AN: If you guys want to hear Mo's voice how I imagine it, along with the song she sings, search for this video on YouTube: Hallelujah (Acoustic Cover..take 2!) by user juliana. She starts singing about 55 seconds in. It's absolutely beautiful, and what I based Mo's performance here on. If you want to really get the full effect, please listen to it. (You can also look up the dueling banjos and an acoustic version of Cant help falling in love, but Hallelujah is the main event.) Enjoy!

It was currently 3:17AM and their second night alone. Bucky was on his back, crammed in his bathtub, secure in the tight space. He could hear Mo pacing upstairs, the steady thud-CLUNK-thud-CLUNK of her limping gait a sound he had grown far too familiar with the past couple of nights. Mo wasn't sleeping well, and neither was he. She wasn't the only one with anxiety writhing like a snake in her belly.

He felt better when he was with her. The fact that Sam and Steve were gone had really cranked up his nervousness, but with Mo he felt less alone, and after seeing her through her panic attack, he felt even more comfortable around her than he had before. She'd always said she'd struggled with some of the issues he was struggling with, but he hadn't totally believed her until he'd seen it for himself, and now it felt different, like one of the very few walls between them had broken down.

In only two days, their relationship had changed slightly, had grown more relaxed; they smiled easily, teased softly, eased each other's tension and talked late into the night before retiring to their own rooms where neither of them got much sleep.

During their late night discussions, Bucky had learned that the guitar had been her way of coping with anxiety before. It wasn't much of a surprise; he'd noticed the calluses on her fingers and the twitchy movements when she got exceptionally anxious. He'd tried to talk her into playing again ("Come on, it'll help. Isn't that what you'd tell me?" "Play me a song. I want to hear." "Do you take requests?") but nothing worked.

He stared up at the ceiling, listening to her endless footsteps. His own nerves were still jittery and so, after some consideration, he grabbed his phone and decided to send her a text.

Can't sleep?

Her footsteps stopped and changed direction before falling silent. He imagined her sitting on her bed, phone in hand.

Nope. You either?

No. he replied, then hesitated and sent her another text. You can come here if you want.

The reply was almost immediate. Yeah?

One condition.

…what

Bring the guitar.

He grinned and a few moments later he heard her groan loudly upstairs. But soon she was knocking on the door.

"It's unlocked," he said, and she poked her head in.

"I agreed to bring it," she pointed out, "but not to play it." She sat on the edge of the tub where he was sitting inside with his back against one end, legs stretched out. She turned around to face him so that her feet were in the tub near his legs. He watched her hold the guitar, her fingers drifting over the strings, her eyes distant. It looked natural in her arms. He didn't push her; he felt better with her here, the edge gone.

He leaned his head back, eyes on her. Her wild hair was in a messy braid, draped over one shoulder; a couple of the springy curls dangled in her face, moving as she breathed. Her eyes were sleepy, the scars standing out against her skin, lit by the dim nightlight at the sink. Again, her fingers touched the strings, trembling a little.

She plucked one string and he didn't speak. Her eyes were trained on the guitar and she adjusted, shifting, holding the neck of the guitar in one hand, her fingers aligning on the frets like she couldn't resist. She plucked another string and seemed to start a little at the sound. She licked her lips and wiped her palm on her cotton pants.

He didn't push.

She tapped the body of the guitar a few times before she looked up at Bucky, a shaky smile in place. She swayed her body a little, a nervous habit. "There was one guy. Grace," she said. "Martin Grace. He was in a couple videos." She carefully plucked a few strings, smile widening. "Have you ever seen the movie Deliverance? No? You wouldn't have. Anyway, there's this scene known as the dueling banjos, and Grace played the ukulele and we used to challenge each other and—I'm talking too much. Sorry."

"No," he said, hesitating. He met her eyes. "Show me?"

"I don't know if I can do it anymore," she said softly. "Anyway, it's just funny, and you wouldn't get the reference, and—I'll try."

She strummed a few times, tuning the guitar, testing herself before she began plucking the strings. It only went on a few moments before she shook her head, laughing a little.

"No," she finally sighed, eyes glossy, "it's not the same without him." She huffed out a breath and looked at Bucky, who watched her steadily. She looked uncomfortable for a moment. He draped one arm out of the tub, the picture of ease, and gave her an encouraging nod.

"I don't want to keep you up," she murmured.

"Wasn't sleeping anyway," he said, "'sides, maybe it'll be soothing for both of us."

She shrugged one shoulder and readjusted herself. She thought for a moment before plucking a few strings, tuning, testing it out, before she began to play a soft melody. She messed up a couple of times, wincing, but before long she was playing the same melody nearly flawlessly. He watched her fingers pluck the strings, dancing over them, her eyes half-closed, and it dawned on him that she looked more at ease than he'd seen her since they'd met. It was a shame she'd ever stopped playing. The relaxed posture, lowered eyelids, and wistful smile made it clear that she was at peace, and watching her in such a calm state eased his mind as well.

