Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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Stay here now
I haven't finished figuring you out

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Chapter One:

I Was Thinking About Coming Home

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I was thinking about coming home.
I'm not exactly sure if I'd be welcome back with lantern
or torch. The thing about depression is: It's not that I want to
bury you here with me, but that I never thought I would see
myself becoming this old.

- Keegan Lester

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In the end, it takes about eighty years for Bucky Barnes to make it home from the war.

Give or take.

It was June when he was here last, standing in Red Hook, looking out over the water, with Steve. It's June now and he's standing in Red Hook, looking out over the water, with a Steve shaped space beside him and an empty cavernous hole where his heart should be.

Eighty years.

It's been a long, long time.

He liked living in Williamsburg. For the most part. Hipsters and gentrification set his teeth on edge and he's never going to stop complaining about the cost of every day living and everything about the relationship he forged with Yori was a delicate, complicated thing, but it was a good place to start. To step into life, a real one, for the first time in the better part of a century. It was one of the only choices he made that Dr. Raynor thought was good. Things were cleaner there, less muddy, less blurry. There were fewer buried landmines. The way Williamsburg bustled made him blend in, made it easier for him to pretend to get lost in the people, the new life he had been given, made it easier for him to avoid this. Here. Red Hook.

Home.

But.

You can't run forever.

Bucky said if he was wrong about you then he was wrong about me.

Sam said do the work.

If there is one person in the world he needs to make amends with more than anyone else, it's the boy from Red Hook.

The second he steps foot in the old neighborhood, it's landmine after landmine. He grew up here. He walked these same streets. He had his first kiss over there. Had his first something else in that alley there. He worked at those docks. His father died at those docks. Becca took her first steps on that sidewalk. He had to save Steve from getting the shit kicked out of him there. And there.

And over there, too.

He remembers when the park first opened. He remembers when they built the Red Hook Houses. They still look the same. It's different, there's no denying that. Smaller. Entire sections of it have been cut off, renamed Carroll Gardens, added to Brooklyn Heights. The sugar factory is gone, the shipyard replaced by fucking IKEA, gentrification a threat you can't run from, no matter how hard you try, and there are scars left behind by Hurricane Sandy, the looming shadow of another natural disaster hovering over the entire community, but there are still parts of it that he remembers. There are the cobblestones and there are old familiar warehouses and there is the Brooklyn Clay Retort and there is the old grain terminal. There is the park and those iconic but weighty Red Hook Houses. The life he used to live is still here, chipped away but still here, still standing. Just like he is.

It even smells the same.

He signs a lease on a two bedroom loft down on Conover Street just because the waterfront red brick building is familiar. He remembers watching them build this building back in '31. It was a warehouse then. It has reclaimed wood beams, original exposed brick, high ceilings, and refinished oak floors. It has oversized arched windows (which Steve would have liked) and a view of the new Statue of Liberty, holding Captain America's shield (which Steve would not have liked) and a landscaped rooftop deck with a garden. They're planning on putting a fitness center in the building for residents. He has his own parking spot. It's good, he thinks. It's a good place to make a home.

If he remembers how to do that.

The day he moves in, Sam and Torres come down to help him with the boxes (few of them his, most of them Steve's), Carter shows up in the evening with pizza and beer, Sarah makes him give her a full tour over FaceTime, and there isn't enough silence for him to hear the echoes of what remains.

Sam is the last one to leave, hovering long past midnight, his eyes sharp and focused and stuck on Bucky. ''Tell me something,'' he says, before he leaves, while they're both standing outside, waiting for the Uber. ''You honestly think this is a good idea?'' He looks at Bucky with those careful, knowing eyes, raking them up and down, like he's categorizing body language and tells, waiting for something. ''Is being here going to hurt you or help you?''

''I don't know,'' Bucky says, trying for a smile and failing. ''But I guess we'll find out.''

The morning after, he wakes up on the floor in an empty apartment that is too big for him, with no furniture, an extra room he can't fill, and a head full of ghosts.

He keeps thinking he hears Steve coughing. He opens a window and tastes the salt on the breeze and thinks I should get down to the docks. He hears a woman's voice in the hallway and yanks open the door, trying to catch sight of one of his sisters. His mother's voice fills a silence, singing while she makes stew. He tries to venture out into the neighborhood and keeps thinking he sees people he knows, old neighbors, old friends, his fucking sisters, and winds up gasping his way through a panic attack back at the loft, sweating and shaking and unable to tell past from the present.

It's like a tsunami.

Bucky Barnes lived here.

Not many places can say that.

He flickers back and forth between the past and present for a good week. He thinks of his mother and his sisters and this building he's in and how he and Steve watched them lay the bricks and whether or not the foundation of this place is as haunted as he is. He thinks of the ghostly images of the Smithsonian exhibit that he spent days stalking back in 2014, that video of smiles and laughter and Steve, how young they both were, how alive, the confidence they had, the demons that did not yet haunt their eyes and the lines around their mouths that did not yet exist. He spends most of his time this way: thinking and remembering and wondering if that was all real.

His name is James Buchanan Barnes. He was born in Shelbyville, Indiana and moved here to Red Hook, to Brooklyn, when he was less than a week old. He was supposed to die here, down at the docks, just like Pops, but he didn't. Real?

Real.

His father's name was George. His mother's name was Winifred. His sisters were Mary and Louise and Rebecca. He loved them so much. Real?

Real.

He and Steve lived here when they were kids and then, after Sarah Rogers died, they moved to that tiny, stifling tenement at the edge of Brooklyn Heights (now called DUMBO) where they lived together until he enlisted. Real?

Not real.

Try again.

He and Steve lived here when they were kids and then, after Sarah Rogers died, they moved to that tiny, stifling tenement at the edge of Brooklyn Heights (now called DUMBO) where they lived together until he was drafted. Real?

Real.

He remembers the long days at the dock and the stink of saltwater rot and fish and damp socks, the way it seemed to seep into his pores. He remembers his father's blood on the docks, washing away into the water when he was thirteen. He remembers the image of his sisters running toward him at the end of a long day, Becca, thirteen years younger than him, still just a baby, several strides ahead, her dark curls bouncing, the water glittering in the sun, her mouth moving as she calls to him, but he does not remember her voice. Try as he might, he can't remember the sound of his sisters' voices. Real?

Real.

He loved his mother. He was shaped by her, the way all children are shaped by their mothers, and her quiet strength and soft eyes and the way she entered a room. She passed away shortly before he was drafted but she remains firmly at the center of him, such a big part of who he was and who he is and who he could be.

He loved… He thinks he loved his father. But his father is mostly an unknown. A good man, maybe, with strong hands and a rakish smile and a cigar between his teeth, but rarely there, always working, working, working, until he died a few months before Becca was born.

He adored his sisters, everything about them, everything they were, everything he wanted for them, everything he thought he would give them one day. He would have done anything just to make them happy.

But he was devoted to the Howling Commandos.

They made him, those men. They made, all of them, a choice. To stick together. Take care of each other. They never went back on that. They were his family, battle born and true, tied together by violence and bloodshed and enough love that you could feel it deep in the marrow of your bones, sticky slow and hot, coursing through your veins. That's the kind of devotion people write about. That's the kind of devotion you never come back from. He misses them something fierce. Every day he sees their shadows, these impossibly tall giants that follow after him, watching his back. Real?

Real.

He remembers Steve.

More than anything, he remembers Steve. It's always been Steve. They turned him inside out. They hollowed him out. They made him a thing, an Asset to be handled, a weapon to be fired, pulled Bucky out and left only the Soldier, but they could never take Steve all the way out, could never untangle the two from each other, no matter how hard they tried. He remembered Steve before he remembered himself.

He remembers harsh winters and Steve's breath rattling in his chest and the constant threat of pneumonia and heart failure and the way he would do just about anything to get enough money to pay for Stevie's medicine. He remembers asthma cigarettes and chicken soup made with just the bones and staying up all night just to make sure Steve kept breathing and arguing with doctors who kept telling him Steve wouldn't make it through another winter. He was not a praying man, but he prayed during the long winters. He remembers that, too.

He remembers that scrappy punk getting himself into trouble left and right, remembers pulling jerks off him by the backs of their shirts because he ran his mouth again, remembers pulling that scrawny little bastard off bullies like you'd pull a yapping chihuahua off the mailman because he could never just walk away.

I had him on the ropes, he remembers.

Yeah, sure, you did, pal.

He remembers Sarah Rogers used to call Steve her sunshine boy. He remembers he loved that dumb fuck sunshine boy. In ways the history books won't say. Real? …Real?

Real.

It was the most reckless thing he's ever done.

Bucky stands on the rooftop deck a few days after moving in, cigarette hanging limply from his mouth, and looks out over the bay, toward the rebranded Statue of Liberty, the Liberty Avenger, holding Captain America's shield, like she's holding it out to him, reaching out, extending one of her massive arms in a clear message.

He will always haunt you, she says.

You say that, he wants to retort, like I haven't been waiting for this my whole life.

There was never any other outcome. That's the thing people don't understand. They look at him with such pity when they speak of Steve. They talk about how tragic it must have been for him to lose him after they just got each other back.

He wonders what story they thought they were reading.

It was always going to end like this, with Bucky, standing alone in Brooklyn, without Steve. He knew that. He always knew that. He was seven the first time he knew, curling his fingers around the edge of a dumpster, lifting himself up to look down at the tiny, wheezing, blue-eyed runt who'd just moved to Red Hook from Vinegar Hill and had promptly gotten himself tossed in a dumpster by Frank Bauer. That kid was nothing but trouble and Bucky knew it, but he didn't care. He was hooked the moment he laid eyes on him.

''Hi,'' he'd greeted, bright eyed and cheerful, too young to understand the consequences of what he was about to do. ''I'm Bucky,'' he'd said, ''need some help?''

It was the stupidest decision he ever made. Giving that boy his hand. Loving Steve Rogers.

He wouldn't change a goddamn thing about it.

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''Where are we going?'' asks Steve, his voice faraway, disembodied, a piece of a puzzle that no longer exists, the ache in the echo, a ghost story.

''The future,'' says the Soldier a pace ahead of him, faceless and nameless and lost to time.

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It's 2024 and Bucky Barnes is taking his first real breath of fresh air since 1943.

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July, 2024

In the dead of summer, the heat sticky and cloying, the familiar scent of Red Hook in hot weather wafting in through the open windows, a woman and her two daughters move into the apartment next door.

Bucky barely notices, at first.

He has too much on his plate right now. He has work – there will always be a mission, there will always be a fight, there will always be a war, there will always be orders to take and orders to defy, and Captain America will always need him – and he has ghosts, and he has nightmares.

Always nightmares.

Tricky things, those.

His life is busy. One might even say full. He's got a room he doesn't go into full of Steve's things that he's still trying to figure out what to do with nearly a year later. The team they've put together – Team Cap 2: Electric Boogaloo, says Torres, and giggles at his own joke – is new and still finding their way around each other, tentative and wary, like a bunch of alley cats, and the job is often fast paced and jet-setting. It requires mental and physical fortitude. Not to mention, there is a ghostly little Widow out there who has just stopped hiding in trees to get away from him but is still insisting on haunting Ohio and he's –

Look.

It's complicated.

He doesn't have the bandwidth for more. He's still working on things like that. Becoming a whole person. Saving room for more. It's a work in progress. It will be a work in progress for the rest of his life, he thinks. He's lucky enough to be that. He could have been nothing at all. He probably should be nothing at all.

Especially considering how wrecked his insides are.

It's the same old story. You die, you come back, you come back wrong. Now you have to live with that. That's the long and short of it. He's fucked inside and out.

He's read his file. He gets the gist of it. The Asset is functional. Bucky Barnes is still working on surviving. Traumatic (and repeated) brain injury. Recurring headaches due to said brain injury, with little relief found in painkillers. Amputation of the left arm up to the shoulder. Consistent phantom limb aches and chronic nerve pain due to scar tissue that was never allowed to heal, even with the serum aiding the recovery. Joint pain. Back pain. Severe medication resistant PTSD with episodes of depersonalization and dissociation, irritability, nightmares, flashbacks, antisocial tendencies, depression, frequent panic attacks, lack of social skills, inability to maintain pre-existing relationships and form new ones. And that's just from a surface level scan of his file. It gets worse when you dive deeper. None of that even covered the motherfucking spine problems.

Also, technically he's elderly.

He thinks he can be forgiven for not being the most welcoming neighbor. He's a grumpy old man. He's brain damaged. He has chronic pain. He's mostly dead. He's got other things on his mind. He doesn't have the time to form a welcome wagon.

Less than a week after they move in, he starts hearing them.

He still hasn't seen them, hasn't bothered to look, can't see why he would, but he hears them. He's not trying to. He's actively trying to tune it out. He doesn't like accidentally spying on his neighbors just because his super soldier hearing makes apartment living inconvenient. He's learned how to tune it out over the years, switch it off enough to be less creepy – though it was easier in Williamsburg. There were more people. It was easier to blend it all together into faceless noise. Red Hook is quieter and quiet tends to lead to slips. He does his best not to let that happen.

But the mother has a very distinctive voice.

He didn't expect that. Children are children. They're loud. Even teenagers have a hard time controlling their volume. He expects to hear that, the same way he hears the kids from directly below him. But that's not the main thing that catches his attention. It's the mother. It's the sound of her voice.

It's light and feminine, sweet, soft, even, but it has this edge to it that he can't quite decipher. She always sounds like she's smiling, like she knows something you don't, like there's a joke that she's in on and you're not. He's not sure what it is that makes his body zero in on it, but something about it pulls him toward her like a magnet.

Sometimes, when he's sitting alone in his apartment, eating in silence or reviewing upcoming missions or trying to entice the stray cat that hangs out on the fire escape to eat the food he leaves her, the sounds of the family next door just…waft over him. Like a memory that doesn't belong to him.

They play music a lot. They dance. The mother likes to tell her girls to get up, up, up, get moving, time to dance, shake it out, you can't just sit around all day. And she sings a lot. She puts on cheerful, sugary pop music and he can hear them giggling and dancing and singing along. She puts on Otis Redding or Carole King after the kids have gone to bed and sings along. She sings her child to sleep every night. She really likes the song Drops of Jupiter. Personally, he's not sure why, he finds it grating, but she plays it a lot. It's less grating when she sings it.

She sounds happy.

He thinks Steve, the little sunshine boy, would have liked a neighbor like that. He thinks Bucky, the boy from Brooklyn, who laughed loudly and freely and liked to take girls dancing, would have liked a neighbor like that, too.

As much as whoever or whatever he is now tries to ignore it, tune out the sound, stop eavesdropping on a family that isn't his, he finds himself continuously drawn back in, listening to her sing.

One day, at around eleven in the morning, when he's still trying to shrug off jet lag from the team's last trip overseas, already on his third coffee of the day, he hears the door to the apartment next door open and close. He slips for a moment, focuses his hearing so he can listen to the mother next door enter her apartment, paper grocery bags rustling, fridge opening, and then he abruptly pulls back and tunes out the sound. He's trying to not be the creepy Winter Soldier. Kind of a major goal of his, actually.

He shakes it off and goes about his day. He has blood stains to get out of clothing, he has to finish his mission report and send it off, then head out to Harlem to meet Sam at Luke's. And that stray cat has been hanging around his fire escape lately. He's starting to wonder if he should pick up some cat food or something. Poor thing's skinny as a rail and looks like it's just barely out of kittenhood. He should drop by the market before he goes to Harlem. He does not need to listen to single mom next door unload her own groceries. He finishes his coffee, makes his own grocery list, adds cat food to the list, crosses it off, adds it back, grumbles for about five minutes about paperwork, and then grudgingly pulls out his StarkTech tablet.

He doesn't usually spend a lot of time on his AARs, if he's being honest. Mostly because he doesn't want to, but also out of spite. He's still irked about not having the same contract that Sam and Carter have with the agency. He doesn't even have the same contract Torres have and Torres is – what, twelve? He barely qualified for the team and he's not technically supposed to be doing the kind of field work they do. And he still has a better contract than Bucky does. Colonel Rhodes isn't even an actual member of the team, isn't officially affiliated with the agency, and is only listed as a part time Extraction Consultant (which is a completely made up position that means nothing) and even he has a better contract.

Which, fine, if they don't trust him and consider him a case-by-case basis kind of guy, then he shouldn't have to waste his precious time on these After-Action Reports. He should be spending his free time working at his second job, which actually appreciates him and his unique skillset. Unfortunately, he has a feeling he's going to get his ass handed to him (or, alternatively, he might get his ass committed to an inpatient facility, which is the favorite threat) if he doesn't do it this time.

He did dangle a guy off a roof in Bogotá the other day. To be fair.

In his defense, the guy was a human trafficker.

He's staring down at his tablet, elbows on the counter, rubbing at his temples, pre-emptively annoyed, when he hears the music start in the apartment next door.

Drops of Jupiter.

His lips start to twitch but before it can become a smile, he purposefully flattens it into a frown. It's an awful song. He ducks his head down, leaning across the counter, and tries to focus. The music is loud enough that he thinks he would be able to hear it without the serum enhanced hearing, but her singing is muffled enough that it's something only he can hear.

''Since the return of her stay on the moon,'' that same distinctive, sweet voice sings, distracted, busy with other things, almost a reflex, ''she listens like spring and she talks like June.''

Bucky's eyes trend upward, moving across the room toward the direction of his bedroom, where their shared wall is. He stares, an uncomfortable warmth blooming in his chest, and then he shakes his head, and looks back down.

''But tell me, did you sail across the sun?'' Her voice shifts, barely noticeable, more focused, like she's just started to pay attention to the song. ''Did you make it to the Milky Way to see the lights all faded? And that heaven is overrated?''

Probably he just needs more coffee. Yeah. That makes sense. Caffeine doesn't technically do anything for him, but it's the principle of the matter. It's the ritual. It's psychosomatic.

Next door, her voice rises even more, strong and clear. ''But tell me, did the wind sweep you off your feet? Did you finally get the chance to dance along the light of day and head back to the Milky Way?'' She doesn't miss a single beat, a single lyric. His eyes slide up again, and then back down. ''And tell me, did Venus blow your mind? Was it everything you wanted to find? And did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there?''

He's halfway through a note trying to convince Hill not to freak out about Sharon's inevitable report (Carter's going to tell you there was a super soldier in the field but there wasn't. Guy was just on meth. It gives the blood a very distinctive smell. Don't worry about it.) when he pauses for just a second and realizes that he's been humming along with the voice next door the entire time. He stops halfway through a word, head snapping up to stare at the wall, wide eyes narrowing into a glower.

Maybe this is your sign to introduce yourself, a voice says in his head. You could make a new friend.

The voice sounds like Nata –

''Shut up,'' he tells no one.

I'm just saying, Yasha, says no one. There's nothing wrong with a lonely elderly man seeking companionsh –

''Absolutely fucking not,'' he growls, and pops in his AirPods. He presses play on the playlist Sam and Sarah put together for him, bickering for two hours straight about what to include, and turns up Sam Cooke loud enough to drown out his neighbor's distinctive sweet voice.

In his head, over the sound of music, Natalia laughs.

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At the end of July, over a month after beginning again on his home turf, just as he's truly starting to feel at home again in Red Hook, Bucky opens his door to the last thing he ever could have expected to see. Or one of the last things. Gotta be at least in the top five.

There are children standing at his door.

About a three on the list, he'd say.

He successfully manages to suppress the first thought that comes to mind before he can blurt it out – what the fuck – but can't quite manage to follow it up with anything substantial, too busy trying to hide his metal arm behind the door. It's not necessarily his first instinct anymore, but they're kids. Small and easily frightened. In his experience, there are two possibilities when it comes to kids and the arm. They're either afraid or obsessed. No in betweens. He hides the arm. Or attempts to.

He looks at the two girls standing in front of him – the older girl maybe in her teens, radiating the most intense teenage energy he's ever encountered close up, complete with dark lipstick and judgmental eyes, with that little white alleycat purring in her arms, the other a small toddler with glasses and ruddy cheeks, her chubby little hands gripping a walker – and all he comes up with is a rather pathetic, ''Uh.''

He's willing to admit, privately, to himself, that this might be what Sam would call malfunctioning.

In his defense –

What the fuck?

''Hi, Sergeant Barnes,'' the older one says. ''We found your cat.''

The little one nods decisively and says, voice slow, struggling, ''K-K-Ki…Kitty.''

Hang on, hang on. Roll it back. There are so many what the fucks to address here. First of all, how do these random small children know his name? Second of all –

''I don't have a cat,'' he says.

The older one quirks an eyebrow. ''Yes, you do.''

''I don't.''

''Do.''

''Don't.''

''Kitty,'' the little one says again, stronger this time, and points to the cat for emphasis with a jerky, tremoring hand that curls into itself.

The cat says nothing, but looks quite content to be where she is, curled up in the girl's arms, listening to them talk about her.

''We see you feeding her all the time,'' she says, scratching behind the cat's ears. ''You definitely have a cat.''

He stares at them for a second – and then a second longer. Neither of them so much as flinch. In fact, he thinks the older of the two might actually be holding his gaze. Quite serenely. Not to mention, the younger one has zeroed in on his arm, the glint of light from the hallway reflecting off it, her eyes focused on it. She doesn't look at all scared. She looks intensely fascinated by it. He's possibly more unsettled by this situation than he will ever acknowledge out loud. ''I don't have a cat,'' he says again.

''Dude.'' Older girl rolls her eyes. ''Has no one taught you about the cat distribution system?''

''The what?''

''The cat distribution system.''

''That's not a thing.''

''It's totally a thing. Look.'' Somewhat reluctantly, she puts the cat down on the ground just outside his apartment. Instead of fleeing, the way cats normally do, this cat just yawns, stretches, and lazily saunters inside. Doesn't even think about running. Just walks right in like she owns the place. The girl puts her hands on her hips and gives him a look. ''So, it's like I said.'' She brushes cat hair off her black tank top. ''We found your cat.''

He looks at her, open mouthed, somewhat flabbergasted. He looks back into his apartment, watching the cat trot over to the couch and jump up onto it with no hesitation. He looks back at the girls. Before he can stop it, it slips out. ''What the fu – ''

''Girls, dinner!''

He turns his attention to the direction of the new voice just as a woman pops her head out of the apartment next door and –

Oh.

Maybe this is what Sam means by malfunctioning.

The thing is, Bucky didn't have a staring problem until people started telling him he had one and then he just decided – eh, might as well fuck with them. He can't kill people anymore, so why not intimidate them with something a little less lethal? If it gets them to leave him alone and weeds out the fuckin' losers like John Walker, he's all for it. Right now, however, he thinks he might have a staring problem. That's his bad. It's just –

It's hard not to.

Realistically, he knew that he was going to run into his new neighbor at some point. He's been hearing them – her – through the walls since the summer. He listens to her sing Drops of Jupiter at least three times a week. They were bound to cross paths at some point. It's just that in his head, she wasn't so…so…

So.

''Oh,'' the woman smiles at him, this big dimpled grin, the hallway lighting catching her green eyes – shit, is the first coherent thing he's able to think, shit, shit, shit – and steps out of the apartment. There's a green lollipop in her hand and her blonde hair is slightly damp and frizzy. She's wearing a beige wool cardigan that looks about three sizes too big for her, hanging off one shoulder, and a blue tank top that says WEIRD MOMS BUILD CHARACTER in black block lettering. She is not what he was expecting. ''Evening, Sergeant Barnes. Did the girls get your cat back to you okay?''

He blinks a few times. ''…Yes.''

Seriously, how do they all know his name?

''Great.'' She pops the lollipop in her mouth and extends an arm to both girls, but only the toddler happily takes off toward her. At a particularly glacial pace considering the walker and the stilted, shuffling way she moves. The other one remains right where she is, hands on her hips, eyeing him with those judgmental, teenage girl eyes of hers. The woman takes no notice.

She has tattoos on her hands. Not sure why that's something he takes notice of, he's been around a long time and he lives in Brooklyn, tattoos are so commonplace that he barely notices them anymore, but he notices hers. Hand tattoos hurt like hell. She doesn't radiate hand tattoo energy. But there they are: the word ''warrior'' written in cursive on the side of her left hand, three little blackbirds in flight on the side of her right index finger, an intricate black luna moth on the back of her right hand, and a finely detailed and expansive tree on the back of her left hand, the roots extending down into her fingers, the branches going up into her wrist until they turn into birds that, presumably, go up her arm. She even has tattoos on her palms that he can't quite get a clear look at. Her palms. You have to be at least a little unhinged to get a tattoo on the palm of your hand and she has tattoos on both palms.

''She was pawing at our window earlier before you came home,'' she says, taking the lollipop out of her mouth, either unaware or unbothered by his staring. ''We weren't sure if she was hot or hungry, so we let her in, but I wanted to make sure she got home okay.''

Distantly, he's aware he's still staring at her. ''Oh.'' He tears his eyes away from her eyes and forces himself to look at the cat, perched on the couch, seemingly waiting for him to go feed her. ''Yeah. Yes. I – Yes. She's home. Thanks. For taking care of her.''

Has he just been gaslighted into cat ownership?

''Of course,'' the woman says.

Her voice is kind and light and familiar in a way that makes him swallow hard. It is without a doubt the same voice he hears through his bedroom wall at night, singing to her daughter. He still doesn't know why he's so compelled to listen to her sing.

''She's a sweetheart,'' she says. ''She and Maggie kept each other busy all afternoon.'' She scoops the little one up, tickling her side. ''Didn't you?''

The girl – Maggie – giggles, throwing one arm around her mother's neck.

There is a flicker in his head at the sound of it, just this spark of memory that makes his mouth go dry. He had three sisters, once. Before. Mary and Louise. And Rebecca. She was the youngest, the baby of the family, the apple of everyone's eye, still just a kid when he left. That was a lifetime ago. It was just yesterday. She used to giggle like that, all sweetness and innocence, and she used to have those same baby curls and those same chubby little fingers and she died before he could find his way back to her. They all did.

He didn't.

For better or worse, he didn't. He's still here. The only one left standing. With no one left to take care of but himself.

''You know,'' the Drops of Jupiter neighbor drags him back to present day, her voice softer but still casual and easy, as if there's not a World War II soldier dissociating in front of her and her children. She's holding her lollipop out of reach of Maggie's grabby toddler hands. She looks completely at ease. ''If you ever need someone to keep an eye on her during the day or if you're at work, you can always come knock on our door,'' she offers. ''If I'm not there, my nanny's there. She loves cats.''

''That – '' He pauses. Clears his throat. He doesn't have a cat. He doesn't. He should just say that. ''I do go out of town a lot,'' he says instead. ''For work. That would be great. If it's not…too much trouble.''

''It's no trouble at all,'' she says. She shifts her eyes to her oldest, beckoning her over. ''Sin, come on, go in and set the table.'' The woman waits until her daughter gives up on staring at him and moves back over to her and then she effortlessly switches her gaze back to Bucky. ''Really, the door's always open. Oh! By the way.'' She pauses, just long enough to shuffle Maggie into Sin's arms and herd them and Maggie's walker back into the apartment, finally relinquishing the lollipop to Maggie, and then she turns back to him with that same sunny smile still firmly in place. ''Sorry,'' she apologizes. ''I just realized I didn't introduce myself. I'm Dinah Lance. Or Laurel. Whichever you prefer. I don't usually – '' There's a falter, momentary and involuntary. ''I'm trying something new.'' Then she offers him her hand.

Specifically, she offers him her left hand.

It's so purposeful and yet so effortless at the same time, a smooth statement – albeit a fairly obvious one. He can tell just from the way she holds out her left hand that it's not her dominant hand. He wonders, in the back of his mind, if this is the same long arm (no pun intended) of the government that got him to Raynor. A special agent assigned to watch him. Now that he's done with his court ordered therapy, they need another way to keep him on their leash, right? Make sure he's not killing people. Make sure he's not too sick to live in society. Why not send in an undercover? Except – no. This is too obvious. And there are children involved. That's not their style. This is something else.

This is a kind, beautiful woman giving him her left hand genuinely as a show of…

A show of what?

Trust?

Somehow that is about a thousand times stranger than a SHIELD or SWORD or CIA or ARGUS or what-the-fuck-ever agent playing house so they can make sure the Winter Soldier doesn't go crazy and start picking off his neighbors.

''Dinah,'' he says, gingerly reaching out with the metal arm to grasp her hand as lightly as possible, glimpsing the lotus flower tattoo on the palm of her left hand. ''I'm James.''

''It's nice to meet you, James,'' she tells him. It's weird how she manages to say that so earnestly. ''Remember,'' she says, when he lets go. ''Whenever you need us, we're here.''

He nods once, somewhat tersely, and, in a rather sorry show of pathetic human disaster-ness, can't seem to find his voice until she's gone, back in her apartment, with her kids. ''I'll remember that.'' He stays where he is for an awkward moment and then steps back into his apartment.

The cat has moved from the couch to the floor, sitting directly in front of him, staring.

He stares back.

She remains undaunted.

Just to see what she'll do, he leaves the door open for a minute. She does absolutely nothing. She doesn't move. She keeps staring. And staring.

He fixes his hands on his hips. ''I don't have a cat,'' he says, because – seriously, he doesn't. He doesn't have a cat. Hand to God, he doesn't have a damn cat. She's a stray. She's not his cat. All right, so, sometimes he feeds her. And sometimes he leaves his window open when he's gone in case she gets cold or hot or thirsty and wants to come inside. Yes, fine, that's true. And sometimes, at night, he lets her sleep on the couch. And sometimes…

Oh, fuck.

''I don't have a cat,'' he tries, almost desperate.

The cat patiently allows him to believe this, but it's pretty clear she's already made her decision about him.

He sighs.

''Shit,'' he mutters, and closes the door.

.

.

.

''I think I have a cat,'' he says to Sam.

It's Wednesday and they're down in Harlem, sitting at their regular table at Luke's. It's Wing Wednesday. The beer is away ice cold here. The wings are hot. Sam orders his wings extra extra hot (because he's trying to impress Luke) and he's sweating by the third wing. Bucky makes fun of him until he gets a chicken bone thrown at his head. They stay late, too late, and half the time wind up helping Luke close down the place.

It's a new tradition.

A friendship.

He is still trying to get used to things like this – traditions, friendships, a safe place where he can drink cold beer and eat hot wings and just be alive, like a real person, a life that belongs to him and not someone else – but he likes it best here. The laughter, the noise from the patrons around him, the aliveness of it all. It reminds him of something he used to know. He used to be good at this part.

Being alive.

He remembers that. He remembers that.

Sam looks at him for a beat, pint halfway to his lips, and then throws his head back and declares, a show of dramatic relief, ''Thank you, baby Jesus! I thought I was gonna have to stage an intervention. Packing up and moving to Red Hook all by yourself.'' He shakes his head. ''It's too quiet for you there.''

Bucky shrugs a shoulder. ''I like the quiet.''

''What's the cat's name?''

A frown. ''…Cat?''

''Oh my god.''

''What's wrong with Cat?''

''You can't just call your cat Cat.''

''Why not? It's funny.''

''It's not funny. It's lazy, that's what it is. It was lazy when Manic Pixie Dream Girl Holly Golightly did it and it's lazy when you do it.'' Sam eyes him closely. ''Seriously,'' he says after a minute. ''That's great, Buck. It's a good step. I was getting worried about you. You need a little companionship in your life. You don't have to keep choosing to be lonely, you know. Now, for real,'' he slides past it smoothly, before the inevitable I'm not lonely protests, and points an accusatory chicken wing at him. ''You gotta name that cat.''

''Ugh.'' Bucky takes a swig of the cheap beer that will do nothing for him, savoring the yeasty bitterness. ''Fine.'' He eyes Sam over the rim of the mug. ''She annoys the shit out of me. Maybe I'll name her Sam.''

''Aw, Buck,'' Sam sends him a lopsided grin, accepting the barb with both hands and turning it right back around. ''You'd name your cat after me? That's so touching.''

''Shut up.''

''You love me. You know it.''

.

.

.

Thing is, he does.

.

.

.

If you asked him, Bucky would say he's fine.

And he is.

Most of the time.

He wouldn't say he's lonely exactly. He wouldn't say he's miserable. Honest. He knows what misery is. This isn't it. He's not alone, a fact that surprises him every day, and he's not struggling the same way he was before.

So, in his opinion, he's doing just fine.

He has friends. He has a team. He has a nice loft in Red Hook. He has a purpose. He has direction. He has Sam. It's hard to be lonely when Sam Wilson is in your life.

Steve is still the first thing he thinks about when he wakes up in the morning and the last thing he thinks about before he falls asleep and sometimes, he misses him so much that it feels like his chest has been split and cracked open and something vital has been removed. Another amputation, another stolen piece of him – first his arm, then his memories, then his choice, and now Steve, the one thing he always had right down to his bones, the foundation of him.

He is still learning how to live with a grief that big. How to exist inside of an absence as big as Steve's presence used to be.

But he's trying.

He is trying to live in this world instead of just passing through it like a ghost. He is trying to be a man instead of a monstrous machine.

Isn't that enough?

When he was a person, before all this, he was good at a lot of things. He was a good student, he was a good athlete, he was a good son, he was a good brother, he was a good friend. He was a hard worker. He was charming. He was funny. And he was smart. He liked to read. He did it for fun. He liked to write, too. That was how it was with him and Stevie. Bucky was the writer. Steve was the artist. They used to talk about writing comic books together one day. It was one of their many plans for the future. One of those things they used to tell themselves just to get through the day.

He's been trying to get back into that. The journaling – a Dr. Raynor suggestion that never took off – is slow going. And by slow going he mostly means it's not happening at all. It feels like every time he tries to put pen to paper, the only thing that he ever writes down is:

I don't know what the fuck I'm doing here.

Books, on the other hand. That he can handle. He has a lot to catch up on. He starts with the books Steve had, all of them neatly packed away in cardboard boxes and tucked away in the spare room. Problem with that is Stevie's fucking boring. Lotta political biographies and thrillers that he is 100% Sharon would call old man shit. And Bucky just has no real inclination to read Patterson's dry ghostwritten shit. Or a JFK biography. Because.

Well.

So, he starts with the used bookstore a few blooks away, the one beside the new flower shop that just opened up. He goes there every Saturday and buys a book or two. Donates a good portion of Steve's entire collection and doesn't even think about how that's the first thing of Steve's that he's been able to let go of. Trades in whatever books he already has that don't tickle his fancy. It checks a lot of boxes on his list. Reading fills the emptiness of his life in a peaceful way. It's easier than watching television or scrolling on his phone. It fills him up. He's making his way through everything he missed and building a home for himself, filling bookshelves, giving his lifeless apartment at least the appearance of vibrancy.

It's all part of trying to create life instead of taking it.

He goes out for the team dinners that they've fallen into after briefings. He has a standing Wednesday night dinner with Sam.

He's invited to the Delacroix cookouts now and he does his best to show up when he can. He makes sure he brings something sweet for the boys and flowers for Sarah. You never show up to a pretty lady's house without flowers, he told her the first time he showed up with a bouquet of daisies and a grin. My Ma taught me that. That's their thing now. He gives her flowers. She kisses him on the cheek. They make sure they flirt to the point of obnoxiousness – just to make Sam do that twitchy eye thing that he does when someone tries to flirt with his sister.

He gets drinks with Maria Hill and listens to her rant about fascism and bureaucracy and doesn't let her walk home drunk by herself – even though he's about 97% sure that she could take on anyone who crossed her, three sheets to the wind or not.

Torres is taking catching him up on pop culture extremely seriously. He's got him all set up on social media. He keeps asking him if he knows this streaming platform or that viral TikTok or what an influencer is. He sends him a lot of memes. And, unexpectedly, poetry books. Kid really likes Mary Oliver. It explains a lot about where his sweetness and unflinching optimism comes from.

Carter does this extremely annoying thing (because she is an extremely annoying person) where she calls him at random and usually odd hours and says I'm hungry and then he'll buy her dinner and they'll bicker the entire time and pretend they're not laughing at each other's jokes.

There is a pint-sized Russian ex (he's pretty sure) assassin he's trying to look out for – as much as she'll let him.

One time, Nick Fury asked him if he liked banana pudding. Still not entirely sure what that was about, but he thinks it might have been an attempt at bonding – or at least some form of humanizing. It was very uncomfortable. He'd said, verbatim, Yeah, love it, why?

That was a gentle fib.

He does not love banana pudding. He actually doesn't like bananas at all because time has fucked the poor bananas over almost worse than it's fucked him over. But now he's committed to the lie. So, if anyone asks, he loves banana pudding.

Also, apparently, he has a cat now.

Her name is Alpine.

Nothing about this is easy. He still has nightmares. Guilt is a frequent visitor. He spent the better part of a century as a POW, being brainwashed and tortured and formed into nothing more than a weapon, a thing. They took him out. He doesn't know how to explain this to people in a way they understand. He doesn't think anyone could ever understand if they tried. They took him out of his body. They put something else in. He didn't mean to forget. He tried so hard not to. He remembers that part so vividly. The way he tried so desperately to stay. He tried, even during the worst of it, to remind himself who he was, to cling to what was familiar, and in the end, he still couldn't do it. They tore it out of him. He doesn't think the aftermath of that will ever go away. That is the nature of the beast. Some days, every move he makes feels like struggling through suffocating chest deep mud.

Not everything that is broken can be fixed.

But he's here. He's alive. He's free. He remembers. He thinks this might be as whole as he'll ever get. And that's enough. This life he has is enough. He is trying to believe this is enough.

The trouble with grief is that healing only happens when you acknowledge the hurt. When you accept that the only way out is through. Keeping your grief to yourself, making it a secret, turning it into this dirty thing you don't want to deal with – none of that leads anywhere good. He knows this. He's had therapy. He should probably have more. He knows this.

And yet.

Everyone knows who Bucky Barnes is in relation to the man, the myth, the legend that was Steve Rogers. Everyone knows he loved and lost him. Maybe they don't know the exact depths, the long and short of it, the nitty gritty details of their life together in Brooklyn and all the various ways they loved each other and maybe the general public doesn't know how he really lost him, but they know there was enough love for there to be grief. Everyone knows that.

There's a lot more to him than Steve.

In the seventy years of hell he lived through, cold and alone, there was one bright spot no one knows about.

.

.

.

Even if the price you pay for love is immeasurable grief, it's an incredible privilege to live long enough to have more than one love of your life.

He tells himself that every night he wakes up with her name on his lips and the echo of red hair and the sound of her screams as they dragged her away from him in his head.

.

.

.

There was a moment, just a moment, fleeting, before the war.

Her hair was short and blonde. His was longer, limp and dark. They were not themselves. Or maybe they were. Maybe they were all that was left. Whatever they had become to each other in the years since what they were. Strangers. Allies. Echoes.

But their shadows were familiar, two assassins in the armory, before the world caved in.

He watched her arm herself, slipping knives in pockets, blades disappearing into her tac suit so smoothly he almost missed where she put them. He watched her ready herself, prepare with steely resolve, and he thought of the girl in the Red Room, the dancer. He missed the red hair.

It was hard for him to believe, even then, battle worn and weary, that anything or anyone could have made him forget her.

How could anyone ever forget her?

It hadn't been in his plan to say anything. He was too twitchy, too nervous, unsure if she wanted him to, if she even remembered it herself, and then he just said it, right as she was finishing up, just as she was turning away, before she could leave. ''Natalia,'' he said, and watched her entire body go rigid. ''I think maybe we should talk.''

She whirled around, turning on him with this completely unexpected naked vulnerability on her face. It made her look younger. It made him feel younger. Like they were home again, together, the girl and the Soldier. Her expression shuttered quickly, mouth working down into a frown, hesitant. She took half a step closer and then stopped. She stared at him, somewhere between hopeful and wary. ''…James?''

His lips quirked upwards into a smile, a real one. It was one of the easiest smiles of his entire life. ''Natalia,'' he said again, just to say it. ''моя любовь.''

She faltered, eyes widening in something akin to awe.

''I just wanted to tell you – ''

She held a hand up. ''Wait,'' she said. ''Stop.'' She paused, opened her mouth and then closed it, and looked over her shoulder. When she looked back at him, she was smiling. She looked, for that moment, hopeful. He will always remember that hope. She stepped closer for a moment, her fingertips just barely ghosting over the back of his hand. ''Tell me later,'' she whispered. ''Tell me when the world doesn't end.''

He nodded and tried to box it all back up, put it away for later. ''When the world doesn't end,'' he agreed. ''It's a date. I'll buy you a drink.''

''I'm holding you to that, Мой милый.''

.

.

.

They never did get that drink.

.

.

.

December 2023

Right before the new year, a couple months after returning to a world that no longer had Natalia in it and less than two weeks after Barton and his wife have her headstone put in, Bucky finds his way to Ohio.

He brings her an orchid and a bottle of Russian vodka.

''Natalia,'' he greets. Saying her name still feels like home. An empty home, maybe, with empty rooms and cold air, but still home. He thinks that might be the thing he associates her with the most. ''Sorry it took me so long to get here, mоя любовь,'' he tells her. ''I've been…''

What? What has he been? Busy? Pretending? Cowering?

I've been trying to forget again, he doesn't say. I've been thinking of you, he doesn't say. I wish I could stop. I hear you screaming when they pulled us apart in my dreams.

There are consequences to remembering. He's been learning to live with those. That's what he's been doing. Here.

In this world without her.

''I've been going to therapy,'' he finishes. ''Don't laugh. It's court mandated.''

She doesn't laugh. She doesn't make fun of him. She doesn't do that sly little smile of hers and say what on earth are we going to do with you, mой милый and ask him if he's wiped out the red in his ledger. There is nothing left of her to say anything at all. There is nothing of her here, in this town, this state, this empty grave. But what else is there? Where can he go?

There is nowhere to go but here.

''We had a date,'' he reminds her. ''I said I'd buy you a drink.''

He pours a shot of vodka and places it on top of the grave with a tenderness he didn't know he was still able to possess.

''I just wanted you to tell you. I wanted you to know,'' he says to the air around him, the particles of her that might still exist in this universe, the energy that can't be destroyed by something as small and irrelevant as death, all the pieces of her he loved so deeply a long time ago. ''I remembered.''

How could he ever have forgotten?

I remember St. Petersburg, he could tell her. I remember Odessa. I remember Mudge Island. I'm sorry I ever forgot.

Bucky crouches down in front of the gravestone and traces the hourglass figure carved into the stone. He thinks of the softness of her skin under his fingertips. He thinks of dancing with her under the streetlights in St. Petersburg. She was the best he ever trained and one of the strongest people he's ever known. She liked peanut butter. She loved medovik. Orchids were her favorite flower. He never understood the way she spoke of Ohio. But he understood her. Better than most. He knew her. She knew him.

How many other people can say that?

He has no regrets about what they were to each other in the Red Room. About what they felt. His only regret is this. The way they have always been, ever since then, missing each other. The lost years, the lost chances.

The loss, period.

It's almost 2024 and the war is over and Bucky Barnes is a (mostly) free man, with an entire future ahead of him.

And Natalia is dead.

''I remember everything,'' he tells her, the thing he never got to say, the very thing he should have said before they walked out onto that field, the last time he ever saw her. ''And you were the one good thing in all of it.''

.

.

.

He pretends not to notice, the entire time he's standing at Natalia's grave, the feeling of eyes on him.

.

.

.

August 2024

Bucky is not about to claim he's completely caught up on everything he's missed over the past several decades. He's working on it, but there's a lot to wade through. The world is different. Everything here is brighter and better and so much worse. There are gaping holes in his knowledge.

If he's being honest, he only knows what's going on about half the time.

But if there's one low stakes thing that he has caught up on, it's the horror genre. Mostly because he's been forced to. He's still not entirely sure how he feels about the genre these days (once you've been a horror story, you tend to lose your taste for it) but Yelena, turns out, is a huge horror buff. This was not a surprise.

So, he thinks he can be forgiven for startling when the elevator doors slide open late one night and there's a child standing alone in the middle of the hallway. Scary movies would have you believe this is the single worst thing that could ever happen to you.

Also, if anyone's counting, this is the second time this has happened to him.

He wonders what door will have this kid on the other side of it next.

Bucky hesitates, grimacing to himself, weighing his options, briefly wondering if this kid is here to drag him down to Hell where he belongs. Probably not, but he feels it's a valid concern. Just. Considering. He counts all the many, many terrible ways this could go – the least of which is being dragged down to Hell – and then he steps off the elevator. Listen, he's tired. He just spent three days in Delaware. He'd forgotten Delaware even existed until he was in it. (And that's not even a brainwashing thing. It's just a what the fuck is Delaware and why do I have to go there thing.) And he got shot. In Delaware.

It was embarrassing. He's fine, it was a flesh wound at most, he's already almost fully healed, better him than Sharon, he doesn't regret taking the bullet for her, but it was embarrassing. The only thing more embarrassing than getting shot in fucking Delaware would have been getting shot in fucking New Jersey.

This is the last thing he wants to deal with.

The elevator doors close behind him, but he stays right where he is, looking at the girl, resisting the urge to sigh. He realizes, with a nervous sinking feeling, that she's not even standing in front of her own door. She's standing in front of his.

Oh, Christ.

Why?

''Fuck,'' he mouths, but doesn't panic about it. No power on this earth could get him to admit he panics about it. He doesn't panic. He has panic attacks. But he does not panic. He's just…wary. Confused. Exhausted.

Definitely not panicked.

He used to be good with kids, you know. Bucky Barnes. Eldest of four. You can't just not be good with kids when you have three younger siblings. He took care of those girls. That was his job. He was confident in his babysitting skills. He hasn't been that boy in a long time. He's not entirely sure he could conjure up that kind of softness if he tried.

The girl hasn't noticed him yet, babbling softly to herself, holding onto her walker with well practiced tiny hands.

Bucky allows himself a moment to take in the sight of her. The whole of this little girl with the baby fine blonde curls and the mobility device and enough cleverness to get herself out of her apartment in the middle of the night without her mother noticing. It's not his business why she uses a mobility device. He doesn't need to know why she can barely talk or walk, why her left side is visibly weaker than her right, why her left hand curls into itself, what happened to her eye. This is not his child and not his life. But he takes this moment to look at her anyway and finds himself struck by the visceral sense of determination coming off her in waves.

Reminds him of someone he used to know.

He looks at the firmly shut door to her apartment, where everything is still and quiet. Not only did she sneak out of her home but she also closed the door behind her? He forces back a tired chuckle. Even he has to say that's impressive.

''Hey, Maggie?''

She jumps, letting out a tiny gasp, and looks over at him. Whatever he's internally bracing himself for – crying, screaming, fear – never comes. She does not react to his presence with anything even remotely resembling fear. Instead, she recognizes him and lights up, waving her right hand enthusiastically. ''Hi!''

…Damn it, that's really cute.

A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. ''Hi.'' He takes a few steps closer and lowers his bag to the ground slowly, crouching down in front of her. ''What are you doing out here, sugar?''

She points a hand at his door. ''K-Kiiiiiittyyyy.''

''You want to see the cat?''

She nods. ''Ki..tty.''

Well, hey, he can do that. ''How about I send her over to play tomorrow?''

She makes this little bird-like noise, like an excited chirp, and grabs at his hand. Her baby soft skin is warm against his flesh hand. ''Pl-Pla-a-aaay?'' she asks, eyes blown wide. ''Wif kit-t-ty?'' She grips at her walker with her right hand, jerking her tremoring left hand toward herself. ''Maggie?''

''Yes,'' he agrees, because – well, who wouldn't instantly agree to anything that little face asks for? ''You can play with the kitty for as long as you want. But not tonight. Tomorrow. It's really, really late, Maggie. I bet you're supposed to be in bed, don't you think?''

''B-B-Beeeed,'' Maggie repeats, drawing the word out, working hard to get it out. She looks very proud of herself when she does. ''Mama.''

''That's right. Let's get you back to your mama, okay?'' He waits until she gives him a nod and then picks her up, some leftover instinct from Becca, and settles her on his hip. She seems perfectly comfortable with this, grinning up at him, calm as can be.

When he knocks on the door, he tries his best to listen in, trying to make sure that everything inside is all right, that her mother isn't incapacitated in some way, but he's caught completely off guard when Maggie reaches over and touches his metal arm, gloved tonight, though she's already seen it. There is not a single hint of fear in her expression. ''Ar-Arm,'' she declares.

He tenses. ''Um, yeah, that's – ''

''Eye,'' she says, and points to her left eye. For the record, yes, he'd noticed that it was a prosthetic. It's a fairly realistic looking prosthetic, not noticeable to everyone, even less so when she's wearing those tiny glasses of hers, but he'd noted the eye the first time he saw her.

He wasn't going to mention it.

Maggie smiles at him, her mother's smile, and puts her weak and shaky hand on his chest. ''Y-Y-Yooou,'' she gets out, then moves her hand to her own chest, a bright eyed look of hope and wonder in her eyes. ''M-Me.''

You're like me, he understands.

He understands this immediately.

Something squeezes in his chest, this awful, wonderful winded feeling, and he has to remind himself to breathe. He softens, all the sharp edges inside dulling down into nearly nothing, the lines on his face smoothing out as he looks at her, this strange little one-eyed toddler with her messy curls and her Houdini act. Who has, somehow, against all odds, seen right through him. Not generally a big fan of being perceived. Until this moment, this soft moment, right here. ''I – ''

The door to apartment 5B is flung open with an understandable sense of urgency and Maggie's mother – Dinah or Laurel, he's still not entirely sure which one she prefers – is there, sleep-rustled and frantic.

There is a split second of silence and then Maggie raises a hand and waves. ''Hi, Mama!''

''Maggie,'' Dinah Laurel breathes out. Her entire body wilts, her grip on the door tightening to keep herself upright. ''Oh my god. Oh my god, baby, my baby. Tiny, where were you?''

''She's okay,'' Bucky says as he transfers Maggie back into her mother's arms. ''She was just out in the hallway.'' He steps back out to grab her walker from the hallway, tucking it neatly into the darkened apartment. ''I don't think she was out there for long.''

''She was – Oh my god, baby.'' Her face crumbles in guilt, something he recognizes all too well. ''I didn't even realize – How did you – '' She looks at her daughter, smoothing down her rumpled curls. ''I didn't know where you were. I didn't know where you were.''

Maggie, largely untroubled by her mother's distress, just looks at her and gives her a sweet little smile. Well, I knew where I was the whole time, she would say, if she could. ''Mama,'' she says. She has never once wavered when saying that word. Her mouth fits around it perfectly every time. It's hers.

''Maggie,'' her mother's voice is strangled and her breathing sounds ragged. ''You can't – You can't just – ''

''Hey, Dinah. Dinah.'' Bucky places his hand on her arm, heavy but not firm, making sure she can feel the pressure, locking eyes with her.

He doesn't tend to make a habit of using his enhanced hearing to listen to other people's heart rates and breathing. It's too…animalistic. And it takes a lot of very precise focus. The Winter Soldier used it in the field. Like a fucking hunting dog. Bucky tries not to use it at all. But her body is practically screaming at him right now, her breathing fast and erratic, her heart a noisy, caged in bird. He's half convinced he doesn't even need the serum to hear her distress. This isn't normal oh no I turned around for 30 seconds and the kid climbed into the dairy fridge at the market panic.

This is an incoming panic attack.

''Maggie's okay,'' he tells her, slow and calm, as deliberate as possible. ''She's okay. I swear to you. She's not hurt. She was right here. She wasn't alone for long. I got her right back to you.''

''I – yes,'' her voice is still shaky, her breathing still too fast, eyes watering, but she nods. She doesn't look away from his eyes. ''Yes, she's okay.'' She looks at Maggie again, pressing their foreheads together, and he watches her shoulders relax as Maggie starts playing with her hair. ''She's okay,'' she mumbles.

Maggie says, oblivious to her mother's distress, ''Milk?''

''Yeah, baby, you can have some milk.'' She looks back to him with big green eyes. ''Thank you,'' she chokes out, right before she divebombs him with a hug. ''Thank you.''

He's thrown off by it, stumbling back a step, unsure. He hasn't forgotten how to be a person. Contrary to popular belief. I mean, he did. For a long time. He remembers now. He knows how to hug. He's just not sure he should. His body had a very specific singular purpose for a horrific length of time. He was a weapon, nothing more. He's so used to his body being used for violence that sometimes he's not sure it's ever going to be good for anything else. He's so used to the memories of all the terrible things these hands have done that sometimes he's not sure they deserve the chance to hold. But he does. Slowly, very hesitantly, he hugs her back.

He tries not to think about how thin her soft red nightgown is and how the short lightweight silk robe she threw on over top is not doing much to cover anything up.

Maggie, squished between them, breaks it up with a squeak.

Bucky pulls away like he's been burned.

''I'm sorry,'' Dinah and/or Laurel says quickly. ''I'm sorry for the trouble. If she – ''

''No,'' he cuts in, with a shake of his head. ''There was no trouble. Just glad I could get her back home safe. I did have to cut a deal with her, though. You okay with having a cat playdate tomorrow?''

She makes a choked sound, maybe a laugh, maybe a sob. ''I think we can make that work.''

''Good.'' He looks at her for a second, watches her still trembling hands clutching her baby girl. ''Dinah,'' he says. ''Everything's okay.'' He wrangles up his best charming grin, looking back at Maggie. ''Right, Maggie?''

''Okay, okay,'' she chirps out, slow but steady.

Her poor mother lets out another strangled chuckle. ''Okay,'' she murmurs. ''Okay.''

''You two should get some rest,'' he says, making a valiant attempt to keep the smile on his face. ''It's late.''

''Thank you,'' she says again. ''Seriously, I don't know what happened. She was right next to me. She still nurses to sleep. I should – I know I should be weaning her, but she's been through so much and I don't want to take it away from her, so we – She was right next to me. I don't know how I…'' She shakes her head, blinking, a blush creeping into her cheeks, as if suddenly realizing she's rambling to some guy she barely knows. ''Thank you, James.''

''Anytime, Dinah.''

.

.

.

The next morning, before he drags himself down to work to get raked over the coals for all the paperwork he did not do, he drops Alpine off next door.

An unfamiliar blonde – young, early twenties, big doll eyes, zig zagging scar going from the top of her forehead down to her lower jaw – opens the door, pauses when she sees him, and then relaxes the second she spots Alpine, curled up inside his jacket. ''Oh, hi,'' she smiles. ''Laurel said you'd be coming by. I'm Steph.''

''Hi, Steph, I'm Bucky,'' he greets, polite, conversational, trying his best to be normal about this and not think about the strange and unwelcome feeling of disappointment that settled in when the door was opened by someone other than Dinah Laurel. ''You're the nanny, right?''

''That's me,'' she nods. ''I have to say, I'm glad to see you,'' she admits. ''Maggie's been talking all morning about – ''

''KITTY!'' Maggie's voice screeches, and that's when he sees her inside the apartment, sitting on a blanket on the floor. She starts to get to her feet, clearly struggling, but before she has chance to get up, Alpine meows and vaults out of Bucky's jacket. She doesn't even hesitate, happily trotting over to Maggie.

''Wow,'' Steph says. She watches Alpine rub her face against Maggie's palm, seemingly content. ''That's, like, the cutest thing I've ever seen.''

''She's a smart cat,'' he says.

''Cats usually are,'' Steph tells him. Her lips quirk up into this small smile and she looks at him with eyes that look like they know more than they should. ''They know who needs them the most.''

.

.

.

Mistakenly, he assumes that will be the end of it.

They can share the cat. Or maybe the cat will get tired of him and decide to live next door full time, that's fine, that would be better for everyone.

(Except that it wouldn't be. Because he's kinda attached to the little thing. Every now and then he wakes up from a nightmare with panic clawing at his throat and she climbs onto his chest and lies there, a warm, soothing weight, until he can breathe properly.)

But that'll be the extent of it.

Just neighbors who kind of share a cat.

Co-parenting acquaintances.

And then, about a week later, he goes down to the third floor laundry room to get his clothes out of the dryer and when he makes it back up to the fifth floor, the door to his apartment that he left open a crack is wide open and Maggie is standing in his home.

Honestly, he's not even that surprised this time.

''Hi, Maggie,'' he greets. He backtracks, looking out into the hallway, where, sure enough, the door to the apartment next door is closed. ''You here to see Alpine?''

''Kit-kitty,'' she says. But then, ''N-No.'' She pauses for a second and he watches her closely, noting the way she seems to struggle, the way she so clearly knows what she wants to say but can't quite get it out. She fiddles with her glasses for a second and then she flicks her gaze to his ungloved arm, and grins, a gummy, infectious smile. ''Arm,'' she exclaims, just as bright and cheerful as ever.

Oh, that's…

Way more complicated than the kitty.

''Uh, yeah.'' He puts the laundry basket down on the couch. ''Arm.''

She nods seriously. She points to her left eye. ''E-Eye.'' Then, in quite possibly the worst turn of events he could imagine, all her cheerfulness abruptly dries up and she scowls and says, slowly, but with an achingly familiar sense of self-loathing, ''Bad.'' She jabs her finger at her eye. ''Maggie sc-sc-sca-ary.''

Goddamn it.

She points to his arm. ''Bad?''

Truthfully, yeah, his first instinct is still to say: yes, bad, very bad.

Even after all this time, he still struggles. He thinks maybe he will struggle in some ways for the rest of his life. He doesn't think that's abnormal. There is still grief associated with the amputation, the loss of his arm, a part of him, his flesh and blood. He is functional, better than, he can live a mostly normal life. He's lucky. He acknowledges that he is extraordinarily lucky.

But it's still life with chronic pain. Burning, tingling phantom pain, redistributed weight to hold the arm, the ache in his shoulder, the nerve pain, all that scar tissue. And he can't really feel. He can hold and he can grip and he can fight and he can spread peanut butter on toast. He can use the vibranium arm for gentleness and he can use it for brutality. He can live the same kind of life other people can.

He is, in some ways, a miracle.

An engineering marvel.

He has grip strength and pressure sense and a bit of temperature sense. There's a plate in his shoulder with sensors that are connected to his neural pathways. It allows him to have as much control and feeling as possible. It's all very technologically advanced shit. There were parts of his body that were replicated with technology and replaced so that this bionic arm can be as real as possible. Muscle, bone, tissue, nerves, all of it inside of him, part of him. He has a hard time thinking about it all for too long. Every now and then he starts thinking too hard about it and his brain does one of those zaps and suddenly it's ten at night and he's missed dinner with Sam and he's still standing in the kitchen, staring at his hand. It tests the limits of the imagination. The things he has in this arm. The things that have been done to him to make it. He can feel as much as he can feel.

For Hydra, this was meant to help him in the field, make him a better weapon. For Wakanda, it was meant to make him as close to who he was before as possible. But it's not the same. It won't ever be the same. It just doesn't work that way.

In theory, he can feel the warmth of another person's skin. In theory, he can somewhat feel how soft his cat's fur is. When Maggie touched his arm, he could feel her fingers. …Sort of. It's all sort of. It's just not the same. There is something artificial about it all. He still finds himself sitting on the couch on off days, running his fingers over the fabric, trying to decide what's real and what's not, floating along in a sense of unreality that his left arm does not help with.

It's not easy to think about.

Sometimes, when he wakes up, he still has that single, disorienting second where he expects to feel the sheets under his hand and doesn't understand why he can't.

It's a loss. One he's never truly been given a chance to deal with until now. Some losses take a lifetime to wade through. Especially if every second of your day is filled with reminders of it.

And it's not like…

Well.

Let's just say the memories of his first metal arm aren't exactly soft.

Memory is a tricky thing. It's terrible and unimaginable to live without it, but occasionally he wonders if it's even worse to live with it. He wouldn't trade his memories. He's realized that over the past year. He wouldn't give up Stevie for the world. He wouldn't give up Natalia, not even the parts of her that are just raw grief. He wouldn't give up Sam and Yelena and Joaquin and Sharon. But every wonderful thing comes with a price. Chained to every soft memory is another memory made of metal and blood, violence and terror, sometimes his own, sometimes others.

He remembers the arm.

All of it.

Even the parts he wishes he could forget.

A bone deep horror and nausea still roil inside of him when he thinks about the way they operated on him, removed his arm, cut away dead tissue, shaved down bone – all without any anesthetic. He remembers the way it felt. The pain and the screaming and the sickness. The smell of burning flesh, necrotic tissue, blood and rot and vomit. He remembers begging them to let him die. And he remembers the metal arm. The barbaric way it was attached to him, welded to his skin, integrated, the constant pain of it, sometimes a low-level hum, like a buzzing inside, sometimes a brutal, wretched agony that he didn't understand what to do with. He remembers all the times he tried to cut it off. He remembers all the things he was made to do with that metal arm. That, he will never forget.

He tried to gnaw it off once.

With his teeth.

The Asset did not have feelings. The Asset was not allowed to feel pain. The Asset was not permitted to care one way or another about the metal arm. It was a means to an end, nothing more – much like The Asset itself.

Still, The Asset tried to chew it off.

Broke protocol back in '69 somewhere in Amsterdam during one of those rare near lucid moments. It tried to run. It hid, whimpering and afraid, like a scared animal. It tried to chew the arm off. When that didn't work, it tried to chew the other arm off because it did not understand the flesh of it. The hurt. The Asset was a weapon. A machine. A thing. Flesh and blood did not make sense.

When they found it, holed up in some dirty warehouse, The Asset was a rabid, feral, bloody thing, mouth dripping with red, growling like a wounded, dying animal. It attacked its handler and killed three members of the retrieval team. Ripped one man's throat right out with the arm. Tore a chunk of flesh off another's face with its teeth.

The Asset wanted that arm gone. It would have done anything. It would have torn itself apart.

Bucky remembers that.

It was one of the first things he remembered. Amsterdam, in 1969. The taste of blood. The stink of it. The way flesh feels caught in your teeth. The screaming. He's never told anyone about that. Not even his therapist. Not even Steve. Especially not Steve.

But this is not that arm.

This arm was made for him in Wakanda. The furthest you will ever get from Hydra. Shuri put time and effort into this. She did it for him. She didn't have to do that. None of them did. Shuri, Ayo, T'Challa, none of them owed him a damn thing. They did not have to (and probably shouldn't have) waste time and resources and precious vibranium on his sorry ass. But they did. They did that because it was the right thing to do. This arm wasn't created with hate. It wasn't meant to be a weapon. It was created with kindness. It wasn't meant to make him anything other than Bucky. This is not bad.

This is grace.

We forget how much that means.

''No,'' he tells Maggie. ''Not bad.'' He takes a seat on the ground next to her, settling back against the couch. ''It's just my arm.'' Without thinking too hard about it, he extends his metal hand out to her, palm up, hand open for her to take. ''It's not good or bad. It's just an arm and a hand.''

She has zero hesitation when touching the hand. She's not scared of it in the slightest. There is no intimidation or trepidation in her face. She shuffles closer with her walker and sits down on the ground with him so she can trail her fingers along the cool vibranium of his open palm. He watches her work her fingers along the metal, fascinated, entranced, so far away from scared. She pauses once, looking up at him with her mother's green eyes, both sharp and sweet. It's just as real as touch.

''It's a part of me,'' he tells her. ''It's not bad. It's just me. Like your eye is just you.''

Her eyebrows knit together. She runs her fingers up his arm. She stares at the metal arm, seemingly focused, but also thoughtful. She places her hand in his palm and lets out a delighted gasp, followed by the sweetest giggle he's ever heard when he gently closes the metal fingers around her little hand.

It's hard not to smile back when she's looking at him like that.

''Me,'' Maggie declares, pointing at her eye.

''You,'' he nods. ''Just you, sugar.''

There is a sudden determined look on her face. She points to his arm. ''You.''

''That's right,'' he nods. ''They're just parts of us. Nothin' bad or scary about it. Don't let anyone ever tell you different.''

She licks her lips, frowns, concentrating. When he lets go of her hand, she seeks it out again, grasping onto metal. ''W- Why?''

Bit of a deep question for a toddler, but okay. It takes him a second to realize, just from the way she's looking at him, that what she's actually asking is how. ''Oh. Uh.'' Really no kid appropriate way to tell the truth with that one, is there? ''I was in an accident,'' he lands on. ''I got hurt.''

She accepts this with a nod. Gestures vaguely to her eye. Says something that vaguely resembles ick.

''You were sick?'' He shouldn't be surprised by how much the thought bothers him, but he is. ''But you're all better now?''

She nods again and her body almost vibrates as she pushes herself up onto her knees, so ready to tell him something, but unable to find the words. She opens and closes her mouth a few times, then closes it, somewhat discouraged but still determined. ''Mama,'' she gets out. ''Maggie.'' She pauses again, mouth working silently for a minute before she gets out, ''F-F-Fr-Freee?''

