AN: So y'all requested some Sam/Mo, some Mo/Steve, and another cute request about Mo singing that I'm definitely gonna incorporate. Yay! I've decided that this will be Mo/Bucky. I feel that they have better chemistry, BUT I already have an idea for a Steve/OC fic that will be a continuation/sequel to this. What do you think? This fic won't be all that much longer, to be honest: a few more key points before moving forward to the sequel! It'll include Mo, don't worry, but I'm thinking it'll be more Steve/OC centered, or at least be evenly split between them.

(The sequel has already been decided. It'll be called Project Lazarus.)

Mo was showering after the run and Sam was in the bathroom with her, sitting on the toilet. The shower was warped glass and fogged up completely anyway; all Sam could see even if he wanted to look would have been a blurry dark outline. He really wanted to speak with her, and this was one place he was certain the two downstairs wouldn't come close enough to overhear.

Mo showered without her leg, which had always made Sam nervous. It was easy enough to slip with two legs, after all. Occasionally, he would see her hand press against the glass to steady herself, but as she had pointed out, she'd been this way for years.

"So I talked to Steve," Sam said, "and he's going to ask you to grab dinner with him tonight; just as a thank you, and I think he wants to talk to you."

"Alright," Mo said, her voice echoing. "So, what do you want, Sam?'

"What?" Sam asked innocently. "I don't want anything."

"So there's no other reason you're sitting there watching me shower," she said slowly. "If this is your way of coming onto me, Sam, I'm flattered, but I'm gonna need something a little romantic. This is weird."

"You wish," Sam said. "No, I wanted to talk to you about Bucky."

"What about him?"

"Well," he rubbed his forehead, "I mean, I'm glad you feel comfortable, but was there some specific reason you were asleep with him on the couch?" Without pants, he thought, but decided not to bring it up.

"Not really," she said absently.

"Not really," he repeated incredulously.

"Well, no," she said. "I couldn't really sleep so I went downstairs like I always do when I can't sleep, Sam, and this time he was up. We talked about his past a little, and he asked me some questions, I tried something new with him, and last thing I remember we just fell asleep talking. There was even a small breakthrough, thanks for asking."

"What was that?"

"He remembers that he likes hot chocolate," she said triumphantly, "and he remembers how to dance."

"Oh, good," Sam said. "So he can dance and drink hot chocolate."

"Don't be an ass," she drawled. "Progress—"

"—is progress," he finished. "Anyway, that's not the point. I'm glad he's making progress, though, but—"

"Sam," she said, sliding open one of the glass doors and poking her dripping head out. "You saw that today, right? You saw him?" He looked at her. She looked absolutely elated. He nodded and she laughed giddily. "Did you hear that laugh?"

"I heard," Sam said kindly, standing and pacing around the bathroom. "He's not the only one who made progress, you know."

"Don't go there," she growled.

"Just saying."

"Anyways, what's your point, Sam?"

"Just be careful," Sam said. "I know it can seem like he's all safe and cuddly now—"

"Not exactly."

"But," he went on, "maybe being that vulnerable in front of him isn't the best idea. Just saying. I know he's making progress and it's clear that you two have whatever bond you've got going on—"

"Are you jealous, Sam?" Mo teased.

"No," he said.

"It's the bond of the people who've lost a limb. Special club. I could chop off one of your parts if you're feeling left out."

"Shut up, Mo, and be serious. Why are you so happy, anyway?"

He saw her head move through the steam, like she was shaking it. "Am I the only one who thinks the fact that the Winder Soldier laughed today is a big deal?"

"It is, Mo, I'm not denying that, and I am so proud of you—but I'm just trying to protect you. Don't let your guard down is all I'm saying. You know better than anyone that a couple good days doesn't mean much in the long run, and I don't want you to be there when he has a nightmare and kills the first person he gets his hands on."

"Got it, thanks, Sam," she said. "You've officially rained all over the parade. Anything else you'd like?"

He laughed. "Well, while I'm here, I just thought I'd check on you."

