Chapter 1
"One double scoop, chocolate mint cone coming up," I chirp, grinning at the small girl standing in font of the counter. She smiles back, a gap where her front tooth should be. She's cute as a button.
I put together her ice cream and hand it to her. She gives it a big lick and scurries back to her mother.
I love this job.
I get to bring a spot of sunshine to people's day, get to interact with lots of children and get to wear an awesomely colourful apron. It really is perfect.
Sal's Ice Cream Shop is a six minute walk from my house and a ten minute walk from Bucky's apartment. Sal, the owner, is an older man with greying hair and an ever-ready smile. He hired me on the spot and six months later, I haven't missed a single shift.
"Alright Sal, I'm heading out for the day," I call to him as I untie my apron and wipe down the bench.
"Flo, take this." He pushes a big container of chocolate ice cream toward me from the back cold-room.
"You spoil me," I laugh, grabbing the tub and holding it close. "See you tomorrow!"
"Tomorrow's your day off," he reminds me. "Day after, you'll be here."
"Right. My day off," my smile falters momentarily. "Well, I'll see you then. Night, Sal!"
There's a spring in my step as I hurry to get to Bucky's apartment before the ice cream melts. I knock rapidly on his door and when he doesn't answer, I knock again.
"I'm coming." I hear his muffled voice from the other side of the door before it's pulled open. He rubs at his eyes, like he was asleep, pulling a shirt over his head. I get a glimpse of metal before his long-sleeved shirt covers it.
It's 6PM. His sleeping schedule is whack.
"Flo. What're you doing here?"
"I brought ice cream for you." I scoot past him into his dimly lit apartment and flick on the light switch, dumping the container of ice cream down on the small kitchen bench. I stare at the pile of blankets on the floor, frowning. "What happened to the mattress I ordered? Didn't it arrive? It should've gotten here two days ago."
"I cancelled it," he mutters, stalking over to pick up the blankets and start folding them.
"You cancelled it? Why?!" Indignation makes my voice go all high and bratty. I clear my throat; I hate seeming childlike in front of him.
"I don't want it." He refuses to even meet my gaze, his army dog-tags hanging down from his chest as he places the blankets neatly in the corner of the room.
"You have to have a bed, Bucky. It's non-optional," I say without thinking, then quickly correct myself, "I mean… you have a choice. If you don't want one then…" I'm walking a thin line here. It's so important to ensure he has free will now, to give him all the choices that Hydra stole from him. But if I just let him be, let him do whatever he wants, then he's going to curl up in a shell and die alone.
That's not happening on my watch.
"Ok, fine. What do we do when we have an argument or we disagree on something?" I ask him.
He stares blankly at me, looking unimpressed. "Stop speaking to each other?"
I blow out a breath. "No, we compromise. Remember, that's what your therapist said? So a compromise would be…No bed, but you buy a full sized couch." I look down at the single-seater armchair he has. He's using the single couch cushion as a pillow. Oh god.
"I wish you'd come live with me," I murmur, not for the first time.
He gets annoyed, shaking his head and brushing past me to get a glass of water from the kitchen. "We're not doing this again, Flo."
"But there's room at the house! You could have your own bedroom, your own bathroom. I wouldn't even bother you, I promise," I push, hoping he'll agree.
I worry about him, alone in this apartment. I worry and worry until I'm sick to my stomach. But, if I'm being totally honest, I have ulterior motives to wanting Bucky to come live with me. I hate living in that house alone - the house Steve left behind for me. I want the company and Bucky is the only person in the world I would feel comfortable living with.
"It's not about you bothering me, Flo," he shakes his head. "I just…need to be on my own for awhile."
You've been on your own for ninety years, I think but don't say.
"You lived with me while you were apartment hunting for a few weeks. Was it really so bad?" I ask, wondering what on Earth I could have done that scared him off.
"It wasn't bad. That's not it."
"Then what? We could move somewhere else, if you really want—"
"Flo, enough," he interrupts. "Please."
I stop, reminding myself not to push him. He'll do things at his own pace. It still hurts that he seems to want to distance himself as much as possible from me whilst I'm holding on tight.
"Thank you for the ice cream," he gives me a forced, small smile. It feels like my cue to leave.
"Yeah," I breathe, not wanting to go but also not wanting to infringe upon him. "I guess I'll see you later…"
He nods and opens the front door for me, all but ushering me out.
I walk home, stopping in at a park along the way to watch some ducks waddle into a pond. For a moment, I'm back in the 40s. Everything is familiar and calm and I'm just a girl in a park, watching some happy animals. But then the shrill brring of a mobile phone breaks the serenity and I'm hurtled back to the present. I can't go back. The only way through is forward.
~O~
"…So you did it all right, but it didn't help with the nightmares?" Dr Raynor asks. It's more like a statement, really.
"Well, like I said I didn't have any," Bucky immediately replies. His therapist stares at him with all-knowing eyes.
"Look, one day you're going to have to open up and understand that some people really do want to help you," she says. "I can think of a few off the top of my head. Sam, Florence."
Bucky shifts uncomfortably on the couch. He glances at the clock, waiting for the hour to be up so he can leave.