There is something about the way she says it, the reverence in her voice, the way she says it so strongly. She's got him on the hook. ''That's good,'' he gets out after a second. ''I'm glad you're free.'' He leans in closer to her. ''I like talking to you, Maggie,'' he says softly. ''But I think we should probably get you back home to your mom. We don't want her to be worried. Does that sound okay?''

It does give her pause, but not enough to throw a fit or refuse. ''Ok...ay,'' she agrees, and when he stands up, she readily takes his hand and trusts him to carefully pull her to her feet.

This time, when he knocks on the door to the apartment next door with Maggie tucked into one arm and her walker in the other, Laurel isn't the one who answers.

Sin takes one look at her sister, who is, he's guessing, not where she thought she was, and her eyes widen. ''Oh crap, my mom's gonna kill me.''

''I won't tell if you don't,'' Bucky offers.

Of course, that's the moment Laurel chooses to step out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel.

It's not even a big towel.

He's quite certain his brain short circuits for a good five seconds. The first logical thing he's able to think is that this explains how Maggie was able to pull a runner. The second thing is, rather illogically, in a moment of incredibly unlikely backsliding – The Asset has been compromised, reset mission parameters.

Whoa, wait, what the fuck –

Laurel's brain does not, it would seem, need to be reset because the second she sees him, she lets out an impressive shriek and throws herself to the ground behind the kitchen counter. ''Oh my god!''

''Oh my god!'' Sin looks mortified. ''Mom! What are you doing? Why would you – '' She breaks off in a sigh, covering her face with her hands. ''What the shit.''

Maggie seems to think the entire thing is hilarious, arms still secured tightly around Bucky's neck, giggling uncontrollably.

''Don't say shit!'' Laurel's head pops up from behind the kitchen counter. ''Is that Maggie?'' She does look appropriately concerned about this, even if her cheeks are still red. ''She got out again?''

''No,'' Sin lies.

''Well,'' Bucky speaks up.

Sin throws him a witheringly betrayed look.

''Sorry, kid,'' he shrugs. ''I can't lie to her face. She – '' He pauses, throat constricting when he looks back to Laurel, her wet hair, her bare shoulders, her hands on the counter. She has tattoos. He'd known that already, known about the ones on her hands (except for that one on her right palm that he's never been able to make out) but she has a lot more than that: a band of laurel wrapped around one wrist, trailing up her arm, a carnation flower on the other wrist, what looks like an arrow on the inside of her right forearm, and a large floral fine line tattoo that sprawls all the way up her left shoulder and spreads to her collarbone. He's having a hard time pretending he's not staring.

Fuck's sake, he was just trying to do his laundry.

Now he's got a toddler attached to his neck and a teen glaring at him and their mother is naked right there and there's fucking Russian in his head again. Over and over again –

требуется техническое обслуживание.

Maintenance required.

What the fuck would maintenance even be in this situation?

He bites back a scowl. Override, he thinks darkly. Fuck off. The Russian quiets. He resists the strong urge to smack himself in the head to shake this shit out of him. ''She's okay,'' he says, and hopes his voice sounds normal. ''She was in my apartment when I came back from the laundry room.''

''Of course she was,'' Laurel grumbles. ''Missed every milestone but the little escape artist stage.''

''Completely missed the Stranger Danger stage, though,'' Sin adds. ''She has no fear at all. 100% she'd get right into a kidnapper's van. Like, she wouldn't even question it.'' She holds out her arms. ''Come here, 小妹.''

Maggie hesitates, whining quietly, tightening her hold on Bucky's neck, but ultimately the draw of her older sister is too strong and she patiently allows herself to be taken.

''James,'' Laurel says. ''I'm so sorry. I – I really don't know how she keeps doing this.'' She tries to laugh it off, but she sounds a little hysterical and it's obvious she's upset.

It's at least enough for him to pull himself together.

''It's not a problem, Dinah,'' he says, placing Maggie's walker just inside the door. ''She was no trouble at all. Just had a coupla questions, that's all.''

Sin whips her head around to look at him, frowning. ''Questions? She asked you questions?''

''Sure, why wouldn't she? She's a smart kid.'' He grins at Maggie.

She grins back.

Sin looks…suspicious.

''I should get back to Alpine,'' he says. ''Let your mom get out from her hiding spot and get dressed.''

''I'm not hiding,'' Laurel calls. ''I just…slipped.''

Sure, okay.

''You three have a good night,'' he says, and turns to leave, hopefully not too abruptly. It's not the smoothest exit he's ever made, but it's also not the clunkiest so he'll take it.

As soon as he's out in the safety of the hallway, door to apartment 5B shut behind him, he lets out a growl and smacks the side of his head. Even tilts it to the side and gives it a shake just to make sure. '' Отъьебись,'' he snarls.

When he opens the door and steps back into his apartment, Steve is sitting on the couch with a beer in hand, watching baseball. He has one hand stretched out across the back of the couch, reaching toward Bucky. He looks over with a lazy grin, eyes sparkling. ''So,'' he eases out, full Brooklyn. ''How'd that go for ya, pal?''

Bucky freezes, one hand on the doorknob, and then blinks.

There is no one sitting on the couch.

требуется техническое обслуживание.

No fucking shit.

He blinks a few more times.

Alpine comes crawling out of whatever hidey hole she's been in and trots over to living area, hopping up on the coffee table, eyes landing on him. He stares right back at her. Finally, he shuts the door behind him and tries to shake it off. He looks at Alpine on his way to the kitchen and then holds up one finger and says, ''We're never telling anyone about that.''

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.

.

He starts seeing them around a lot more after that, the family unit from next door.

The mother specifically.

Dinah.

Or Laurel.

Whatever he prefers.

(He prefers Dinah. He has picked up on the fact that she generally goes by Laurel, but that's not enough to get him to stop calling her Dinah. It suits her. It's a strong name, and he knows what strength looks like. It looks like her.)

August and September are busy months. He spends a lot of time at work, both with Sam's team and at his second job, but whenever he's back at home in Brooklyn, he finds himself unable to escape the family next door. He drops off Alpine when he's going to be out of the country. He goes up to the roof with a paperback in his back pocket and a fresh carton of cigarettes in his hand and finds Sin up there, practicing ballet or gymnastics. Maggie waves whenever she spots him. He runs into Laurel in the elevator, leaning against the back wall, lollipop in her mouth. In the laundry room, doing a load of her soft sweaters and mom shirts. Outside waiting for an Uber. They pass by each other in the hallway and she greets him with this great big smile. On more than one occasion, he sees her, often with her nanny, loading her girls up out front, getting Sin off to school or one of her extracurriculars, taking Maggie to some appointment or another.

He goes to the bookstore a few blocks away on a Saturday, his normal Saturday routine, and winds up spotting Laurel in that new flower shop next door, apron on, talking intently with a customer about bouquet choices for his wife.

He goes to the Red Hook Coffee Shop – a small storefront down on Van Brunt, half hipster coffee shop, half consignment store – at least three times a week, has ever since he moved back home, and one drizzly, humid morning in the middle of August, he walks in and Laurel is standing in the line up. It's not her first time there, he can tell by the way Olaf the manager knows her name and her order, but it's the first time he's seen her. She doesn't say anything to him, just throws him a smile when she sees him walk in the door, but by the time he gets to the front of the line, she's gone and Olaf is telling him his coffee's already been paid for.

Bucky understands the thought behind that, the need to pay it forward, but he takes great care to not let that happen again. He doesn't need a single mom with two kids who only works, as far as he can tell, part time as a florist buying him coffee when he has nearly a century's worth of backpay, a government job, and a second job that pays extraordinarily well.

The next time he sees her at the coffee shop, he makes sure he's quick enough to get to the counter before she does and pays for her order. Large iced coffee with two pumps of vanilla and an almond croissant, always the same, the only deviation is when Sin is with her and she'll add on an extra croissant and a hibiscus iced tea.

He sticks around just to see her face, grinning at her when she looks at him with those sharp green eyes, round with shock, and then slipping out the door with a wave of a gloved hand before she can say anything.

He does the same thing two days later.

It's not a game. He's not trying to pull one over on her. But he'd be lying if he said he didn't like the look on her face when she's told someone has already paid for her order, the pause, the look of shock, even though she knows it's coming, the faint blush. By the third time, he's not only grinning but laughing as he ducks out the door before she can catch him. He likes the astonishment in her face.

Almost as much as he likes the smug triumph she displays the next time they catch each other at the coffee shop, when he orders his Americano, is promptly told it's been taken care of, and he turns around and sees Laurel sitting at the smallest table at the back of the shop, smirking at him as she lifts her right hand in a wave.

It's a heart, by the way. The tattoo on her right palm. It's a freakishly realistic anatomically correct heart. She is literally holding her own heart in her hand.

And waving at him with it.

.

.

.

And the thing is –

None of this is accidental. None of it is random happenstance. None of it is chance. He lived in this building, in this neighborhood, with her right next to him for weeks before he even saw her.

This constantly running into her, seeing her everywhere he goes, glimpsing her heart on her hand, noticing the way she is slowly but surely entrenching herself in the community in ways he isn't – it's not happening just because. It's not happening because he's suddenly keeping an eye out for her or because she was there all along, in the background, and now he just knows what he's looking for.

It's happening because she's letting him.

He was an assassin who only existed in the shadows for years. He knows what it looks like when someone wants to be seen.

Dinah Lance wants to be seen.

She and her daughters have begun to move around Red Hook freely, in a way they didn't before, and this is happening because a switch has been flipped. The first time they met, Laurel offered him her left hand to shake. It was a show of trust. He was so thrown off by that unexpected offer of this is why you can trust me that it didn't occur to him that she didn't trust him. But she didn't. He gets that now. No part of her trusted him, despite how polite and kind and seemingly comfortable she was.

She trusts him now. Enough to let him see her, see her girls, see her heart mapped out on the palm of her hand.

He's just trying to figure out why.

In the meantime, he keeps buying her coffee.

.

.

.

''Are you.'' Sam stops. Looks at him for a long time, squinting. There's a bruise splashed across his lower jaw that makes Bucky want to flinch when he sees it because to him – the guy who has literally only ever existed to protect Captain America – it means mission failure, it means fuck up, but Sam barely even seems to feel it, too busy staring at Bucky like he's got three heads or something. ''Are you aware you're flirting with your neighbor?''

''What?'' Bucky screws his face up. ''No, I'm not.''

''Uh, no, you definitely are,'' Sam says, a crawling smirk replacing the surprise.

''I'm not! I'm just being neighborly.''

''Neighborly,'' Sam repeats, disbelieving. ''Sure. Right, because all neighbors have a secret flirting game they play.''

''It's not flirting.''

''I dunno, bro,'' one of the six squirrely bank robbers tied up on the ground mumbles into the ground. ''It kinda sounds like flirting.''

Bucky scowls – and, seriously, since when are they called in to deal with something as pedestrian as a bank robbery? Last week, they were taking down a potential terror cell in the Middle East and now they're in Rhode Island knocking down Gen Z bank robbers? There better be some serious secret shit going on here because otherwise this feels like a waste of their time.

They're not even good bank robbers.

One of them ran into a door when he tried to flee.

And yet Sam still got a pistol whip to the jaw and there's currently blood dripping into Bucky's eye from the head wound he got when one of these kids rammed his face with a fucking stanchion.

He's embarrassed for everyone involved with this shitshow.

''Nobody asked you,'' he snarls at the kid.

''Very true,'' Sam agrees, ''and, in fact, I'd highly advise you to shut your mouth, Mr. World's Worst Bank Robber.''

''It's Thad.''

''Your name is Thad?''

''Dude, dude,'' one of the other six hisses, ''what the fuck, don't give them your name.''

''Listen, Thad here is talkin' out of turn,'' Sam says, in his best Captain America voice, right before he leans in closer to Bucky and whispers, ''but he is right about this one.''

.

.

.

It's not flirting.

Bucky is adamant about that.

It's not flirting. He's just being a good neighbor. He's trying to be a whole person. He's trying to be kind. But it's not flirting. He's too damaged.

He still sees Steve out of the corner of his eye most days. He still dreams of Natalia. He's not ready for anything other than that.

He is especially not ready for what flirting leads to. He has made some questionable choices with his body since he got back, since Steve left and Natalia died and he was released into the wild and told he was free, that's all just part of reclaiming what was taken, he thinks, but actual intimacy? With another person? That's a hard no. Besides. Trust me –

Nobody wants this.

.

.

.

But he doesn't stop buying her coffee.

.

.

.

''She's nice,'' Natalia says, coming to stand next to him in Ohio, her shoulder brushing his as they face the stone bearing her name. ''You should ask her out.''

His eyes snap open in Brooklyn.

.

.

.

On a Monday, right as September is about to give way to October, he slips in and out of Red Hook Coffee Shop so fast she doesn't even see him.

Outside, in the first chill of autumn, he watches her through the window, standing near the back of the line, eyes on her phone. She is two people away from the front of the line when Olaf slides a cup over at the other end of the counter and calls, ''Large iced coffee with two pumps of vanilla and an almond croissant for Dinah!''

Her head snaps up and he watches the confusion flood into her face, the way her nose scrunches, like she's wondering if she ordered already and forgot. She eyes the people in the store, scanning them over, looking for someone, but finds nothing. She takes one step over to the other end of the counter and then stops and he watches her posture stiffen. It's oddly familiar, the way her back straightens up, the way her head tilts to the side, like she can feel eyes on her through the same years of practice people like him have. She whirls around.

He ducks out of sight before she can spot him.

A minute or two later, long enough for her to move on, he peeks back around into the shop and watches her pick up the drink, take the straw between her teeth, and smile. There's a flush to her cheeks and life in her eyes, tendrils of blonde hair falling into her face. She's beautiful, he thinks.

He hasn't thought that before.

It's not that he hasn't noticed, obviously he's noticed, it's impossible not to, but something about today, the fresh, crisp air, all the espressos he had while he was waiting for her, the look on her face, softens him enough to allow him to recognize it fully, to see it, her, with fresh eyes. It's not just that she's attractive. It's that she's gorgeous. It's probably not a good idea to pull too hard on that thread. But he watches her smile this morning, a busy Monday, and he watches her drink her coffee and despite the ongoing mess that is his life and the inside of his head and his cracked open chest, he smiles back.

.

.

.

When she comes home later, the two of them just missing each other, him stepping into the stairwell just as she's stepping off the elevator with her girls, she's humming Drops of Jupiter.

The sound follows him all the way down the stairs.

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.

.

You smiled, stood up, and came out into the sunshine. Perhaps it was the light on your face, but I thought I recognized you from somewhere a long way down, somewhere at the bottom of the sea. Somewhere in me. Sometimes the light is strong enough to reach the bottom of the sea.

- Jeanette Winterson

Chapter Text

Chapter Two:

But This Is How It Is

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Grief is not a feeling
but a neighborhood.

This is where I come from.
Everyone I love still lives there.

- Brenna Twohy

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October 2024

In the early days of October, as the city begins to change from that September blue to those familiar oranges and browns of autumn, someone tries to assassinate Captain America.

And Bucky takes that personally.

On the rooftop of one of the high rises across from the Jackie Robinson Park, with a perfect view of the bandshell, he eases himself through the slow growing darkness of twilight without a sound. The man perched near the ledge, focused on the scope of his rifle, doesn't notice him until he's right next to him.

Amateur.

''Hey,'' Bucky greets, and the second the man reacts, whirling around, he kicks him in the face. He doesn't hold back as much as he usually does and the man's down for the count in 0.5 seconds, sprawled out on his back, pathetic. Bucky yanks the rifle out of limp hands, puts the safety on, and turns just in time to catch another guy's meaty wrist, twisting it until it cracks, taking the knife from him, and burying it in his gut.

Yeah, yeah, he's careful enough to miss any vital organs, relax about it.

He wraps his right hand around the guy's neck. ''How many of you are there?''

The guy makes a pathetic attempt to spit at him. ''Fuck you,'' he gets out around all the tears and snot.

Bucky rolls his eyes. He's not normally one for the quippy style of fighting. All that does is show a weakness. Chattiness tends to mean fear. He's not a fan of outright showing an enemy his fear in the form of some pathetic jabber. Also, it's just obnoxious. But he finds himself profoundly annoyed tonight and he can't help himself.

''Did you really,'' he begins, voice soft, unsettling, ''think you could just snipe Captain America and get away with it?'' Without even turning his head, almost lazy, definitely arrogant, he reaches out with his vibranium hand, grasps the barrel of the shotgun in a third man's hand, and bends the barrel up. Slowly, he turns his head, locking eyes with the squirrely third man. ''Do you know who I am?''

''The – '' The guy audibly gulps. Like a fucking cartoon character. ''The Winter Soldier?''

''No,'' Bucky says, easy, casual. ''Worse.'' He leans in and drops his voice down to a dangerous murmur. ''I'm sure you've read about me in the history books.'' Then he yanks the shotgun back, still clutched in the guy's grip, and lets it go, sending the butt of it into the man's head. As soon as he hits the ground, Bucky turns to the bleeding, whimpering, gasping one whose throat is still currently in his grip. ''How did you think this was going to go?'' he asks, and knocks the numbskull out with one swing of his metal arm without waiting for an answer.

He huffs out a breath, irritated.

None of this is entirely unexpected. Carter's been monitoring chatter and keeping an eye on certain threats and shock of all shocks – turns out the violent racists have been real whiny little shits about Sam ever since he officially took up the shield. It wasn't surprising when they heard of a plan to take him out during the press conference/speech planned for the first weekend in October in Jackie Robinson Park. It's not the first time this has happened, after all. White supremacists, far right nutbags, Fox New pundits, every flavor of Nazi, the fucking Klan, they're all gunning for him. It's not surprising at all.

Disappointing, though.

Bucky gave his life fighting against Nazis in 1945 and here they are, in almost 2025, and the Nazis are still going strong. That's some bullshit.

''Three down on the roof of the Sutton,'' he says, into his earpiece. ''One needs medical attention.''

''On it,'' says Hill.

He snatches up both firearms, makes sure they're both unusable, takes the ammo, and tucks them away. After a moment too long of hesitation, he even does some hasty first aid on Dipshit #2's stab wound. ''How are things going down there?''

''Oh, you know. Sam's charming Harlem,'' Carter says. ''And I've got four in the crowd.''

''Really?'' Barton murmurs. ''I've got five.''

Carter curses quietly.

Bucky approaches the ledge, looking down into Jackie Robinson Park. Normally, he would feel extremely uncomfortable and peeved about being so far away from Sam, especially on a night when there are active threats all over the place, but this is Harlem. This is New York. This city has always had more heroes than just the Avengers and that's truer than ever these days. The Avengers are half dead and mostly disbanded but there is no shortage of superfolks. Tonight, those heroes are mostly here. Listening to Captain America.

It's not just the team. Carter's working the crowd, Barton, who came out of retirement for one night only, at will, just to be on Sam's protection detail, saying something about how us birds gotta stick together, is backing her up, Hill's shadowing Sam on stage, out of sight, but close enough, Torres is tailing one of the various morons over by the recreation center, and Bucky's up high, dealing with whoever is bold enough to lurk up this high with shitty sniper rifles and shittier training. But there are others sprinkled throughout the audience, various vigilantes trying to make themselves appear normal, smaller, even as they eye the crowds, bodies noticeably on high alert.

And, right at the front of the crowd, positioned strategically, so he can leap up on stage and shove his bulletproof body in front of Sam's if need be, there's Luke Cage.

Flirting sure has changed since his day.

Bucky's going to go ahead and guess that's why the Defenders are here. At least he thinks that's what they call themselves.

Maybe he should double check.

He cocks his head to the side slightly, watching the crowd in front of the bandshell for a minute, listening to Sam's voice, and then he turns to the building next to the one he's on top of and calls out, ''Hey! It's the Defenders, right? That's what you guys call yourselves?''

A pause, and then Daredevil melts out of the shadows. He seems very disappointed he's been spotted. ''…Yes.''

''Ugh, no,'' says Jessica Jones, standing up from her hiding spot, looking both disgusted and offended by the notion of teamwork. ''We don't call ourselves anything. We're not a team.''

''Oh.'' Bucky nods. He listens to Sam say something particularly charismatic, warmth unspooling in his chest at the sound of the crowd laughing heartily, so enthusiastically supportive. He does a quick scan of the crowd. ''So, you're not here on business?''

''Maybe we just wanted to hear Cap's speech,'' says Daredevil.

''Hm.'' Bucky hums, thoughtful. ''Right, so you're up here in full costume because…?''

''I've been told I look good in it.''

''And those two down there,'' he points to Danny Rand and Colleen Wing, weaving their way through the crowd, unquestionably there more for work than play. ''They're not on the clock?''

''I don't even know who those people are,'' Jessica outright lies. ''They look like losers.''

''What about – '' He stops. Actually, maybe it would be better not to point out that Frank Castle is lurking in the shadows at the back of the crowd. ''Look, I'm just saying. I'm a regular at Luke's. You guys hang out there all the time. I know you're a team.''

''We're not a team,'' Jessica insists.

''You're friends.''

''We are not friends.''

Daredevil looks slightly wounded. ''You're my friend.''

''Fine,'' she exhales, rolling her eyes in possibly the most dramatic fashion he's ever seen. ''We're here because Luke asked us to be.''

Makes sense.

''So, like – what?'' She sticks her hands into her pockets and shoots Bucky a somewhat softer glare than usual. ''Are you officially Cap's boy now? Are you two fucking?''

''People keeping asking me that,'' he muses, ''but no. Sam can do better. Why? You fishing for information for Luke?''

''Why would Luke care if – ''

''Jess,'' Daredevil says. He sounds like he's smiling. ''He's not an idiot.''

''He's definitely an idiot,'' Jessica gripes.

''That's not what you said back in June,'' Bucky retorts smoothly.

She doesn't take the bait. ''If I remember correctly, it was, actually.''

Well.

Can't deny that one.

She's not very good at pillow talk.

Now, listen, he's not denying the idiot thing, but he gets it. He doesn't need it spelled out for him. He's had a front row seat for it all for the past handful of months. Luke may not be ready to acknowledge it, Sam might not be either, but there's a reason why Sam insists on Luke's bar for his and Bucky's Wednesday night plans – and it's not the cheap beer or the wings. Or even the mozzarella sticks. And they have some good mozzarella sticks there.

''Do you think you two can handle these rooftops by yourselves?'' he asks, and immediately realizes his mistake when he gets quite possibly the iciest sneer he's ever received from Jess.

''Don't patronize us,'' she snaps.

Daredevil (who is, by the way, without a doubt Matt Murdock, not that hard to figure out that identity when he hangs out with the others at the bar on the regular) gives him a thumbs up. ''We should be able to cover this side of Bradhurst.''

''Okie dokie,'' Bucky says, and steps off the roof. He catches himself on the fire escape a few floors below and then leaps off the fire escape and lands neatly in the alley. He hadn't noticed any other snipers earlier and this skinhead group that wants to ''eradicate'' (their dumbass fucking words) Sam doesn't seem like the kind of group that has more than one trained (somewhat) sniper at the ready, but he'd like to check a few other rooftops before he heads back to the park. There's about five or six minutes left in the Q&A portion of the event and about ten to fifteen minutes before the meet and greet portion of the night starts and he wants to be as close to Sam as possible when that goes down.

He walks along Bradhurst, wondering if maybe he should go across the park to Edgecombe, listening to Carter's voice in his ear, updating Hill on the status of the hostiles in the crowd, and Sam's voice coming from the amphitheater, explaining, all earnest and charismatic, why he chose, at least for now, relocate to Harlem from DC and how his father's side of the family has roots here.

The crowd listens with rapt attention.

They love Sam down here in Harlem – for the most part anyway, although he has been confronted a few times about his connection to the Hulk, who is understandably still a sore subject here, even all these years later.

Bucky's still not sure why it was such a big deal when the press finally got wind of Sam moving to the city – it's New York, after all, a likely place for Cap to be – but it's been a whole big thing over the past few weeks, culminating in this: a Meet the New Cap night at the bandshell in Jackie Robinson Park.

Sam has taken the media attention all in stride, the good and the bad. He takes a lot of pictures with kids. Even strikes a pose or lets them hold the shield when they want to. He's showed up for two different elementary school events and he seems comically excited about being invited to all these kiddie Halloween parties at the end of the month. When he gets recognized on the street, he never ever tries to hide, to make himself smaller, instead standing taller, calling back greetings. He likes the attention, the positivity, the support.

Even the negativity he lets roll off his back. When he gets confronted by anti-superhero activists on the streets or Flag Smasher sympathizers, he reacts with all the poise and understanding you'd expect from Captain America. He gets harassed by racists and refuses to give them any reaction let alone the reaction they're hoping for.

All while Bucky glowers and snarls and twitches beside him, fists clenching tightly, like a coiled spring, ready to jump into action if anyone tries anything. He doesn't even like when harmless women approach Sam to flirt with him. It's not a risk worth taking, in his opinion, not when –

Oh.

He stops walking.

Is that why people keep assuming he and Sam are sleeping together?

Because – well.

He supposes he can understand that.

Bucky presses his lips together and keeps walking, shoulders hunched, gloved hands in his pockets. He's too aware of his surroundings, every instinct in his body fine tuned, watching and listening as he moves along, but he's the picture of an unapproachable New Yorker. No one around him stands out as he walks along, listening to Sam transition seamlessly from the Q&A to his end speech.

Oh, he's good at that.

Even better than Steve.

Same earnestness, different delivery. Somehow, when Sam does his unity speeches, it's less like being talked at and more like being talked to.

Bucky feels himself start to smile, just a little, listening to Sam, and then –

A body falls to the sidewalk, right in front of his feet.

''Пиздец.'' His automatic response is to rush forward and help, crouching down to check for a pulse, looking up, trying to search for the attacker. There is someone up there, just disappearing, but they're gone so quick it's like evaporating smoke. He can't even tell if the wisp of a figure is a man or a woman. ''Hey,'' he moves to roll the guy over, ''hey, buddy, are you – ''

He stops.

The body on the ground – unconscious, not dead, he notes – has his hands zip tied in front of him, duct tape over his mouth, and someone has scribbled a message on his forehead in black Sharpie.

RACIST FILTH.

The duct tape proclaims, in the same writing: YOU'RE WELCOME :)

He stands straight. All right. Right off the bat, not sure how to react to this one. He looks at the unconscious skinhead on the ground. He looks up toward the sky, the rooftop, the fire escape. He looks back down at the guy. Then back up. What the fuck?

''Huh,'' he says.

Could not have foreseen that one.

He lifts his eyes just as Jessica makes a soundless landing in front of him. She approaches with zero caution, sticking her hands in her pockets. ''Finally,'' she says, and kicks at the guy on the ground. ''Something interesting happened.''

Bucky jerks a thumb at the guy on the ground. ''Your doing?''

''Fuck, I wish.''

''Hill,'' he says, moving a hand up to his earpiece. ''I got an unconscious bogey out front of 140 Bradhurst. There's a friendly on scene, but she's not the culprit. I'm not…'' He pauses, peering down at the pathetic looking skinhead Jessica's currently patting down to check for weapons. Whether she's doing that for their safety or just to steal whatever the guy's got on him is up in the air, but he sure as hell ain't gonna stop her. ''…Sure who did this.'' He looks up at the apartment building they're in front of, catching sight of eyes in the windows, heads sticking out onto their own fire escapes. ''Might wanna hurry. We got witnesses.''

''I'll notify Detective Knight,'' Hill says sharply. ''You don't have eyes on the drop off?''

''No. I have no idea who this was. Body just dropped in front of me. Like it was – ''

''A gift?'' Barton chimes in. ''You got an admirer, Barnes?''

''Why would I – ''

''Uh, guys,'' Torres pipes up, for the first time in…too long. Damn it. Should have noticed that. ''Is anyone free to meet me at the pool? I've got...'' A beat. ''Actually, I'm not sure what I've got here.''

Bucky inhales.

You know.

He thinks he might have an idea.

.

.

.

Carter opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens again. Closes it with a shake of her head. All she manages to get out, after a moment or two of struggling, is, ''What the fuck.''

''I know,'' says Torres.

''No, seriously, what the fuck.''

''I know.''

Bucky sighs heavily.

''I knew we were missing something,'' Carter's saying. ''Intel said to expect a dozen men, at least, and we only made nine – ten including the one that literally fell from the sky.''

''He didn't fall from the sky,'' Bucky disputes. ''Someone threw him off the fire escape. There's a very distinctive difference.''

''But this is…'' She extends a hand toward the Jackie Robinson Pool, closed for the season, drained, and currently housing a pile of unconscious white supremacists. She doesn't finish for a long time. ''…I don't know what this is.''

''Hilarious,'' Torres says. He is undeterred by the twin looks of exasperation he gets from Cool Wine Aunt and Weird Stepdad. ''Oh, come on,'' he says. ''You know it is. Look at them! That one's crying. I think it's great when racists cry.''

Bucky drops into the pool and starts toward the bloodied and beaten men in the empty pool, piled neatly in the center, tied up, at least two of them conscious enough to be groaning. And yes, one of them is indeed crying softly. He doesn't feel at all bad for them. You want to be a racist fuck? You get what's coming to you. You want to make a stupid plan to take out Captain America? You're asking for a vibranium fist blasting right through your chest cavity. They deserve a lot worse than this.

But, uh.

There's no escaping how bizarre this is.

He approaches them with reasonable caution, although he strongly doubts any of them are going to be leaping up to attack anytime soon.

The first one he sees has a piece of paper stapled to his chest. In that same scrawl, that same black Sharpie, the note says these men are all part of a violent white supremacist group who planned to use tonight's Meet Cap event to assassinate Captain America. Which, yes, that's all true. But how in the hell did this unknown assailant know that?

Every single one of them has something written on their foreheads. Nazi. Racist. Disgrace. Criminally stupid. One of them has a dick drawn on his face. Another, a guy has my dead grandmother hits harder than this guy written on his big ass forehead. The one closest to the edge of the pile has Captain America's shield doodled on the top of his shiny bald head.

He presses his lips together tightly and tries to act like he's not fighting for his life not to laugh.

Yeah, okay.

Maybe it's a little funny.

Although – damn. All jokes aside, the brutality here is not neat and tidy. It may seem that way on the outside but whoever did this was not just in a scuffle. This was a knockdown drag-out fight. Seven men, all of them varying degrees of large, and from the looks of it, one person took them all down. That's skill. That's talent. That's –

Hang on a minute.

Bucky edges closer to the pile.

''Jesus,'' he mumbles, leaning in to inspect something. ''Seriously?''

Is that guy bleeding out of his ears?

.

.

.

''What about that little Spider Boy from Queens?'' Barton asks, later, sitting at a table at Luke's, nursing a pint. He takes one last look at the picture of the sprawled out morons before handing Torres his phone back.

''Spider-Man?'' Sam intercepts the phone before Torres can grab it, looking down at the picture, eyes raking over the pile of men.

''If you say so,'' Barton scoffs. ''But, I mean, he's a kid, right? The dick pics kind of say kid.''

''Not his style,'' says Bucky. ''He doesn't have this level of brutality.''

''What about the Punisher?'' Carter asks, swirling the ice in her glass of bourbon. ''He's brutal.''

''He wouldn't have left them alive,'' Sam says dryly.

''He also wouldn't have drawn dicks on their faces,'' Barton adds. ''Probably.''

''Plus,'' Bucky tacks on, ''I had eyes on him. He wouldn't have had time.''

''What?'' Carter and Sam both whip around to face him. She looks shocked, eyes going round. ''The Punisher was there?''

''They were all there,'' Barton says. ''It was a real who's who.'' He smiles at Sam, disarming, even proud. ''That's how famous you are.''

''I am pretty famous,'' Sam agrees, but doesn't look up from the phone. He's zoomed in on the note explaining who the men were. He looks at it for a minute and then zooms in on the guy with my dead grandmother hits harder than this guy written on his forehead. Specifically, he zooms in on the G. He's really staring at that G. Bucky tries to follow his train of thought, leaning in to look at it, but… It's a G? What information is there to glean from it? But Sam's looking at it with a downturned mouth and a furrowed brow, as if trying to place it, as if he knows that G. How many ways are there to know a G?

''I think the real question,'' Torres starts, ''is what happened to that guys' ears?'' He points his bottle of beer at the phone. ''Just saying. I've seen a lot, but bleeding from the ears, especially that much, is rare. It takes a specific sort of injury to do that.''

Sam looks up, then lets his gaze drift back down to the phone.

Bucky takes a second to accidentally spill the bowl of pretzels and mixed nuts all over the table and uses the momentary distraction to lean over and whisper in Sam's ear, ''You know something.''

''No idea what you're talking about,'' Sam says, easy as pie, a slow smirk dancing on his face. He hands the phone back over to Torres. ''What about that White Tiger guy?''

''I have no idea who that is,'' Barton says, sweeping a handful of pretzels and peanuts into his mouth.

''I've heard of him,'' Carter says. ''But I don't know enough to know whether or not he could have done this.''

''So, it's a solid maybe,'' Torres decides.

''It's a solid no,'' says a new voice, from just over Sam's shoulder. ''White Tiger had nothing to do with this.'' Maria Hill slides off her jacket, takes a seat on Sam's other side, and promptly steals Barton's beer right out of his hand.

He pouts at his empty hand, but doesn't try to take it back.

''Our perp was a woman,'' Hill says, and then takes a long gulp of the beer just to make Barton watch.

''Oh, a new lady vigilante,'' he crows.

''About time,'' Carter mutters to herself. ''It's a real sausage fest here.''

Sam turns his focus to Hill. ''How do we know it was a woman?''

''The guy she brought to Barnes woke up,'' Hill says. ''He couldn't give a description but he said it was a woman.'' She pauses. ''Well, he used a different word.''

''Sounds like his shortcut to the pavement was well earned for more than one reason,'' Torres says, somewhat darkly.

''Oh, he's a real piece of work,'' Hill agrees. ''I don't feel bad about his shattered pelvis and broken wrist.''

''What about the guy with the bleeding ears?'' Torres questions. ''Any idea how that happened?''

''Still hasn't woken up yet,'' Hill says, voice measured. ''Can't say for sure how it happened, but the doctors say both of his eardrums were blown out.''

''Blown out,'' he repeats, eyes widening.

Sam inhales, quiet enough that no one notices.

Bucky notices.

''Okay,'' Torres goes on, ''I'm just going to say it. The perp's a woman, highly skilled, she blew a guy's eardrums out. Only one person I've ever heard of that can do that.''

''Not possible,'' Carter cuts in, brushing whatever he was going to say off with a wave of her hand. ''She's dead.''

Bucky perks up, looking over at her. ''Who's dead?''

Nobody answers him.

''We have our eyes on a few different possibilities,'' Hill says, her tone careful, considering, ''but we haven't been able to narrow it down yet. In any case, this is something we're going to need to keep an eye on.''

''Hey,'' Sam chuckles, ''Cap's always got his eye on his city.''

''Oh,'' says Luke, popping up out of nowhere, a tray full of food – the coveted mozzarella sticks, potato skins, nachos, deep fried pickles, sliders, and pretzels with beer cheese, all ordered with gusto by Barton and Torres – balanced on one hand. Completely needlessly. Just to show off. ''It's your city now, is it?''

''It's at least gotta be half mine, right? I'm Captain America!'' Sam has a totally different smile for Luke, wider, more teeth, looking up at him through his lashes. ''Maybe we could share.''

''Oh, yeah, sure.'' Luke starts putting the plates on the table one by one. ''You take it Sunday through Wednesday and we'll take it Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays.''

''Works for me,'' Sam grins. ''I get the easy days. You get the weekends. There's constantly trouble on weekends.''

''Hm.'' Luke tucks the empty tray under one arm and throws a towel over one massive shoulder. ''Maybe we'll have to work together on weekends. Mitigate that trouble. Maybe get a drink or two at the end of the night.'' He doesn't wait for a response, just throws a smirk in Sam's direction, and then turns and leaves. Never once does he address anyone else at the table.

Everyone else at the table watches him go for about two seconds and then turns to look at Sam.

Sam looks like he's maybe won the lottery, all wide eyed and clammy.

Barton is the first one to break the silence, with a low whistle.

''Wow,'' Carter says, breaking a mozzarella stick in half to judge the cheese pull. ''That was not as smooth as I was expecting it to be.''

Bucky leans over to mutter out of the side of his mouth, ''You should breathe now.''

Sam breathes. Kind of gasps, actually.

''Dude,'' Torres practically giggles, ''he totally likes you.''

''We're too old for this shit,'' Hill grouses, although she sounds fond. It would probably be true if everyone sitting at this table wasn't some form of epically screwed up human disaster.

''Meh, I get it,'' says Carter. ''He's absurdly attractive. And look at his arms,'' she adds, nodding at Luke. ''His arms are bigger than Barton's head - and Barton has a big ass head.''

''It's true,'' Sam says.

''Hey,'' Barton whines. ''I came out to have a good time and I'm honestly feeling so attacked right now.'' He pops a piece of pretzel into his mouth. ''All right, if I'm going to eat this crap, I'm going to need another beer. And I should really check in with the boss.'' He pushes his chair back and stands. ''If you eat all those mozzarella sticks before I get back,'' he sends a half-hearted glare around the table, ''I will shoot a plunger arrow at your head. Trust me. It leaves a nasty mark.''

Torres cocks his head to the side, watches him go, and blurts out, ''The hell is a plunger arrow?''

.

.

.

Bucky waits until Barton – it's Clint, James, the Natalia in his head says, not unkindly, his name is Clint – comes back from calling his wife, heading over to the bar to get another beer, and then he excuses himself from the table and heads over.

He doesn't know Clint Barton. There's been a degree of separation between them from the start. He appreciates him, the way he appreciated everyone who sided with Steve back when the Avengers were tearing themselves apart, the way they were all so ready to help, even if it cost them. Not just because they knew the Accords were wrong, but because they believed in Steve. He appreciates that. He recognizes it. But he doesn't know Clint Barton.

Natalia did, though.

More than that, she loved him.

Bucky doesn't quite understand the relationship between Clint and Nat, he doesn't think most people do, but he knows it was something delicate and powerful at the same time, he knows it was important, and he knows that Clint was with her in her final moments. That means something.

Means he's been avoiding Clint Barton for a long time.

Full disclosure: He'd prefer to keep avoiding him. Sometimes, he likes to pretend Natalia is still alive. Not gone, just away. In the background. Off on her own, finding herself, traveling the world, a shadow and a ghost to most, but still out there. Looking at the same stars he looks at. Alive. If he talks to Clint, all that goes away. You can't unlearn what you learn. There is so much he does not want to know. But it doesn't feel right not to know it. It doesn't feel right for there to be such a wide space between Clint Barton and Bucky Barnes, the men Natasha and Natalia loved so much. They were both, at different times, her person. It doesn't feel right for them to just be out there in the world and not know from each other that she was loved at every turn, that she had a place, that there was someone out there who would have given her the world.

So, Bucky drains his beer and he goes to get another one. He steps over to the bar, into the space next to Clint, sure to get on his hearing side. ''Hey, Luke,'' he flags him down. ''Another pint. And put his,'' he jerks a thumb at the archer, ''on my tab.''

Clint raises an eyebrow, but doesn't decline. Doesn't look surprised either.

''You just love throwing all those years of backpay around,'' Luke quips, ''don't you?''

''I do,'' Bucky agrees. He's going for charming, but not too charming. Wouldn't want to step on Sam's toes, after all. Even if Luke does look like the kind of guy who could pick him up and shove him against a wall. Which is appealing.

''Oh, really now?'' All at once, Clint's eyes light up with mischief. ''Luke?'' He puts on his best shit eating grin. Now there's the weirdo who used to hang out in air vents. ''What's the most expensive liquor you have? And can I have a shot of it?''

Luke raises a single brow. Looks at Bucky.

Bucky waves him on.

Luke retrieves a fancy but ugly looking blue and white bottle from a cupboard. ''That'd be this crap,'' he says, grabbing a shot glass. ''Clase Azul. Tequila. Only reason I have it is because of this fucking guy,'' he deadpans, and waves a hand at his own group of ragtag misfits sitting at the other end of the bar.

Danny Rand holds up one finger and says, unapologetic, ''And you're welcome for that.''

''It's shit,'' Jessica deadpans.

''It is shit,'' Matt agrees. ''Worst tequila I've ever tasted.''

Danny shakes his head at both of them. ''Don't listen to them,'' he advises Bucky, cheerful. ''They're uncultured swine. It's delicious. It's a sipping tequila.''

''More like a shitting tequila,'' Jess grumbles. ''Seriously, if you're sensitive to artificial sweeteners…''

Danny sends her a flat look.

''It's $45 per pour,'' Luke pipes up.

Jesus Christ, Bucky can actually feel his Great Depression inner self shriveling up in mortification. Outwardly, his expression never wavers. He thinks that's a ridiculous price for a shot of tequila and he resents it with fervor, but he never backs down from a challenge. ''Better pour two then,'' he says, like an asshole. ''I don't like to be left out.''

Clint seems delighted. ''Oooh, you're rich rich.''

''Got a second job in private security. It pays well.''

''No shit?''

''You can afford to throw money away on two shots of crap tequila that Real Housewives buy just for the bottle,'' Luke muses, pouring two shots, ''and you spend your time here?''

''I like it here,'' Bucky says, simply. ''So does Sam, by the way.''

Clint says, ''You watch a lot of Real Housewives, Luke?''

Luke rolls his eyes. ''You're all pains in my ass,'' he says, with no heat whatsoever.

Clint's still chuckling to himself as he picks up his shot glass and gives it a tentative whiff. He wrinkles his nose, but then shrugs and says, ''Bottoms up?''

''Might as well,'' Bucky says, and they both knock it back. He regrets it instantly, but maybe not quite as much as Clint does. Bucky swallows the tequila with a grimace, but that's the extent of his reaction. Sure, it's not great, but it's all momentary for him. Alcohol, in general, is wasted on him. This is unpleasant, engineered and chemical-y, the burn barely there, the taste of it – smooth but quite frankly underwhelming and way too sweet – nothing he would choose again, but he's had worse rotgut.

Clint, on the other hand, might be dying.

He coughs and sputters like he's just been waterboarded by the grotesquely expensive tequila, eventually bending over, hands on his knees while he gasps and wheezes. His voice is squeaky and pathetic when he gets out a mumble of, ''Aw, tequila.''

Bucky does not laugh or roll his eyes. And he could so easily do both, so he'd like some credit there.

''If you're dying,'' Luke says, bringing them both some much needed refills of harmless beer that doesn't taste like whatever that fake, manufactured bullshit was, ''I'm gonna have to ask you to step outside. I can't have no Avenger dying in here. It's bad for business.''

''Not dying,'' Clint rasps out, reaching up one hand to grab his beer without even standing up straight. Then, in a wavery, whiny voice, ''God, that tasted like feet.''

''Except sweet,'' Bucky says, accepting his own beer. ''Why was it so sweet?''

''Hey, Danny, the Avengers think your tequila tastes like sweet ass,'' Luke calls out, gleeful.

''Fuck the Avengers,'' Danny fires back, though he's smirking.

''I'm not an Avenger,'' says Bucky.

''And it's not my tequila,'' Danny tacks on, pointedly ignoring the way the rest of the Defenders are cackling at him. ''I just…invested in it. Maybe. A little bit.''

Bucky shakes his head. Rich people, he thinks. He takes a drink of his much less offensive lager from Brooklyn. Oh, wait, is he rich people now? The thought brings about a wave of absolute horror. No, no, he's not… Well. Private security does pay handsomely. And all the backpay. No. Absolutely not. Ugh. He shudders at the thought and takes a longer drink.

''Worth it,'' Clint gets out, and then drains half of his shitty PBR in one gulp just trying to get the taste out of his mouth. ''I just got you to spend $90 on dog shit.''

''The most anticlimactic $90 I've ever spent.''

Clint snickers. Raises his glass back to his lips.

Bucky sends him a sidelong glance. Just enough to get a look at him. Hawkeye is older now, weary, adrift in ways only grief knows, with lines around his eyes and mouth, and there is a vast emptiness inside of him that echoes like a blast radius. But he does see it. What Natalia must have seen. The thing that must have caught her attention all those years ago. Grabbed on and never let go. Clint Barton has kind eyes. A weapon, when it's forged from blood and bone, something that used to be human, searches for that, even when it doesn't know what it's searching for.

The Soldier did.

A flicker, then.

I'm not gonna fight you, Steve says, and it's 2014 again, and he's on that crumbling helicarrier in DC, dead and alive at the same time and the shield is falling through the cracks, into the river, and Steve is all alone, facing down an unhinged, unglued Winter Solider, something more animal than human, a thing that's dead that doesn't know it's dead, and he's willing to die just to be with him, just to stand there and look at something that looks like Bucky but isn't one last time and say, you're my friend.

Bucky puts down his glass before he squeezes hard enough to break the glass. He clenches and unclenches his fists.

Beside him, Clint is silent. He still looks at ease, faintly amused, drinking his PBR, but when he throws a look at the man beside him, essentially a stranger, it's clear that he already knows what they're doing here. ''So,'' he says, after another minute. ''We gonna do this or what?''

''Do what?''

''Talk.''

''About?''

Clint turns his body toward Bucky fully, a show of trust, leaning one shoulder up against the bar. He doesn't say anything right away, just looks him over, slowly, methodically, the way you'd expect from a spy. He's relaxed, content, but there's a look in his eyes that Bucky can't read. It's something soft and incomparable, wounded, and not at all meant for him. ''Nat liked to keep things close to the vest,'' Clint says, at last. ''She had a lot of secrets. Comes with the territory. There was always more than you knew with her. Even I didn't know all her secrets.'' He pauses, looking over at the table, where Sam has just made everyone burst into raucous laughter, the way only Sam can. His lips twitch for a second, before sadness takes hold, like he knows there's another laugh that should be there, another person who should be seated at that table. When he looks back at Bucky, the look in his eyes, pointed, intense, is very readable. ''But I knew the big ones.''

Bucky is not surprised, not exactly, but he's… It's harder. He thinks. When people know. He hasn't told anyone about Natalia, about the fact that they knew each other, about what they were to each other in the Red Room. He has not yet decided if he intends to ever tell anyone. He doesn't know how they'll look at him if they know. He doesn't know if he wants to find out. ''And,'' his voice sounds like gravel and it feels like it takes up an exponential amount of energy just to force it out. ''I was…''

''A big one,'' Clint confirms. ''When did you remember?''

Bucky curls his hands into fists again, a reflex, and then works to uncurl them. It's a process. ''Wakanda,'' he admits. ''It was one of the last ones to come back. Shuri said it looked like…'' He shakes away the image of his brain scans, the look on Shuri's young face, something like muted horror and a tentative tenderness he didn't know what to do with. ''I'm pulverized,'' he gets out, tapping a finger on the side of his head, ''up here. They. They made sure of that.''

They took her out of me, he thinks. They removed her. She was all I had. And they extracted her from me like a cancer.

''Someone really didn't want me to remember her,'' is all he says.

Clint has little reaction to this. He's too good to slip like that. He is calm and steady when he responds, simply, ''But you did.''

''I did,'' Bucky manages a jerky nod. ''No one – '' His voice cuts off. ''No one could have stopped me from remembering her.'' He looks at Clint. He's going for hard and professional, short and sharp when he looks at him. All he comes up with is wounded little boy. For a second, faced with that, even Clint almost slips, a small spark of sympathy starting in his eyes. ''She knew,'' Bucky says. ''She knew, right?''

''She knew,'' Clint assures him. ''Said you never got a chance to talk about it.''

''We were going to,'' Bucky says. ''We said we'd get a drink. After the world didn't end. And then – ''

''It did,'' Clint finishes darkly. There is still a haunted look in his eyes when he says that, when he thinks about those five years. It washes away with a shake of the head, an internal reminder that everything he lost he has again, safe at home, and he looks back at the table. When he looks back to Bucky, his brows are knitted together in something caught between curiosity and concern. ''Does anyone else know about you and Nat? Sam? Sharon?''

''No,'' Bucky shakes his head. ''No, just.'' He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know how to justify keeping this from people. ''No. I haven't told anyone.''

''Heavy load to carry all by yourself,'' Clint muses.

Bucky shoots him a look, all dead eyes and a dry, haunted smile. ''What's another weight?''

Clint regards him silently. He's cautious around Bucky, that's fair, Bucky knows he's earned that, but he's also fairly compassionate. There's a hint of respect in his voice, even his body language, when he addresses him.

Bucky wonders if that's because he fought side by side the man twice – or if it's because of Natalia. He wonders if he's earned that compassion.

''She loved you, James,'' Clint says to him, low, serious. ''Still. I'm not sure she ever stopped. She might have tried to for a while, but you can't just turn it off. What you two had – it was intense. She never forgot that.''

Yes, and maybe that was the problem.

That was the punishment, after all.

She remembered.

He forgot.

Saddest fucking story he's ever heard.

''I loved her,'' he says, unpeeling the words from where they're stuck in his throat, the first time he's said that out loud in years. ''I love her.''

Clint nods at that, a sense of understanding passing through his eyes. ''Hard not to.''

''Yeah,'' Bucky rasps. ''Hard not to.'' He closes his eyes and tries to conjure up something happy, one of the softest memories he has of her, but all he can see is the look on her face when they were pried apart, when they took her away from him, screaming and fighting and begging don't hurt him, please don't hurt him. He opens his eyes. This, too, is a gift. It's something he tries to remember. If he has to take the bad to have the good, to have Natalia, he will bear anything.

Even the memory of losing her.

''I just wish I'd been able to remember sooner,'' he says. ''Maybe then we'd have had a chance. It was there,'' he says, sure. ''Even when I didn't know it. I just couldn't see it. I didn't…'' He shrugs. ''Never even realized how lost I was without her,'' he says. ''But I always was. Just some lost soldier who forgot he ever had a home.'' He thinks of her in the streetlights of St. Petersburg, and he thinks of her dancing, one of the most graceful things he'd ever seen, and he thinks of her in the training room, learning how to beat him. And he thinks of her smile. It's always the thing he thinks of the most. She had a beautiful smile. He should have told her that. ''Until she gave me one.''

''And now?'' Clint asks, soft. ''Where are you now, Barnes?''

Bucky falls back to the bar, the noise around him, the smell of alcohol and fried foods, the laughter of the people. None of them her. ''I don't know.''

Clint takes another sip of his beer. ''You should tell Sam about this,'' he says, after a beat, casual, non-judgmental. ''He's your partner. I think he's kinda your best friend.''

''He's not my best friend,'' Bucky denies, an automatic, if half-hearted, denial. ''We're just…a couple of guys…''

Out of everything that he's just spewed, all the secrets he's spilled, the half-crazed widower monologue he just spouted off, that's the thing that gets him a snort and a just how crazy are you look from Barton. ''Whatever, man, you're definitely best friends,'' he says. ''He knows what he inherited when he took up that shield. Political bullshit, a lifetime of back problems, and your dumb ass.''

Bucky makes a face. ''I'm not – ''

''Irregardless,'' Clint says, and Bucky has to close his eyes and take a long, slow breath because of fucking course Barton's the kind of person who says irregardless, ''he cares about you. And I know he cared about Nat. Don't you think he'd want to know?''

Honestly?

Unsure.

Of all the ghosts that haunt them, she is the most present.

The way Sam talks about Natalia – Natasha – Nat – is different from the way he talks about Steve. They are both a gaping wound, still fresh, still gushing blood, a loss, like any other, the same way Riley still is, but he likes to tell himself that Steve isn't dead. Never says that part out loud, of course, but Bucky knows. It's easier to believe that Steve isn't dead, he's just away, tucked into a corner of history, his own timeline with Peggy Carter, dancing, happy and safe and living the life he always should have led.

This is a lie.

Like any other.

Bucky has never had any desire to take that away from Sam, but it is what it is. A lie. A comfort. A story you tell yourself to quell the nightmares. Staunch the bleeding. Soften the blow. Lessen the grief.

There are no lies to tell about Nat.

She died. She's dead.

And when Sam talks about her…

His voice is different when he says her name. It fills his mouth differently. He is softer, tired, haggard, alight with grief and regret and love, so much love, so much love that sometimes you think you could drown in it. Bucky wonders about that love from time to time. He thinks about those two years they spent together, on the run, often just the three of them when Wanda was off having her love affair with Vision – Team Cap. He thinks about what that could have meant. What they could have had. It doesn't matter now. It was a long time ago, even if it wasn't for them. It doesn't matter. But.

He wonders.

It would change nothing, let's be clear about that. If Sam was in love with her. It would make sense. Everyone was. Bucky holds no grudge over that. No jealousy. He knows better than anyone what it was like to love her. Knows what it was like to be loved by her. There is nothing like it. In fact, the more time he spends with Sam, the more part of him hopes there was love there. He wants them both to have had that kind of love.

But it complicates things.

It adds a certain weight to the idea of telling Sam. Bucky doesn't want to hurt anyone. Least of all Sam. ''I'll tell him,'' he says, and can't decide if it's a lie or not. ''I'll tell him eventually. I just… I don't have a lot…of my own. I need more time.''

Clint doesn't push it. ''Your choice,'' he says, and moves on. He raises his glass to his lips again but doesn't drink, peering at Bucky over the rim, squinting, studying. ''I assume,'' he starts, ''that you know about Yelena.''

Bucky picks up his own drink, mostly for something to do, something to control the twitching.

''Gotta say,'' Clint's voice is light and conversational, but it's obvious he's fishing. He's choosing to make it obvious. ''I expected to hear from her by now. I worry about her. Never met her but.'' He lifts a shoulder in an aborted shrug. ''A dad thing, I guess.'' He looks at Bucky, careful but knowing. He doesn't look at all surprised. ''You've got her.''

''Took me a while,'' Bucky replies, ''but yeah. I got her.''

''Good.'' Clint seems at peace with that. ''You two need to take care of each other. It's what families do.'' He pushes off the bar. ''You know,'' he says, thoughtful, considering. ''The best love stories tend to leave a mark. Leave something behind. Even after they're over.'' He takes a step closer and brings a hand to Bucky's shoulder. ''She left something behind for you. Most important thing in the world. Don't forget that.'' He gives his shoulder a squeeze and steps away. Moves to go back to the table.

Bucky's hand shoots out, grasping onto his arm lightly, stopping him in his tracks. ''Clint,'' he says, and then grits his teeth together, trying to stop himself from what happens next. ''I need to ask you a question,'' he says, ''and you're not going to want to answer it, but I have to… I have to know.''

Clint looks alarmed for about a second, and then he just looks pained.

Bucky lets go of his arm. ''How?'' he asks. ''How did she die?''

A myriad of emotions flash on Clint's face, but it all falls back to that pure devastation that seems to be permanently right there, written in the lines, on the edge, waiting. ''Bucky,'' he says, halting. ''She – She sacrificed – ''

''No, I know,'' Bucky hurries to say. ''She sacrificed herself. I know that part. But how did she die? Did she – Did she shoot herself? Was she stabbed? Was it quick?''

Clint's eyes go dark, shuttering, putting it all away behind his mask. ''You don't want to know,'' he says evenly.

''No,'' Bucky agrees. ''I don't. But I need to.''

.

.

.

It's Sam, in the end, it's always Sam, the man with the plan, the softest thing Bucky has left, who finds him in the aftermath. He's in the alley with him outside Luke's, his footsteps heavy as he approaches. He always does this. Always manages to find Bucky at his worst. There's always a ledge he's pulling him back from.

''Bucky,'' he says, his hands reaching out to grasp onto him, hold him up. ''Hey,'' his voice lowers, gentle, concerned. ''Hey, man, look at me.''

But Bucky can't look at him.

He can't even breathe right, bent over in the dark, damp October night, puking his guts out, shaking like a leaf. It feels like there's a hole in his chest and he can't get the air to his lungs and he can't stop the trembling or the Russian in his head (остановитесь, пожалуйста, остановитесь, Вернись, Вернись) or the feeling of thaw or the thought of her falling, falling, falling forever.

She fell.

Natalia, his Natalia, fell.

моя любовь, моя любовь, what have you done to yourself?

She threw herself off a cliff and fell and he knows – he knows – what that feels like, the way it feels like the air bends around you, the roar of it, the cold sting, the heart dropping terror, the way you think maybe this isn't really happening and then at least it wasn't him, the way you think about the life you didn't get to live and the things you never got to be and the stupid stubborn boy above who couldn't stop you and your mother who couldn't save you and then nothing and then nothing at all.

The way it feels to land.

Bucky retches again, all that wasted money coming up in a back alley, his breathing quick, uneven pants, and Sam's hand is warm and grounding on his back. He'd bet money she didn't even scream. He'd bet money she was scared. She probably didn't show it, but she was. Everyone is. It's part of our makeup.

We are, all of us, scared to die.

''Okay,'' Sam murmurs, soothing but worried. ''You're having a panic attack.''

''I – I'm – '' Bucky tries to straighten up, but stumbles back and hits the wall, legs giving out underneath him. He can't breathe. Someone has crushed his chest, squeezed his heart until it burst, filled his lungs with cement, taken an ice pick to his right temple. Is this what she felt in that final, breathless second? Is this what she felt at the bottom? Did she die instantly? Did she lie there broken and bleeding and hurting? Did she think someone was coming to get her?

Could he have gone to get her?

''Do you know what the trigger was?'' Sam asks.

''I don't know,'' Bucky forces the words out through his teeth, the rancid taste of tequila mixed with stomach acid, his lungs that won't cooperate, his rapidly blurring vision. ''There wasn't. It just.'' He doesn't finish. He gasps like he's just broken the surface of the water, air returning to his lungs all at once, and abruptly, without warning, it's like a dam bursts inside his chest and his throat and he curls into himself and starts sobbing.

She fell, don't you understand, she fell. Natalia fell and he wasn't there to jump right after her. He would have. He would have done that for her.

No! No, don't hurt him, she'd screamed, when they ripped her from his arms, pulled them apart at the seams. Please don't hurt him, he didn't do anything wrong, it was me, it was me, please! Hurt me! Hurt me! Just don't hurt him!

He remembers that.

Just like he remembers Odessa; remembers seeing red hair, remembers the way she sensed him, knew he was there just because the felt him. He remembers the split second look of hope in her eyes when she turned around, looking at nothing but the wind, her hair a windswept mess around her head, her voice lost in the distance between them as she looked right at him and said, James?

And then he pulled the trigger.

The engineer was dead before he hit the ground.

He thinks he might've made sure she wasn't.

''Bucky,'' Sam says, here, now, a plea of his own. ''Buck.'' He crouches down in front of him and extends a hand, but doesn't touch him. ''You gotta let me in here. You gotta tell me what's going on.''

''I don't – I don't know,'' Bucky lies, the words coming out halting, caught on sobs. ''I don't know.'' He should say more, he should pull himself together and shut up and go back to pretending, but he can't. He's still trapped in the image of her falling, the sound of her voice screaming it was me, it was me, please! Hurt me!

There was never any other way, was there? There was never any other ending. He knew that. He can't remember a time when he didn't know that. He knew it the first time he touched her, the same way he knew with Steve.

She was always going to be the first to leave.

The girl in the Red Room. The boy in Brooklyn. The way he knew he was doomed the second he laid eyes on them.

He was always going to be the one left behind.

.

.

.

He comes home late, somewhere around one in the morning, with the worst headache he's had in months, red, sore eyes that feel like sandpaper when he blinks, slightly lightheaded from the pack of cigarettes he chain smoked on the way home, and a feeling of numbness that has settled so deep into his bones he doesn't know if he'll ever get it out.

He unlocks the door with hands that are still trembling faintly, and then he steps inside, turns on the light, and –

Steve is standing in his home.

He's full of dirt and ash and blood, soot on his face, eyes haunted with the ghosts of battle and grief, his tired body barely upright. Bucky knows this Steve. The one without a war. The one left with the weight of living. He watched this Steve fall to his knees and weep bitterly into his hands. He wrangled this Steve, damn near catatonic, out of his uniform and cleaned him up, bathed him just like he did when they were kids, back when Stevie would get too sick to move. He put him to bed and sat there all night, shivering with his own grief, watching him toss and turn. Before that, he'd pulled him off the battlefield, out of the wreckage, after Thanos, after Stark, when he was dazed and broken, with that thousand yard stare, a shell more than anything else.

Steve, Bucky had said, crouching down next to the weary, battered remains of Captain America. Stevie, can you look at me, sweetheart? Just look at me.

Steve hadn't looked at him then.

He's looking at him now.

Bucky stares back at him, gaze steady, the both of them red eyed and sore, wounded and tainted and spoiled with the stains of loss, one in particular, the years rattling heavy between them, pushing them together and pulling them apart at the same time. He turns off the light. Steve is gone when he turns it back on.

Alpine, however, is not.

She comes trotting out of the bedroom, meowing her greetings, and starts weaving between his legs, rubbing her face against him. ''Hey there,'' he whispers, scooping her up, settling her in the crook of his metal arm. ''Boy, is it good to see you,'' he says, and finds himself startled by just how true that is. He scratches her head absently, relaxed, ever so slightly by the sound and feel of her purring. He exhales. ''Well, how was your night?'' he asks. ''Because, kiddo, mine was shit.''

He looks at the spot where Steve stood, the vast emptiness of the loft he doesn't know if he'll ever be able to fill, and then he turns away and goes to bed.

.

.

.

''I'm here,'' he'd said, later, at the sad small space Steve called home, the studio apartment he rented in DUMBO, like he was trying to find his way home but couldn't quite get there. ''I'm here with you, okay? Whenever you need me.''

Nothing about the city had been quiet that night, the streets full of people for the first time in five years, all those happy returns, joyous reunions, but it was quiet there, in that barren wasteland of an apartment that Steve called home – as if home was a punishment.

Bucky leaned against the archway to the kitchen, hands in his pockets, watching.

Steve stood in the middle of the room, silent and eerily still, barely a sign of life in him, numbed out, still in his suit, still full of grime and blood.

''It's you and me,'' Bucky told him, voice low, comforting, like he was trying to calm down a feral, rabid animal in the wild. ''It's just you and me.'' There was a moment then, like a haunting, where it was just like before, where the two versions of them, Before and After, overlapped. It was the two of them, in Brooklyn, and Bucky was once again trying to put Steve back together, piece by broken piece. Just like old times. Just like home. They way they used to be.

It was more unsettling than he thought it would be to feel that again.

''You did it, Steve,'' he told him, a piss poor attempt at encouragement. ''You saved the world.''

Steve took a breath. He let it out. He stood in the middle of his apartment, exhausted and lost, looking at nothing, bleary eyed and ripped apart, not 100% sure where he was, not 100% sure he was alive, but 100% sure he wasn't supposed to be. ''Is this – '' He sounded like he'd been gargling broken glass. ''Is this what it's like to win?''

''Not what you pictured,'' Bucky said, ''is it?''

Outside, there was roaring laughter and crying, people screaming and embracing the returned, ready to pave over five years of loss, accepting, fully, of the miracle they had been presented with.

Inside, the aftermath of that miracle stood and turned to face Bucky.

''He has a daughter,'' he got out, something raw and wounded and ugly flashing in his eyes, like a flicker of death itself. ''He has a daughter.''

''I know,'' said Bucky.

''She won't remember him now.''

''She will. I don't think she'll ever be able to forget.''

Steve shook his head. ''I should've been faster,'' he said. ''I should've gotten to the gauntlet before Tony.''

''Why? So it could have been you?''

''Yes!'' Steve roared, loud enough to make Bucky flinch. He looked around his house without a home, a lifeless apartment, a half-alive best friend who was nothing like what he remembered, all of it echoes. It must have seemed so pointless. ''He has a daughter,'' he choked out. ''I don't – I don't have – '' I don't have anything. ''It should have been me. I was made for that. I was created to end wars. And I couldn't even – I couldn't – ''

''Okay,'' Bucky said, as soft as he could, stepping into Steve's personal space. ''Okay, Steve.'' He wrapped his hands around Steve's wrists. ''The war's over,'' he told him. ''You can come home.'' He'd meant to him. He'd always meant that. He thought it was obvious. He thought it had been obvious since 1936. At least.

Apparently, it hadn't been.

''Buck,'' Steve forced out, voice brittle, cracking. ''You don't understand. You don't - She's not - '' His mouth tightened. There was a crashing wave of grief and unimaginable guilt in his eyes, ready to sweep down and drag them both out to sea, drown them in the loss. He could not look Bucky in the eye. ''We lost her.''

''What? Who?''

''Nat.''

.

.

.

Alpine curls up on his chest the second he flops down on the bed, like she can feel the faint hum of panic still in his veins, sense the distress. She's gotten good at that since she moved in with him, growing in tune with him, becoming aware of his natural ebbs and flows. He's pretty sure she thinks he's a fucking basket case.

It wouldn't necessarily be an inaccurate reading.

