AN: Gosh, I love writing this. This one is a longer chapter, and was tons of fun to write. Bucky I'm enjoying writing; I just love the little scenes he gets in here, and I'm having fun developing his character, and Mo as well. I feel like we get a much better look at them both here. I hope you guys enjoy this one as much as I did, please leave some feedback! :)

Chapter 4

"How is he?" Mo asked, looking up from her plate at Steve, who had just entered the kitchen after having spoken to Barnes. Sam, who was sitting next to her, crunched on a piece of bacon and looked expectantly at Steve.

"We in for a good day or a bad day?" he asked.

Steve smiled a little. "It's a good day," he said, serving himself some food.

"He coming out?"

"Eventually," Steve said, and by Sam's expression, Mo figured this was a rare occurrence. Steve sat across from her and Sam, and Mo's eyes widened slightly at the amount of food on his plate. Then again, he was a super soldier. She could only imagine how much food he needed to keep up with his metabolism. "Good morning," he said to Mo as he sat.

"Morning," she replied around a smile, taking a bite of her eggs. She twisted her fork around in her fingers thoughtfully. "So when he comes out," she started, referring to Barnes, but never finished. The bathroom door opened and all heads turned to look in its direction as Barnes entered the kitchen. Though she had only seen him twice—once when they first met, and once when he had apologized—he looked different, somehow. More put together, in a sense, even though his face was drawn and tense.

He looked up at them when he entered, his blue eyes switching to each of them in turn. Mo smiled. "Speak of the devil," she said. "Good morning." He stood where he was for a moment, looking uncertain.

"Good morning," he finally replied.

His cheeks were gaunt, his mouth thin, his eyes shadowed. A light shadow of stubble lined his jaw, and his eyebrows were drawn, creased in the middle. He had tied his brown hair back, but little wisps had escaped. He looked thin, tired—not to say he was skinny. That wasn't the case; he was near Steve in size. But the hollows in his cheeks and eyes suggested it had been a while since he'd eaten or gotten a good night's sleep.

She watched his eyes flick to Steve. "Grab some chow," Steve said, voice warm and friendly as ever. He motioned to the chair beside him, across from Mo, tugging it out slightly. "Care to join us?"

Again, it took him a while to respond, but he finally nodded. Mo's eyes traced him for a moment as he made his way around the kitchen, and she couldn't help but think what a strange sight it was, this huge man meandering around a kitchen, dressed entirely in black with a glove on his metal hand (to hide it from view?) and a dark expression, shoveling bacon onto a suddenly delicate-looking little glass plate. He looked so uncertain, entirely out of his element, his shoulders hunched slightly, and Mo's heart went out to him. She understood. It was a feeling they all could relate to, having returned from war and being thrust into a different, normal world. It was a difficult adjustment; it was hard to suddenly go from using your hands for war to using them to do something as normal as pick up a piece of bacon.

Mo looked at Sam and he met her eyes, and the look on his face told her he understood, too. They'd both been there, and she knew Steve had as well. He had had to adjust to a completely different decade. The room was painfully silent as Barnes moved around, and Mo couldn't take it. Even Sam looked uncomfortable, and she suspected that he was feeling the same thing she was.

"Forks are in the top drawer to your right," Sam said. "Yeah, right there."

Barnes grabbed one and came to join them, sitting across from Mo. Judging by the silence and the looks on Sam and Steve's faces, she guessed this was unusual. Surprisingly, Barnes was the first to speak. He leaned his elbows on the table, fork in hand, and looked at Mo.

"So," he said. "How are you going to fix me?" He wore a wry little smile. Mo licked her lips.

"Do you think you're broken?" she asked, watching his face. He laughed a little, avoiding eye contact and shaking his head slightly, that smile spreading.

"Do you remember what you said to me last night?" he asked. "About my demons?" She nodded. He grinned, leaning toward her slightly over the table. "Well, let's just say I think my demons could wipe the floor with yours."

"Sergeant Barnes," she said with a little tilt of her head. "Did you just make a joke?" He chuckled a little, shaking his head and sitting back in his seat. "Well," she said, "maybe that's true, but it doesn't answer my question." The smile was completely gone from his face now. He stabbed an egg with his fork and inspected it.

"Broken," he repeated. She watched him glance at Steve from the corner of his eye, looking uncomfortable. Finally he nodded. It was quiet for a beat.

