Rating: T for canon-typical violence, PTSD, and dissociation
Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Original Female Character
Summary:
Bucky?
A single word sends the Winter Soldier spiraling, unearthing long-buried memories and emotions. He flees the facility where he was housed (made?) and ends up hiding away in the backyard of a civilian as he tries to make sense of the sudden maelstrom in his mind. The civilian, meanwhile, really really hopes that the man in her shed isn't a serial killer.
They learn to live with each other.
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Birthday Gift Fic for @ladyofthenightcourt! Happy birthday, girl!!
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âBucky?â
The moment repeats over and over in the soldierâs head. The uttered word, the question. The shock and confusion on his enemyâs face, stopping both of them in their tracks. Thereâs a thing pressing up against the soldierâs mind and memories that does not, should not exist but weighs like something real.
Flashes of color and sound and emotions, murky yet bright like dreams. But not dreams. He doesnât dream. Nightmares? They settle like nightmares. In his head, in his skin, in his arm â
His arm.
his arm, his arm, his arm, his arm, his arm
Something touches h i s a r m
The soldier does not think. He acts.
The thing touching his arm â a person, a scientist, a life that does not matter â is thrown aside with a flick of his wrist. Shouting and movement and the click, click of loaded guns all around, but the soldier does not stop. He flies off of his chair at the nearest raised gun, dropping its wielder with a single punch. More shouts, and shots now, but the soldier is too close for such things to stop him. He grabs the next assailant by the throat and holds the struggling body in front of him as a shield. The body spasms as half a dozen bullets tear through delicate flesh.
Itâs still twitching as the soldier throws it into the next few combatants. They fall, pinned down under literal dead weight, and have no time to recover before the soldier has already dispatched the few remaining men standing. He finishes them off as well and is left standing alone in the room.
Cameras stare him down from every angle, observing his sins. An alarm blares in judgement. The soldier does not stoop to pick up a gun or any other weapon from the bodies on the floor; he simply flees.
It is not difficult to leave the facility once he has made up his mind to. Those foolish enough to try and stop him are eliminated; those intelligent enough not to are left unharmed. There is no need to remove all witnesses, here â not in the very place he was made in. Only what is necessary to leave.
At some point before reaching the vehicle bay, he has the foresight to grab a portable EMP. This, he presses to his own hip as he strides towards the nearest motorbike. His mechanical arm jerks and then falls limp; collateral damage. His intended target, what he feels go dark by the spasms of the muscles around it, is the tracking device implanted within his thigh. He does not know if they know heâs been aware of it for years. It matters not, now.
The soldier climbs onto a bike, starts the engine, and retreats from the facility still condemning him for his desertion.
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He travels by bike until it runs out of gas. Leaves it on the side of a busy highway, then keeps going on foot. He does not know where he is going, or when to stop. All he knows is that he cannot be found.
Two hours off of any main roads, the soldier comes across a series of rural homes bordering a river. He jumps the fence of the nearest property, mindful of the lights on in the house as he creeps to the large shed in the backyard. There is a lock on the door which is broken with ease. Once inside, he scans the crowded space until he finds a set of handheld gardening shears. It is armed with them that he retreats back out to the river bank and into the water itself.
He cuts away his uniform at his right thigh. Carefully but firmly, he trails the sharp end of the tool against his skin. Searching for a foreign lump without causing actual harm. Not yet, at least.
The lump is found. The soldier only pauses long enough to lock his jaw and steady his legs. He raises the shears.
Pain, burning and familiar. He doesnât stop. His mechanical arm remains stable against the rest of his shaking body as he digs the tracking device out of his flesh. Blood wets and warms his fingers, his leg, contrasting the ice of the river.
Finally, finally, there is the triumph of metal brushing up against his fingers. The soldier rips it out without hesitation, riding through the blinding flash hitting all his senses at once, and crushes it with a fist. The useless broken aftermath is dumped into the water without preamble. He cleans himself off as best he can, cleans off the shears, and then limps back onto dry land.
Back to the shed.