Bucky closes his eyes and lets her knead at his chest. If she thinks she's helping him by doing that, he's certainly not going to stop her. And she is. He rubs at his forehead, irritated, more than anything by the constant prickling of pain, the throbbing headache behind his eyes. Be nice if he could take painkillers for it, but he knows it wouldn't do a damn thing.

Ice pack, he knows. That's going to have to be the plan for the rest of the night. Get an ice pack. Turn all the lights off. Lie down. Go to sleep. Wake up. Abandon the bedroom with the too soft mattress and find refuge on the floor in the living room instead. Probably smoke the rest of his cigarettes at like five in the morning on the roof.

Dream of Natalia, falling.

That one's going to stick around for the long haul, he thinks.

He'd rather have another nightmare about one of his various political assassinations. He lies there for a few minutes, avoiding getting up again, until he hears the door to the apartment next door open.

His eyes open.

A glance at the obnoxious alarm clock on his bedside table tells him it's 1:27 in the morning. And Laurel is just now getting home? He would blame his exhaustion and the fact that he feels like shit for how easily he shifts into eavesdropping espionage mode, but he doesn't think that's why he lets himself slip and listen in to what's going on next door. He thinks he just wants to hear her voice.

''Hey,'' Steph's voice greets, thick with sleep. ''How'd everything go?''

''Swell,'' says Laurel, voice dry, more sarcastic than usual.

''What'd you think of Cap's speech?''

''Missed most of it.''

''It was good,'' Steph enthuses. ''We watched it live on TV. He's really good at public speaking.''

''Yeah,'' Laurel agrees. ''Always has been.''

Bucky frowns.

What?

How would she –

A sharp cry pierces the air, so shrill that he thinks he would hear it even without any enhanced hearing. Maggie. He shakes it off. None of his business. He needs to stop being a voyeuristic piece of shit. He closes his eyes, squeezes them shut and makes a concentrated effort to tune out all the sounds around him that are too loud. He picks two things – the warm weight of Alpine on his chest, the sound of his own breathing – and focuses on them until everything else fades to the background. It takes some getting used to, the way the world is so much more with the serum, the way it's all too much, but once you've lived with for a while, you learn a few tricks to make it easier. It does take work, though. Effort other people don't have to make.

It's a change.

Being like this.

And it's the rest of your life.

John Walker didn't understand that. He couldn't see the future. He couldn't see past the next moment. That boy's got a real storm coming if he can't patch himself together and learn how to deal with this in a way that doesn't involve violent bloody murder and twitchy mania.

Should he… Should he check on him?

Ugh, no.

Steve would.

Bucky groans.

Fine. He'll check up on the dumb fuck. At some point. Tomorrow, maybe. Or the day after. Or next week. Or sometime in the new year.

He's just debating whether or not to set a reminder on his phone when he hears it, a familiar sound that cuts through his defenses, strips them all away, bringing him back to the apartment next door, the sound of the family that lives there, and Dinah's distinctive sweet sounding voice, singing to Maggie.

Bucky opens his eyes.

''Stars shining bright above you, night breezes seem to whisper I love you,'' her soft, lilting voice croons, muffled through the wall but clear enough for him to hear. ''Birds singin' in the sycamore tree, dream a little dream of me.''

God, he knows that song. At least a version of it. Probably the first version. Ozzie Nelson. 1931. Dream a Little Dream of Me.

''Say nighty-night and kiss me,'' Laurel sings, ''just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me. While I'm alone and blue as can be, dream a little dream of me.''

He tilts his head back to look at the wall, like if he stares at it long enough, intense enough, maybe he'll be able to see right through it to where she is, singing her daughter back to sleep. The knot in his chest is, unexpectedly, beginning to loosen at the sound of her voice. His tense shoulders are relaxing. He doesn't know how he feels about that.

Worse, actually.

He knows exactly how he feels about that.

''Stars fading but I linger on, dear, still craving your kiss, I'm longing to linger 'til dawn, dear, just saying this,'' she sings. ''Sweet dreams 'til sunbeams find you, sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you, but in your dreams, whatever they be, dream a little dream of me.'' Her voice starts to soften, dropping lower, until he has to work harder to hear it. She stops singing eventually, after repeating the last verse, her voice petering out, presumably as Maggie falls back to sleep.

An emptiness looms inside of him at the sudden lack of her voice. Something lodges in his throat that he can't swallow down.

Becca loved that song.

She used to make Mary sing it all the time.

Bucky stares at the ceiling and thinks about his sisters. Mary, less than two years younger than him, the one who was forever left to pick up the pieces, take care of the girls when their parents couldn't, when he couldn't. Louise, four years younger than him, sarcastic and snarky and the backbone of all of them. And Becca, the baby, their baby, thirteen years younger than him and a shock to the system of the entire family but sweet as sugar. The light of the family. They're gone. All of them. Just – gone. Just like Steve. And Natalia. And the Howlies.

Wonder what they'd think of him now.

He gropes around for his phone, pulling it out of his pocket and fumbling around with it for a helpless second before he hits the call button.

She picks up on the second ring. ''James?''

Her raspy voice is warm and rich in his ear. The thing lodged in his throat loosens its hold on him. ''Hey, kid.''

''Kid,'' Yelena parrots, with a derisive and very Russian snort. ''I am a grown woman, солдат. Nearly thirty.''

''Okay, well, I'm 106.''

''And why are you calling me in the middle of the night, senior citizen?'' she asks, teasing. ''Is it your prostate?''

''What? No.'' He frowns, thrown. ''What?''

''A lot of old men have problems with their prostates,'' she states, matter-of-fact.

''How do you even – No. No,'' he says, firm. ''Just. Wanted to hear your voice, is all.''

''Aww, the Winter Soldier is a sentimental fool,'' she coos.

''Yeah, yeah, get that out of your system.'' He gives Alpine one last scratch before she decides he's okay enough for her to go back to her spot on her favorite pillow. Which used to be his pillow. ''Have you given anymore thought to coming out to New York?''

There's a pause before Yelena says, trying to be dismissive but failing, ''You know I'm not a city girl.''

''I live in Red Hook,'' he retorts. ''Hardly a city.''

''The internet says it smells there.''

''It..'' Well. Hard to defend that one. ''Sometimes.''

''Hmm.'' She pauses again, though this time it's to chew something crunchy at an obnoxious volume directly into his ear. ''I will consider it.''

''All I ask.''

''If I come visit,'' she begins in a slow, considering drawl, ''will you take me to the Empire State Building?''

''Sure.''

''And the Statue of Litterby?''

''Liberty.''

''No, it's a – '' She cuts herself off with a dramatic, long-suffering sigh. ''You are so old,'' she tells him. ''You should get your prostate checked.''

''Stop talking about my prostate.''

She responds to that with a cackle. She's likely going for flippant and mocking. He doesn't take it that way. It's a good sound, he thinks. It's just what he needed to hear. It reminds him of Natalia enough to ache, but it's also something that is so uniquely Yelena, something he remembers from that smart mouthed kid in the Red Room who learned to use people's perception of her weakness to her advantage and ate pirozhki with both hands.

He throws a hand over his tired eyes. ''Did I wake you up?''

''No, I was up,'' she says, nonchalant. A little too nonchalant. Yes, he sounds like that when he's avoiding sleep because of nightmares he can't get away from, too. ''I have so many years of television to catch up on, James,'' she says, and turns up the volume on her television as proof, the tinny sound of sitcom audience laughter coming through. ''So many.''

''What are you watching tonight?''

''Something stupid.''

''Oh yeah?'' He allows his body to relax into the bed, lets his bones melt, and listens to the sound of her breathing, the sound of her voice, something real and tangible and here, left behind for him to find, for him to take care of. A piece of Natalia that survived the fall. Not Becca, not Mary, not Louise, but something new, a fresh start, a beginning. A sister. ''Tell me about it.''

.

.

.

January 2024

Bucky visits Natalia for the second time in late January and finds remnants of Christmas decorations, including lights, and a tacky amount of angel figurines, at her grave. He wonders how she would have felt about that. He also wonders, somewhat distantly, who put the lights up. If it was her adoring public or someone else. Maybe the Barton family.

Maybe that shadow in the woods over there.

''Hey, любовь,'' he greets, just because he can, just because no one can stop him from saying it anymore. ''Told you I'd come back.''

He doesn't have vodka this time, but he does have pirozhki. And an orchid. Always an orchid. He places it at the base of her headstone.

''Brought some pirozhki '' he says. ''You preferred medovik, I know.'' He leans forward, balancing the box on top of the stone. ''They're not for you,'' he says. ''I figure if she's anything like you, I can eventually draw her out with food. Like a stray cat.''

He stands straight, stepping back, slipping both hands into the pockets of his coat. He continues to pretend he doesn't know he's being watched.

He eyes the offerings left for her, the Christmas lights and the angels, the teddy bears and the candles, the children's drawings and pictures of people she saved, people who would not exist if she hadn't been the hero she was. He wishes she was here. Almost as much as he wishes he was there.

Bucky tilts his head back to look up at the white winter sky. He breathes in the scent of the winter flowers at the gravesite, the crisp winter air. It's not as cold in Ohio as he thought it would be. It's frigid, but not snowy, not icy, not freezing, nothing like New York. He never knows how to feel about the cold anymore. On the one hand – yes, he has some horrible and horrifying memories of snow and ice and freezing. On the other hand –

He thinks he remembers her best when it's cold. The Red Room was cold. He remembers a time when she was the only warm thing he had. He should have told her that. He should have said something before the fight. He should have done a lot of things he didn't. He should have run away with her.

He closes his eyes and thinks of her.

Those eyes, the way they danced in the light, the twist of her lips, sultry and teasing, a brightness in the dark. He remembers the way she danced and he remembers the low rasp of her voice and he remembers the touch of her hand. And he remembers the way it felt to love her and to be loved by her in a time when he didn't even know that was something he could still do.

She was the most alive thing he knew during his years as the Winter Soldier.

He never thanked her for that.

If he could rewrite their story, he would go back and he would take her and her girl and just run. Just like they planned. He would do it faster. He would get them to Canada, the quiet little island she picked out in British Columbia. They would still be there now, well rested and at peace, color in their cheeks, meat on their bones, happy. Together. If he could rewrite the ending, it would be her and it would be him, with all the memories they shared and all the memories they had yet to make, meeting up for that drink, the world wide open before them, softer, better, ready.

What a life that would have been. What an ordinary life.

When he opens his eyes and he's still in Ohio, still here, starting a brand new year without her, he has to swallow hard. He draws in a breath. He lets it go. He has been trying to learn to let things go. He does not say goodbye. He says her name instead, ''Natalia,'' and then forgets the rest. ''Next time,'' he says, voice hoarse, ''I'll bring you some medovik. Just for you.''

He looks at her name on the stone. Every time he comes here, he feels like he has so much to say. He wants to tell her so many things. He wants to tell her about therapy. About atonement. He wants to tell her about Brooklyn and the conditions of his pardon and the way he made the government agents sent to follow him within hours of them showing up. He wants her advice and he wants her wit and her humor and her infuriating sass. He wants all of her back here with him – just as much as he wants all of Steve. He wants to apologize. He feels like he has a lot to apologize for when he's with Natalia.

That is not how this works. This is an empty grave. He knows that. He is beginning to forget what it was like to not know that, to not grieve her. To live without that persistent ache in his chest. Natalia is gone.

But Natalia is not all there is.

He's not here for her.

Casually, he flicks his eyes to the side, toward the greenery lining the picturesque cemetery. He listens and does not tense up when he hears her. Doesn't react at all. He licks his lips and looks back at Natalia's grave as if he never heard it at all. After a second, he whistles. A familiar, two-toned sound.

In the woods, a tree branch snaps.

He almost smirks.

Natalia would not have been caught so off guard by that.

''You like the savory fillings better, right?'' He flings another look over at the tree line. He doesn't get an answer, but he wasn't expecting one. ''I remember that,'' he says. ''From when you were little. Your favorite was cabbage. You ate with both hands. Your hands were smaller then.'' He's quiet just long enough to hear the hitch in her breathing, the way her heart rate increases, that tiny, barely there noise she makes when she's trying not to cry.

Shit.

He made a deadly assassin cry.

''You don't have to come out,'' he says, attempting softness. ''You don't have to talk to me. I know you probably don't want to see me. I understand that. I know what I was to you. I know what I did. But those are for you,'' he gestures to the box full of pirozhki. ''I promise I didn't poison them. I just want to make sure you're eating.''

He gives it an extra minute, less than, but she doesn't move, doesn't come out. He listens to her ragged breathing. The way she tries to compose herself. Suppose that's fair. He doesn't particularly want to come out from where he's hiding and face the Winter Soldier either and he is the Winter Soldier. He considers giving her the speech his therapist has been trying to get him to use.

I am no longer the Winter Soldier. My name is James ''Bucky'' Barnes. You're part of my efforts to make amends.

Problem is, it's not applicable here.

Atonement means something very different in this case.

The Winter Soldier did not fail her. The Winter Soldier trained her well. The Asset did what it was told to do. It hurt her. It taught her pain. It snapped her wrist when she was defiant. It made a monster. It was told to make her a child soldier, so that's what it made her. There was no mission failure.

James, whoever he was when he was in the Red Room, was the one who failed her.

He was supposed to get her out. He was supposed to get them both out. He failed. Natalia wanted them to be a family, Natalia wanted her to be safe, and instead they were physically torn apart from each other, kicking and screaming.

Yelena never had a chance.

''Okay,'' he says. ''I get it. I can take a hint. But I'm leaving those and you better eat every one. I mean it.'' He looks at the trees one last time. She's good at hiding. She's a Widow. That's in her training. She's good at being invisible until she needs to be something else. But he does see her.

There is no world in which he does not see her.

A shadowy little spider, a tangle of hair.

Just like her sister.

''She would want you to eat well, Yelena,'' he says, and then he turns to leave.

.

.

.

He circles back an hour later and the box is gone.

It's victory enough for today.

He leaves a note under the orchid with his number. Whenever you're ready, he writes. I'll be here.

She doesn't call.

There is a part of him that thinks maybe that should be the end of it. Maybe it's a sign. She doesn't want to see him. Maybe he really does need to take a hint.

But then he remembers that sound from the trees, that agonized little whine in the back of her throat that she thought she could hide from him, and he remembers Natalia's insistence that she would not leave Yelena behind, that if they were going to run, if they were going to escape, they were going to escape with her sister.

You take care of the things left behind.

Even if they're not technically yours. That's just part of the price of love. Everyone who has loved and been loved in return leaves something precious behind.

This is what Natalia has left him.

He's not going to let her down again.

.

.

.

All my grief says the same thing:
this isn't how it's supposed to be.
this isn't how it's supposed to be.
and the world laughs.
holds my hope by the throat.
says:
but this is how it is.

- Fortesa Latifi

Chapter Text

Chapter Three

How to Be Ravenous

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.

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I'm working on a trick
where I come across sated.
Where I don't remember how to be ravenous.

- Caitlin Bailey

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October 2024

The next time he sees her, his neighbor with two names and two kids and possibly questionable taste in music, it's four in the morning and he's bleary eyed and exhausted, coming off 96 hours of no sleep and a minor stab wound. Courtesy of his second job. The grim satisfaction of a job well done and a client safe and sound is enough to keep him upright and awake but it's not enough to quell the deep rooted sleep deprived grumpiness that's been plaguing him since he hit 72 hours without sleep.

Such is the life of a private security consultant.

He could say this is a position he never expected to end up in, but, honestly, out of everything that's happened to him since 2014, private security is the only thing that isn't surprising.

This is where people like him tend to end up.

After his pardon was official and it was made public that the Winter Soldier was back on US soil and ready to reintegrate into society, the job offers from private security companies and the like started pouring in within 24 hours. Bishop Security, Control Risks, Deep Sentinel, LexCorp, Allied Universal, GardaWorld, Infinite Risks, Bowhunter Security, Gavin de Becker, John Shields, Blackbird Security, OXE, Interfor International, Stone Security, all the heavy hitters. Even got offers from that other Big Three: Stark Industries, Wayne Industries, and Queen Industries.

It was predictable, almost amusing. The only part of it that was even remotely surprising was that it took them that long to reach out. He'd been expecting the private companies to come calling way back in 2014, when word had first gotten out that the Winter Soldier, the boogeyman to most security companies, had defected.

Sure, the government wanted him – CIA, Homeland, SWORD, whatever still smoldering pieces of SHIELD that are still limping around out there, ARGUS, DOD, all the various alphabet soup places – but the private companies were outright desperate for him. In the initial months after his pardon, he was offered inordinate amounts of money by several different companies.

He got gift baskets. Phone calls. Emails. Texts. They showed up at his door with vague propositions and promises of wealth and purpose. When he ignored them, their bids went up. And then up again.

Lex Luthor approached him on the street in Williamsburg and tried to charm him, but mostly just came off as unsettling because he's not a very charming man.

Thea Queen, the young CEO of Queen Industries, called several times and gave him his choice of positions – head of security at Queen Industries in Star City, personal bodyguard for her late brother's wife and kids over on Mercer Island, or personal bodyguard for her late brother's other child and apparently estranged ex in Gotham, all of which came with a wildly large paycheck, a relocation bonus, and a place to live on QI's dime.

Lucius Fox from Wayne Industries made several valiant attempts to get him to come in for a meeting – including getting Mr. Wayne himself to call twice – and subsequently seemed both amused and disgruntled when Bucky finally had to tell him that no power on this earth would get him to move to New Jersey.

Eleanor Bishop sent an insane number of baskets of mini muffins.

Pepper Potts called him and told him that all was forgiven and that SI wanted to help him in any way they could, including giving him a position as Happy Hogan's second in command. That last one was, admittedly, a hard no to give.

You would not believe the list of famous people who wanted to get a hold of him, interested in putting him in charge of their security details.

He took personal pleasure in telling Donald Trump trust me, pal, if you ever see me, it won't be because I'm there to protect you. (Dr. Raynor had not been impressed when he told her that, but she also hadn't been quite as disappointed as he thought she would be and she hadn't reported him. He's still certain there was, for at least the fraction of a second, the tiniest amused glint in her eyes.) And he still doesn't know how the Kardashian/Jenner family got his personal private unlisted phone number. Though somehow he's unsurprised they did.

It was overwhelming at the time. He didn't like what a hot commodity his body was to those people. They saw him as a thing. A weapon they wanted in their arsenal. A prize to be won. It was an unpleasant feeling. They wanted him to join them, but none of them gave a damn about Bucky Barnes. (Except maybe Pepper Potts.) That wasn't who they wanted. They wanted the Winter Soldier.

The Asset.

It was about bragging rights and power. They wanted him to become their figurehead, their golden boy, their best weapon. They were willing to shill out millions of dollars to buy him, point him, and shoot him. He hadn't been in the mood to help them with that. He turned down every offer.

And then Karli Morgenthau and the Flag Smashers happened.

He had meant what he said when he said he wanted peace. Had meant what he said when he said he didn't want to fight anymore. He wants to be free, really free, but peace and freedom don't do anything to ease the guilt. Helping people does. And peace is not the way of the world.

So, he accepted a position at one of the companies.

Freelance work, mostly. Nothing overseas, no long undercovers, no jobs that take more than five days at the most, and typically he only takes jobs in New York, sometimes California or DC. Sam thought it was a bad idea, thought Bucky was stretching himself too thin, called it avoidance, but Bucky wanted – wants – to do more. He wants to make amends on a wider scope.

The Asset's sole purpose was violence. The mission was to kill. Captain America's mission is to serve. Bucky Barnes has made the decision to reset his personal mission parameters to protect.

For now, that's where he'll find peace.

He hasn't regretted the choice to take the job at the security company. His co-workers aren't quite as chummy as Sam, Carter, and Torres. They're overly professional, stiff, and a lot of them are afraid of him. But they're good and he can make them better. The work is easy enough and it feels good to be sent out with an objective that doesn't involve assassinating presidents.

Even tonight he doesn't think he regrets taking the job.

The stab wound is unfortunate, though.

Mostly because this shirt was expensive. But that's on him. Just because he has money now doesn't mean he should use it to buy clothes with price tags that have no business being that high. He's grumbling to himself about it when he gets home to Red Hook, bag hefted over one shoulder, unlit cigarette hanging out of his mouth, utterly relieved to be out of Tribeca, and so exhausted that he almost doesn't see her at first.

Or, rather, he almost doesn't recognize her.

His neighbor, Dinah or Laurel Lance, the kind single mom of two, wears fuzzy novelty slippers, big, oversized, slouchy sweaters, and colorful, often ridiculous t-shirts. His favorite so far was the one he caught her in the other day in the laundry room – pink with black lettering that declared, PARENTING STYLE: SOMEWHERE BETWEEN 'NO, DON'T DO THAT' & 'OH, WHAT THE HELL.' She has that slightly frazzled, exhausted, either just got out of the shower or needs to shower vibe about her. It's a very distinctive vibe. It's sweet and human and it's something he's noticed about her.

The woman walking toward him, eyes on her phone, is different. She's wearing a fitted black leather jacket and knee-high boots over her jeans and everything about her is sharp and confident and…hungry. If it wasn't for the lollipop between her teeth – pink, tonight – he might think she was someone else entirely. There is a second, when she looks up from her phone and spots him, where he sees her face, the dark, shrouded eyes, the downturned mouth, and then it's like Dinah settles back into place and her entire expression changes.

''James,'' she greets, cheerful as ever. ''Hi!''

He's been up for 96 hours straight, so he feels okay with blaming his sluggish response on exhaustion. He tugs the cigarette out of his mouth. ''Dinah.'' He tries to shake off the fog, leaning in to get a closer look at her in the darkness. A frown comes to rest on his face and a dark, uncomfortable feeling settles in his stomach when he sees the bruises splashed across her skin. He rolls the cigarette between vibranium fingers to squelch the sudden urge to touch her. ''Jesus, what happened to you?''

''Hm? Oh.'' She slides her phone into her pocket. ''This?'' She gestures to her face, the split lip and bruised cheekbone and jaw. ''Long story.'' She pauses, biting her bottom lip, a hollow kind of shame sliding over her eyes. Red colors her cheeks. ''All right, maybe not that long, but kind of embarrassing. I got headbutted by a toddler.'' She nods sagely. ''They do that sometimes.'' There's no hint of distress in her face or her voice. No visible signs of untruth. She pops the dregs of the lollipop back into her mouth. He feels like he should be able to sense if she's lying, it's kind of a thing he's good at, and he senses nothing, so…

But still.

''Maggie did that?''

''Occupational hazard,'' she says, throwing him an easy grin. ''Parenting involves more bruises than most people think. It's my fault,'' she shrugs, crunching on the remains of her lollipop. ''I made the mistake of trying to go for both potty training and weaning in one weekend. She, uh, did not agree with my approach. She went on a nap strike, got cranky, and I got headbutted.'' She lets him unlock the front door to their building for her, slipping inside with a grateful smile while he holds the door open. ''Both failed, so.'' She pauses to throw her lollipop stick in the trash. ''I guess that's where we're at.'' She peers down at her chest with a truly battle worn look and shakes her head. ''These poor girls are so battered,'' she mutters, mostly to herself.

Bucky, again, decides to blame the exhaustion for the laugh that slips out before he can stop it. He puts the cigarette back in his mouth so it won't happen again and pretends to be focused on his keys.

Laurel seems to take it as a personal victory, turning around with a triumphant look on her face, like she's been waiting to make him laugh this whole time. The look fades the second she gets a look at him in the warm lighting of the lobby. ''James.'' She steps forward, reaching for him. ''Oh my god, you're bleeding.''

He follows her gaze to his left side, the still healing stab wound and the blood-soaked fabric. It does look worse in the light, to be honest. ''Oh, that,'' he waves a hand, dismissive, ''it's nothing. Just a stab wound.''

That does not appear to comfort her. ''You got stabbed?''

''Occupational hazard,'' he fires back, with his own easy smile. He tucks the cigarette behind his ear. It's rude to smoke in front of a lady. He'll smoke it later. Not that it'll do anything. Can't get drunk, can't get a nicotine high, it's all very depressing.

She presses her lips together and looks at him for a moment, unsure if she should believe him, but she doesn't press. ''I guess it would be for you, wouldn't it?'' She moves, as if she wants to inch closer to him, but doesn't. ''You look tired.''

''It is four in the morning,'' he points out. ''What are you even doing up?''

Her mouth tightens. Something strange passes through her eyes. Whatever it is, she doesn't dwell on it. ''Work,'' she says. ''You?''

''Also work,'' he responds. ''What do you do for work?'' It's mostly out of politeness that he asks. He knows she works at the flower shop next to the bookstore. But he also has to acknowledge some selfish curiosity. He doesn't see floristry being a high paced, late night kind of business. Maybe she has a second job.

''I'm a florist,'' she tells him. ''I work a few blocks away at Sherwood Florist.''

''And that has you up until four in the morning?''

''Well, it's a really cutthroat business,'' she says, deadpan.

He looks out the doors into the night, then back at her. ''Dinah,'' he starts, ''did you walk home by yourself at four in the morning?'' When she looks at him with a wide-eyed innocent look on her face, he finds himself reviewing all the possible scenarios that could happen when a beautiful young woman walks home in the middle of the night all by herself in New York. Red Hook is generally a quiet, close-knit community, but even here, there is a level of danger in that. He finds the potential outcomes unacceptable. ''Can you…not do that?''

''Aww.'' She grasps onto his chin with her hand. ''Look at you, being all worried and old fashioned.'' She steps away from him with another chuckle, but before she does, she steals the cigarette. ''These things'll kill you, you know,'' she says, and then turns her cheer onto Ellis the night doorman, back from his break, leaving Bucky standing there, watching her toss the cigarette into the trash. She's effortlessly kind as she interacts with Ellis. She asks him about his wife and kids. She knows their names and everything. She thanks him for the zucchini loaf.

Ellis the doorman has never brought Bucky a zucchini loaf. Ellis the doorman is a little afraid of Bucky.

It's not an uncommon reaction.

He smiles tightly at Ellis. Tries for a wave.

Ellis looks back and forth between Bucky and Laurel like he's trying to figure out if Laurel's in danger.

Again, not a totally uncommon reaction. Especially considering she currently looks like someone's worked her over good and he currently looks like he's been stabbed. Because he has, in fact, been stabbed.

''Night, Ellis,'' Laurel calls, stepping away from him with a wave. She even throws in a wink. Then she tucks her arm through Bucky's and leads him in the direction of the elevator. ''Gosh, James, what did you do to poor Ellis?'' she asks. ''I've never seen him so tense.''

''Nothing,'' says Bucky. ''I don't think I've ever said more than two words to the man.''

''That doesn't sound very friendly,'' she comments. ''Maybe that's the problem. You should be more upbeat. Maybe give him a little smile. Say good morning and good night and ask how his day is.''

His day's probably shit. He's a night doorman at a building where people come in with stab wounds and beat up faces.

''Maybe don't come home covered in blood,'' she adds.

''I'm not covered in blood,'' he refutes. ''There is a small blood stain on my shirt. Tiny, even. Wound'll be gone by tomorrow.''

She presses the button for the elevator, looking at him out of the corner of her eye with an unreadable bright expression that makes his chest feel…some type of way that he doesn't care to examine when he's tired and has a stab wound. ''You get that protecting Captain America?''

''No,'' he says. ''I got it protecting Taylor Swift.''

Oh, fuck.

He was not supposed to say that.

Laurel, who has gone very still, slowly turns to face him. ''…What?''

He groans. Scrubs metal fingers over his face. ''Shit,'' he curses. ''I shouldn't have said that.''

''You got stabbed protecting Taylor Swift? How do you even know – ''

''I – '' He looks back at Ellis, still peering after them, unsure. Bucky shuffles closer to Laurel cautiously, so as not to get tackled by Ellis. ''That is not something I should have told you. It's extremely extremely need-to-know and you don't need to know.''

''I – I didn't know Captain America had a vested interested in – ''

''He doesn't. I work private security on the weekends.''

''For Taylor Swift?''

''For whoever requests me.''

''And Taylor Swift requests you? Personally?''

''Stop saying her name.''

''I'm sorry, I have a thirteen-year-old daughter,'' she says, which – okay? ''Do you understand what that means?''

''…No?''

''We were dust for five years, came back to chaos, and the woman had released four new albums – which is up to five now – four re-recorded albums, and was in the midst of a global tour that I still can't get tickets to without being scammed out of thousands of dollars,'' she exclaims. ''Sin's been in a state of overwhelm for the past year trying to catch up. And now our next door neighbor is besties with her idol?''

''I'm not – '' No. He refuses to say the word besties. ''We're not friends. I'm just in charge of her security detail when she's in the city.''

''Oh my god, you're in charge?''

''You're easily impressed,'' he states as they step into the elevator.

''Maybe I have a competency kink,'' she says. ''You don't know.''

''I...'' He has no idea how to even begin to react to that. ''Well, that's...'' Nope. He's got nothing.

''I'm just surprised. I didn't think – oh my god, James,'' she gasps, clutching at his arm. ''Can you get me tickets to the Eras Tour?''

He scoffs. ''Unlikely. Do you know how hard it is to get tickets to that thing?''

''Yes!'' She throws her hands up, exasperated. ''I've been trying to get tickets ever since we got back! I have friends in both high and low places and none of them could get tickets! Getting into that tour is like trying to break into Fort Knox.''

''I've broken into Fort Knox.''

''Wow, you're really intent on activating that competency kink, aren't you?''

''I - I wasn't...trying to...'' He trails off, yet again, biting down on his bottom lip. He can't decide if he's infuriated or embarrassed by the way he's so blatantly blushing in front of her. You know, he thinks he used to have better game than this.

She reaches past him to press the button for the fifth floor. ''I know this may not seem like an important thing,'' she says. ''Concerts probably aren't at the top of the priority list for most people trying to figure out their lives after coming back from being literal dust for five years, but…'' She pinches her lips together and looks at him closely for a second. ''You ever been a thirteen-year-old girl?''

''Uh.'' The question throws him. ''Can't say that I have.''

''Sucks,'' she says, with a nod. ''Just in a regular life, it sucks. Add in losing five years of your life and coming back to lost friends who have moved on with their lives and are too old to hang out with a kid, a lost home, and lost family members, and it's…'' She twists at a ring on her right middle finger. It's a bird, he notes. A silver ring with a bird in flight engraved on it. ''It's been hard. I thought it would be nice to do something to make her smile.''

''Can't help you with the concert,'' he says, but twists his bag over so he can unzip it, fishing out a Tupperware container. ''But here.'' He hands it over. ''Have those.''

Her brows furrow as she looks down at it, peeling back the lid. ''Cookies?'' She looks up at him, dubious. ''You make cookies?''

''I don't make cookies,'' he says. ''I get cookies whenever a certain someone is in New York. Because she likes me.'' Again, these are things he should not be saying.

''A certain…'' Laurel looks at him, then at the cookies, then at him, jaw dropping. ''Taylor Swift bakes you cookies? These are Taylor Swift's cookies?''

''You seriously need to stop saying her full name like that,'' he tosses back. ''And you can't tell Sin that those are her cookies. I've probably already broken the NDA just by telling you this. But take 'em.'' He waves a hand at the cookies. ''I get them all the time, so.''

Curiously, she takes a cookie out of the Tupperware and takes a bite. ''Damn it,'' she mumbles. ''These are really good.''

''You thought they wouldn't be?''

''Well, it would be somewhat comforting to know she's not good at everything. I'm good at like one thing. And I can assure you it's not baking.''

He has a sudden urge to invite her over to bake cookies. Show her how to do it right. He bites his tongue. Not a good idea. He asks, after he successfully swallows down the urge, ''What's the one thing?''

She slides her eyes up to him, a mischievous glint in them. ''Flowers,'' she says. ''Obviously.''

''Right, obviously.'' He looks back at the elevator doors. ''You were Blipped?''

She hesitates before she answers, chewing on her chai sugar cookie. ''All three of us were,'' she says. ''You?'' A thread of relief spins in her eyes when he nods his affirmative. He recognizes that look. He's seen it before. You mean I'm not alone here? I'm not crazy? This really did happen to us? ''It's weird, right?''

''It's weird,'' he agrees, but then pauses. ''Admittedly a little less weird for me. I'm used to losing time.''

''Right. Sorry.''

''It's fine. Has it been difficult for you? Coming back?''

''It's always hard to come back,'' she says.

He snorts. ''That, I know.''

''I guess you do, don't you?'' The elevator reaches the fifth floor, but, curiously, neither of them seem to want to move. ''You know what's really weird? This long blinged out nail trend I came back to.'' She clicks her tongue, shaking her head. ''What's that about? I've got a kid in diapers and work with my hands every day and TikTok thinks I can just slap on fake nails out to here and bedazzle them with charms that look like they're meant for a middle schooler's backpack? Pfft,'' she blows a raspberry. ''As if.''

He laughs, tired, low in his throat, but genuine, eyes closing, a relaxed feeling spreading through his tense muscles, his strained shoulders.

''If anything,'' she says, after a comfortable beat, ''I'm glad we were together.'' It's a quiet admission, but serious enough that he opens his eyes and looks at her. ''I hate to think of a world where my girls were suddenly without me. And I refuse to think of a world where I lost them. But it's – yes. It's been difficult.'' As soon as she confesses that, her posture and tone change and she tenses up. ''I'm sorry. I didn't mean to just – Why am I telling you all this?'' She frowns, seemingly more so at herself than him. ''I don't tell people things.''

He really agrees. This is unusual. He doesn't talk to people. Like this. He tends to opt out of things like this. He never feels like he has anything meaningful to add to a conversation. Sometimes, there are days when talking to people at all feels like scraping out his insides. Like he has to physically force himself to speak. Even with Sam. It's like his body forgets that he's allowed to speak now. That he's a person. He hasn't felt like that with Dinah. She has an interesting way of pulling it out of you. He tells her none of that, tossing her a wolfish grin instead. ''It's my face,'' he says. ''I got a trusting face.''

A slow smirk spread across her face. ''Oh no you don't,'' she drawls. ''You have the kind of face my grandmother warned me about.''

He chuckles. ''Been a long time since a pretty girl said something like that to me.''

''James Barnes,'' she teases. ''Are you flirting with me?''

''Dinah Lance,'' he volleys back. ''Are you flirting with me?''

She gives him a rather lascivious smile and leans in closer. ''I am,'' she says. ''Nice of you to notice.''

Oh, he's in danger.

требуется техническое обслуживание.

No kidding.

She winks at him and steps off the elevator before he can even stutter out a reply to that. He thinks he used to be better at this kind of thing. Back in the forties. He used to take girls dancing all the time. He used to flirt. He used to ask people out. They usually said yes. Now he can barely even look his pretty neighbor in the eye.

In his defense…

He does have a traumatic brain injury and is severely mentally ill. Tends to puts a skewer in your social skills.

She's waiting for him when he finally manages to get it together. She's nibbling on another cookie and doesn't seem at all interested in going back to her apartment, which is approximately fifteen steps away. Hasn't even pulled her keys out. ''So,'' she says, when he steps off the elevator. ''Private security, huh?'' She takes another bite of the cookie. ''You've sure got a lot going on. Captain America's new team, Taylor Swift, sitting on the roof smoking and reading all the sci-fi books you missed out on.''

''How do you know I – ''

''You should read The Martian, by the way,'' she says. ''By Andy Weir.''

''Already read it.''

''Have you seen the movie?''

''Haven't gotten around to it.''

''You ever sleep?''

He smiles wryly. ''Not really at the top of my priority list.''

She softens and nods her head like she knows what he's talking about. He can't tell if that's real or not. ''Do you like what you do?''

No one has ever asked him that before.

He likes being on Sam's new Team Cap. He thinks he's at a place where he can say that. Maybe there's a part of him that wants to lay down his weapons and retire. Go back to the goats in Wakanda. Stop fighting. But there's an even bigger part of him that wants to be with Sam. Teammates. Partners. Friends. He wants to be out there, keeping him safe, having his back, the sniper over his left shoulder, not the same way he was with Steve, but close. That's who he is.

Captain America protects the earth.

Bucky Barnes protects Captain America.

This other stuff, the private security, protecting starlets and pop stars and socialites and even a few politicians…

It grows on you.

It's like a hobby. Some people take up knitting. Some people do yoga. Some people argue on the internet. Some people play video games. He leads security details for high profile clients. When you think about it, it's kind of like a video game. Most of the time, there isn't as much fighting as there is when he's taking down terror cells with Cap. There is something relaxing (tonight's stab wound notwithstanding) about the strategy of it. It keeps the brain occupied. It's like chess. And sometimes he gets cookies.

And a lot of money.

A lot of it.

People overpay him so much.

It's complicated. The biggest issue is that the packages he protects are actual human beings and human beings tend to be messy, emotional, volatile things. They're unpredictable. If the client has not requested him specifically, he has no idea how they're gong to react when they find out the Winter Soldier is heading up their security or is acting as their personal bodyguard.

Politicians and socialites are generally quite terrified of him, but not so much that they won't use him as a weapon for their own protection. Social media influencers and reality stars are largely the same, with the added bonus of trying to use him for clout. He has had to stop more than one idiot from broadcasting his presence on social media. Actors are actors. He's sure some of them are afraid of him, but they hide it well. Popstars, on the other hand, especially the women, are not afraid of him at all. One tiny young woman he worked with last month thought it was hysterical that she could hang off his arm like a pull up bar. Was not intimidated by it or him or his past at all. Women as famous as they are have bigger fish to fry. Namely stalkers and right-wing assholes but also, in a few cases, like tonight's, their own fans.

Women in general tend to treat him better than men. He is aware that women default to polite to protect themselves when they're afraid or faced with a scary man, but some of the women he's worked for have just been genuinely kind. They remember his name. His actual name, not the Winter Soldier title. Taylor Swift bakes him cookies. Meghan Markle is unflinchingly sweet, gives him a lot of homemade jams, and trusts him with her children, which is still baffling. Oprah Winfrey makes a point of looking him in the eye like she's looking into his soul and asking him, ''And how are you doing, James?''

Meanwhile, some of the men he's worked protection detail on seemed to literally forget he's a human. There is at least one slimy reality TV big wig out there who is still walking around with the legitimate belief that he is a robot.

But dipshits aside…

It's not so bad.

''I don't dislike it,'' he says, and then pauses. Rethinks that. ''I think I like it,'' he says, which is the first time he's said that. ''I like protecting people.''

Laurel's response is gentle. ''Yeah?''

''I just figured…'' He stops. Tries to think of the best way to word this that doesn't sound completely pathetic. ''If I can use my body to help people, maybe that makes up for some of the hurt it's caused. This is me making amends.''

''Making amends,'' she parrots, thoughtful. ''You know,'' a bit of uncertainty seeps into her tone, ''none of that was your fault.'' Her smile is gentle, but there's a weight behind her eyes that hurts in some delicate, familiar way. ''I read the files dumped on the internet back in 2014,'' she tells him. ''I did a deep dive into it all. Went even deeper after you were framed for the UN bombing in 2016. Even read all the thinkpieces about you after you were pardoned. I know all of that barely scratched the surface, I know there's a lot that isn't out there, but it was enough for me to get the gist. None of it was your fault. You do know that, right?''

''I know,'' he says, because he does, he's done the work there, he gets it, he understands. Not his fault. The Winter Soldier is something that was done to him. It's not who he is. He knows that. It's just that knowing doesn't change as much as everyone thinks it should. ''But I still did it. My hands – well, one of my hands and one of their hands did those things. I'm trying to use the hands I have now to do better.''

''Hm.'' She snaps the lid back on the Tupperware. ''I can understand that,'' she says, without looking at him, and something about her tone makes him believe she just might. For whatever reason. ''It's difficult to make up for the things our bodies have done. Whether that's to other people or ourselves.''

He looks at her without making it obvious he's looking at her. He's not going to poke at that one, but he wonders.

She's interesting.

She plays things off like she's this open book, randomly dropping information about herself into conversations, all of it perfectly normal and surface level, seemingly comfortable answering questions she's asked, but he knows what it looks like to hide. And she is hiding. What she's hiding and why, he's not sure. But he kinda wants to find out. Which is odd enough. He doesn't do things like that. The only people he ever gathers intel on are targets. She's not a target. She just…fascinates him. Maybe he just doesn't like mysteries.

She's an ordinary person, so whatever hidden secrets she has are likely more of the secret debt or shitty childhood or bad ex variety. A normal depth. The sort of flaws and inconsistencies people have. Less hero, more human. Something about that interests him more than aliens, androids, or wizards ever could.

''What about you? Do you like what you do?'' he finds himself asking.

''Sure,'' she says, immediate, easy. ''Flowers. Who doesn't love flowers?''

''Well,'' he says, ''people who are allergic, probably.''

''Got me there.'' She peers up at him through her eyelashes, tossing him a look that he feels in his gut. ''Can I ask you a question?''

''You just did.''

She humors him with a laugh. Neither of them has made a move toward their respective apartments. ''Have you read your sister's book?'' she asks, and he, for a second, forgets himself.

One of the first things he did when he remembered his sisters' names, when he started dreaming of their faces, was look them up. He had to know. It was like a compulsion. He tried not to. He actively tried to avoid looking them up because he knew what he would find, he knew that they would be gone, but it was like he could not stop himself. He had to know what had happened to his girls.

Mary married Arthur Cove, the quiet boy from two floors below, just like everyone knew she would. After Bucky fell from the train and Steve went into the ice, both of them lost to the cold, worlds apart, when Brooklyn was overwhelmed with a wave of mourning for their dead hometown boys, Mary and Arthur took Becca and fled to Indiana and the quaint, suburban simplicity of Shelbyville. Eventually, after a few years, she and Arthur moved back to New York and settled down on Staten Island. They owned a bookstore for about twenty years and a deli that's still standing in Staten Island, still a local favorite. They never had children. He died in the 80s. She died in 1994.

Louise, force of nature that she was, worked her ass off – both in her career and her choice of husbands, plural – and wound up exactly where she wanted to be: a wealthy socialite in Manhattan. She went by the name Lou Langford and tried her best to divorce herself completely from Louise Barnes, sister of the dead war hero Sergeant James Barnes of the 107th. She did some modeling in the late forties and early fifties. She married four times. She had one son from her second marriage. She named him Buchanan Grant Richards. He grew up to be an artist, dropped the Richards, and Buchanan Grant became a world renowned painter. He also had a whopping seven children with four different women, some of them overlapping, but he ''prefers not to dwell on that'' according to his Wikipedia page.

One of Lou's more popular modeling contracts back in the day, one of her very first, was for Saks Fifth Avenue. Back in 2015, they pulled the pictures back out and created a vintage inspired ad campaign with her face and plastered it everywhere. He remembers seeing her face everywhere he turned. He thought he was being haunted. Couldn't decided if he wanted it to stop or if he wanted to chase her face, but he still has a few of the ads cut out of magazines and newspapers. He keeps one of them in his wallet. Louise died relatively young of a genetic heart condition, likely the same thing that got Ma, back in the late 60s.

Becca lived in Shelbyville for most of her life. She preferred the quiet. She got married to her high school sweetheart, had four children, worked as a nurse, then an English teacher at a high school, and wrote on the side. She lived a peaceful life, which was exactly what she wanted. When she retired and her husband died of cancer, she moved back to Brooklyn and lived in Park Slope with one of her daughters. Her firstborn was a boy she named James. He has a daughter named Stevie. She liked to talk about that very proudly on her Facebook. She was smart as a whip well into her old age. She had a bad habit of fighting with people on the internet who dared say a negative word about Bucky or Steve. She called them ''her boys.'' She was extremely close to Mary.

She was good. Everything about her just glowed with it. All that kindness. She dedicated her life to charities – donated her money, her time, her words. She even created some in her time, one of them for veterans, another to raise awareness for the genetic heart condition that runs in the family, and in the late nineties she and one of her kids started both a nonprofit organization and a community outreach center for homeless LGBTQIA youth over in Brooklyn Heights.

And she wrote a book.

She wrote a bestselling book.

It was published in 1995. It wasn't about him. He was in it, they all were, his presence in the book was mostly felt through his absence, but it wasn't about him and it wasn't about Steve and it wasn't about the myth surrounding them. There were enough books about them by that time, as incorrect and incomplete as most of them may have been.

This book was about Mary.

A History of Love: The Mary Barnes Story.

Written by Rebecca Barnes-Proctor.

Everyone knew about Sergeant James Barnes, Captain America's best friend, the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country, one half of America's pretty boy duo, but nobody knew about Mary and everything she was and everything she did for people, so Becca wrote a book about it.

There are many ways to be a hero, she wrote. I come from a family of them.

Mary was never a war hero. Mary never fought. Mary never killed. But she saved just as many people as he did. She did it quietly, not through violence and death but through protest and organization, through shelter and donations. She fed and clothed people. She brought them into her house. She lobbied the government. She created an underground system meant to protect those who could not protect themselves, who needed refuge. She and her husband both were. She never had any children of her own, but she raised many. Her presence is still felt from Brooklyn to Indiana to California to Chicago.

Bucky Barnes may be, as he's learned, a well-known historical figure in the queer community, more of a concept than anything real, but Mary Barnes was a tangible, human legend.

She was at the Stonewall Riots, for Christ's sake.

He's known his entire life that she's the real hero of the family. What did he do? Get drafted? Love a boy enough to follow him to war? Fall off a train? Please. Anyone can do those things. Mary kept the family alive. Everything they ever went through, whether it was hunger or grief, she got them through. It was always Mary who took care of them. It made sense when he learned that her caretaking grew so big, her love so immense, that it blanketed an entire community when they needed it the most.

Although she was never publicly out, it was an open secret among her and her community that she was a lesbian and her husband was gay. That they were friends who married each other for protection and companionship but not out of any real romantic love. In 1995, a year after Mary died, three years after starting the book, interviewing Mary, scouring her diaries, Becca finally outright said it in the book.

It was a wildly popular book, both condemned and celebrated. It's a classic now. It's on every rec list. There are lines in it from Mary's diary entries that are widely quoted. People have his sister's innermost thoughts tattooed on their bodies. Mary's diary entries and Becca's prose aren't just loved. They're beloved.

In the end, he was a footnote.

He loved that book. He loves that book. It was the first book he ever read after Hydra. He stole it from a library in Maryland actually. He still feels bad about that. Though not bad enough to return it. He thought he lost it once, after Bucharest, when the government took everything, when he ended up in Wakanda with nothing, but it was waiting for him when he came out of cryo.

Captain Rogers said it needed to be one of the first things you saw, Shuri said. He was very insistent. I thought he was going to cry on me for a moment there.

He remembers waking up one day and finding T'challa by his bedside, thumbing through it, enthralled. Ah, he'd said, so it is a family trait then. I wondered.

What? Bucky replied. Stubbornness?

T'challa peered at him over the worn library copy of A History of Love with those soft, knowing eyes and said, Bravery.

Bucky still keeps that book on his bedside table. He has other copies now – anniversary editions, special editions with fancy covers, the one published in 1996 with additional glossy pictures, a well-loved, battered, signed first edition that he found in a used bookstore in Greenwich Village, sometimes he sees it in a bookstore and just has to buy it, even though he doesn't need to – but that's the one he keeps close.

But Laurel isn't asking about any of that. She's not asking about A History of Love as published in 1995. She's asking about the 20th anniversary re-release from 2015.

The 20th anniversary edition was a big deal when it came out. It boasted a new forward written by Richard Siken, additional pages of Mary's diary, a few extra pictures, an additional author's note from Becca, and, most notably, a conversation with Steve that was originally recorded and transcribed in 2013 where they discussed the book and he talked about how Mary was always the bravest of them and he was so proud of her.

Bucky is, too, he said. Wherever he is. I know it. We always knew Mary was the best of us. He'd be so proud to hear about everything Mary and Arthur did for people. He knew they'd take care of each other but I think he also knew they had the ability to do great things together.

Of course he did, Becca replied. Why do you think he put them together in the first place?

At the end of the re-release, after the conversation with Steve, after the author's note, after the acknowledgments, there was a last minute addition to the book: a letter.

That part was for him.

Come home, James, said Becca. Come look at the life you gave Mary. We have so much to talk about.

He never did come home. Not until it was too late. He never got a chance to sit down and talk about everything he missed before he turned to dust and she died. But he has her book. He has so many copies of her book.

Maybe, some part of him thinks, if he keeps buying her book, if he fills a bookshelf with A History of Love, all those words will converge, swirl together into something magical and his sisters will crawl out of the pages and they'll be together again, as they were. Maybe then he'll finally remember the sound of their voices.

Bucky swallows hard. ''I have.''

Laurel nods. She is very calm. ''I thought you would have,'' she tells him. ''I just wanted to make sure. It's a good book. I especially like the letter at the end of the 20th anniversary edition. You read that?''

''I – yeah,'' he gets out. ''Yeah, I've read it. It – It was a good letter.''

''It was,'' she says. ''Your sister had a real way with words. It was impressive how she could get her point across so succinctly.''

He knows that better than anyone.

Whatever you think you are now, Becca had written, know that you are our brother, first and foremost, and we love you, all three of us, just as you are.

In 1969, Mary wrote ''it matters that we are here, that we still breathe, that we want to live.'' I'm sorry for what has happened, James, I'm sorry for the pain you've endured, but whatever you're going through now, whatever happens next, you must remember this: You are here. You still breathe.

I want you to live.

He knows that letter by heart.

''She was always like that,'' he says softly, ducking his head down. ''Even as a kid. She could stop you in your tracks with just a few words.''

''You had amazing sisters,'' Laurel tells him.

''I did,'' he agrees. ''I was lucky. Everyone who knew them was lucky.''

She's quiet for a second, biting down on her bottom lip. There's a look in her eyes, something delicate yet crushing, just for a moment, that he recognizes all too well. It's the same look he probably wears on his face several times a day when he wakes up and sees Becca's book on his bedside table, when he turns to tell Steve something and Steve isn't there, when he swears he hears Natalia's voice echoing in the night air. ''I had a sister,'' she admits, very quiet.

He's cautious when he asks, ''Had?''

''She…'' Laurel hesitates, looking at him out of the corner of her eye, unsure, probably still not certain why she's telling him something like this. ''She died while I was – while we were…''

Oh.

''I'm sorry,'' he says. He doesn't say anything else. He doesn't ask if she was older or younger. How it happened. Even what her name was. None of that is his business. Contrary to what people think, what they tell themselves, there is nothing else to say when someone tells you something like that other than I'm sorry.

''Me too,'' she nods. ''We weren't…close. Like you and your sisters. But.''

''But she was your sister,'' he finishes for her.

''Always and forever,'' she says, like it's something she used to say all the time, something that held a lot more meaning for her when her sister was alive, on this earth with her, but she something she'll probably never forget.

''That have anything to do with why you moved to Red Hook?'' he questions, trying for casual. ''Fresh start?''

''Maybe a little,'' she says, as they start the slow trek toward their respective apartments. ''But my sister and I hadn't lived in close proximity since 2006, so it wasn't like – I wasn't running from her ghost. I was just ready for a change. If I was going to have to rebuild everything in my life again, I wanted to do it somewhere new that didn't have people who constantly looked at me like I was the ghost. Okay.'' She clears her throat and he watches the vulnerability in her eyes practically shrivel up, hidden away under her ever present determined cheer. ''Now I have to ask,'' she says, abruptly switching topics – and tone – as they approach her place. ''Do you actually listen to Taylor Swift's music? No offense, I just can't exactly picture you sitting in your place listening to Lover.''

''I've heard her music,'' he says.

He means that he's heard it on the radio. He means that Darcy Lewis made him a Top Taylor Tracks You Need to Hear Before You Die playlist on his forever growing Spotify when he and Sam met up with Thor and Jane Foster and their own team of oddballs last month. He means that he patiently let Darcy ramble at him for a solid half an hour about ''Swiftie Lore'' because he could feel the fear rolling off her when she looked at Jane and he could smell the sickness in Jane and he knew Darcy needed some time to babble about something other than her best friend's cancer diagnosis.

He also means that every now and then he hears Swift from where he's stationed outside her place in Tribeca. He's heard the beginnings of new creations. He's listened to her play her own songs over and over again, obsessively looking for cracks in the foundations, verses she should have added, darlings she should have killed. It reminds him of Steve, the way he would stare at his sketches for hours, even after they were completed, adding and subtracting, shifting shadows, never able to be 100% happy with his work.

Artists are so dramatic.

He doesn't tell Laurel any of this, although he finds himself wishing he could.

That's new.

''It's good,'' he says, which is true. ''It's not my style,'' he adds, which is also true. ''But she's incredibly talented.''

Laurel looks curious. ''What is your style?''

''Forties music, mostly.''

''A neat and tidy box to put yourself into.''

He opens his mouth to say something, throw out other music he likes, but falters when he's not sure what to say.

Sam likes Marvin Gaye. Bucky also likes Marvin Gaye, but Bucky likes Sam more, so there might be some transference. Steve liked Sam Cooke and Dolly Parton, which made sense. Of course Captain America should listen to Dolly Parton and Sam Cooke. Just sounds right. Sarah likes Queen and Whitney Houston and Chuck Berry and told him to listen to Bohemian Rhapsody until he knew all the words and advised him to sing it in the shower, as loud as he could, at least one, as it's meant to be sung.

Carter likes – and he's not joking – heavy metal and industrial rock and something called sludge. She has this one specific song (charmingly called Eat Spit) that she listens to when she needs to shift into what she calls ''predator mode.'' It's awful. All noise. But it fits her, the aggressive noise with all that swagger and confidence. Torres makes it out like he only listens to Shaboozey and Kendrick Lamar, but Bucky sees him at the gym all the time and his most played song is A Thousand Miles by Vanessa Carlton. Hill has a deep love for Nirvana and exclusively listens to 90s grunge. No notes on that one. Yelena listens to ABBA. Yelena listens to a lot of ABBA.

But Bucky…

Everyone he knows has taken his phone and made him playlists of their favorite songs. He's grabbed a handful of those and adopted them as his own, things to listen to while he's out for a run in the early morning or while he's sitting on the roof in the middle of the night with a book, outrunning nightmares, but he's not sure he's developed his own style. There are a lot of parts that make up being a person and some of them he just.

Hasn't gotten around to yet.

''I might still be trying to figure that out,'' he says.

''Well,'' says Laurel. ''You have time.''

Only thing he's ever had.

''You must get a lot of music recommendations,'' she says.

''I do,'' he confirms.

''Anything stand out?'' He looks at her for a second, the bruises on her face, the way they don't seem to bother her, the way she seems so…used to it. She has a brightness that has only faltered once, when they talked about their sisters, and everything she does has this veil of determination covering that he hasn't seen since Steve, before. He thinks of her own music habits, the ones he hears through the walls. ''I like Otis Redding.''

She lights up. ''I love Otis Redding,'' she enthuses. ''He's a legend.''

''For good reason.''

''You made it to Bowie yet?''

''Well, yeah, Bowie's great. And Springsteen. Listened to a lot of Springsteen when I first had access to music.''

She eyes him, fascinated. ''I can see that.''

''Yeah?''

''Yeah, you seem like a Springsteen guy,'' she says with a definitive nod. ''Oh! I've got it! This is the definitive recommendation. Has anyone recommended – ''

''Iris by the Goo Goo Dolls?'' He glances at her as they approach her door, watching her slump in disappointment. ''Only everyone I've ever met.'' Including Thor.

Thor was pretty emotional about it actually.

She doesn't seem at all surprised by that. ''It is a thing of beauty.'' She nudges at his shoulder when he doesn't follow that up with what she wants to know. ''So?''

''So what?''

''Did you listen to it?''

''I did.''

''And?''

''I thought it was okay.''

''You thought it was okay?'' She gapes at him like he's just said something completely egregious and entirely out of pocket. ''It's Iris! How many times did you listen to it?''

''Just that first day?'' He pretends to think. ''About 27 times.''

She relaxes, relieved she doesn't have to fight for the Goo Goo Dolls' honor. ''You did like it.''

''Sure,'' he says, ''it's Iris. Who doesn't love Iris?''

She leans back against her door, hugging the Tupperware container to her chest. She still hasn't moved to fish out her keys. She cocks her head to the side, as if listening for something, eyes moving away from him, and then she looks back to him. He knows exactly what's coming. ''Feeling Good,'' she says. ''Nina Simone.''

…Maybe he didn't know what was coming.

He was expecting Drops of Jupiter.

''You'll thank me later,'' she says.

One side of his mouth hitches up. ''I'll write that one down.''

''Actually.'' She pushes off the door. ''Give me your phone.''

He does. He pulls his phone out and hands it over, taking back the Tupperware so she can focus on what she's doing. He feels like he would normally hesitate, maybe even refuse, but it's hard to refuse that smile. (Also. Just a reminder. Stab wound. 96 hours without sleep.)

''I'm putting my number in here,'' she declares, ''and I am texting you recs. Once a day. You need it.'' She types something in, long fingers moving smoothly across the screen, and then hands the phone back and takes the Tupperware. ''Everyone needs music.''

He looks down at his phone. She's programmed herself into his phone as Your Favorite Neighbor with two pink heart emojis. ''How many Taylor Swift songs should I expect?''

''Don't be ridiculous,'' she scoffs. ''I shouldn't have to do that. You should already know your bestie's music.''

''She's not my – '' He looks down at his phone, at the little heart emojis, and then back up at her. ''Nina Simone?''

''Nina Simone,'' she nods. ''She'll change your life.''

''Hm.'' He slips his phone back into his pocket and takes out his keys. ''I could use a change.''

She yawns, and that seems like enough to jolt her into somewhat reluctantly pulling out her own keys, shifting the Tupperware into one hand. ''Hey,'' she says, keys clenched in her hand. ''Listen, if you want – only if you want – you should come over for dinner sometime.''

Something that feels uncomfortably like a pathetic sort of panic seizes in his chest and he feels his back stiffen, spine straightening. Not a good idea. A very bad idea, in fact. That is too close. Way too close.

''I don't like the idea of you sitting alone eating some sad bachelor meal,'' she goes on. ''We get Mark's on Fridays. If that's enough to tempt you.''

It is. Mark's is an institution. Best pizza in Red Hook. Of course it's tempting. Almost as tempting as the company. Just because it's a temptation doesn't mean you should give into it. ''I'll think about it,'' he gets out.

''Good enough for me,'' she says.

Bucky steps closer to her. This is not what he was planning on doing. He reaches out with his right hand to touch her face. This is also not what he was planning on doing. This is so far from what he was planning on doing that there is a momentary spike of concern inside of him that someone else might be controlling him. But no. This is him. This is him touching her, skin against skin, gently tilting her chin up to get a look at the bruising in the light. This is a choice he's making. It's a bad choice, let's get that straight right now, but it's his.

Laurel doesn't flinch. She doesn't move away. She lets him into her personal space, lets him crowd her back against the door, and patiently allows him in closer. When he tilts her head up, she lets him, moves her head back. She practically bares her throat for him. She doesn't seem intimidated or surprised or even wary. She looks up at him, steadily meeting his eyes, keeping his gaze on her.

He lingers in the foolish choice for too long, fingers brushing her skin, too stupid and stubborn to pull away. ''You should put some ice on that,'' he advises.

''I should,'' she agrees, soft.

Right, soft. Nothing he should have. Nothing he needs to be touching.

Shit.

He pulls away, hauling his body away from hers, dropping his arm to his side. It feels like a fight. ''You should also get some sleep,'' he tells her. ''It's late.''

''It is,'' she says, voice a quiet hum. ''Oh, crap.'' She stands straight. ''And we have a gymnastics meet tomorrow.'' She pauses briefly. She has to take a few breaths. At least he's not the only one shaken by that choice. She pushes through it faster than he does. She holds up the Tupperware container up. ''Thank you for the cookies. I'm not going to lie to you. This was probably the highlight of my day.''

''You should really raise your standards,'' he quips.

''Oh, sweetie,'' she laughs. ''You have no idea.'' She slides her key into her lock. ''Good night, James.''

''Night, Dinah.''

He waits until he sees she's safe in her apartment with the door closed – a gentlemanly thing to do, thank you very much – and then he unlocks his own apartment and steps inside.

Alpine is right there, meowing loudly, essentially yelling at him. She stands in front of him and lets out a shrieking meow so loud and so long he's mildly concerned she's going to pass out.

''Okay, okay.'' He drops his bag and keys and bends down, just enough for her to leap up onto his shoulder. ''So dramatic.'' He scratches her back. ''I wasn't gone that long. I had the girls next door checking in on you. You like those kids, don't you? Steph gives you extra treats.'' He rests his vibranium hand on her back while she noses at his neck. ''It's not like I wasn't going to come back. I'll always come back.'' He turns his head when she pulls away for a moment, looking into those beady little cat eyes that cut so much deeper than he's willing to admit. ''It's kind of my thing.''

.

.

.

The next morning, he wakes up to not one, not two, but five early morning texts from Your Favorite Neighbor. With two pink heart emojis.

Good morning, Jimmy! Can I call you Jimmy? Have you listened to Nina yet? Was I right? Did it change your life?

I'm starting you off strong here. You have a lot to catch up on. You can listen to them while you're on your morning run. (Ugh, by the way. I know it's healthy but is it worth it? I mean really?)

Today's recommendations are as follows:
- Dreams by The Cranberries
- Song For Zula by Phosphorescent
- I Say a Little Prayer by Aretha Franklin
- Such Great Heights by The Postal Service
- Do You Love Me by The Contours

Also I feel like it's not going to be your style but I have to recommend Drops of Jupiter by Train. I know it's cheesy but it's my favorite.

And Sin says you have to listen to Pink Pony Club. Chappell Roan. Everyone and their mother has heard this song already but my daughter is nothing if not insistent.

It's the first time in a long time that he's woken up in a good mood, but she doesn't need to know that.

He texts back, before he even gets out of bed, i'm going to regret giving you my number, aren't i?

The reply is instant. Yep! And then, a moment later: Technically you didn't give me your number. I just took it. I'm sneaky like that. :) 

He ignores the huff of laughter he lets out.

Yes, by the way, he did listen to Nina Simone. Last night, standing in the bathroom, while he was cleaning out his stab wound. Which is already healing, so there's no reason to dwell on it. Or tell Sam. He's definitely not telling Sam.

it was good, he texts back and pointedly does not tell her about the roughly 45 seconds he stood in his bathroom, completely still, in stunned silence while he listened to Nina Simone, an absolute powerhouse of a woman, singing. I don't know if i'd call it life changing, he lies. and no, he tacks on, you can't call me jimmy. no one calls me jimmy.

Her reply is, once again, instant. Great! So I'm the first! I like to be special.

Bucky's lips curl into a grin.

He pulls up the Spotify account Sam made for him and starts a new playlist. He doesn't call it for the love of god man just give it a chance because the one Sam made for him already has that title and he doesn't call it Your Favorite Neighbor. He just calls it Dinah. He dutifully adds every song she's mentioned – along with some of the ones she hasn't, the ones he's heard through the wall – and texts her a thumbs up.

And if there's an extra pep in his step while he's on his morning run, some added clarity and focus to his mood, which is uncharacteristically good – well.

She doesn't need to know that either.

.

.

.

''Well,'' says Natalia. ''Here we are again, my dear. What are you thinking?''

He's not thinking much of anything at the moment. It's a pleasant break. A relief. There is a chill in the air, and a strange sense of unraveling starting somewhere in his chest, but the bed is warm and Natalia still smells the same, and he thinks he could spend the rest of his life here, if he had to.

''Is this helping you?'' she asks, from the bed in St. Petersburg. ''When we're together like this?'' Her hair is long and red and curls up at the end, splayed across the pillow. Her skin is bare, covered only by the sheet, one leg poking out. When he touches her, her skin is warm and alive under his fingertips.

He can think of nowhere else he has to be, nowhere else he would want to be than in this bed with her, sheets pooled around his waist, snow falling outside. ''It's not hurting,'' he tells her.

She quirks a brow. ''Isn't it?''

He sighs. It always ends like this, doesn't it? He rolls away from her, staring up at the ceiling. She's always in such a hurry to leave him. ''Natalia,'' he says. ''Скажи то, что ты хочешь сказать.''

''Okay then.'' She sits up, pulling the sheet with her, holding it close. ''You can't run from the future, James,'' she says gently. ''Time moves on – whether we want it to or not. The past is in the past.''

''You think I don't know that?''

''I think you're running,'' she says, setting her jaw, tilting her chin up, that patented Widow confidence. ''I think you've developed a real bad habit of looking back. It won't help you.''

He wants to laugh. It's in his throat, bitter and acrid, like smoke. ''That's where you are,'' he reminds her. ''That's where Steve is. Where else am I supposed to look?''

She just shakes her head at him. ''See, that's your problem, Yasha.'' She slips away from him, out from under the sheet, and stands, giving him a full view of her bare back, all that creamy perfect skin that he aches to touch. That he was just touching. He must have been just touching.

