AN: So I changed the summary a bit, but I think this explains it better. Enjoy this chapter! I'm always one chapter ahead with writing, so Chapter 3 is done. Review, review, review! I tried to keep everyone in character, but we'll get more in depth next chapter. Thanks to those of you who reviewed! I'll reply individually in a few hours, after work.

Chapter 2

The knock at the door roused Mo from sleep. Her eyes flitter open and she rolled over, looking at the door until the knock sounded again.

"Mo?" It was Sam. "Rise and shine, baby girl."

"I'm up," she called around a smile. "Give me a sec."

She saw up slowly. Her leg was leaning against the nightstand, but she didn't feel like putting it on just now. The door wasn't too far. She swung herself out of bed and, placing her arm against the wall, used to the balance as she hopped toward the door.

"Don't com in yet," she murmured against the crack. "Not till I say."

"Alright," he said as she unlocked the door and hurried as best she could back into bed. She slid in and pulled the covers over her lower body before calling Sam in. He poked his head around, smiled, and headed over to her, perching at the foot of the bed, taking up the space where her missing leg should have been.

"Nice hair," he teased, and she mumbled out a groan and attempted to flatten it with her hands.

"What's up?" she asked.

"Steve thought I should wake you and 'brief' you on the situation," he said, then tilted his head toward the door. "Steve!" he hollered. "Come on in."

"She's decent?" Steve's voice drifted down the hall. Sam looked at Mo, one brow raised. Mo always slept in stretchy spandex shorts and a sports bra. She shrugged. Yeah, she was decent.

"Yeah," Sam called, and Steve opened the door. She saw his eyes go immediately to the prosthetic and a look of sympathy flashed, but then he smiled a warm, heart-melting smile at Mo, and she flushed.

"So," she said, clearing her throat.

"Right," Sam said as Steve came closer. "You wanna take the lead here, buddy?"

Steve bobbed his head. "The other man in this apartment is—he's an old friend of mine. My best friend," Steve murmured, his eyes lost for a moment before they cleared. "He's in a bad place right now, been through the ringer. He's suffering."

"It's bad," Sam added.

"It is," Steve agreed. "He's—he's anxious, all the time. Tense. Frightened."

"Angry," Sam went on. "Mean."

"Scared," Steve interrupted defensively. "Lost. Confused."

"He can be an asshole," Sam said blandly, and Steve shook his head.

"Think of what he's been through." Sam shrugged one shoulder. "He—there's good days and there's bad days."

"What's today?"

"Too soon to tell," Steve murmured with a quirk of his mouth. "He's in the kitchen now, though. We told him about you. He knows why you're here."

"How'd he take it?"

"Alright," Steve allowed. "He's—more rational today."

"What's wrong with him?"

"What isn't?" Sam said. "It's a lot. He's pretty messed up—you know he is," Sam added with a look at Steve. "He usually refuses help, definitely doesn't want doctors or anyone from SHIELD, too risky."

"Some days he's more raitonal than others," Steve went on. "Some days he understands that he needs help. Others, he refuses it."

"That's putting it lightly," Sam said mildly. "But he won't talk to either of us. So we told him we were bringing in someone else, someone he could trust, and he seemed less… skittish."

Mo stared at them. She noticed Steve's eyes were avoiding looking anywhere but at her face, and she smiled a little, remembering her clothing, or lack thereof. But then she narrowed her eyes, down to business. "What aren't you telling me?"

Steve and Sam exchanged a glance. "Tell her, man. She can handle it."

"Handle what?"

"The ah—soldier—you're going to meet. Well, he's… he's kind of…"

"He's the Winter Soldier," Sam blurted out, and Mo laughed. Right. The Winter Soldier. But when their faces didn't change, the smile slowly slid off her face.

"The… what. No." She laughed shortly. "Isn't that guy, like, a murderer or whatever?"

"Was." Steve said sharply. "And he was an assassin. But he is my bet friend. His name is Bucky Barnes—"

"Wasn't this dude all over the news not too long ago? Like, this is a joke right? Right, Sam?" She looked into his face and it was uncharacteristically sober. Her heart sank. "No, this guy needs more help than what I can offer. He needs—"

"Mo, you got this," Sam urged. "See, it's a funny situation."

"Funny? Oh, do tell," she said sarcastically, glaring. "This guy will kill me."

"He won't," Steve said.

"Sam, explain. Now."

"He's the Winter Soldier," Sam said quickly. "But he's also some dude named Bucky. Bucky Barnes."

"I need a better explanation, Sam!"

"Okay, okay! I mean, it's like he's got two personalities, alright? Like, sometimes he's Bucky, and he's rational and just like—well he's still crazy, but he's not like psycho-killer crazy, you know? When he's Bucky, he's just a guy with PTSD, same as we were. But sometimes he's this other dude, the Winter Soldier—"

"Is he dangerous?"

"No," Steve said just as Sam said "Maybe."