The soldier drags himself into the space. Closes the door behind him. Wedges himself between boxes and a bookshelf. He takes both gloves off and begins packing them methodically into the gash in his thigh. It is an automatic process; he barely acknowledges the pain of it nor the red staining his hands. His gaze stares at the wound without actually seeing it as that word skips over and over in his head.
[Bucky. Bucky. Bucky? Bucky. Bucky?]
Time passes. The soldier does not register the number. That word repeats over and over.
Over and over and over and over and ovâ
Footsteps outside of the shed.
The soldier snaps back to the present moment in an instant. Instincts for fighting, for survival, for conquest set every nerve alight, make every muscle coil in preparation to react.
A voice, just past the door. Unfamiliar and feminine. âWhaaaat the fuck?â
Confusion breaks through the haze of anticipation. That is not the sound of one of his own. Nor is it the sound of an enemy. Even so, the soldier remains perfectly still, waiting for a sign to engage or flee with this unknown.
The door is opened. A silhouette stands in the opening, studying the ground. Does not move further in. The soldier waits.
âWhat the hellâŠâ murmurs the intruder.
Slowly, her head lifts as she looks within the shed. It seems sheâs tracking something â ah. Of course. The soldier was bleeding profusely when he entered. To leave such an easy trail is a mistake worthy of elimination for a lesser mercenary.
She takes one cautious step inside, then stops. The soldier braces himself, but there is no more reaction. The intruder has not yet seen him. She only appears to have the instinct not to move closer to a potential threat. A good instinct.
âHello?â She calls out. âIs anyone in there?â
The soldier does not respond.
âIf youâre human, and youâre still in there, um, please donât keep bleeding all over my stuff.â
The soldierâs brows furrow; the most movement he allows himself. After another minute of silence, the intruder exhales loudly and nervously.
âOkay, Ivy, itâs fine. Itâs cool. Itâs probably just an animal that got hurt and hid in here to die. An animal that knows how to open a shed. Itâs not a person.â
Not a person. The fingers on the soldierâs prosthetic arm twitch almost against his will. He nearly looks at it in surprise, but that would give his position away. The intruder, meanwhile, continues to ramble senseless rationalities to herself as she pulls a small object out of her pocket. The soldier's breathing stills until he registers it as a phone.
ââŠTotally not a serial killer hiding his next victim in my shed.â
A blinding beam illuminates the shed from the phoneâs flashlight. The soldier has no time to move out of its way or hide deeper among the clutter. The light hits him directly, and he knows the intruder sees him by the stiffening of her entire body. A tiny sound leaves her mouth; too quiet to be a scream but too terrified to be a whimper.
She drops her phone and flees.
The soldierâŠdoes not chase her.
He should. He knows he should. Witnesses to his existence are a threat to the safety of the order of the world, no matter the person or the circumstances. But the instant he even considers the idea, the instant he shifts his weight to potentially climb to his feet and follow through, the pain in his thigh jolts straight up his body and sends that word echoing back into his head.
[Bucky. Bucky. Bucky.]
Itâs just enough to keep him from going after her. He doesnât even get up. He simply sits there, huddled in the chilled, dusty shed with a cracked phone screen to give a facsimile of light.
If the intruder returns with law enforcement, or military, or those whom he fled, then the soldier will eliminate the threats to his person. Until then, there is no reason to act. So he doesnât.
And when he closes his eyes, unmoving, it almost feels like cryostasis.
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The soldier still doesnât know how much time has passed when the intruder returns. She left the door open when she ran, and the outside has changed from dark to light. He should be wholly aware of it; his internal clock should know the exact when down to the seconds. But his mind has been warring between the now and the then since [Bucky?] Time has lost its meaning, somewhere before watching a bloody stump of an arm being dragged through the snow and after mutilating his own body.
Regardless. The intruder returns.
She presses her body against the outside of the shed. Itâs a useless attempt at stealth â the action makes the aluminum wall faintly rattle. Her head slowly appears around the entrance to blink in his direction.
âAre you still in there?â she asks, as quietly as one could do without it being a whisper. âPlease donât hurt me if you are.â
The soldier lifts his head; just enough motion to make her flinch out of his line of sight.