Right?

She was just here, right next to him. His hand was on her thigh. It was warm. Before that. Before that… He can think of so many memories of her skin against his skin. He knows the hitch of her breathing and the way she looks when she comes undone beneath him and what it feels like to be inside her but none of those memories are from now. They are all long ago and so far away. Because. Because.

Oh.

An excruciating crushing feeling bears down on him like a freight train. He looks at her, watches her move away from him, steps soundless, ghostly. He can't seem to get his voice unstuck.

This is a dream. This isn't real.

She seems completely unaware of whatever internal battle he's having with his own grief, throwing him a look over her shoulder, a twinkly eyed smirk as she steps away from the bed. ''You've adopted our flaws,'' she says, pulling on his shirt and throwing a thin black robe on. ''I can't think of a worse outcome.'' She ties the tie on the robe and turns to face him, putting her hands on her hips. ''We're a lot a like, Steve and I,'' she says. ''We were always looking back. And look where that got us.'' She tries to smile, but it has a brittle edge to it, something terribly lonely. ''You have to look forward, mой милый. That's where your life is.''

Something inside of him snaps at the advice, a coldness settling in. He sets his jaw and glares at her, resolute. ''And if I don't?''

She shakes her head. ''Stubborn,'' she comments, and walks away. She's quick, her and her cat-like grace. He reaches for her but she's gone before he can grab onto her, side stepping his grasp and making a speedy exit, across the room and out the door. All very casual.

Bucky feels anything but casual.

He panics. Full blown. ''Wait! Natalia!'' He tumbles out of bed, fumbling with his clothes, heart hammering in his ribcage, because he knows, deep inside, that he's never going to see her again, that she's gone, that the dream is about to end and he's going to wake up on his fucking floor in Brooklyn, alone, and everyone he loves will be dead again. ''Natasha,'' he calls out, desperate, racing for the door, shirt half on. ''Don't – ''

And then he steps out of the St. Petersburg hotel room and back into his apartment in Red Hook.

There is a dizzying rush of confusion and panic, the feeling that he has lost her again, and then he turns the corner and –

Natalia is in his kitchen.

He stops in his tracks and has to extend a hand to touch the exposed red brick of the wall to steady himself, breath returning to him all at once.

She's in his kitchen. In the little black robe. In Brooklyn. In 2024. She is moving through this place like she's been here before, like she knows it well, like she lives here. She is stopping at the counter to bend down enough to give Alpine a pat on the head and a nuzzle – which Alpine reciprocates happily with a contented purr. She is putting the kettle on and pulling open the cabinets above the sink and shaking her head at his selection of coffee and tea and muttering who drinks this much coffee to herself. She is at ease here. At home.

Natalia is dead.

He knows this.

Yet here she is.

She pulls herself up onto her tip toes and grabs for something at the back of the cupboard. She even hops. This, the deadliest woman he's ever known. He has, quite suddenly, an urge to crumble to his knees and weep.

''You need to buy some furniture,'' she calls, without bothering to stop what she's doing, without even looking over her shoulder. ''This place is a barren wasteland. It's depressing.''

It snaps him out of it enough for him to stride forward, sidling up to her and wrapping an arm around her waist to pull her back so he can reach up and retrieve the peppermint tea from the back of the cupboard. The peppermint tea that he bought for her. He knew she would never stand in this kitchen, that she would never drink it, never stand on her tip toes and hop to get it. But he bought it anyway.

And here she is, plucking it from his hands. ''Thanks,'' she chirps, bright and awake and so alive under his hand. ''Honey.''

He blinks, bewildered. ''You're welcome…sweetheart?''

She levels him with a look. ''No, I mean where's your honey?''

''Oh. Right.'' He reluctantly steps away from her, but only because he can hear her mumbling something insulting – yet somehow still affectionate – at him in Russian as he retrieves the honey.

She accepts it. She makes herself a cup of tea. She makes nothing for him. She lets him stare at her, caught between wonder that she's here at all and fear that she will leave him again, for about three minutes and then says, shortly, ''Stop.''

He stops.

''Seriously,'' she casts a look around the spacious and still mostly empty apartment. ''Why don't you have any furniture? This isn't normal.''

''I have furniture,'' he protests. ''I have a couch and a coffee table.''

She takes pity on him and makes him a cup of tea. She puts extra honey in it and slides it across the counter to him. ''Tell me about your neighbor.''

He doesn't want to do that. It's the first thing he thinks. He doesn't want to tell her about Laurel. He doesn't want her to know. It feels wrong. What's he supposed to say anyway? He likes her? He's fascinated by her? He listens to her singing through the walls? He's more attracted to her than he's been to anyone in years and his right hand tingled for an hour after he touched her and he constantly feels like he's cheating? It's been a few days since she took his number – ostensibly so she could give him song recommendations (yesterday's recommendations were Steal My Sunshine by Len and If You Wanna Be Happy by Jimmy Soul, which are both going to be stuck in his head roughly until the end of time, so thanks to her for that) and they've texted every day. Not always about music. Often not about music.

The night before last she texted him and asked him how he felt about corgis and somehow their ensuing conversation ended with her asking him if he killed Princess Diana and he didn't even feel guilty about the laugh he let out.

Yesterday, what he can only describe as a goo monster (and turned out to be a literal mad scientist's creation) attacked Central Park and when he got home later that night and stepped into the elevator, she was there, leaning back against the wall in the elevator, as casual as can be. She had a lollipop in her mouth – green again – and when she saw him, she grinned around the candy and those sharp eyes of hers sparkled in the light.

He said nothing as he stepped into the elevator, pressing the button for their floor, watching the doors close. He was covered in goo and there were already healing burns on his neck and chest (from the acidic goo the damn thing vomited at people as a way of attack) and he was trying not to look at her, at the completely unapologetic teasing smile on her face, but it was hard not to. He can withhold many things from himself, but he's learning he can't just not look at her.

''So,'' she said, after a second, her voice low, amused. ''Wacky day, huh?''

''It's not funny,'' he tried.

''It's a little funny,'' she said, pushing off the wall, moving to stand next to him. ''There's a cell phone video footage of you and Captain America literally turning around and running away from with your tails between your legs.''

''It was vomiting acid at us,'' he mumbled weakly.

''Aww.'' She patted his back gingerly, careful to avoid any of the goo. ''You know what would make you feel better?'' She pulled a lollipop out of her pocket. ''It's green apple flavored.''

The other day he stood on the roof and watched her come home with her girls, Maggie on her hip, one arm casually draped around Sin, wearing a shirt that said CHAOS COORDINATOR, and he listened to mother and daughter tease each other and bicker with the kind of respect and love that reminded him of Sarah Wilson and her boys and then, moments after they'd gone inside, his phone buzzed in his pocket with an invite to dinner.

No.

He doesn't want to say any of that. He doesn't want to acknowledge it right now. Natalia doesn't need to know any of that. He wants to stay right here, in this dream, in this grief, where she is.

Bucky takes a sip of the tea that he doesn't like and doesn't drink and only has because his dead ex-something would have bought it if she hadn't thrown herself off a cliff to save the world. ''What about her?''

Natalia shrugs, unbothered. ''You like her.''

He puts the mug down. He looks at her. He thinks maybe if he keeps looking at her, maybe she won't fade away again. ''I love you.''

She smiles, fond but melancholic. ''You'll love others,'' she says, swift, ready. ''You could love her.''

He doesn't want to think about that. He's not ready to think about that. He looks down into his mug of tea. It's empty. Reality drips through. He looks up at her, expecting to see her flicking in and out, fading away, but she's still right there, solid, whole, mug in hand. He misses her so much he thinks that if you cut him open, you'd find her name etched into his bones right beside Steve's. ''Love is for children,'' he settles on, voice harsh.

She laughs, a quiet sort of huff, but seems otherwise unimpressed. She drinks her tea that isn't there in this dream that isn't real. ''Even I never believed that.''

If he could, he would sit here for the rest of his life and watch her drink tea. ''Can I bring you back?''

''To life?'' She doesn't seem at all surprised by the question. He hadn't expected her to be. Natalia doesn't do surprise. Never has. The Red Room took that away from her long before he was put in front of her and told to remake her into something greater than the sum of her parts. ''No,'' she says, resolute, dismissive. ''My number was up. Had to happen sometime.''

''It didn't have to be then,'' he argues. ''You chose that. You chose to fall.''

''I took a calculated risk.''

''You're really fucking bad at math.''

It amuses her, he can see the flare in her eyes, but she waves it off. ''I played the cards I was dealt,'' she tells him, calm as ever. ''I don't regret it. I'd do it again.''

''I know,'' he says, because he does. Because he was there with her. In the Red Room. People don't know that, but he does. He knows what he saw. He knows what she has always been. All heart and conviction and righteous fury. He taught her how to be a killer and she took that knowledge and she used it to become a hero. She saved the world with that heart. It's the part of her that drew James out of the Soldier. It's the part of her that he used to love and hate at the same time. The first flicker of fear he ever felt in the Red Room was when he realized what that meant for her. How it would unmake her. He knows how love ends.

It ends like this.

With planets that will not bend between you and the heart that you called home and a grief too big for your body to house.

''What about your – '' He has to stop, a hitch in his breathing. ''What about your body?''

She cocks her head curiously. ''What about it?''

''Can I bring it back?''

''Would that help you?''

No.

Yes.

He closes his eyes. In his head, there is a warring image of two bodies. One mostly dead and one dead, mangled and broken at the bottom of two mountains, separated by time and space. It shouldn't have surprised him. That she fell. They have always been two sides of the same shitty coin. He opens his eyes and looks at her as she is now, healthy and strong, vibrant and so beautiful. ''I don't know,'' he says hoarsely.

She looks somewhere between apologetic and sympathetic. She puts the mug down. Somehow, he knows she will never pick it up again. ''Do you think he didn't try?'' she asks, and he frowns, confused, for a second, about what that's supposed to mean. ''Steve returned the stones,'' she reminds him quietly. ''Do you really think he didn't try to barter for my life? My body? Do you think he wouldn't do that for me?''

''I think he would have thrown himself to the wolves for you,'' he answers, honestly.

This time, when she smiles, it's more open than she usually prefers to look. It's softer now, and sad. It does nothing to quell the constant chronic pain of loss. ''You two have that in common, then.''

''Got impeccable taste,'' he remarks. ''Both of us. Terrible timing, though.''

''Maybe you won't have terrible timing forever,'' she retorts, and lets her eyes slide up in the vague general direction of the apartment next door. ''I think you could be right on time for her.''

''Natalia.''

She reaches across the counter and places her hand over his. Her skin, which had been warm before, is cold now. When she squeezes, his breath catches. ''Things are the way they are,'' she murmurs. ''You can't change that. You can only find a way to live with it. You can carry us with you, but you can't use us as excuses to bury yourself. You can't get lost now. Not when you've finally started making yourself a life.''

All he's ever done is get himself lost. He doesn't know how to be anything else. He looks at her hand holding his. He looks at it for so long that eventually she pulls away and he finds himself immediately missing the coolness of her touch. He looks back up at her eyes, those eyes that know more than you. ''You're alone up there, моя любовь,'' he says. ''You're all alone.''

''James.'' She moves out from behind the counter, every step she takes steady and full of grace, bringing herself close and then closer still. ''Don't you get it?'' She inches in so close to him that he can smell the peppermint on her breath. She places her hand on his cheek, a feathery light touch, and it feels a little bit like dying, his eyes fluttering shut against his will. ''I was never alone,'' she tells him, and then she pushes herself up onto her tip toes again and leans in even closer so she can whisper something in his ear, so she can leave him with something better this time, something softer than screams. ''Neither are you.''

When he opens his eyes, jerking awake on the living room floor, he can still feel her hand on his cheek, still feel her echo, the memory of her voice and her touch and what it felt like to hold on.

And what it felt like to let go.

.

.

.

Bucky spends most of the morning haunting his own apartment, pacing around, punching a hole in the wall of his bedroom closet, ignoring texts and a call from Sam, clinging to the phantom feeling of her hand on his cheek – all while Alpine circles him and meows sadly, as if she, too, misses Natalia.

Who she has never actually met.

Around half past eleven, still feeling like his insides have been shredded, he finally picks himself up, goes through the motions of showering and getting dressed, and convinces himself to leave the safety of his apartment. Solely because he needs coffee and he can't bring himself to go into his kitchen and not see her there.

Downstairs, he breathes a sigh of relief when he sees that Harold, the daytime doorman who loves to chat, is on his break, and just as he's stepping outside, he winds up almost physically running into Laurel, just walking toward the door with a dozing Maggie in her arms.

''Dinah,'' he says, and there's that crawling sense of guilt, unspooling in his chest the second he looks at her and feels nothing but relief.

''James,'' she greets, with a tight smile that doesn't make it to her eyes.

There is a moment where they do nothing but regard each other silently, a growing awareness taking hold in both of them as they realize neither of them appear to be having a particularly good morning.

''Are you okay?''

They both ask the same question at the same time, but she's the one who recovers first. ''Sorry,'' she murmurs, rubbing Maggie's back when her daughter stirs slightly in her arms. ''You go first.''

''Didn't sleep well,'' he says, shrugging it off. It's easier to say than I've reached the level of mental illness where I talk to dead people now, thanks for asking. ''You?''

''Just.'' She winces, uncomfortable. ''Today was a hospital day for Tiny.''

Ah, right. Maggie's health issues that they don't talk about. It's not his business, not his kid, not his life. He doesn't pry, but he does ask, somewhat cautiously, ''Everything okay?''

''Oh, fine,'' she says. ''Just a long, stressful day of scans. We had to be at the hospital by five thirty, so I've been up since four.'' Her voice takes on an anxious, somewhat jittery edge that he knows all too well. ''I haven't even had any decent coffee yet.''

Huh.

Know what?

He can work with that. ''I can get you coffee,'' he offers. ''I'm heading to the coffee shop right now. You want me to pick something up for you?''

She looks stunned by the kindness. ''Oh, no, that's okay. You don't have to – ''

''Dinah,'' he says. He doesn't say anything else.

She bites down on her lip, but relents quickly, quicker than she probably would if she'd already had her coffee. The bruises on her face have already started to fade, healing at an impressive rate, but she looks more exhausted than he's ever seen her. ''That – That would be really nice. Thank you.''

''Large iced coffee with two pumps of vanilla,'' he says, instead of acknowledging anything else. ''And an almond croissant. Right?''

Her smile is bigger this time. It almost goes all the way to her eyes. ''Good memory.''

''Comes in handy sometimes,'' he agrees, and lets his first smile of the day slide onto his lips. ''She want anything?''

''Not today,'' she says, shifting Maggie's hair back to look at her sleepy face. ''Her poor little tummy's been angry lately.''

If he focuses enough, shoves himself back into that animalistic Soldier mode, he can smell the faint trace of the chemical scent of drugs on the little girl, remnants of anesthesia, maybe something else. He's not going to ask, but it still makes something protective swell up inside of him, like a long forgotten instinct that many people have tried to beat out of him over the years.

''Got it,'' he nods shortly. ''Be back in twenty.''

''James,'' she calls out to him, before he can get too far, while she's hovering in the doorway. ''I hope you know I'm going to make you sit down with me and drink this coffee.''

He barely even stops, just throws a look over his shoulder, a smile dredged up from the remains of the boy with the easy smile and the even easier charm. ''Ma'am,'' he tosses back at her, ''I was counting on it.''

.

.

.

''Oh, hey,'' Laurel says later, standing in her apartment doorway, watching him head back to his. She's still tired, he can see the fatigue in her eyes, feel it in her body language, and neither of them have left behind whatever ghosts are haunting them, but she's perked up since the much needed jolt of sugar and caffeine. At least enough to spend an hour bantering with him about all the television he needs to catch up on (she has the worst taste in television he's ever seen) and enough to smile at him now, that big, dimpled grin. ''Did I send you today's music recommendations?''

''Uh.'' Bucky slings Alpine – still whining about having to leave Maggie's side – over his shoulder.

Tell you the truth, he hasn't thought about music yet today. It's been a strange day in his strange life. There's a Russian ghost inside of his chewed up and spit out brain, grief is leaving claw marks all over everything he touches, and apparently his next door neighbor feels comfortable enough around him to invite him into her home.

He's not sure which version of him would be more surprised by these developments. The Winter Soldier, the spy version of a campfire tale, or James Buchanan Barnes, the kid who fell from the train.

Also, he's relatively certain that his cat, currently tantruming like a toddler, is a human child stuck inside a cat's body.

''I don't – '' He ducks his head to avoid getting a chunk taken out of his ear and sends Alpine a warning look.

She is wholly unaffected.

''I'm not sure,'' he admits, pausing to open his apartment door just enough to deposit the feisty feline inside. ''I haven't looked at my phone today.''

''I don't think I did,'' she muses, and then hums thoughtfully, tapping her chin with her finger. He can see the gears turning in her head. He could feasibly tell her that he doesn't need them today, that he's not really in a music kind of mood, but she has more life in her just standing there trying to pull songs out of her head for him than she's had in the time they've spent together today. He doesn't want to take that away from her.

''All right,'' she says, straightening. ''Champagne Supernova by Oasis, Have You Ever Seen the Rain by Creedence Clearwater Revival, and You Can't Always Get What You Want by the Rolling Stones.''

''Great,'' he settles on. ''I'll listen to them while I'm fixing my wall.''

''That sounds perfect,'' she chirps. ''Let me know what you think!'' She starts to go back into her own place only to stop, poking her head back out. ''Wait, what happened to your wall?''

.

.

.

After he finally reads Sam's worried texts (the last one says I'm about to fly through your window if I don't get proof of life soon, asshole, you better not be dead) and responds with the requested proof of life (everything's fine, I was having coffee with my neighbor) and ignores the response (oh ok excuse me while I tell everyone I've ever met that the artist formerly known as the menacing Winter Soldier was just on a midday coffee date with his cute neighbor) and after he makes a trip to the hardware store, Bucky does listen to the songs.

He's listened to every song Laurel's recommended. She has better taste than her Drops of Jupiter obsession originally led him to believe.

For the most part, anyway.

He puts on his Dinah playlist while he works on fixing his closet wall, thinking to himself that at least this is a mess he can fix. He doesn't mind today's recs – likes them better than yesterday's anyway, when she made him listen to Steal My Sunshine, which, I'm sorry, but that song could be used as an implement of torture – but he's distracted, too focused on his fucked up wall, calculating how long it's going to take him to fix this hole versus how long it took him to make it.

He's so distracted, in fact, that he misses almost all of Have You Ever Seen the Rain and only snaps out of his thoughts when the next song starts. He absently flips the drywall saw, thinks about the damage this could do to someone's carotid artery, and then steps back and examines his patchwork. It's fine. It'll do. He could do better.

Maybe he should do it over again.

He turns to look over at Alpine, who had been lounging on his bed, watching him intently, with as much judgment as she could muster up. She's no longer there, bored, apparently, of watching him clean up the aftermath of this morning's dissociative mess, but the search yanks him clear of his own head enough to catch the lyrics filtering through his bedroom.

''You can't always get what you want, you can't always get what you want, you can't always get what you want. But if you try sometimes, well, you might find…''

Bucky pops his head out of the closet with a glare. Oh, so the entire universe is taunting him now, is it?

''…you get what you need.''

His shoulders tense and startled eyes move to the bedroom wall, the one he shares with Laurel, the next door neighbor whose voice he listens to when he can't sleep. Who he buys coffee for every time he sees her go into the local coffee shop. Who feels comfortable enough around him to invite him into her home and nurse her child in front of him and tell him that he should catch up on Survivor.

Who he maybe might have possibly just had a midday coffee date with.

I think you could be right on time for her, said Natalia's ghost.

''Fuck me,'' he grumbles.

If she was here, Nat would be laughing at him.

.

.

.

Two days later, he makes a call and cashes in a favor with a client.

.

.

.

Let me tell you about longing.
Let me presume that I have something
new to say about it, that this room,
naked, its walls pining for clocks,
has something new to say
about absence.

Somewhere
the crunch of an apple, fading
sunflowers on a quilt, a window
looking out to a landscape
with a single tree. And you
sitting under it.

Let go,
said you to me in a dream,
but by the time the wind
carried your voice to me,
I was already walking through
the yawning door, towards
the small, necessary sadness
of waking

I wish
I could hold you now,
but that is a line that has
no place in a poem, like the swollen
sheen of the moon tonight,
of the word absence, or you,
or longing. Let me tell you about
longing.

In a distant country
two lovers are on a bench, and pigeons,
unafraid, are perching beside them.
He places a hand on his knee
and says, say to me
the truest thing you can.

I am closing my eyes now.
You are far away.

- Mikael de Lara Co

Chapter Text

Interlude I

In the Shape of Things to Come

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The morning the right heel of her favorite pair of Manolos snaps clean off before she even makes it out the door and her outlandishly expensive $5,000 espresso machine dies, which means she has to settle for a cup of the burnt shit Starbucks calls coffee, Valentina comes into work and finds John Walker standing outside her office.

''Oh, fuck.''

She stops, the clicking of her heels on the floor ceasing, replaced by an annoyed hiss through her teeth.

Not this guy again.

Of all the freaks she has on her payroll, it had to be this particular guy on this particular day?

He's standing outside her office. Her office. In the CIA. The man is supposed to be a covert operative. Really stretching the limits of the word covert here.

She tugs her sunglasses down and peers at him, eyes narrowed into slits. Goddamn it. She should have taken the broken shoe and dead espresso machine as a sign and just stayed out of the office for the day. It is too early in the day to deal with this overeager dumbass beaver. It's not that she regrets snatching John up before someone else could. He was an unaffiliated super soldier. He was a gold mine. She would have been insane to just let him drift away into the hands of someone like Homeland or SWORD or worse – Nick Fury himself. She did what she had to do. Did it quickly and quietly. Better than anyone else could have.

But holy fucking shit this kid is quite possibly the most annoying person she has ever met outside of career politicians.

Can she. Can she just leave?

No.

Well...

No.

He's already heard her.

Valentina plasters on her best smile for schmucks, takes her sunglasses off, and walks right up to him with her back straight and her head held high, black Jimmy Choo pumps clicking on the floor. ''Johnny,'' she crows, opening her arms as she approaches him. ''My favorite super soldier!'' She reaches out to squeeze his arm when he bolts to his feet, standing at attention like the good little soldier he so desperately wants to be. ''Look at you! Oof, you've been working out,'' she praises. ''You look fantastic. Sweet little Olivia must be tripping over her feet to get you – ''

''Val,'' he says.

It's not the first time he has risked his job security by referring to her as Val or by interrupting her in the middle of a sentence (of course it's not the first time she's tested him by bringing up his wife or touching him without permission either) but it's the first time he's sounded so serious about it.

Walker is a nervous, manic, bumbling fool who can't get his shit together. He's smart, that much is clear from his file, a good tactician, an excellent killer, and he's strong, thanks to the serum, but none of that translates well when he tries so pathetically hard at everything. He's like an oversized child, always chasing a prize, a piece of candy, the compliments and hugs his daddy probably never gave him. But whatever this is, whatever he's here for today, it's made him still and serious. Still not at all Captain America worthy, but…

Stern.

It piques her interest.

She offers him a single quirked brow and nothing more. ''John,'' she says.

He opens his mouth, pauses to cast a nervous look around them, and then shuffles closer to her and says, urgent, ''I found her.''

Every ounce of her self control goes into not reacting to that. ''Her,'' she repeats, carefully bland. ''Her who?''

Much to her surprise, he doesn't take the bait. There is no frustration, no annoyance, no uncertainty. Walker is rock steady. ''You know who, Val.''

She does. She's about 99% sure she knows exactly who he's talking about, but she needs him to say it. She has been looking for this woman for months now, had her eye on her for much longer than that, and she hasn't even gotten close. Every lead she gets leads precisely nowhere. Every road she takes is a dead end. She's been taken on a wild goose chase. She's been ghosted. Which is rude. It's really fucking rude. But that's what happens when you go after a perpetual runner.

Now she's here, in October, a year after the Blip, six months after this little bird ran from her, and you mean to tell her that John found her? John Walker? The ultimate peaked-in-high-school loser?

Oh, that hurts.

Yeah, that one's going to take a minute to come back from. Shameful, not going to lie. She's going to have to have a strongly worded chat with the containment teams she's been sending out.

''You asked me to find her,'' he reminds her. ''And I did. I know where the Black Canary is.''

Valentina officially lets out the breath she's been holding for the past six months. Try as she might, she is unable to stop the slow smile from crawling across her lips.

Finally.

You know, when Canary first hightailed it out of that hellscape of a city in Jersey after flat out rejecting Valentina's offer (her very, very generous offer, if she does say so herself), Valentina was kind enough to let it go. She figured she'd let her have her tantrum. Let her take a walk with her ducklings.

Sometimes it's worth it to drop the leash for a bit.

The Black Canary is ornery, always has been, and she's dangerous. Dangerous enough that for a long time most intelligence agencies were content to let her be. SHIELD had one eye on her at all times – that eye belonging, of course, to Nick Fury and his strange fascination with her – but no one else cared enough to risk having their brains leak out of their ears if they got too close. Awfully wimpy for national security agencies, but more on brand than people think. That's what happens when you let men run things. They never have the stomach for what's necessary.

They accumulate so much waste.

Val, however, is much smarter than most of the men in charge of this country. (Not that it's hard.) She knows a valuable asset when she sees one. Not only is Black Canary one of the most highly trained Enhanced Individuals out there, but she's one of the best detectives on that pitiful superhero circuit. She is a powerful weapon to wield and unlike the useless, unstable ones, liable to self-destruct at the slightest inconvenience (like the Winter Soldier, for example, and definitely Tony Stark during his tenure) or the ones with morals, standing stalwart and irritating (like Superman and both Captain Americas), she can be controlled.

If the rumors are true about her girls, they might be worth a second look, too.

For that kind of power, Val was willing to play the long game. Didn't hurt that she knows exactly what Canary is looking for, exactly where it will lead her, and exactly what that kind of information can do for Val. It was a two birds one stone kind of deal. She was willing to wait. She was willing to let Canary go off on her own, start her vengeance tour, play her little murder mystery game, dig up dirt on her sister's death, and hopefully get a location on the auction. End of the day, it doesn't matter how long it takes to get her. This only ends one way. The journey doesn't matter if the end result is the same.

Every version of this story ends with clipped wings.

But now it's been six months. She's a patient woman, but her patience has all but dried up. It's cute that Ms. Lance thought she could hide. Embarrassing and arrogant when you think about it, but cute. At first.

She's over it now.

You don't hide from Contessa Valentina Allegra de Fontaine. You sit down and you thank her for what she's given you and you learn how to play the game. It doesn't matter if you don't know the rules. You play anyway. You do it nicely.

Dinah Lance is going to have to learn that.

''Well then.'' She tries her best to soften her smile, make it sparkle. She's going for disarming. ''Would you look at that,'' she drawls. ''My morning schedule seems to be wide open. Maybe you and I should talk.'' She loops her arm through his, leading him into her office. ''John,'' she tacks on as she tugs him inside, closing the door behind her. ''Have I told you lately you're my favorite?''

Chapter Text

Chapter Four

The Family of Things

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.

.

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you about mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

- Mary Oliver

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.

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October 2024

Laurel deviates from her usual script on a Thursday and adds a house sandwich from Red Hook Coffee Shop to her usual order.

If she thinks that's going to be enough to stop him from sliding in with a deft hand, smoothly ordering a Cortado and adding on a sandwich of his own just for the hell of it, she's wrong. Bucky is right next to her, handing over his card with a smile before she can even get her wallet all the way out of her purse.

Olaf, the manager of the coffee shop – part of a small team who all caught onto their antics within the first few days of their new customers' back and forth – doesn't even bat an eye. He's used to it at this point.

''You can't do this forever, you know,'' Laurel says, but settles her wallet back into her bag without much protest.

''Oh?'' Bucky smirks. ''Can't I?''

''Fine, I'll let you have your fun,'' she says, letting him to lead her over to the other end of the counter, guiding hand on the small of her back. ''But I have a condition.''

''A condition.''

''Sit down and eat with me.''

''Hm.'' He looks at her, gaze soft. ''Twist my arm, why don't you.''

She smiles. With teeth. ''By the way,'' she says, pointing a stern you better pay close attention finger at him. ''Trouble by Ray LaMontagne, Only the Lonely by Roy Orbison, Angel of the Morning by Juice Newton, and California Soul by Marlena Shaw. Those are today's recommendations. If you like Nina Simone, I think you're going to love the Marlena Shaw one.''

''Noted.''

She does humor him at least. She doesn't even tease him when he pulls out a seat for her or insists that he grab the drinks and sandwiches while she sits down. When he sits down in front of her, she's got this pensive look on her face, but her twinkling eyes are alight with good humor. ''Such an old fashioned gentleman,'' she coos, accepting her iced coffee from him.

''That's me,'' he says. ''Old fashioned.''

''Not everything old fashioned is bad,'' she says, unwrapping her sandwich. He makes a valiant effort not to think too hard about the way she moans when she bites into it. ''Oh god, I can't afford to like this sandwich this much.''

He abides by the condition she set. Takes a bite of his own sandwich and a sip of his own coffee, even though none of this was in his plans for the day. His grand plan had mostly been to get in and out as fast as possible. Leave her with the envelope that's been burning a hole in his pocket for the past few days and then duck out before she had a chance to refuse it. That plan's shot to hell now. ''How are the girls?'' he asks, as if he doesn't live right next door and see them almost every day.

''Oh, you know,'' she shrugs, picking a piece of prosciutto off the sandwich and popping it into her mouth. ''One's thirteen, one's two. There are a lot of big emotions right now.''

He eats his sandwich and hums, patently resisting the urge to say I know, I can hear those big emotions through the wall.

''Maggie turns three next month,'' she says. ''Which still feels weird to say considering she's supposed to be turning eight, but…'' Something passes through her eyes then, like a potential note of confused grief, but she shuts it down before he can even comment on it, barreling right past. ''Sin loved the cookies,'' she says, putting that smile right back on her face. ''Have I mentioned that?''

''You just did.''

''Only problem is now she's going to ask me to make them,'' she goes on, ''and I have no idea how to do that. I'm sure there are copycat recipes online but you can't replicate the love people put in their cooking.''

He has no witty response to that. He tries for it, but she's right. You can't replicate love. All he can think about for a second is Sarah Rogers' apple cake or the duchess potatoes Mary used to make on special occasions. Or that Peach Betty recipe Louise got out of the Daily Eagle back in '35 and was so proud of, even though it was just canned peaches, bread crumbs, and a little bit of butter, sugar, and cinnamon. All this time, all the reminiscing he's been doing since he got home, and this is the first time he's thought about Peach Betty.

Steve acted like it was the best thing he'd ever eaten.

Bucky takes another swallow of his coffee that doesn't taste like coffee used to and lets it burn his tongue.

''Okay, wait, question,'' Laurel says, pulling him from the past back into the future. She's looking at him curiously, watching him put his coffee down and bite into his sandwich. She chews on a piece of arugula she's plucked from her sandwich, tilting her head to the side slightly, studying him closely. ''How old are you exactly?''

''107,'' he says. He doesn't even hesitate. ''108 in March.'' He picks his coffee back up, casual and nonchalant. ''But you already knew that,'' he tacks on, before he takes a sip. ''You just wanted to see if I'd say it out loud.''

''Guilty as charged,'' she says. ''Kudos for your honesty.''

''How old are you?''

''Oh, now, that's not a question you're supposed to ask a lady,'' she says. ''Do you also know how much I weigh?''

''Artful dodge,'' he compliments.

''Thank you,'' she beams. ''Your birthday's in March?''

''March 10th.''

''No kidding. Mine's April 10th.''

''I'll file that away for later,'' he says, and then squints. ''You don't know how old you are, do you?''

She lifts her cup to her lips and takes a sip of her iced coffee. ''I know how old I'm supposed to be,'' she finally concedes. ''Technically, I should be coming up on forty. But shit happens.'' She gives her cup a swirl. ''So I guess I'm thirty-four.''

''Still younger than me.''

''Also, as an added bonus, I get a few extra years of fertility.''

''You want more kids?''

''Maybe,'' she says it so easily, confident in her choice. ''If I meet the right person.'' This is where she pauses, sucking her teeth. ''Admittedly, that's not an area I excel in.''

This is another one of those things that has nothing to do with him. Not his business. Quit being so nosy, Barnes. He shouldn't ask. Shouldn't even care. He asks anyway. ''I'm guessing there's a story there?''

''Eh, same old, same old. Girl meets boy. Boy's an idiot. Girl spends seventeen years lacking the self-esteem and self-respect needed to sever ties. Dumbest back and forth ever.'' She chews slowly on her sandwich, visibly formulating where to go from there. ''Maggie's dad,'' she clarifies. ''He never really…'' She doesn't finish. It's hard to tell if the dark look that flashes in her eyes is anger or something much worse. ''We weren't the family he wanted.''

Bucky narrows his eyes slightly, just for a split second, and then he opts to step over that particular landmine. ''His loss.''

''He's dead now, so he really lost.'' As soon as she says it, she looks horrified, spine straightening eyes widening. ''Oh god, that was callous,'' she mutters to herself. ''I'm not glad he's dead. I – ''

''Hey, you can be whatever you want with me,'' he tells her. ''I don't know him.''

It's small, but it's enough to smother whatever discomfort comes along with talk of Maggie's father. ''That's true,'' she says, ''you don't. You're a safe space.''

That's a horrifying concept.

''I guess being better than my ex isn't a high bar to clear,'' she continues, steering them back onto the topic at hand. ''So, if I find someone who actually likes me in addition to loving me, I don't know. I'd consider more kids. I like being a mom.''

''You're good at it,'' he tells her, honest, and relishes a little too much in the faint splash of red that creeps across her cheeks.

''Thank you,'' she says, letting her hair curtain her face. It's a new look on her. Bashfulness. He doesn't hate it. She recovers, clearing her throat, going for her coffee again. ''What about you?'' she asks. ''Do you want kids?''

Bucky thinks he deserves a medal for not scoffing bitterly whenever people ask him questions like that. ''I did.''

''But not anymore?''

''I don't have anything to offer a kid,'' he says, taking a bite of his sandwich.

She doesn't seem impressed with the answer. ''Are you. Capable of love?''

He shoots her a flat look. ''A kid deserves more than that and you know it.''

''You're right,'' she agrees. ''But it's a good place to start. There's a scale. It's pretty high up there.''

''What about tickets to the Eras Tour?'' he asks. ''Where does that place on the scale?''

''Um.'' She frowns, confused. ''I don't know if that necessarily makes someone a good parent, but the brownie points would be great.''

He looks down into his half empty coffee and then back over to the front counter, as if considering ordering another. He's mostly thinking about how to do this next part. The part where he has to convince her not to refuse what he has. He decides to give it another minute or two. It's not him chickening out. It's not. It's a tactical decision. That's all.

It's not like he's nervous.

''Listen,'' she says, suddenly serious. ''Here's the deal, James. I have a personal question to ask you. It might make you uncomfortable and you totally do not have to answer it but I have to ask.''

He's not sure if dread is necessarily the cold thing that curls in his stomach, but it's something dark and unpleasant. ''Oh,'' he says, purposefully bland. ''Great.''

''When you were…'' She pauses to look around, then leans in close. ''You know,'' she says in a whisper, which – yes, he does. The civilian level anxiety in her eyes kind of gives it away. ''Did you ever do undercover work?''

''Sometimes,'' he answers, terse. ''Not often. UC work typically requires a sharp mind and I barely had a mind at all.''

''Hm.'' She looks thoughtful. ''So you never went undercover as a hot dog vendor?''

Bucky opens his mouth to respond and then abruptly clamps it shut as his brain catches up to the question. Of all the questions she could have asked, that's the one what she went with? She could have asked about destruction and destabilization. Could have asked about assassinations, political or otherwise. And this is the question she chose? On the plus side, that cold, dark thing slithering around in side of him retreats entirely. Because – ''What?''

''Did you ever go undercover as a – ''

''No.''

She looks disappointed. ''Too bad,'' she says, still very, very serious. ''If you had, you could've called yourself the Wiener Soldier.''

He stares at her. For about a second and a half, it's mostly because he's confused and can't figure out if he heard her correctly. Then, when he realizes he did, in fact, hear her correctly, he just wants to see how long she lasts.

She makes it six seconds, maintaining eye contact, perfectly earnest, and then she bursts into laughter. Just completely dissolves into giggles. Over her own entirely absurd joke. It wasn't even that funny. It was cheesy and ridiculous. It was a Dad Joke, that's what it was. Not that any of that stops him from following right after her. A pleasant warmth pools in his chest when he laughs with her.

She looks younger when she laughs like this, some of that ever-present exhaustion clearing up, a flush spreading in her cheeks.

He doesn't know what he must look like – the Winter Soldier, responsible for dozens of high profile assassinations, even more low profile ones, the former fist of the world's most formidable Nazi organization, a murderer, a killer, barely human, sitting in a tiny hipster coffee shop in Red Hook, giggling with some doe eyed single mom much too beautiful and too human to be sitting here talking to him. But he knows how he feels.

He feels like Bucky Barnes, not the war hero, not the martyr, the tortured science experiment, but the man. The one who used to chase after his sisters with earthworms and stole penny candy from the corner store for them just to make them smile. The one who used to bicker with Stevie and win arguments by tossing him over his shoulder and charging up the stairs to their Brooklyn Heights tenement while Steve yelped, ''That's cheating!'' He used to laugh a lot. He didn't think anything of it back then. It was just a part of life. One of the best parts.

He hasn't laughed like this since 1941.

It feels nice.

''Are you proud of that one?'' he asks, managing to get it out relatively steadily.

''I'm just saying,'' she responds. ''Seems like a missed opportunity.''

''Oh god.''

''What?'' She picks up her coffee cup, grinning at him over the rim. ''You don't appreciate my Mom Jokes?''

''Oh, is that what that was?''

''That's what that was,'' she confirms. She takes a purposefully noisy slurp of her iced latte and then looks at him, cocking her head to the side slightly, curious. ''In all seriousness, I do have a question. For my own entertainment.''

''You make me nervous when you slap a disclaimer on. Just ask the question.''

''What's the weirdest thing going on in your life right now?''

''Uh,'' he pauses, ''everything?''

She waves that off. ''Cop out answer.''

''To an entirely random question.''

''It's a conversational question. It's small talk. It's better than something pedestrian like what's your favorite color, isn't it?''

He sighs. There are just…so many things to pick from. The goo monster from Central Park that vomited acid at people was a real low point. He's still talking to dead people a lot. Somewhere in the universe, there's a talking raccoon who wants to steal his arm. People (and by that he means people in general but also literally People Magazine) are still 100% certain that he and Sam are an item. And that Bucky is currently cheating on poor Cap with Sharon.

In all fairness, he's not sure how much he's helping dispel these rumors.

Last month, he took Sam to Tatiana By Kwame Onwuachi in Manhattan because Sam's been talking about it for months and when they left, full and happy, with smiles on their faces, the paparazzi, autograph hunters, and press came out in droves, hoping for some good shots of the new Captain America, a soundbite, a quote, anything to get them traction.

Sam took it in stride, answered a few questions, gave a damn good quote, posed for some pictures with the few genuine fans waiting, and didn't even flinch at the camera flashes. Bucky took it with a little less charm, blatantly ignoring every question directed his way, arms folded over his chest, staring imposingly until even the paparazzi balked.

Eventually, when he sensed that even Sam, with all his infinite patience, was over it, he stepped in, deflected a camera snap with the vibranium arm, and guided Sam away and into their awaiting Uber. Actually, to be more specific, he scowled at the press and steered Sam away by putting his hands on his waist and kept them there until he was safely in the car.

Naturally, those were the pictures they ran with.

The next morning, the internet was abuzz with articles and blogposts about the secret love between Captain America and the Winter Soldier. Complete with ''body language experts'' (he maintains that cannot be a real profession) weighing in on the dynamic between them (devotion was the gist of it) and quotes from people who were in the restaurants who said they ''bickered like an old married couple over the wine and Sergeant Barnes pulled Captain Wilson's seat out for him like a gentleman'' (all right, yeah, reluctant confirmation) and clickbait sites posting slideshows of pictures of them with the headline ''5 Times the Winter Soldier looked at Captain America like he was his whole world.''

Sam laughed until he cried.

And then he took the Buzzfeed quiz that was supposed to tell him if he was a Sam or a Bucky and spent the rest of the day profoundly confused by the fact that no matter how many times he took the quiz, he always got Bucky.

(Luke did not find the whole thing nearly as amusing. He didn't say anything, but there was a look.)

The other night, Bucky took Sharon to Nobu 57. Because that's what they do. They go out to eat. They both like food. They're foodies. It's how they'd bonded and stopped wanting to kill each other. She calls and says ''I'm hungry'' and he says ''okay'' and they spend the night roasting each other over dinner and then they fight over who's going to pay and she very quickly lets him win. His first mistake the other night was going to Nobu. He realizes that now. It's overpriced, overrated, and he can name at least five other Japanese restaurants off the top of his head that are better. He let her talk him into it once but never again.

Also…

Did everyone know Nobu was a date night restaurant?

He did not know that.

He knows that now.

Yesterday morning started with him waking up to blurry pictures and video of him and Sharon making the rounds on the internet, inspiring a surprising level of vitriol from the SamBucky fans. The video of them leaving together, laughing, one of his hands on the small of her back, was not great. The picture from inside of them with them leaning in a little too close while she fed him off her fork was worse. Which – okay, that one's on them. That was their bad. There wasn't a picture that captured seconds later when she almost stabbed him with her fork because he said her taste in fish was almost worse than her taste in wine.

Now he's public enemy number one.

A few days ago, he was one half of TikTok's favorite couple and now they've all turned on him – rather viciously, if he does say so himself – because he's either cheating on Captain America or he's a liar. Either way, he's dead to them. Because apparently they can look past assassinating JFK, but queerbaiting is where they draw they line.

When he slunk into Luke's last night, Sam greeted him with a dramatic wail of, ''WELCOME HOME, CHEATER!''

''Hey, Barnes,'' said Luke. ''Didn't realize you were such a whore.''

Jess said, ''I did.''

He spent most of the night bemoaning the fact that he can't get drunk.

Sometimes he forgets that this thing they do – vigilantism, superheroism, extreme problem solving, whatever you want to call it. It's not just public. It's not just news. It's gossip. Constant fodder for the 24/7 news cycle and vicious social media algorithms and influencers.

So.

That's pretty weird.

And, just for the record, if he was on a date with someone, he wouldn't take them to either of those restaurants. He'd take them to Gage & Tollner so they could eat their weight in oysters. It's one of the oldest restaurants in Brooklyn. Had its 50th anniversary back in 1929. He remembers walking past it when he was a kid. He remembers hearing the music and watching people dance. He remembers being determined to make enough money so he could take Steve there one day.

Bucky sips at his coffee slowly and looks at Laurel, waiting patiently for his answer. ''Do you…'' He trails off, pushing back another sigh. This is so stupid. This is the dumbest part of the future. ''Have you ever heard of Deuxmoi?''

She blinks, lips parting in surprise. ''The Instagram gossip troll?''

''People keep sending in anonymous tips about my love life,'' he says. ''Or questions asking if I'm single or if I'm dating Sam. Or cheating on him.''

She lets out a bark of laughter and then immediately slaps a hand over her mouth. ''I'm sorry,'' she says. ''That's not funny.'' Doesn't stop her from snorting quietly. She seems to think it's a little funny. ''I was just expecting you to say – I don't know – aliens or something. That goo monster. Maybe sliced bread.''

''I'm sorry, sliced bread?''

''You're older than sliced bread.''

''I was very much around when it became a thing.''

''And wasn't that weird for you?''

''No,'' he says flatly.

It only seems to further her amusement. ''Why don't you just tell the wannabe Hedda Hopper to keep your name out of her desperate little mouth?''

''Because doing that means acknowledging that I've seen it,'' he says. ''The people I work with just keep telling me to ignore it.''

''That's valid advice,'' she admits. ''But if it's bothering you, it would also be okay to have someone from your legal team tell Louella Parsons 2.0 over there to fuck off. I know she gets real nervous when legal reaches out.''

''How do you know that?''

She shrugs her shoulders. ''I keep an eye on things,'' is all she says. ''Now,'' she prompts, moving past it. ''It's your turn.''

He frowns. ''What?''

''I just asked you a very personal question,'' she says. ''You may now retaliate with one of your own.''

He considers this. ''Just one?''

''I'm stingy like that,'' she says, and then winks.

''A very personal question, huh?'' He sits back in his chair. He has so many. He's not usually this searching with other people. That's why he likes it in New York so much. New Yorkers don't tend to give themselves away like that. They're guarded. It's a pretty well known thing. What you can't give away, you keep safe. He likes that. There's comfort in that. He's safe here, in this city, where no one gives a shit. He keeps to himself. They keep to themselves. Everybody goes home with minimal damage. But, for whatever reason, a reason he is still desperately trying to suss out, he has an almost insatiable curiosity about Dinah.

It's her smile, he thinks.

There's something about her smile.

He watches her take another bite of her sandwich. A bit of aioli smears on the side of her mouth and she flicks it away with her thumb, licking it off. He settles on a neutral question, a starting point. ''Where are you from, Dinah?'

''That's your one?''

''That's it.''

''So boring. You could've asked me anything.''

''I'm sorry,'' he says, ''are you heckling me?''

''No, if I was heckling you, I'd be like,'' she cups her hands around her mouth, ''boo!''

His lips curl back into a grin. He pretends he doesn't notice it. He pretends he doesn't notice Olaf either, looking up from what he's doing behind the counter, bemused. Olaf sure does put up with a lot of their shit. ''Okay, fine,'' says Bucky, ''I can change my question. What's your greatest fear?''

''Oh no,'' she shakes her head. ''That was your one. No backsies.'' She props her elbows up on the table. ''I'm from Washington State originally,'' she tells him. ''Small port city a few hours outside of Seattle. You've never heard of it. But I haven't lived there full time since I was twenty-one.''

He can't quite put his finger on why, but he wasn't expecting that. He's not sure what he was expecting, where he thought she would be from, but he was not expecting the Pacific Northwest. It's so dreary in Washington. Seattle, Olympia, Tacoma, Port Angeles, Bellingham, Gig Harbor, Aberdeen. These places are all so gray and gloomy. They unfurl before you like an oil slick, endlessly dark, wet, and slippery. Everything about Laurel is golden. Like she belongs in the sunshine. He would have expected California. Florida. Coastal North Carolina. Maybe even Arizona or New Mexico.

Then again, maybe he's overthinking this. He grabs his sandwich and busies himself with picking out the arugula. ''Where were you before this?''

''Oh, lots of places,'' she says, easy, instant, voice bright. She reaches for her coffee to give it another swirl in the cup, shaking the ice against the plastic cup. It's fascinating the way she can answer a question without actually answering the question. He wonders if she even knows she's doing it. ''I was kind of a wanderer in my youth,'' she adds. ''Even after I adopted Sin, we were nomads.''

''Really?''

''Really,'' she nods. ''We've been all over.''

''See anything interesting?''

The smile that starts on her face is small and fond, secretive in the way her eyes dance in the light. ''Sure,'' she says. ''All sorts of things. Lived in Rome for a couple months back in 2011. Spent some time in the Canary Islands. London. Traipsed around Asia. We've been to at least half the states. Spent a lot of time in Southern California. Seattle. Lived in New Jersey on and off for a handful of years.''

''Ugh,'' Bucky says, physically incapable of not screwing his face up in disgust.

''I knew you were going to make that face,'' she chuckles.

''Yeah, because it's fuckin' Jersey.''

''God, you New Yorkers are so elitist.''

''No, no,'' he holds a finger up. ''We're just aware.''

Laurel shakes her head at him, but she also snickers, so he's going to take that as agreement. She eats her sandwich, looking pensive. ''You know,'' she starts, after she swallows. ''Sin and I lived in Arizona for five months once and hiked around the Grand Canyon every weekend. We spent time on the Oregon Coast. We rented a place in the French Quarter in New Orleans and listened to live jazz every night from our balcony. We spent a summer in Big Sur in this house on a cliff that overlooked the water. We used to hike farther up the mountain and if the conditions were right and it was the right time of day, the clouds would spill over the water and it would be like looking at an ocean of clouds.'' There's a faraway look in her eyes when she tells him this, something gentle and nostalgic. ''But, if I'm being honest,'' her smile softens, ''the thing I remember most about these places is – ''

''Her,'' he finishes for her.

Her eyes flick back up to him, widening in surprise slightly, as if she's just remembered he's there, or maybe she wasn't expecting him to understand. ''It's always her,'' she agrees. ''Both of them. Every beautiful memory I have is of them.'' She pulls herself out of whatever beautiful memory she's in before he can say anything. ''Meanwhile, you know what Sin's favorite was?'' She scrunches her nose up. ''Alaska.''

''Alaska?''

''Alaska,'' she confirms.

''I'm guessing that wasn't your favorite?''

''We were there in the winter,'' Laurel says, somewhat darkly. ''So, no, definitely not. I liked New Orleans. Louisiana always feels like home. But... Southern California,'' she says. ''That was my favorite. By the water.''

He's not surprised. ''What about here?''

''I like it here,'' she tells him. ''More than I thought I would.''

He is not going to think too hard about why that makes his stomach do some sort of childish little flip flop. ''Why is that?''

She gives him a cheeky little grin. ''Maybe I just wanted the New York experience.''

''And you think Red Hook can give you that?'' he asks, incredulous. ''Dinah, this is about as far from the New York experience as you can get. I've been here since June and I haven't been called a jagoff once.''

She snorts, amused. ''Is that why you're here?''

''To be called a jagoff?''

''To get away from the city life.''

''No,'' he says. ''I like the quiet, but I'm here because this is home.''

''Right,'' she says. ''Home.'' Something flashes in her eyes, quiet and nostalgic and sad. Her fingers toy with the necklace around her neck. It's three concentric circles, one silver, one gold, one rose gold, each one engraved with a name - Mama, Sin, Maggie - and a birth stone. As quickly as it came on, the look in her eyes disappears, a devious twinkle replacing it swiftly, her hand falling away from the necklace. ''Oh, also,'' she says slowly. ''Whales.''

''What?''

''Whales,'' she repeats. ''That's my greatest fear.''

''Your greatest fear is whales?''

''I don't trust them,'' she says. ''They're shifty.''

''…Okay,'' he replies, very slowly. ''Thanks for…trusting me with that?''

''Sure,'' she nods. ''I try to be very open and honest with my friends about myself.'' It's amazing how she gets through that with a straight face.

''Then in the spirit of openness and honesty,'' he starts. ''Tell me something. You ever been to Indianapolis?''

''I've been around,'' she answers. ''But I'm not sure if Indianapolis ever made the list. I don't think we ever spent much time in Indiana.''

Funny.

Neither did he.

He was less than a week old when George and Winnie Barnes left Shelbyville for New York with him. He never thought much about the place his parents were from when he was a kid. Never asked about it. Never wondered. Mary did. It wasn't surprising when he learned that she had left Brooklyn for Shelbyville after he died. What was surprising was the part where she came back.

''How do you feel about adding it to the list?'' He plucks the envelope from his inside jacket pocket and holds it out to her between two fingers. ''Say, on November 3rd?''

The confusion on her face doesn't last as long as he thought it would as she extends a hand to take the envelope from him. ''November…'' She stops. She goes still. She looks at the envelope in her hands. Then at him. ''Tell me this isn't…'' She opens the envelope to look inside and makes this high-pitched squeaking noise, practically slamming the envelope onto the table, hands over it like the thing's a bomb she's trying to conceal from the rest of the patrons. ''No.''

He settles back in his chair, satisfied. ''Yep.''

''James.''

''Dinah.''

''How did you even… How did you…'' She lifts her hands to look at the envelope, peeking inside, inhaling sharply. She sits ramrod straight in her seat, looking around. ''How.''

''My bestie,'' he says, completely straight faced. ''Turns out people are very grateful when you save their lives. Wild, right?''

''I can't – I can't…accept this,'' she stutters.

''Sure, you can,'' he replies. ''What was I going to do with them?''

''Uh, use them?''

''Not my scene,'' he waves off. ''Too much noise. Muddles the senses.''

''Give them to someone else.''

''I am giving them to someone else.''

''James,'' she hisses, leaning across the table to whisper at him. ''These are tickets to the Eras Tour.''

He leans in even closer to whisper back, ''I'm aware.''

''You can't just – You can't just – '' She sputters helplessly for a second. He's a bit concerned he might have broken her brain, but mostly he's amused. It's hard to throw her off course. Even if you do throw her off, she instantly rights herself. He's learned that. It's kind of fun watching her come unglued. ''You barely know us!''

''I know you like Taylor Swift.''

''Lots of people like Taylor Swift! She's one of the most popular musical artists in the world!''

''Well, damn,'' he drawls, letting some of that old Brooklyn charm seep into his voice, ''then it sounds like going to this concert is going to be a big deal for you guys, isn't it? A real once in a life time thing.''

''Bucky,'' she says.

''Come on,'' he entices. ''You know you and Sin are going to get way more enjoyment out of them than anyone else in my life. You were the natural choice.'' It does sound, when he says it that way, that these tickets were randomly gifted to him. Which is technically a lie. Because he asked for them. Cashed in a favor and everything. But she doesn't need to know that. ''It was a nice thing she did for me. This way, I know for sure that won't go to waste.''

She bites her lip again. She looks down at the envelope, picking it up somewhat hesitantly, as if she thinks it might be a trap.

''Oh.'' He pulls out his phone. ''Also, I'm sending you the booking confirmation for the hotel.''

''You booked us a hotel?''

''I'm going to help you get a flight, too.''

''No, no, I can't let you – ''

''Look,'' he doesn't look up for a minute, too busy pulling up the booking confirmation and her phone number, ''let's just review the facts here.'' He sends all the info to her phone, waits for the ding from her purse, and puts his phone down on the table. ''Can we review the facts?''

''Review away.''

''Cards on the table,'' he says. ''Single mom with two kids,'' he points to her. ''Florist.'' He points to himself. ''Many, many, many decades of backpay. Hefty private security checks. Government job. Oh, and a pension.''

She huffs and he hears her mumble under her breath, ''When you put it like that…''

''Take the gift,'' he advises, and then completely cool as a cucumber, picks up his coffee and finishes it off. It might be more effective if he didn't end that in a cough from the surprisingly still hot coffee burning his throat.

Laurel doesn't seem to notice. She's shaking her head, staring down at the envelope. ''This isn't just a gift,'' she murmurs, voice tight. ''This is… No one has ever…'' She trails off, going quiet for a moment. When she lifts her head, he realizes he's made a miscalculation. He was expecting her to fight him on this. Lotta eye rolls and prideful refusals and maybe some smartass comments. He was not expecting her to cry. ''Thank you,'' she chokes out.

He feels like this is the part where he would normally try to look away, the part where he wouldn't be able to meet her eyes, but it hasn't been that easy with Dinah. It's harder to look away from her. ''Wasn't a problem.''

She laughs and then she's the first one to look away, turning to tuck the envelope into her purse. ''Wasn't a problem,'' she parrots. ''God, you're infuriating.'' She pushes her chair back, getting to her feet. ''Okay, stand up.''

''What? Why?''

''I have to hug you.''

''You really don't,'' he protests, even though he's already getting to his feet.

''I do,'' she says. ''It's a thing.'' She's stepping into his space before he's even straightened up all the way, wrapping her arms around him in a tight, warm hug.

He winds his arms around her carefully, that little spike of fear in his blood always there, reminding him that his body is not safe for people, not safe for her, that he could hurt her so easily. It's usually enough to keep him away from hugs entirely, except maybe from Sam, who leads with being a hugger, and Sarah, who he can't say no to, but none of this is usual. He tries to remember the last time he was hugged by someone who wasn't one of the Wilsons.

Was it Steve? It was Steve.

This isn't Steve. This is Dinah. Her body is long and lithe, slender, soft in parts – the Winter Soldier would think, fragile, easy to dispatch, unremarkable, weak – but she has more strength to her than he thought. There is a tenderness to it, to her touch, the way her hands feel against him that's just. Different from any recent hug he's had. Unremarkable is not exactly the word he would use.

She smells like cherries and something floral and sweet.

He closes his eyes, inhaling.

This is a very dangerous thing.

When she pulls away from him, she lingers, her hands grasping at his leather jacket, eyes still wet, and leans in to kiss him on the cheek.

требуется техническое обслуживание.

Well, you're not wrong.

She still hasn't pulled away, fingers still gripping his jacket, her face still so close to his.

требуется техническое обслуживание. требуется техническое обслуживание!

Uh-huh, yes, I see that.

A small smirk fixes itself on her lips. Over her shoulder, Olaf is beaming and giving Bucky two thumbs up. ''Now you have to come for dinner.''

''I'll – '' He has to clear his throat. He very pointedly ignores Olaf's silent cheerleading. ''I'll see if I can pencil it into my schedule.''

''Oh,'' she lets go, pulling away from him. ''I'll get that dinner, Barnes. Just you wait.''

.

.

.

Sam has been staring at him for approximately 54 seconds in the back of this C-17. With his mouth open and closing like a fish. Blinking. Really, a lot of blinking. After 57 seconds, he looks over at Torres and Carter for help, but they are also looking at Bucky like he's grown an extra head. There might be slightly less blinking, but they're still gaping. At the 70 second mark, Sam just says, ''What.''

''Well,'' Carter says, after about 75 seconds, ''congrats, Barnes. If she didn't want to sleep with you before, she's definitely going to want to now.''

Bucky startles. ''What?''

''I mean,'' she shrugs, ''that's why you did it, right? That's the goal? I'm saying there's a chance.''

''That's not – '' He feels like he should be offended by the implication but all that comes up is a sense of panic. He really wasn't thinking about that. He wasn't. ''I was just being neighborly.''

''Man,'' says Torres. ''My neighbor won't even pick up my mail for me when I'm away.''

''You got – How did you even – '' Sam shakes his head. Blinks a few more times. Then he shakes his head again, like he's trying to shake off the shock, and lets out a huff of laughter. ''Man, how did Taylor Swift become a recurring character in your life?''

.

.

.

Yelena sends him a thumbs up emoji and a follow up text that says: hey look at that your one step closer to getting your 21st century cherry popped!!!!

His follow up text is short and simple: *you're

Four days later, once they've been pulled out of Kuwait after a messy but successful operation – mostly anyway, except for the part where they ended up stuck in the desert with nothing but a broken down Jeep, dangerously low provisions, and Carter's biting sarcasm for 24 hours while they waited for Colonel Rhodes to pull them out – he fires off another text that just says, shouldn't you be nicer to the person paying for your netflix account?

She sends him a gif of a woman turned away from the camera, waving a hand dismissively, with the caption okay, girl. Bye.

Bucky thinks he's likely just tired, but it makes him laugh for like three minutes straight.

.

.

.

February-March 2024

It's difficult to find the time to make the trek from Brooklyn to Mount Vernon as often as he'd like, what with the court mandated therapy and the chase for atonement, but Bucky does his best to go at least once or twice a month.

He doesn't tell anyone about what he's doing, about who he's waiting for, just like he hasn't told anyone about Natalia.

Who does he have left to tell anyway?

He brings orchids for Natalia. He brings everything else for Yelena. He brings her more pirozhki and medovik and pelmeni and fresh fruit. He resists the urge to bring her things like warm wool socks and a winter coat because logically he's aware she's an adult and probably has that part covered. She can take care of herself. (But he wants to take care of her.) He's not trying to smother her. He's trying to win her over.

He keeps her at the forefront of his mind when he's at home in Brooklyn, drifting aimlessly through life alone. He picks up candy from the bodega he goes to and tucks it away to leave for her. He buys her a cheap novelty mood ring he sees at the counter because he knows she'll think it's amusing. He starts thinking about what she'd like when he makes his trek to the bookstore on Saturdays. He brings her The Hobbit and The Wizard of Oz and The Princess Bride.

After he got back, after Tony Stark's funeral but before Steve left, in that odd liminal space in between acts that he still can't quite bring himself to think too hard about, Steve gave him two things: His dog tags, a replica of the same ones that had fallen off the train with him, and a box of his personal effects, things he hadn't seen since 1943. Photographs, a few of his journals, and a notebook full of unsent letters that he'd carried with him through the war, that he recognized instantly, with a sickening jolt. And his books. His favorites. The ones he'd read and re-read until they were worn and dog-earned, some with scribbles in the margins. The ones he used to read aloud to Steve when he was too sick to get out of bed.

''It's from Becs,'' Steve had said. He was holding the notebook. He wasn't doing anything with it, just absently holding it, looking for something to do with his hands, but for a second, it looked like he didn't want to let it go. ''It's everything she refused to let the Smithsonian touch. After you – After Insight, she had her granddaughter deliver it to me. I thought maybe if you came back – '' He'd paused then, frowning. ''When you came back,'' he corrected himself. ''I thought you'd want it back.''

Bucky let the dog tags dangle from his fingertips, listening to the jangle of the chain. ''What if I'd never come back?''

Steve was quiet for a long time. ''Then I would've caught up to you.'' He smiled. He put the notebook back in the box. ''I always catch up to you.''

When it was all over, when Bucky had been left to live in a space tentatively labeled After Steve, after he had been moved into his apartment in Williamsburg and been set up with a nice pardon, a fuckton of money he still doesn't know what to do with, and been given his strict set of rules, he opened the box back up, put his dog tags back on, sifted through the remnants of who he was before, and picked up his old, worn copy of The Weary Blues. He got as far as –

I loved my friend.
He went away from me.
There's nothing more to say.
The poem ends,
Soft as it began –
I loved my friend.

And then he put the box in the closet and refused to look at it again.

''I didn't think you'd come back,'' he'd told Steve, later, after Steve handed the shield over to Sam.

Steve smiled at him and Bucky had stared for a long time, trying to work out if that smile was real, if the tiredness he saw was just old age, if he regretted it at all, if he missed them while he was away. ''Like I said,'' Steve told him. ''I always catch up to you.''

It was the last thing he ever said to him.

Steve was good at many things, but he was never a good liar.

In March, right before his birthday, Bucky pulls the box back out, chooses Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet, and goes back to Ohio.

He spends a week kicking around that time, waiting for a little spider to bite. He stays at a generic hotel. He eats the generic continental breakfast. He buys a dumb fucking magnet shaped like the state of Ohio and a dumb fucking postcard that says I'd rather be in Cincinnati with you. He brings Natalia an orchid every day.

He leaves food for Yelena – Russian, at first, things he thinks she'll find familiar, maybe even comforting, and then whatever he thinks she'll like; a warm breakfast sandwich and hot coffee on a cold morning, fresh tangerines, cinnamon sugar doughnuts, apple cake, pomegranate seeds, a lot of candy – and talks to her like she's right next to him, but she never comes out of hiding. He'd stay longer, but he doesn't have the mental energy to deal with what would happen if he missed his court mandated therapy.

On his last day, right before he leaves, cutting it insanely close, he leaves behind two books, Letters to a Young Poet and one of the Mary Oliver books Torres gifted him, and a postcard of his own. It has a picture of the Brooklyn Bridge on it and it says Greetings from Brooklyn in a garish font.

On the back, he writes, I'm coming back. I promise. I'm not leaving you. You're not alone.

.

.

.

The thing is, once you are something, you don't just stop being that thing. It doesn't work like that. It's who you are. You can't get away from that. You don't just stop loving. Stop feeling.

He certainly didn't.

It had to be taken from him, stripped away and erased, removed violently, wiped clean by decades of torture and brainwashing and the most barbaric shit any human could ever go through. Even then, it was still there, inside of him, dormant, asleep, but there, always present, waiting.

Waiting for Steve.

Bucky was a brother once. He had three sisters. Mary. Louise. Rebecca. He can no longer hear their voices, but he knows them. They were children together. They belonged to each other. He forgot their names. He forgot their faces. He forgot that he loved them. But he loved them. Still. It was always there. It was alive inside of him, even when he didn't know it.

When he woke up, when Bucky Barnes blinked open his eyes for the first time in a long time, they were gone. Lost to time. He didn't know what to do with that grief. He didn't know what to do with the love left behind. Maybe he still doesn't. What he does know is that he's still a brother. It's still just what he is. What's inside of him. He still has a job to do. A responsibility. He's not willing to give that up just yet.

He doesn't think he could if he tried.

It's not a burden, he will tell her, when she asks. It's a gift.

.

.

.

Inside the Mary Oliver book – the one she won't open until she's back at home, won't read until she's two shots in, a soft wet dog nose pushing into her other hand, blonde hair curtaining her face – there is a page dog eared and a post it on top of Wild Geese that says, in his chicken scratch writing:

This was your sister's favorite. She knew it by heart. I bet it made her think of you.