"I'm not your patient," she pointed out.

"I know, but that video—"

"Rattled Bucky more than me, I think."

"You're okay? Why do you still have it?"

"I'm a masochist," she said dryly. "That's why I have any of them, but especially that one. I know I should get rid of but, but part of me is afraid to, I guess."

"Yeah, I get you," Sam said.

"Good. Now get out of here. Creep."

Sure enough, Steve had invited Mo out. He'd said he wanted to thank her by way of buying her food, and that he wanted to talk to her, just as Sam had said. She'd agreed and was almost ready to go. She'd decided for some reason to straighten her hair, something she rarely did because her wild, corkscrew curls fought the process every step of the way. And besides, she generally preferred herself better with the wild mane—it was different, but she thought that it suited her.

Tonight, though, it fell like silk around her shoulders. One of the benefits of her heatless styling was that her hair was usually very soft when she did, on rare occasions, straighten it. She hadn't done it in months, and it was surprisingly long; her hair tended to grow out rather than down with the gravity-defying curls, but now, after some blood, sweat, tears, and a few burns along the way, it fell to be a few inches past her collarbone, the light sandy-brown color framing her face, a few shades lighter than her caramel-colored skin.

She smoothed it out of her face, not used to it being so tame, and brushed it all over one shoulder. She checked herself out in the mirror one last time, thoroughly excited to be going out, and she'd seized the opportunity to look nice in a pretty green blouse that brought out her eyes.

Satisfied with her reflection, shaking a bit of hair down out of habit to cover the scars on her face, she headed downstairs. They'd waited till nightfall so that it would be a little easier on Steve to avoid being recognized. When she made it into the living room, Bucky and Steve were on the couch (which was a wonderful surprise that made Mo smile) and Sam was sitting in the armchair, eating and joining the conversation occasionally. He noticed her first and waved, which caught Steve and Bucky's attention.

Steve smiled at her and stood.

"Ready?" he asked, and she nodded, her eyes trained on Bucky who for the life of him looked like he had been personally offended. He stared at her, eyes wide, confused, and she raised an eyebrow.

"You—where did your hair go?" His eyes were still wide, his eyebrows quirked, lips slightly parted. It wasn't necessarily the most flattering look. He got up and approached her carefully. "I don't understand," he said. He lifted a strand of her hair and looked almost sad for a moment, and she felt a little sympathy. She vaguely remembered that people in his situation didn't handle change well. She hadn't even considered it.

"It'll go back," she said gently, "as soon as I wash it. It'll be big again."

He seemed to realize then what he was doing, and he straightened and shrugged, taking a couple of steps back. She noticed Steve watching him carefully as he sat back down, and Steve looked at her and she shook her head minutely, and he understood and walked around toward her.

"You kids have fun," Sam said. "I want her back by midnight, Rogers, and not a minute later. Be good, young lady."

"Thanks, dad," Mo said with a roll of her eyes. Steve laughed, tilting his head back a little and led her out the door.

Steve had taken her to a place that boasted the best pizza in New York. They'd grabbed a couple of slices each to go, on Steve's dime, and now they were walking the streets and talking. They spoke of lighter things at first, nothing too serious, laughing here and there. Mo was happy to admit that after talking to him that night, after Bucky's last big meltdown, she felt a lot less nervous around him and could actually enjoy his company.

"Alright, alright," she said, elbowing him. He looked down at her from under his ball cap. "So what's on your mind? What did you really wanna talk about?"

"It's just—" he hesitated and she raised an eyebrow at him, nipping off a bite of pizza. "It's about Tony Stark, for starters."

"Okay," she said, swallowing. "What about him?"

She saw Steve glance up, looking at the glowing tower in the distance. You could almost always see it.

"Don't you think it's a little weird?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, what was he doing there?"

"Oh, that," she said. "Yeah, I didn't know much about it. It was super classified, way above my paygrade. From what I know it had to do with some weapon he'd developed back before he'd changed his ways. My job was to go with them to get him from point A to point B, and you saw how well that turned out." She shrugged. "I'm surprised Tony didn't tell you about it."