âI didnât call the cops!â she calls out from outside. âI just â I just came back for my phone. Can I please get my phone?â
His eyes drop to the phone still on the ground, long-since darkened. It takes a full minute for the intruder to work up the nerve to look inside again. She slowly starts to crouch, watching for the first sign of movement from him as she reaches for her device.
He does not react. She retrieves it, and retreats just as slowly.
Then she stops at the doorway again. Nervously shifts her weight side to side.
âUmâŠyou're hurt, right?â The question seems rhetorical. He doesn't answer regardless. âDo youâŠdo youâŠneed anything?â
They stare at each other in silence. With the morning light, he can see her start biting her lip.
âCan youâŠeven get out of there? Are you stuck? Should I call an ambulance?â
No. That would bring attention to himself. It would bring his â creators, employers, owners, jailers? â to come for him. He jerks, meaning to stand up so that he can stop her from following through on the thought, but his limbs have gone numb from hours of nothing. Instead of getting to his feet, the soldier only lurches forward and catches himself by his arms, barely.
The intruder shrieks and runs off again.
He wishes she would stop.
This time, however, she returns almost immediately, when it becomes clear he isnât following. He senses her presence in the doorway again just as he is rising onto shaking hands and knees. The soldier ignores her in favor of catching his breath, knowing now that she will most likely do nothing. It is alarming how much his body is trembling, how off-kilter he is. A foot-soldier could probably take him down like this.
âShit. Okay. Okay, no ambulance, I think. Do you want some water or food, or, or bandages or something? I might still have my old crutches somewhere inââ
âLeave.â He does not intend it to come out as a snarl, but his head is full of static and his limbs are not responding the way he wants and everything is too loud too loud too loud.
She yelps and backs away with her hands held up. âOkay! Sorry, okay, Iâm gone. Please just donât die in my shed.â
The static does not lessen when she goes. It curls around him, all-encompassing like cold concrete walls, and he falls onto his uninjured side to wrap his arms around his body in a feeble attempt to ward it off.
His organic fingers grip the near-invisible seams of his prosthetic. Tracing and pinching and pulling. He doesnât have the courage to do anything more. ------------------------------------------------
The smell of food wakes him. He jolts to attention, not knowing when he fell asleep â but that is normal. That is something he is used to. It is all the rest of it that is not.
The soldier cranes his head upwards to see an unopened water bottle and a simple wrapped sandwich on a paper plate, both sitting on the ground just inside the shed. His stomach aches against his will; he cannot remember the last time he has eaten. Long before the mission where everything went wrong. Long before the man who knew him. Who he knew.
He reaches over to grab the water. Its cap is still sealed. That is not a proper reassurance that the liquid hasnât been tampered with, but he has few other options and he knows the price of dehydration is severe. He opens it and takes a few measured drinks until three-fourths are left in the bottle.
Next, he takes the wrapped sandwich, ignoring the plate it was on. There is a scrap of paper taped to the plastic wrap. âPeace offering? Please donât die,â is scribbled messily on it. The soldier tears the wrap off and warily examines the food. No near-imperceptible smells, no discoloration; nothing to indicate poison, sedatives, or anything else.
His body contracts in pain a second time. He exhales, slow and exhausted, then takes a resigned bite. There isnât any unusual taste within the sandwich, either. Begrudgingly, he eats half of it before placing it back on the plate. Then he retreats back to his corner between the boxes and the bookshelf with the water bottle still in-hand.
This time, he is much more aware of the world around him. It takes approximately two hours and forty-three minutes before the intruder checks on him again. She is less skittish but still careful, leaning her head in to look at him without first attempting stealth. He watches as her gaze meets his own, then drops down to what remains of her âpeace offering.â
âAt least you eat people food,â she mutters, most likely not for him to actually hear. Then, a bit louder, âdid you not like the sandwich? Allergies or something?â
Allergies. The soldier would smirk at the insinuation if he had any mirth left in him. But that was takenârippedâstolenâ
âŠThere is no mirth left in him.