.

.

.

''We could just go,'' said James, in St. Petersburg, a lifetime before this. ''We could go right now. Before they come back for us. We could run and not look back. They'd never catch us.''

''I can't,'' said Natalia. She was smiling, her eyes dark and shrouded, the tilt of her mouth sad, even in the dark of the night. ''I have to go back.''

''Natalia,'' he pleaded. ''This is our chance. This is our one chance. Don't you see that?''

''You don't understand,'' she whispered. ''I can't. Not without her. None of this means anything without her.''

.

.

.

October 2024

On a Saturday morning in late October, not long before Halloween, someone knocks on his apartment door.

Bucky sighs, clenching his jaw, already wary. He doesn't think he would normally be this wary but Carter mentioned something about speed dating the other day and he doesn't think she was kidding. He swears if he's about to be forced into another you're brooding too much and it's bumming us out intervention, he's going to –

''Hi,'' says Laurel.

She's smiling, sunny as always, completely undeterred by the fact that he opens the door with a pre-emptive fuck speed dating scowl.

He says nothing. In general, he doesn't know why this specific woman throws him off so much. He hasn't figured that part out yet. Today, though, he's thinking it's the outfit.

She's wearing a black wool open front cardigan that looks at least one size too big for her and has cartoon ghosts printed all over it. Underneath it is a black t-shirt with bright orange oozing lettering that says YOU CAN'T SCARE ME I'M A MOM and black leggings patterned with candy corn. There are black, glittery bat earrings dangling from her ears, catching the light, a silver skeleton necklace hanging from her neck, and her feet are stuffed into fuzzy slippers shaped like pumpkins. On her face, her right cheek, a black cat tattoo has been stamped onto her skin. It's not the most ridiculous thing he's ever seen, but it's up there.

He stops scowling immediately.

''I'm sorry,'' she apologizes, her smile taking on a sheepish tilt. ''I hope I didn't wake you up.''

''No, I was just – '' He can't…actually remember what he was doing. Which is not his fault and it means nothing. The pumpkin slippers are just distracting. And those earrings are real sparkly. He flings a look back into his apartment at Alpine over by the biggest window in the place. Her favorite spot. She drags her gaze away briefly to look at them and send over a meow, but Laurel is apparently not exciting enough to get her to abandon her post. ''I was awake,'' he says. ''Is everything okay?''

''Oh, everything's fine,'' she says. ''I just – um.'' She pauses, hesitant. ''I don't want to take up too much of your time,'' she tacks on. ''I just wanted to ask you if you…'' She trails off again. Her hands toy with a loose thread on her sweater. ''I'm sorry,'' she breathes out with a small awkward chuckle. ''I don't want this to sound like I'm – I promise I'm not asking you this because you're the only other person in the building with a prosthetic, but I was wondering if you – if you said anything to Maggie the last time she was here. I don't mean anything bad,'' she rushes to say. ''It's just she's been…'' She stops and looks over at her apartment door. When she looks back at him, there is this pained look in her eyes, a grimace of hurt and guilt she's trying to squash. ''A while back, I took her to the park and there were some kids there and they – well.''

Ah.

Right.

''They got scared,'' he finishes for her. Yeah, that'll happen. It's not a price any of us asked to pay, but we pay it.

''I don't blame them,'' she says. ''They were so little. And kids have to be taught about all the ways people are different. But it was discouraging. To say the least. She took it hard. She's…'' She presses her lips together tightly. ''Sometimes I think she understands too much. Which is a terrible thing for me to say, I know.''

''It's not,'' he assures her. ''It's not terrible. Just human.''

She looks far more nervous than she usually looks, biting down on her bottom lip, torn between unsure and relieved at his words. He finds her doesn't like seeing that look on her face, something halfway to anguish. ''I'm – I'm not even sure if they were avoiding her because of her eye or because of…other things,'' she says, ''but she seemed adamant it was the eye. She was calling it bad and scary. She kept asking me to make it go away.''

He doesn't like that either. But at least he can make sense of that one. He doesn't like the idea of children hurting. He especially doesn't like the idea of a child having to live with the shadow of trauma. That seems normal to him. An ordinary thing to feel. It's easier to decode than whatever the fuck happens to him when he's faced with this woman.

''But,'' Laurel goes on, ''then something changed. She stopped calling it bad or scary. Now she's just been calling it Maggie's eye. We've been trying to figure out what changed, but she's been – well, we haven't been – '' she breaks off in a quiet laugh. ''We haven't been able to understand what she was telling us. Until last night Sin worked out that the timing fits with the last time you brought her back. I was just wondering if maybe you had something to do with her newfound acceptance.''

''I doubt I did,'' is his automatic response, dismissive, a brush off. It's so easy to handwave anything he does that could be deemed good. ''We chatted,'' he admits. ''When she was here. I didn't say much. Just told her the truth.''

She doesn't believe him, not 100%, he can see it in her eyes, but she lets it go. ''Well,'' she says. ''Thank you. For whatever it was you said. And for being patient with her. She's had a hard road.''

''I can understand that,'' he acknowledges. ''She…'' He pauses. He hasn't asked any questions about Maggie's health. It's always been clear that she's disabled and he knew about the eye, but he has never asked for specifics. It's never felt like his place. Asking felt intrusive. They barely knew each other. But they know each other a little better now, don't they? ''She mentioned she was sick?''

''She said that?'' Her eyes widen slightly, not necessarily out of shock or offense that he's asked the question, but surprise that Maggie communicated it. ''She – She was,'' she confirms. ''Cancer. When she was a baby. Retinoblastoma.'' She tries to smile again, like an encouragement, but it doesn't cover much of the sadness in her eyes. ''We did everything we could to save the eye, but things just. Didn't work out that way. And, um…'' Her voice drops off again, her attention shifting back to her apartment. ''And then she had a stroke.''

Logically, if he really examines the situation, if he thinks about Maggie, the way she is, the delays, that does explain a lot. Explains almost everything. The way she moves and speaks, for sure. The way she tends to shuffle or stagger instead of walk. The left sided weakness and spasticity in her hand. The tone and volume of her voice, the way she struggles to articulate what she's saying, her limited vocabulary, the way she works her mouth without talking. Even the mobility devices. Stroke recovery. It all lines up. And anyone of any age can have a stroke. There's a not insignificant chance that he possibly had one or two during his very, very, very long winter. Kind of goes hand in hand with having your brain rewritten.

But babies should not have strokes.

Sick babies already fighting to live should definitely not have strokes. There is an incomprehensible cruelty just in the thought of it. And Bucky knows a lot about incomprehensible cruelty. ''She had a stroke?'' It comes out of him louder than expected, incredulous, horrified.

She doesn't seem at all surprised by the shock and horror. ''A side effect of the chemo she was on,'' she says with a nod. ''It was… I thought she was…''

''I'm sorry,'' he tells her, genuine. ''I'm so sorry, that must have been hell to go through. For her especially, but you, too.''

''It – yeah. It was…'' She tugs at her fingers. Twists the silver bird ring. She has nervous hands. He's catching onto that. She doesn't seem to know what to do with them all the time. It's her tell. Maybe that's why she's always got a lollipop in her hand. ''I don't wish to repeat the experience, that's for sure.''

He doesn't poke at the wound, just deftly steers them back to the previous topic. ''But she's okay now, right?''

''She's healing. She's cancer free,'' Laurel confirms, the relief and pride evident even in her voice, the way she adjusts her posture. ''It did a lot of damage – not just the stroke but the chemo and the radiation. It ravaged her body. She's disabled. She has epilepsy. She's developmentally delayed. She's still dealing with neurological and cognitive impairments. She has weakness on one side of her body, lingering pain, and we just found out she has gastritis from one of the meds she's on. I don't know if she'll ever…'' She swallows. She doesn’t say it, but he understands what she's getting at. She doesn't know if she'll ever recover. If she'll ever be like the other kids her age at the park. ''But she's here,'' she settles on.

''She's here,'' he agrees. ''And she's got a great mom.''

''I try,'' she says. ''I don't always do a very good job. But I – '' She stops suddenly, pressing her lips together, a look of vague confusion passing through her eyes. ''I don't normally tell people this. I'm not really a people person.''

''I find that hard to believe,'' he counters.

Some of her typical brightness floods back into her eyes. ''So, I've made a good impression then?''

''Apart from the slippers.''

''I love these slippers,'' she defends, looking down at her fuzzy pumpkins. ''They're cute!''

''And the earrings?''

''The earrings are fashion,'' she says. ''Sin says so. She got them for me. With her own money.''

''Well, she would know what fashion is,'' he acquiesces. ''I hear thirteen-year-old girls really have their fingers on the pulse of society.''

''Fourteen in January,'' she says. ''Which I hate so much.'' Her lips quirk into a bittersweet sort of smile. ''Anyway, I just thought. I don't know. Since you've been around us and will likely continue to be around us, I thought maybe you should know. I'm sure you've noticed she's not like other kids her age.''

''What do I know about kids her age?'' It's an easy thing to toss out. Even though, yes, he'd noticed. It just doesn't change anything for him. ''All I noticed was a clever little girl,'' he says, honestly.

''Oh, she's clever,'' she agrees. ''Maybe a little too clever. She's a handful, but between me and you, that cleverness is one of my favorite things about her. I spent so long terrified that she wasn't going to live and now here she is – one of the most vibrantly alive things I've ever seen.''

Something about the familiarity of that burns.

Like a forest fire in the center of him.

Bucky spent most of his young life knowing Steve would die before him. It wasn't that he worried about it, that he wondered, that he thought. It was that he knew. They both did. It was the story. The way of the world. An inevitability. Steve was sick so often, right down to his bones. He had a bad heart and even worse lungs and he was always so pale and cold, just this tiny sunshine boy who could barely hold himself up but still threw himself into fights in back alleys, still stood up when no one else would. He was a good boy, a good man. All he ever wanted to do was help.

And he was dying.

One day, they both knew, that sickness inside was going to win. He was going to die in his best friend's arms and history was going to forget about them, those poor dead boys in Brooklyn. It was how the story ended. It was already written.

Steve Rogers was born to die.

But that's not what happened, is it?

One of Bucky's most vivid memories is when Steve came to get him in Kreischberg. (I thought you were dead, said Steve. I thought you were smaller, Bucky replied.) It was always there, at the forefront of his mind, even when he didn't know it was there. He couldn't figure it out for the longest time. Why that one memory. Why not this memory or that memory? Why not Coney Island? Why not the strawberries on the Fourth of July? Why not the apple cake? The late nights in Brooklyn Heights? His 22nd birthday? Why that piece? It was in Siberia when he understood. It was when he was broken again, bloody and limp, left holding onto Steve, that he figured it out.

Kreischberg was the moment he knew.

He'd never given much thought to that sort of thing before. God and country. All that shit. The lies we tell ourselves to make it through the day. He thinks about it even less now. He doesn't feel anyone would judge him for that. Steve prayed. He went to church. He lit a candle for his mother. He believed in God. He was a good Catholic boy.

Bucky, though – it wasn't for him. He was dismissive, occasionally even bitter, both things he used to try so hard not to be. God ain't listening to folks like us, Stevie, he'd said once, while Steve was half dead with pneumonia in that stifling tenement, laid out for days, sweating and hacking and ghostly white, and all he asked for was Bucky to pray for him. Bucky couldn't even give him that. He spent so much of his life afraid that believing seemed too far away for him to reach. Seemed even less possible during wartime.

And then Steve showed up in Kreischberg, living, breathing easy for the first time in life, big and healthy and strong. One of the most vibrantly alive things he'd ever seen. It was amazing. It was horrifying. And that was when he knew.

He didn't believe in God. He believed in Steve.

''Reminds me of someone I used to know,'' he says.

He wonders if that's what Laurel feels when she looks at Maggie.

Miracles of science, you learn, when you see one, when you have to live through one, are often horrifying things to watch happen.

''We have to watch her closely,'' Laurel says. ''Make sure she gets her regular scans and eye scams and keeps up with all her various therapies – which is a lot harder than it was before we got caught up in The Blip and lost our health insurance – and she has a lifetime risk of developing other cancers. But she's healthy.'' She smiles, this time a thin-lipped smile, relieved but cautious, an underlying fear still ever present in her eyes. ''For now, she's healthy. You learn to take what you can get when you have a sick kid.''

''Yeah,'' he says. His voice sounds hoarse. ''I know what you mean.''

''Anyway,'' Laurel says. ''I should get going. I'm trying to fit in as much Halloween activities as I can today. I should get going on the cupcakes. It's the first year Maggie's been into it and Sin's got her so excited for trick or treating but I'm…''

''Not sure it's going to be everything she wants it to be?''

''I don't know if this area is big on trick or treating. I'm worried she's going to end up with a lot of doors slammed in her face. I mean, she can't even say trick or treat. But,'' she shakes her head. ''I just wanted to thank you. She's been so happy lately. It's been nice seeing her confident again. Whatever you said to her gave that back. That means a lot.''

''You don't have to thank me,'' he tries.

''I do. You know I do. For a lot of things now.''

''Tell you what. Save me a cupcake. That'll be my payment.''

Her eyes go gentle. ''I can do that.''

''Looking forward to it.''

She starts to turn away and he finds himself feeling oddly disappointed, like he wants to reach out and grab her arm, ask her to talk to him some more. He likes talking to her. He doesn't like talking to most people. He likes the sound of her voice. He likes the way she makes things softer all around him. He doesn't like how much he likes it. She turns back before he can do anything at all. ''Oh, I don't know if I've mentioned this but I've invested in some new child proof locks,'' she tells him. ''Just so you know. No more disappearing acts. I promise she won't bother you anymore.''

''She was never bothering me,'' he says, which is true.

''She'll be glad to hear that,'' she says, a twinkle in her eye. This time, when she turns to leave, she doesn't turn back.

''Dinah,'' he steps out of his apartment as she approaches hers, and she swivels back around to face him. ''You don't have health insurance?''

''Um.'' She winces. ''Not…as such, no,'' she confesses. ''But I'm working on it.'' She lowers her voice to a grumble, ''Still.'' She avoids looking at him for a second, as if she's ashamed and can't bear to look him in the eye. ''It's just been. Hard to get. Always has been, but it's so much worse now. Too many people need it all at once and I don't have an endless amount of money to work with, so it's…''

He takes a step toward her. ''If Maggie needs care – ''

''James.''

''I can help you,'' he offers. ''I can get you health insurance. I mean it. I can figure something out.''

''No,'' she shakes her head. ''That's generous of you but it's not necessary. You've already done so much with the concert tickets. The hotel room. You don't have to do anything else. I can get by on my own.''

It's not so much a distant echo as it is a violent sledgehammer directly to his chest. It makes his chest feel tight, his throat ache. It doesn't stop him from saying it. ''Thing is,'' he tells her, ''you don't have to.''

''I'm used to it,'' she says. ''Really.''

He thinks he's beginning to understand who she reminds him of. ''Will you at least think about it?''

''Maybe,'' she says, an avoidance rather than anything else.

''I'm not going to stop buying you coffee, you know.''

It seems to startle a laugh out of her – no, not a laugh. A giggle. ''I gathered that.''

''You should probably stop trying to buy me coffee, though. Save your money.''

''Meh,'' she lifts a shoulder in a shrug. ''I like a challenge.''

Yes.

He's learning that.

Bucky looks at her apartment door where, if he listens, he can hear the sound of Sin and Maggie. It's a good sound. A safe sound. ''Have fun at the concert, Dinah.''

''We will,'' she says. ''I'll be seeing you, James,'' she says, a promise, and then she winks and twists the doorknob to her apartment.

He waits until he sees her step into her apartment and close the door behind her before he turns back to his, feeling lighter. The feeling of lightness, the loss of his usual tension, the strange yet familiar feeling in his chest, like an ache but pleasant somehow, lasts until he steps back into his home. The entire atmosphere of his apartment has changed drastically. He tenses, shoulders stiffening, back straightening, already running a contingency plan in his head, thinking of exit points and where his weapons are stored. Slowly, he ambles further into the loft and then, almost immediately, he relaxes.

''Have you ever considered something called a door?'' he asks, looking over at Yelena.

She's sitting cross legged on his kitchen counter, with his traitorous cat in her arms. She looks up from nuzzling Alpine and tosses him a lazy but bright grin. ''Trick or treat, James,'' she greets. ''I made you a Spotify playlist.'' She tosses his phone at him – with brute strength, mind you.

He catches it one handed, with ease, lifting an unimpressed eyebrow. He decides against saying something like I trained you better than that. She'd probably just try to garrote him. For fun. Again.

''James,'' she says again, serious. ''May I ask you a very American question?''

''No.'' He scrolls through the playlist she's made. ''Lena, this is literally just ABBA.''

''It is not just ABBA,'' she cries out, indignant.

''SOS is on here three times.''

''Because it's the best one,'' she says. ''Everyone talks about Dancing Queen and Mamma Mia, but no, it's SOS.''

''Okay, but three times?''

''Keep scrolling! It also has American Pie and Single Ladies. Also, Iris by the Goo Goo Dolls. Everyone loves Iris.''

You don't say.

''Be careful what you say about my music,'' she warns. ''Didn't you read the title of the playlist? I spent so much timing thinking of it.''

Bucky eyes her for a moment and then scrolls back up to the top, reading the title she has so lovingly typed out: I will beat you to death if you say a single bad word about any of these songs. ''That's the title you spent so much time dreaming up there, champ?''

''Champ,'' Yelena echoes, and rolls her eyes. She releases Alpine from her clutches after about fifty more kisses and high-pitched coos, and the she picks up the pink bakery box sitting next to her. ''I brought doughnuts,'' she singsongs, elegantly untangling herself and hopping off the counter, waving the box at him. ''They're the cream filled kind. Very fancy.''

He takes the box from her, flipping it open to survey the doughnuts. He doesn't think his face does anything bad.

She frowns anyway. ''Why are you looking at them like you don't like them?''

''I'm not,'' he insists. ''I like them.''

''I did not poison them.''

''I didn't say you – ''

''Really, James, I come all of this way to visit my family on an American holiday and you can't even be bothered to – ''

''Oh my god, okay, just – Jesus.'' He takes a big bite out of the first doughnut he picks up, just to make her happy, chews twice, and then lets out a long-suffering sigh. Well. He doesn't know what he expected.

''HA!'' She laughs heartily, pointing a triumphant finger at him. ''Trick! I tricked you!'' She actually bounces. She's downright gleeful. ''They're filled with instant mashed potatoes!''

He spits the bite of doughnut and rehydrated potato flakes back into the box. ''I can see that, yes.''

''You should see your face right now.'' She shakes her head at him, cackling, incredibly proud of herself. ''Oh, I am so good at Halloween.'' She pats him on the head (which is not nearly as patronizing as she intends for it to be when she has to get up on her tip toes to do it) and drifts past him so she can stand in the middle of the apartment to look around with critical eyes. ''I am an excellent tricker. Next year will be even better.''

Oh my god.

She's gonna try to kill him next year.

You know, he's never going to tell her this – he's not itching for a punch in the face, thank you very much – but she really is her father's daughter, isn't she?

''Americans are so strange with their little holidays,'' Yelena comments, while he's rinsing his mouth out in the kitchen. ''And their empty apartments.''

''It's not empty,'' Bucky denies.

''You have no furniture.''

''I have a couch.''

She looks over her shoulder at him, wrinkling her nose. ''Do you sleep on the floor?''

''Sometimes.'' He dumps the fake, contaminated doughnuts in the trash – with some hesitation because food waste makes him twitch – and pulls open the fridge. Technically speaking, he's already had breakfast. It's ten in the morning. He had breakfast hours ago when he decided to stop trying and failing to sleep and just get up. A bagel with lox. Because he's from Brooklyn and he respects his roots. But there's always room for second breakfast. ''Are you hungry?''

''Famished.'' She hops back up on the kitchen counter. ''You see I am sitting here? This is because you have no furniture.''

''Bacon or sausage?''

''Obviously bacon.''

''Get off my counter,'' he taps her foot with metal fingers. ''Wash your hands and help me with breakfast.''

''So bossy,'' she rolls her eyes, but does as she's told, easing her way into the kitchen behind him to wash her hands, humming while she does so. Yelena is an easy rhythm. This thing they have – It's easy. It feels comfortable in some way he can't explain yet. He's careful with her in ways he isn't with others. He's also less careful with himself around her in ways he isn't with others. They meet each other in the middle. It's new, tentative, but they know what they are when they're with each other.

''You gonna tell me what you're doing here?'' he asks, while she's washing and peeling potatoes.

''I told you,'' she says. ''I'm here for Halloween.''

''And that's all?''

''What else would I be here for?'' She beams at him, a real picture of doe-eyed innocence, and nudges his shoulder. ''You've been badgering me to come visit you for months.''

''I have not been – ''

''Yelena, come to the city,'' she mocks. ''Let me show you around. You always have a place with me.''

''You do always have a place with me,'' he insists. ''But I also know you and I know you're not a city girl.''

''I could be a city girl.''

''You hate people.''

''I hate most people,'' she corrects. ''I don't hate you.''

He gives her a look.

''85% of the time,'' she amends, ''I do not hate you.''

Wow, that's a wider margin than he thought.

''Good enough for me,'' he says. ''I'll take it.'' Strategically speaking, pushing her further about why she's here wouldn't work. There is no way that leads anywhere good. He has…concerns. Suspicions, even. But he lets it go. He'll keep an eye on her, tail her if he needs to, but he's going to shut up about it and, for now at least, he's going to let it go.

It's Saturday.

So far, it's a good one.

He had a nice conversation with a pretty girl in pumpkin slippers. Her smile is still echoing around in his head. She's bringing him cupcakes later. There will be fried potatoes and eggs with runny yolks and bacon and buttered toast for breakfast. He is standing shoulder to shoulder with the little girl who used to be the smallest in the Red Room, the runt of the litter, whose hands were so small they could both fit in one of his, who had a fierceness about her that was so formidable that for a split second, once, he looked at her and almost remembered the three sisters who came before her and the skinny guy from Brooklyn who never knew how to do anything but get back up.

His hands have done terrible things.

Today, they can do something better.

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''James,'' Yelena says later, pointedly casual, dipping the last piece of her toast triangle into the last of her goopy egg yolk. She's sitting on the floor – something she has complained about exactly eight times since she sat down – and has inhaled everything on her plate except for the apple slices he added at the last minute. ''Are you schtupping your neighbor?''

Bucky chokes on a piece of fried potato.

She has no reaction to this. He's trying to dislodge a piece of potato from his windpipe, coughing and hacking and wondering if she'd even give him the Heimlich if he needed it and she's just sitting there, sipping at her coffee. ''That was the very American question I wanted to ask you earlier.'' Calmly, like there isn't a currently dying super soldier spasming on the couch, she peers down into her coffee, frowns thoughtfully, and says, ''You should buy coffee creamer. Only old men drink black coffee.'' Then, rather flippantly, she tacks on, ''Also, you should chew your food better.''

Once he has successfully managed to cheat death for approximately the thirty-seven millionth time, he glares at her. ''Yelena.''

''What?'' She is unbothered. ''You should.''

''No,'' he says, vehement. ''I am not – No.''

''You're not going to chew your food better?''

''That's not – I'm not – ''

''You are not schtupping your neighbor?''

''Stop saying that. And no. I'm not.''

''Hm.'' She picks up her plate of food and dumps her apple slices onto his plate in one swift motion. ''Would you like to be?''

''No.''

''Then what was all that?''

''We're neighbors,'' he says. ''I was being neighborly.''

''It seemed like flirting.''

''It wasn't flirting. I was just being nice.''

She looks at him for a second with those piercing eyes and then snorts. ''Okay,'' she cackles, and then she punches him in the shoulder affectionately. ''Idiot.''

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Life is strange.

He knows this.

He's known this for some time. He is still working on coming to terms with it. All its ebbs and flows, the quicksilver changes, the way the waves roll in and out. The way every emotion feels like fear. The way he's still having trouble grasping things like free will and consent and congratulations, Sergeant Barnes, your body is now yours and yours alone and what do to with a body that knows how to fight and survive but not live. The way choice sometimes feels like a cage of its own making. What to do with all this open space inside of him. What to do with all this freedom.

Life is strange.

One minute, you're falling, you're in the cold, you're bleeding out in the snow, you're strapped to a table and they've taken your arm, you're locked in a cage and they've taken your name and filled you full of drugs and whispered lies in your ear, you're in a chamber of ice that you can't get away from and they've taken your entire life out of your own head and washed you clean of yourself. One minute, you're cold, you're so cold, you're screaming, you are always screaming, you have no name, you have no history, you have no country, you have no God, a prisoner of war, a weapon, an Asset, a machine, a man out of time, a monster, a damned, doomed lonely thing, long past salvation, whose body was Steve's and Natalia's and theirs but never yours, never your own.

One minute, your hands are knives and your fingernails are bullets and your bones are turning to dust and your mouth is filling with blood and you're standing in an apartment you did not pick out and you've broken a glass in the middle of the night and there's blood running down your arm and you can't remember the difference between crying and laughing or how the difference matters and sometimes people on the street recognize you and stop you and say, like they don't know the truth, like they're trying to be good, like they pity you, like they need you to know so they can stop feeling bad –

Thank you for your service.

One minute, you are a ghost and everything you have ever loved and ever wanted and ever touched is dead and dying and gone, a swirling black mass of nothingness, a cacophony of loss, and the next minute –

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''Wow,'' Yelena drawls. Her voice is dry and unimpressed but her big eyes give her away as she turns slowly, taking in the sight of the 102nd floor of the Empire State Building from top to bottom, glass to glass. ''Is very high,'' she nods. ''Very high.'' She throws a look over at him, cocks an eyebrow. ''I've been higher.''

''I don't doubt that,'' Bucky allows, one corner of his mouth ticking up. ''Still. You gotta admit. View's pretty nice.''

The view is nice. He means that. It's especially nice at night, like this, when everything is dark and the moon is high and there is that nighttime stillness in the air, even though the city still bustles beneath them, forever in motion. It's when the yellowed lights of the city come alive the most. Like a city of stars.

New York is different now.

Overly expensive and crowded, dripping with gentrification, full of greed and wealth and late-stage capitalism, every inch of it marked and scarred by various attacks and disasters and massacres. It is not what it was once, not where he came from. It's different, just like Brooklyn and the bananas and the renovated brownstones and all the weather damage the buildings down in Red Hook have faced and the historic buildings ripped away to make room for something else. Just like him. The world has changed it. Just like the world has changed him.

But, sometimes, on nights like this, calm and full of lights, it can still be beautiful.

''It's insipid,'' she deadpans. ''There are too many people in this city. Too many cars. And it smells here. Have you noticed this? My god, it's worse than Paris. Have you ever smelled Paris?'' She doesn't wait for him to answer, stepping closer to the window, peering down below curiously. She looks out at the city and works hard to mask the wonder in her eyes with indifference. ''But I suppose,'' she says, reluctantly, as if it pains her to admit, ''there is a certain appeal to this view. There are worse things to look at. It's not bad.''

He looks at her for a long moment, the seconds stretching between them. He thinks of Natalia. He thinks of Natalia often, what she would be like now, what they would be like together, even what they would be like standing here, with Yelena, but tonight he thinks of her as she was in the Red Room. He thinks of the life they had planned together. The one she so desperately wanted. He thinks about what it would have been like if they had succeeded, if they had gotten out, made a life for themselves, sought refuge on that tiny island in Canada, raised Yelena. He thinks of what they were like back then, all three of them. Most of his memories are vicious things, like a tangible cruelty that lived inside of him, a scorched mark, a brand.

For so long, there was little room for tenderness in his life, but Natalia was tender. So was Yelena, for that matter.

He used to wonder where they got that from. Where they learned that. How they kept it. He doesn't know why he was never able to grasp it back then, but he gets it now. They got it from each other. And they left part of it inside of him. Like an imprint. Like the words etched into the stone of Natalia's headstone.

He taught them how to kill. They taught him, for the briefest of moments, how to live. They reminded him how to be a person. How to break through the ice surrounding him. How, in the darkest moments, even love can be an act of defiance.

No matter how many years pass, he doesn't think he will ever stop thinking about it now that he remembers. He doesn't think he will ever stop wondering what could have been if that defiance had won in the end all those years ago. If they had escaped. It would have been a good life. Strange, a shock to the system, but good. They would have been together. That would have been enough.

But then, Natalia's voice says in his head, you wouldn't be here, would you?

Bucky looks at Yelena and watches the light reflect off the window and bounce back to her, a slant of radiance slashed across her face, her eyes, illuminating them in the dark of the observatory. He watches her lift a hand to the glass, the quiet awe slipping through her mask for one single moment of naked vulnerability.

If I'm being honest, Dinah had said, about her daughter, the thing I remember most about these places is –

''No,'' he agrees, even though he's not looking out the window, not looking at the city down below at all, but at her. ''It's not bad at all.''

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Believe in a love that is being stored up for you like an inheritance, and have faith that in this love there is a strength and a blessing so large that you can travel as far as you wish without having to step outside it.

- Rainer Maria Rilke

Chapter Text

Interlude II

Mama Bird

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You contain
your beloved: a field, a building
of softening wood. The birds.
Always. The birds.

- Donika Kelly

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She has had entirely too many lollipops today.

It's not like it's been a bad day. It's been a fairly normal day. The shop is doing well. Her girls are happy. There's some minor stress going on right now with Halloween right around the corner. She's been busting her ass to make sure her girls have a good holiday and she's got a lot to stay on top of now that she and Sin, along with Steph and Cassandra, are going to be heading to Indianapolis the morning after Halloween for their Eras Tour trip, but that's exciting stress. She's excited for Halloween. She's excited for the trip. Everything else is going fine.

Life is rolling along.

And yet Laurel finds herself finishing off her fifth Jolly Rancher lollipop by the time bath time rolls around, trying to get the phantom taste of vodka out of her mouth, doing her best to sugar her way out of a craving.

Roy was the one who told her about the trick with the lollipops.

You should try keeping hard candies or blow pops on you, he'd texted, maybe on her birthday, somewhere around there, it's still a little blurry. It helps with the cravings.

He was right (just like he was right when he followed that advice up with you should also prioritize getting yourself a sponsor; he's a good kid, she doesn't regret going against Oliver to help him when he needed it) but one thing that she hadn't anticipated was how often she would need the help. This is not her first rodeo with sobriety. Not her first time finding her feet after relapsing. But it's been harder to kick this time. She can't seem to shake the cravings, even months into her sobriety, and every day it feels like there's a new trigger. Most of the time she's not even sure what the trigger is. Just…life. Existing. Living in this new chaotic post-Blip world. Being here.

Being here without her sister.

Also, bath time.

Definitely bath time.

Tonight's playlist consists of Werewolves of London by Warren Zevon, Be My Baby by The Ronettes, You Got It by Roy Orbison, Wannabe by the Spice Girls, and Good Luck, Babe by Chappell Roan. Laurel sings along with every song, her voice bright and unflinchingly cheerful, and Sin puts on a whole elaborate dance routine to Wannabe.

Maggie still wails through the whole thing.

Even after the bath, while Laurel's combing out Maggie's fine baby curls and getting her into a fresh diaper and clean pajamas, singing along to Ain't No Mountain High Enough and Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, Maggie is still wriggly and unhappy, crying softly for her big sister.

It's nothing new.

She doesn't like baths. She doesn't like having her hair brushed or her diaper changed. She doesn't like her eye drops. She doesn't like taking her prosthetic eye out for cleaning every two months. She likes it even less when she has to take it out for the ocularist every six months. She doesn't like to eat either. Or go to therapy. Or her regular scans. She doesn't like to eat. Or take her medication. She doesn't like much. She's a happy girl, sometimes, even most of the time, but there is a lot about her life specifically that she just doesn't like.

And Laurel is the one who has to put her through these things.

She has to give her baths. She has to change her diapers. She has to make sure she eats and take her eye out and put it back in and take her to the ocularist and the doctor and the hospital and all those various appointments that come along with being a cancer survivor and a stroke patient. She has to hold her down when they give her IVs and watch her drop off into sedated slumber and hold her when she wakes up groggy and scared and crying. She has to give her medications she hates taking and do physical therapy exercises that she doesn't want to do. She has to sit by her side when she has a seizure and do nothing but say Mama's here, baby and clean up vomit and keep a folder of medical information that seems to have more added to it with every new doctor's appointment.

She has to do these things.

Only her. Only Mama. It's not like there's anyone else. Maggie's father is dead. Even if he wasn't, he wouldn't be here. He had an entire other family. He'd be with them. He was never going to be an involved co-parent. Ollie made his choices a long time ago. Laurel and her girls have had to live with that.

''Okie dokie, baby girl,'' she murmurs, gently rubbing lotion into Maggie's skin. ''We're almost done.''

Maggie rubs at her eyes with her right hand. She still looks displeased. It's easy to tell, just by the way she struggles to speak, even to say Mama, which is one of the only words she never has a problem with, that she's still stressed out. ''M-M-M-Ma…''

''Mama's right here,'' Laurel assures her.

''M- Ma… Mama,'' Maggie croaks. ''Maggie…m-mmmilk?''

''You can have some milk as soon as we're done here, Tiny, I promise.'' She pumps another squirt of baby lotion into her hand and starts working it slowly into Maggie's hands. ''And then it's time for sleep, okay?'' She starts with Maggie's right hand, her dominant hand, calloused from gripping her rollator so tightly. Then she moves onto the left one, curled inward with spasticity, weak but stiff, with that tremor rumbling throughout it. She massages the left hand carefully and does some of the nightly gentle exercises the physical therapist recommends.

Maggie doesn't protest. Even smiles when her mom kisses her hands. If there's one thing she doesn't hate, it's the massages.

A few minutes later, in the middle of Otis Redding's rendition of Wonderful World, the bedtime routine comes to an end and Laurel picks Maggie up and smothers her with kisses just to make her laugh.

This is not where she thought she would be in 2024.

Maggie was born on November 30th 2016.

She was four days overdue and came screaming into the world in the bathtub of a Motel 6 in Shreveport, Louisiana. Laurel remembers that day like it was yesterday – mostly because it was the day her daughter was born but also probably because it's hard to forget almost bleeding out on a bathroom floor.

She thought about things like this while she was on that floor. She thought about bath time and bedtime routines and kissing her baby's hands and the way her daughter would say Mama. She thought about what Sin would be like as a big sister and what life would look like a decade from then. She thought she wouldn't live to see any of it. If Bruce and Dick hadn't found her when they did, she wouldn't have. She's so grateful to be here, to be Sin and Maggie's mom. She wakes up every day feeling ecstatic that she gets to be their mom.

The thing is, though, Maggie was born in 2016, right?

It's the end of 2024.

Next month, she should be turning eight. She should have friends. She should be in school. She should be playing soccer or tee ball. Maybe even following in big sister's footsteps in dance or gymnastics. She should have birthday parties to go to on the weekends and she should be asking Mom for help with her spelling and copying everything her teenage sister does and growing out of her shoes too fast. She should be excited for Halloween and have strong opinions about her costume and what candy is the best. She should be running around with Cass and AJ in Delacroix, playing Captain America, getting swung up onto Uncle Sammy's shoulders while Mom and Auntie Sarah watch from the porch with frosty glasses of sweet tea.

And if she can't be that, if those lost five years had to happen, then she should be turning three. Running and jumping and playing with other kids her age at the playground. She should be shy but curious, fascinated by the way rain falls and the bugs on the sidewalk and why the sky is blue. She should have questions. She should be eager for independence, throwing tantrums in the aisles of the Food Bazaar and pushing boundaries and buttons. She should be growing like a weed, tall and lanky like her mother, narrowing those sharp Lance eyes and furrowing her Daddy's brow, hands on her hips in a perfect mirror of her big sister.

But she's not.

She turns three at the end of next month and she can't walk unsupported. She can't say full sentences and struggles just to get the words she does have out. The other kids at the playground won't play with her. She never asks questions. She's not potty trained. She is in remission from a cancer that took her eye before she even understood what she could see and her doctors aren't overly impressed with her slow recovery from the stroke that nearly killed her. Most of her life is still spent in various doctor's appointments. She's a little girl, a sick little girl who has done nothing but survive without actually living, and every time Laurel thinks too deeply about it, she gives herself a panic attack.

None of this is part of the life she planned for them when she was pregnant and she and Sin would sit in the Wilson's backyard in Delacroix and dream up ideas for where the three of them would live and the life they would build together. None of this is what they wanted for themselves and certainly not what they wanted for their miracle rainbow baby.

But.

They're here, aren't they? They're alive. After spending five years as dust, maybe just being alive in October, feeling the crisp autumn air, watching the leaves turn in Brooklyn, is enough. It's still a beautiful life they have here. Laurel does her best to remember that. The depression that has persisted inside of her since she was a kid makes it difficult (and the back and forth she's done with her substance abuse since before she could even legally drink hasn't helped) but she does try.

She has two of the greatest reasons to try.

Truth be told, she never thought about children when she was younger. It wasn't in her plans. She wanted to be a lawyer. She wanted to save the world. She wanted to marry Oliver. She never thought about being a mother until Black Canary, still green, without the necessary training, bleeding from a knife slash to the side, stumbled into an alley in California and found a little girl poking her head out of a dumpster. Now she has two daughters. They are the softest, most beautiful things her hands have ever held.

There are exactly two wonders of the world to her and both of them are right here, under this roof, and they both look at her like she hung the moon in the sky just for them. How can she be sad for long when she has them?

How can she still be so shaky in her sobriety that she's downing sugar just to stop herself from thinking about drinking her own mouthwash just to get some sort of a buzz when she has such incredible daughters?

Maybe it's just grief. Grief is a persistent thing. It's never done with you.

She has a good thing going on here in Red Hook. A good life. It's difficult, but a lot of people have it much harder. Especially right now. She has nothing to complain about. Maybe she just wishes the people she loved and lost could be here to see it.

She wasn't close with her father and sister, they didn't much like who she turned out to be, didn't agree with a lot of her choices, but there was love and history there and that meant something, enough to get them together on the holidays, enough for them to love her children. But they still died. Still left her here on her own. Her father barely got to meet Maggie before he died in 2017. Sara died in 2022 thinking her sister and nieces were dead.

And Ollie…

Oliver was not a perfect father, not even necessarily a good father, but he did love his children dearly and he died thinking one of them was dead and gone. She thinks about this too much, almost obsessively, the unfairness of it like a sharp pain in her chest. Whatever hurt he caused, he did not deserve that.

He died thinking he was going to see her again.

At least that's what Tommy told her when she and the girls showed up in Star City, freshly undusted, to see the grave and the fancy monument the city had dedicated to its fallen hero.

Dinah Laurel Lance. The prettiest girl in the whole damn world. I was so lucky, Tommy said, catching up to her in the cemetery, just the two of them standing at Oliver's grave. That was the last thing he ever said. It was you, Laurel. It was always you. He wasn't afraid to die that night. He thought he was going home. He thought he was going to be with you and Maggie.

She has spent the past year trying to figure out how she feels about that and she still has no idea. She tries not to think about it too much. It's hard to reconcile the seventeen years of damage they did to each other with his apparent dying confession of I was so lucky. He hadn't exactly made her feel like he thought he was lucky to be with her while they were together. Any of the times.

Also, he was married when he died.

He had a life with Felicity. They had that whole obnoxious CW love story going. They were raising William together. Mia wasn't even a year old. And he spent his last moments alive waxing poetic about his dead ex.

Yet another choice Oliver made that Laurel will have to live with.

The other loss she still doesn't know how to think about without crumbling.

She thought about him all the time when she returned. She thought about nothing but him, fifteen years old, scared and alone, waiting for his dad to find him, for months. She was thinking about him when she had her first drink in years. When she relapsed for the first time in years. Her longest stretch of sobriety gone, buried under the rubble of grief. She blamed everyone – but especially Bruce – for letting the boy she brought to him to keep safe die. Probably would have burned every bridge in Gotham if they didn't love her so stubbornly. There is a reason she needed to get out of that city when she and the girls Blipped back to a world even more fucked up than the one they left. There is a reason she and Bruce fell apart so hard.

His name was Jason.

A lot of couples don't survive losing a child.

They just happened to burn out more spectacularly than most. They can barely look at each other now. She looks at him and it's you let him die. He looks at her and it's you left us here alone. There are some things you just can't get past.

Sometimes, usually when one of the kids is texting her, complaining about Bruce or unloading on her about Gotham's idiot villains or asking her for sparring tips, she wonders if leaving was the right choice. If they could have worked things out. If she ruined them all by breaking up the family they had built.

But it wasn't really her family, is the thing. She was a guest. An interloper. She brought them Jason and she brought them Steph, but she was always going to be temporary, no matter how hard they tried. She loves those kids like she loves her own and some part of her will always love that emotionally stunted loser who is still out there dressing up like a bat at his big age – and let's be honest, if she could have stolen Alfred, she would have – but Gotham wasn't her life.

Besides, she never wants to step on anyone's toes.

Or paws.

This is her life. This is how things were meant to be. Just her and her babies.

''What do you think, Tiny?'' she asks, nuzzling at Maggie's cheek. ''Should we go say night-night to your sister?''

Maggie lights up, nodding her head enthusiastically. ''Sss-Sissy!''

''Okay, let's go find her.''

They find Sin where they usually find her: in her room, sitting at her desk, music blaring through the speakers, schoolwork open on her desk and bed, chewing on a pen and furiously reading something on her laptop.

She may not biologically be a Lance, but she is all Laurel.

Laurel raps on the doorframe, but gets barely a glance up in response. ''Hey, sweet pea, your sister wants to say goodnight.''

Sin hums in acknowledgement but still doesn't look up. ''Okay.'' She turns the music down and holds her arms out, still without looking away from her computer. ''C'mere, 小妹.''

Laurel raises an eyebrow, but cautiously transfers Maggie into Sin's distracted arms. ''What are you working on? Homework or that fanfiction about the gay firefighter show I know you're working on?''

Sin snaps her head up, eyes wide, and then abruptly slams her laptop shut. ''Mom!''

''No, it's good!'' Laurel hastens to say. ''I like that you're creative!''

''Oh my god,'' Sin grumbles.

''I'm being supportive!''

''Mom, stop,'' is the pleading mumble she gets as Sin slouches in her seat and hides her blushing face in Maggie's quickly drying curls.

''Okay, okay,'' Laurel holds her hands up in surrender. ''Sorry. But you know I think you're very talented.''

''Uggggh.''

Maggie makes a cooing noise and pats at Sin's hair with her right hand. ''O-Oka-ay, p-pea?''

''Okay, Tiny,'' says Sin. Then, to Laurel, ''I have algebra homework.''

''All right.'' Laurel laughs quietly. ''You've said goodnight to 姊, Maggie. Time for bed.'' She holds her arms out and Maggie looks at her briefly and then flops onto Sin's shoulder.

''It's all good, 小妹,'' Sin whispers, pressing a kiss to Maggie's cheek. ''I'll see you tomorrow. We'll eat breakfast together before I go to school.''

Maggie grunts, still determined to pout.

''Maggie,'' Laurel singsongs, rubbing her back. ''How about we go lie down and you can have some milk?''

Slowly, the girl raises her head. ''Milk?''

Laurel nods. This time, when she holds out her arms, Maggie willingly thrusts her arms out and allows herself to be taken from her sister's arms.

''Night, Mags,'' Sin says, turning back to her work. ''Love you.''

Maggie mumbles something that sounds a lot like ''lub wu.'' It's close enough.

''All right, you get going on that homework, sweet pea,'' Laurel says, cradling Sin's cheek gently, the heart tattoo on her palm pressed against her daughter's skin. ''Once I get her down, I'll come help you finish up. Maybe we could watch a couple episodes of What We Do in the Shadows before bed?''

''Nah,'' Sin waves that idea off completely.

Laurel tries not to take that personally. She decided to stay in tonight mostly because today's been a rough day for Maggie and she wanted to be with her. Not to mention she wanted to give Steph a night off to go be a young woman in the city. But she also wanted to spend some time with Sin. She does her best to be as present as she can be, but it's no secret that Maggie is a high needs child. Sometimes, with a high needs child, a baby who's been through as much as she has, other children can get pushed to the side. Laurel is constantly looking for ways to make sure that doesn't happen to her eldest. She doesn't feel like she's done a terrible job.

Then thirteen hit.

Guess it's not cool to hang out with your mom as much once you hit those teen years.

''I actually do want to get some writing done before bed,'' Sin adds. ''Which means you're free to watch as much Bravo as you want.''

At least there's that.

''Sounds like a nice night in to me,'' says Laurel.

Sin snorts. ''You're such a millennial.''

''I hate the way you say that.''

''How do I say it?''

''Like some people say boomer.''

''Well,'' Sin shrugs. ''Old is old.''

Laurel gasps dramatically, rearing back in offense. ''Bite your tongue, young lady!''

''Mom,'' says Sin, sounding gravely serious. ''The other day you used the word shooketh. No one says that anymore. You're officially old. I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this.''

''You're not sorry at all,'' Laurel says. ''But fine. Break your mother's heart. And watch that music. You know James has enhanced hearing. He doesn't need to be hearing Taylor Swift on repeat through his wall.''

Sin looks up at her, lips quirked into a little smirk. ''You let him hear your music,'' she says, voice smooth, teasing.

That's another thing about her baby. She's always been too smart and too perceptive for her own good. ''That's not…'' Laurel trails off, biting down on her bottom lip, willing herself not to blush. She hadn't realized that Sin was aware of what she was doing with the music and the singing and the little game she's been playing, but in hindsight, she should have known. There isn't much that gets past Sin these days. ''We're not talking about me.''

''Sure, we're not,'' Sin drawls. ''Anyway, it doesn't matter. He's not home.''

Laurel pauses. She makes an attempt to untangle Maggie's hand from her hair, but gives up pretty quickly. ''How do you know that?''

''I heard him leave earlier,'' Sin says. ''He was with that blonde. I heard them bickering about what to get for dinner.'' She glances up, but only momentarily. ''She's really pretty.''

''Oh. Hm.'' Laurel tells herself to reel it in. Conceal, don't feel. There is absolutely no reason why that should make her feel anything at all. ''Good for him, I guess. But still,'' she smiles softly, ''not too loud, kiddo.'' She ghosts a kiss over Sin's forehead and then leaves.

It's bedtime and she has to feed her baby. That's all she needs to be thinking of. She does not need to be thinking about her pretty boy neighbor and whether or not he's on a date with the gorgeous blonde she's seen him with over the past couple days. That's his business. And he deserves some fun. If he wants to go out on a date with a beautiful woman who isn't full of scars and stretchmarks and wears something nicer than an old ratty, stained t-shirt and sweats, more power to him.

It's no skin off her back.

Really.

.

.

.

For the record, she hadn't meant to start any of this.

She feels like that's a really important thing to establish here.

None of this was intentional.

She moved to Brooklyn for a reason. This was not that reason. Yes, she wanted out of Gotham. She wanted away from Bruce and the memories of whatever life they had once attempted to build together and the ghost of the child she hadn't even known she'd lost. But there was more to it than that. More than most people know. She moved to Red Hook because it was slightly cheaper, a calmer place to raise kids, and there was a space for lease where she could open the shop.

She moved to Brooklyn because Sara was living here before she died and she wants to know why.

Only Babs knows that part.

She hadn't meant to move into the apartment beside the Winter Soldier. She hadn't meant to become friendly with the sad and pouty lone wolf next door. She certainly hadn't meant to start flirting with her father's childhood hero from World War II.

Obviously no one means to do that.

This was not supposed to happen.

It wasn't supposed to get to the point where every time she steps foot out of her apartment, she's secretly hoping she'll run into him in the elevator or the laundry room. It wasn't supposed to get to the point where their game of cat and mouse at the coffee shop is the best part of her day. The point where he's getting her and her daughter tickets to the Eras Tour. The point where the only time she doesn't feel the need to break out an emergency lollipop is when she's talking to him. She hadn't meant for any of that to happen and she hadn't meant to lie to him.

Well, she had.

She just…

Maybe what she hadn't meant to do was like him.

If she's being honest, which she so rarely is, she would admit that this situation has gotten away from her.

That's on her. That's her bad.

She's lying to Sam and Sarah. She's never lied to them. Not like this. Not since 2007. She's sure Bruce and the BOP are concerned. They even contacted Ted about it and asked him to check on her. They're supposed to leave that old man alone. He's retired. Even her cousin back in Seattle is wary of her right now and her cousin is a freaky ass witch. Steph keeps asking her if she's sure she knows what she's doing and she brushes it off every time, tells her I'm the Black Canary, of course I know what I'm doing, but to tell you the truth –

She has no fucking idea what she's doing.

For god's sake, she came here to solve her sister's murder, not take part in a 90s romcom with the fucking Winter Soldier.

And yet.

God, she gets herself into the weirdest situations.

Luckily, by some odd miracle, Maggie goes down easy tonight. Laurel lies down with her in their shared bedroom, gets her latched on, and Maggie drinks her fill while Mama sings her to sleep.

She opts for the old Tina Turner favorite, The Best, tonight. It's been a while since she sang this one. It reminds her of when Sin was little. She didn't sleep well, had the hardest time settling down at night, so Laurel would sing to her. This was Sin's favorite. She used to ask for it whenever they'd curl up together in whatever shitty apartment they were staying in in whatever new city they were in that week.

Music, she has learned, is one of the easiest forms of human connection you can make. And one of the most important. Having children taught her that. There has never been a day that has gone by where she has forgotten about the simple blessing of music. She's currently working on making sure James won't either.

She finds her mind drifting back to that long after Maggie's fallen asleep, after her voice has quieted, and she's left lying in the silent dark.

She thinks about living in California with Sin, after Shiva left, when she and Sin were both unwell, poor as dirt, and still just getting to know each other. Sin was barely out of her toddler years and struggling from living a life of isolation, neglect, and malnourishment. Laurel was in her early twenties and struggling with what had been, at the time, severe depression. She had been fresh out of the hospital after another overdose when she first met Sin. It was hard back then, one of the most difficult periods of her life, juggling recovery, a legitimate day job (that she could bring her kid to, no less), a less than legitimate night job, raising a child who needed her so much, and her own fragile mental health.

She remembers renting a room down in the Venice Beach area in a shabby apartment with three other people. It wasn't a great situation for a child to be in, but it was what they had and she tried to do her best with it. She had zero help at that time, which meant it was all up to her. They spent most of their time out of the apartment, avoiding one specific roommate, a guy around her age who didn't know how to take rejection, so they spent a lot of time at the beach or on the boardwalk, roaming around, discovering new things. It was the first time she felt like a parent. Helping Sin discover new foods and new things, introducing her to the world, watching her eyes grow big and awed whenever she'd stumble across something she had never seen before.

Nights were the hardest.

They shared the apartment's one bathroom with the other roommates and had one small bedroom to themselves. It had a disgusting carpet that she did her best to keep Sin off of, a mattress on the floor, a faulty lock on the door, and an extremely unreliable window unit air conditioner. But it was a roof over the heads and she was grateful for that, so she sucked it up and dealt with it. She curled close to Sin, sang her to sleep, kept a knife under her pillow, and became a very light sleeper.

It was the nightmares that were the worst, both hers and Sin's. She dreamt of Sara and Ollie at the bottom of the ocean, but the more common occurrence was her waking up gasping, still thinking she was drowning in the bayou or sitting at that table in Shiva's place with knives stuck through both hands, trying to choose between stopping the pain or continuing on with her resistance training. It was even more common for Sin to wake up crying and terrified multiple times a night, not knowing where she was, afraid of being punished.

That was when Laurel had learned that Sin likes to dance. That it relaxes her. It was when she first implemented the get up and get moving rule. It used to stop Sin's panic attacks in their tracks. Getting her up and dancing, singing along to Lady Gaga's The Edge of Glory or I Heard It Through the Grapevine. It's a tactic she still uses to this day.

Eventually, after she lost her job at the café she'd been working at, and after the Hannibal Bates thing that she doesn't like to think about, things got so bad that she had no choice but to take Sin and leave. First, to her parents (her dad, in Star City, who was too drunk to care about anything other than the fact that she wasn't Sara, then her mom, in Central City, who refused to enable Laurel's bad choices) and then to Ted (who really, really did not think it was a good idea for her to be caring for a child) and then back to Delacroix and the Wilsons, who took her and Sin in without question.

It was, unquestionably, the roughest time she has ever had in California.

And she loves California!

When Black Canary ''died'' in 2016 and everyone erupted in grief from Louisiana to Star City to California, Laurel sat back, took it in, watched livestreams of vigils for her in Los Angeles and New Orleans, and joked to Sarah and Aaron: When I die for real, bury me in Hollywood Forever. Turns out I'm famous enough for it.

California is the closest thing she has to a real home. Other than Louisiana. It's the place she and her girls always seem to end up, in between moves, even just for vacations. The sun and the sand and the hiking trails are the things that bring them the most peace. Sin was born in Compton. After Maggie's birth, Bruce bought a house in Malibu, right on the beach, and told her to take her girls and recover in peace. It was the same place they went after Maggie finished her chemo. Same place they went initially after she left Gotham. California means comfort. Means rest.

But 2009 was a tough year.

Yet when she thinks about it now, it doesn't seem so bad. She remembers sitting on the beach, watching the waves, while Sin napped in her lap. She remembers when Sin tried ice cream for the first time. She remembers dancing to Lady Gaga and singing you're simply the best, better than all the rest and the first time Sin called her mama and Sin watching her do her Black Canary training. She remembers presenting Sin with her first stuffed animal, that ancient old Bucky Bear that had been by Laurel's side since she herself was born. She remembers walking on the boardwalk with a tiny hand in hers and hiking along the Los Leones Canyon with Sin on her back. She remembers the sun more than she remembers the bad things.

That was where Sin heard Taylor Swift for the first time and said, decisively, after listening to The Best Day: Mama, this song is about us!

Now, Sin is thirteen and thinks her mother is an old, uncool, embarrassing millennial.

Although she did still say – albeit quietly, mostly to herself, after all the screaming and jumping up and down – after Laurel had presented her with the tickets to the Eras Tour: I hope she plays The Best Day.

It's something, at least.

Once she's sure Maggie is asleep, she unlatches, fixes her shirt, and rubs Maggie's back when the girl stirs slightly, murmuring to her gently until she drops back into a deeper slumber. She looks peaceful in her sleep. Like there's nothing bothering her. Like nothing hurts. For a few minutes, Laurel doesn't move, lying on her side, watching her baby girl sleep.

She is not a good mother.

This is a fact.

She loves being a mother. During the better moments, it feels like it's the only thing she knows how to do. But, truth is, even as much as she loves it, she's not particularly good at it.

James told her she was. He said you're good at it and she's got a great mom and he meant these things so sincerely that it made something inside of her ache. It was sweet of him to say. He says a lot of sweet things. But he doesn't know her. Doesn't know about her everything she's put her girls – especially Sin – through over the years. Everything she's done. All the rot inside her that sometimes spills out and poisons everyone around her. That she periodically tries to drown with alcohol or worse.

It's not even just her legal children she's failed.

She has godsons back in Louisiana who adore her. They call her Aunt Lolo and she calls them her baby boys and she promised them back when their father died that she was going to be around more, that she was going to be there for them and their mother, and she couldn't keep that promise.

She brought both Jason and Steph to Bruce and now Jason's dead and Steph's traumatized and scarred.

She made a promise to Thea at Oliver's funeral back in 2007 that she would be there for her, that she wasn't going anywhere, and then she promptly proceeded to try to kill herself and then fled town and never truly came back.

She did what she could for Roy when he was in the throes of his own addiction, got him the help that Oliver refused to get, and then she got skewered and left town.

She promised Tyrone and Tandy that she would always come when they called and then she got Blipped and now she's been back for a year and she still can't track them down.

She swore to Cassandra that she would be with her every step of the way, that she would always be there to help her, no matter what, that she wants her in Sin's life so the two sisters can know each other, and then she got dusted, came back years later, and fucked off to Brooklyn.

Oh, and also, she's relatively certain the new delivery driver down at the shop is A) Spider-Man and B) homeless. Still hasn't figured out how on earth she's going to approach that situation, but she's going to need to do something. Especially if he's actually homeless. Kid looks like he's twelve.

It's like she's incapable of not failing her kids.

In early 2014, after six months of increasing ruin, a miscarriage, an implosion between her and Ollie, lapsed sobriety, a DUI, an overdose, and a hospital stay due to aspiration pneumonia, her friends staged an intervention and she was defensive and bratty and drunk off her ass. The only thing that got her was when Bruce looked at her, very calmly, and said, Sin found you choking on your own vomit on the bedroom floor, Laurel. Do you even remember that?

She hadn't.

What followed was three months of rehab, her temporarily relinquishing custody to Bruce, and after she got out it was arranged for her and Sin to go spend the summer in Delacroix where Sarah and Aaron could keep an eye on her and make sure she kept up with her outpatient program. When she was released from rehab, sent home with hugs and a good luck and phone numbers for support programs, she went back for her daughter and Sin was happier than she'd ever seen her. She'd been disappointed when Laurel came back for her. It's not like it lasted. It's not like they didn't work through it, didn't go to family therapy and individual therapy, and pull their small but mighty family unity back together, but sometimes Laurel still remembers standing in SeaTac, watching Sin cry in Bruce's arms and wail, But I don't wanna go with Mama! Why did she have to come back? She ruined everything!

She is not a good mother.

Though she tries.

Laurel ghosts a hand over Maggie's curls, then pulls back. ''You're never going to be embarrassed by me,'' she whispers, ''right?''

After a few more minutes of stewing in her Mom Feels and Mom Guilt, she tears herself away and tries to put her darker thoughts away for the night. She arranges the pillows around her sleeping baby, sets up the Bucky Bear to watch over, and then slips out of bed with the baby monitor in hand. She checks in with Sin, reminds her that it's time for bed soon, and then she makes herself a cup of chamomile tea with honey and vanilla. It feels strange to have nothing to do, no leads to chase, no patrol to do. She has never been good at being still. But she is, as Sin so often likes to point out, a millennial, so she takes her tea and she hunkers down on the couch with some old school Vanderpump Rules.

Halfway through the first episode, she's listless.

Full disclosure: It's great. It is the quintessential reality show. The cast was lightning in a bottle. It's the messiest, stupidest, most 2010s bullshit she's ever seen and it's glorious. But, uh…

It's extremely uncomfortable and embarrassing to watch the Stassi and Jax relationship unfold and fall apart and think about how familiar it is. How not unlike her relationship with Oliver it is. How actually very similar it is. That's a yikes. That is a big yikes. No getting around that. What's even worse is the fact that it took Stassi maybe somewhere around two or three years to leave Jax in the dust and move on.

It took Laurel seventeen years.

And she only let go of him once and for all after they'd brought a child into their mess.

She's dumber than Stassi fucking Schroeder.

Laurel gapes in horror at the screen for a while, her mug of tea cooling in her hand as she comes to grips with this horrible realization, and then she pouts for the rest of the episode, slunk low on the couch, hunched over her tea. How utterly humiliating. She finds herself on her phone soon after, tea forgotten, mindlessly scrolling through Instagram, possibly stalking the VPR cast just to see who got Blipped and who didn't, checking in with Steph to see how her date is going and if she needs a ride, and then, before she knows it, she's pulled up Sarah's contact info.

She has a lot of friends. As much as Black Canary tries to be a loner, a lot of people seem to love Dinah Laurel Lance. For some godforsaken reason. She tries not to take advantage of that too much. She tries to love them back as much as she can. She's grateful for the family she's found in all of them.

But none of them are Sarah Wilson.

Wils is unquestionably the best friend Laurel has ever had.

Which is exactly why she exits out of her contact info and doesn't call or text her tonight. If there's one thing she does not need to do, it's get her very normal, very busy single mother best friend mixed up in what she's got going on down here in Red Hook. Playing detective. Being a lying liar who lies. James. Wils has a business and two boys she needs to focus on. She doesn't need to be worrying about her prodigal white stray right now.

Oh, right, a voice says in her head. Because you dodging calls and pulling away six months after your last relapse won't worry her at all.

The voice sounds an awful lot like her dead sister.

''Fuck off,'' she volleys back in a mutter. ''Don't peck at me. I'm doing this for you.''

You're romancing the Winter Soldier for me?

Laurel slumps farther down in the couch, wrinkling her nose. She's not romancing the Winter Soldier. Just for the record. She's not. Because that would be bad. A terrible decision. And she makes good decisions. Now.

Kind of.

She briefly thinks about texting Babs or Helena, or maybe even Zinda, but doesn't. They'd only end up asking questions about work and she doesn't want to talk about that right now. Especially not with them. She's trying to keep them out of this for a reason. She does not at all think about texting Nyssa. I mean. She does. But she's not stupid enough to not understand that texting your ex on an off night is a bad idea.

She very seriously thinks about texting Sam, though. She's been leaving him on read way too often lately. Aside from the fact that this is a rude thing to do to your surrogate brother figure, if she doesn't talk to him soon, he's going to start digging. She writes and deletes three separate texts to him tonight before reluctantly accepting that it's just not a good idea tonight. Her headspace is too weird and he's way too good at reading her. Has been since day one. He'll know right away that something's up.

Instead of giving into her loneliness and boredom and texting an ex or one of the friends she's been pulling away from, she brings up someone else's contact info.

Pete Castiglione.

She looks at her phone for a second, trying to convince herself not to text him, trying to remind herself that it's not a good idea to antagonize him, and then she does anyway.

Evening, Frank :)

The reply is instant: no leads.

Wow, she replies. You don't even know that's what I was going to ask about. Maybe I just wanted to say hi to a friend.

It takes him a minute or two to respond to that one. She can practically see the emotionally constipated and slightly confused look on his face. we're not friends, he says.

She texts back: :(

just take the goddamn night off wings jesus christ, he responds.

I am, she insists. I have tea. I'm chilling. I'm watching Vanderpump Rules.

Frank texts back one word: trash.

And then he blocks her.

Which is very rude but pretty on par for Frank. She'll be unblocked by morning. He can't tune her out forever. They have a mutually beneficial…well. She wouldn't call it a partnership. She thinks there's a decent chance they'd kill each other if they had to spend any prolonged time together. Last time they worked together on something for more than a day or two, he'd likened her to a honking goose and she'd called him a psychopath. But they both work alone, she doesn't judge his methods (outwardly) and he doesn't judge the stupid shit she does (outwardly) so occasionally they help each other out.

This does not extend to her texting him just because she's bored, apparently.

Fair.

She puts her phone on the coffee table and tries to focus back on her show. She lasts a valiant fifteen minutes and then she plucks her laptop from the table, snuggles back into the couch cushions, and pulls up her email. She scrolls for a bit and then clicks on the email Bruce sent her back in August when Sin had accidentally spilled the beans to him that they were living next door to the last living Howling Commando. He had been extraordinarily unimpressed when Laurel brushed that off like it was nothing. Days after, he'd sent her this email. No subject line. Sent through his burner email.

I want you to think long and hard about the kind of people you're comfortable exposing the girls to, the email read.

She still rolls her eyes when she sees that particular line. Well-meaning but patronizing and hypocritical as all hell. Bruce's specialty. She'd responded to the email without even clicking the videos he'd sent her.

A truly hilarious thing for a dude who dresses like a bat and takes to the streets to fight criminals with a child soldier sidekick to say, she wrote, and hit send before she thought it through. It had not been a particularly helpful way to respond. They hadn't spoken for two weeks after that interaction.

She'd watched the videos, of course. They were from 2014 and 2016. All of the Winter Soldier. She hadn't asked Bruce where he'd gotten the videos. She hadn't said anything else. She hadn't even reminded him that her girls were going to be exposed to a lot worse just by living in the world they live in.

Her oldest is five years away from being whisked away by her biological mother and forged into the perfect weapon. Sin will know carnage in her life, no matter what happens. The former Winter Soldier being her awkward but sweet next door neighbor doesn't rank very high on the list of traumas she has been through or will go through.

Maggie loves the guy. She's not even three yet and she's almost died several different times. Technically, depending on how you view the whole turning to dust thing, she has died once. Whatever Bucky Bear did in a past life matters little to her. He's got a kitty who adores her, a fun metal arm, and he made her feel better about her prosthetic eye. That's good enough for her.

And Laurel…

She inhales sharply, hesitating before clicking on the first video. It's a blurry, incredibly shaky cell phone video taken by a bystander of the confrontation on the bridge. Most of the videos are bystander videos. It's not like she feels nothing watching the video play out. She cringes. She flinches when the Soldier rips the steering wheel out of Sam's car. Her heart rate picks up slightly. She's not out of her mind. It's not a comfortable thing to watch.

