Hey, Everybody! A guest suggested some music to listen while reading and I thought it would be cool to pass it on to all of you. They said "The Shadow of your smile" and "the way you look tonight" (sang by Andy Williams) would be nice.

Personally, I would recommend: "Take me to church" by Hozier, "Leave a light on" by Tom Walker, "Zombie" (the Bad Wolves version), and "Way down we go" by Kaleo (just to name a few)

Chapter 4

The folder has a picture of me attached to the first page, and it takes me a long second to realize that it's my file. HYDRA's file. My stomach drops to my feet as I feel the heat climbing up my throat.

"You've read it?" I ask without looking at him. My voice is barely above a whisper and my hands are shaking while I turn the pages. I don't read it, but I don't really need to. The pictures are more than enough. One by one, all of them stare back at me with absent eyes. My victims.

Page after page, my chest tightens more and more. My heart feels like it's frozen. Almost all of them were already in my mind, but seeing them like that, broken and lifeless… it's too much. I suddenly can't breathe. There's so many of them. The memories flood me, and I can't help feeling like I'm drowning in them. Broken necks, knifes slitting throats, bullets piercing hearts, begging eyes, questioning looks. It's too much. Way too much.

I close the folder and try to concentrate in the present while the screams and the pleas for mercy still echo in my head. It takes me a minute to quiet them down. "Have you?" I press, my eyes glued to the floor.

"I did", he answers, and I close my eyes again. The humiliation flows over me. "Look at me" he asks again, but this time I don't listen. How could I look at him in the eye? How could I face him knowing that he knows what I am?

He moves slowly, his hand hovers over my arm for a second, probably out of habit, but he doesn't touch me. Instead, he pushes the folder down until it's out of my sight. "I need you to look at me, Buck" he says, voice serious again, and I do. I'm prepared to find disgust and shame in his eyes, but I only find warmth. He forces a smile.

"I read the whole thing. Top to bottom. And I'm so sorry that you had to go through something like that". I frown, my brain trying to wrap around the idea of him not hating me, but he ignores my confusion. "But I'm not about to turn my back on you because someone made you do those things", he adds, and I can't speak. The words are clogging my throat.

"I understand that you're going through a lot. I know you'll need space, and that right now you probably don't believe a word I'm saying. You have every right to be feeling like this. I promise I won't push you or judge you… but I already lost you once, Buck. Please, don't make me lose you again"

I swallow hard and look at him for a whole minute before nodding. He sighs, takes a few steps back and wipes his face nonchalantly, breaking an apologetic smile. I hadn't realized that the brightness had overflowed his eyes and was wetting his cheeks.

He takes the file from my hands and puts it in the drawer again.

"Now" he lets out way louder. "You hungry?"

He cooks enough meat for the both of us -and then some- and takes some leftover vegetables out of the fridge. Just like in the old times, he's great at pretending he doesn't hear me when I say he doesn't have to. Maybe he sees through my lies just as well as he always has, maybe he can tell I haven't eaten anything all day, and knows I'm starving.

I help a little, but mostly just try to keep out of the way. He looks at me from time to time as he cooks, but we don't talk much. The silence is OK, not at all like it is when I'm alone. I think that somehow his presence helps quiet down the voices in my head, and I thank him internally. I know I don't deserve it, but some peace of mind sounds like heaven right now.

The food is amazing, and it brings back so many memories, I couldn't even count them if I'd tried. It's almost as if I could see him cooking for us before the war. He used to help my mother in the kitchen when my father wasn't around. I always had the sneaking suspicion that she gave him the chores that would make him feel strong, things that would make him feel useful, like if he needed to be useful to stay with us after his mother passed.

I want to say that his cooking reminds me of my mother's, but I don't. I keep quiet, and eat a second plate when he offers. When I'm done, I realize he's looking at me. "Haven't eaten like this in a while" I say, and he smiles. "Is that a compliment, Barnes?" I shake my head and put the cutlery on the table, closer to him than to me.