In his mild distraction, the intruder crouches next to the leftover food while keeping a careful eye on him. At first, he thinks she is going to remove it, but instead she sets down a cluster of grapes and a small yogurt container onto the plate. The sandwich is also left alone.
Now that she is properly in the light, and he is not â his head is â he is more in control of his thoughts, he catalogues her appearance on autopilot. Caucasian. Roughly one hundred and seventy centimeters in height. Thicker body size. Dark brown hair down to the waist in a ponytail. Gray cotton graphic T-shirt, blue jeans, and white tennis shoes.
An average US-based citizen. She neither stands out or doesnât stand out in the purposeful techniques that an undercover agent would employ. The soldier relaxes minutely as this observation slots into place in his mind. Not a threat â not one that is a threat to him, at least.
But most civilians do not go to the lengths this one has, in his limited experience. They panic, they run, they freeze and they scream and they get in the way. She has done most of these things already. But she has also stayed, and she has helped, and he does not understand.
âShit, I forgot to grab a spoon.â Her continued muttering to herself draws his attention once again. âWould you even use a spoon?â
He manages to find his voice. ââŠWhy?â
âUh. For the yogurtâŠ?â
The soldier shakes his head. She frowns at him and slowly stands back up.
âWhy?â
âWhy what? Why am I bringing you food? Why, uhâŠwhy havenât I called the cops yet?â
It isnât what heâs asking, but it is close enough. He stares expectantly up at her, crinkling the water bottle in his hand.
âWellâŠif Iâm being honest, the cops around here really suck. I was scared theyâd show up with guns blazing and accidentally hurt me or Bella in the process of âprotectingâ me.â
She seems suddenly nervous to have shared that information with him. He tilts his head in acknowledgement of it, and makes a show of leaning a little further back against the wall heâs propped himself up against. She isnât a threat to him, and so he will not be a threat to her. It is enough to reassure her, if momentarily.
âAnd, well, you obviously need help,â she continues, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. âIâm not going to just leave you to die in my shed.â
Altruism is a word he knows the definition of, but he cannot remember ever seeing it in action. It has always fallen into the same category as weakness, and liability, and threat to world peace and order. The soldier has always been surrounded by those whose every action was informed by a goal or an end result â just as often a self-serving one as one dedicated to bringing global order. There is no room for altruism without aim in the world he inhabits.
And yet. And yet. Something about her earnestness, her sheepish admission, drills a hole at the back of his neck and into his skull nearly as potent as the literal tool. She gives him an awkward, uncertain yet well-meaning smile, trying to show to him in her own way that she has no underlying malicious intent, and a memory of a face long-gone to history and his ruined memories surfaces against his programmingâs best efforts. It was a face that sported the exact same smile with the exact same intent. The exact same kindness.
The exact same altruism.
[Bucky?]
âHey, uh, you okay?â
He realizes only after she asks that he has just crushed the bottle still in hand, spilling water over his arm and across one leg. He looks down at the mess in surprise. His fingers are trembling violently.
âYes,â he says, if only to keep the woman from reaching for him for the way sheâs looking at him now. âThank you for the sustenance.â
She blinks a few times, eyes wide, before giving him a hesitant nod. âYouâre welcome. Do you need anything else?â
âNo.â
âUh, okay. If you say so. I have to go, but Iâll be back with more food later tonight, yeah?â
The soldier stares at her for a long time, still swirling with turmoil and confusion, but eventually he nods to acknowledge he understands. She gives another smile â another bullet straight through his heart â and waves goodbye before she goes.
He falls asleep fitfully, dreaming of snow and screaming and smiles.
The next time he wakes, there is the fresh smell of food.
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These are the things the soldier learns about the woman whose shed he has now been inhabiting for the last two weeks:
Her first name is Ivy; her last name is not offered or asked for. She has a rescue dog named Bella that she hasnât brought out for him to meet because âsheâs skittish around strangers, sorry.â She tries to go to karaoke every other week but mostly just to listen to her friends sing. Her job is âfineâ except for âthat one asshole in that other departmentâ. She misses her family but is happy for the physical distance sheâs made between them by her living out here.
