CONSEQUENCES (OR: THE FIRST INCIDENT)

Tony wasn't in their usual spot again the following morning, replaced this time by a man she had never met wearing a boring, black suit. He watched her through a pair of dark sunglasses as she approached; a familiar-looking cup of coffee clutched in his hand.

"Mr. Stark sends his apologies," he told her, handing her the coffee before turning on his heels and marching off, (presumably to something more important than a coffee delivery). Nellie stared after him with weary disbelief. It was just like Tony to withdraw like this when things became uncomfortable. She had seen him do this before with Pepper, and multiple times with Steve and Nat while things were still settling down between them – taking off on spontaneous trips to wherever his personal problems weren't. To his credit, he always ended up facing any conflict in the end; she knew he needed to distance himself to work at the problem from different angles, just as he would any formula in his lab. She just never thought she would be one of those problems that needed working out. She doubted a cup of coffee would make her feel any better. She took a sip. Okay, so it was pretty good coffee. And he had cared enough about her routine to send it. She took some comfort in that.

As she made her way to her office, she took out her phone to tap out a quick message. She knew better than to call (neither she, nor Tony, were big on phone calls – he found them tedious, and she had grown up in the era of texting). He constantly screened any calls that came through, and she was pretty sure he hadn't changed his office answering machine message in years: ('You've reached Tony. Don't bother leaving a message. If I'm too busy to answer, I'm too busy to call.')

Thanks for the coffee. Hope everything's okay.

She didn't like the way it sounded; sort of anxious, sort of needy. But she needed to touch base. To let him know she wasn't holding any of this against him. Sure, it was frustrating, but she also knew she didn't have enough of the facts to heap the blame on him. Considering the way he had reacted the previous morning, she wasn't sure she wanted to know at all – but of course it was in her nature to look at things from all sides, too. But what if it changed the way she saw Steve? Or Bucky, whom she was still only in the early stages of getting to know? What if it actually did make her want to move again? She hadn't had nearly enough coffee to deal with all these thoughts so early in the morning.

As she reached her desk, she felt a new message buzz through.

TONY: Yeah. Sorry, kid. Had some things to sort out at the tower.

No attempt to hide behind humor. No further explanation of his continued absence. She knew that was all she was going to be able to get out of him for the time being.

She found herself distracted for the rest of the day, her muddled thoughts showing through in her notes. By 3pm she gave it up for a loss.

It wasn't until she was packing up to head home for the weekend, thinking about what she was going to do for dinner, that she finally remembered the message she had left for Bucky. It was also then that she realized she didn't have number to call for the apartment. She doubted Bucky had a cell – though, now that he had people to call, she realized that might have been an oversight. Making a note to ask him when she got back, she grabbed a pile of books she wanted to leave at the apartment and headed for the elevator. After quick consideration on the way down to the ground level, she settled on Chinese. It was easy and she hadn't met too many people that wouldn't eat it. It seemed the safest bet (and maybe slightly healthier than pizza).

When she finally stepped into the elevator of her apartment building, bag of takeout hanging on one arm, handbag on the other, stack of books balanced in the middle, she felt relieved that she would finally have a chance to relax and regroup after a long week of adapting to the whims of Tony Stark – completely unaware of what awaited her in the apartment.

The door had been locked, so it wasn't immediately obvious that anything was wrong. But as she finally managed to get the door open, she found herself wishing she would reconsider the amount of things she tried to carry at one time. Her first instinct was to reach for her phone, but she couldn't extend her arm far enough without risking everything toppling to the floor. As silently and calmly as she could, she slipped in towards the dining table to set everything down, taking in the damage as she went. Items were scattered across the floor, the coffee table in the living room knocked over, and from a distance there was what looked like a hole punched in the living room wall – blood visible around it. The kitchen was worse – the bowls and glasses that had been drying on the sink were now smashed across the tiles; the floor a minefield of shiny white shards. The coffee maker had been upended, too; water leaking down the side of the cabinets to mix with the mess below.

With her heart hammering in her chest, Nellie found herself wishing she had taken Tony up on his offer back when she had first started, of having a weapon of her own to carry at all times. She hadn't liked the idea of having a gun in her purse, regardless of the dangerous sort of work her colleagues were engaged in – never seeing herself worthy of being any sort of target to their enemies – but in this moment she felt really stupid for turning it down. It seemed reckless now.

As she reached the table and slowly lowered down her books, she spotted the items she had left there that morning now strewn across that surface. Photos of Bucky were scattered amongst the pages and she was hit with a sudden dread. Out of impulse, as if hiding away the evidence might suddenly make things better, she gathered up the pictures and reports and shoved them back into their folder.