She stared them down. "When he's the Soldier, he's not violent," Sam said. "He's just angry. Kinda an asshole, like I said. Dark, quiet."

"This isn't my line of work, Sam. I'm not even studying dissociative identity disorder. which is what this sounds like. I mean, I've taken classes, but I don't know how to merge his personalities. I study PTSD and memory—"

"The dude's got PTSD," Sam said. "It's a major problem. He's also got terrible memory issues. When he's the Soldier, he can't remember anything, he gets flashbacks, and he doesn't know Bucky exists. He thinks he's only the Winter Soldier. When he's this Bucky character, he still can't remember much about himself, but he remembers the things he's done as the Winter Soldier. He knows the Winter Soldier exists, in his mind. But the PTSD is the most important issue—"

Mo's eyes sparkled for a moment, clearly intrigued as she breathed, "So that makes Bucky the host," before she remembered she was supposed to be angry. She glared. "I think the multiple personalities are the most important issue."

"Well, study up, nerd," Sam teased. Mo rubbed her eyes.

"I—I don't even know—"

"Yes you do. You said you'd learned about it in classes."

"You brought me here under false pretenses," she snapped.

"I did not!" Sam said defensively. "Mo, come on, you're already here. We're not asking for miracles, just—just meet the guy, alright? Just meet him. And if you don't want to help, you can leave."

Meet the Winter Soldier, she thought incredulously. Well, now it all made sense. Now she knew why he had picked her instead of a professional. But working with DID, dissociative identity disorder, wasn't easy. They would have to reconcile the personalities, which were probably struggling for dominance, and—

"Well?" Sam asked. "What do you say?"

"I say you're an ass," she growled.

"You won't be alone in this," Steve offered gently. "Sam and I are going to help. We'll be a team."

"Get out of my room."

"Is that a yes?" Sam asked.

She hit him with a pillow and he grinned, grabbing Steve, who looked immensely worried, by the arm and dragging him out with him.

Bucky—was that even his name? His mind spun. Didn't feel right. He paced from the fridge to the table and back again. Steve—Steve, who he knew, who he was familiar with, who was something steady—had told him about this person who was going to help, though he hadn't said much. Bucky wasn't a fool. He knew he was crazy. He knew he needed help. But he also knew that this was a huge risk. And then there was the whole issue of his pride—

"Buck?"

Bucky turned around, massaging his throbbing forehead, and his eyes fell on Steve. It was strange, somehow knowing that he knew Steve Rogers, knowing that Steve Rogers could be trusted, but then not knowing much about Steve Rogers. Steve had told them they were friends, and he had believed him. What else would explain the calm that sometimes came over him whenever Steve was around? But it was all so jumbled and confusing. He hated the way Steve looked at him, his eyes alight with such hope and fondness. He didn't deserve it. Not after the things he had done.

He wasn't a fool. He knew he'd been tortured and brainwashed. He knew he had done awful things, but those things were vague. He just got them back in painful flashes, leaving him crippled, guilt-ridden. The strangest things would trigger those memories. Bucky closed his eyes. Don't go there, don't go there, don't go there—

"Hey." A strong hand on his shoulder and his eyes snapped open. "Come back to me, buddy." Bucky nodded and rubbed at his burning eyes. "Sam's friend wants to meet you."

Bucky clenched his jaw and nodded stiffly. His body was shaking for some reason. He felt hot. Flustered. His head pounded. A look of sympathy moved Steve's features. "We're gonna help you," Steve said, squeezing his shoulder and removing his hand. Bucky backed away a little, avoiding eye contact. There was movement down the hall, drawing his gaze, and he tried to focus on it rather than the turmoil inside.

Sam stepped into view first. Bucky didn't really feel one way or the other about him. Feeling anything about anyone was just too exhausting for him. There were footsteps behind him; Bucky could hear them clearly, and his improved senses and strength only served as reminders to the fact that he had become a monster. He swallowed convulsively. He hated the way he listened to those footsteps; instinctually, and like a predator, noting that they were off slightly, like the person had a limp, and a limp meant weakness, and he hated that he recognized and was soothed by this.

"Hey," Sam said, unease clearly in his voice. Bucky said nothing.

"Bucky," Steve said, drawing the others closer. "This is Sam's friend. Moriah Fox." A woman? Bucky suddenly felt fury pump through him, white hot. Something like betrayal. Steve was till speaking. "…Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes."

"Pleasure," the woman said, and he saw her offer her brown hand to him. He refused to look at her face, to look at any part of her, staring around the room. He thought to intimidate her, and offered her his metal arm, smirking slightly, expecting her to cringe away. There was a palpable tension in the air, and he was surprised as she grasped the hand firmly in hers.

"Wow," she said, sounding awed. She flipped his hand over in hers, now touching it with both hands. He was alarmed. "How'd you get lucky enough to get one of these? Mine's just like—wow, this is advanced."