"Don't let it go to your head" I say, but his eyes are fixed on the knife between us. He knows I purposely got it away from myself, but he doesn't say anything about it. "Wouldn't dream of it" he answers, and gets up to fix the table. I wonder if I ruined it by reminding him just how dangerous I really am, but he's not giving up on the conversation.

"Remember when you tried to make a barbecue that one time?" he asks. He's got his back to me, but I can hear the mixture of emotions in his voice, see it in the way he's squaring his shoulders. He's trying to pass it as a joke, but he's genuinely interested in knowing if I'll remember. Luckily, he picked a big moment. When he turns around, I'm squinting my eyes at him playfully.

"You're still holding that against me? It wasn't my fault!" his expression relaxes and he lets out a laugh as he grabs a couple of beers out of the fridge and offers me one. "You almost burned the whole house down". I take a sip of my beer.

"I got distracted! How was I supposed to know the oil was so close to the grill?"

He laughs harder. "You're the one that left it there!" I laugh with him and shake my head. I can't remember the last time I laughed either. Something tells me that it was with him. "I did not", I say trying to sound offended and he shakes his head too. It's so nice to hear him laugh.

"Good thing you knew how to put it out, I would've tried to throw water at it", I add a bit more seriously, and then drink again, avoiding his gaze. I was always a complete mess without him by my side. He shrugs. "I got lucky", he replies, and drops the subject, but I can't stop thinking about it. That was the first time he saved my life. God knows it wouldn't be the last.

"Mind if I use your bathroom?" I ask, and he nods. "Sure. You can take a shower too... if you want" I look at him sideways. "Just a suggestion", he adds, putting up his hands as if he's surrendering, but he quietly adds "It's not like you stink or anything", he's being sarcastic, and I shake my head and whisper "jerk" under my breath. It's nice to hear him making jokes. Although I probably do stink.

I get up and he shows me where it is. He guides me, and I notice that his hand hovers over my body again, without touching me.

"A shower would be kinda nice actually" I confess as we walk, and he smiles approvingly. "Great. Towels are in the cabinet inside the bathroom, I'll get you some clean clothes, OK?" I nod and get inside the bathroom. It's hard to process everything that's happening. His kindness is a bit overwhelming. Too good to be true. Why would he even be OK with me being here after having read my file? After everything I've done to him?

Maybe I'm just dreaming, face down in a ditch somewhere. That'd make more sense. I turn the water and strip down mechanically, completely absent-mindedly. I put my knife on the side of the sink and my combat clothes end up on the floor.

When I get into the shower the warmth hits me by surprise and I recoil from it, my instincts taking over.

I breathe slowly a few times, and then force myself to go back under the rain, trying to bring back the lost familiarity. I remind myself that this is how a shower is supposed to be. Warm and inviting, not cold and icy, as they used to be in HYDRA's headquarters. Either way, it feels a little unsettling.

I go through the motions, trying not to think about it, and a soft knock gets my attention.

"Buck?" I make a sound to let him know I can hear him. "I got you the clothes. Can I come in or should I leave them by the door?" I'm behind the shower curtain anyway, so I tell him to come in. I hear the door. "I also got you a new toothbrush, in case you need it"

"Thanks, man" I reply, and then he's out. Privacy hasn't been a part of my life in such a long time, that I have to take a moment to appreciate it. I smile to myself as I let the water fall on my face. It actually feels kinda nice. All of it. The water, the privacy, the feeling of not being alone. I know it's too good to be true, but maybe I can enjoy the dream while it lasts. Maybe that's not such a bad thing.

By the time I turn the tap off my right hand is all wrinkly. I step out and walk to the cabinet to grab a couple of towels. I wrap one up around my hip and use the other one to dry my body and my hair. I'm checking the clothes Steve left for me on top of the toilet when I look up and see the fogged up mirror. I let go of the clothes and approach it slowly, standing in front of it as if it was a doorway to hell. Maybe it is. I can't see much, but I'm able to make out the different colors of the image. My left arm looks so weird, so out of place.