She opened her mouth and for a second he thought she was about to sing, but she sighed, shaking her head slightly, eyebrows drawn down. He waited and she changed the melody. This one sounded vaguely familiar; he'd heard her play the song on her iPod before. Her eyes were still closed and she was mouthing the words to herself. She took a deep breath, about to sing, and stopped herself again.

"Sorry," she murmured.

"Don't be."

She went on plucking and he closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. The melody rose and fell slightly, and then, finally, she took a breath.

"Take my hand,
Take my whole life, too-
For I can't help
Falling in love with you…"

Her voice was low, smoky; he hadn't heard it this way in her videos. He opened his eyes and she glanced at him, still plucking, and she looked nervous. She swallowed convulsively.

"Please don't stare,
Or I'll break your face…"

She sang it in the same melody and he cracked a grin. "I thought we were having a moment." She laughed and visibly relaxed before pausing and switching the melody again, slightly.

"This," she said, face drawn in concentration, "is one of my favorite songs. I love this song."

He waited patiently as she swayed a little and then began to sing softly, her voice quivering, still with that smoky tone:

"Well I heard there was a secret chord,
That David played and it pleased the Lord,
But you don't really care for music,
Do you?"

This time, her eyes were trained on his as she sang and she winked—lightening the mood the way she always did. She kept plucking as she spoke next:

"I'm serenading you," she informed him. "Appreciate this. It's rare. And try not to fall in love with me."

"I'll try my best," he said around a smile, and she picked up mid-song somewhere. She hit a couple of high notes as she sang, her voice breaking more from emotion than from strain. He sat up a little.

"Well your faith was strong, but you needed proof,
You saw her bathing on the roof,
Her beauty in the moonlight overthrew you…"

Here her voice grew more passionate, and she watched him, singing to him, and he could feel the emotion in her, the way that she seemed to connect with the song. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, eyebrows furrowing; she was vulnerable, and seeing her so open and vulnerable was admittedly one of the oddest, most intimate moments he'd shared with anyone in decades.

"And she tied you to her kitchen chair and she
Broke your throne and cut your hair,
And from your lips she drew hallelujah…"

He was uncomfortable, only for a second, as he felt some sort of connection, suddenly, to this song. It occurred to him, then, for some reason that this was something she hadn't done in years, and that she was willingly sharing it with him, and singing a song that was obviously emotional for her, and she was sharing it with him, with the Winter Soldier—after everything he had done, after the monster he had become, this one-legged, half-blind veteran girl was showing him a part of herself that she hadn't shown anyone else, not even Sam, and for a moment the realization made him a little dizzy, and some old part of him, the old Bucky Barnes, was touched.

It was soothing, listening to her and watching her, feeling less alone with her here, connecting with her on this level. In a way, his joke had been right; somehow, it was healing for him, too. He licked his lips and leaned in, suddenly intent for some reason on soaking this up and committing it to memory. If someone like her, as physically and mentally broken as she was could open up to him in this way, after everything she had been through—maybe there was something worth saving in him after all.

"And maybe there's a god above and,
All that I ever learned from love was
How to shoot at someone who outdrew you."

This verse struck him and took his breath away. The hairs on his arms stood up. Maybe it was her voice, higher now, clear; maybe it was the lyrics; maybe it was both. But something in it struck a cord in him and resonated in him. Her voice had softened again but it was picking up, growing passionate once more:

"And it's not a cry you can hear at night it's,
Not someone who's seen the light its
A cold and it's a broken hallelujah…"

As she sang the last few words, her eyes, closed before, opened and locked with his. He put his head down, gooseflesh rippling up his arms—the good kind. Emotion tightened his throat and he was glad that her eyes were closed again, though he knew she'd seen his reaction, that she'd closed her eyes for his sake.

By the time she'd finished singing the ghostly hallelujahs, his eyes were focused on her intently. She licked her lips and blinked a couple of times, then gave him an oddly shy smile. She brushed her curls out of her face, and when he didn't speak she broke the silence.

"That bad?" her voice was raspy with emotion.

"I don't have words," he finally said. She looked down awkwardly and blew out a breath, setting the guitar aside, leaning it against the sink. It was strange, seeing her awkward: Mo, who was always bright, spunky, a spitfire, suddenly uncomfortable, looking anywhere but at his face. He understood; he could feel it in the air and he was sure she could too, that something had changed, that she'd opened herself up and he of all people knew a piece of her that no one alive today knew or had ever seen in person.

They talked a lot that night, and eventually they'd ended up sharing the tub, sitting back to back, Mo with her arms wrapped around her knees, Bucky with one leg hanging out of the tub and the other folded, comforted by the tight fit. She was glad he'd invited her to stay with him; she took just as much comfort in his presence as he did in hers. They didn't sleep much, and she knew Sam would have disapproved. One of his rules had been NO sleeping with the Winter Soldier.