"Bucky?" she tried, as she slid the folder back under her latest pile of work, looking out towards the darkened hallway. Her voice came out small and choked, as if her body was against her making any noise in the uncertain environment. Fighting to stay calm, she stepped into the kitchen and found it empty. She stared down at the smashed ceramics and listened out for any sudden movement around her, uncomfortably aware of how helpless she would be in the event on any sort of attack. She had no training in hand-to-hand combat, and barely remembered anything from the self-defense class she had taken years back when she had first moved to New York. But given who she might have been up against, she doubted any of that would have mattered anyway.

As silently as she could, avoiding the potential crunch of the broken shards underfoot, she crept down towards the hallway. Bucky's door was wide open, and she finally got a glimpse of the interior. It was plain; the double bed dressed in a grey bedspread and white sheets, neatly made. A desk sat in the corner by the window, the last few rays of the setting sun glowing golden across the timber. Against the wall opposite his bed was a simple chest of drawers, stacked with a couple of old-looking novels. The whole room had a mellow haze to it from the way it caught the end-of-day light; there was warmth to the Winter Soldier's lodgings. Compared to Steve's more modernized bedroom that she had snuck quick glances of her first day there, the short amount of time that Bucky had had to acclimatize to the new century really showed. In the time he'd had to reclaim his own mind, he had barely had the chance to accumulate many possessions he could call his own.

Nellie backtracked to Steve's room next, but found it as neat and orderly as ever, with no sign of the missing veteran. On a whim, she checked her room last, but it was just as she had left it, too – the bed hastily made; yesterday's outfit folded on the foot of the mattress in some bare-minimum attempt to maintain an air of cleanliness.

Now at a loss, she crept back to the front of the apartment and paused by the entryway to the living room; the one place, in her haste, she had unthinkingly forgone. She stared at the bloody hole in the wall to her right, her finger hovering over the light switch as she scanned the rest of the room in the darkness. It wasn't until she flicked on the light that she spotted the dark shape on the floor beside the corner armchair. He had been hidden in the shadows; unresponsive to her calls. Bucky sat with his back against the wall, knees drawn up to his chest, hands twisted in his hair. As she drew closer she noticed he was shaking. He was covered in sweat.

"Bucky?"

Everything Tony had said to her came flooding back. She glanced around for anything he might use as a weapon but continued to approach him with building dread, wondering if she still had time to call for backup now that he had been alerted to her presence.

"Bucky?"

Still nothing. She thought the shivering seemed to stop, but she couldn't be sure. She took the last few steps to close the gap, then she was right in front of him. Still no response. Bending down, she reached out towards him.

"James?"

The moment she touched him he seemed to come to life. He flinched, making her jump, and immediately his hands came up in front of him in defense.

"Bucky, it's just me. It's Nellie."

Breathing hard, she realized now what a stupid idea it had been to approach him, let alone touch him; how much stronger he was than her – how much deadlier. Then she caught sight of his face beneath the curtain of sweat-soaked hair as he lowered his hands. His lip was trembling. She had never seen someone look so scared in her life.

"Bucky?" she tried again, her own eyes wide now as she took in his appearance. He looked up at her as if finally coming out of a trance. "Hey? You there? You know who I am, right?" she said softly.

His gaze fell, then he squeezed his eyes shut, looking pained, and he gave a stiff nod. Keeping in mind how defenseless she would be against him if he decided to attack, she fought back that fear and reached out towards him again. This time when she touched him he didn't flinch. He seemed to freeze, instead. She paused waiting for further reaction, but he remained still. Confident that he wasn't going to lash out now, she dropped down onto her knees and looked him over for any visible damage; feeling certain now that this was all self-inflicted. She winced as she spotted the bloody pulp he'd made of his flesh hand.

She sat there for a moment as she considered her next move, gently squeezing his arm if only to remind him that she was still there, hoping the reminder that he wasn't alone might be enough to calm him down. She had never dealt with something like this before. There had been some days where she would notice that Tony wasn't quite right; that he seemed more fidgety than usual, where his eyes would dart around as if he was expecting incoming danger at any moment. On those days they took their time with their morning walk and by the time they finished up he would usually seem a little more like his usual self.

Just be patient with him. He needs that these days.

"We should get that cleaned up," she suggested after a while, staring at his damaged hand. Her voice was soft, quietly encouraging. She made to stand up and suddenly his metal hand caught her by the wrist. For a moment, as the cold metal bit into her skin, she froze and was reminded once more of who he was, what he was capable of. But the way he looked up at her wasn't in anger or in warning. It was a plea for her to stay.