I decide to stop being a pussy and I wipe the mirror with my right hand. My breathing spikes up immediately. The arm looks completely foranger, not mine at all. I've never seen it like this, or at least I can't remember if I have. I move it temptably and I'm forced to look away. It looks like it's someone else's. Like it's part of something else.

I try to regain my balance leaning a bit on the sides of the sink. Everything is spinning around me, but I look up again. The scarred flesh surrounding the metal seems to glow brighter than the rest, and I wonder where the metal ends. I wonder if it stops there, all of it visible, or if it goes under my skin, infecting the rest of my body.

I scratch at the joint, trying to figure it out, digging my nails on it as much as I can, but my nails are too blunt, and they don't get the job done.

I grab the knife almost without realizing it, and I dig the blade right where the flesh meets the metal. I lean closer to the mirror to get a better look. The layer of skin that's closest to the metal is thin, like I suspected, so I keep cutting to see where the material ends.

Part of my brain registers that someone's knocking on the door, but I pay no attention to it. I have to know. I drive the knife deeper into the flesh, hitting the metal underneath it. I take it out and dig it somewhere else, a couple inches closer to the center of the chest. I hit metal again so I start running it farther and farther away from where it started and closer to-

"Jesus Christ, Bucky!" I snap out of it and look away from the mirror. Steve's standing beside me, looking at me with wide eyes. He's staring at my body, so I look down at myself. My chest and metal arm are covered in blood. I slowly realize that it's my own. My heart rate spikes up. What the hell am I doing? Why didn't I feel it?

I can't control my breathing. "It's ok", he says more quietly, showing me his palms and approaching me slowly. "You're ok", his voice is soothing but he looks at my hand again. "Think you can drop the knife there, buddy?" I hear the knife falling out of my hand immediately, even before I can process his words. As soon as it's on the floor he starts moving. He takes a towel from the cabinet and comes back with it to place it on my shoulder.

I clench my jaw at the sudden rush of pain and push him back instinctively. The weight of his hand on my body was too much. Too threatening, too dangerous, too big a risk.

We stare at each other for a moment, and then he sights. "It's ok", he says again. "I'm sorry, I don't have to touch you if you're not comfortable with it, but we need to put pressure on those wounds. Think you can handle it?" I take a moment to process his words, and then I nod and accept the towel he's offering. It's already a bit bloody, and I press it to my shoulder, ignoring the new wave of pain that courses through my body. I do my best to try and calm down.

"I'm sorry" I say after a moment, but he shakes his head dismissively. I'm not sure if he knows that I'm not talking about pushing him. "About everything" I add, to make sure that he understands. He nods and offers me a smile.

"It's alright. You're here now. You're with me and everything's gonna be just fine". He guides me to the bedroom and tells me to sit in the bed. I do, and he brings the chair over to sit in front of me. "Now we need to see how bad it is. Can you move the towel please?" I do as he asks and his facade falls off for just a second before he fakes a smile. "I think you might need a stitch or two there", he informs me and the fear takes over again. I put my right hand on his knee "I don't want to see a doctor" I say, and I think he's able to hear the panic in my voice, because he smiles gently.

"You don't have to. You don't have to do anything you don't want to, OK?" I nod. "I can stitch you up if you want, but I'm gonna have to touch you. Would that be better?"

I think about it for a minute, looking at him. He took me by surprise a minute ago, but I know he's not a threat. I know he won't hurt me. He wouldn't even hurt me when I was trying to kill him. But would I hurt him right now? My brain ponders on that fact. I take a breath and check thoroughly on my mental state. I feel the pain in my shoulder, I understand what is happening, I remember who I am. I'm in control. There's no way I would hurt him right now, I'm sure of it. So I nod silently and he smiles again, this time a bit more sincerely.