"I had nightmares," Sam said suddenly. His eyes were distant. "And I mean nightmares. The kind where you wake up in pieces." Mo looked at him and squeezed his bicep briefly, giving a little smile. Sam had been in her profession; she knew what he was doing, sharing his own experiences so that Barnes felt less alienated and more comfortable. You couldn't expect someone to open up while remaining closed off yourself. "I don't know what was worse, the nightmares or the flashbacks." He shook his head a little, scrubbing a hand over his face. Steve didn't speak; his face was cool, composed, sympathetic.

"The flashbacks," Barnes said softly, and Mo's eyes snapped to him. "It's definitely the flashbacks."

Mo was nodding slowly. The mood had suddenly gone very dark. "When mine happened," she said, "they'd be triggered by a sound or—or a color. And all of a sudden it was like I wasn't there anymore—I was back in Afghanistan with blood on my hands." She could see Barnes nodding along.

"I can't move," Barnes continued. "I can't do anything until it passes. I'm just trapped."

"In your own body," Sam finished. Barnes swallowed convulsively; she could see the motion in his throat as he blinked and turned his face away.

Mo sighed softly and looked at Steve. Their eyes held for a moment before she lifted her hand, waving it in a circle, motioning to each of them. It caught Barnes's attention and he looked up. She caught his eye briefly, but it didn't hold. "We're all a little broken," she said softly. "Well, I don't know about Steve, but I know about Sam and me. And we're definitely a little broken."

Sam didn't make a smart comeback or quip. He just looked at Barnes. "You'll be okay, man." And Barnes suddenly looked extremely uncomfortable, like he wanted to run.

"What normally triggers you?" Mo asked Barnes. "If you don't mind the question."

Barnes shrugged. "It can be anything. Something I see, a sound, a taste."

"What are the flashbacks normally of?"

Barnes hunched his shoulders, fidgeted, stared at the table. Mo caught him glancing at Steve again, flinching a little as Steve grasped his shoulder supportively, Barnes's upper lip drawing back from his teeth slightly. And then it clicked; there was something between them, something that was making it difficult for Barnes, and it made sense. Mo tapped Sam's thigh, caught his eye, and nodded at the exchange. Sam looked, then looked at Mo again. She jerked her chin toward a different room, and Sam understood.

"Hey," Sam said, standing suddenly. The movement had been too sudden, though, and Barnes was startled. Steve glanced up from Barnes to look at Sam. "Wanna go play some ball?"

Steve's brow creased. "But—"

"Come on," Sam said. "Just a quick game."

"I—oh. Alright," Steve said, understanding in his eyes. He stood slowly, giving Barnes's shoulder a squeeze looking reluctant. "We'll be right outside," he said, and Mo's heart sped up a little. She didn't want them to go outside. What if something went wrong with Barnes? What if she needed something? Her palms started to sweat a little as the door closed behind them, but she turned to Barnes with a smile. He chuckled darkly.

"Could they be more obvious?" He tapped his fingers on the table. Mo, trying to steady her pulse, scooted her chair closer and leaned closer to Barnes across the table. He looked up at her. "You're not afraid?"

"Afraid of what?"

"Me."

Afraid? She was afraid. Nervous. Jittery. But she shook her head. "Should I be?" His eyes flicked up to hers. He nodded slowly. "Why?"

"I… I don't know. I don't remember." He grimaced like he was in pain. Steve had told her last night that he couldn't remember the specifics of the Winter Soldier, couldn't remember ever being that man; all he got was flashbacks, fear, nightmares that suggested he had done awful things and had awful things done to him.

"But you think I should be afraid," she repeated.

"I've done terrible things."

"We all have," she said gently.

"Not like me. You can't possibly understand what it's like in here." He tapped his temple. "I'm nuts. My brain is scrambled."

"Feels like your body's waging war on you, doesn't it?" she asked softly. He nodded. "Granted, I haven't been through what you've been through, but I can understand the feeling, even if it's not the same."

"What was it like for you?" Mo took a deep breath. She really, really didn't like to think about it or dwell on the past. She knew it was unhealthy, and she actively told others not to avoid the past, to accept it and to come to terms with it, but it was difficult, and she understood that. She must have taken too long to answer, because he finally said: "You don't have to answer. I shouldn't have pried."

"It was awful," she said, ignoring him. "While I was in Afghanistan, I killed two men. It wasn't my job. I was a medic; I was supposed to save people. But I was—am—trained to kill, and I didn't have a choice. So I had nightmares about that for a while. But the explosion was the worst part for me. I couldn't remember it right away, but the pieces came back. Flashbacks, nightmares, like you said. I was in a bad place. I was jumpy, anxious…" Barnes was nodding. "You feel any of that?"

"All the time," he said.

"It's PTSD. It's common in those who've seen combat. Sam and I both went through it. Steve too, probably."