"I'll be right back," she reassured him, "I'm just going to get something to help your hand." His grip slackened, but some of that fear seemed to return to his eyes, like he was preparing himself to never see her again; that maybe he had scared her off, too.

She made a trip to the bathroom as quickly as she could, taking a washcloth from the cupboard under the sink (selecting the darkest color there – navy blue – in the hopes that she wouldn't completely ruin the fabric) and pulling out a small first aid kit. Looking at it, she wondered how many times Steve had come home from work needing it. The members of the Avengers never seemed to go a week without showing up with new cuts and bruises. The worst work-related injury she'd had so far was a lightly-twisted ankle when she'd taken one of the bottom stairs at a weird angle.

She held the washcloth under the bathroom tap, warm water running over her fingers as she stared absently at the basin. Was this the sort of thing Steve had been worried might happen when he went away? Was this a regular thing he had somehow thought wasn't worth mentioning? She felt so out of her depth. But who could she call? Steve was god knows where on some secret mission with Nat, Vision and Sam. She didn't want to get Wanda involved – she doubted she could do much besides fight back if it came to that, anyway; and Bucky didn't look like he had much fight left in him. And there was no way she was contacting Tony. Don't give me a reason to say I told you so. His words echoed in her mind and she shook her head. Realizing she might have already been away for too long, she quickly shut off the tap, squeezed out the excess water, and headed back with the first aid kit grasped in her other hand. Bucky seemed relieved to see her back.

"Told you I wasn't going anywhere," she smiled.

He looked so tired.

She knelt down again and held out her hand. "Can I…?"

He seemed to think about it for a moment, then finally obliged, shakily holding out his mangled hand. She took it carefully in her own and set about gently removing the blood and bits of plaster debris. He seemed to come back to himself through this process; his breathing slowed and though he continued to stare blankly ahead, she could tell he was beginning to relax. When she looked up from his hand again, she found him watching her.

"What did I do?" he asked. It was a relief to hear his voice. It was hoarse with emotion – she was certain there were tears mingled with the sweat on his face – but it was good to know that he was still in there somewhere. He noticed the overturned coffee table, then glanced down at his hand as she cleaned it. "Did I break everything?"

"The coffee machine seems okay," she replied; a hint of a joke that he seemed too dazed to pick up on.

"Did I hurt you?"

She paused to meet his gaze. His eyes were watery as if he couldn't bear the thought. She could feel the pain rolling off him, and not just from his injured hand.

"No."

"I could have," he said, but it didn't come across as threatening. The possibility seemed to frighten him.

"What happened?" she asked.

He frowned as he tried to remember. Then the answer seemed to come to him.

"Why'd you have that folder?"

Guilt washed over her as she was reminded of how careless she had been.

"I didn't realize it was there," she admitted, knowing her plan of keeping her workload evenly spread between here and the office wasn't going to work anymore. She couldn't risk leaving things around like that. If Tony ever found out it might even risk her clearance.

"Why'd you have it?" he asked again, as he looked up at her with marked suspicion.

Finished with wiping away the last of the dried blood, she folded over the cloth and set it aside, wondering if she should tell him the truth.

"Tony gave it to me," she finally admitted, as she unzipped the first aid kit and looked for something to clean the wounds. She pulled out some saline solution and a bandage. Sensing a change in his breathing at the mention of the name, she looked up and caught the distant look that came over him. She wondered if she should have just lied.

"Why? He knows I'm here now?"

She nodded. "It was in the paper. Some asshole must have recognized you when we were out the other day."

He was quiet for a while.

Be patient with him.

"Did you read it? The file?" he asked, staring down at the floor.

"Nope. This might sting."

But he barely reacted as the first drop of saline hit his knuckles. Her answer had surprised him.

"Why not?" He gazed at her, at the concentration on her face as she finished washing out his wounds. She was finding that the process was helping her too – distracting her from the anxiety she had been bombarded with since stepping foot in the apartment.

"I didn't see the point," she replied, tossing the empty applicator down beside the washcloth before she began to remove the fresh bandage from its packaging. "I live with you now. I figure that'll tell me all I need to know."

She finished dressing the wound in silence, tucking the end of the bandage under one of the folds to keep it secured. "There. I think it'll be alright." She looked at him, tilting her head as she tried to get a better look at his face beneath the lank hair. "I got us some Chinese," she said, gesturing back with a nod back towards the dining area, "Wasn't sure what you'd want to eat. You hungry?"