These are the things the soldier learns about himself during those same two weeks:
Hurt. Fear. Flashes of blurry faces and nonsense words, as if every memory is through the perspective of a non-human entity unable to comprehend the human experience it has been given. That single word, that name, ricocheting back and forth within his mind no matter how much heâs tried to get it to stop. Sometimes he doesnât want it to stop, though, and he spends hours straining for the slightest glimpse into his subconscious for more. Desperately clawing at every mental scrap, every potential blip of smell or sight or sound, just for proof that what he thinks he is remembering is actually real.
I know you too, he tries to say to the man who knew him, in his dreams, but the man is always always always washed away like blood washed away by rain. Blood washed away by snow.
â blood staining the snow â
He does not sleep often.
Every morning and every evening, Ivy brings him food and drink. On her days off, she brings him lunch, too. She brings him gauze, and disinfectant, and whatever other basic things are available for civilians to have regarding wound care. It is a kind gesture but a pointless one; the soldierâs self-inflicted injury has already closed and almost fully healed.
She also provides another kind yet pointless gesture: company.
In the evenings, and on the non-work-day lunches, Ivy brings her own food and a camping chair. She always waits patiently for him to retrieve his own food, then she settles in to eat and talk to him from just outside the shed. It is here that she tells him about herself, her life, her likes and dislikes and ambitions. He rarely if ever responds to her questions asking about his, no matter how simple or trivial they are, but that doesnât deter her from asking them again the next day.
The soldier cannot say he enjoys it, but he also cannot say that he doesnât enjoy it. She is attentive enough to fall into silence when she sees that the buzzing in his head is too loud, and sometimes she leaves him alone entirely when he doesnât have the awareness to even register that food is being offered. But for the most part, he can almost appreciate the distraction from the constant maelstrom of his mind.
The domesticity of her world is foreign and novel. It is safe in its sheer difference from everything heâs ever known (or remembered).
One day, as always, she asks her questions. But this time he actually considers what an answer could be.
âYou know, Iâve been calling you âthe shed guyâ this whole time because you wonât tell me your name. Now Iâm kinda wonderingâŠdo you even have a name?â
He does not have a name. He has a title. He is the Winter Soldier. A title serves the same purpose and function as a name.
Ivy takes his silence as a refusal to answer instead of a genuine contemplation. She looks at him with incredible sadness â or pity â as she opens a can of some kind of energy drink.
âIâm sorry,â she says. It is the first time sheâs ever said that to him, and he tilts his head a bit in surprise from it. âThat was really rude of me to ask it like that. Iâm sorry.â
The soldier tips his head back the other way. Apology accepted, although for what he doesnât know nor understand. It seems to be enough for her, because she relaxes just a bit.
âDo you, um, do you have something youâd like me to call you?â
[Bucky]
He shivers and shakes his head. Her lips draw even farther downwards a moment before taking a sip of her drink.
âAlright. If you change your mind on that, let me know, okay?â
A nod.
âGood. So, uh, I guess âshed guyâ is sticking after allâŠâ He thinks she means it as a joke, but she says it without much humor. Then itâs her turn to shake her head. âNo, fuck that. How about just âfriend?ââ
Friend. [Bucky]. Friend.
Yes. Thatâs a good enough title for now, he supposes.
âOkay,â he says, and almost has the urge to match her sudden smile. âIâll be a friend.â
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The peace lasts another blessed nine days. It is more than the soldier could have hoped for, and less than he desperately wishes to have.
It is one of Ivyâs days off. She left the shed door open while doing some yard work, and he has been watching her pick away at weed after weed. The repetitive monotony is soothing, lulling them both into inattention as the morning sun slowly rises higher and higher into the sky.
The friend sits just inside the shed, within the shadows, invisible unless one already knows he is there. This is what ultimately saves them. He sees the roof of a car just past the fence leading to the front of the house as it pulls into the driveway. It is not an unusual sight; Ivy has friends who have visited since heâs taken up residence here. But she always tells him that theyâre coming.