"He's not the most open kind of guy."

"I'd imagine," she said. "I wouldn't want to talk about it, either."

Steve was quiet, glancing up at the tower again as they walked. "You know," he finally said, and she could tell he was treading carefully. "If you want, that is—I could put in a word for you."

She blinked at him. "What do you mean?"

He scratched his nose, a tic she'd noticed that he did whenever he felt uncomfortable.

"I mean—your leg. The prosthetic. I'm sure if I asked, Tony might—"

"Oh," she said. "OH. No, Steve, you don't have to—"

"It's just that you've done so much," Steve said quickly. "And I know how you feel about this one, and I'd like to thank you—"

"Pizza is a perfect thank-you," Mo gasped. "Steve, no, I'm not helping out because I want another leg. I'm—I mean, it's all Bucky, anyway, I'm not doing much."

Steve was quiet for a moment, and she thought maybe he looked a little let down. She bumped him with her hip. "The offer stands," Steve said. "I'd like you to consider it."

She sighed. "I will," she complied.

"I know Tony would be up to the challenge," he urged, and she laughed, looking at his face, at the earnest in his eyes, and she nodded. Part of her really, really wanted this leg. "And I know I can't possibly put a price on what you've been doing for us, but I'd like to do what I can."

"I'll think about it," she said, and Steve smiled and changed the subject.

"Tell me about Sam," Steve said. "You two are close."

Mo smiled, shaking her head and smoothing the strands of hair out of her face. "Sam is amazing," she said. "But you know that. When I got back, I went a year without help, then I started talking to some people, and I didn't really get better until I met Sam. He saved my life."

Steve looked at her seriously and she shrugged one shoulder. "See, PTSD, which I had, Sam had, Bucky currently has, and I think even you've been touched by it, Steve—anyway, PTSD has a high comorbidity rate with anxiety and depression, which means they often come hand in hand. I was really struggling with my depression, a little anxiety, and he helped me. It got really bad, even when I talked to him, and one night I just—thank God for Sam. He was there."

"Thank God for Sam," Steve agreed. "He saved me, too, in a lot of ways." Mo was quiet. Steve never talked to her about this. "I feel better now, I suppose. But back when I met Sam, I was struggling, and I was quiet about it. No one knew. Sam offered to have me join in on a session, but I turned him down. I was in a bad place—distant, sad, I didn't care about much, I just existed without much else one way or another. I was losing everything, had lost everything. And after Bucky, I just…"

He didn't finish, but Mo understood. "Thank God for Sam," she said again, meeting Steve's eyes.

"You and Bucky seem to have worked things out," Steve said, changing the subject again. Mo smiled.

"He's doing amazing, isn't he?"

"He is," Steve said. "Earlier today, it—it felt good."

"I think it's easier for him to open up to me because I'm essentially a stranger," Mo said, and Steve looked interested. "It's easier to let strangers see your worst, sometimes, because they have no standard. You, on the other hand…"

"I understand," Steve said. "I'm a little jealous," he admitted with a laugh, "but I'm glad he's letting you help him, even if he won't let me."

"Now," she said. "He is for the moment. Steve, I need to tell you, and I don't want to kill the good vibes or anything, but it may not stay this way for long. That's the nature of the beast."

"I understand," he said again. "But it's not so bad to enjoy it."

"No," she allowed, "but just be realistic."

They walked in silence for a few minutes, the pizza gone, and when they passed a street singer with a guitar, Mo tossed him some change. Steve looked at her.

"You don't sing anymore," he said, and she hesitated.

"Don't got much reason to sing, I guess," she said. "I mean, I only ever did it because they enjoyed it. It lightened the mood, even if they did make fun of me. But now…"

"You were good," Steve said slowly. "It's a shame."

She shrugged. "I have the guitar, stupid as it sounds. I take it with me everywhere—it's in my room. Harper actually bought it for me when he got tired of me playing his. I can't stand to part from it."