He shook his head.

"Not even a little?"

He shook his head again. He looked so miserable sitting there on the floor, knuckles bandaged and face full of guilt. She thought she caught him shivering again and wondered if it was because of the sweat; his shirt was practically clinging to him.

"I'll be right back," she told him. He looked up at her again with the same expression as before, but she offered a gentle smile. "I won't be far."

Over the next few minutes she made multiple trips back and forth, bringing new items with her each time. The first time she came back with a couple of blankets she had found, draping them around his shoulders. The shivering seemed to ease as he clutched the edges and pulled them closer around him. She disappeared once more, this time returning with some paper plates she had fished out of the pantry, and a handful of cutlery, as well as the bag of takeout she had left abandoned on the dining table. She placed all of it on the ground in front of him in case he changed his mind, setting the spoons and forks down on top of one of the plates. The moment the smell of the food reached him, he felt his stomach betray him.

By the time Nellie came back again, with a couple of drinks this time, she found him eyeing the little boxes of food with more interest. She smiled for a moment, glad to see he had changed his mind. He looked up at her, squinting against the brightness of the ceiling light, and she realized now why he had been sitting in the dark. She set the drinks down on the small table beside the armchair and switched on the small lamp that sat on top of it, heading over to switch off the overhead light. The dimmer lighting seemed to take some of the harshness out of the environment and she was certain that he looked more at ease. She paused in front of the record player on the way back, wondering if some familiar tunes might help relax him further – she knew it would help her. Perusing the collection of vinyl, she finally pulled out The Best of Billie Holiday. Her grandmother had been a big fan. She could recall many a warm Californian mornings spent in her kitchen as a child; the smell of chocolate-chip pancakes sharing the air with the smooth beats of 'Easy Living'. She carefully removing The Best of Glenn Miller and slipped it back into its case, setting the new record down under the needle in its place. The low, dulcet tones of the jazz singer soon filled the room.

Bucky watched her quietly, a ghost of self-loathing still haunting his features as he joked, "Romantic."

She looked around at the overturned table and hole in the wall with raised eyebrows before turning back to him with a pointed look. "Very." He managed a weak smile in return.

Soon they were quietly enjoying a now slightly cold dinner, the energy in the room now a lot calmer than when she had first walked in. Bucky still seemed distant as he chewed a mouthful of fried rice.

"Why didn't you use your other hand?" Nellie asked, gazing at his freshly-bandaged appendage. He looked up at her, swallowing.

"I think it helped. Brought me back a little," he said. His eyes were dull as he searched hers for any hint of judgement, but she merely nodded and popped another piece of honey chicken in her mouth. Her expression turned thoughtful.

"Does it happen a lot?" she asked when she had finished it.

"Not for a while," he said quietly. She couldn't help but feel, as the most recent addition to his environment, that maybe that change had triggered something (that or the files detailing his crimes that she had so carelessly left lying around). She silently shook her head at herself as she continued to eat, then realized Bucky was watching her.

"What?" he asked, and she could hear a touch of self-deprecation in his voice, as if he was already expecting the answer to have something to do with him.

"I kind of feel like this is my fault," she admitted.

"Why, do you work for Hydra?" he asked dryly, and though the joke was clear in his voice, the humor didn't reach his expression. He continued eating with the same morose look. She risked a chuckle and thought his expression softened some.

"I should have been more careful with my files," she told him. "You didn't need to relive all that."

"I shouldn't have gone through them," he countered, taking some of that blame back onto himself.

She gave a considering nod. He had a point there. "Why did you?"

"I wanted to see what you do," he said simply.

"You could have just asked."

"I'll remember that for next time."

They met each other's gaze and she smiled, but he didn't manage to return the gesture, his face still riddled with guilt.

They finished off their meals in silence, Bucky retreating back into his thoughts as Nellie set about clearing up. She disappeared into the kitchen and after a moment he managed to muster the energy to get up and follow after her, blankets still draped around his shoulders like a shabby cloak. He found her standing in the middle of the room surveying the damage he had caused.

"Oh my god," he muttered to himself with soft disgust, feeling a sickness settle in his stomach that had nothing to do with the food, as he looked around at his friend's broken possessions.

She looked over at him. "Meh, easy fix," she told him, in her best attempt to downplay his demolition. She moved to place the leftovers in the refrigerator, then stepped gingerly over to the bin to toss out the empty containers. "I can tidy this up. Why don't you go take a shower? Or a bath. A bath always relaxes me when I'm stressed." Because that's what this is, right, she thought, stress? The post-traumatic kind? She wasn't sure that he had even heard her. He continued to stare at his path of destruction, then turned to glance back at the hole he had left in the wall. He tensed his bandaged hand, the pain helping to ground him.