She looks up from her gardening at the sound of car doors opening and closing. He catches a glimpse of her expression: surprise, confusion. Anticipation and apprehension curls in his stomach. As she stands and brushes herself off, the soldier takes a few silent steps back farther into the shed.
Before Ivy can make another move, the gate to her backyard is opened by a hand reaching over the fence from the other side. The friend goes completely still at the sight of the familiar glove and military-grade communicator attached to that hand and wrist.
âHey! What are you doing?!â Ivy yells as the gate swings open. Her righteous bravado wavers at the sight of three men in combat gear entering the yard. Even so, she points her garden shears defensively in their direction. âThis is private property! Who the hell do you think you are?!â
The man in front is one that the soldier recognizes instantly; a familiar shadow of Pierce, who seems to enjoy getting the assignments with the most casualties. He smirks and swaggers as he approaches the woman, clearly reveling in the way her hands start to shake the closer he gets.
âWeâre looking for someone,â he says, his eyes scrutinizing as he looks her up and down. âA dangerous fugitive whose last known sighting was in this area.â
The two behind him begin scanning the yard and the house. The friend remains perfectly frozen as one of their gazes linger on the open shed, but they move on without alerting the others.
Ivy hesitates. Her shears are still held up between her and the intruders, but they are starting to falter. âWhat are you talking about? AâŠa fugitive?â
The soldier does not move. Does not blink.
âThatâs right. Heâs armed, dangerous, and insane. Weâve been instructed to find him before he hurts anyone. You wouldnât happen to have any information, would you?â
âI donâtâŠâ
More hesitation. Ivy seems to be having an internal conflict. Her makeshift weapon drops even lower. She swallows, then, and they all see the moment she settles on a decision by the way she steels herself.
âI donât care if youâre looking for the next wannabe Hitler or Jesus Christ himself. That still doesnât give you the right to come into my home without a warrant. Fuck off.â
Pierceâs operative rolls his eyes. Then, in the blink of an eye, he grabs her by the wrist. She gets a single stab in his arm with her shears before he rips it out of her hand and brutally twists her arm to force her to her knees. She struggles and screams and cusses all the way down.
âSearch the property,â he orders his men. âIf we donât find a lead here, move on to the next house.â
As they begin to separate, his free hand reaches for the gun on his holster.
Every muscle in the soldierâs body coils like a spring.
Pierce, and the scientists, and his handlers, and every other soldier whoâs fought beside him has always emphasized how they do what they do for the sake of peace. For upholding the safety of those who cannot protect themselves. They target enemies of that peace, and sometimes there are unfortunate casualties caught in the crossfire â Pierceâs house maid flashes before his eyes, the shock in her face right before her own employer shot her point-blank.
He knows that sacrifices are necessary to achieve their goals. He is reminded of that on every mission, every moment he is awake from cryosleep. But this is different. Ivy hasnât done anything wrong. Sheâs seen him, yes, but she also fed him. She kept him alive. She kept Bucky alive, and did not compromise his identity to the world.
The Winter Soldier launches out of the open shed and throws himself at the man about to kill her.
He gasps, caught off guard with his hands occupied. He stands no chance at defending himself as the soldier grabs him by the throat with his metal arm. Muscle and bone and windpipe all crumple like paper in his furious grip. The man jerks once, letting out another, soundless gasp, and goes limp.
Shouts. The cocking of guns. The soldier holds the dead man up between himself and the two other soldiers, creating a shield in front of Ivy who stares up at him with her mouth open.
âRun,â he snarls.
She scrambles to her feet and takes off for the shed, throwing herself inside just as the first gunshots break the air. He does not think over her safety any more after that.
He has a job to do.
It takes less than a minute. When the calm of combat recedes, leaving him staggering in place as the adrenaline is replaced by fatigue, the soldier stands there panting over three dead men. Three dead soldiers, who will all be missed. More are sure to follow in their places.
Inconsequential right now. His attention turns to the shed.
A few stray bullets have left marks along the upper right wall, but otherwise it remains intact. The soldier steps towards the open door and scans the inside. He finds who he is looking for very quickly.