"How do I fix it?"

"You just… I don't know. I needed medication," she confessed. "Anti-anxiety meds, anti-depressants. It helped. But talking to people really did it. But the tricky part is you just want to be left alone, right?" He nodded. "I spent a lot of time alone, pushing people away. They just wanted to help, but I wasn't ready."

"I'm ready," Barnes rasped. "I have to be."

Mo thought for a moment. "Steve," she finally said, and his reaction was immediate. His face was drawn again, conflicted. "He gets to you, doesn't he?"

"He's my friend," but he sounded lost. Confused.

"You tense up whenever he's around, Barnes."

"He—I'm confused," Barnes murmured. "Sometimes he makes me feel better, but mostly…"

"He has faith in you," Mo said gently.

"That's the problem. His faith is misplaced." Mo tilted her head, and he went on. She was surprised; she hadn't expected to get this much out of him. Then again, this was the easy stuff. They hadn't even scratched the surface.

"Maybe not," Mo said. "You should hear the way he talks about you—"

"That's the problem!" Mo started slightly, flinched a little. Barnes was suddenly shouting, and his body went rigid. His face was a mix of emotions, none of them good.

"Barnes," she said softly. "Calm down."

"He has no idea—if he knew—" Still shouting, he knocked a glass from the table where it shattered on impact with his hand—the metal one, she realized, and she tensed, suddenly very aware that he had two good legs and one impossibly strong metal arm, and that she had one leg and was half-blind. If this went bad, the odds were not in her favor.

"Barnes," Mo tried again, and he seemed lost to her for a moment. "Barnes, please."

He took a deep breath, his fists clenched on the table, then bowed his head and covered his face with his hands, his muscles relaxing. Mo's heart pounded in her throat, threatening to choke her. Her fingers were twitchy and she folded them in her lap, adjusting her expression, hoping she didn't look alarmed. He looked up after a few moments, his blue eyes stormy.

"I'm sorry," he said, voice husky.

"It's okay," she replied, her voice warm, understanding.

"I frightened you."

"No, you didn't."

"I can see the pulse in your neck," he countered. "Your heart is pounding." She clapped a hand over her neck and he leaned back in his seat, laughing mirthlessly. "Isn't that something?" he asked. "I can see the pulse in your neck. I can read you and your body language like a book, so that I know how to attack you. And his faith isn't misplaced?"

Mo swallowed. The look on his face was heartbreaking; scared, pleading, but he was right. She was more than a little scared. "You're gonna get through this, Barnes," was all she said. He looked at her helplessly, shaking his head.

She understood a lot more about Steve now though, just from that exchange. Barnes was definitely conflicted, and Steve's presence both helped and hurt him. And, she thought, the fact that Steve had once been the Winter Soldier's target probably didn't help things either. She thought for a while in the silence that followed, noticing that he hadn't really touched his food.

"You should eat," she finally said. He stabbed an egg and took a bite, swallowing it down quickly. She sighed into the silence that fell again.

"I'm nuts," he whispered after a few minutes. She smiled a little.

"So, you're brain's a little sick." She shrugged. "That's okay." At this he laughed softly, shaking his head, and she was determined to move on from the topic of Steve, to something lighter, perhaps. His arm caught her eye again; he was wearing a black long sleeve with a black glove on the one hand. She quirked her eyebrows. "What's with the glove?"

He looked down at his hand and balled it into a fist. His stomach turned with revulsion at the thought of it and he pulled it off the table, hiding it from view.

"It's repulsive," he said. She did that thing—that little head tilt she did when her interest had been piqued, when she was curious about something. She would tilt her head just slightly to the right, always the right, and her eyebrows would scrunch up a little.

"Repulsive?" she echoed.

"It's an abomination," he replied, voice rough. Her mouth puckered and her eyes looked sad. He flexed his fingers beneath the table.

"Why do you say that? I—it's incredible." He thought suddenly of her own fake limb and shook his head, running a hand over his hair, some of it falling loose around his face.

"It's just a tool," he said darkly. "I'm not going to talk about this."

"Alright," she said, raising her hands in surrender. He noticed that they shook, only slightly, something that others wouldn't notice. But he did. "Can I see it?" she asked, and her eyes were hopeful. He started to shake his head, but he faltered. Was there a reason for this? Was it part of the process? He wanted to get better, he reminded himself. Whatever it takes.

He hadn't made his decision yet when she said, "I'll show you mine if you show me yours," with a coy little smile that, maybe a long, long time ago, he would have thought was flirtatious. Maybe he would have said something clever in return. "I'm kidding," she said. "You don't have to."

