Chapter 6

It's all over TV, all over the internet. I watch John Walker kill that man publicly with my brother's shield four times over, from four different, shaky angles. Videos of the incident are popping up everywhere online, forever memorialising one of John Walker's worst moments. There is a part of me that pities him and another part of me that is sickened by him. He has tainted my brother's legacy in a way that can never be fully remedied.

When the door to Zemo's safe house flies open, my heart lurches in my chest. But it's just Bucky. He is battered and bruised, his nose bleeding and his cheek busted up.

"Oh my God," I breathe, walking toward him. I haven't seen him this injured or wound up in awhile. Everything about him is on edge, tense. His eyes are cold, devoid of warmth, his shoulders set hard and his jaw clenched. "What happened?"

"Lemar's dead. Karli killed him. Walker's done."

I swallow thickly, fear rising. "What do you mean Walker's done? What did you do to him?" I regret the words the moment they leave my mouth. They sound accusatory.

Bucky's eyebrows pull down, his mouth pressing into an angry line. "What do you think I did to him?" He demands and I know his blood is still boiling from the fight, so I don't blame him for his harsh tone.

I shake my head, stepping closer to him. "I didn't mean it like that."

"You think I killed him?"

I keep shaking my head, but this time words fail me, dying in my throat when I try to speak. I want to tell him that the thought never crossed my mind, that I don't believe he would do something like that. But… it's not the truth. I know that part of Bucky - the part that kills like it's second nature - is still in there. But I have no idea how close to the surface it lurks. It's hard to know when Bucky never speaks to me about it.

"Where's Sam?" I croak out, part of me still waiting for Sam to walk through the door. But I don't think he's going to.

Bucky lets out a long breath, slumping forward, the tension bleeding from his face and leaving exhaustion in its place. "He's gone. Taken the shield with him. Probably trying to find a lead on Karli…" Bucky brushes past me and drops heavily down onto the couch, resting his forearms on his legs and lacing his hands together. I move into the kitchen and grab a tea towel, running it under some water and then coming back to kneel in front of him. Looking up into his eyes, I see a mix of emotions and I know he is feeling the same pain that I am. Steve's legacy, forever blemished by Walker's actions. It hurts us both.

With careful hands, I begin wiping away the blood on his face, cleaning the wounds that I know will heal very quickly. I touch his cheek, his jaw, his lips with my fingers. He watches me intensely, his gaze never breaking from me. I lean in closer, resting my elbow on his knee and scrubbing at some blood knotted in the hair near his temple. As he exhales, his breath feathers over the side of my face. My pulse hums inside me and I realise, with an uncomfortable jolt, that I want to kiss him. I want him to kiss me.

It's not that I've never wanted to kiss Bucky before; I have, plenty of times. But this time is different. It's overwhelming, fierce and unrelenting. Not a passing feeling or a flight of fancy. It sticks in me like a knife to the heart and I know it will not go away. Not now, maybe not ever. My mouth curving down in a frown, I sit back on my haunches, letting the tea towel and my hands rest in my lap.

"You thought I'd kill her," Bucky's voice is hoarse and quiet.

"What?"

"Karli. That's why you met with her alone. You thought I'd kill her, no questions asked."

I shake my head vigorously. "No. That's not it at all."

"Then why? Why take such a risk? Why didn't you tell me that she contacted you?" He's hurt that I didn't consult him before meeting with Karli.

I take a moment, trying to gather my thoughts. "I thought about calling you and Sam after she reached out but… I felt like it was something I needed to do on my own. I guess I had something to prove. To you."

"To me?" The plates of his metal arm shift and move like real muscle as he shifts forward, drifting closer to me almost like it's natural.

"I don't want you to think I'm incapable. I don't want you to look at me and see the child I was."

"I'm trying, Flo. I really am." He looks past me, lost and adrift in his head. "If I pretend that you're still the girl you were then… it means I get to feel like the man I was. The good one."

I drop the tea towel and take his hands in my own, holding them tightly. "You're good now," I say. "I'm not the same girl I was, but I love you just the same." His eyes flick to me. He's open and raw now, not shut off like he usually is. His fingers, metal and flesh alike, tighten around my own. I lean forward, propped up on my knees, and rest my forehead against his. Our noses touch, our breath mingles together. My stomach knots terribly, just like it does right before I time-jump. I close my eyes and try to steady myself, ground myself, here in this moment. I can't time-jump, not now. I focus on slowing my heart rate, moving my hands up Bucky's wrists, his arms. Like if I can just hold onto him tight enough…

But it's not working. My stomach continues to clench and I start to feel dizzy. Worried that I'm going to be sucked into the box of time in my mind, I pull away from him, standing up and walking back.

I lean against the kitchen counter, gripping it with white knuckles and looking him over. He seems to harden again, one body part at a time. First his arms go taut, then his shoulders tense, his neck and jaw, finally his eyes. They shut like the slamming of a door. He stands up and heads toward the foyer.

"We should go," he waits for me by the entrance. "Come on."

Still feeling unsteady, I walk over to him and we leave together.