Ivy has pressed herself into the exact same space he was once occupying. Her arms cover her ducked head and she visibly shakes as she tries to make herself as small as possible when his silhouette shadows the outside light.
âIvy.â
Half of her face appears from within her balled crouch. She looks up at him, staring but not moving, and it takes him a moment to understand why. She has never seen him out of the shadows before. She has never seen him in the light.
The soldier slowly squats in front of her, careful to make his movements slow and readable. He holds out one hand, his organic one, and waits.
After another minute, longer than it even took him to dispatch the threat, she finally uncurls. Her fingers are trembling but determined as she closes the gap between them and takes that offered hand with her own. Her grip is harsh, seeking stability and comfort as he helps her stand.
He can provide that. He knows he can, because he learned how from her.
âThe threat is gone,â he tells her. âYouâre safe. ItâsâŠokay.â
Ivy nods rather unsteadily as she lets him lead her out of the shed. She goes even paler than she already was when she catches sight of the limp bodies in her backyard, but to his surprise she doesnât faint or get sick or flee again. She simply stands there, staring at them, before slowly turning her gaze to him.
âThank you for saving me,â she murmurs, and it sounds sincere. Her hand is still in his; he feels the way her fingers tighten right before the question leaves her mouth. âYou â youâre who they were looking for, arenât you?â
Now it is the soldierâs turn to nod. He watches her cautiously.
âI thinkâŠactually, I donât want to know. Thatâs better with this kind of shit, right? The less I know, the safer I am?â
He nods again. She deserves that much truth, now.
âOkay. Okay, fuck, okay.â
Ivy rubs her face with her free hand, then straightens. She finally lets go of his hand, and he is surprised to find how much the warmth of it lingers.
âIâm going to go inside for a few hours,â she announces, pointing resolutely to the house without sparing a glance for the bodies. âWhen I come back out, my backyard better be spotless. Remember, the cops out here are assholes.â
One last nod from him, more like a salute at her command, and then she marches through her back door on unsteady feet. The soldier silently commends her for her fortitude, even though he knows she is probably going to vomit the moment sheâs inside.
But that is her mess to handle. He has his own.
It is not difficult to take care of the men who attacked them. They did not have a chance to call for backup before he executed them, and they arenât high enough on the chain of command for trackers or anything that would alert someone if their heart stopped beating.
The car they came in has an autopilot function. He piles them into seats within, and the heavily-tinted windows means he doesnât bother to arrange their slumped bodies into something less conspicuous. He turns on the autopilot, then sets the GPS coordinates to the nearest Canadian border crossing station. If they arenât discovered MIA by their handlers by then, then the involvement of another countryâs authorities may be enough to delay their search for him for a while.
The car leaves the driveway and goes off, camouflaging perfectly as a human-driven vehicle.
He returns to the backyard, turns on Ivyâs gardening hose, and begins to wash away the blood in the grass.
True to her word, she cracks open the back door after just over an hour, watching him triple-check the lawn for any lingering signs of a struggle. He meets her eye and gives her a nod. There isnât much to be done about the dings on the shed, but they donât resemble bullet holes to even the half-trained eye. It should be enough.
She pokes her head out of the doorway in a way eerily reminiscent of the second time they interacted. âEverything good out here?â
âYes. I took care of it.â
âThey wonât come back here, will they? More of those guys?â
âNo. They wonât come backâ
âGood. Thank god.â Ivy visibly relaxes, hanging off of the doorknob as she swings it open wider. âI crated Bella. She was freaking out over the gunshots but otherwise sheâll be fine.â
The soldier finishes his inspection and approaches the back porch. He stops where grass meets concrete, suddenly uncertain. Suddenly afraid of crossing the invisible boundary there, after already crossing so many others today in an instant. The hesitation has her raising an eyebrow.
âWhat, are you a vampire too?â she asks. âCome in before someone sees you.â
The soldier â the friend crosses the threshold. He steps through the doorway and stands in a tiny laundry room. A dog starts barking from a distant room.
âWhat do you think? It beats sleeping in the shed, right?â
Ivy looks at him standing in her house, and he sees her courage seems to wobble the same way his has. She wraps her arms around her middle.