"So there's nothing I could say or do to get you to play something again?" There was a playful edge to his voice and she cut him a suspicious glance. "That's something I'd love to hear for myself."

"Nah," she said with a little laugh. "It's just—it hurts. Y'know?"

"You haven't since they…?"

"I haven't," she confirmed, and Steve looked very sad. She huffed out a breath, the mist turning white in the cold air.

"You might be surprised," Steve said with a note of finality, like he wouldn't pursue it anymore. "Maybe it'll help."

She smiled, shaking her head a little. "Fancy yourself the therapist type?"

At this he laughed aloud, shaking his head. "Definitely not. I get too frustrated too quickly. Bucky said I had too much faith. Maybe that's it. And I can be a bit hard headed."

"You just don't have a good poker face when it comes to him," she said.

"Maybe you're right," Steve allowed, and she watched him force his face to be solemn, serious. "Better?"

She stared at him for a moment before his mouth twitched and she burst out laughing, shaking her head.

"So what was with Bucky's reaction to your hair?"

"Oh, that," she sighed, "that was stupid on my part. Completely stupid. With where he's at right now, and the anxiety I'd imagine he's suffering, people in that situation don't like change. At all. It just threw him off."

"Good to know," Steve said thoughtfully. Then he let out a big sigh, and Mo was immediately alarmed. "Alright, look," he said, and Mo watched his face intently. This, she realized, whatever he was about to say was the real reason he'd wanted to talk to her.

"What?"

"Sam and I need to go for a few days," Steve said. "We just got intel, and—well, it's classified, and I can't tell you where, but Hydra's been active and we need to… eliminate the threat."

Mo's heart fluttered.

"When?"

"Soon."

"When?"

"Three days."

"Oh, my God."

"So I was wondering—no one at SHIELD, or what's left of it, knows about Bucky and we need to keep it that way. Neither of us can stay behind, so… would you be comfortable being alone with him while we're gone?"

Mo was silent for a long time. She was worried. Not for herself, but for them. She knew better than anyone else what could happen. She licked her lips and swallowed, and somewhere, distantly in her mind, she heard gunfire.

"Moriah?"

She jumped. "Sorry," she said shakily. "Yeah, we'll be fine. I think he's okay, don't' worry." She took a deep breath and he eyed her, nodding slowly.

"You won't be able to contact us," Steve said, and her anxiety flared. She wasn't afraid of being alone with Bucky—she was afraid for them. She'd worked with Bucky, she knew the damage Hydra could do, and she couldn't stand the thought of them getting their hands on Sam or Steve.

"Yeah, okay," Mo said, nodding in a twitchy sort of way. "Yeah, that's fine, we'll be fine."

"I'm sorry to ask this of you. I wouldn't if I had a choice, I hope you know that."

"It's okay, it's okay," she said. She was frantic. She couldn't—she was done with war. She was done losing people. This set her on edge. "I—can we go back?" she asked, suddenly a little breathless.

"Sure, of course," Steve said, and he was watching her like a hawk and she was avoiding his gaze. She was lost in her own mind, fighting back visions of exactly what could happen, when they passed the coffee shop.

"Wait," she said. "When are you telling Bucky?"

"Tonight," Steve said. "Sam's telling him, actually. Maybe he already has. He said he knew how to approach the subject with someone like—like Bucky."

Mo nodded. That had been smart, on their part. She hoped he'd handled it well, hoped he hadn't been triggered at the mention of Hydra.

"Alright then, come with me. Gotta make a stop."

"Isn't it a bit late for coffee?"

"No, not coffee," she said. "Hot chocolate."

AN: Also, I'm really, really curious of how you guys envision Mo! Like, what do you think she looks like? Tell me! :) Also have some ideas I'm excited to get to in the next couple chapters, and a lot of Mo/Bucky. PLEASE if anyone has any suggestions for MO/BUCKY SCENES, now is the time! They're gonna be alone for a while, which leaves lots of room for cutesy/sad/whatever stuff!