Sammy's in that car.

That thing on top of it is James.

It's difficult to watch. But it's also from a decade ago. Sam is fine. He's alive. He's healthy and happy. He's Captain America. And James gets to be a person again. He's free. This was a long time ago. It's jarring, but it's old news.

Sam really does have the strangest way of meeting new people, though. She tilts her head to the side and plays the short video again. He fishes his sister's drunken suicidal stray out of the bayou in 2007 and the universe says meet your new grungy little sis! Captain America heckles his jogging abilities and the universe says found you a new best friend! The Winter Soldier rips his steering wheel out of his car on a major highway and the universe says you're never gonna believe how this ends up!

The universe sure like to throw sad raccoons at him and then book it before he can throw them back.

That's weird. Her Sammy lives a weird life. She lives a pretty weird life too and she has definitely had her fair share of strange meet-cutes, but never once has she had a depressed white person literally thrown at her by the universe.

Man needs a vacation.

She doesn't play the next video at all. She's seen it already and she has no desire to watch it again. A lone figure stands nearly frozen in the middle of a busy intersection, face hidden by a mask that looks more like a muzzle and goggles that fit tightly to his face. He has a metal arm. A ray of light catches it once and it glints. And then he moves. Raises his arm and fires the weapon. The government issued vehicle, already shot up and beat to hell, goes up in flames and smoke and that lone figure, standing right there, casually steps out of the way. The Soldier walks calmly but with purpose toward the SUV, floats across the pavement like a ghost, and rips the car door off its hinges with one hand.

Somehow, despite the fact that it is the least violent of the videos, it's the one that unnerves her the most. She was shaken and unsettled the first time she saw it, but not for the reason Bruce thought she would be. There was nothing human in that lone figure. Not in the way he moved, the way he struck, the way he tilted his head. That was not a person. But there was a person inside of it. A person who could not get out.

The next morning, James bought her coffee. Caught up to her in the Red Hook Coffee Shop and won that round of their game, those startling blue-gray eyes meeting hers as he left, lips ticked up into a smirk. A few days after that, they ran into each other in the third floor laundry room, exchanged pleasantries, and he carried her laundry upstairs for her. She doesn't remember what she'd said to him, whatever it was hadn't seemed like a big deal to her at the time, but she remembers that he'd smiled at her. He has a nice smile, sweet and boyish. It lights up his entire face. Changes the shape of him. His voice is always so much softer than she expects it to be.

Everything about James is haunted, from the tightness around his eyes to the frequently downturned mouth, but there is no doubt about his humanity. It's present in everything he does. He's a person, all the way through. He's burdened, heavily so, but he's human. He is not the ghost in the machine anymore.

If anything, that video just reaffirmed that for her. She doesn't need to see it again.

She clicks the next video instead and watches the Winter Soldier and Black Widow exchange gunfire, grimaces when the Widow catches the Soldier in the eye. When he pops back up, firing wildly, Laurel focuses on his movements. She doesn't feel a need to memorize or analyze his actions, his strategy, get in his head, because she's not sure how much there is to get into. He was a machine. She could never think the way he did, but she watches him move. Every single thing he does has a purpose. There is no faltering.

Awful lot of strutting, though.

She watches him jump off the bridge, land on an abandoned car, the roof and windshield caving in under him, and walk it off. She snorts at the sight of his strut, shaking her head with a roll of her eyes. It was a lot more intimidating six months ago. Before she knew the man inside the Soldier.

Turns out he just kind of walks like that. He walks to the bookstore next to her work like that. He walks to the coffee shop like that. The man stalks through the aisles of the Food Bazaar like that. Has no idea that what a distraction he is for poor Susie at the artisanal cheese counter.

It's kind of infuriating.

She told her cousin about it back in the beginning, went on a whole ramble about the way her deadly former assassin neighbor walks, and all Edie had to say was, ''Maybe he's hung like a horse.''

''Wow,'' Laurel said, ''thanks for putting that thought in my head.''

''Oh please,'' said Edie, ''you've been talking about the way this guy walks for five minutes straight. That's not a normal thing to chat about, baby. You were already thinking it.''

Which, you know, fine. Maybe that's true.

But fuck off about it.

The second to last video is even more shaky phone footage (this one with bonus commentary by what sounds like the most excited stoner in DC if you turn the volume on) of the fight between the Winter Soldier and Captain America. Laurel takes a moment to do the normal human thing and feel some sympathy for Steve Rogers. It must have been horrifying. She can't imagine the amount of confusion and heartache Steve must have felt when that mask came off. She also can't imagine the amount of relief. The way he felt when he immediately dropped his fighting stance, stopped, and stared. The camera doesn't pick up any audio, but she can see the way his mouth moves, can tell what he's saying.

''Bucky?''

She can't imagine that kind of horror.

…Actually.

She sort of can.

The Black Canary did fight the mysterious Woman in Black assassin who popped up in Star City back in late 2013. They were both quite stunned when those masks came off. But that was different. Sara wasn't brainwashed. There was a hell of a lot more than just love and grief between the sisters at that moment. Which was then made quite clear by the fight continuing after the masks had come off.

What happened between Steve and Bucky was different.

Laurel feels terribly for both of them.

That said, she doesn't feel bad about the excitement she feels when she watches the fight again. Look, she's a fighter. It's her thing. She's one of the best fighters out there. She's proficient in several different martial arts. She's a superstar when it comes to hand to hand combat. But nothing she has ever done comes close to this. It's one of the most beautiful fights she's ever seen. The speed alone is incredible. Although she does kind of want to spar with him. If she ever tells him the truth about who she is, that is. Other vigilantes, other superheroes, have studied that fight. It's taught in classes. She herself has been asked to teach it.

Jason was obsessed with it.

You gotta teach me how to do this, he said one day, this close to bouncing up and down as he shoved his phone at her, open to Youtube.

Do I look like I have a vibranium shield or a metal arm? she'd fired back.

No, but you're the Black Canary, he shrugged. You're supposed to be the best of the best. I bet you could take both of them at the same time.

She'd huffed out a laugh. Depends on what you mean, she'd thought to herself. I admire your confidence in me, kiddo, she'd said.

She blinks a few times and tries to shake the memory from her head, ignore the sudden stab of wrenching grief. She plays the video again. She keeps her eyes on the Soldier.

It would be an extremely bad idea for her to pursue anything with this man. She knows that. She's not an idiot. She makes terrible choices, especially when it comes to her love life, but she's not an idiot. James is a kind man, but there are things about him that are scary. There's no denying that. He's the most brutal, dangerous fighter she's ever met, more dangerous than Bruce, more dangerous than Ted, more dangerous than the al Ghul sisters, possibly even more dangerous than Shiva. He is the single most proficient weapon she's ever seen. And he's traumatized. Physically and mentally unwell. Deeply so. She shouldn't trust him let alone flirt with him.

And she absolutely should not let him into her bed.

She plays the video of the fight back one last time and catalogues his every move, carefully zeroing in on his speed, efficiency, and knife skills, the fluid way he moves, like the violence is just another part of him. She's torn between desperately wanting to spar with him and hoping she never ever has to fight him. He's much better than her. Which is not something she's ever admitted about anyone.

''Dinah Laurel,'' she mumbles to herself, ''you cannot, under any circumstances, have sex with the Winter Soldier, you absolute fucking dumbass.''

She chews on her lip and plays the last video, the security footage of the Winter Soldier escaping custody in 2016. No weapons. No body armor. Just a red henley and jeans and an especially unique skillset. He picks his way through Avengers like they're nothing.

She sighs heavily.

''Nah,'' she says. ''I'm gonna.''

Yeah, okay.

Dangerous formerly brainwashed assassin. Violent. Some might call him a predator. Knows how to kill her six ways from Sunday. She is the Black Canary, a world renowned fighter, and yet he has most likely forgotten more about battle and combat than she has ever learned. PTSD – and she's willing to bet some serious depression – out the wazoo. Less than great social skills. But.

He has really nice shoulders.

In all fairness, it's not like he's the first assassin who's been in her bed. What's another foolish notch in her bedpost?

She closes the laptop.

Maybe she'll think about making better choices in the new year. She can make it her new year's resolution. Her 2025 goal. Stop having sex with people who can kill you. It's a good goal. But it's still 2024. And it's only October. She still has time.

Okay, fine, so, she's an idiot.

What of it?

Laurel puts the laptop on the coffee table, gulps down some of her barely lukewarm tea, watches Maggie sleep on the video baby monitor for a minute or two, and then checks the time.

Time to press pause on whatever this is and be a mom.

Sin is still awake when Laurel pokes her head back into the bedroom, but she's in bed now, cozied up under the covers in her pajamas, book in hand.

''How's the book?''

Sin doesn't look up from The Hunger Games, but she does frown down at the words on the page. ''Boring,'' she says. ''I thought it would have more cool fight scenes.'' She sits up in bed as Laurel enters the room further, tossing the book aside. ''it's just a lot of dystopian politics that don't make sense, archery, and straight people shit.''

''Don't say shit,'' says Laurel. She takes a seat on the edge of the bed and resists the urge to reach out and brush dark hair out of her daughter's face. She'd undoubtedly get a scoff and an eyeroll for that one. ''You used to think archery was cool.''

Sin rolls her eyes. Oh, okay, so no way to avoid that. Good to know. ''Yeah, like a million years ago.''

It was 2013, but close enough. It does feel like it was a million years ago. And also like it was just yesterday.

Archery was about the only thing Sin and Oliver ever bonded over. However briefly. Sin never liked him that much. At first, when he got back, when he and Laurel fell back into each other like the lovesick fools they were, it was just jealousy. She'd spent years being Mama's one and only, all she needed, and adding someone else to that wasn't welcomed. But then, after what went down with the Longbow Hunters and everything that happened after, Sin's dislike took on a different edge, became sharper, protective. It was a big part of the reason why every time Laurel stupidly went back to him after that, she chose to keep it a secret.

But, in the beginning, when the Hood first showed up in Star City, Sin thought the bow and arrow was the coolest thing she'd ever seen. It was something new. Something exciting. Sure, her mom was a superhero with a sonic scream that could take down ten men at once, but he was like Robin Hood. She decided she wanted to do that. Declared that when she grew up and got old enough, she was going to be an archer like Ollie and a fighter like Mama.

And Ollie did try with her. To his credit, he did try. Despite her standoffishness and occasional frostiness, he was determined to get Sin to like him for those six months. He would have done anything to impress her. Including teaching her some basic archery. She may not have been his biggest fan, but she liked that. It was enough to get her to soften toward him slightly. They even picked out Laurel's Mother's Day present together that year.

It didn't last.

Sin hasn't picked up a bow and arrow since.

''Don't hold that against me,'' she says now, as a brutally honest teenager who thinks Hawkeye was the weakest Avenger because she's overly critical of the bow and arrow as a weapon choice. ''I was a kid.'' She crosses her arms over her chest. ''Every time I try to look up books with action scenes, I just get lists of books old white guys would read at the airport.''

Laurel laughs. ''Them's the breaks, baby,'' she says, and before she can think too hard about it, she leans in to press a kiss to Sin's forehead. ''You brush your teeth?''

''I brushed my teeth, I flossed, I moisturized, I journaled,'' Sin says with a nod. ''And I finished my homework.'' She gestures to her backpack sitting neatly on the ground next to her desk. ''You can check it if you want.''

''Okay, good.'' Laurel tilts her head to the side and looks at Sin for a moment. ''Maybe you should ask Sergeant Barnes for book recommendations. He's always reading. He might even let you borrow a book or two.''

Sin wrinkles her nose. ''Nah, I don't know him like that.'' She uncrosses her arms and toys with the edges of her comforter. ''Hey, you know,'' she says, after a second of fiddling with her blanket, looking up, ''I bet they're not even dating.''

''Who?''

''Bucky and the blonde. I don't think they're a couple.''

''No?''

''No, she's too young. And I didn't get that vibe from them. It was more like a friend vibe.''

''You heard enough of their conversation to clock the vibe?''

Sin manages to hold her mother's gaze for a solid two seconds and then she cracks under pressure. ''I may have been watching through the peephole when they left.''

''In other words,'' Laurel says. ''You were spying.''

''Spying seems like such an ugly word.''

Laurel shakes her head, rising to her feet. ''James can do what he wants, honey. With whoever he wants.''

''But,'' Sin frowns, ''you like him, right?''

Laurel pretends to be too busy fussing with Sin's homework to answer that right away. it's not really important, she doesn't think. It doesn't matter if she likes him or not. There is such a thing as too much baggage and she thinks they both might fall under that category. How is she supposed to want anything at all with the man when she's lying to him? She does a cursory check of the algebra homework but truth be told she doesn't know anything about algebra. She assumes she did once, but her own history with middle school and high school algebra was a long time ago. Oh god, she is old, isn't she? She flicks through the pages, makes a correction or two where she can, and then slips the homework back into the backpack.

''Mom,'' Sin says, uncharacteristically quiet.

Laurel tries not to sigh.

It's a touch shameful that it's apparently so obvious that she's down bad for the guy next door that even her kid's picked up on it. What's next? Is Maggie doing a long con? Is she going to Parent Trap them? Is that why she likes James so much that she has a special nickname for him?

(It's Bear, by the way. She calls him Bear. He doesn't know this.)

''I'm lying to him,'' she says.

Sin shrugs her shoulders. ''Stop lying then.''

Laurel curls the backpack to her chest and chuckles. It really is that easy to her, isn't it? And maybe it should be. Maybe she should just bite the bullet and tell him who she really is. Maybe she's just being stubborn.

Or maybe she's scared he'll find out who she is and those elevator chats and shy smiles will stop.

''Oh, hey,'' Sin pipes up. ''When can I have my phone back?''

Laurel tosses out her best Mom Look. ''When you stop making secret TikTok accounts.''

''But I'm thirteen now,'' Sin cries. ''I'm allowed! I'm of age!''

''No, you are not. I don't care about their qualifications and you shouldn't either. I'm Mom,'' she reminds her. ''Only my rules matter and my rules say you're not rotting your brain on social media until you're eighteen and I cannot legally stop you.''

''Social media doesn't rot brains,'' Sin insists, pouting. ''You learn stuff on there.''

Oh, god.

This time, Laurel is the one rolling her eyes. ''Baby,'' she says. ''You don't need social media to learn.'' She puts the backpack down on the desk chair. ''You know, when I was your age,'' she says, and ignores the put upon groan her daughter lets out, ''I didn't have a phone at all. I didn't have my first phone until I was nineteen. And I think I was better for it. I probably could have waited even longer.''

''Ugh, ew.''

''You'll survive without a phone,'' Laurel says, stepping back over to the bed. ''Read your book. Just don't stay up too late, okay? Ten more minutes at the most.'' She boops her on the nose, mostly just to see what she'll do, and pulls away with a grin. ''You have school in the morning.''

''Okay. Hey,'' she grasps onto Laurel's wrist before she can pull away. ''Mom?''

''Hm?''

Sin hesitates briefly and then asks, ''Will you do fight training with me tomorrow after dance?''

Laurel swallows to keep from laughing. Yep, should've seen that one coming. Try as she might, she doesn't think she'll ever be able to keep the Canary out of her girl. ''I'll think about it,'' she offers. ''Where did we leave off last time?''

''We were working on blocking.''

''Right. Well, maybe. If I can get away from work early. If I can't, you could probably ask Steph. She's well trained. She can help you with your blocking.''

''Yeah, maybe,'' Sin says. ''But Steph isn't the Black Canary.''

''Oh, now you're just trying to butter me up,'' Laurel accuses. ''We'll see, Sin. Now get some sleep.''

''I will if you will,'' Sin says. ''Which means you can't stay up and wait for James to come home so you can spy on him and his probably not girlfriend.''

''I wasn't going to do that.''

''You totally were. I can see it in your eyes,'' Sin picks her book back up with a smirk. ''You're jealous.''

''I'm not,'' Laurel tries, although she doesn't try very hard. She knows her daughter and she knows resistance is futile.

''Whatever you say,'' Sin singsongs.

''Don't be a little shit.''

Sin beams at her. ''Don't say shit,'' she says, and sticks her tongue out. ''Now, go. Get out of my room. I'm supposed to have ten more minutes of reading time.''

''Fine.'' She bends down, tapping her cheek and waiting for Sin to dutifully lean up and kiss her on the cheek. ''I love you.''

''Love you too.''

Laurel tries very hard not to get too excited over the fact that her teenager is apparently not too cool for I love yous yet. It's kind of her biggest win of the day. ''Sweet dreams,'' she says, and then slips out of the room, closing the door behind her, leaving Sin to her reading. 

She is not a good mother. She knows this. She thinks about it all the time. She thinks about it now, heading back into the living room to grab her phone and the baby monitor, checking in on Maggie before she makes her way into the hallway by the door where the two biggest closets in the apartment are. She's done some damage to her girls. Especially to Sin. She, of all people, understands the damage parents can do to their children. She knows the consequences. With the lives they lead, she's sure she'll do more. She doesn't know how to stop it from happening, she doesn't know how to be perfect, how to not hurt them, how to get them through life without pain. It's a helpless thing. Being a parent. You never truly know how much damage you'll cause. How your decisions or your recklessness will impact your children later on. She is not a good mother, but she tries. She can't imagine there will ever be a day where she doesn't try.

Tonight, that's going to take the shape of her going through the unpacked boxes stuffed into the closets so she can find her old copy of The Princess Bride, a book, a good one, with some real action scenes, and give it to Sin.

If she keeps trying, maybe one day she'll do something right.

Maybe one day she'll earn the unconditional love they've given her.

Until then, all she can do is keep trying.

.

.

.

When I one early spring, bedspread yellowed parrots, lay
silent, listening, each day pooled in my chest as pneumonia,

as that flooding wild fields, & as each empty branch armored
itself with offshoots, I knew that dead or not I'd rise, as my

children's voices from a kitchen below or through a flung-
open window, & my daughter saying to someone taking better

care of them than I, I'll spend the whole rest of the day with Mama,
& the truth of it dunked my head into a bucket, & I sputtered

a first, clean breath. I'm here. I'm still here. & this happening,
this springing back, a mother who will live, is now. again.

- Jenn Givhan

Chapter Text

Interlude III:

What I Have Always Done

.

.

.

I'm sorry for what I have always done. It still will happen.

- Molly Brodak

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.

.

Much like she does with most things, Laurel opts not to think about all the dumb shit she's gotten herself into in favor of thinking of her daughters.

Also, stress cleaning.

She still needs to make Sin's lunch for the next day and do the dishes, but instead, she finds herself wedged in one of the two overstuffed closets in the hallway, air pods in, listening to Mazzy Star and Joni Mitchell and other things that do not make her think about her neighbor (who may or may not be on a date with a gorgeous young thing who probably doesn't have saggy leaky boobs from nearly three straight years of breastfeeding) or her Wilsons (who think she's still living la dolce vita with Gotham's favorite billionaire) or Babs and Bruce (who are probably planning her next intervention as we speak) or her dead sister and her dead kid and her dead baby daddy.

Or what a terrible mother she is.

She's determined to shove all those bad thoughts away, lock them up the way she normally does, and do something productive. Currently, that means she's thinking about books. And Sin. It's not a new combination. Sin has always been a reader and Laurel has always been chasing down books she thinks her kid will like.

Years ago, back when Sin was tiny enough to fold into her arms and wear on her back in one of those toddler hiking backpacks, the first book Laurel ever read to her was The Secret Garden. They read it cover to cover over and over and again and not only did it ignite Sin's passion for reading, but it made her declare, happily, that someday, when they had a house to live in just the two of them, she wanted a garden. They've never lived in a house just the two of them, not for long anyway, but Laurel still wanted to give her a garden.

So, she built her baby a garden empire.

What? Like it's hard?

The first Sherwood Florist opened in Seattle in 2011. She opened it with her cousin Edie. It was an ill-advised business venture at the time, considering they were both broke single mothers with chaotic lives and didn't have the time or the resources to dedicate to starting a business, but they did it. And somehow, against all odds, they're still doing it. The second location opened in Gotham in 2015. The third opened in Malibu in 2017. The fourth opened just this past July here in Red Hook.

If she can find a good location with decent rent, a major part of her ten year plan is to open a new shop in New Orleans so that when she eventually retires from Black Canary life, she'll have somewhere to go that's closer to Delacroix and the Wilsons.

The Gotham location is shuttered now, closed down during the Blip years, the reminder of everything she lost too much for Babs to handle, but the others are still thriving.

The one in Malibu, currently run by Edie's oldest daughter, has flourished in ways none of them ever saw coming, bringing in more money than the Seattle location, a regular favorite among the rich beachy folks of Malibu and the surrounding areas. Their arrangements have been on Real Housewives of Beverly Hills a handful of times thanks to a few of the women who have become regulars and Laurel is 80% sure that one of their most loyal customers (who rarely shows up herself and usually sends staff but occasionally comes in shrouded in dark sunglasses, a hat, and a hoodie she's practically drowning in) is either Kendall Jenner or Hailey Bieber. One of those gorgeous, rich, extremely anxious young women.

The new Red Hook location is still getting off the ground, but she's working her ass off to get it there and word of mouth between California rich and New York rich seems to have done her a world of favors. It's only been open a handful of months and already she's booked four holiday parties, two weddings (and she hates doing big events like weddings), signed a contract with a local restaurant, had three former customers who used to come into the Gotham location track her down and drive up to buy huge arrangements from her, and she's had to hire extra staff to keep up with the demand. And that's all on top of the usual parade of bridal showers and baby showers.

And the original in Seattle?

It was a tiny shop when she originally opened it up with Edie. Neither one of them expected it to last the year. Now that same tiny shop has been featured in Martha Stewart Weddings and The Knot and has become, under Edie's watchful eye, one of the most sought after flower companies for weddings in the Seattle area.

There's a lot more to her than she allows people to know.

Mark that down as another thing about her that James doesn't know. She should at least tell him about that one. Though, in her defense, that one isn't really her fault. She's not hiding her business. If he's made assumptions, that's on him. Maybe he's not, maybe he knows more than she thinks about her flower shop, but she kind of gets the feeling that he thinks she's broke broke, which – yes, medical debt sucks. Trying to get health insurance in a post-Blip world sucks. Navigating the healthcare system sucks. Having a sick kid sucks. It all takes a lot of money. It takes even more to run a business. She's not rich. She can't afford everything. She worries a lot more than she'd like to about rent. But she doesn't need him to worry about her. She lives in a waterfront two bedroom apartment in Brooklyn that's supposed to be getting its own fitness center in the new year.

It's gated.

The life she has now is a far cry from the one she had back in 2009 when she and Sin were barely scraping by and living in that rented room down by Venice Beach.

Her kids have clothes on their backs and food in their bellies and a roof over their head. She has enough money for dance, gymnastics, and takeout night, which keeps Sin happy and a Disney+ subscription, which keeps Maggie up to date on Bluey. She has enough money for Halloween costumes and candy and Christmas presents. She has enough to treat herself to a facial every six weeks. She even has enough to splurge every now and then and go in for a laser resurfacing treatment, just like the true California girl she is at heart. (Although she still draws a hard line at those ridiculous long nails.)

She's doing just fine.

Except for the amount of crap she has in her house leftover from work. She's pulled three boxes out of this closet so far and every one of them has been stuff leftover from what she's assuming was…the Gotham location maybe? Or maybe even things that didn't make the cut when they were starting the Malibu location? Candles, vases and other ceramics, soaps and bath bombs, gift cards. How did they even get here?

Man, she didn't go through anything when she moved in here, did she?

She was mostly doing it by herself, to be fair. She had Dick and Babs helping her for a few days, but that was about it. The kids back in Gotham were still mad at her for leaving and didn't want to help, Bruce was working (which was code for he was also still mad at her for leaving and didn't want to help), and she hadn't even told Sam and Sarah she was moving. She kind of wishes she hadn't opened this closet. Now she's going to have to go through all these boxes. Some of the stuff she can add to the inventory down at the Van Brunt shop, but a lot of these things need to be trashed.

And these boxes are seriously in the way.

Laurel pulls down another box from the shelf, balances it in one hand with some difficulty, pulls the lid off, and immediately lets out a squeak and closes it. Holy hell, talk about a jump scare. Just in case she needed another reminder of how bizarre her life is. She releases a shaky breath and then holds the box up to squint at the writing on the cardboard.

Dad's collectibles.

There are a few different reasons why she hasn't mustered up the courage to look through the boxes of her father's things. One of them is that most of it is in storage in Central City under her mother's watchful eye and the less contact she has with her mother, the better. One of them is that she's just not ready. The other is, at this point in her life, given everything that's going on, far more embarrassing.

She sinks down to her knees on the closet floor, pulls the lid off the box, and looks at the framed picture right on top. It's an old photo, black and white, and it was one of her father's most prized possessions. He didn't have many hobbies – other than drinking, that is – but he was, at one point in his life, a collector. He liked to lock himself in his office with his bourbon and his computer and scour eBay for things to add to his collection. He liked history. He liked war history. Specifically, he liked – well.

She picks up the framed photo of Captain America and the Howling Commandos and swallows hard. She's not sure what's harder to look at. The two young, fresh-faced boys who have no idea what's coming. Or the man who looks exactly like his great nephew who would go on to nearly kill her and her baby in 2016. She pinches her lips together, viscerally uncomfortable. Sometimes the absurdity of her life really hits home.

Like when she's staring into her father's belongings, looking at a picture he spent close to a decade tracking down and used a good chunk of her college fund to purchase, and trying to figure out how to mentally deal with the fact that not only has she met two of the men in this picture from 1944, not only is she living next door to one of them, but she's actively flirting with him.

She's made the man blush.

There's been, like.

A dream or two.

Her life is a joke and she's the punchline.

Laurel sits herself down on the floor, back against the closet wall, her grip on the framed photograph tightening, listening to Alanis Morrissette sing you've already won me over in spite of me, and don't be alarmed if I fall head over feet. She fumbles with her phone for a second, skipping to the next song, scowling. And then she has to listen to Chris Isaak sing the world was on fire and no one could save me but you, it's strange what desire would make foolish people do.

''Oh my god,'' she hisses, and turns the music off completely, ripping her air pods out of her ears and shoving them in her pocket.

Music is one of the most important forms of human connection. Except for when it's being annoying.

''What am I even supposed to do with that?'' she complains to absolutely no one other than the stupid universe and its stupid signs. ''I know I'm being horny on main right now. Thanks for the reminder. What do you want me to do? Slip a note under his door that says BTW I'm DTF whenever you want? He wouldn't even know what that means. He's over a hundred years old.''

It's not like it's that weird, if you really want to dissect it. She didn't grow up with Sergeant James Barnes looming over her head. Didn't even grow up with Captain America looming over her head and a lot of people grew up with that particular shadow. That was her father's thing. She couldn't have cared less. Sara was enamored with Peggy Carter for a while there and both girls had their turns with that old Bucky Bear, but Laurel was never part of this world. She wasn't a Captain America and the Howling Commandos fan.

She liked the Backstreet Boys.

Whole different vibe.

Laurel looks at Sergeant James Barnes, standing right next to Captain Rogers, already battle worn and shadowed, but still wholly alive, still bright and vibrant. The man in the picture belongs only to himself (and maybe to Steve Rogers) and his convictions and his beliefs and…and…

Okay, in her defense, look at that jawline. He has a face made for sitting on. What is she supposed to do? Not try to sit on it? That just seems unrealistic.

''I'm going to hell,'' she mutters to herself, setting the picture aside. ''Daddy would be so horrified with me.''

I wouldn't be, Sara's voice says in her head. I would totally try to get Peggy Carter in bed if I could.

''I believe that,'' Laurel responds.

I doubt Dad would be either, Sara says. He'd have a whole scheme to get you two together and a binder full of wedding plans. It'd be a multi-step plan. Imagine if he had a grandchild with Howling Commando blood. He would literally never shut up about it.

Laurel chokes out a laugh.

That's probably true.

She sets the picture aside gently and pulls the box over to her, sifting through the contents, and then she looks up at the shelf, eyeing the other boxes with the same thing scrawled on the side. Dad's collectibles. Impulsively, she rises to her feet and takes down all of the boxes, lugging them out into the hallway.

With all of those boxes out of the way, she finally spots the box she's been looking for, the one labeled Malibu House Books. She pulls it down, flicks through the titles, and snags The Princess Bride. As quickly and quietly as possible, she sneaks back into Sin's bedroom and slips the book into her backpack.

Then she goes back to her mess and gets to work on Dad's collection. She empties out a few of the boxes, fishes out all the photographs from the collection and puts them in the empty boxes. She adds in letters, some books on the other Howling Commandos, and everything else that looks particularly sentimental. She leaves behind a lot of inconsequential things that only a nerdy collector would want like diagrams and toys, supposed artifacts that her father flagged as fake, but adds some copies of Steve's art and some of the rare Howling Commandos memorabilia. She also makes sure to add everything that has Timothy ''Dum Dum'' Dugan's face.

She hefts the overflowing boxes into her arms and takes them over to the dining room table, scribbling For James on the sides with a Sharpie pilfered from the junk drawer in the kitchen. No one deserves these memories more than he, the last living Howling Commando, the only man out of time left, does. Not even historians or collectors or fanboys. At some point, when she gets over herself and pulls it together, she's going to give these boxes to him.

Maybe tomorrow.

She pokes through the boxes with the capped marker, picking up the critically acclaimed Howling Commando biography that was written by Gabe Jones in the late 80s. It's signed and everything. She flips through the pictures in the book, lingering on the pictures of James. There are only a few pictures of him. Most of them are of the other men, the ones who never got the amount of credit they deserved, especially Jones and Morita, but there is one solo picture. She lingers on the pictures of the men that look joyful, the ones where they're all together, soot stained and sleep deprived but alive and together, the knowledge that they're doing something important enough to keep their morale up. Then she lingers on the one solo picture of James.

It's a black and white candid, taken from afar, of him standing in the woods somewhere in France, leaning against a tree, a cigarette hanging from his lips, rifle over his shoulder, the light casting shadows on his profile. It's a good picture. The boy in the woods is not unrecognizable as the James she knows. His posture's a lot different now, she's guessing from the arm, and there are undeniable shadows that live inside of him these days, shadows that he can't get out, but that's still the same jawline she knows and he still holds his cigarettes in his mouth the same way and he still has the same sense of determination. Almost arrogance.

James Barnes: the OG James Dean.

That's not an exaggeration. James Dean literally talked about how Bucky Barnes was one of his biggest inspirations. Guy had a massive crush. It's out there. It's in print. It's kind of a well-known thing. Has been since the 50's.

People have written Bucky Barnes/James Dean fanfiction.

Laurel knows this from a deep dive that she did one night after Black Canary's very public death. She was in hiding down in Delacroix with Sin, she was pregnant, and she was recovering from a stab wound, emergency surgery, and sepsis. She wasn't doing much other than sleeping and scrolling her phone and that night, after she'd sobbed her way through articles and personal testimonies about Canary and blamed it on the pregnancy hormones, she learned all about real person fanfiction.

Most of it is smut.

It didn't necessarily surprise her that people are out there writing about historical figures doing the nasty, even when those historical figures happened to be her father's favorite war heroes, but it did surprise her that people write graphic smut about her. The superhero genre is very popular. Some of it made her feel a little inadequate.

She chews on the inside of her cheek and touches her finger to the picture in the book. It's understandable, you know. That James Dean would look at this specific photo and create an image in his mind of who the tragic war hero with the broody eyes and jawline made of steel was. He probably looked at the upturned collar and the cigarette and the lazy confidence in the posture and thought he understood. He was hardly the only one. But at the end of the day, he was a boy with a crush and he carried that crush with him. He didn't actually know James.

And yet, somehow, even all these years later, the public perception of Bucky Barnes as the original Rebel Without a Cause has remained. For decades, he has been touted as one of the most famous Bad Boys in history. It was boyish, charming Captain Rogers with his sweet smile and his dark, brooding shadowy sniper right hand over his shoulder. It's an easy thing to see. She understands why people see it.

But it's a mischaracterization.

James was never a bad boy or a rebel or a brooding shadow. He was just a sweet kid who would have followed the boy he loved to the ends of the earth. He was a lot nerdier than most people know. He liked science fiction and comic books and penny candy. He loved his mother. He took care of his sisters. He used to play the piano for Sarah Rogers whenever she asked. He was smart and a good student. He dropped out of school when he was only fourteen so he could work and help put food on the table, but he still set aside time to learn so that he could help his sisters and Steve and other neighborhood kids with their homework. He was a good boy. He deserved better.

She knew all this before she met him. She knew before they spoke. Before she heard the sound of his voice. Before he smiled at her. She's known these things for – god, a decade now.

Steve told her.

Laurel exhales slowly, closing her eyes.

There are many reasons why she hasn't told James who she is.

She doesn't want to involve him in what she's doing. She doesn't believe anything good can come from involving the people she cares about in this mess. Selfishly, she doesn't want James to look at her differently when he finds out who she is.

Honestly, she's still on the fence about reviving Black Canary to the general public. Especially when that would undoubtedly mean putting herself on the radar of the people Sam and James work for, which she really does not want to do. It's bad enough that she risked getting herself involved with that fiasco at the beginning of the month when she took down those racist losers trying to take out Sam. If she gets involved with Sam's team, that means getting in bed with the government. There's no way around that. They may go out of their way not to mention the name of the government agency they work for but at the end of the day, Captain America's team is currently working either for or with SWORD. It's not the worst agency to work for, not as shifty as SHIELD or ARGUS, and word on the street is that it's currently undergoing a major restructuring under the helm of the bright-eyed and idealistic new director.

But it's still a government agency.

Laurel has worked extremely hard for over a decade to keep Black Canary an independent force. She keeps to the streets. She's never had any interest in being affiliated with anything military or government adjacent. She's loosely involved with the Justice League and she's an OG Birds of Prey member but one of the most well-known things about her tenure in the vigilante world is that she is not exactly a team player. Canary is for the people.

If she tells James who she really is, if she tells Sam she's here, if she puts down roots in this Avengers soaked city, that means she's putting herself in the crosshairs of a government agency. She doesn't know if she can do that.

This all seems practical to her. A logical reason to keep her secrets. An easy justification.

But then there's the other reasons, the more personal ones, the ones that make her secrecy feel like a betrayal.

What is she supposed to say to the poor guy? How do you look the person you've caught inexplicable feelings for in the eye and tell him, Hey, by the way, I briefly knew the guy I think might have been the love of your life. He loved you so much it was hard to look at him sometimes because it burned so bright in his eyes. I'm sorry. I know he's not on the moon. I don't understand how he could have left you when you were the only thing he ever thought about.

It feels like a violation.

The sound of a wail pierces the silence and she nearly jumps out of her skin. It's an embarrassing way for the Black Canary to react to a noise. She closes the book and places it back in the box before hurrying back to her bedroom to Maggie.

Maggie's crying, trying to push herself up into a sitting position, pushing her hair out of her face.

''Hey, baby.'' Laurel doesn't hesitate to slip under the covers next to her baby. ''It's okay. You're okay. I'm right here.''

Maggie's shakier than usual when she's sleepy and tonight she doesn't even bother trying to lift her left hand, reaching for Laurel with her right hand, whining loudly.

''Come here.'' Laurel puts on a smile as she curls Maggie close. ''Everything's all good. I've got you,'' she says, wiping at the little girl's tears. ''What are these tears for, kiddo? Can you tell Mama? Does something hurt?''

Maggie doesn't bother using up the energy trying to speak. Just whines and tugs at Laurel's shirt, pulling herself closer and closer like she's trying to shove herself back into the womb. Which tracks. She's been a velcro baby since the day she was born. Not that Laurel can judge. She's a pretty velcro mom.

She gets Maggie back to sleep easy enough after a quick check to make sure she's feeling okay, but after about five minutes of laying in bed, stroking her baby's hair and humming, she realizes her mistake. She should not have laid down. She has a mess to clean up and Sin's lunch to make and now she's lying here and her eyelids feel like they weigh a thousand pounds. The only thing keeping her awake is the feeling of guilt that's settled into her belly like a rock.

It's not fair. Everything she's keeping from James. She knows that. It's not fair that she knows more about him than he knows about her. It's not fair that he doesn't even know everything she knows about him. It's not fair that she's comfortable enough to use him, but not comfortable enough to tell him who she is and who she knows.

She hadn't meant to move in next door to the Winter Soldier, but she had meant to sent her girls over to his apartment with the stray cat that day. She wanted him to see her children, look at their faces, hear their voices, clock the vulnerability in them. She had meant to be as sunny and sweet and disarming as possible in their interactions. She had meant to bring up his sisters.

When it comes to his presence in their lives, she doesn't care about the Winter Soldier. It's a non factor. She has no need for him. She had been aiming to activate the big brother inside of him. An eldest sibling with super soldier serum flowing through his veins? Captain America's protector? Yeah, she wanted that level of protection for her kids. Older siblings have instincts that are very similar to parental instincts. She was counting on that. She needed to know he still had it in him.

Now she knows.

If something ever happens, if this entire situation goes sideways on her and trouble finds her here, if she's ever incapacitated or worse, he will protect her daughters. He's a good man. A strong man. She trusts that.

She feels comfortable with using him for that. She feels comfortable with being friendly and flirty. She feels comfortable wanting him. But she's still not comfortable with the idea of unmasking herself in front of him. Laying it all bare.

It's not fair, she knows that. She knows she should back off if she can't give him honesty. Or maybe she should just get it together and try. She doesn't do things like that. She doesn't open herself up and let people in. She hasn't done that since she was a child. It requires vulnerability and honesty. A sincerity that she can't cover up with a joke. It's not something she's good at. All the people who love her had to break in themselves.

She meant what she said when she said I don't tell people things and I don't normally tell people this. I'm not really a people person. She is not someone who is known for being forthcoming with her life. She doesn't think she has fully trusted anyone since 2007. Even when it comes to the people closest to her – Sam and Sarah, Babs, Steph, even Bruce on the good days – she knows she trusts them with her life and she knows she trusts them with her babies, but she's never quite sure whether or not she trusts them with her.

She's not great at therapy, but she's done it enough to know that there is still some part of her that remains trapped in the past, stuck in that betrayal, under the water. Like a form of suspended animation. It's not like there was ever any closure. In fact, there was only ever more hurt piled on top of that particular wound.

Her boyfriend and sister had an affair and they died in the middle of it. She was the one left behind to live through the extremely public grief and humiliation they left her with. And she did not live well. She almost didn't live at all. She didn't want to.

And then they came back.

She never did.

Neither one of them were ever very sorry for what they did to her. Just for what it cost them. They didn't like the person she became in their absence, didn't approve of what she did with her life, but neither of them ever truly acknowledged that what they did had a direct impact on her. Who she was and who she could have been died with them and they both outright refused to understand that. They resented her as much as they loved her.

They never forgave her for being a different person than the one they left. They never forgave her for being a visible, tangible consequence of their selfishness.

Now, here she is, the better part of twenty years later, and they're both dead again – for real this time – and she is once again standing in the space they left behind, all alone, scarred by the scorch marks of their sudden deaths, drowning in that familiar sea of grief and anger and guilt and loneliness and horrible, horrible relief.

How do you come back from a betrayal that no one cared about? How is she supposed to trust anyone when the two people she loved the most in the world destroyed her and didn't care? How is she supposed to trust herself when she let them do those things to her?

She likes James. He's a kind man, regardless of whatever he thinks about himself. She likes that. She likes how sweet he is to her kids. She likes how patient and understanding he is with Maggie. She likes his cute little sweetheart cat. She likes flirting with him and how easily she can make him blush and the way he smiles at her. She likes their game of cat and mouse at the coffee shop and when she catches him looking at her tattoos. She likes talking to him. She can't remember the last person she liked talking to outside of her kids. She likes that he calls her Dinah. No one ever calls her Dinah. She likes the way it sounds when he says it. She likes the way she feels when she's with him. Like she's young and vibrant again, clever and witty and cheerful. Like she could be the person she was before all the heartbreak and the loss and the trauma.

At this point, with how long it's been, he's probably going to hate her for her lies of omission no matter what, so it's a moot point, but what if she tells him everything, lets him see her for who she really is, and he doesn't like what he sees?

It's not like it's a totally irrational thought.

She thought Oliver was the love of her life. She believed that for so many years. Too many years. And he never liked her all that much. Loved her, sure. He loved her so much. Even she knows that. There was never a moment where he did not love her. But he didn't like her. Half the time she's not sure Bruce liked her either. He was just infatuated by her. He likes having someone to take care of, someone he can build back up, save the way he couldn't save his parents, and she was an easy choice. Nyssa was the closest she ever came to someone who liked her for her. Even then, in the end, there were parts of Laurel's life and choices she made that Nyssa didn't want to be a part of.

If there's something about her that most people don't like, it has to be a her thing, right? If she is so unlikable, if there's something about her that makes people leave, what's the point in even trying?

Laurel looks down at Maggie, curled up on her chest. She rubs her back, relishing in the warmth of her little body for a moment or two. It's fine. It is. However this ends, she'll be okay. Not everyone is meant to be loved in that way. Her kids love her. She shouldn't need anything other than this.

Eventually, she does manage to successfully extricate herself from her daughter's grip, slipping back out of bed. She gives it another minute and then slowly drags herself out of bed and back out into the main room. She's just starting to clean up the mess of boxes in the hallway when, from somewhere in the depths of the mess, her phone rings.

After a few seconds of frantic searches, she locates her phone on one of the shelves in the closet. She's not entirely sure who she's expecting it to be – Babs or Helena, maybe Sam or her cousin – but her heart sinks when she sees the familiar Caller ID.

SPOILER ALERT!!!!

She checks the time, frowning. It's a quarter to midnight, which is not early for her thirtysomething bones, but for a young woman in her early twenties out on the town with her cute date it's not that late. Especially considering Steph mentioned they were going to go to Outer Heaven in Manhattan. It's been a while since Laurel's club days, but she doesn't think things even get going at night clubs like that until after midnight. ''Hey,'' she greets. ''How's the date going?''

There's a pause. This does not bode well. Steph isn't one for awkward silences unless something is wrong. Finally, there's a sigh and she says, ''Meh, it was a bust.'' She's trying for sunny and unaffected but it's not landing.

Laurel studiously ignores the disappointment spreading through her own body when she hears the down tone of Steph's voice. She really thought tonight was going to be a good night for Steph. She'd been so excited. She kept sending Laurel videos of her 'fit check. She posted a GRWM on her Instagram and all the other Batkids descended on her comment section to be like you're leaving the house for something other than waffles????

When the boy she went out with picked her up, she sent Laurel a selfie of them together, both young and bright-eyed and grinning at the camera. (Along with his full name, everything she knew about him, and the locations they were supposed to be going to on their date. Just in case. A young woman going out on a date can never be too careful.) They looked happy. She looked happy. She looked like any other girl in her early twenties out on the town. Laurel thought that was a good sign.

She knows it's not her business. She knows that Steph is an adult, but she worries about her. She always has, but especially since…everything. Out of all of them, Steph is the one who has had the hardest time adjusting to life in Brooklyn. She's an amazing nanny, she's great with the girls, she goes to therapy and is working hard on her own healing, both mentally and physically, but she hasn't made a single friend. Other than maybe Harold the daytime doorman downstairs. They get along because they can both ramble like no one's business. But he's roughly a thousand years old. Steph is twenty-two. She hasn't hung out with anyone her own age since Gotham.

It's not that surprising. She was part of an intense family in Gotham, she's never spent much time with people her own age, and she's been through hell. Making friends was always going to be hard for her. It's hard to find someone with shared life experience. She needs time.

Still, Laurel worries.

Look, she isn't going to deny the fact that she is probably overinvolved in the lives of her kids.

''What happened?''

''Oh, you know.'' Steph doesn't offer up anything other than that. When she speaks again, her voice is quiet. ''Hey, how do you think I'm doing? Like, with life and stuff?''

Laurel is not sure how to answer that question. The thing is, Steph's alive. That's all Laurel needs her to be. She doesn't care about anything else. It's that simple. Except it's not simple at all. One minute, she was there and Steph was a brilliant, vibrant teenager, healing, healthy, shrouded in purple and fighting as the Spoiler and the next, she was zapped back to an unfamiliar life and Steph was a scarred, embittered, lonely twentysomething, a year into recovering from being tortured and violated and left for dead during an apparently short stint as Robin. The only thing that matters is that she's still here. ''I think you're doing pretty amazing,'' she says, cautious but honest. ''All things considered.''

Steph hums noncommittally. ''Hm, yeah, maybe.''

''Why do you ask?''

''I don't know.''

''Stephanie.''

''I don't know,'' Steph repeats. ''Dating sucks.''

Laurel can't help but laugh. ''That it does.''

''I feel like I'm behind in life.''

''Sweetheart,'' Laurel says gently, ''you're twenty-two. When I was your age, I was just getting started.'' She opts to leave the other parts of that on the cutting room floor. When I was your age, I was a drunken disaster. When I was your age, I was getting DUIs and trying to drown myself in the bayou. That part maybe does not need to be mentioned. ''You have time. Your future's still wide open. Hell, your future will still be wide open ten years from now. That's how young you are.''

''I guess,'' says Steph.

''Steph…''

''Do you think this stupid scar on my face will ever fade?''

And there it is.

''Did your date say something about your scar?'' Laurel asks.

''Kind of. He implied I catfished him,'' Steph grumbles. ''He said he was joking, but it didn't sound like a joke. But I didn't! I swear! I didn't lie! It's right there in the picture. If he'd looked, he would have seen it. I wasn't trying to – ''

''I know,'' Laurel assures her. ''Steph, I know. I saw the picture, remember? We chose it together. You didn't lie to anyone.''

''Oh, right…''

''There's nothing wrong with your face,'' Laurel can't help but add on. ''You're beautiful, scar and all. If he couldn't see that, he's not worth your time.''

''Yeah.'' There's a sound on the other line that might be a sniffle. ''I guess.''

Sometimes, Laurel realizes, she forgets how young Steph is. She is whip smart and emotionally intelligent and wonderful with both Maggie and Sin. She understands things the way kids her age usually don't. Knows her way around the world the way the younger generation, with their complete lack of social skills thanks to social media, tend not to. She's an old soul, a weary one.

And why wouldn't she be?

Stephanie grew up fast. It wasn't a choice. It was survival. She grew up in a bad part of town, with an abusive criminal father, and wound up pregnant at fifteen with aspirations of vigilantism. The only way to survive that is to grow up. And she did. She grew up. She survived her childhood trauma. She just didn't survive Batman. Nothing says grow up, little girl like living through your own death.

It's easy to forget she's just a kid herself.

But then there are moments like this.

''Where are you?'' Laurel questions. ''Are you safe? Do you need me to come get you?''

''I'm fine,'' Steph says. ''I'm safe. I'm on my way home. I'm just – I don't know. Kinda bummed. I'm sick of people recoiling when they have to look at my face.''

''Sweetie – ''

''I'm fine,'' Steph says again, voice stronger, full of that usual defiance. ''Really. I'm okay. Just had a shitty date, that's all. It happens, right?''

''Why don't you come over,'' Laurel suggests. ''I'll make you some tea and tell you some of my dating horror stories.''

''No, that's okay, it's your night off. I don't want to intrude.''

''You're never intruding. You're family.''

''I know,'' Steph says. ''I love you for that. But I think I'm just going to go home, watch Love Island, and eat, like, a family size bag of marshmallows.''

''You sure?''

''Totally. I just.'' A beat. ''I wanted to hear your voice.'' Almost as soon as she says it, Steph follows that up with, ''I'm sorry, is that weird? You're not my mom. I know that.''

''It's not weird,'' says Laurel. ''I'm not your mom, but…'' I'm not your mom, but I did watch you grow up, she could say. I'm not your mom, but I did save you from your father. I was in the room with you when you gave birth. I took care of you. I trained you. She doesn't say any of this. She's not Steph's mom. That's Crystal, and she deserves more credit than she gets for the way she's turned her life around and how hard she tries. ''You're still one of my babies,'' she settles on.

''Man, you must have so many babies by now,'' Steph jokes.

That is not an incorrect statement.

She does have a somewhat strange habit of accidentally stumbling across kids and young adults wherever she goes and not only taking them under her wing but openly referring to them as her babies.

…In hindsight, she can maybe understand why Sin keeps calling her old.

''Oh yeah,'' she says. ''I got a whole collection.''

Steph laughs into the phone, a bright sound. ''I'm sure,'' she says, some of her usual vibrancy coming back into her voice. ''I'll see you tomorrow, Laurel. Bright and early for Maggie's gastro appointment, right?''

''Right,'' Laurel agrees. ''Maybe we could stop for waffles on the way home?''

''Oooh, we could go to Sweet Chick,'' Steph chirps. ''My treat! I have an awesome boss, so I can afford it.''

Laurel tries to ignore that spark of worry in her chest. It never truly goes away when you're a parent. She feels, as she often does, like she's missed a step here. Like there's something more she should have said. She doesn't feel like she's done enough. She never feels like she's done enough when it comes to Steph. She thinks the thing that could ever rid her of that feeling is going back in time and saving her, whisking her away from Black Mask and Bruce and all that wasn't done to protect her. ''All right,'' she says. ''Get some rest. But if you change your mind, the door's open for you. No matter how late it is. Got it?''

''I got it,'' Steph agrees, warmly.

''And my phone will be on all night. Anything you need, I'm here, okay?''

''Okay. Thanks, Laurel.''

''Always, baby. Get some sleep.''

''I will. I promise. I – '' Steph cuts herself off abruptly and then clears her throat. ''See you tomorrow.''

''See you tomorrow.''

As soon as the call ends, Laurel sighs.

What she should have done is tell Steph to wear that scar with pride. To not be ashamed of it because that scar means she survived. Problem is, she's not entirely sure how that would sound coming from her considering she's covered in scars and all she's ever done is hide them away. Most of her tattoos are scar cover ups. Her automatic maternal instinct is telling her to call someone to come watch the girls while she heads over to Steph's Bed-Stuy shoebox apartment to check on her, but she's coming up empty. Instead, she shoots off a text to Cassandra, asking her if she's heard from Steph tonight, and reluctantly lets it lie.

For now.

She busies herself with cleaning up. She puts away the boxes of her father's things, sets aside the boxes of ceramics to take down to the shop, and puts the boxes of things to throw away on the kitchen floor by the garbage. Her phone dings as she's finishing up with a text from Cass.

Heading home now, it says. We're going to watch Love Island together over face time. She had a bad date. Should I try to stop her from eating the entire bag of marshmallows?

Laurel texts back: Do you think it's possible to stop Steph from eating an entire bag of marshmallows?

Good point, says Cass. She says you're going out for breakfast tomorrow. Will you get them to put a whipped cream smiley face on her waffles?

Laurel lets out a small breath of relief. One less thing to worry about. If Cass has her, Steph will be good for tonight. They'll probably wind up falling asleep without even ending the FaceTime call.

It's happened before.

I'll do my best, she texts back. I'll even get them to add some chocolate chips.

There's no response for a few minutes, but she can see those three little dots. She can see Cass stopping and starting again, but she doesn't push. She knows her well enough not to hurry her up. Laurel busies herself with bagging up some of the trash from the boxes from the closet, tossing old bath bombs and long expired hand creams. She brings the baby monitor into the kitchen and sits on the floor, sifting through bars of soap, surfing the web for info on whether or not soap expires, cautiously sniffing at the ones that look like they might be okay. She doesn't think she can sell them. They're obviously homemade and she doesn't remember who the vendor was, she has no info about where they came from, but she could…give them as Christmas gifts maybe? She could set aside some for Mrs. Nelson down the hall.

A sound from the direction of her bedroom tears her away from her soap contemplation. It's a quiet sound, completely unnoticeable to someone who isn't a hypervigilant superhero. She checks the baby monitor camera first, rising to her feet and leaning down to study it, but she quickly decides that's not good enough, trekking down the hall and into her bedroom to check.

Nothing is amiss.

Maggie is still asleep in the bed. She's stirred at some point, moved around in the bed, one hand reaching out toward Mom's side of the bed, but she's still sleeping. The Bucky Bear has taken a tumble, however.

Laurel picks up the wayward bear and looks around the empty room, checking the window, making sure it's latched, listening for any noise. There's nothing. Somewhat reluctantly, hairs on the back of her neck still standing up despite the lack of danger, she heads back to the kitchen.

There's a text waiting for her from Cassandra. It just says: Hey. Even for Cass that's a bit monotone. After a minute or two, while Laurel is trying to figure out how to respond to that, an additional text comes through. Can I tell you about patrol tonight?

''Now that I can work with,'' Laurel says, leaning forward against the island, elbows on the cool marble.

Of course, baby, she responds. She thinks, not for the first time, about how much she wishes she had convinced Cass to move with her and the girls to Brooklyn. She's not her kid, no, but she is Sin's sister. It would be nice to have her here. You don't have to ask. You can always tell me about your night. I want to hear everything.

There's another pause, and then those three dots start up again, and Cass tells her everything.

Laurel smiles.

People like to tell her she's a good mother because she's soft and kind and warm and it's easy to think that's what makes a good mom good. It's easy to think that all parenting requires is love, which she has an abundance of. But she knows what she is. She knows what she's done. She makes bad choices and she's reckless with her own life and she's made mistakes that have hurt her children. She says the wrong thing too often and she tries too hard and there will always be things she misses. She's a wreck of a person and no matter what she does, that brokenness will seep through the family line.

Still.

Every now and then, she gets one right.

She has learned to take the wins where she can.

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By the time twelve thirty rolls around, Laurel is exhausted but she's gotten a lengthy play by of Cass and Tim's patrol both via text and a chaotic phone call where they talked over each other to tell her about the dog they saved, she knows that Steph and Cass are settling in for a late night marathon of Love Island USA, and Sin and Maggie are both sleeping peacefully.

You know what?

That's good enough for her.

Self-recrimination, guilt spiral, and overthinking mixed with what can only be described as profound horniness aside, it hasn't been a bad night. Sometimes you just have to take what you can get.

She doesn't know what to do about James, but maybe, she thinks, while she's standing in the kitchen, fighting yawns as she gets Sin's lunch ready for the next day, she should at least tell Sam and Sarah the truth about everything.

She is terrible at telling the truth. Everyone knows this. Her friends have had to come to terms with that. Some of them haven't. Bruce, like the big hypocrite he is, gets especially fed up with her. He's all why do you make it so hard to be part of your life and you need to tell someone when you've been shot!

He's so dramatic.

But the Wilsons have been patient with her from day one. They allow her to move at her own pace instead of pushing her to go at theirs. Their mother's influence, she's sure. Darlene was so gentle with Laurel. Accepted her eccentricities and lack of trust with a shrug. Her children followed suit.

Laurel feels like she should possibly be slightly insulted that an entire family looked at her and saw fragility and brokenness, but she was broken when she met them. She was fragile. She was high as a kite the first time she properly met Sarah. The first time she met Sam, he was pulling her out of the bayou she was trying to drown herself in. They've done so much for her over the years. Pulled her back from so many ledges. She knows they'd say she's done a lot for them too but it's not the same.

She has never been unaware of the reality of her situation. She's not exactly a well person. She hasn't been in a long time. Her baseline is unwell. That's the chronic part of chronic illness, be it mental or physical. The Wilsons are the only ones who have ever understood that. Most people in her life – due to their own issues that none of them ever want to face – want her to get better more than they want to hear her. They want her to not be sick anymore. They don't want to acknowledge that there will likely always be peaks and valleys for her. She doesn't begrudge them for that. It's difficult to look mental illness in the face when you have your own you lack the courage and capacity to acknowledge.

Sam and Sarah have never done that.

They see her as she is, equal parts strength and weakness. They love her anyway.

She owes them more than lies and secrecy.

It was easy, at first, to tell herself that she wasn't lying, she was just busy. They all were. Sarah is the head of her family and she keeps it running like a well-oiled machine, especially now with the boys older and the business no longer what it once was. Sam is Captain America and he's always working, especially right now, taking missions left and right because he's got something to prove. Laurel and her girls have had a hard time adjusting since the Blip and they're still working things out, especially since it hasn't even been that long since her last relapse. It was easy to tell herself that they were just in a period of life where they were just caught up in their own crap.

Except that now it's October. She and Sam live in the same state, the same city (sort of, although if you suggested that Brooklyn is in the same city as NYC to a Brooklynite, they would curl their lip in disgust and offense) a mere 32 minutes away from each other, and he still thinks she lives in New Jersey. He's been to her apartment building. He's been right next door, visiting his friend, and she's hidden from him. They don't know she opened up another shop here in Red Hook, just that she was thinking about maybe expanding to New York. And they don't know about James. Just like James doesn't know that the neighbor he's been chatting up is his new best friend's surrogate little sister.

She hadn't meant for any of this to happen, yes. But it happened. It happened because she let it. She shut her best friends out of her life and lied to a good man. This is on her. She's just trying to protect them. They have better things to do than help her with a personal vendetta. She doesn't want to put them in danger for Lance Family Drama. People get so mad at her for her family's bullshit. She doesn't want them to be mad at her too.

It's the questions she doesn't know how to answer. It's the way she's going to tell them everything and they're going to ask her if she's okay. They're going to check in on her and treat her the way they have always treated her. With far too much kindness than she deserves.

Also, just for the record, no. She is not okay.

She has gotten really good at faking it and she's never going to stop trying, but she hasn't been okay since the Blip. Since long before that, actually.

She's kind of a mess.

To start off with, she's a liar. Obviously. It's been covered. She's not the most mentally healthy person out there. She spends a lot of time on her phone. Specifically, she spends a lot of time on social media watching people make ribbon candy for some reason. It's very soothing. She's a recovering addict, which is going fine right now except for the part where she clearly has developed a sugar addiction as a coping mechanism. And probably a caffeine addiction. She masks a lot of things with humor. She masks a lot of things in general. She's a hider. And a runner. It's what she does.

Plus, every time she goes to the gym, she winds up having a sobbing, heaving panic attack on the treadmill. She's not sure what that's about. Not the panic attack part, that's standard, just her sparkly mental illness at work, but why the gym?

Maybe her mistake was just thinking she could have both her secrets and her family. It hasn't worked out that way. Part of protecting them from everything has meant pulling away. She barely talks to Sam these days. Which is not only on her because the phone goes both ways, but still. She and the girls haven't been to Delacroix since the summer and she hates it. She misses her godbabies. Her babies miss their auntie. None of this had to be like this. She needs to get it together.

She might need to up her meds, to be honest.

Tomorrow, she decides. Tomorrow, she'll call Frank and she'll call Babs and she'll see if anything can be done to move the timeline up. Maybe she's just not making enough noise. If she wants the people who killed her baby sister to make themselves known, maybe she needs to get their attention. Scream a little louder.

She is, after all, quite good at that.

After that, after it's over and done with and she's gotten justice, she'll tell everyone everything and she'll work on rebuilding whatever she's broken with her lies. Starting with James. He might be mad, he might be betrayed, he might hate her forever, but at least he'll know the truth. She'll let Sam and Sarah back into her life the way they're supposed to be. And she'll go home to Delacroix for Christmas. And everything will be fine. And maybe James isn't dating the beautiful blonde and she can just slip in there and shoot her shot and –

Laurel falters.

It's just for a second. Her hand stutters while she's chopping the washed and dried lettuce for Sin's favorite chicken caesar wrap and she feels a familiar prickling at the back of her neck. She doesn't react, but every other thought in her head evaporates. She snaps the lid on the container with the chicken in it, finishes chopping the lettuce, considers her options, and then, fluidly, without breaking her stride, reaches for the freshly washed frying pan on the stove with her left hand, and whips around, bashing it into the skull of Strange Man #1 approaching her from behind. Her right hand sends the knife sailing through the air and into the shoulder of Strange Man #2. You know, if this wasn't happening in her home, she would almost be relieved to have some good old fashioned violence to yank her out of her own head. As it is - really?

I mean, really?

On a Monday night?

She spares a single glance at #1, sprawled out on the ground, and then launches herself over the kitchen island with a kick to #2's shin, followed by a throat jab, largely to shut him up. While he gasps and chokes, hands automatically moving to his throat, she rips the knife out of his shoulder, knees him in the groin, and brings him down to the ground. ''In my home?'' she asks, settling herself on top of him, knife to his throat. ''Seriously?''

He tries to say something, but he's still just gasping pathetically.

She risks pausing to look at him closer. He's not someone she knows, not someone she's made an enemy out of, so he was hired. Both men are in all black and Kevlar, well armed and well trained. They don't have enough smarm to be associated with the auction, those fuckers like to monologue, but he's undoubtedly a covert operative, probably a mercenary. Which means –

Goddamn it.

She pinches her lips together, barely managing to swallow down an annoyed growl. She presses the tip of the blade tighter against his skin. ''Where?''

He coughs. ''Roof.''

''Who?''

He doesn't answer that question. She had a feeling he wouldn't. She doesn't need him to. She takes the chance and pulls back, taking the knife with her. ''What are your orders here?''

''Capture,'' he says.

''And if that's not possible?''

There is the slightest flicker of fear in his eyes. It's answer enough.

''That's what I figured.'' She moves off of him entirely, settling herself on her knees next to him. ''Let's give you a chance to do something different. You can walk away.'' She flips the knife in her hand, grasping it by the blade. ''Or you can try to capture and/or kill me and see how it ends for you.'' In one quick move, without giving it too much thought, she turns and throws the knife at #1, still dazed but struggling to his feet, gun in hand, just starting to raise it. The blade embeds itself in his eye and he goes down with a yell. She turns back to #2. ''Your choice.''

He's quiet. Whatever of fear had been in his eyes before burns up in a stunningly stupid display of anger and toxic masculinity. He scowls at her and makes a choice. He goes for his gun. He's fast. He has good reflexes. She's guessing ex-military. Maybe special forces. They're pretty distinctive. They're all quite fast.

She's faster.

Laurel lunges into his space, snatches up his knife from his tactical belt, and slits his throat before his fingers even manage to grab his gun.

And just like that, Joe Rogan's lost a dedicated listener.

She draws back, letting the knife fall from her hands, teeth clenched. She looks down at her blood splatter on her shirt, a nice arch of arterial spray. She plucks at the wet fabric with two fingers, disgusted. And this was her favorite cozy shirt, too. She rises to her feet and turns back to #1, still alive, still angry, and still scrabbling for his gun, even as he bleeds out. She kicks the gun out of his reach, crouching down next to him. ''Take it easy,'' she advises, looking at the gruesome wound in his eye, the knife at his side. ''You shouldn't have taken that out,'' she comments. ''Are you going to let me help you or – ''

He lunges at her, one hand gripping the knife. His movements are angry, but sloppy and off filter from all the shaking. It's still enough to catch her off guard. She dodges a slash but can't avoid his body slamming into hers, a startled grunt escaping her lips as he tackles her to the ground. The guy's gushing blood from his head, choking on it as it fills his mouth, and instead of using his dying moments to regret his poor choices, he's trying to take her with him.

She suddenly feels a lot less sorry for what she's done to him.

Her hands wrap around his wrist, pushing back against him, narrowly avoiding getting stabbed in the throat. ''God, men are so consistently disappointing,'' she grits out through her teeth. She knees him in the groin, takes advantage of the distraction, and uses it to take control of his hand and plunge the knife into his chest.

He never says a single word to her. The man dies on top of her, but he can't be bothered to speak to her.

She makes a small ''eep'' noise when he collapses on top of her, his warm blood seeping into her clothes, his ragged, wheezing breathing coming to a stop while he's pressed against her. It's an uncomfortable reminder of Hannibal Bates. If she wasn't full of adrenaline and annoyance, she would definitely be having a panic attack right now.

Okay, well.

Her night has taken a turn.

''Mercenaries,'' she says, with a shake of her head.

She struggles to roll the body off her. She checks his pulse, just to confirm, and then closes her eyes briefly, flopping onto her back. Something tells her he wouldn't have had the same attack of conscience if he'd been the one to stab her in the heart. Not if his employer is who she thinks it is.

Laurel takes a minute to regain her bearings, trying to breathe and ignore the feeling of blood soaking into her clothes. Her one night off and this is how it ends?

Yep, that's her life, isn't it?

She stares up at the ceiling, feeling a little jittery but mostly just disgruntled. She's sure the shock and human emotions will settle in later, once she crashes, but for right now, all she can think about is how annoying this all is. She has to wake up bright and early tomorrow morning and go into fucking Manhattan (and she hates going into Manhattan) to set the flowers up for a bridal shower and then has a meeting with a contact down at Red Hook Pier at midnight. She should have just gone to sleep. Now she has to spend the rest of her night disposing of bodies and engaging with the corrupt director of the CIA in a massive sarcasm rally on her roof.

Not to mention the bodies bleeding all over her hardwood floors.