This caught his attention and he glanced at her, still avoiding eye contact, and looked at her body instead. And he understood. The scars, and the—she was missing a limb, and it had been replaced by a clunky prosthetic, one that looked almost comical in comparison to his. And he understood. He snatched his hand away and rounded on Steve, suddenly furious.

"This is who you thought to bring to meet me?" He demanded. "Some little girl? Steve, look at her. She's not even whole. I could crush her as easily as breathing."

"I—" Steve started, but the woman cut him off.

"Excuse you? Little girl?" The woman seemed to puff up. "My name is Sergeant Moriah Fox, soldier," she spit. "I was a level three combat medic for the United States Army. I served seven months in Afghanistan before I got blown up. We're the same rank. Show some respect."

He was taken aback, to say the least. Her voice held that military authority. He glanced at Steve, then at Sam, who was grinning, and then at the girl—well, not at her, but at a point past her shoulder. He still didn't know what she looked like.

"And I'm here to help you," she went on, her voice still authoritative, but slightly less biting. "I suffered from posttraumatic stress disorder and posttraumatic memory loss myself after the incident. I know what you're going through."

At this he chuckled darkly. "With all due respect, ma'am," he said. "You have no idea what I'm going through." He thought a moment before adding, "And you do have my respect."

"And you have mine," she said. Then she sighed softly, limped over to the table, and sat. "They told me some of what happened to you," she offered. "I'm sorry."

"I don't need your pity," he growled.

"Bucky," Steve said, a warning in his voice. Bucky sighed. He was aware of the woman staring at him. There was an awkward silence, and finally she spoke.

"Can I see your eyes?"

"What?"

"Your eyes. Can I see them? Look at me." He hesitated. He knew what his eyes were like. Blue. Dark. Shadowed. He looked up at her, his eyes settling on her face until she met his eyes; hers were a warm, earthy green standing out against her caramel-colored skin. He met them for only a moment before he looked away quickly. Hers were plain, open, without judgment. He felt like she saw right through him, and it made him nervous. Eye contact always made him nervous. He felt trapped suddenly. The room was too small, closing in.

"I, uh," he said blankly. "I'm going to go."

"Bucky," Steve said gently. "You're okay." He felt Steve's fingers brush the skin of his arm and he spun away, knocking his hand back roughly and jostling the kitchen table. He backed away from them, back down the hall toward the bathroom where he slept. They all thought it was strange, but he had made it his. It was his safe place. He would go there, and he would hide for hours, mentally tormenting himself, ripping himself to shreds, berating himself and drowning in his shame and guilt and worthlessness. It was always the same.

He was aware of everyone staring at him, and he understood. He seemed to be having a silent meltdown. He hated the way his voice was rough and shook when he spoke:

"Leave me alone."

"Well, that was interesting," Mo said dryly. Steve slumped into the wooden chair across from her. "He seems… nice."

Sam laughed. "You did good," he said.

"I said, like, three words to the guy and he nearly went catatonic," she said, referring to the way he had suddenly locked up in the kitchen, stock still, shaking.

"He does that," Sam allowed. "So what's your plan?"

Mo shook her head. "I need to think. But I'll talk to him later tonight, maybe."

"Just," Steve started, his voice softer so Bucky wouldn't hear. "Be gentle with him, okay?"

"I won't push him unless he needs to be pushed," Mo replied. "Don't worry." Steve didn't look soothed. Mo sighed, racking her brain. He definitely had a problem with eye contact. And with pity. And he was clearly worried about snapping her in two; he thought her weak, which was probably true. He could easily break her; he was about six inches taller than she was and he was much larger. Not quite as large as Steve, who was only slightly taller, but large enough. To be honest, he frightened her. But that look in his eyes when he had gone "catatonic" as she had said… that was the look that would convince her to stay and help. Not just for him, but Steve, as well. His face had been heartbreaking to watch through the entire exchange.

She sighed, rubbing her eyes. She just needed to get to know him, first, in order to learn how to approach him.

Steve invited him to dinner later that night, but he refused. He hadn't emerged since their exchange. She heard little bumps from the bathroom, occasionally—and apparently no one knew why he had confined himself to a bathroom, of all places. But she was thoroughly intrigued. And, like most people, she was drawn to the broken ones. But her stomach was in knots. She had to be careful around him, for fear of triggering or upsetting him further. But she was so fascinated. Right now, she just wanted to know everything.

Steve and Sam were speaking over dinner while she sat in silence, considering. But all three of them jumped and turned toward the bathroom when there was a low, muffled cry, a thud, and a crash. Steve and Mo were on their feet quickly, but Sam grabbed Steve's arm, shaking his head.

"You're a little overbearing sometimes, bro," he said calmly, as though these sounds were a regular occurrence. "Let her go. This is why she's here."

Mo glanced over her shoulder at Steve; his expression was wounded, but he nodded her forward.

AN: Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you thought! Like I said, more in depth next chapter, which is written and just needs to be posted. :)