But she reasoned that this was Bucky Barnes.

When she'd woken the next morning, she'd woken folded forward, Bucky's weight pressing down on her back, folding her body against her knees. She grunted and reminded herself to wake him slowly and gently, unwilling to risk an attack, so she took to gently shifting against him. He was a light sleeper, thankfully, and before long he was awake and looking around.

"Goodmorning, sunshine," she said.

By the time their fourth day alone came around, they worked together like a well-oiled machine. The both of them were going mad cooped up in the apartment, as Sam and Steve had told them they were absolutely not allowed to risk going out. Bucky had had another flashback, triggered by his own knife, of all things, but they'd gotten through it with minimal damage.

Mo had started dancing around a little and she even sang from time to time, much to Bucky's amusement. This morning, their fourth morning, the morning everything would change, she'd come downstairs in a white button-up t-shirt of Sam's and no pants, just a sock on her one leg, and proceeded to dance around the kitchen, using a fake spatula as a microphone, her iPod blaring some song he didn't recognize. Bucky raised an eyebrow at her.

"Ever seen Risky Business?" she asked by way of explanation. "No, of course not. You're missing the reference. This is hilarious."

"Oh, it's hilarious anyway," he drawled.

Disappointed, she shut off the music. "I gotta get younger friends."

"Funny," he said, getting up from the couch and heading into the kitchen with her as she started breakfast. "Play that 40s mix." She did, and she smiled. Lately, more and more memories had been surfacing; immersing him in triggers of the past seemed to be working well for him.

In her time alone with him, she'd noticed more than ever that he was a man in a constant state of high alert, and this morning was no different. He was casual about it, but he checked every window, particularly the one in the kitchen with a large building across the street. She'd asked why, and he'd only said "just to be safe," which she'd allowed. Old habits died hard, she knew.

He was at the fridge and she was poking bacon around in a pan. Bucky was also eating more lately, especially since Sam and Steve had been gone, and it made her stupidly happy.

"Egg," she said, holding out a hand casually.

"Egg," he replied, turning and tossing her an egg; it landed perfectly in her palm. He never missed.

"Four eggs," she called, setting that one aside.

"Four eggs, coming up," he said, and she turned and readied both her hands. He grinned at her and tossed her two at once and she caught them and set them aside, readying herself to catch the next two, which she did, as he tossed them over his shoulder, behind his back, showing off. He shut the fridge with his hip and walked past her, still grinning, carton of orange juice in hand and high-fived her on the catch.

"Oh," she said, pointing a spatula at him, "I hope you're planning on getting a cup for that."

He wrinkled his nose. "Course I was."

"Mm-hmm." She smirked and he poured a glass for each of them, then took over the bacon while she cooked the eggs. He placed some of the bacon on a plate and placed more in the pan, backing away as it popped and hissed.

"You're so domestic," she mused, fighting back a smile, and he looked down at her.

"If I was you," he said, pointing a piece of bacon at her, "I'd hush my mouth unless you want to cook by yourself."

"Touchy."

He winked at her.

They were still cooking, and she noticed he was watching the window more than normal. She didn't think much of it; maybe he was just jittery for some reason. But then he casually grabbed her elbow and guided her back toward the stairs, where they were away and out of sight from the window.

"What—" His face was deadly and her heart stopped. All the laughter from a few minutes ago died away. "What is it?"

"You're a combat medic," he said, his tone low, rough, urgent. "You still know how to perform emergency surgery? Bullet extractions, for instance?"

"Of course. What's going on?" She'd gone deadly calm. Something was wrong. She felt Sargeant Moriah Fox taking over.

"Gather everything you'll need to do it," he said, gripping her shoulders, staring into her eyes. "You don't have long. Pack a bag with the essentials. You've got five minutes. Go."

"What's happening?" she demanded.

"Across the way, that brick building—there's a sniper. Hydra." Her body went cold. His voice was cold, calculating, like a machine. "They're here for me. They must know Steve's gone; maybe it's a setup. They won't kill me if they can avoid it—I'm worth too much to them—but they will try and take me down. I'll survive; I've been through this before, but I'll need you to remove any bullets. We'll have only a couple of minutes before Hydra enters the building to collect the asset—me. This is going to be bad. Collect your things. Now."

She could see the fear in his eyes. Real fear, and it was Bucky Barnes who was staring at her with that fear and determination in his eyes, his jaw clenched. She grabbed his hand. "I'm not going to let them take you," she promised. "Understand?" Instead of brushing her off or laughing off the sentiment, he nodded.

"I'm going to get weapons," he said. "Contact Tony Stark and get your things. I'll meet you back here. Five minutes."

AN: So excited to get to the next chapter! It'll be pretty intense. We get to see them both in combat action; the story summary mentions they've been dodging Hydra and we haven't met them yet, so... Anyway, let me know what you guys thought of this one :) I really appreciate the feedback!