He stands up and opens a drawer, looks around it for a bit and then hands me a pair of sweatpants. "The ones I gave you before were on the floor of the bathroom, I think we'll have to wash them" I nod again, mumble a "thank you" and stand up to put on the pants. He turns on his heels and walks out.

"I'll get the first aid kit" he leaves for less than a minute and brings back bandages, alcohol and the familiar small red box with a white cross drawn on the top. He takes his seat in front of me again, and I lower my hand slowly. "It's already looking a lot better" he comments as he wets a towel with rubbing alcohol. He makes a gesture with the towel in his hand, asking for permission, and I nod again. I've gotten pretty good at ignoring the pain at HYDRA, but I can't do that right now. It'd be too dangerous to zone out. It would mean giving up on some of the control, and I'm not willing to do that, so I make an effort to be present, to stay calm.

It stings, but it's OK, I'll handle it just fine. He cleans the blood -which is a lot more than I thought- and prepares the needle. He leaves it aside for a second, and dips a ball of cotton in some brown liquid before gently padding the wounds with it. I don't ask what it is, probably some type of disinfectant. He gets the needle and I nod in approval, so he starts stitching me up.

He's so careful not to make it hurt more than necessary. Such gentle moves don't seem to belong in that body, with those wide hands and strong arms. I remember seeing him like this before HYDRA. I remember watching him discovering the real possibilities of his new found strength. Truth be told, he had always been strong. Way stronger than me.

"Can I ask why you did it?" he lets out suddenly, and I'm not sure if he really wants to know or if it's just an effort to distract me. He cuts the thread after the first stitch and looks up at me. "Were you trying to… rip it off?". I shake my head no but don't say anything so he sighs. "You know what? You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to" he sets up to make a second stitch, and I watch him work in silence. He's focused and gentle. Other times when he's done this come to my mind.

"You've done stuff like this before, haven't you? To me, I mean" he breaks a smile, but he doesn't lose his steadiness. "All the time. You were a bit of a mess sometimes". I snort a small laugh. "Look who's talking", I tease and he laughs. "Yeah, you used to do this for me too every once in a while". I roll my eyes. "More like 'every other weekend', pal", he laughs again.

He cuts the thread again and looks at his work with analytic eyes. A third stitch is done in silence. "I think that'll be enough", he declares afterwards, and pads me with the brown stuff again. Once he's done, he grabs one of the bandages. "You want to do it yourself or should I?" I consider looking myself in the mirror again to put them on. "Would you mind?" I ask, and he smiles one more time and does it with the same gentle moves and careful hands.

"It'll heal in no time" he says reassuringly, as he clears the first aid stuff off the bed. "Don't you worry about it". He opens a couple more drawers and gives me a t-shirt and a pair of socks. I nod as a thank you and put on the shirt. He smiles a bit more playfully. "Good thing we're about the same size now. Would've looked ridiculous with one of my old t-shirts"

"I think I could've pulled it off" I fake the humor that doesn't come quite so naturally anymore, and he shakes his head. "Yeah, keep telling that to yourself, buddy"

He finishes putting everything back into the first aid kit, takes one of the two pillows from the bed and heads to the door. "You need to get some rest, man. I'll be right outside if you need me, alright?" I frown. "Where will you sleep?"

"Don't worry about that, the sofa turns into a really nice bed, I'll be better off than you" he teases. He's about to leave, but he seems to remember something else, "Hey, if you're cold, there's more blankets in that closet, light switches are over there and right here, but be careful with that button, is a distress call" he points to the button besides the bed, and I nod, so he turns off the light. I look at his hesitant silhouette for a long moment, and then he speaks with the quietest of whispers.

"It's really good to have you here, Buck", he says into the darkness and then closes the door before I can reply.

"It's really nice to be here, Stevie" I say into the darkness too, as if it was a confession. I lie down on my good side and look at the light on the bottom of the door, not being able to keep from smiling. Just knowing he's out there brings me calm. "It's great", I add quietly thinking about how easy it seems to spend time with him, even when I completely fuck up.