''Fucking fantastic,'' she grumbles. She turns her head to look at them. Not to bellyache about completely unimportant things but this better not stain her floors. There's no way she'll get her security deposit back if she leaves massive bloodstains everywhere. She looks back to the ceiling, blinking and huffing out a sigh. ''Should've just retired and moved to Malibu when I had the chance.''

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next time
I'll do the startling thing
I'll have the knife in my teeth
I'll be the star
you can be the horrified one.

- Alicia Ostriker

Chapter Text

Interlude IV

The Bolter

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I wanted to be saved, but I'm not that kind of girl.

- Kai Cheng Thom

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You know, the kids call her counselor.

For a minute there, she thought it was a lawyer thing. Because she was pre-law once upon a time and liked to argue. That made sense to her. She's kind of an obstinate bitch sometimes.

But that's not why they call her that.

Counselor. As in guidance counselor. As in therapist. As in someone wise. Yes, she has, over the span of her long career, occasionally stepped in to be a voice of reason or a sounding board for the young bucks, but that's really only because most of the men at the top of the superhero ladder are idiots. Everyone knows that. Yes, she has provided emotional comfort when they've needed it, but that's just…being a person. She's nothing special. And yet. The kids call her counselor.

Considering she's the craziest person she knows, it's a little concerning that these kids keep coming to her for unofficial therapy.

I mean, look at her life.

Look at her choices.

She's got dead guys in her home and some two-bit villain on her roof waiting to monologue at her and the Winter Solider who lives next door still isn't home from his date yet to help her with any of this.

Things could be going better for her right now.

Once Laurel has dragged herself to her feet, muscles tense, heart rate elevated, she only allows herself a second to silently freak out and then she has to go to work. She looks up, whirling around just in time to yell out, ''Sin, do not open that door!''

Sin's bedroom door, just about to creak open, halts. ''Mom, I heard – ''

''Everything's fine,'' Laurel lies. ''Just stay in your bedroom. I'm bringing your sister to you.''

Maggie is still fast asleep when she races into the bedroom, right where she left her, in bed, sucking her thumb in her sleep. Completely untouched. She is not at all happy when her mother rudely wakes her up in the middle of the night. ''I know,'' Laurel murmurs when her baby whines softly. ''I'm sorry, baby girl.'' She throws on an old worn plaid flannel that she thinks might've once belonged to her grandfather, tugging it closed over the blood. She tries to keep it between her and Maggie when she picks her up to prevent the blood from staining Maggie's pajamas. ''I'm just taking you to your sister. Hey,'' she tries her best to smile. ''You want to play a game with Mama?''

Maggie rubs at her eye sleepily and shakes her head. ''M-Mama – Mama, no.''

''I know, I know,'' Laurel soothes. ''But let's try, okay? Let's close our eyes and keep them closed until we get to Sin.'' She grabs Maggie's blankie and throws a diaper bag over her shoulder. At the last minute, she snatches up Sin's phone from her bedside drawer and throws it into the bag. ''Can you do that for me, Tiny? Eyes closed. Keep 'em closed.''

Maggie seems confused – can't blame her – but she does close her eyes.

Laurel keeps a firm hand on the back of Maggie's head as she carries her through the carnage in the living room, ready to direct her focus away from the bloodied bodies on the floor if she tries to look. ''Good girl. Keep those eyes closed.'' They make it to Sin's room without any problems, without more men bursting in, without Maggie seeing the corpses, but just as she's reaching for Sin's doorknob, the door flies open and Sin's there with a fucking boot knife in her hand.

Laurel reacts completely on instinct, throwing herself forward, grasping the hilt of the knife and twisting it out of Sin's grip.

Damn it, Sandra.

You know, in some open adoption cases, the biological parent maybe sends a birthday card, some pictures, a letter. Maybe some kind of harmless birthday gift. But no. Not the formidable Lady Shiva. She has to send Sin weapons. The sword collection is bad enough. Now the girl's got concealed knives.

The knife falls and she kicks a slippered foot out, kicking the knife into the bedroom. Laurel reflexively grabs a hold of Sin's wrist and twists it behind her back, yanking her flush against her body and walking her back into her room. ''Sin,'' she hisses. ''I told you to stay put!''

''But I can help!''

''You can,'' Laurel agrees, releasing her hold on her and shutting the door behind her. ''But not with a knife. Those are for emergencies only.''

''But I'm the next Lady Shiva!''

''Not right now, you're not. You're thirteen.'' Laurel sets Maggie down on the bed with a smile. ''Good job, Tiny! You won the game! You can open your eyes now!''

Maggie opens her eyes. She still looks fairly perturbed about being woken from a dead sleep, grabbing for her blankie grumpily, glaring at Laurel like she's thinking – oh, great, Mama's lost her mind again.

''Mom,'' Sin says. ''What's going on? What – oh my god.'' Her eyes go wide when Laurel turns to her, the flannel shirt falling open, revealing the blood stained shirt underneath. ''Mama, that's a lot of blood.''

''It's nothing,'' Laurel assures her, pulling her flannel shut. ''It's not mine.''

''Uh.'' Sin blinks a few times. ''That only sounds marginally comforting.'' Her shock lasts for about two seconds before it's replaced by the kind of steely resolve that can only come from her terrifying biological mother and that complicated legacy. Even her stance changes. The tone of her voice. ''Are we under attack?''

''I don't know,'' Laurel says honestly. ''I don't think so.'' She gets Maggie situated in Sin's bed, pulling the covers back. ''How are you doing, Maggie? You want to lie down?''

Maggie whines and flops down on the pillow, reaching for Laurel.

''I'll come lie down with you in a bit,'' Laurel whispers. ''Right now, I have to go take care of something, but your sister's going to stay with you, okay?'' She presses a quick kiss to Maggie's forehead and then stands, leading Sin away from the bed slightly. ''All right, real talk, sweet pea,'' she says, turning back to Sin. ''Two men broke in to get to me,'' she says, voice steady. ''I handled it, but there's a mess in the living room and I need to go up to the roof to talk to someone. I need you to stay here and look after your sister. That's how you can help, okay? And I need you to stay in this room. Do you understand me? Do not leave this room. Do not look in the living room. You stay here until I come back for you. Understood?''

Sin nods right away, though she still looks like she's processing.

''I need to hear you say it.''

''I understand,'' Sin says. ''But.'' She looks at the door. ''Are they just unconscious or are they dead?''

Laurel hesitates, but ultimately chooses honesty. White lies have their place in parenthood, and she knows that – she'll defend Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy and all the best parts of childhood that millennial parents seem to want to take away from their kids – but this is not one of them. Sometimes all you can do is brace yourself and be honest. ''They're dead.''

Sin takes this in with a surprising amount of grace and then nods. ''We'll stay here.''

''You know the drill,'' Laurel says, digging around in the diaper bag and pulling out Sin's phone, tossing it to her. ''If I haven't contacted you in one hour, what do you do?''

''Go straight to Sergeant Barnes, tell him everything, and then call Uncle Sammy, Steph, Babs, and Bruce. In that order.''

''Good girl.'' Laurel pulls her in for a hug, leaning down to brush a kiss to the crown of her head. It's a good call because the second she pulls her into her arms, she can feel that Sin is shaking. ''Hey.'' She squeezes her tighter and then draws away, bending down to catch Sin's face in her hands. ''Everything's going to be fine, sweet pea. I promise. I'm coming back. This is a nothingburger. I've got this.''

''No, I know.'' Sin draws herself up to her full height. ''I know. I'm not scared.'' She turns her head, looking over her shoulder at Maggie. ''Can I keep this close?'' she asks, picking the knife up off the ground. ''Just in case?''

''No, you may not,'' Laurel says, reaching out and stealing the knife from her hand. ''You haven't been trained in knife fighting. It's not like sword fighting. Which, by the way, you have an entire sword collection in here. That's more than enough just in case.'' She starts toward the door. ''I love you both. I'll be back in a few minutes. Put something heavy in front of the door if you can.''

It's not as difficult to pry herself away from her daughters as you might think. She's spent years fine tuning her instincts as Black Canary and years fine tuning her instincts as a mother and right now they're all bleeding together into one thing: the knowledge that she needs to protect her kids and secure this apartment building.

She takes a few moments to attempt to do some hasty clean up, nudging some ratty old sheets under and over the bodies on the floor. She's never thought about it before, but she understands why people wrap bodies in old rugs. They're thicker. Less bleed through. She tugs a pair of boots on and slips the boot knife she took from Sin into her boot. Before she leaves, something makes her stop by the hall closet, yanking the door open and shuffling the coats and jackets out of the way so she can grab a nondescript black case shoved to the back corner. She flips it open and takes out one of her sister's sonic devices, closing her hand around it for a second, the same way Sara might have, before she pockets it and leaves the apartment, heading to the roof.

She can't decide if she's disappointed or relieved that James isn't home.

To give herself extra time to come up with a plan, she takes the stairs, but by the time she makes it to the sixth floor, she is still planless. Protect her girls. Clear the building. Take care of this situation before James gets home. That's all she's got. She pauses outside the door to the roof, not hesitant, not necessarily afraid, but cautious. There will always be nerves before a fight. It used to bother her when she was younger, but she has learned to cling to that sense of fear and need over the years.

It means she wants to live. It's the most important part of a fight.

Laurel closes her eyes, relaxes her body, centers herself, and takes three deep breaths. She feels the ground beneath her feet and feels the air all around her and thinks of her daughters waiting for her to get back to them, to make sure they're safe. She opens her eyes.

And steps out onto the roof.

She is not sure what she's expecting to greet her on the roof, but she knows that her muscles are tense, like coiled springs underneath her skin, ready for a fight, for violence, to step out into the open and be met with an ambush, the big guns, a knife thrown at her face.

Instead, she steps out onto the roof and –

Oh.

It's this guy.

She releases an irritated yet somewhat relieved breath, all the nerves drying up, replaced by incredulity and, to be honest, some offense.

''Jesus fucking Christ,'' she mutters. ''You've gotta be kidding me.''

This guy?

''Ms. Lance,'' says John Walker. ''Hi!''

She folds her arms over her chest. Come on now. Surely, she ranks higher than Kurt Russell If He Was Violently Patriotic over there. She does not spare so much as a glance at the other goons standing on the roof, but she still notices them out of the corner of her eye. She counts four of them, all in tactical gear, all heavily armed. Three of them are pointedly not holding weapons, as if they're trying to show a display of trust. The fourth one is holding an assault rifle. Not doing great with the show of trust.

Walker's eyes fall on the blood on her shirt. He does a surprisingly good job of not visibly reacting to it. ''Sorry about the sneak attack,'' he says, in what he probably assumes is a charming, chipper tone of voice but mostly manages to be smarmy. He purposefully relaxes his posture, hands folded in front of him. ''Wasn't my call.''

''I'm sure.''

He looks at her closely, squinting slightly, eyes only on her face, just drinking in the sight of her. The fabled, long thought dead Black Canary. It might just be her ego talking, but she swears he looks disappointed. Which. Okay, rude. As if she's the disappointment here. The look is gone from his face instantly, replaced by a false pleasantness. ''Do you know who I am?''

''Sure,'' she answers, casual, voice light. ''You're that fake Captain America asshole.''

''I'm not – okay, it wasn't fake,'' he says, and tries not to scowl. ''My name is John Walker.''

''I know your name.''

''I'm here to bring you in.''

Slowly, she allows herself to smile. ''Are you now?''

''Valentina's been looking for you since you left Gotham,'' he tells her.

''Sounds like a skill issue,'' she says simply. ''I moved. I haven't been hiding.'' She falls quiet, waiting for him to say something, but he doesn't, though his posture tenses ever so slightly in the silence. Just to see what he'll do, she takes a single step forward.

One of his hands twitches, but other than that, nothing.

The same cannot be said for his companions. Every one of them noticeably tenses. One of them, hand already on his belt, inches toward his gun. A single sharp look from Walker has his hand forcibly relaxing, moving away from his gun.

''Those men you sent into my apartment,'' Laurel says, looking right at him. ''Were they friends of yours?''

''Uh.'' He looks caught off guard by the question. ''Not really?''

''Good,'' she says. ''They're dead.''

Walker moves then, but only to calmly hold his hand up to keep the other four from drawing their weapons. His voice is still impressively even as he says, ''Thought the Black Canary preferred non-lethal methods.''

''The Black Canary is dead,'' she says, and uncrosses her arms, letting them fall to her sides. ''She had nothing to do with it. You sent those men into my home where my children are sleeping. A mother killed them. Do you have children, Captain Walker?''

It stuns him. Not the question, but the fact that she addressed him, the dishonorably discharged Walmart Cap, as Captain. ''Not yet,'' he answers, and then shakes his head, seemingly surprised that honesty has accidentally fallen out of his mouth.

''When the time comes, you'll understand,'' she says. ''This is the thing people tend to misunderstand about me. Black Canary has never been the most important part of me. I'm a mother before anything else. That's the job that comes first. No matter how much blood I have to spill to do it.''

''I'll try to remember that.''

''You should.''

''Ms. Lance,'' Walker says. ''None of this is personal. It's just business. Valentina wants a meeting. All she wants to do is talk.''

Oh, so he is as foolish as he looks. She cocks her head to the side and looks at him in the moonlight. How tragically pathetic for him. Then again, she kept an eye on the news during his short stint as Captain America. She watched the news. She got updates from Sam, Sarah, and Bruce – all of it carefully fed to her after the situation was dealt with so that she wouldn't try to help and get herself mixed up in Sam's business while she should have been trying to dry out. Pathetic seems pretty on brand for him.

She'll skip the chat then.

''Okay,'' she says.

He pauses, recalculating. He's a slightly more even keeled than she was expecting, maybe slightly more competent, but ultimately still mostly a dopey little guy. ''…Okay?''

''Okay,'' she nods, and holds her hands out in front of her, wrists together.

Nobody moves. A couple of the men look at Walker, but he gives no order for them to move in, choosing to stay back, looking at her, curious but not curious enough to take even a single step in her direction.

''You don't seem to be approaching me, John,'' she says, softening her voice. ''Do I worry you?''

He doesn't answer the question, but he also doesn't move. His eyes slide down to her wrists, held out before him, and then back at her, narrowed slightly.

''Look,'' she says, still keeping her voice gentle. ''I'm not putting my kids at risk by starting a fight. I'll go quietly. You got me, John Walker.''

He's still undecided, remaining still, watching her. But when she doesn't move, doesn't attack, keeps her writs out in front of her for an extra thirty seconds, he relents. He gives a short nod to his men and they move in. The one with the assault rifle stands back, eyeing her warily, standing guard, but the other three crowd her. Two of them come at her from behind, grabbing her shoulders and another deftly slides into her personal space to fit a collar around her neck. It's a sonic dampener, meant to keep her Cry at bay. She has an intimate history with them. They work very well. She doesn't even tense when he clicks it on. That's another thing people seem to misunderstand about her.

The Canary Cry has never been the deadliest thing about Black Canary.

Walker seems very unnerved by her pleasant smile. He's still obviously uneasy as he approaches, but he does his job, pulling zip ties out, ready to tie her up.

She watches him for a second, waits until he's close enough, just starting to drape the plastic ties around her wrists, and then she says, ''You know, you never answered my question.''

''Oh yeah?'' He looks up at her. ''What question is that?''

Her gentle smile stretches into a wide Cheshire grin. ''Do I worry you?''

Despite the fact that he should be, by all accounts, the perfect soldier, he is just a half a second too late. Before he can even take a step back, she aims a kick at his knee, then right in the groin, and as he's sinking, she catches him in the face with her foot. She knows he has the serum, remembers Sam telling her about it, but even that can't fix the pain of a kick in the balls.

She uses every second of the distraction to take care of the rest of the goons. She throws her elbow back into Guy #1's gut, grabs his gun, twists his arm, and helps him to shoot Guys #2 and #3 on her left, one in the knee, one in the neck as he's pointing a gun at her, and then shoots Guy #4 in the hand, his rifle clattering to the ground. She elbows Guy #1 in the throat, then in the face, and then turns, kneeing him in the chin and sending him to the ground.

''Damn it, Canary,'' Walker practically shrieks at her. ''What happened to going quietly?''

A pair of arms grabs her from behind in a bear hug, keeping her arms at her side, and she inhales sharply at the tight grasp. She uses Guy #4 as leverage, jumps up, and attempts to front kick Walker. He grabs his sad little shield and hold it out in front of him, so she clenches her legs around his neck instead and twists her whole body, sending him sprawling to the ground and her out of #4's grip.

''Oh, honey,'' she gets out in a breathless chuckle. ''Quiet's not really my thing. Haven't you read my Wikipedia page?''

Quickly, and only because she hears the groaning, she front rolls to avoid a shot from a tranquilizer gun from Guy #1, up and bleeding profusely from his broken nose. Also, a tranquilizer gun? When did that enter the picture? That's just low down and dirty. One might even call it cowardly. She grabs the sonic device from her pocket as she rising to her feet. ''Hey, Cap!'' She tosses it at John and he catches it instinctively, serum reflexes kicking in. It goes off in his face. The sonic shriek is nowhere near the Canary Cry's level of damage, but it disorients him and Guy #1 enough for #1 to drop his tranq gun. She grabs it, kicks up Walker's shield into her hand, clobbers it into #1's face, and shoots the dart into Walker's neck.

He yelps, but grabs at it, looking at her with something between rage and amusement flickering in his eyes. ''Sorry,'' he says, ''but that's not going to be – ''

She rushes him, knocking him hard in the face and the chest with the shield, enough to send him staggering back, and then she aims her most powerful front kick to his chest, and sends him and his shitty shield straight off the roof.

All right, super soldier down. That's good. That's progress. Hopefully it'll keep him down long enough for her to handle the leftovers up here.

She turns to make sure the other four are still down and the second she does, she gets punched in the face by Guy #5 who appears out of fucking nowhere. It's a hard hit, enough for her to stumble, but she's fully conscious when he grabs her around the waist and tackles her into the nearby picnic table.

The table shatters under their combined weight and she's winded and dazed enough that Guy #5 is able to get his meaty hands around her throat, even with the collar around her neck, and squeeze. Automatically, she claws at his hands, trying to pry his fingers away from her airway. He squeezes harder, so she re-evaluates and goes for the eyes. She jams one thumb into his eye enough for him to roar and uses the small distraction to knee him in the stomach, wind her thighs around his neck, and uses all of her strength to roll them both off the remains of the table and onto the ground. She coughs and gags and struggles for air, but gets herself back to her feet, steady enough to kick a potted plant into #5's head as hard as she can, the clay shattering, knocking him out.

She bends over, bracing herself on her knees, trying to pull herself together, regain control of her breathing. She moves one hand to the collar around her neck, tugging at it fruitlessly. She gets maybe five seconds and then she's straightening up and whipping around, catching a punch from Guy #6. She twists his arm up, then pulls herself up, legs around his waist, and throws herself back to the ground, flipping him over her. She springs right back up, grabbing a piece of the picnic table bench and clobbering him with it. Twice. Just to get him to go down.

She snaps her attention back up to Guy #7 as he raises his gun. She throws herself at him, grabs onto his wrist, wrenches the gun away, and then, lightning quick, takes his taser from his tactical belt and tases him in the neck. Then she grabs his tranquilizer gun, whips around and takes out an additional man just as he's crawling onto the roof.

For a total of eight. Not including Walker. Or the two dead guys currently staining the hardwood in her apartment. Three out of ten are dead. This is not shaping up to be a night she's particularly proud of.

Bruce is going to give her a look when he finds out she's killed three people. Best not to let him find out.

It's only once the silence sets in that Laurel allows herself to take a breather. All right, go her. Lived through another one. Might have some nightmares later and she's been punched, thrown into a table, and choked, so she's going to be sore as hell when the inevitable adrenaline crash gets her, but none of that is for her to worry about now. Right now, she's fine. She's not feeling much pain yet, other than some dull soreness breaking through the protective shroud of adrenaline. She's not feeling much remorse either.

Mostly she's just feeling angry.

She turns her head to survey the damage to the rooftop garden. It could be worse, but it could be better. The scuffle by the picnic table has done some damage to Mr. Singh's tomato plants, which makes her feel terrible. His lavender and rosemary and mint survived, but he has lovingly taken care of those tomato plants for years, according to Henrietta Dixon from the sixth floor. The picnic table itself was put in by the Crenshaw family on the fourth floor who like to have family dinners up here when they can. Connie Nelson's lemon tree was spared, but the potted plant was part of her area and her rage when she sees what's happened will undoubtedly be incandescent. Definitely won't help her to beat the ''old witch lady'' allegations the kids like to throw around.

Laurel sighs.

''Wow!''

She stiffens, every muscle in her body tensing, back going ramrod straight. When she hears the sound of heels clicking behind her, she turns around.

''Now, this,'' Valentina gestures to the bodies scattered around the rooftop, ''is a mess.'' She eyes a bloodied body warily and then steps over it carefully, though undoubtedly less because she doesn't want to disrespect what once was a human life and more so because she doesn't want to get any blood on her Louboutin heels. ''An impressive mess,'' she amends, ''but still a mess.'' She laughs, affable as always, her overly pleasant demeanor as fake as that ugly strip of color in her hair. It's purple today. It clashes with her red Max Mara wrap coat.

That coat is nearly $4,000.

If Laurel kills her right now, she could take the coat, pawn it, and it would pay for her rent this month. She's not going to do it, but she does think about it for a second. Hard not to.

''I almost wish I'd brought more men just to watch you knock 'em down one by one,'' Valentina declares. ''Oh!'' She snaps her gloved fingers. ''Wait a minute.'' Her lips pull back into a cold smile. ''I did.''

Laurel doesn't give Valentina the reaction she's hoping for when the red laser dot appears on her chest, looking down at it with a bored expression. ''Is that supposed to scare me?''

''Scare you?'' Valentina shoots her a curiously offended look. ''No, not at all. I know who you are.'' She waves her hand and the red laser falls away. A truly obnoxious show of power. ''Just letting you know I came protected. It's a courtesy.''

''Yeah,'' says Laurel, ''you're a real courteous person.''

''I think so.''

''What are you doing here?''

''You're a hard woman to find.''

''That was the idea, yes.''

Valentina looks around her, taking in the sight of the rooftop garden, the view of Red Hook, the view of water. She looks quite openly disgusted by it all. ''Did you really come all the way to Red Hook,'' she spits Red Hook out with a truly disproportionate level of disgust, ''just to hide from me? You couldn't have picked somewhere that smelled a little less of dead fish? I mean.'' She glances out at the water. ''Maybe some dead fish. If that's what you're into. But, you know, less.''

''I'm sorry,'' Laurel drawls. ''You think you factored into my relocation plans?'' She lets out her own cackle, brave, defiant, and decidedly unimpressed, even despite the collar around her neck. ''There you go again. Thinking you're hot shit. Val, I haven't thought about you at all since the last time you showed your sniveling flat ass.''

''Um, excuse me,'' Valentina snipes. ''I do Pilates.''

''Do better,'' Laurel snaps. ''You've got no ass. What do you want?''

Valentina considers the question. ''World peace.''

''Oh, sweetie, try again.''

''I think you know what I want,'' she says smoothly, ''sweetie.''

Laurel folds her arms over her chest. ''Are you hitting on me?'' she asks, pretending to be shocked and offended. ''Valentina, that's so unprofessional.''

''You should be so lucky.''

''I'm not working for you,'' Laurel says, cutting to the chase. ''The answer was no then and it's no now. It will be no next time. And the time after that. No power on this earth will ever get me to work for you.''

''And why is that?''

''Uh,'' Laurel raises her eyebrows, ''because you're deranged?''

Valentina lets out a mock gasp, bringing one hand to her chest, all fake offense, dramatic as ever. ''I'm wounded,'' she says. ''And here I thought we could be great friends.''

''Why the hell would you think that?''

''We have a common goal.''

''I'm sure we don't.''

Valentina pauses, which is never a good sign, and gives Laurel a silent, appraising look. There is no other way to describe Valentina Allegra de Fontaine's eyes other than to say they're hungry. It's unsettling to look at her for too long. She's terribly, awfully, evilly clever and she has an uncanny ability to read people. Sometimes it feels like if you look at her too long, she'll pull you right out of your own head. It shouldn't be surprising when she takes a few steps closer to Laurel, heels clicking on the ground, and asks, in this low voice, like she's playing at sympathy, ''Do you know who did it yet?''

It shouldn't be surprising.

Laurel still finds herself inhaling sharply, uncrossing her arms and taking a step away, startled.

''Your sister,'' Valentina keeps going. ''Her name was Sara, right?''

''What makes you think,'' Laurel gets out, struggling to keep her voice steady, ''you get to say her name?''

''She lived in Brooklyn for a short period back in 2022, if I'm not mistaken,'' Valentina goes on. ''Died here too. Didn't she? Her body washed up over on Pebble Beach. Gosh, what a shame that is.'' She clicks her tongue and shakes her head. She takes another step and then another and another. Her hand moves to the collar, a false sort of gentleness to her actions, as if she's attempting be maternal, as if she knows the space in Laurel's life reserved for a mother is a gaping wound full of grit. ''I can't imagine how hard that must have been for you,'' she says, overly saccharine. ''To come back and find out not only is the father of your child dead but your sister too. I'm sorry for your losses.''

Laurel thinks about lunging. She could reach a hand out and wrap it around Valentina's little bird neck like it's nothing. She thinks about it. She thinks about crushing this woman's throat and snapping her neck. She doesn't. She remains very, very still. She doesn't move. She barely even breathes.

Valentina doesn't stop. ''Remind me again,'' she prompts. ''How did the police classify her death?'' She gets no answer to that question, but she wasn't expecting any. She snaps her fingers, eyes lighting up. ''Oh, right, right. I remember now. An overdose.''

''She didn't – ''

''No,'' Valentina cuts in with a nod. ''She didn't. Why would she? There's no record Sara was ever involved in drugs. That was always your mess, wasn't it? She was the clean sister.'' She pauses then. Smiles a little. It's a horrible smile. ''In a manner of speaking anyway.'' She's quiet for a long moment, head tilted to the side, clearly waiting for Laurel to give her something. She gets nothing. ''Don't you want to know what happened? That is why you're here, isn't it? I can help you. We can help each other. Think about it, Dinah. I have resources you don't.''

Laurel allows herself a minute of temptation, but doesn't take the bait. There's no denying that Valentina absolutely has better resources. She's the CIA. If they used all their resources and pretended to give a damn for half a day, they could solve Sara's murder. But they won't. That's not how alphabet agencies work. Especially not ones being led by some corrupt middle aged goth princess or whatever this woman thinks she is. ''Pass,'' she says with a shrug. ''I'm fine on my own.''

The only hint of annoyance on Valentina's face is the slightest narrowing of her eyes. ''Dinah, let's be reasonable about this.''

''This is me being reasonable. You have no idea what I'm capable of.''

''I think I have an idea.''

''An idea,'' Laurel says, ''means nothing.''

''What makes you think you can do this by yourself?''

''I can do a lot of things by myself.''

''Sure you can,'' Valentina agrees, cheerful. ''Like give birth in a motel bathroom. All by yourself. A Motel 6, right? That must have been terrifying. Especially the part where the retained placenta caused a hemorrhage that almost killed you.'' She seems to take a special kind of delight in the disturbed weariness that passes over Laurel's face. ''You think I haven't done my research? I know all about that. Just like I know all about what you did to Damien Darhk. And his wife. And everyone else who was in that warehouse in Shreveport. Oliver Queen cleaned that up nicely for you, didn't he? Did anyone clean up Hannibal Bates back in '09? What about what happened in New Orleans back in 2007? Who cleaned that up?''

Laurel stares at her for a second, skin crawling, and then, abruptly, she smiles and bursts into laughter. ''My god, look at you,'' she sneers, mocking. ''Trying so hard. This desperation of yours is getting pathetic. Seriously.'' She steps closer, probably too close given the fact that there's a sniper with his gun trained on her. ''You're getting the stink of it all over. It's inelegant. Pull yourself together, Valentina. You're embarrassing yourself.'' She draws back, stepping away from her and starting toward the door. Just to see how far she gets.

''Your daughter's biological mother,'' Valentina says. She doesn't raise her voice. There's no anger in her voice. She does, however, sound like she's got some ace in the hole with that one. ''Does she know where you are?''

Laurel stops, but doesn't turn around.

''You've been running from her a long time,'' says Valentina. ''Haven't you?''

That's a good one, Laurel will give her that. Not good enough, but good. She turns around, face blank. ''I'm not running anymore,'' she says, although even as she says it, she's not sure it's true. She's not running from Shiva anymore. That was ironed out long ago. They're cool now. I mean, it's not the best idea for them to be alone together, but that's not because she's afraid of her. It's because whenever they're left alone together for any length of time, they wind up having ill-advised sex. It no longer has to do with running. But she has a lot of other things to run from. Mostly herself. She's been doing that since she was twenty-one years old. She's wandered the country, even some other countries, both by herself and with her children, and at this point in her life, she's not sure she knows how to stop.

It bothers her that Valentina knows this.

''No?'' Valentina doesn't even bother to hide her disbelief. ''Why did you leave Gotham?''

''It's in Jersey,'' Laurel responds flatly.

''Well,'' Valentina allows, ''even I can't argue with that.''

''Why me?'' Laurel asks, quiet. ''Out of all the unregistered metahumans out there, why are you so interested in me?''

Valentina doesn't answer the question right away, but she does look fascinated by it. Finally, she apparently opts for a modicum of truth and admits, ''You're unaffiliated.''

You're alone, is what she means. No one is going to come for you.

The worst part about it is that it's probably true. Laurel has a lot of people who love her, who would come for her if she was taken, but she also has a lot of problems. If Valentina wanted to disappear her, she could. Stage a suicide. Stage an overdose. It would be believable. Even all those people who love her wouldn't question it. She knows it's what they've been waiting for as long as they've loved her. And that's on her. She created that expectation. The biggest threat to her life has always been herself.

It's infuriating and more than a little terrifying that someone as powerful as Valentina knows that weakness.

''Oh,'' she pouts. ''You mean it's not my charm?''

Valentina grins at her. ''I like you,'' she declares. ''You remind me of myself. I think we'll get along.''

''Sure, Val,'' Laurel laughs. ''Stay delusional. See where you get. As much as I'd love to stand here and continue trading barbs with you, I have a life to get back to and you're not part of it. No, I will not join your super secret special task force. That's my final answer. I'd appreciate if you'd tell your sniper to stand down,'' she says, forcing her voice to be breezy, light, unbothered. ''I wouldn't want him to get hurt.'' She turns her back on Valentina and strides for the door, tossing a wave over her shoulder. ''See you never!''

Valentina almost lets her go. Almost. ''Have you been having a hard time getting health insurance lately?''

Laurel stops, dread pooling in her chest, and sighs, turning back.

''A lot of endlessly long wait times only for it to end in a hang up? Hoops you don't remember having to jump through?'' Valentina's voice comes closer. ''What about Maggie's specialist appointments? How are those going? Any unexplained cancellations?''

Rage boils in Laurel's chest. ''That was you?''

Valentina shrugs. ''I can make it stop,'' she says. ''You need health insurance. For Maggie.''

''Get bent, Valentina.''

''Oh, the mouth on you,'' Valentina leers. ''Listen,'' she says. ''I get it. You don't like being caged. But I don't think you quite understand what I'm offering you here. I'm – what?''

Laurel blinks. ''What?''

Valentina frowns at her. ''Not you,'' she says, moving a hand up to her left ear. ''Say that again.''

Oh.

Well, yeah.

Probably should have seen that coming.

''What do you mean he's – '' Valentina cuts herself off, teeth sinking into her lower lip, a note of frustration in her voice, something unpleasant flaring in her eyes, something she usually doesn't like to show. ''He's here? Now?'' She pauses and inhales once. Oh, something has really thrown her off course. ''How long? …All right, get Walker and get him out. Mop up as much as you can. Retreat. Don't leave anything behind for him to find.''

Now.

Hang on a minute.

''Looks like it's your lucky day, Canary,'' Valentina says, a grudging tone to her voice, a flicker of resentment in her eyes. The smallest slip of the mask.

''You didn't know, did you?'' Laurel asks, smirking. ''You didn't know who my neighbor was.'' She clicks her tongue, disappointed. ''Rookie move, Countess.''

''Contessa.''

''Whatever.''

''This isn't over.''

''Oh, no. Course not. Bring more guys next time,'' Laurel invites. ''I'll pick my way through them too. Better yet, bring no one.'' She grins, all teeth. ''Let me show you what I can do to you.''

''Ooh,'' Valentina purrs. ''Kinky.'' She walks forward, just as the door opens, another imposing man in tactical gear appearing, holding up something in his hand. She moves past Laurel to take it from him and then extends it to Laurel. It's a plain, harmless looking manila folder. Very old fashioned. Very mysterious. Very aggravating. ''All the information I've been able to collect on your sister's death,'' she says, and Laurel feels all the air leave her lungs. ''Look through it. See what you can find. When you hit a wall, which you will, call me. We'll work something out.''

Laurel's fingers clench the file folder so tightly it crumples in her hold. She meets Valentina's smug smile with a calm, steady one of her own, tilts her head up defiantly, and says, ''Don't hold your breath.''

.

.

.

Valentina does not remove the collar from around Laurel's neck.

As warnings go, it's a bit heavy handed.

Laurel, unwilling to give a single inch, doesn't ask for it to be removed, and stays on the roof as Valentina's extraction team comes to get her and the bodies. It would be prudent to get out of there as fast as she can, get back down to her girls, but her goal is to make this as awkward as possible. She wants to drive the point home.

Mission failed.

Canary still flies.

She doesn't even open the file. She keeps a tight hold on it, wary and suspicious but too desperate to give it up, but she doesn't open it in front of Valentina. She's not going to give her that satisfaction. She aches, the adrenaline beginning to dissipate, replaced by the familiar feeling of sore muscles and bruises, but she's not going to give her the satisfaction of seeing that either.

The extraction team hustles Valentina out, removes the injured men, and cleans up the bodies at an impressive and somewhat disturbing speed, but they don't enter the building itself, which means she still has two dead guys in her apartment, and they leave behind carnage. Blood on the concrete, the wood slats of the raised deck, the destroyed picnic table and planter and the poor tomato plants.

Laurel grits her teeth in the silence she's left behind in, anger flaring in her chest and throat, forces her pragmatism to remain up front and center, and readies herself for a night of no sleep. She sends Sin a text to tell her that the situation has been handled and there is no danger, but that she and Maggie need to stay in the room until she can clean up, and then she calls Steph.

Steph has the best reaction she can have to this sordid stupidity, which is to promise she'll be there ASAP and then ask, ''You fought Captain Crashout? Are his vibes as rancid as they are on TV?''

She says fuck all about the whole dead bodies on the floor thing.

Laurel ambles back down the stairs to the fifth floor as soon as her path is clear, irritated, in pain, and distracted enough that she nearly misses it. She's just about to push open the stairwell door when she hears the elevator ding, followed by the sound of muffled laughter.

For a split second, she's frozen, hands on the door, heart hammering, and all that she can think is that she has never heard James laugh like that before.

''And here I thought you could handle your vodka,'' he's saying, stepping off the elevator with his pretty blonde friend up on his back, wrapped around him like a little spider monkey.

''You are a cheater!'' Pretty Blonde declares, looking far less composed than she did the first time Laurel caught a glimpse of her, red faced and drunk.

''I'm not a cheater,'' he responds. ''I told you I can't get drunk.''

''No fair,'' she whines into his neck.

''Course you also said you could handle spice,'' he adds, hefting her higher up on his back, carting her down the hall in the direction of his apartment without even the slightest hint of effort. ''Hot sauce is my entire personality, James,'' he mocks, pitching his voice high, throwing in a Russian accent. ''Of course I can handle a simple curry.''

''A simple curry!'' She yelps. ''That was not a simple curry, Yasha! That was death!''

''Well, they did warn you.''

''You said you eat it all the time!''

''I do. Spice doesn't affect me the same way.''

''And you couldn't have told me that? Is this payback for the doughnuts?''

He throws his head back and laughs.

Laurel's heart does something uncomfortable and utterly juvenile in her chest, and then she abruptly realizes –

Wait.

James has enhanced hearing.

If he hears her breathing, her heartbeat, he's going to know something's wrong. He'll sense it. He'll come looking. He'll see her. He cannot see her like this. She has a collar around her neck, bruises forming on her face and throat, and arterial spray all over her shirt.

''Shit,'' she mouths, spinning on her heel and racing back up the stairs.

She pushes back out onto the roof, clutching the file to her chest with one hand, the other anxiously hovering by the door handle.

He doesn't follow.

She sinks to the ground with her back against the door, suddenly feeling exhausted and too old for this shit. She sends another text to Sin, telling her that James is home and to leave him be, it's not necessary to go to him, and that she's going to be another five minutes, just to give him and his friend (girlfriend?) some time to get settled before she risks going back down to their floor. Then she calls Frank's for emergencies only burner.

He picks up halfway through the second ring with literally nothing but a grunt of acknowledgement.

She forces some cheer and charm into her voice. ''Hiya, Frank.''

''Number's for emergencies only, Dinah.''

''I have an emergency.''

''Whatever you're about to say is not an emergency.''

''How do you – oh my god,'' she cuts herself off with a hiss. ''This is not a booty call, Frank,'' she snaps. ''I need help. Real help. Very very very discreet help.''

''With?''

''Body dump and clean up.''

There is a pause while he processes that. It's a short pause. He processes it a lot faster than some people in her life would. ''On my way.'' There is not a shred of judgment in his voice. She can hear him moving around, probably arming himself, pulling his boots on. He doesn't ask her what happened. ''Where are you?''

''My place.''

''The girls?''

''Uh,'' she winces. ''Also here.''

The pause, this time, is a bit longer. ''You need help getting them out?''

''No, Steph's on her way.''

''Does this have anything to do with the case you're working?''

Laurel's automatic thought is no. Valentina's been after since the Blip. It's never had anything to do with Sara. She might use her death as a tool, but she doesn't actually care. That would require a soul. But.

We have a common goal, she'd said.

Oh.

Fuck.

It's the auction.

That's what she's after. Valentina couldn't care less about the death of some minor league half retired vigilante/ex assassin. She couldn't care less about a sister's vengeance. She wants to know what Laurel has on the auction. Of fucking course she does. A bird in a cage and information on how to get herself more toy soldiers. Everything a person like her could ever want.

Laurel looks down at the file in her hand, still unopened. ''It might.''

''And, uh…'' Frank hesitates, which is unlike him. ''Your neighbor home?''

''Just got home. I'm on the roof right now. I'm giving him five minutes before I head back down. I don't want him to see me.''

''Unlock your window.''

''I'm on the fifth floor.''

''Just do it.''

''Got it.'' She brings a hand up to her bruised, sore throat. ''Thank you, Frank.'' She runs her fingers over the collar. ''Oh, um, can you maybe…'' She tugs at the collar. ''Bring pliers? Some heavy duty ones that can cut through metal?''

Another pause, more likely due to understandable confusion this time, and then he says, shortly, ''Give me ten minutes.'' And then he ends the call.

She eyes the phone, brows knitted together. ''Why does no one ever say goodbye when they end a phone call these days?'' she asks the silent open air. She checks the time on her phone, sets a timer for five minutes, and resigns herself to waiting. She just needs a few minutes. Just long enough to be sure that she'll be able to get back down to her floor and into her apartment without James seeing her or hearing her. There's an itch inside of her, a desperate need to get back to her kids, especially when there are dead bodies mere feet from them, separated only by a closed door and hopefully Sin's ability to take orders.

Impulsively, just to pass the time, Laurel opens the file.

The first thing she sees is a picture of her sister's dead body.

Something bubbles up in her throat, a gasp maybe, a scream, a hysterical sob, and she slams the file shut, a shudder running through her. She shakes it off. Steps out of her body and mind and flicks the switch on her emotions the way she learned to do so long ago. She opens the file back up.

In the picture, Sara is no longer Sara – decomposing, waterlogged, bloated, her skin mottled and broken and gray, hair greenish and stringy and lifeless, some strands stained red from the gnarly head wound, her clothes torn, body littered with cuts from the rocks.

This is how they found her back in 2022.

It was June.

Washed up on Pebble Beach, a scenic view of the Brooklyn Bridge behind her, the beauty of her surroundings standing in stark contrast to the image of her, something grotesque and tragic and dead. Her cause of death was acute drug intoxication. An overdose. She was dead when she went in the water. All the injuries to her body were post-mortem. For nearly a month, she went unidentified. Just another Jane Doe with nothing left to tell them who she was, who she had been, and no one left to look for her.

Except that a lot of people were looking for her.

Talia was the one who found her eventually, made her way to New York and identified the body, not because she cared about Sara, but because she felt a responsibility. Not necessarily to Sara but to Nyssa and everything she had left behind when she, too, turned to dust. Family is family is family. In a twisted kind of way, Sara met the criteria needed to be given that label. After Talia identified the Jane Doe pulled out of the river as Sara Lance, Bruce claimed the body, paid all the expenses, and got her back to Mom and Ava in Central City.

Mom had her cremated.

By the time Laurel got back, there wasn't even enough of Sara left to put in a Lazarus Pit. There's just all these pieces. Ash in a jar. Fragments. A bench with a memorial plaque in Starling City that read:

Sara Lance-Sharpe
1987-2022
Loved beyond words and missed beyond measure

And a question no one has ever been able to answer.

What the hell happened?

She can tell you what didn't happen.

An intentional or accidental overdose by her own hand, that's what. If that's what killed her, that's what killed her, but she did not put those drugs in her own body. There's no way. And there was plenty of evidence to show that. Evidence of a struggle, a fight, restraints. It's all right there, plain as day. Yet they still wrote her off.

Laurel looks at the remains of her sister. She flinches, but does not look away.

It's not surprising that Valentina made sure these were at the front, the first thing Laurel would have to see when she opened the file. It's cruel, but it's not surprising. It's a tactic. Would've been a good one if she hadn't seen the pictures already.

She saw them months ago, before she moved here. They were part of what made her move to Brooklyn. The first time she saw these pictures was when Renee Montoya managed to copy what she could from the NYPD's investigation onto a flash drive and sent it over. Laurel took one look at the pictures, vomited into her kitchen sink, got drunk, and then picked a fight with Bruce. She hadn't been able to look at them for too long. She hadn't been able to face what life made of Sara, of both of them.

Now she is unable to look away.

She stares at the picture for a long time, forces herself to look at every inch of the body, cold settling into her bones, stomach clenching painfully, an ache in her chest that will never heal.

That's her baby sister, unrecognizable in her rot, skin sloughing away, eyes wide open, unseeing, covered with white film. She was in her thirties when she died and had been joking since she was in her mid twenties that she had lived well past her own expiration date, but all Laurel sees when she looks at the mangled corpse on the beach is the little girl who used to crawl into her big sister's bed when there was a storm. She was always that little girl to Laurel, even when she grew up. Even when she was a bratty, selfish, mean girl of a teenager and even when she did that unforgivable thing with Oliver and even when she was an assassin. There was never a moment where Laurel looked at her and saw anything else.

She should have told her that.

She flips to the next picture, the close up of Sara's open hand lying on the rocky beach, with her nails torn away and her wrists cut up from where restraints had dug into her skin. She's wearing a silver ring. It has a bird on it.

A canary.

Laurel closes the file and places it beside her on the ground. She squares her shoulders and sets her jaw, dry-eyed but hollowed out inside, raw. She touches the ring on her own hand, the same ring, a matching set. She has barely taken hers off since 2014. Sara was not wearing hers the last time they spoke. She imagines things must have changed after the Blip. When someone you love dies, you either do what you can to hold onto them or you do what you can to forget.

Sara must have chosen to hold on.

All Laurel has ever done is try to forget.

It's easy to do, you know. She's been doing it since she was twenty-one. Anyone can look like a ghost in the right kind of light. Or lack thereof. You drink. You smoke. You take whatever is handed to you. You learn to become acquainted with numbness. You find new ways to die. You create your own emptiness. You destroy the soft things inside of you. You stagger through existence until it all catches up to you. You learn to court death. It feels good. For a while.

It's all just a way of forgetting.

Of running.

Laurel hadn't wanted to turn to dust back in 2018. To watch her children fade away before her eyes. It was fleeting for her. It didn't hurt. A moment of confusion and terror, a second to reach for her girls, and then it was over, it was nothing, they were nothing. But it wasn't fleeting for the people left behind. The other half. It wasn't a minute. It was five years.

It's always five years.

Five years is not a goddamn blip. She knows this. She knows this.

She wouldn't wish the feeling of panic, of disappearing, on anyone, but speaking as someone who has been left behind before, she wouldn't wish the feeling of staying on anyone either.

Sara stayed.

It must have been devastating to have to do that. She must have been so scared. She lost her sister and her nieces all in one go. She lost friends. She lost Nyssa. And she couldn't change it. Couldn't bring them back. Couldn't do anything. She just had to go on. It's so hard to go on. It's so hard. Laurel couldn't do it back in 2007. She spent years trying to die instead. She wonders what it was like for Sara. She wonders if she chased emptiness, too. She wonders if she drank. If that was in her blood the way it was in her father and sister's.

And she must have been so angry.

Not just at Thanos, not at the Avengers who couldn't save them, at the world, various different ones, for failing, for putting them through this, but at Laurel for leaving. For leaving again.

Laurel hadn't meant to die that day. She hadn't chosen to run. But she had chosen to run plenty of times before that. The same way Sara had. She doesn't know if that was the only reason why she and Sara never fully fixed their relationship, why they never were what they once had been, why they chose to never talk about what broke them, but she knows it contributed to the unhealed fracture, the space between them they could never cross. The Lance sisters are runners. They never seemed to run in the same direction.

Sara must have been so angry about all that wasted time.

Laurel sure is.

She opens the file again and looks at her sister and thinks, impossibly, that she still looks beautiful. Her little girl still looks beautiful. There is nothing they could do to her that makes her look anything else.

Later, as the sun rises, she'll sit slumped on her couch, nauseated from the unspeakable things she and Frank have just done to the bodies left in her home, hands raw from scrubbing at the floors and then from scrubbing at her hands, sore from the fight, with an ice pack over her face, while the Punisher makes coffee in her kitchen. Sin and Maggie will be safe with Steph, having a sleepover at her tiny apartment in Bed-Stuy, and the longest night will be over, with only the lingering smell of cleaning chemicals and bruises she will have to find a way to explain to show for it.

''This what she gave you?'' Frank will ask, handing her a mug of what can only be considered jet fuel, his attention going straight for the nondescript manila folder on the table. ''Anything new?''

''Haven't had a chance to go through it yet,'' she'll say, and somehow she will manage to push back her flinch when he opens it.

And then closes it immediately, looking up at her the way he does sometimes, a shadowy sense of concern underneath all that hardened Punisher armor. It is a less than great sign that Frank fucking Castle looks at her like he's genuinely worried she might be unstable. ''Dinah,'' he'll say, with less of his patented gruffness.

''Yeah,'' she'll nod. ''Pictures. I know.''

''You want me to take them?'' he'll ask. ''You don't need to see her like this.''

And she'll think – well.

Yes, she does actually.

Of course she does. Of course she needs to see her like this. Of course she needs to keep those pictures. She has to look at them. She has to know. She has to remember what they did to her. She has to think about her sister's skin falling away from her bones and her bloated belly and rotting insides and her broken fingernails and the grooves in her skin from restraints and the fact that she did not, in any way whatsoever, die of a drug overdose at her own hand. She has to think about these things, she has to wonder to herself –

Did she suffer? Was she scared? Was she conscious? Was it quick? Did she know what was going on? Was she scared? If I had been there, could I have saved her? Was she scared?

She has to look at the pictures and she has to think about these things, so she doesn't forget why she's here.

The real reason.

She did not come to Brooklyn to screw the sexy next door neighbor. She didn't come here to waver when the former assassin smiles at her or get weak in the knees because he's kind or jealous because he has gorgeous friends. She didn't come here to bitch and moan about having to lie to her friends and family and the complications of this spider web of untruths she's accidentally woven. She didn't come here to make perfect choices.

She came here to finish her sister's last case.

''No,'' she'll say, without meeting Frank's eyes. ''I want them to stay.''

But none of that has happened yet.

That will come later.

Right now, she is sitting on a quiet rooftop, and this is the closest she has gotten to being alone with her sister, her first baby girl, in a very long time. She takes out the picture of Sara's hand and tries to line their hands up so their matching canary rings touch. She tries to imagine what her skin would feel like under her fingertips. She tries to remember the person Sara was.

It's been so long.

Sara used to be afraid of water when she was little.

They'd take family trips to the beach in the summer and she would cling to Daddy and scream bloody murder while he stood in the waves and tried to explain to her that she was safe, that he had her, that he was not going to let her go. They'd go to the pool and she wouldn't even get in the shallow end, no matter how much Mom begged and pleaded and promised to hold onto her the entire time. Swimming lessons were mandatory in the family because Aunt Val and Uncle Danny had a pool and Sara tried to get out of them for as long as she could but when she was seven, Mom and Dad finally bit the bullet and put her in private lessons. They put Laurel in them too, even though she already knew how to swim, and told her to look after her sister.

The instructor asked Sara at the beginning of the second lesson, after a disastrous and pointless first lesson, What are you afraid of, Sara? Do you know? Can you tell me?

I don't want to die, she wailed, holding onto Laurel for dear life in ankle deep water.

You're not going to die, the instructor told her.

I don't want it to get me, Sara insisted. I don't want the water to take me!

Sar-bear, Laurel had said, extricating herself from her sister's grip enough to place her hands on her shoulders and bend down to meet her eyes. Nothing bad is going to happen. I'm here with you. I won't let the water take you.

Sara rubbed at her teary eyes. Do you promise? she'd asked. Do you promise you won't let me get lost?

I promise, said Laurel. I won't let you get lost. And even if you do, I'll just find you. I'll always find you.

There are many things in her life that Laurel has done right. That she has been good at. Being a big sister has never been one of them.

She the file and rises back to her feet as the timer goes off on her phone. Her legs are shaky now from the ongoing adrenaline crash, her muscles screaming in protest as she moves. She swallows hard and shivers slightly at the pain in her throat, one hand moving to pull at the collar around her neck briefly before she packs it all up, puts it away in a neat little box in her head, and goes back to her children.

In the end, she never could keep her promises when it came to Sara. This is all that's left now.

She loved her sister.

Her sister is dead.

She can't change that. Can't bring her back. Can't turn back the clocks so this horrible, unfair thing never happened. This is where they are now. This is what she has. She can't save the one girl in the world she always wanted to save. She never could.

But she can damn well avenge her.

She can figure out what was done to her. Find her killers. Make them pay. She can be the justice they can't run from. She can finish what Sara started here when she came to Brooklyn back in 2022 to look into a string of missing persons reports that got flagged by the JL. If that means being a liar and a user, so be it. This isn't about her. This isn't about her life or what she wants. This isn't about James. Or Sam. Or any of them. This is what she needs to remember when she's spinning out about her web of lies or her silly little crush on her neighbor. This isn't about any of that. This is about Sara. This is for Sara. It's all for her.

Nothing else matters.

.

.

.

With both of us standing
in front of the guillotine,
why did you take her
instead of me?

I'm trying to find the reason.
Why did I deserve to live?
What kept me here
and took her away?

I'm not even close
to deserving half a life.
But she did nothing wrong.
Still she's the one you took.

- Liz

Chapter Text

Chapter Five

Dinah's Millennial Mixtape

.

.

.

Keep busy with survival. Imitate the trees.
Learn to lose in order to recover, and remember
that nothing stays the same for long, not even pain.
Sit it out. Let it all pass. Let it go.

- May Sarton

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.

.

There's a team meeting at Sam's place right before Halloween.

Generally speaking, team meetings tend to be code for wine and cheese nights with a side of gossip and maybe some business talk slipped in there for balance, but Sam is insistent on these bi-weekly meetings. He says it's good for team morale. Which, sure, maybe it is. Or maybe Sam just loves a good charcuterie board. Who knows?

Bucky knows.

He hasn't known Sam for a century the way he's known Steve, hasn't had Sam carved into him the way Natalia was, but he likes to think he's getting to know him pretty well. He knows that Sam is friendly and extroverted, that he probably does genuinely enjoy a good charcuterie board and even better company, that he is someone who likes sharing his life with his friends. He also knows that Sam is smart, a damn fine leader, and pragmatic.

The team meetings are about risk assessment.

Team Cap 2.0, as people are so fond of calling them, is made up of four people with significant issues. Every single one of them – yes, even Sam – would be considered a liability on any other team. Sam was a fugitive and still carries with him his own boatloads of PTSD, grief, insecurities, and that same drive Steve had to do what is right no matter the cost. Sharon is an understandably embittered ex-SHIELD, ex-CIA agent who everyone forgot about. She spent five years undercover as a hardened criminal and had to do a lot of nasty things just to survive. Joaquin is the least damaged but he's overly eager and while that sense of enthusiasm is great, it can lead to unnecessary risk taking and potential conflicts. And Bucky is…

Bucky.

Enough said.

He's lucky he wasn't thrown in Arkham Asylum without so much as a backwards glance the moment he stepped back on US soil.

The team meetings are check-ins. You get them all in one place, do some poking and prodding, make it seem like a night of camaraderie and maybe a little too much wine, and that's how you know if any of them are currently at risk of going off the rails. It's clever. It's what a good leader would do.

That's why it's never bothered him that Sam is technically playing him. Bucky knows how important trust is on a team like this. You do what you can to make sure you still have it. He's fine with Sam playing host while he subtly pulls out his counselor skills and puts notes in their files about their state of mind.

It would be worse if he didn't do things like this.

Besides, despite all the subterfuge, the wine and cheese nights do usually end up being a good time.

Unfortunately, on this particular Tuesday morning, Bucky wakes up and knows, without a doubt, that today is going to suck.

He wakes up in bed before his alarm clock goes off and thinks, Fuck. Normally, it would be a win to wake up in his own bed instead of on the living room floor, but today he wakes up and his pain level is at a solid motherfucker.

His baseline, for the record, is a dull ow. The pain is always there but it's doable. More like an itch you can't scratch. Maybe a 2 out of 10 on the pain scale. It's never a 0, but it's something he can live with. This is like a 10 on the pain scale. Motherfucker is one step down from the highest level, which Shuri simply calls RED ALERT. That's when there's so much pain he can't move or talk or do anything but curl up in a ball and beg to be put on ice again. Has to be isolated away from anything that could be used as a weapon. When someone is in that amount of pain, they get desperate. It's only ever happened to him twice, both in Wakanda, where there was not only an entire medical team to help him but Ayo, who could stop him from impulsively swallowing a bullet to make the pain go away.

This is not that.

For a moment, when he wakes up with blinding pain in his head and searing pain flaring up in his back and shoulder, he thinks it could be. He flashes back to Wakanda and one of the worst pain days he's ever had, most of it spend shivering and sobbing and drugged to the gills. But it's not that bad. He takes stock of things when he wakes. Am I in enough pain to think about killing myself just to get away from it?

No.

That's good. There's the bright side.

Motherfucker level it is then.

This is…slightly less rare. Not common, maybe once every three or four months, but it happens. It's shouldn't be a massive surprise that it's happening today. It's been pouring down rain since about four in the morning, for starters, which always triggers the pain. And he knows he spent most of the night tossing and turning, jerking awake frequently, heart thumping noisily against his ribcage. Every nightmare he had last night was about The Chair. A day like today tends to be the outcome of that. It's to be expected. He's been doing so good lately. He was overdue for one of these days.

But it's irksome.

He had plans for today. Yelena's in town. It's wine and cheese night. Halloween is the day after tomorrow. He has stuff to do. He has things. Instead, he spends most of the morning in bed feeling like his head is about to split apart, there's a bone deep ache in his shoulder that he hasn't felt in years, and his back feels like it might be broken.

Somewhere around nine, after he's heard Yelena start puttering around in his kitchen, he staggers out of his bedroom, and she gets through half a complaint about his ''dogshit'' cereal choices and then turns around and stops, clamping her mouth shut when she sees him. There's a moment there where he thinks maybe she's surprised because he usually starts his day off with a run and maybe she's just disappointed she has nothing to make fun of him for. It takes him a second to realize that it's most likely because he has taken the arm off. It takes him even longer to realize that he has taken the arm off. He doesn't even remember doing that.

There are exactly two people in the world he would trust enough to take his arm off in front of. One of them is Sam. The other was Steve. He didn't realize until this moment that Yelena has somehow wormed her way onto that list.

Impressive considering he still half expects her to smother him in his sleep like 40% of the time.

For a solid minute, they just stand there in silence, staring at each other. Her face is entirely blank, not a shred of concern or shock to be seen, but she gives herself away with her body language, the tiniest shift in her stance, a tensing of the shoulders. One deeply uncomfortable moment later, she narrows her eyes. He expects her to say something about the arm. She doesn't. She just lifts a hand, points toward the bedroom, and says, ''March. Back to bed for you.''

He does as he's told. He marches. He collapses back into bed. He stays there for most of the day.

It's a shitty day. He spends it in and out of sleep with a nosy, demanding, anxious cat attached to him and a short little spider periodically checking in on him.

He does encourage Yelena to get out. Go for a walk. Check things out. There are Halloween events happening all over Brooklyn. Maybe head down to one of those. Maybe go into the city and do something exciting. She makes a face at him and says, somewhat ominously, that all her plans involve staying in. She doesn't even leave for food. She just orders in. Ordering things seems to be a theme with her today. He can't see her when she's not in the room, but he can hear her if he listens closely and he swears he hears her muttering to herself about IKEA.

Or maybe he's just hallucinating.

That's his theme for the day. Motherfucker level pain and motherfucker Steve just popping up everywhere like a ghost. Bucky drifts off and wakes up to Steve lying beside him, watching him, asking him how he's feeling. Bucky pukes up the Advil Yelena insists he takes and feels Steve's hands on his back even though he knows he's not. Bucky lies in the dark, in his bed, with Alpine protectively curled up against his back, and swears he keeps hearing these overlapping whispers in the room, all of them Steve's voice, all too unclear to make out.

Stupid punk can't even leave him alone after he's…whatever he is now.

Yelena is not a good nursemaid.

Although she does try very hard.

She's loud and seems unable to turn her volume down, which does not help with his headache. She keeps bringing him ice and heat packs, which is nice, but she also keeps bringing him food, which, considering he's having trouble keeping anything down, is not ideal, and painkillers, even though he's explained that they do nothing for him. But she tries. More importantly, she seems to want to try. She asks him if he's hungover early on in the day and when he says no, I'm just technically disabled and having a bad pain day, she decides it's her mission to take care of him.

So he lets her.

She brings him zavarka (and complains quite bitterly that he doesn't have a samovar) and borscht (my daddy says is good for you, she singsongs, and then sits by the bed and tries to feed it to him, does the helicopter noises and everything) and a lot of vodka. A lot of vodka. A downright inappropriate amount of vodka. It's very Russian of her.

Questionable caretaking aside, he prefers when she's hovering. Unusual given his typical preference to just suffer silently by himself, but. She makes him laugh. And she chases away the hallucinations. She never says a single word about his arm – or lack thereof.

Also, while he appreciates when she leaves him to rest, he can hear her moving things around out there and he's not out of it enough to miss that she has what he thinks is a piece of furniture delivered around two-ish. He's in too much pain to be concerned about it, but he does wonder what he's going to find when he eventually emerges. He gave her permission to move Steve's things out of the second bedroom so she can use it while she's here, but there's a lot more going on out there than just shuffling some boxes around.

He never calls Shuri.

Never texts her. He's supposed to on days like this. They're supposed to be recorded so she can keep an eye on his progress and make sure nothing up there is healing wrong or degrading. He's also supposed to be going to the newly opened Wakandan Outreach Center in the Bronx for regular check ups and scans, but he hasn't gone since the summer. Not since the Zemo thing. He figures he's used up all his goodwill with them.

Shuri's called, texted, sent messages, emails, but he hasn't responded beyond one initial text telling her he's sorry. It's better this way. They were using up resources on someone who didn't deserve it.

He can get through this on his own. It's not that bad. At least he remembers who he is. That's what he tries to tell himself when he's in so much pain he can't move or when his head hurts so bad he starts vomiting just from the agony or when he ends a bad day so weak from dehydration and low blood sugar and pain that he can barely stand. It could be worse. You could have forgotten again. Imagine how much worse things would be if you didn't know why you were in pain.

If he made it through seventy years of hell, he can make it through a flare up once every few months.

It's not a big deal.

For some reason, nobody seems to believe him when he tells them this.

Just before five, a couple hours before he's due at Sam's, after the rain has died down, Bucky drags himself out of bed and into the shower. He wouldn't say he feels good or even okay, but he feels slightly better than he did when he woke up this morning. The headache has eased off enough to be manageable. It's mostly the shoulder at this point. Which is fine. He's not sure he feels wine and cheese night okay, but he's going. He shouldn't, but he's been ignoring texts all day long and when he glances at the latest ones to come in – one from Sam, one from Hill – they both mention media training, so he knows there's no way out. Plus, if he backs out, Sam will want to know why and then he'll worry and he'll show up here with soup or something and that's not…

Yelena isn't ready for that.

Besides, everyone gets assigned something to bring on wine and cheese night and tonight's his night to bring dessert and if three drink Sharon doesn't get something sweet at the end of the night, she will never let the betrayal go. When you think about it, he's just doing everyone a favor.

So, at about ten to five, with just enough time to head down to the Food Bazaar that's on the other side of the building on the ground floor, Bucky throws on some clean clothes, puts the arm back on, shoves all the pain to the back of his mind, and walks out of his bedroom and –

Into someone else's apartment.

He stops in his tracks, blinking. He knows he's still groggy, but he's confident his apartment did not look like this the last time he ventured outside of his bedroom. He glances in the direction of the kitchen, eyeing the shiny new samovar, then he looks at the new, unfamiliar coffee table cluttered with empty boxes and wrappings, then at what is clearly a brand new mattress along with a new headboard and bedframe, still in their boxes, propped up by the spare room, and, finally, his eyes land on Yelena.

She's standing over in what was the rest of the open, empty space of the loft up that one step over by the window. It's less empty now. In one corner of the room, the alcove by the window that's supposed to be a dining area, the boxes of Steve's things have been tucked away neatly, unopened, still waiting for him to go through. The rest of the area has been taken over by two additional bookshelves, a full dining set, and a cat tree. The floor is littered with empty boxes and plastic wrappings and instruction manuals. His poor books have all been upended.

Down in the living room, every inch of floor space that hasn't been filled with cardboard or plastic has been littered with brand new cat toys.

Yelena looks up from what she's doing – which appears to be unboxing another cat tree, building another IKEA bookshelf, and rearranging his books – and just stares at him silently, daring him to say something.

Bucky stares back.

''You didn't have enough bookshelves,'' she says, at last. ''Half of your books were just stacked on the floor. That is craaaazy, James.''

''Yeah,'' he says, voice dull. ''I'm a crazy guy.''

''Even the ones that did have shelves were just thrown on your shelves in no specific order.''

''Real judgmental for someone who has been raiding my book collection since she got here,'' he says. Even right now he can see a separate pile of books she's set aside (Eileen, The Three Body Problem, All Systems Red, and Her Body and Other Parties from what he can see) for herself.

She doesn't even dignify that with a response. ''I'm rearranging them in order of genre.''

He scans the rest of the place, glaring at two large unopened boxes in the hallway by the front door. ''And the rest of this is…?''

''A home,'' says Yelena.

''It was a home before.''

''It was a crash pad. It wasn't a home.''

He doesn't argue with her. He doesn't think he could if he wanted to. She's not wrong. It wasn't a home. As much as he tries to convince people and himself that he's just minimalist, he's not stupid. He knows what he was doing by holding off on buying furniture. By refusing to make his house a home. It's hard to believe, standing here, in this beautiful waterfront loft, with all this space to grow in, that it could ever truly be his. That it could ever truly be something he deserved. He's been waiting for someone to take it away from him for months. It's safer to live on the edge of disappointment. That way you'll never be surprised when it strikes.

There's a faint sense of panic now, as he looks around at his now partially furnished place, with all the trappings of home. The flowers, the comfy chairs, the various cat trees. He wouldn't want someone to take this away from him. He really wouldn't want someone to take it away from Yelena.

That's dangerous.

''And this is just a start,'' she adds on. ''You need so much more than bookshelves and tables. Like, chairs, for example. I would have gotten some, but chairs need to be bought in person so you can try them out.''

''I don't need chairs.''

''Everyone needs chairs, James,'' she informs him. ''I don't need chairs,'' she mocks. ''Honestly, that's just stupid, what you said.''

''How did you get all this delivered today?''

''Priority shipping. Same day delivery,'' she tells him. ''IKEA is literally right there. Take your pick.''