~O~

Brooklyn feels cold and, for the first time in forever, almost unfamiliar.

Or maybe it's myself that feels unfamiliar.

I look in the foggy bathroom mirror and gently touch the bruises around my throat from when Karli half strangled me. I think she still doesn't realise her own strength.

My hair drips down my oversized t-shirt as I pull it on, walking downstairs. I see Bucky by the door, shrugging on his dark blue coat, and stop in my tracks.

"Where are you going?" I ask. His face is already nearly completely healed, only a slight bruise left across his cheekbone and the bridge of his nose.

"Sokovia… Or what's left of it. There's something I need to do," he replies, flipping up the collar of his jacket.

"Zemo," I murmur and Bucky nods, his hand resting on the doorknob.

"Promise me you'll stay here. No more covert missions by yourself," he says. His hesitancy in leaving me alone is evident. I'd offer to go with him, but I'm absolutely exhausted and I think this is something he needs to do alone.

"I'll be here when you get back," I tell him. "I promise."

~O~

In front of the crackling fireplace, I sit on the floor and clutch the framed photo of Steve and I in my hands. The letter he wrote me - the one I couldn't bring myself to read all those months ago when I first found it - sits beside me on the ground. I want to read it, to read his words, to feel close to him again. But every time I try to, the pain resurges and threatens to consume me. Maybe I'm just not ready yet. Maybe I never will be.

Mourning Steve has been difficult for me, because he didn't die in battle, heroically sacrificing himself for the greater good like he once did. Instead, he went on to live his best life, to get married, grow old. So what am I really mourning? Not for a life lost. I'm mourning for myself, for what I lost. And that feels selfish.

My phone rings.

I reach up onto the couch behind me and grab it, checking the caller ID. "Sam, hey."

"Hey, Flo. You alright?"

"I think I should be asking you that."

"I know, I'm sorry. I should've called sooner. I needed some… time, I suppose."

I shift the mobile from one ear to the other. "Are you ok?"

"I'm fine. I'm at my sister's. I have the shield with me…"

I sink my teeth into my bottom lip, eyes drifting back to Steve's face in the grainy photograph. "It is yours. He gave it to you for a reason. Maybe not one he fully understood at the time."

"Yeah… I guess I'm starting to realise that. It never should have gone to Walker."

"No, it shouldn't have. But that wasn't your fault." I hesitate. "Do you think he's ok? Walker, I mean."

I hear Sam sigh heavily through the phone speaker and he takes a moment. When he speaks, it's with carefully measured words. "I don't know. I don't think I really care. He murdered someone, Flo."

"I know, I know. I don't feel sorry for him… Maybe I do actually. Just a little bit. His best friend died," I say quietly. "Is that horrible? That I feel bad for him, despite everything he's done?"

"No. You have a big heart. Just like Steve. You can feel sorry for Walker and still recognise that what he did was wrong," Sam points out.

"Steve told me once that Erskine, the doctor who created the serum, said that the serum worked best on people who would appreciate the power it gave them. He said that giving the serum and the strength that came with it to someone who was already so strong would corrupt them, because they didn't appreciate what it felt like to be powerless. I think that's what happened to Walker. He was already a strong soldier before. He doesn't know what it's like to be on the other end of the spectrum and now he never will."

"Walker was already corrupt, before. The serum amplified that, made it worse," Sam says. "Speaking of super soldier serum, where's the metal fist?"

I roll my eyes and lie back on the floor, looking up at the ceiling. "Bucky's in Sokovia, taking care of Zemo. He'll be back soon."

"You know, you could come here and stay with us for awhile. Sarah'd be happy to have you. I don't like the idea of you rattling around in that big house alone," Sam admits. I hum, mulling over his offer.

"I'll think about it, I promise. Do you need anything?" I ask.

"I'm fine, really. We're just figuring out what to do with this boat. Think about coming up here, will you? Please?"

"I will. I'll think about it. Talk soon, ok?"

After Sam and I hang up, I stare up at the ceiling till I fall asleep.

~O~

With Zemo safely on his way to The Raft, where he can never terrorise the world again, Bucky feels more at peace than he has in a long time. Killing is a reflex for him, one he has to fight every day. But he took the high road, he chose not to kill Zemo. And it feels good.

Bucky arrives back at Steve's - Flo's - house in the dead of night. He could go back to his apartment, though he's fallen behind on rent now, but he really doesn't want to. He doesn't want to be alone; he wants to be with Flo.

Using the key that she gave him long ago, he slips through the front door. Flo is asleep on the living room floor, the photo frame of her and Steve beside her, golden hair fanning out around her head. Bucky crouches down, his eyes flicking to a letter half wedged beneath Flo's shoulder. He carefully slips it out from underneath her and studies the browning envelope. Florence Rogers is written on the front in Steve's neat handwriting.

Looking at her soft features, relaxed and serene in sleep, he places the letter down and slides his arms beneath her, carefully picking her up. She curls into him, hands fisting his jacket, face turning into his chest. She is such a familiar, comforting weight in his arms.

