seats down from her. He tilted his hat in greeting.

Had Tony Stark invented time travel and not told anyone?

Probably. . .

Darcy nodded towards him. "Did my general look of misery give it away?"

The man laughed. Crossing one leg over the other at the knee, he folded his hands and smiled at her. "I'm Richard West from the Vancouver Sun. Pleased to meet you."

He held out a hand. His long arm extended right to Darcy over the two empty chairs. Wary, she took his hand and shook firmly once before releasing him.

"Darcy Lewis," she said, lifting her press badge for him to see.

"Washington Post." Richard West sounded impressed. Pointing at the podium, he said, "What do you make of this mess, then?"

It was a funny story, actually. The newly-elected mayor of this town recently got arrested for several crimes, the most noteworthy being identity theft. Miles Parker, who had been parading around as Frederick Barter for years, was born in London, Ontario, Canada. At the age of fifteen he embarked upon a life of crime. He stole, he maimed a few people, he sold drugs and he used them too. Ten years later, with the police hot on his trail, he fled the country and wound up in Virginia. After living a relatively quiet existence here, he decided it would be a laugh to run for mayor. Of course, when one is a political figure, one is bound to have all of their dirty secrets revealed, and the case was no different for Mr. Parker.

A mess indeed. Darcy hadn't been aware Canada was even capable of producing criminals in the first place.

"It's nothing like what we get up in DC, but it's quite the scandal for such a little town," she said. It really was, too. Journalists from all over had come to witness perhaps the craziest political uproar of the year.

"Agreed," said Richard, his green, cat-like eyes moving from her face to her hidden breasts. That hat didn't hide much, then. "Look, I'm only in town for one more night. How'd you like to go out for a drink with me?"

Darcy is instantly on edge. She grips her pen tight. Feels sweat build up on her palm.

She is not a social butterfly. In the past three years, she has only been asked out seven times—not including her boss's creepy invitation to Martha's Vineyard. But even still, the weeks having turned to months, and those pesky months turning into even peskier and painful years, she refused every single offer. Darcy even said no to that one guy from her Intro to Philosophy class freshman year she had bumped into randomly at the coffee shop near the office. Everyone had wanted him back then, including her.

He was tall and blond and his eyes were almost gold.

But as she was about to say yes, she remembered. And she felt so horrible and stupid and guilty, because how could she have forgotten in the first place?

The no fell out of her in a whisper, but she didn't repeat herself when he asked what she had said. She simply walked out of the shop and took the rest of the day off. She spent it crying in her bed, all of the memories of that week—the week that changed the entire course of her existence, that showed her what beauty mankind has to offer when given the chance—bathing her mind until she was numb and unable to shed any more tears.

He left only one thing behind. Darcy keeps it stored behind her work clothes in her closet, locked in a box to which she has the only key. It's safe in there and she never takes it out no matter how badly she wants to. Well, at first. That night, when her face was dry and her hiccups were dying down, she went to her closet and retrieved the baseball cap. The box must be airtight, because the frayed, worn fabric still held his scent.

With him, he took one of John's old hats along with the rest of her ex's clothes. He said he was going to dump them in the Potomac and let them be eaten by the bull sharks that brave the freshwater.

It was the last thing he said before he said goodbye for the last time.

"Hey, are you okay?"

Darcy blinks. She feels a tear slither down her cheek with the motion. Clearing her throat, she swipes at the droplet and forces herself to smile apologetically at Richard. "I'm fine," she lies, a heaviness weighing in her chest. It's as if she can't breathe anymore. As if the oxygen is depleting around them. "I can't go out with you, though. Sorry."

Richard shrugs. "Worth a shot," he says, but he remains seated. Obviously he has more to say. He has started bouncing his leg. "I know who you are, by the way. You're the woman who wrote that article about the Winter Soldier."

"I am," she states, not phased by his identification.

People come up to her a lot and say some variation of that. Her article was popular when it first came out, but especially popular after the destruction of the Avengers two years ago. That whole shebang brought up the question of the former assassin's nature. Was he good, was he bad, was he evil, or was he some strange combination of all three. It was a rough few weeks when everyone wanted her take on the matter. She spent a lot of nights with the baseball cap during that time.

"You're an excellent writer," Richard commends. "I never thought I'd feel sorry for that guy, but you got me to sympathise with him. A lot, actually. I don't think an article has ever changed my mind so severely."

Another tear threatens its escape. Darcy pretends to adjust her glasses and gathers the annoying bastard on her thumb. "Wow. Thanks. I don't think anyone's ever said something like that about my writing before."

The journalists spend the next half-hour chatting about various subjects involving the Avengers. She is careful not to let anything slip. Since Rob, she has been overly cautious whenever someone brings up the alien crimefighters, but Richard acts like any normal fan.