He couldn't do it. He couldn't stand the sight of it, much less show it off to someone else. "Maybe another time," he said.

"I understand," she replied with a small smile. "When I first got mine, I couldn't stand the sight of it. Yours is much nicer, though."

"Nice," he spit the word like a curse. "It's a weapon."

"Sorry, you're right. That was really insensitive."

Insensitive. He was the definition of the word, yet she was apologizing.

"You know," she mused, "they make these things called designer prosthetics now." She looked longingly down at her leg. "Ridiculous, isn't it? But if I could afford one, I would have it."

"How much of your leg is missing?"

She raised an eyebrow at him and he looked away. "Above the knee," she said, "mid-thigh." Then, as if to add on, she said, "My right eye is fake, too. But that looks more realistic, at least."

At this he glanced up and looked at her face, studying it intently. He hadn't noticed before; all he had noticed was the ropy scar slicing through her right eye, but it made sense. The thing was nasty; he could only imagine the damage that had been done to her face. And the rest of her body, come to think of it, now that he looked at more of her scars. It must have been awful for her. On top of it, he had filed that little bit of information about her eye away, noting that her right side was definitely her weaker side, and he hated himself for this. He decided not to mention it.

She shifted in her chair, drawing him from his thoughts. "It's rude to stare," she breathed, and the tone of her voice caught his attention. He looked up from the scars on her collarbone and studied her face again, and she looked different, suddenly. A little uncertain, her eyes downcast slightly. The confidence and authority she had radiated before had faded slightly. She swept her mass of curls over her shoulder, covering her scarred side. She glanced up at Bucky.

"I—I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"I'm used to it," she said, lifting one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. She stood abruptly and gathered her plate. "You done?" He had offended her. He knew he had. He was such an idiot. He hated his own arm, he understood how she must have felt when his eyes roved her scars. Tactless, he was tactless.

"I can get it," he said, standing, towering over her as he gathered his plate and took hers from her hand. He dumped the food in the trash (once he remembered where it was) and placed the plates in the sink before turning to face her again, leaning against the counter. "I didn't mean to upset you—"

"You didn't," she said quickly. Her jaw was set, her eyes hard. "Okay? It just—it's fine. I'm used to it, really." Her tone softened and she absently traced her fingers over her scarred collarbone. He wondered if she realized she was doing it, or if it was a habit. "It just gets tiring sometimes, that's all." She tugged on one corkscrew curl, releasing it; he watched as it sprung back into place and was mildly fascinated. He had never seen a hair texture like hers before, or at least he had no memories of it. She glanced around the room, then settled her eyes back on him with a smile, and he tried not to notice that it didn't touch her right side the same way it touched her left. "We all have out battle scars, right?" At this, he nodded. "Wear 'em proud," she muttered to herself.

He could hear Steve and Sam returning from their game of ball, whatever sport that was. It could have been anything. They were laughing and teasing each other, and when Bucky heard the door open, he tensed immediately. She noticed and stepped strategically between him and the door, watching his face intently.

"Hi, guys," she called, her eyes still trained on his face.

"Mo!" Sam's voice was strained; he was panting.

"Get your ass beat, Wilson?" she asked, finally turning to face them.

"I'll say," Steve laughed, coming into the kitchen with Sam. "You guys are still in here?"

Bucky watched as Sergeant Fox—or was it Mo? What was he supposed to call her? He would have to ask—smiled at Sam. They were familiar, they seemed close, and he remembered that she had come here on Sam's request. There had to be something between them, some bond of friendship; it was a lot to ask of another person.

Sam went to grab a glass of water, stepping on the one that had already been shattered. "What the—? What happened here?"

"I dropped a glass," Bucky said before Sergeant Fox could respond.

"I completely forgot. I'll get it," said the sergeant.

"No, no," said Steve, stepping in front of her and stooping down. "I'll get it."

"Is this because of my leg, Captain Rogers?" asked Sergeant Fox, but there was a playful note to her voice, which puzzled Bucky.

"Of course not," Steve said, glancing over his shoulder with a smile. "I just don't need you to cut yourself." And then a hiss escaped from between his teeth, suggesting he had done just that.

"Ever the gentleman," Sam drawled. At the sound of Steve's hiss, Bucky turned to look and, as Steve stood, he caught a glimpse of the blood and the glass in his hand. And then, suddenly, his head exploded in pain and he dropped to his knees.

AN: I had so much fun with this one! Bucky and Mo are so much fun to write, and I think we got some character development in here. Let me know what you thought! I'm really enjoying reading and responding to everyone's reviews, keep em coming!