"I should help," he said, his voice still low, as if ashamed.

"No," she began, but he cut her off.

"You shouldn't have to clean up after me. People have done that enough."

"Bucky," she said, voice firmer this time, "Really, it's fine. Go get yourself cleaned up, alright?"

He looked up at her and gave a hesitant nod before turning reluctantly into the hallway, heading for what she hoped was the bathroom. She relaxed as she heard the tap turn on in the shower, then she set about tidying up, wanting it to be cleared away before he got back.

Once all the broken ceramic was swept up and put in the trash, she set the coffee machine upright and looked it over for any visible damage. It seemed to still be in working order, so, feeling the emotionally draining day starting to get to her, decided to test that. While the coffee brewed (with any luck), she stepped into the living room to straighten things up in there. Thankfully the coffee table hadn't been damaged. She flipped it back onto its legs and collected the books and magazines that had been spilled onto the ground, which included a vintage copy of Life featuring Katherine Hepburn on the cover. Smiling at the random piece of memorabilia, she set it down on top of the pile and looked around for anything else that seemed out of place. The kitchen seemed to have taken the brunt of the attack. Nothing else caught her attention…other than the bloody hole in the wall – and she had no idea how she was going to fix that. Leaving that for later, she went to collect her coffee and take a breather as she figured out what to do next.

It was around half an hour later, (after she had settled herself down in the armchair with a book) that she finally heard the bathroom door open. The water had shut off a while before that, but she hadn't wanted to check in on him prematurely, giving him his space to work through whatever he was battling with in his head. Looking up from her copy of Myths and Legends of the Universe, a cup of lukewarm coffee gripped almost forgotten in the other hand, she found Bucky standing in the entranceway looking a little lost. Now dressed in a pair of black sweatpants and a dark grey, long-sleeved shirt, there was a healthier pallor to his skin and he seemed less dazed. Part of her had been wondering how he might manage to wash himself with a bandaged hand, unsure if he could get his prosthetic wet, but he appeared to have managed; the bandage looked dry, at least.

"You alright over there?" she asked him. He looked up as if she had interrupted his thoughts.

"Yeah. Are you gonna be up for a while?" he asked.

"Probably. Why, is the music bothering you?"

He glanced over at the record player as if only just realizing it was still playing. "No. No, I like Billie."

She smiled as she watched him. He didn't seem to know what to do with himself, but she got the feeling that he didn't want to be alone.

"Wanna hang out for a bit?" she asked. He seemed to consider this.

"Are you working?"

"Kind of. Well," – she closed the book, looking over the cover as if still deciding what this research counted as – "Not exactly."

"Am I going to distract you?"

She looked over, glancing from his sad, handsome features to the thick, muscular body straining in the shirt below them, then turned back to her book with a smirk that felt inappropriate, given the circumstances. "Not unless you decide to go through my stuff again."

"I think I learned my lesson the first time."

He sat down on the couch, elbows resting on his knees, still giving the appearance of someone who didn't know what to do with themselves. It was as if he either felt uncomfortable in her presence after what she had witnessed tonight, or he felt as if he was bothering her. He ran the fingers of his prosthetic hand back through his damp hair and finally relaxed back into the cushions.

"Want the TV on?" Nellie asked, without glancing up from her book. He looked over.

"No, it's okay."

"Honestly, if I can read through one of Tony and Steve's arguments, I think I can read with the TV on."

"I need the quiet," he finally admitted.

Almost restless, he repositioned himself once more to be lying down. One arm crooked behind his head, he stared up at the ceiling. Eventually Nellie lost herself in the book, so fascinated by the concepts it raised that she barely noticed that she had begun singing along softly under her breath. By the time the song finished, she looked up and found Bucky sound asleep. She smiled to herself and flipped to the next chapter – 'The Creation of the Six'.

A/N: I'm going to take a mini break from this story - a week tops - because I'm already starting to feel the burnout. I wrote a 14k first draft within a few days when I first started it, and I've been editing it in chapters over the past week or so. This is the last full chapter I had. Editing is such a painful, tedious process and it really does take a long time (at least for me) so I do feel like I need a bit of a break. In the meantime, I'd love to read your feedback - any ideas or suggestions; how you think I'm doing with character portrayals, etc. I'm still getting into the swing of this story, so any feedback will help me shape it. Reviews are a great motivator!