Darcy is able to keep herself from breaking down every time his name—his, like she can't even think it—is mentioned.

When her goosebumps start feeling like they'll never go away, and the sweat at her armpits starts to get uncomfortable, Darcy bids her new Canadian friend farewell. He apologises for asking her on a date, and she isn't sure if that's commendable or another jackass move.

The walk to her motel isn't a long one, but she is panting and the back of her black slim-fit trousers are covered in yellow dust when she passes the creeper at the front desk. She is immensely pleased her boss isn't there to force her to wear heels.

After entering her mustard-painted, musk-scented room, Darcy throws her glasses on the bed, kicks her shoes off, and starts unbuttoning her white blouse before she senses something is off. Instantly, fear trickles through her bloodstream, followed soon by a rush of adrenaline. She reaches, quite blindly, for her glasses and surveys the room. Nothing appears out of place. The window is bolted shut. The stained sheet on the bed hasn't been disturbed.

But then she hears it. A rustling. The noise is so slight and faint, but it's there. It brushes against her eardrum and forces her to turn her head.

He stands by the window. He wasn't there a moment ago—a blink ago—but he is there now, like a phantom who just decided to reveal himself to the living. Dressed in average clothes, jeans and a t-shirt, he is unmoving in the blinding light of the setting sun.

"Bucky," she rasps. All of the air in her lungs, all of the air in the entire world, disappears. Her heart bashes against her ribs. Her veins suddenly constrict and the edges of her vision start blurring.

She is going to pass out. Her phantom seems to sense this too. He moves towards her. He maybe even says her name, though she cannot be certain. She feels herself falling backwards, but, of course, she isn't falling for very long. As her mind blacks out and her eyes close, a heavy warmth invades her senses and stops her from hitting the gross motel carpet, and she is sure she has had this dream before.

He is there when she opens her eyes. Perched at the end of the bed, facing the mirrored closet. Bucky Barnes watches her come awake.

His hair is long. Longer. It's past his shoulders now. Instead of mere stubble, the lower half of his handsome face is covered in a thick beard. There are more lines marring his skin. Some are scars, some are the result of stress and anger. But his eyes are the same. Blue, attentive.

The metal arm is gone, but she knew it would be. Steve had been good to her and kept her updated on everything he could before he had to cut off communication with her. When Bucky's name started popping up again in connection to the murder of the Wakandan king, Steve called the burner he gave her the night Bucky left and explained what was happening.

[She runs into the bathroom and locks the door. White spots appear on the wall in front of her. Closing her eyes, she takes in stuttered breaths and opens the ancient-looking mobile. She presses the green phone symbol. Holds the object to her ear.

"Steve," she chokes.

"It wasn't him, Darcy," he says immediately. "I swear it wasn't. They've got the wrong guy."

All morning, Bucky's face has been flashing on television screens across the world, the word SUSPECT written beneath a zoomed-in still of him walking in an underground garage. They keep calling him the Winter Soldier. Like he doesn't have a name.

Darcy has been at work trying to keep it together, but hearing Steve's voice has sent her sliding down the bathroom door to the floor. She is crumbling. Soon enough, she will be in so many pieces she won't be able to mend herself in time for the day's mandatory lunch meeting.

"I think I know where he is," he says.

Darcy nods before she remembers Steven can't actually see her. "Okay," she says, saliva sticking to her lips in lines as her mouth parts. She rubs at her eyes. "Why is this happening to him, Steve?"

There is no answer for a few agonising seconds. Darcy hears Captain America's strained breaths.

"I . . . I don't know. Maybe someone's got a vendetta against him? Maybe he's just the easiest target. I'll find that part out later. In the meantime, Darcy, don't worry. Sam and I are going to find him and we're going to help him. Okay?"

She almost doesn't believe him. That image they're using of him—or not him; whoever the fuck it is parading around as him—keeps circulating in her head. She sees it on the wall in place of those white dots.

But Bucky is not the Winter Soldier. Not anymore. HYDRA don't control him like they used to. He is good, getting better all of the time. Everything will be okay as long as the rest of the world understands that.

"Okay," she says.

"I've got to go. Stay strong, Darcy. I'll keep him safe for you."

She goes to her meeting with her heart sitting uncomfortably in her stomach. She doesn't say anything until her name is called to discuss the hot political topics of the coming week, but even as she goes over her notes, she has to stop herself several times from saying Bucky's name.]

He phoned again when the so-called Civil War was over to tell her he found Bucky a safe place, but he wouldn't tell her where. Only that he was sleeping now and when he woke up he would be getting help from the locals. His rehabilitation had begun and she wasn't there to witness it.