He carries her upstairs, to her bedroom and places her down on the mattress gently. Her fingers grip onto him, her eyes still closed, so he leans down and indulges himself, just for a moment. He kisses her forehead, buries his face in her hair and breathes her in. She smells like flowers and Brooklyn.

"I love you," he mouthes against her temple. She unconsciously rolls toward him, making a small noise in the back of her throat. He cups her neck, traces the bruises blooming across her throat and frowns. Bruises on him mean nothing - they heal in a matter of days or even hours. But on her, they last. They blot and go purple before dimming to brown and eventually, eventually fading away. He wishes he could heal her, not just from the bruises but from the pain of losing Steve, the loneliness she felt all those years and her fear of abandonment. He wishes he could take it all away from her and put it on himself.

She can handle it, a part of him thinks. She's been handling it.

She was brave to meet with Karli the way she did. It was a total Steve-move, which scares Bucky more than he can say. It also makes him shockingly proud. She was right when she said that she is a product of Steve and Bucky raising her. She is everything he ever hoped she'd be and more.

"Buck," her lips form around the word as she stirs slightly, reaching out for him. He sits on the edge of the bed, taking her hand in his own.

"I'm here, Flo." Her name from his mouth is an endearment, a term of affection.

Her eyes flutter open - a flash of blue - before closing again. The love Bucky feels for her, the love he's always felt for her, is stronger than ever. It's tangible, writhing in his chest, begging to be let out.

Since purging the Winter Soldier from within him, he has struggled to identify what he wants. He has his freedom, his sanity, his life. What does he want to do with it? Coming up with an answer has been almost impossible.

Because the only thing he really, truly wants is something he thought he could never have.

Florence Rogers.

There are a million reasons why he should not be with her, but there is one overwhelming reason he should; he wants it more than he's ever wanted anything. He's gotten a second chance at life, but if he isn't living it with her, then what's the point? One way or another, they both ended up here, years in the future. Bucky does not throw around words like fate lightly, but he is starting to believe that everything that happened was so they could be together. Terrigenesis could have given Flo any power imaginable, but it allowed her to travel through time. That can't be a coincidence, can it?

His heart slamming in his chest, he leans down, cupping her cheeks. "Flo," he murmurs and her eyes open fully. A smile flickers across her face as she arches up into him.

"You're back," she breathes, finally fully waking up. She circles her fingers around his wrists. "Did it work out?"

"Zemo's locked up. For good this time," Bucky says quietly.

"I'm proud of you," she huffs, squeezing his wrists gently. Her thumb presses against his pulse and she must feel it thrumming because she blinks a few times, trying to push away the remnants of sleep. "Is everything ok?"

He nods wordlessly. What is there to say? He can't put into words how he feels. But maybe he can show her.

Leaning down over her, their noses brush. Her eyes go wide and her breathing stops. She goes so still that for a moment he wanders if he's startled her too much. But she squeezes his wrists again and he takes it as a good sign. He tilts his head, their foreheads touching, and lets his lips rest gently against hers. Soft, careful, he kisses her, cradling her cheeks tenderly. His heartbeat slows, a soothing calm washing over him. He feels more himself than he has in seventy-odd years.

Abruptly, she jerks back, her hand going to her stomach like she feels ill, like kissing him sickens her. He quickly pulls away, sitting back as she pushes herself up, her face pinched like she swallowed something sour.

He is a fool. A goddamn idiot. He stupidly thought this was something she wanted as well. But how can he expect her to get past everything he's done, everything he is?

Looking pale, she curls her knees up toward her chest. He stands and takes a step back, shaking his head. "I…" An apology sits on his tongue but he can't quite articulate it. He's screwed everything up.

"No, Bucky…" She tries to reach for him but he's already moving further away. He can't even look at her, ashamed as he is. Steve would be so disappointed in him. "Bucky, wait. I'm sorry," she says, looking close to tears. "I just can't…"

"I understand." He is curt, harsh even. His chest constricts and he suffocates under this newest failure. "Get some more sleep." He walks out of the room and closes the door behind him. A physical barrier between them doesn't make it any easier for him to breathe. He stalks downstairs and sits heavily on the couch, every muscle in his body tightened. His left arm whirs as though preparing for battle.

The letter Flo wrote him right before he died in the 40s, the one she gave to him a few months back, sits heavy in his pocket. With shaking hands, he pulls it out and unfolds it carefully, his eyes scanning her loopy handwriting.

I want you to know that I love you all the same.

She wrote that. She wrote that she loved him no matter what he did, no matter what sins he committed. But how can he hold her to that promise today? How was she to know the things he would go on to do? And how can she be expected to love him despite it all?

~O~

A/N: It's a cliffhanger, I know. I'm sorry. I promise I'm going to get working on the next chapter now, because this one only covers a small part of 1x05 (which was such a good episode, right?).

The development that Bucky got in 1x05 is kind of what I've been waiting for!

I hope you enjoy this chapter and can't wait to dive back into Flo's head next chapter.

Would love to hear what your thoughts are (on this chapter, this story, the latest episode or whatever!) in a review! Thank you for reading.