"How is Florence? When was the last time you saw her?" Dr Raynor asks.
"A couple of days ago. She dropped by my apartment," Bucky sighs. It's easier to play along with his therapist than to try and fight her.
"And what did you two talk about?"
"Nothing, really. We…had a disagreement." Bucky regrets the words the moment they leave his mouth.
"Over what?"
He shakes his head.
"Tell me," Dr Raynor insists.
There's no way he can tell her that he still doesn't have a bed, that he doesn't feel comfortable in one or like he even deserves it. She'll overanalyse that until they're both dead. "Flo still wants me to come live with her. I told her that's not going to happen," he says instead. Sometimes the best lie is half the truth.
Dr Raynor hums like she finds this interesting. "Tell me; why are you so opposed to the idea of living with Flo? She's really the only person you speak to other than me, she's the closest thing you have to a friend or to family."
Bucky shifts again, looking away from his therapist and out the window. He seriously considers diving through it just to escape this conversation. "I'm not opposed to the idea of living with her….I just…" He pauses, thinking. "I'm not living at that house. It was Steve's and I don't want to live there, in his space—"
"That is utter bullshit," she interrupts.
"You're a terrible shrink," he says, because he hates how right she is.
"Did you not live with Steve Rogers for several years back in the day? This isn't about not wanting to live in his space. Be honest," she commands.
"I am."
"You're not. You're lying to me and, more importantly, you're lying to yourself," she says.
He looks down at his hands, clenching metal fingers against real ones. "When I left her in 1942 to go and fight…she was a child. She was so innocent. Now…"
"Now, she's grown up. And that makes you uncomfortable, doesn't it?"
His face screws up in disagreement, his posture turning defensive. Uncomfortable isn't the right word.
He'd been living with her, in Steve's house, for three weeks when he came upstairs to find her bathroom door slightly ajar. Her long, sunshine-blonde hair was dripping wet, tossed over one shoulder. She was deftly clipping up her bra behind her back, wearing only black underwear. Her skin was smooth and tan, her hips narrow but rounded and her breasts full and enticing. Bucky was frozen, rooted to the spot, unable to look away as she reached out for her hair comb and started pulling it through her long, wet strands of hair. She was small, just like Steve had always been, but there was a strength in her too that hadn't been there before, the kind of strength that only grows from pain. He realised he wasn't the only one in the house that was hurting.
She ran her fingers through her hair and tied it up, out of her delicate face, arms stretched above her head, elongating her torso. That was the moment he realised just how aroused he was.
He turned on his heel, walked downstairs and silently out the front door. He found an apartment to move into the next day.
"I want my own space. Is that so wrong?" He asks Dr Raynor, deflecting her previous question.
"This isn't just about living with Florence. It's about being around her. She's your one connection to who you were before you were the Winter Soldier. Do you really want to abandon that?"
"I'm not abandoning anything and I'm not abandoning her. I've never abandoned her."
"Is that the truth?" Dr Raynor asks and Bucky hesitates.
Is it?
~O~
The polished wooden floors of the oversized living room lead into the white tiles of the modern kitchen, fitted with new appliances that I have no idea how to use. Steve's house - which is now mine - is bigger than necessary, with four bedrooms and spacious bathrooms. After half the world disappeared, I suppose the housing market took a dive. A lot of vacant houses, not enough people to fill them.
Six months after everyone returned and getting back to normal for the world has been…difficult. To say the least.
On top of the red-brick fireplace, that sits as the key feature of the living room, is a framed photo of Steve and I. It's from 1944, not long before his supposed death. He was home from fighting the war for a brief reprieve and he took me out for ice cream. I'm smiling so big in the photo, looking so happy. It's a black and white picture but I remember that day in sparkling technicolour, as though it were yesterday. Steve let me talk for hours about the drama going on at school and a recent argument that I'd had with Rebecca. He was always an attentive listener.
I sit alone on the floor of my living room, staring up at that framed picture. It hurts to look at; I cry silently.
When I'm at the ice cream shop or running around doing various chores, I don't feel sad. I'm too distracted, too preoccupied with more stimulating things. But it's my day off and I have nowhere to be and so I sit alone, the silence pressing in on me like weighted gravity. And I feel very, very sad.
There's a quiet knock on my front door and I quickly scramble to my feet, wiping at my cheeks as I skid across the floor in slippery socks. I pull the door open. Bucky stands on my porch.
He sees my face and it must be blotchy or red or still filled with sadness, because his eyebrows immediately crease, his expression breaking open like an egg.
"Flo…" He reaches out and pulls me into his chest, holding me tight, equal measures firm (metal) and warm (flesh). We back up, away from the door, and he kicks it closed behind him.
"I miss Steve," I say, planting my face in his neck.
"Me too," he says, very quietly.
The sadness grows a little smaller.
~O~
A/N: I really hope you enjoyed the first proper chapter of this story! Still setting things up a bit, establishing what kinds of lives Bucky and Flo are living before we get to the action.
If you had any thoughts, I'd really love to hear from you in a review. Massive shoutout to those who have taken the time to leave them so far.
Thanks guys! Lots of love x