âThank you,â she whispers. âFuck. Thank you. You saved my life.â
He cannot remember the last time heâs done anything like that. He has always taken lives. Never saved them.
HeâŠmisses it.
[âŠBucky?]
âBucky,â he blurts out loud.
Ivy stares at him. âWhat?â
âMy name. Call me Bucky.â
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The woman at Ivyâs door is beautiful. Thatâs her very first thought. She has beautiful red hair in a beautifully-perfect haircut, with a beautiful face and beautiful clothes. The sight of her has Ivy flushing a moment.
Then comes her second thought: this woman is dangerous.
She recognizes the same shiftiness in the gaze, on the lookout for threats. The same careful holding of her body, ready to respond to said threats at a momentâs notice. She gives Ivy a beautiful smile, and that smile doesnât reach her eyes.
Ivy recognizes all of it, because she has one of those at home.
âHello,â the woman says pleasantly.
âHelloâŠâ Ivy suspiciously replies. One hand tightens a bit around the door handle. The other, in her back pocket, curls around pepper spray. Something tells her that neither door nor spray will stop this woman unless she chooses them too, the same way it wouldnât stop â
âHi!â A third voice cuts through the tension between them, much more personable.
Ivy gapes at the man who comes up to join the woman. She doesnât know her historical faces all that well, but she does know those of the modern heroes.
That is Captain America standing on her front porch.
âUm â um â can I â can I help you?â she squeaks. What is she supposed to say? What is she supposed to do? What do normal people do when a living legend just randomly decides to pop by for a surprise visit??
âOh, yeah, sorry to interrupt your morning,â he says rather sheepishly. His smile does meet his eyes, but itâs also tight with pain. âMy nameâs Steve Rogers, and I was hoping you might be able to help us. My friend and I are just, uh, looking for someone. Heâs a little harder to track down and weâre pretty stuck on leads.â
Any and all hero worship in Ivy comes crashing down instantly. She regards Captain America just as suspiciously as the woman who still hasnât actually introduced herself.
âWhy do you think I can help?â she asks, squinting at both of them. Sheâs definitely being too obvious â they glance at each other, and she sees the woman shift her weight â but she doesnât care.
Steve Rogers Goddamn Captain America grimaces and holds up his hands like heâs afraid sheâs going to attack him. As if she could actually harm him.
âI promise weâre not looking for any trouble or to cause any problems. I just wanted to ask if ââ
There is a loud crash in the living room behind her. Ivy jumps and whirls around, ready to move out of the way in case her friend (partner? Something more?) is about to barrel through the door like a bull to protect her again, but she stops short at the look on his face.
Bucky stands there in the middle of the room, a dropped-now-broken chair lying at his feet. He gapes at the strangers, at Steve Rogers, and sheâs never seen that expression on him before. Itâs wide-eyed, seemingly fearful, but she knows him better than that. She knows what fear looks like on him.
Thatâs shock. Thatâs amazement. Thatâs wonder, like he canât believe the person in front of him is real.
She looks back at Steve, and sees the same exact emotions on him. Well, almost. Thereâs grief and joy creating tears in his eyes, which stuns her twice in two minutes. Captain America, crying on her front porch.
âBuckyâŠ?â he asks.
Bucky stiffens. His eyes glaze over and Ivy sees him struggle not to fall back into that weird place in his head that he goes sometimes, where she canât help him anymore.
No. No. Not this time.
She backs up to his side and clasps his hand in hers. Squeezes it for all sheâs worth. Bucky blinks rapidly as itâs just enough to pull him back into the present. He looks at her. She smiles at him.
He gives a shaky, jerky nod, then stares at Steve.
âHello,â he says, uncertain and almost childlike. âYes. I amâŠBucky. This is Ivy. And IâŠI know you.â
When Steve rushes in to hug him, he accepts it.
He does not let go of Ivyâs hand.
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A/N: Sorry to anyone I upset if my portrayal of Bucky isn't the norm. I am NOT in this fandom and it probably shows XD But he was definitely a fun character to delve into!
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