That was two years ago. Steve hadn't called her since, which wasn't surprising. He was on the run from the entire US government. And probably a few other governments as well. The entire United Nations were waiting for him to come crawling on his knees to them, handcuffs already on, the Winter Soldier frothing at the mouth beside him.

Darcy lifts herself on her elbows and scoots backwards until she sits against the headboard. She can see how screwed up her hair looks in the mirror, but she is beyond caring about such trivial things.

"Steve told me you were here," he says, quiet.

Darcy sucks in a broken gallon of air. She sounds like a small dog choking on a piece of bread. His voice runs to her. It settles against her skin. Sinks inside of her.

"How did he know where I was?" she asks, amazed she is able to form any coherent thought. Her mind is whirring like a ceiling fan going full speed.

"He knows everything."

"He does seem to."

Is this awkward? she wonders to herself, panic rising. It feels like it might be awkward!

This is not how she imagined their reunion. For starters, she was not supposed to faint when she first saw him. But she had been thinking about him so much already that day with Richard bringing up the article and then he was right there, and her mind, her body, could not take the shock.

Second, she had hoped to know when they were going to find each other again. So she could prepare herself mentally and physically. In all of her fantasies, the Seaside Motel—which was nowhere near any body of water, let alone the sea—was not in any of them.

Maybe she had imagined that week with Bucky Barnes. Reworked all of their interactions to make it seem as though the heady romantic air between them was mutually felt.

No, that is a ridiculous thought. He would not be here at this horrifically disgusting motel, tempting the UN to barge through the single window in the room, just to catch up with a buddy.

Everything that week was real. All of the tears, the kisses. . .

All of it was real.

Bucky stands suddenly, startling Darcy so bad she can taste her kidneys. He draws nearer, drifting closer to her with his head downturned. His eyes never leave hers, as if he is afraid that looking away will cause her to disappear.

She is properly shaking by the time he sits on the bed and angles himself towards her. The diminishing light streaming through the window the other side of the room shrouds him in a soft glow. Absently, Darcy reaches out to him. Her hand connects with his rough cheek. His eyes close, because feeling her is apparently even better than seeing her, and his haggard breaths soak through the palm of her hand.

Fuck this, she thinks. Darcy drops her hand and scrambles onto her knees. Before Bucky can open his eyes, or ask what is happening, she throws her arms around him and buries her face in his neck. If he is surprised by her attack, he doesn't show it. Bucky pauses briefly, but soon his arm is clutching her waist so tight she can feel him touching her liver.

It's like he's sinking into her. Collapsing. She feels his lungs shake with every one of his staccato breaths.

"I love you," she blurts. Escaping the curtain of his hair, she brushes strands away from his eyes, tucks them behind his ears, and says, "I should have told you before you left, but I didn't. I—I don't know why I didn't."

Bucky looks at her as if she has just spoken in a foreign language. His eyes are thin, his forehead creased. That line appears between his eyebrows.

Shock, she realises. Disbelief as well, perhaps.

He bows against her. Their foreheads connect. She grips the collar of his white shirt to stop herself from trembling.

"I love you too." He says the words slowly, like he's feeling them out. Darcy's eyes shut and she presses further into him. "I've missed you," he adds. "So much. You have no idea how many times I thought about running back to DC."

Darcy laughs through her tears and opens her eyes. She lifts her head. Bucky's blue eyes are like the ocean. Waves crash against his eyelashes.

"I missed you," she says. "But you're here. We don't have to miss each other anymore."

They lie together on the bed, and it is as though the last three years melt away. He tells his side of the Civil War. Of his decision to go into the chamber to wait for a cure. Darcy listens intently as he explains how surprised he was when he woke up. He had expected to be under for decades. And he spoke of his healing. Of the Wakandan people who called him the White Wolf and helped him return to the man he once was. He praises Shuri, the Black Panther's sister. He calls her the smartest person to have ever been born.

The sun is gone and the room is bathed in black when he finishes his story. Hers can wait for the coming morning.

Darcy props herself on her elbow and leans forward, finding Bucky's lips in the darkness. He responds immediately, holding her tight. His mouth opens. The warmth of his tongue ignites her skin.

She pulls away, just for a moment. The moonlight washes his face in silver. He doesn't say anything as she studies him. He only smiles.

A/N 2: And just like that, it's over!

Really, thank you. For the support, the comments, the favourites, and follows. Every piece of yourself you gave to this story, I cannot thank you enough. I hope you all were able to keep up with the slight time jump. We're now caught up with the current period in the MCU. Bucky is healed and ready to fight with his Avenger buddies. And Darcy will be crossing her fingers he makes it out alive (and so will I!).

Love to you all,

Bethany