Bucky fidgeted. The shadows on the painting behind his head made him nervous, he could just see the rays of brushstroke light rays in the reflection of the window pane.

"You're wasting more than my time here, you know."

Dr Raynor was studying him. Like a fascinating insect pinned to a bit of white card in the natural history museum Steve had dragged him to the better part of a century ago.

"Your time, your recovery, your probation. The sooner you begin, the sooner it'll be over." She was saying, tapping the click pen against the scratchy pad of notepaper.

She shook her head as he fixed his gaze on the clock. Tic, tok. Tic. Tok.

Tic. Tic, tic…

A frantic man, debating over the wire, 'red, yellow, black?' The scissors -borrowed from an elderly woman further up the train- hesitated as the tic, tic of the analog clock continued.

No one was supposed to find it. It was a diversion, a relatively small bomb in the luggage compartment that would delay the train, give the Asset a chance to slip something into the tea cup of a traveling dignitary.

Bucky squinted, trying to wash out the image and lose himself in the solemn tic, toc, of the clock that would release him from this purgatory.

Tic, Tic….

The bomb was a perfect replica of another bombers design, a man who had been executed more than a decade ago. There was nothing in it that could be traced back to the Asset or his handlers. There would be less than nothing left when the clock stopped. For the fraction of an instant the Asset found himself muttering under his breath 'red. Cut the red.' A buzzing in his skull cut across the English words, and he ducked his head.

Tic.

Boom.

The little hand of the clock touched the 12, and Bucky was on his feet, out the door before Raynor could badger him to make another appointment.

"Hey, I was thinking…" whatever Steve had been about to say was erased as he caught sight of Bucky stalking out of the office building to the car like a cat, ready to pounce on the next thing that moved within his line of sight. "We can just go back."

Bucky seated himself, rolling his eyes and doing up the belt when Steve raised those aggravatingly expressive eyebrows at him.

Captain-can't-take-a-hint stuck to Buckys side like a particularly barbed thorn for the rest of the day. Ordering food, matching him punch for punch in the ring. Much as Bucky would have rather buried himself in a prison than talk, Steve's presence was annoyingly helpful. He had been there after all. For the war at least. And unlike Sam, he didn't insist on asking questions. A glance, a meeting of eyes and the least obvious of motions showed that he knew.

But Steve hadn't fought on the wrong side. He didn't have to live with the knowledge that so many people, good people, innocent people at the very least, had been extinguished by his hands.

So, for the fifth time in a month, Bucky ignored the rumpled sheets on the floor of his room and grabbed a set of keys.

He made the trip in 20 minutes, parked the bike in the dim alley and punched in the code.

The heavy bag waited for him, decorated with a sticky note.

'Sarge, you overpaid for the membership, unless you meant to pay for several years?'

A second line, added on hastily in less neat script:

'help yourself to anything in the mini fridge in my office, and if there's anything I can get for you, a vintage heavy bag or Gatorade or anything, just leave me a note. SM'

An embarrassed kind of gratitude exuded from the scrappy writing, and Bucky smiled at it. Sweet, he thought, to be thankful for a few bills when you discover the former winter soldier breaking into your gym. Sweet and maybe naïve.

Bucky worked up a sweat on the punching bag, leapt up to grab a beam in his hands and followed it up with some chin ups. Then he relaxed, just hanging there 4 feet off the ground, letting his shoulders stretch.

This silent space, comforting in its simplicity. Sound muffled by mats on the floors and walls. No wall of mirrors here to mock him, no intrusive AI reporting to Steve if he expressed an ounce of his frustration or pain aloud.

The note, the implied acceptance of his nightly prowling. There were change rooms and a bathroom open to regular gym goers, but the private office door was locked when Bucky tried the knob. Had she meant it, he wondered, or had she assumed he could pick that lock as easily as the front door nearly a month ago? An invitation or a trap?

The office was dark, no exterior windows to let in the streetlights. A long and dumpy looking couch dominated the small space. A night light glowed blue from an outlet above a counter height bar against one wall. A mini fridge, red with a chrome handle and curved edges that reminded Bucky of the cars in the 30's.

Another sticky note on the glossy surface: help yourself, dehydration is not your friend!

A personal water bottle, Gatorade, vitamin water, cans of energy drinks. All the seals intact, with no evidence of tampering.

He took a Gatorade. Squinting at the fake orange flavor and opening the drawers in the bar. A miscellaneous assortment of pens, screwdrivers, wrenches and hex bolt tighteners alongside batteries, bits of rubber bands and the usual detritus not uncommon in a junk drawer. Papers, notepads, undecipherable sketches and the sticky note pad in the next drawer. The doors below revealed a yoga mat, wraps and bandages and a neat stack of clean but ragged edged rags. In an overhead cabinet near the desk, Bucky found a more curious assortment. An emergency medical kit, bottles of pain medications and a small jar with many slim sticks inside bearing the name 'silver nitrate'.

The top of the desk was unremarkable, bills and receipts, a date book and calculator. Bucky scanned the material but found nothing of note. Stone's gym was on most of the papers, but that was not the name he sought.

The trash was half filled with discarded wraps and scrunched bits of paper. Finally at the bottom of the bin, next to a used stick of nitrate, Bucky found an envelope with a handwritten address on it.

Ms. Martin

He stuck a post it on the fridge beside the other.

Thanks for the Gatorade.

Consider the cash a deposit on the 200lb bag for when that seam finally splits.

Let me know what I owe you.

JBB

Authors notes: I'm dying for comments!

What do you think?