''Isn't there an extra fee for that?''

''There's extra fee for breathing.''

''That's a rip off.''

''Well, it's not my money.''

''What do you mean it's not your – ''

Oh.

Aw, shit.

He pats down his pockets, checking for his wallet, the wallet he knows was in this leather jacket just last night, and comes up empty. He doesn't even know why he's surprised. Without a word, he extends his hand and waits for her to drop his wallet in it.

She lobs it directly at his head.

''Relax about it,'' she tells him when he lets out a heavy sigh. ''I shopped the sales.''

''You – ''

''And it's not my fault, when you think about it,'' she chirps, shooting him a smarmy grin when he catches his projectile wallet with a scowl. ''This place was depressing. And I am already depressed. I had to do something.''

He grunts, but doesn't say anything, too busy checking his wallet. It's not like he didn't expect her to steal his wallet and take all his cash. It would've been weirder if she hadn't. He just hadn't expected her to steal his wallet and furnish his apartment.

Though, in retrospect, he probably should have.

He's relatively certain that she's not in town on Widow business. He's got multiple alerts set up so he'll know if something murder-y or explode-y goes down within the state of New York and surrounding areas, he put two trackers on her – one a decoy that he knows she found and one a tiny thing that he knows she didn't – and he cloned her phone. He's counting it as using his powers for good. What if he needed to save her from herself? It was a selfless thing, really.

Luckily, after reviewing her contacts and messages, he now knows she is not here to assassinate anyone. She's not even trying to run from anything back in Mount Vernon. She's doing good there. She rents a duplex with a backyard for Fanny. She joined a book club. She has a job working the register at a local bakery. He's very proud of her. (But he's not supposed to tell her that.)

She is, however, avoiding her mother's calls.

In hindsight, it might be more complicated than assassin bullshit.

He can't blame Yelena for her avoidance. For several reasons. One of them being his own fraught history with Melina. But he can't blame Melina for being worried either. He's read the texts. He's seen Yelena's responses. And he sees Yelena now. She's a good liar, as all Widows are. She's good at putting on a brave face, but she's not okay. He knows what that looks like.

Quite frankly, even if he didn't, even if he hadn't done all this boundary stomping espionage shit, he's still certain he would know she's not doing great right now. It's not like she's hiding it well. She's drinking too much, even for a Russian, she's bumming his smokes, eating like crap, and not sleeping.

Even a brain damaged cyborg can see what's going on here.

He's just not sure what to do about it. It's not like he's some paradigm of mental health. What advice can he give her? What can he say? How does he preach about healing when he's not always certain it exists for people like them? The most he can do is be here, listen if she needs to talk, and do exactly what he promised he would do during those long months he spent trying to draw her out. I'm not leaving you. You're not alone.

Part of that, apparently, means letting her burn a hole in his wallet.

He silently resigns himself to keeping the new furniture. ''How much did you spend?''

''Only what was necessary,'' she says.

''And buying three new cat trees was necessary?''

''Of course it was necessary! You only had one. Poor Alpine was deprived.''

''She was not deprived. She was perfectly fine and happy with what she had.''

This is the moment Alpine chooses to make her presence known. By popping out of the new cat tree like a whack-a-mole and doing what can only be described as an elaborate gymnastics routine that gets her across the apartment and ends with her vaulting directly onto him like she's been hanging out with that Spider Kid from Queens. She humors him and allows him to hold onto her, but does not uncurl her claws from his chest.

''Yes, I see it,'' he says, in response to her throwing her head back and squealing. ''Auntie Lena's trying to get me to raise a spoiled brat.''

''Ah, ah,'' Yelena points a box cutter at him. ''You have not been spoiling her enough.''

''I spoil her plenty.''

''You don't.''

''I grew up in the Great Depression.''

Alpine slaps him in the face, which he feels he correctly takes as: WELL, I DIDN'T.

He rolls his eyes at her.

She doesn't roll her eyes back at him, but she kind of looks like she wants to.

''Fine,'' he sighs. ''We'll keep the cat trees.'' Somewhat reluctantly, he pries Alpine off him and deposits her on the couch. ''Sorry, sweetheart, I have to go.'' Alpine meows unhappily, staring up at him, but Yelena is the one who sighs.

When he looks back at her, she's staring at him with an unconvincingly neutral expression on her face. ''Is it necessary for you to go?''

''It's a team meeting.''

''I thought it was wine and cheese night.''

''Whatever. It's fine. I'm fine. Don't worry about it.''

''Worry?'' She lifts a hand in an exaggeratedly dismissive wave. ''I would have expected you to cancel so you could continue rotting in bed, is all.''

''I wasn't rotting.''

''No, you were resting,'' she states, pointed. ''Which you should still be doing. Preferably with borscht.''

''Borscht isn't going to change anything. I know I look pretty good on the outside.''

''Meh.''

''But I'm a duct taped, broken mess inside.''

''And broken things can heal,'' replies Yelena. There is an uncharacteristic gentleness to her words, even if they are delivered in her usual sardonic tone. ''But only with rest.''

Bucky could say so many things to that, he has so many responses, but he uses none of them. Just gives her a flat look and asks, ''You ever take your own advice?''

She sniffs. ''I don't like when people tell me what to do.''

''Even yourself?''

''I am particularly defiant,'' she says, scooping Alpine into her arms.

Lord knows he can't argue with that one. Defiance has run in every family he's ever had, blood or not, and it had an especially strong hold on the Widow sisters. He thinks this is where he would normally think of his sisters, Mary and Louise and Becca and their stubbornness and strength that they got from Ma. He thinks this is where he would normally think of Natalia and that spark of fire inside of her that allowed her not only to survive but thrive. He thinks this is even where he would normally think of Steve, that defiant little shit who got knocked down and always, always got back up, no matter the obstacles in front of him. But he doesn't. He hasn't thought of them as often over the past few days.

He's mostly thought of Yelena.

Yelena, in the Red Room, a tiny little thing with a brightness that could not be dimmed, not even by the Winter Soldier or Dreykov or Madame B. Yelena, at the Empire State Building, looking out at the city lights. Yelena, standing here in his apartment, building him bookshelves and cat trees and buying a mattress for the spare room she's claimed as her own.

''I won't be late,'' he says, and steps forward to press a kiss to the side of her head. He doesn't think about it at all. It's like muscle memory. ''Enjoy your borscht.''

''Fuck the borscht,'' she proclaims. ''I'm ordering Thai food.''

''Save me some spring rolls,'' he tosses over his shoulder, turning to leave. He only gets a few steps away before her voice, quieter, hesitant, stops him in his tracks.

''Do you think – Steve Rogers,'' she blurts, and watches him freeze. She doesn't continue until he has turned back around to face her. ''Would he…'' Her gaze flicks to the boxes piled up in the corner. ''Would he have any of Nat's things?''

Bucky does not think the sudden spike of dizziness is because of the pain he is still very aware of. It would be easy to blame the sudden off-kilter-ness on the bad day, but really –

He just hadn't thought of that.

It never occurred to him that Steve could have had any of Natalia's things. In retrospect, it seems stupid. Steve and Nat were close. Got even closer during the Blip years. He knows that. He knew that. Why did he never think about it? Why was that never enough to get him to open those boxes?

''Uh, I don't know. Probably,'' he acknowledges. ''Think they spent a lot of time together.'' He looks at the boxes, all of Steve's earthly possessions, the life he managed to cobble together for himself while he was a man out of time. It's not as much as you would think. He never really did put down roots here, did he? In the future. He could never get away from where he'd been and see where he was with clear eyes. ''Why don't you look through them while I'm gone?''

If she's surprised, she hides it well, although she does ask, ''You don't want to be here for that?''

''Nah,'' he smiles tightly. ''The answers to the questions I have aren't in those boxes. You go ahead.'' He gives Alpine one last head scratch and blatantly ignores Yelena's questioning gaze. ''Try not to spend the rest of my money in one night.''

''No promises,'' she calls after him.

He forces out a laugh as he turns to leave and hopes it sounds real enough to pass her sniff test.

The answers to the questions I have aren't in those boxes. He hadn't meant to say that part out loud. It's a little too deep. It cuts too close to the bone.

What he'd meant is this: When someone you love dies, you go through their things. You itemize. You perform emotional inventory. You sort and sift and remember. Keep the things that remind you of happier times, box up the rest, and hand it over to someone else. He doesn't want to do that. He doesn't want to do any of that.

The closest he's gotten is when he hastily searched through the boxes for a watch and a framed picture Sam asked for. Or when he sorted through Steve's books. Even then, it was treacherous work. He took what he wanted, packed up the dull political biographies and airport thrillers for donation, and stuffed the rest (his sister's book, multiple books about Captain America and the Howling Commandos, that one celebrated James Buchanan Barnes biography that he doesn't think he will ever get up the courage to read) back in the box for another day.

If he looks through those boxes, if he sorts and sifts and remembers, it means Steve's really gone. It means he's not coming back.

Bucky's still working his way up to that.

There's a sour feeling in his stomach and a tightening in his throat as he leaves, stepping out into the hallway. He can't tell if that's from the wave of grief or the physical pain that's kept him down all day. It's harder to tell than one might think. Grief, he's learned, is a kind of chronic pain. Luckily, as soon as he steps out of his apartment, the universe throws him a bone and gives him a reason to stow his crap for the time being.

It comes in the form of a familiar screech.

He treks over to Laurel's apartment, pausing in front of the open door to peer inside, where all three Lance women are currently standing in the entrance way. Two of them appear ready to go. The other is plopped down on the floor, one shoe on, red faced and wailing. He's thrown off, for just a second, by the overwhelming smell of cleaning chemicals emanating from the apartment. The place has been aired out, he can tell by the faint smell of the salty air, but he can still smell the very distinctive smell of industrial cleaner. Before he can think too hard about it, Maggie lets out another squeal and he zeroes in on her.

''N-No!'' She shoves at the wheels of the stroller she's sitting beside with her right hand, torn somewhere between devastated and righteously furious. ''No, Mam-Mama, nooo, Maggie – Maggie b-b-big g-giiirl!''

''Maggie,'' Laurel's voice is patient, if not exhausted. ''I know you're a big girl, honey, but big girls can ride in their strollers too.''

''No!''

''What if I push the stroller,'' Sin suggests, ''and we race Steph all the way there? I bet we'd win.''

''N-N-Nnno! Wawk!''

''You want to walk all the way to the restaurant?'' Laurel sounds dubious. ''Tiny, that's a long walk.''

Maggie juts her lower lip out and widens her watery eyes in a truly lethal pout.

''Maybe we let her walk as much as she can and then you could wear her when she tires herself out?'' Sin tries. ''Then we don't have to lug the stroller around.''

''Good in theory, but who knows if she'll even let me wear her,'' Laurel says.

''It's not like we're in the middle of the city and everyone's rushing to get somewhere. It's Red Hook. The vibes are totally different. I think people can go around us if she needs to have a tantrum on the sidewalk.''

''Oh,'' says Maggie, eyes widening as she looks past her mother and sister, spotting Bucky in the doorway. ''Oh!'' She points, shocked right out of her tantrum enough to wave. ''Hi!''

All eyes turn to him.

Bucky smiles, lifting a hand to wave back. ''Hi,'' he greets. ''Rough day?''

The little girl puts an exaggerated sad face on, holds both hands up to her face, and pulls them down. Sad.

''Oh,'' Sin says, ''that means – ''

Bucky signs back, without even thinking about it, I'm sorry you're sad, Maggie. He even signs out her name with the alphabet.

And that's how he learns he knows ASL.

Sin says, ''Huh.''

Maggie seems almost disproportionately wowed.

''James,'' Laurel's voice says, ''you know sign language?''

''…I guess?''

''You say,'' Sin cuts in, voice dry, ''as if you didn't know.''

''Funny story: I didn't until this very moment.''

She makes a valiant attempt to keep up her teenage frostiness but her curiosity gets the best of her. ''Do you often start speaking in languages you didn't know you knew?''

''You'd be surprised.''

''That's kinda cool.''

Laurel turns to give her daughter a slightly horrified look. ''Sin.''

''I mean,'' Sin blinks, ''fucked up.''

''Sin.''

''What?'' She tries to look as innocent as possible. ''It is both of those things.''

''Cool it with the swearing.''

Even cool as a cucumber Sin, always armed with her wit and biting sarcasm, backs down in the face of the Mom Voice.

''I'm sorry,'' Laurel says, shooting him an apologetic smile.

She looks…different today. A little less pristine, would be the kind way to put it. She looks the way he feels, would be the other way to put it. He considers for a moment that maybe it's just because she's completely fresh faced, no makeup or anything, but it's not that. She looks exhausted, dark circles smudged under her eyes, hair scraped up into a messy ponytail, and he can see faint bruising splashed across her skin once again, this time across her jaw.

A confusing sort of suspicion curls in his gut as he stares at her. She's wearing a thick beige turtleneck with a black sequined fleur-de-lis right in the center and a pair of black leather pants. He doesn't think he's ever seen her so covered up before.

(He also doesn't think he's ever seen her in leather pants before, which. He's not opposed to.)

''No,'' he says, shaking his head. ''Nothing to apologize for. Is everything okay?''

''Oh,'' Laurel huffs out a wry chuckle. ''We're just having a bit of a day. We're not at our best. I'm sure you can tell,'' she gestures to her face. ''I took a spill on the stairs last night.''

He steps closer to her to examine her injuries. ''You took a spill on the stairs,'' he echoes, monotone, clearly disbelieving.

''I know, I know,'' she winces, holding her hands up, embarrassed. ''That sounds so ridiculous. I was trying to rush up the stairs with a load of laundry and I tripped.''

''You fell up the stairs?''

''It could've happened to anyone!''

Sin hums, but doesn't say a word, abandoning her phone to help Maggie put her other shoe on.

''Feel free to make fun of me,'' Laurel says. ''I know I look like shit.''

Bucky pauses, considering. He's not entirely sure why, there aren't any specific red flags in her body language or tone or even her heartbeat, but he doesn't believe her. It's just sort of like a switch is flipped. He does not believe her. She didn't fall up the stairs. She's lying. He does not tell her this. He wants to, but he doesn't think he'd get anywhere. He opts for charm instead. Or at least whatever charm-esque remnants he can dredge up from his duct taped insides. ''You've never looked like shit in your life.''

''She looks like she's in an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer from 2001,'' says Sin, without even glancing up from helping Maggie to her feet and trying to entice her to put her glasses on.

''Maybe that's what I was going for,'' Laurel retorts. She grins, some of that patented Dinah Lance brightness returning to her eyes as she shuffles closer to Bucky to say, ''Just wait until I bring out my collection of vintage Betsey Johnson and Laundry by Shelli Segal dresses. I look like a main character from a late 90s or early 2000s WB show in the summer.''

''That's great,'' he responds. ''I have no idea what any of those words mean.''

''Guess you'll just have stick around and find out,'' she says, with a wink. She shifts her attention back to Maggie. ''Here's the deal, Maggie. We have to get going. Steph's waiting for us downstairs and we're all starving. We'll bring your walker and you can walk for as long as you want, but you have to let one of us carry you down to the lobby because we're already running late and you have to let Mama bring either the stroller or the carrier in case you get tired. That's just the way it is.''

Maggie makes a mewling-like whining noise and hides her face in her big sister's hip.

''But,'' Laurel adds. ''I'll let you pick. Stroller or carrier.''

Bucky, catching onto Maggie's probable pouting, whistles lowly and says, ''Good deal.''

''Totally,'' Sin agrees. ''You get to pick.''

Maggie peeks out from Sin's shirt, tries one last pleading look, and when Laurel doesn't budge, she gives up and points at the stroller.

''Good choice, Tiny!'' Laurel enthuses, darting forward to bend down and kiss her cheek.

Bucky is not a perfect man, so he's willing to admit that he misses whatever happens in the next few seconds because Dinah is directly in front of him and she's bending over in leather pants. By the time his manners have caught up to him and he starts blinking, averting his eyes, Maggie is crying again, refusing her glasses, trying to push her mother away while Laurel gets her other shoe on. Maggie, apparently holding quite the toddler grudge toward her mother, thrusts both hands toward him.

Sin turns to him and says, matter-of-factly, ''She wants you to carry her.''

''Which you do not have to do,'' Laurel rushes to say. ''Maggie, honey, I'm sure Bucky has things he needs to be – ''

''No, it's fine,'' he assures her and determinedly does not think about the fact that he's spent all day in pain and the last thing he should be doing is hauling around a whole person. ''I'm on my way out. I can walk you down to the lobby.'' In two quick strides, he closes the distance between him and Maggie. ''Come here, sugar.'' For all the mightiness she has in her, Maggie's a tiny toddler, smaller than most kids her age, and she weighs next to nothing, so it's not like it should be a hardship for him to pick her up. But he's acutely aware of the burning in his left shoulder and back today and he finds himself biting down hard on his tongue to keep from groaning as he lifts her into his arms. He's lucky he's a good liar.

He shifts Maggie onto his right hip, which is slightly better, and then immediately pushes his limits by picking up her walker with his left hand. Stubbornly, despite what he's sure is a noticeable flash of discomfort in his eyes, he keeps a smile on his face, eyes on Maggie. ''I know,'' he says, catching sight of her still unhappy expression. ''Life is rough sometimes, ain't it?'' He glances at Laurel, just out of earshot, and then whispers, ''But you've got a good mom to help you through it, don't you?''

Maggie says, very emphatically and very strongly, ''Mama.''

''She's a great mama, isn't she? We should be kind and love our mamas.''

''Y-Y-Ye-Yeah,'' she nods. ''Maggie l-l-lub Mama. L-Lo-o-ts.''

He risks another look at Laurel, but she's distracted, rifling around in the diaper bag for a safe spot to put Maggie's glasses. ''I don't blame you. She seems pretty easy to love,'' he murmurs, and instantly realizes his mistake. Not because the aforementioned Mama has heard what he's said, but because Sin has.

Which is so much worse.

He catches her eye for about half a second, just long enough to see her lips curl up into a smirk, her eyes narrowing, amused, and he thinks –

Damn it.

Found out by a thirteen-year-old.

Worst case scenario.

Bucky – who is relatively certain he is not normally this much of a wuss – can't even look her in the eye. ''So.'' He tries to ignore the feeling of Sin's eyes on him. He'd forgotten what this feels like. When a teenage girl looks at you and instantly knows all your secrets. ''How long has Maggie been doing ASL?''

''Oh, not long this time,'' Laurel says as they head out of her place. ''Just a few weeks. A little here and there. This is the second time we've tried it. I know ASL so I tried to start young and teach her as a baby, but it didn't stick. One of her therapists suggested it because she has a lot to say but talking is hard and it stresses her out. Her therapist thought maybe this was a better way. I'm not sure if she's a huge fan,'' she says, locking her door, ''but she knows a few words. It comes out here and there.''

''You know ASL?''

''Sure. Comes in handy.''

''With…?''

''With – oh, Sin, honey,'' she crooks her finger at her eldest. ''Can you carry Maggie's rollator down? James has his hands full with Maggie.''

''It's fine,'' he insists, but folds when Laurel does this surprisingly intimidating Mom Eyebrow Raise that he hasn't seen since – well, Sarah Rogers, actually. She was really good at the Mom Eyebrow.

''Sure thing,'' Sin says, stepping over to him to take the walker. She does not miss her chance to give him a private knowing smile behind her mother's back.

''Seems like she's doing pretty good,'' he says. ''She's got the confidence.'' He looks at Maggie. ''Where are you going tonight, Tiny?'' he asks. ''Are you going to get food?'' He signs food with his left hand.

She lights up and signs back, Banana.

''Eh, close enough,'' he says.

Seriously, he has no idea how he knows ASL.

It has never come up before this moment. He's known The Asset was a near flawless lip reader, but the ASL is new. His money's on Karpov. He was the one the most into languages. He wasn't the gentlest handler, that was Alex, but he was the one who enjoyed spending time with his pet the most. He enjoyed teaching and training and programming.

Bucky sucks in a breath.

Should not have thought about Karpov. Should not have even entertained that line of thinking.

Maggie looks at him closely, eyeing his pale and drawn face, and then signs, Good morning.

He laughs. It eases the sudden knot in his chest. ''Hey, the important thing is that you're trying,'' he tells her, ''and you've got the spirit.''

''If there's one thing she has, it's the spirit,'' Laurel agrees as she maneuvers the stroller into the elevator.

He steps into the elevator with Maggie chattering away in his ear. He does his best to keep up his side of the conversation, but he's not going to lie: he only catches about 20% of what she says.

''Where are you guys headed tonight?'' he asks when there's a brief lull, studiously ignoring Sin still smirking away at him in the corner of the elevator.

''Hometown,'' Laurel says, settling in with the stroller, reaching forward to press the button for the lobby.

''The barbeque joint?''

''That's the one.''

''That's not too far, is it?''

''No, it's right down the street. About a five minute walk.'' She slings the diaper bag up on her shoulder. ''You ever been?''

''No, I'm not really the…'' He stops. What he was going to say was I'm not really the eating out type but that feels like maybe the wrong kind of phrasing to use. ''I don't get out much,'' he settles on. ''Aside from work.''

''Well, we highly recommend it,'' Laurel tells him. ''Some of the best honey butter cornbread I've ever had and their Korean sticky ribs are to die for. And Sin here – '' she ruffles Sin's hair '' – is a big fan of their Frito pie.''

Sin, whose cheerfulness had flattened into a grimace and a scowl when her mother ruffled her hair, looks up from her phone abruptly and grins. It's a rather intimidating grin. It's a challenge. She's daring him. ''Hey, you could come with us,'' she suggests brightly. ''If you want.''

There's a pause as both adults stare at her.

Her perfectly cheerful smile doesn't even falter.

Laurel narrows her eyes at her daughter. It's hard to tell if she doesn't agree with the suggestion or if she's just suspicious because her normally sarcastic and sullen teenager has inexplicably perked up considerably. Still, she's the first to recover, turning to him with a smile of her own. ''You could,'' she agrees. ''We're great company.''

''I don't doubt that,'' he agrees.

''Oh, no, sorry, what I mean by that is we're so chaotic that you'll forget to be nervous about being in a crowd because you'll be so distracted,'' she says. ''Plus, as an added bonus,'' she tacks on, leaning in close to him, covering Maggie's ears so she can whisper, ''you can continue checking out my ass in these pants on the way there.''

Goddamn.

He's not entirely sure how he keeps his cool, but he does. ''You don't miss much, do you?''

''Hazards of being a mom,'' she says. ''Eyes in the back of my head.'' She removes her hands from Maggie's ears, kissing her on the cheek quickly before she pulls away.

''You have no idea how tempting that is,'' he acknowledges, and finds, as he says it, that it's not even a lie. ''But I'm afraid I can't tonight. I have to work. Thanks for the invite, though,'' he says. ''Maybe another time.''

Sin does not seem at all surprised by him turning down the invite. ''Eh, we'll wear you down sooner or later.''

''You're going to work?'' Laurel asks. ''At five o'clock?''

''Team meeting,'' he says.

''Team meeting after hours?'' Sin looks interested. ''Is there an alien invasion on the horizon?''

Maggie gasps, pulling back to gape at him with wide eyes. ''S-Sssticky?''

He frowns. ''Uh.''

''That's what she calls aliens,'' Sin explains.

''…Why?''

''She caught me watching footage from the Battle of New York a few weeks ago and thought the aliens looked sticky.''

It's…hard to argue with that? Or come up with any kind of response. ''Why were you watching footage from the Battle of New York?''

''Gymnastics inspiration.''

''Gymnastics inspiration?''

''Mostly from Cap 1.0, to be honest. Your boy was really wildin' out.''

''Typical,'' he grumbles under his breath. ''I don't think we need to worry about any sticky aliens,'' he says. ''If the text I got from my boss is anything to go on, it's much worse. Media training.''

''Oooh,'' Sin lights up. ''Is Sam going on Colbert again? I mean.'' She pauses, shifting her eyes to her mother briefly, a flicker of something in her eyes. ''Captain Wilson,'' she amends. ''He was great when he was first on back in the summer.''

''He's always great,'' Bucky says. ''He can do interviews like that in his sleep.''

A small smile works its way onto Laurel's face. ''I have no doubt,'' she says. Her voice is fond, but before he can ask her about it, the elevator doors slide open.

''You guys!'' A voice cries out. ''Finally! I thought you got lost up there!'' It's Steph, right at home in the lobby with Harold, the daytime doorman, the both of them chomping away on Tootsie Rolls. Despite the playful chastise, she looks comfortable where she is, sitting cross legged on the front desk, undoubtedly chatting away with Harold.

Harold looks pretty happy where he is too.

Given that he's blatantly ignoring the DoorDash driver over at the front door, knocking on the glass window, holding up a pizza.

''I'm starving,'' Steph declares, hopping off the desk. ''I haven't eaten since the waffles earlier. I got so hungry Harold had to share his candy with me. Hi, Bucky,'' she pauses to wave at him. ''Oh, hey, did you know Mr. Green from the fourth floor is having an affair with Mrs. Turner from the second floor.''

''Pfft,'' Sin scoffs. ''Everyone knows that.''

''I didn't,'' Bucky says.

''Is that something we should be spreading around?'' Laurel asks.

''If they didn't want people to know, they'd be more discreet about it,'' Harold says. ''Two nights ago, I caught that fella running down the hallway stark naked.'' He shakes his head. ''You ask me, his wife and his mistress can both do better.''

''What if he was just sleepwalking?'' Bucky suggests.

''No, that's Jeffrey,'' Harold says. ''3E. Poor guy.''

''Uh,'' Laurel gestures to the increasingly irritated Door Dash guy out front. ''Harold.''

He turns, sliding his glasses up, and makes a surprised noise. ''All right, all right, I'm coming, hold your horses,'' he says, making his way toward the door. ''Calm down, son, you could've just buzzed in.''

''That guy's definitely not from Mark's,'' Steph says, unwrapping another Tootsie Roll and shoving it in her mouth. ''All the guys from Mark's know Harold's the worst doorman in Red Hook. I think he might be my favorite person ever. I kinda want to travel the world with him.'' She chews a few times and then stops when she realizes everyone is staring at her. ''What?''

''That, uh,'' Sin looks her up and down, ''that's your eating barbeque outfit?''

''Are you going to a rave after?'' Bucky asks.

''You look like a Spice Girl,'' Laurel comments.

''Sssshhhhiny,'' Maggie adds.

Shiny would indeed be one word for Steph's outfit.

Purple would be another. Like, very purple. A surplus of purple. An abundance of purple. A metric fuckton of purple.

First of all, she's wearing lilac silvery metallic pants, high waisted and wide legged, which – already, there's a lot going on there. He's not sure what decade she looks like she's from but it's not the current one. Her shirt is a similar metallic colored cropped halter top that's barely covering her chest. On top, she's wearing a jacket that looks like it's mostly made of purple feathers. Her earrings are sparkly, dangling disco balls.

You know, most of the time, Bucky things of Steph as especially grown up for her age. She's mature, wise, she's clearly been through some shit, and she's a great support system for Maggie.

And then sometimes it's just very, very obvious that she's young.

He wonders, idly, in the back of his head, if she and Yelena would get along.

''This is my dancing outfit,'' Steph says, and does a twirl. ''Didn't I tell you?'' She looks at Laurel. ''Cass is coming into town early and we're going to Paragon. Tonight, I am wearing my scars with pride,'' she declares, throwing her arms out. She even pulls her jacket back a to display the scars on her abdomen. ''I'm young, I'm hot, and I survived, so I'm going to celebrate that. And yesterday's finance bro gets none of this. And as a bonus,'' she holds up a finger, ''if anyone says anything about my scars, my best friend's gonna beat them up.''

''Hell yeah,'' Sin says, and high fives her.

Maggie jerks in Bucky's arms and waits for him to move forward so she can lean in and high five Steph too.

Bucky can't help but be a little thrown by the appearance of the scars. He's known that she's been through something awful just from the one on her face, long and jagged, but the ones littering not only her stomach but the rest of her body judging by the way some of them disappear into the fabric of her clothes are grislier than he could have imagined. He recognizes scars like those. He's put scars like those on people. Those aren't accident with a lawnmower scars or t-boned by a drunk driver scars.

Those are torture marks.

He's not going to mention it, he's not that stupid, but he does feel himself tensing up at the sight of it, suddenly feeling a lot more protective of the chipper nanny from next door than he did about three minutes ago. Not that he says that, of course. He looks her outfit over one more time, raises an eyebrow, and says, ''There's no way you're going to be warm enough in that.''

''I'm all for this scar pride,'' Laurel chirps, ''and I love your enthusiasm, I support you, but I was thinking the same thing.''

''Oh my god, Mom and Dad,'' Sin mumbles.

Steph just laughs and says, sagely, ''Sometimes you have to suffer for fashion. Wait until you see the shoes I'm wearing to the club.'' She grabs a tote bag from the front desk and fishes out a pair of strappy heeled metallic purple sandals with butterfly details. They don't exactly look like the best shoes to wear in Brooklyn in late October.

Young people have no sense of self-preservation.

''You look like you're gonna go dancing and then afterwards you're gonna go out and solve mysteries with Scooby Doo,'' Sin says, as Steph slips her heels back in her tote bag. ''No, I will not elaborate.''

''I think you look nice,'' Harold says, popping back in. ''You remind me of my granddaughter. Purple's your color, darlin'.''

Steph shoots him a finger gun and says, ''You have no idea how right you are, Harold.''

''Don't let the bastards get you down,'' he says, patting her on the shoulder before he pops back out to help Mrs. Crenshaw with her groceries and her gaggle of children.

Maggie says, clearly, precisely, with an intense level of concentration and not a single stutter, ''Bastard.''

Bucky presses his lips together so tightly they hurt to keep from giggling.

''Um.'' Laurel lets out a slightly hysterical laugh. ''Uh…oh.''

She's quick to get them out the door after that.

Bucky's not much help. He does mean to be, but when he bends down to put Maggie down and reaches for her glasses in Laurel's hand, there is an explosion of burning pain in his shoulder. He thinks he does a good job of hiding it. He's sweet to Maggie. He convinces her to put her glasses on. He squirms under Sin's knowing teenage gaze. He tells Steph to have a good time (''but at least take a sweater with you or something,'' he tries, and feels only marginally better when she pulls a hoodie out of her bag). He tells Laurel to enjoy her barbeque. He thinks his pleasantness is pretty convincing. Then they all go their separate ways. The Lance family starts slowly making their way to the restaurant, with Steph – and Harold, who says he's sticking with them until they're out of the parking lot – covering the cheerleading for Maggie, and Bucky hangs back in the lobby, gritting his teeth against the burning spreading to his spine, trembling under his leather jacket.

It's fine. It's not a big deal. He can handle this. He is handling this. Sometimes he just needs to take the arm off and put it back on again. It's like turning a computer off and then turning it back on again. It has something to do with the sensors. He ducks into the area by the front desk where the mailboxes are, peels his jacket off, and takes the arm off. The pain eases. It doesn't go away entirely, but it lessens enough that a groan of relief slips through his lips. He exhales sharply, closing his eyes.

''You guys go ahead,'' Dinah's voice says from behind him. ''I'll catch up. I promise I'll be right there. I just need to talk with James for a minute.''

He whirls around, caught. ''Oh,'' he says. He's unsure how to describe the feeling that crawls over him. It's not shame exactly. He has nothing to be ashamed of. It's just a very specific kind of vulnerability that he's never really ready for. ''…Hi.''

She doesn't seem to have much of a reaction to him standing there armless. ''Hi.''

Bucky puts the arm back on. He does it quickly, connects it to the port, waits for the telltale click, and then recalibrates it with one quick rotation until he hears the familiar whir.

''James,'' Laurel says, seriously. ''I'm not going to lie to you. I don't know what was just awakened inside of me, but something was.''

Some of the tension in his shoulders eases. ''I'm going to remember that.''

''I hope you do.'' She takes a few steps over to him, moving hesitantly, like she's waiting for him to tell her to stop. ''I just wanted to check in with you,'' she tells him. ''I didn't want to mention it in front of the girls, but you look… I don't know.'' She takes the final couple of steps over to him and brings her hand to his face. It's such a natural movement for her. She reaches one hand up and cups his cheek, gazing at him with those concerned, searching sharp green eyes. ''A little off today.''

He stubbornly chooses to write the shiver off as a pain thing. ''It's nice of you not to outright say I look like shit.''

''You've never looked like shit in your life,'' she utters, and earns herself a chuckle. Somewhat reluctantly, she pulls her hand back. He does a good job of not chasing after her touch. ''Are you okay?''

''Oh, yeah, I'm fine,'' he says, nonchalant, casual. ''I'm just…'' He stops. It does feel better. Taking the arm off and putting it back on again. The burning has lessened. He feels less like he's about to explode. He doesn't feel like curling up in a ball. But he's still having a bad day. No getting around that. His pain level is high. He's not entirely sure why he can't just say that. He's an amputee. This is reality. Sometimes, life will hurt. You either learn to live with it or you don't. He doesn't remember, in this moment, here with Laurel looking at him so earnestly, why he feels the need to lie. Why he can't just say that. ''Actually, no,'' he says. ''I'm not. I'm – I have chronic pain issues. From the…'' He holds his left arm up and allows himself to wince as he wiggles his fingers in a wave. ''Things even the serum can't fix. Back, shoulder. Brain damage. I have good days and bad. Today was a bad day. Probably just the weather.''

''I'm sorry,'' Laurel says. She sounds genuine. Not pitying, but sympathetic. ''You shouldn't have carried Maggie.''

''No, she was fine,'' he assures her. ''She's tiny.''

''Still.''

''Dinah, seriously.'' He grabs his jacket. ''She didn't do any damage. The damage was done a long time ago. Trust me.'' He moves to shrug into his jacket and hisses, grimacing at the shot of electric pain that runs up and down his spine.

She doesn't hesitate. Just wordlessly takes the jacket from him and gently helps ease him into it.

He lets her. He is not great at allowing people to help him with things like this. But he lets her. ''Thanks.''

''Anytime.''

''What about you?''

''What about me?''

''Are you okay?''

''Why wouldn't I be?''

He doesn't mention how drawn and exhausted she looks. Or the bruises on her face. He's not sure how to tell her that she doesn't seem like she's having the best day either. He doesn't know how he knows she's off. He doesn't think anyone else would notice. She's just not as dazzling today. Not as bright. Still charming as hell, but just. Not herself. He notices these things about her. Just like she apparently notices these things about him. ''You're all covered up,'' is what he settles on.

She shoots him a coy look. ''Are you asking me to take my clothes off?''

''No. No, I wasn't – ''

''Oh, honey, you need to learn to be careful with what you say around me,'' she says, so easily, so confidently. ''Next time you tell me to take my clothes off, I will.''

Unwilling to let her just get away with that, he matches her, leaning in, and says, ''That's mighty forward of you.''

''Life is short,'' she tosses out, all careless and carefree. ''Why waste time?''

''Don't think I didn't notice you didn't answer the question.''

''Aw, drats.'' She's going for lighthearted and jokey, but he notices the subtle shift in her body language as she crosses her arms. ''You found me out.'' Her smile falters noticeably, like a flickering mask, turning tired. She twists the silver ring on her finger. ''I'm fine,'' she says, which is a lie. ''Just tired. I didn't really get any sleep last night and it's…'' She draws in a long, slow breath. ''It's been a long day.'' She meets his eyes. ''For both of us, it seems.''

''Well,'' he says. ''Fuck this Tuesday specifically then.''

She nods emphatically. ''Fuck this Tuesday.'' Despite the vitriol in her tone, she's grinning. ''You know what you need?'' He can almost see the light bulb blink on over her head. ''Some good old 90s and early aughts guilty pleasures.'' She holds her hand out. ''Give me your phone. I'm making you a playlist.''

''I don't need a playlist,'' he refutes, even as he, like the dutiful boy he is, takes his phone out and hands it over.

''You absolutely do,'' she says, snatching the phone. ''I'm making you a mixtape. It's a gift. Accept it. Now. Where are you headed? Harlem?''

''How did you – ''

''Everyone knows that's where Cap lives and he's at the top of the food chain, so I figure an after hours meeting would be at his place.''

''Oh.'' That does make sense. ''Right. Yes. I'm going to Harlem.''

''Subway or bike?''

''On this specific fucking Tuesday?'' He snorts. ''Uber.''

''So you need about half an hour's worth of music,'' she says. ''Got it.'' Her long fingers work quickly over the screen and he finds himself oddly mesmerized by the sight of her fingers, her hands, the tattoos on her skin. When her hands move, the tattoos look alive, the luna moth on the back of her right hand looks like its wings are moving. The intricate, expansive tree on the back of her left looks like its branches are swaying in the wind. ''We're starting out strong with Praise You,'' she says. ''A quintessential 90s hit. And some New Radicals. Oh!'' She bounces. ''And the Letters to Cleo cover of I Want You to Want Me.'' She looks up at him, beaming. ''That's our song. Did you know that?''

''Our song? As in you and me?'' He gestures between them. ''I didn't know we had a song.''

''I didn't either until right now,'' she says, ''but that's it.''

''Good to know.''

''Have to add some Britney and Christina,'' she says, staring back down at the phone. ''Spice Girls. Barbie Girl. Obviously.''

Sure, right, obviously.

''Have you heard the Whitney Houston version of I Will Always Love You?''

''Of course I have. Everyone has. It's magic. She was magic.''

''That's the correct answer,'' she nods. ''But I'm adding it anyway. Just as a reminder. Oooh, and also Bitter Sweet Symphony. That's a flawless song. Also – oh my god, S Club 7! I forgot about S Club 7! I thought I hallucinated them. S Club Party or Don't Stop Movin'? What do you think?''

''No opinion. Can we go back to the part where you thought you hallucinated them?''

''I feel like Don't Stop Movin' is the best choice,'' she says, pointedly ignoring him. ''And you need some Backstreet Boys. And TLC. And Mr. Brightside. Are you even a millennial if you haven't gotten drunk in the club and danced to Mr. Brightside?''

''I'm not a millennial.''

''You look like a millennial to the general public.''

''I haven't gotten drunk in the club and danced to Mr. Brightside.''

''That's genuinely the most heartbreaking thing I've ever heard,'' she says, which is a really bold thing to say to him, so bold that he wants to laugh, ''but maybe tonight's your night. If I put it on the list.''

''Really interested in the way your logic works,'' he deadpans, though the smile on his face kind of ruins the effect.

''Shoop or Whatta Man for Salt-N-Pepa?''

''Again, no opinion.''

She slips her gaze up to him and he watches one side of her mouth curl up into a funny little smile that he doesn't quite know what to do with. ''Definitely Whatta Man,'' she says. ''Besides, I already used Shoop to flirt.''

''How'd that work out for you?''

''A years long situationship and I accidentally got in the way of a real life soap opera supercouple,'' she says, and offers absolutely no follow up on that. She focuses back down on the phone and makes a happy little noise in the back of her throat as she adds more songs to the playlist. ''This is, like, the most fun I've had all day.''

''You're so easily amused,'' he says.

There are three things Bucky knows watching her now, fingers tapping away on his phone.

1. This playlist is going to be over half an hour long.

2. He's probably going to like maybe a quarter of the songs she puts on it.

3. She looks joyful like this, talking about music, curating a playlist just for him, and he thinks he would fight God himself just to give her a few more minutes to stand here like this with him.

''Or,'' she holds up one finger. ''Maybe 90s and 2000s music is just the best era for music.''

Doubt it.

He thinks out of all the music recommendations she's been sending him he's enjoying the 60s and 80s the best.

''Tell me, James,'' she says, adding a few more songs. ''Have you ever experienced girlhood in the 90s and 2000s?''

''I have not.''

''I'll give you a hint,'' she says, and proceeds to blow a raspberry and turn her thumb down.

''That bad, huh?''

''I still have low self-esteem and body image issues,'' she grumbles. ''Although…'' She pauses momentarily. ''Admittedly, some of that might've had to do with the fact that my boyfriend was cheating on me repeatedly for years.''

''Wait,'' he cuts in. ''What?''

''And most of the time he'd try to do the typical crap like oh, I don't know what happened or it was a mistake, it meant nothing, you have to believe me, but there was a definite period of time where he tried to shift the blame on me for gaining weight or losing weight or just not looking like Jessica Alba or Jessica Biel or whatever Jessica was in Maxim that month. One time, he for real said the words I don't think you realize how boring you've gotten.'' She stops, staring off into the distance, more like she's seeing something from the past, mouth turned down into a frown.

Bucky thinks, fleetingly, that it's a real shame you can't punch dead guys in the face.

''Which is not the point,'' she hurries to say. ''I really don't know why I keep telling you these things.''

''Like I said, I have a trusting face,'' he reminds her. ''Nice eyes.'' 

''The point,'' she goes on, ''is that the culture of that period of time was absolute dogshit. His behavior was on him but it was also a societal problem. The 90s and 2000s – and 2010s for that matter – were rough on girls. Nothing we ever did was good enough. We were never thin enough or curvy enough or pretty enough or just enough. We had to pay attention to every trend and follow it to a tee or else we were left behind. But,'' she holds the phone up pointedly, ''on the bright side, the music was stellar. Better than anything the 2020s have ever put out. I'm serious. Best generation for music. The industry might as well have died in 2008. Everything is so soulless and overproduced now. There's no joy in it anymore. It lacks conviction. It's insipid.'' She stops to point a warning finger at him. ''Don't tell my daughter I said that. She'll call me old.''

He mimes zipping his lips shut.

''90s nostalgia exists for a lot of reasons these days,'' she continues, ''but the main one, for me at least, is the music. And I'm about to teach you why that is.''

''Is there going to be a pop quiz after this?''

''Maybe.'' She throws him a quick grin. ''Which means you're going to have to study up, pal.'' She looks back down at the phone, scrolls, and then gasps dramatically and reaches forward to grasp at his jacket. Even in her excitement, she's careful not to jerk his arm and add to his pain. ''Oh! Have you ever been a millennial girl staring out a window on a road trip listening to Breakaway by Kelly Clarkson?''

Bucky stares blankly. ''You have to stop asking me questions like that.''

''Well, you're about to be,'' she tells him. ''And just to even things out, I'll add some grunge. You seem like a grunge guy.''

Grunge is fine. When he's in the mood for it. He appreciates the anger and defiance of it. He doesn't tell her this. He would, but quite frankly he's still stuck on something else she said. ''That boyfriend,'' he says, without thinking about it. ''Was that Maggie's dad?''

''It's fine,'' Laurel waves a hand dismissively. ''I shouldn't have mentioned it. It was a long time ago. Believe me, I learned my lesson. I shouldn't have taken him back.''

''He shouldn't have cheated on you,'' he fires back. ''It's not on you to take ownership for his bad choices. His lack of self control and respect is on him, not you.''

Her fingers still and she looks up, lips parting in surprise.

''Sorry,'' he says. ''I'm overstepping.''

''No. Just. No one's ever told me that before.''

''They should've.''

''In fairness, they probably would have if I ever talked about it,'' she says. ''But I don't.''

Yet she talked about it with him. He can't decide if he's honored or confused. Or both. ''Why is that?''

''I don't know,'' she shrugs. ''It's embarrassing. The guy cheated on me over and over. With people close to me. And I still went round and round in circles with him for seventeen years.''

''And then you stopped,'' he reminds her. ''You got out. You did that. It doesn't matter how long it took you. What matters is that your kids will know you were strong enough to get yourself out of a bad situation and start over.'' He pauses, taking in the look on her face, the faint splash of red on her cheeks. It's bothersome. How unaccustomed she looks to praise. ''Anyone ever punch that guy in the face?''

''Like, on my behalf? No. In general? Yes. You'd be surprised by how frequently.''

''I don't think I would be, actually.''

She pinches her lips together. She looks like she's trying not to laugh, clearing her throat, studiously turning back to her phone. ''Have you ever heard All the Small Things by Blink-182?''

''I've…heard of Blink-182,'' he discloses.

''Really? Not going to lie, I wouldn't have guessed that.''

''I don't know if I've heard their music,'' he says carefully. ''I might've. I've just…heard of them.''

''Yeah, they were big in the 90s and 2000s. You couldn't turn on the radio without hearing All the Small Things or I Miss You.'' She frowns, distracted, mumbling to herself, ''I think the drummer's married to one of the Kardashians now. One of the weirdest things to come back to after the Blip. Truly did not see that one coming. I want to say it's Khloe.''

''It's Kourtney,'' he says, automatic, a reflex, and instantly regrets it, closing his eyes.

''How did you…'' Laurel trails off as she raises her head back up to stare at him. When he opens one eye, it's quite clear from the look on her face that she's worked it out. ''Seriously? The Kardashians too?''

''They pay well,'' he tries.

''Hmm.'' She appears fascinated, staring at him for a second, gears turning in her head. ''You know, the Kardashians aren't exactly popular,'' she warns him. ''If people on social media find out you're working for them, I don't know how that's going to go in terms of how the public sees you. And you're already not winning any popularity contests.''

''Tell me about it.'' It's deserved, he thinks. The things people think about him. The world has divided him in two. Bucky Barnes, the boy from Brooklyn, Cap's best friend, Mr. America, and the Winter Soldier, the world's most prolific assassin, a terrifying, inhuman anomaly. One of these men is loved. The other is reviled.

People are afraid of what they can't understand.

For every person on his side, there's another starting some online petition trying to get him throw in The Raft or Arkham Asylum or even put to death.

It is what it is.

''Can't express how little I care about the opinions of people on social media,'' he says. Even he feels surprised by how much he means that. In the beginning, it was hard not to take it to heart. People protested his very existence. Camped out in front of the former Avengers Tower with signs. (Despite the fact that none of the remaining Avengers have anything to do with that building anymore.) Told him to go back to Russia. (Despite the fact that he's not Russian.) Victims' families tried to slap him with wrongful death lawsuits. It was hard. Now it's just… He doesn't want to call it noise. That seems disrespectful. People are entitled to their feelings about him. They hate him. Maybe he deserves that. But he's not going to kill himself to make them feel better and he's not going to change his morals to make them more comfortable. Ergo: It is what it is.

He thinks that's progress.

''Their lack of nuance isn't my problem,'' he states. ''We can agree that the Kardashians are rightfully controversial and they've earned a lot of the vitriol they get, but they don't deserve to be hurt or killed. And they have children. They have many children. Those kids don't deserve trauma because of the ethical conversations surrounding their mothers. I can't subscribe to that kind of black and white thinking. It doesn't mean anything.''

For a second, the hint of a smile glimmers on Laurel's lips. It's gone in an instant. She straightens herself up, standing with her shoulders straight, her voice light, tone casual, even as she throws out her own debate. ''See, now, I think that sounds reasonable, James, but twentysomethings on Twitter might see it differently.''

His lawyer, Bernie, said the same thing when he told her he was working with a private security company. ''Can't you do something not controversial for once?'' she'd groused, grumbling to herself as she read over the contract he was being presented. And then she stole his bagel and coffee, helped him secure the contract, and told him to get out of her office.

He likes Bernie.

She scares him a little.

''Then that's their drama,'' he says. ''Sooner or later, that way of thinking is going to bite them in the ass. You can't call out morally bankrupt behavior while engaging in the exact same kind of morally bankrupt behavior. It doesn't work that way. That's why things are the way they are now. People are stupid and cruel and lack the depth needed to see through their own veil of hypocrisy.''

''You think people are stupid and cruel for not liking the Kardashians?''

''I think they're stupid and cruel for wasting their time hating them enough to judge people for not letting them die when they could actually be working for the change they claim to want so badly,'' he corrects. ''If people are going to think less of me for doing the job I was hired to do and protecting them, then I'm going to think less of them for being myopic.''

This time, Laurel does not even bother to stop the slow half grin, half smirk from crawling across her lips. ''Would you look at that,'' she hums, stepping into his space, grasping his chin. ''Pretty and smart. You're ticking a lot of my boxes here, Barnes,'' she winks, thumb grazing the dimple in his chin briefly before she steps away, taking her hand with her. ''The younger generation isn't super great at things like nuance or, you know, having critical thinking skills. That's what growing up on social media does to a person. Which is why Sin is not allowed on social media until I cannot legally stop her.''

''That's for the best.''

''I have to admit,'' she starts slowly, sounding thoughtful. ''It is poetic that the woman with an abusive Nazi ex-husband hired one of the most vocally anti Nazi guys out there as her security. I have to grudgingly respect that kind of cleverness. Also, I'm starting a Bingo card for your celebrity clients. I'm going to start making guesses. When I get a Bingo, you have to buy me dinner.''

''Or,'' he leans in a little to whisper conspiratorially, ''you could just ask me to buy you dinner.''

''That's not a game,'' she whispers back. ''Have you worked for Rihanna?''

''No.''

''Damn. Have you worked for anyone who could get me invited to the Met Gala?''

He opens his mouth to speak, but then clamps it shut. Technically, yes, he has. Or he will. Technically, he has been asked to head up one of the many security details for the Met Gala and has been told to expect a contract sometime in the new year. Technically, he has been hired by Anna Wintour herself. He's relatively confident that if he says this, however, Ms. Wintour will somehow find out and probably disappear him.

''I don't think they hand out invites to the Met Gala to just anyone,'' is what he eventually says.

''You say that,'' she says, ''but every year they have random influencers there.''

''Fair.'' He turns his head to look in the direction of the front doors. ''I feel like we've been standing here for a long time. What are the chances your kids are halfway through the appetizer already?''

''Oh, honey, dollars to donuts, they haven't even made it out of the parking lot yet,'' she drawls. ''It's fine. I just thought I'd try to get your mind off the pain a bit. Maybe give us both some breathing room away from this fucking Tuesday. Are you feeling better?''

''Are you?''

''Meh. Some days are minute by minute.''

''Yeah,'' he says quietly. ''I get that.''

''This minute's pretty good,'' she adds. ''How is it for you?''

''It – yeah,'' he nods. ''It's a good minute.''

She puts on an exaggerated bashful smile. He swears she actually flutters her eyelashes at him. ''Plus,'' she says, ''this was fun. I spend most of my time with my kids these days. I miss adult conversation. For the record, I agree with everything you said. The Kardashians have created a generational ethical dilemma, but they don't deserve to die. They're lucky to have you on their team.''

''I'm not technically part of their team,'' he says. ''I'm just – ''

''You're the Break Glass In Case of Emergency hero they call in when they need you to save the day.''

''I wouldn't say I'm – I'm not a hero,'' he gets out, somewhat haltingly. ''I'm just. A guy.''

''Well, guy,'' she says, tossing his phone at him. ''I'm all done here.'' She bites her lip, watching the expression on his face closely as he examines the playlist. ''It's possible I overdid it.''

''It's possible?'' He scrolls through the playlist – appropriately titled Dinah's Millennial Mixtape – feeling simultaneously impressed and horrified by how long it is. ''This is three and a half hours long.''

''Okay,'' she relents, ''it's definite that I overdid it.'' She points a finger at him. ''And that was me restraining myself.'' As soon as she says this, she gasps dramatically, eyes widening. ''Oh, wait, wait!'' She grabs for the phone. ''I didn't put Stars Are Blind on here. I'm sorry, but a Millennial Mixtape is not complete without the masterpiece that is Stars Are Blind.'' She adds the song and then hands the phone back, triumphant. ''Here. Now I'm done.''

He just arches an eyebrow. ''Restraint, huh?''

''Historically not something I'm good at,'' she confesses.

He chuckles and inwardly accepts that he's going to listen to every damn song on this playlist, even if they're all terrible. ''Thank you,'' he says. ''I'll think of you every time I listen to…'' He peeks at the playlist. ''Tubthumping by Chumbawamba.''

''Please do,'' she nods eagerly. ''It's one of the most iconic one hit wonders of the 90s.''

He scrolls through the mix, eyes skimming the titles, just trying to see if he recognizes any of the songs. He does.

He vividly remembers Darcy Lewis and Thor's Lady Jane basically holding him hostage, forcing him to listen to MMMBop, and telling him it was their ''duty.''

Mama Said Knock You Out is one of the songs Sam listens to when he's sparring and then pretends just randomly came on.

A couple months ago, while Bucky and Torres were stuck in a surveillance van while Sam and Carter infiltrated some rich criminal party in Houston, Torres gave him a very passionate and thorough rundown of Aaliyah's tragically short life and career.

And Bucky has washed enough dishes with Sarah Wilson to recognize TLC and Destiny's Child and Praise You from the music she sings along to while she's doing chores. Her best friend made it for her, she'd said. She listens to it when she misses her. She listens to it every day.

Also, some of them he just recognizes from, you know. Being a person in this world. Listen, he may not know everything there is to know about music the way Laurel apparently does, but he does know Britney Spears.

He's not that isolated from the world, thank you very much.

''How many songs are on here?''

''An even fifty.''

''Fifty – ''

''Fifty-one actually. Because I had to add Stars Are Blind.''

''You had to.''

''I had to. You don't understand,'' she insists. ''And it's good! Halloween's coming up and then we've got Eras in Indianapolis. I feel like I'm going to miss a few days of song recommendations. This should hold you over until we get back.''

He lifts his eyes back to her. She looks incredibly proud of herself. It's taking a lot of willpower to keep from inviting himself along for their barbeque dinner just so he can keep looking at that smile on her face. ''Can I ask you something?'' he says, waiting for her to gesture for him to continue before he goes on. ''What's the story with you and music?''

''Can't I just like music?''

''Sure, you can. But I have a lot of friends who like music. Sam loves music. He recommends things to me all the time.''

''Marvin Gaye, right?'' Her smile widens, eyes twinkling when he shoots her a questioning look. ''I read that interview he did in Men's Health a few months ago,'' she explains. ''He really loves Marvin Gaye.''

Bucky resists the urge to ask if her she read the interview he did with Brooklyn Magazine back in September. He kind of hopes she didn't. It wasn't a good interview. It hadn't been his intent to botch the interview so badly that no one ever asked him for another. That was just a happy accident. ''You're going out of your way here,'' he goes on. ''Sending me song recommendations every day. Building playlists. This is important to you.''

She licks her lips. Her eyes roam over his shoulder, the direction her girls went. ''I just think music is an important part of life,'' she tells him. ''We all do. When Sin was little and we were barely scraping by, we listened to a lot of music. It made things seem…lighter. If you sing along to a good song at the top of your lungs and dance like a fool, you can almost forget how hungry you are. Even when we had nothing, we had music. It's one of the most important forms of human connection. Everything about it is personal. The lyrics, the rhythm, the melody, the way you feel when you hear it, the way your body responds. You can tell a lot about a person by their taste in music.''

''Oh yeah? What's mine say?''

''That you're still figuring things out,'' she says gently. ''And that's okay. But that's why I'm doing this. I want that for you. That kind of human connection.'' She moves closer to him, not in his space, but close to it, bordering it. ''Have you ever heard a song that just stopped you in your tracks? Made you forget to breathe for a second? Have you ever heard a song that just makes your entire body respond to it? Have you ever teared up listening to music because something about it understands you?''

''I…'' He has to think about it for a minute. He doesn't think he can say he has, honestly. He likes music. Loves it, even. When he was alive – When he was…before. He liked to dance. It's one of the things the history books aren't wrong about. He liked to take girls dancing, just like the books say (though they neglected to mention that a lot of those times, the girls he would take dancing were his sisters) but he also liked to drag Stevie dancing and he also liked to go alone. He just liked to dance. There was joy in it. Something light. Life was heavy. He worked. He provided for his family. In the in betweens, he boxed and he went dancing. These things made him feel weightless. There was always music, it was loud and it seemed alive, and he can pick out songs that he liked better than others, can name his likes and dislikes. But he's not sure he's ever experienced what she's talking about. Music was a way to dance. It was a distraction. What she's describing is a way of life. ''I guess…no?''

''Then that's what we're looking for,'' Laurel says to him. ''I won't stop until we get there. I'm very dogged.''

''I'm getting that.''

''I don't know if this playlist is going to get you there, but I already know what song you'll like the best.''

''Sure. Tubthumping.''

''You might hate me for that one,'' she snorts. ''I'm not telling you what your which one it is, but it's in the first fifteen songs. You have to find your way there on your own.''

''So, what's yours?'' he asks. ''Your song. The one that understands you? Nina Simone? Drops of Jupiter? Iris?''

''Oh,'' she gives him a look, ''I'm not telling you that.''

''No?''

''Nah,'' she says casually. ''We're not there yet. You gotta earn that one, my friend.''

''Well,'' he says, like a promise, locking eyes with her, ''it's nice to have goals.''

Her gaze lingers on him for a minute too long, eyes soft and wide. When she looks away, it's almost disorienting. ''I should get going,'' she says. ''I need to send Steph on ahead to get us a table. There's always a wait at Hometown. Thanks for humoring me.''

''Anytime. Let me walk you out.''

''It was nice to go through music that wasn't Taylor Swift,'' she says, letting him move his hand to her lower back, leading her toward the front door. ''Sin's been insisting that we need to listen to her entire discography to pre-game before the concert and considering we don't have a lot of time before then, it's been back-to-back T. Swift.''

''I noticed,'' he says, without thinking – and then immediately regrets it. When she pauses, turning her gaze to him, he knows he's been caught. ''I, uh, I can hear through the wall,'' he confesses. ''Not in a creepy way. I don't listen on purpose. But sometimes the music you play – ''

''I know,'' she cuts him off.

He stares. ''What?''

''The serum, right?'' She says it so nonchalantly. ''Gives you enhanced hearing.'' At his gaping stare, she seems to take pity on him, placing a placating hand on his arm. ''I've always known that.''

''…Oh.''

''Mmmhmm.'' She sends him an appreciative smile when he opens the door for her and he watches as her expression changes, spotting the exact moment mischief bleeds into her eyes and her smile turns into a smirk. ''That's why I only masturbate in the shower now,'' she says, nonchalant as ever, striding out the door without a care in the world.

And that's when Bucky walks into the unopened side of the double doors.

By the time he manages to unstick his face from the glass and step outside, shaking his head like a dog shaking off a face plant into the grass, she's a few steps ahead of him, cackling as she heads toward her girls. ''I'll see you later, James,'' she calls over her shoulder, with what can only be described as a devilish grin. ''Enjoy the music!''

He stares after her.

It's possible, he decides, watching her jog to catch up with her kids, that he's in over his head with this woman.

''Man,'' says Harold.

''Fuck,'' Bucky nearly yelps, doing a whole body flinch when the chatty doorman appears from literally nowhere right beside him.

An elderly man sneaking up on him with ease is not exactly a ringing endorsement of his super soldier skills.

Harold chooses not to notice any of that. His eyes, too, are on Dinah's back. ''That girl,'' he declares, ''is a firecracker.''

''That's one word for it,'' Bucky mutters. He was thinking more along the lines of tease, but firecracker works too.

''Hey,'' Harold nudges him. ''You should take her out on the town one of these days.''

''I don't know if that's a good idea,'' Bucky hedges.

''Oh, come on,'' Harold tries. ''What's the worst thing that could happen if you ask her out to dinner?''

''Uh, she could hear me?''

Harold shakes his head at him. ''Jimmy, you are too young to be this afraid.''

Bucky smiles faintly, a grim shadow. ''I'm older than I look.''

''Even more reason to take a chance,'' Harold insists, stepping in front of Bucky. He lowers his signature sunglasses to peer at him, eyes kind but serious. ''Life is short, kid,'' he advises. ''You don't want to miss it.''

See, that's the problem, isn't it?

There is still a part of Bucky that thinks – even as he stands here, in Red Hook, at home, with a pretty neighbor and a kind doorman doing their best to make him remember he's alive – he already did. He already missed his life. Life already happened to him. It happened to him when the Army taught him to kill and Hydra used that foundation to make him a monster. It happened to him in the ice. He froze.

Time didn't.

Life went on.

And he missed it all. He missed the parts of it that mean anything. He missed the part where you live. Guys in their twenties and thirties are supposed to be out there sucking and fucking. He was out there assassinating and destabilizing. It's not the same. He missed those years. He doesn't want to miss any more. He doesn't. But he still finds himself feeling like he missed his chance.

Maybe he's still trying to figure out if he deserves a second one.

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.

A few minutes later, after he spends too long staring at the display of Entenmann's cakes and Halloween themed packaged cookies in the Food Bazaar, he heads out front to wait for his uber and pops one earbud in to listen to Dinah's potentially dodgy music choices while he waits.

He sends a text to Sam letting him know he's on his way, kills some time with a back and forth about dip and whether or not Sharon will remember it's her day to bring it (she won't, which is why he grabbed some hummus before he checked out), and when he looks up, glancing to the side, he spots Laurel.

The weather has improved drastically from the earlier rain storm, the sun peeking through the clouds just in time to set, the wet cobblestones glimmering in the fading light, and in the center of it, there she is. She's made it out of the parking lot at least, halfway down the sidewalk, crouched in front of Maggie. Sin and Steph are nowhere to be seen, most likely sent ahead to get a table at the restaurant and Maggie seems fairly dejected, probably realizing that she's not going to be able to make the walk, but Laurel is calm and patient and he can see the look on her face from all the way over here, how full of love and kindness it is.

He watches her talk to her daughter, the setting sun illuminating both mother and daughter in a warm autumn glow, and then he watches her lift Maggie into arms, give her a hug, and tuck her into her stroller – all while some 90s singer croons I want you to want me, I need you to need me, I'd love you to love me, I'm beggin' you to beg me in his ear.

He doesn't think he stares for too long, doesn't think he's obvious about it, but she still catches him. Right after she's gotten Maggie settled in the stroller, she looks up and right at him. Without missing a beat, she tosses him a quick two fingered salute. It's such a familiar gesture that it nearly makes his breath catch. Before she leaves, she turns over her shoulder and throws him one last smile.

He smiles back.

He is still smiling, despite the still present aches and pains of the day, when his Uber shows up and he gets inside to go to Harlem.

And yeah.

There's no real doubt about it.

He's definitely in over his head with this girl.

.

.

.

Look, how even the bee begs the honeycomb.
Mouth, an oval of need. We long to name the yearn.

The unflinching joy of saying: I want this.
To touch each other and say: I want this.

A touch of honey: I want this.

– Joy Sullivan

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Chapter Text

Chapter Six

Hope That You're the One

.

.

.

What if I could look

at you and not wonder
– what will happen?
but open you wide, without asking –

All day I've wondered what I did
to let
the hope in.

– Mary Szybist

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.

.

It's the fifth song on the playlist.

That's the one he keeps coming back to. There are multiple songs on the playlist that he wouldn't describe as bad, some that he would even say he enjoys. Bitter Sweet Symphony. Closing Time. Smells Like Teen Spirit. Boys on the Radio by Hole is especially haunting. Specifically, the lyrics. To the point where he has a hard time listening to it because it's hitting a little too hard. But the one he finds himself inexplicably drawn to is the fifth song. It's right where she said it would be, in the top fifteen.

Pain by Four Star Mary.

Specifically, the version from their 1997 self-titled EP.

The first time he hears it, sitting in the back of the Uber, on the way to Harlem, he doesn't register anything beyond the fact that it's catchy. Later, while he's standing outside of Sam's place, waiting for Sharon, he puts the playlist on shuffle, listens to Boys on the Radio again and No Scrubs by TLC and Don't Stop Movin' by S Club 7, and then the Four Star Mary song comes on and he decides that's it. That's the one.

He's not saying it's the song Laurel's been looking for, the one that stops him in his tracks, his favorite song of this new life, but it's the one he likes the most on this playlist. It's less bubblegum pop than the majority of the rest of the songs and something about the sound of it and the lyrics (feeling I've been lost for years, you could never understand me unless you've seen those tears/pain, I can't sleep/running, running from those days, there's another one inside me, guess I've gone insane) stick in his head. He has no real nostalgia toward the 90s, he was on ice for the better part of that decade, but something about this song scratches some sort of itch in his brain that he can't explain.

In the cool late October air, he loiters outside Sam's building, hesitating going inside, pretending that he's just waiting for Sharon.

He gives the streets a quick scan, looks down at his phone, and then turns to look up at the old brownstone he's standing in front of. Halloween is alive in every neighborhood and borough in the city, but he thinks he feels it the most in Harlem.

Everywhere you look, it's all skeletons and bats and jack-o-lanterns, glowing twinkle lights and witches with cauldrons and fake cobwebs lining the windows, various shades of orange and black and purple splashed liberally around the streets.

Sam, especially, has taken it incredibly seriously. He lives in a multi-unit brownstone in the heart of Harlem and he started decorating the entire building for Halloween at the beginning of October. His landlord and fellow tenants were befuddled, but at the end of the day their reactions were mostly do what you want, you're Captain America.

And he did.

He really did.

He's dressed up every door in the building with fake cobwebs and fake spiders, lined the hallways with orange fairy lights, and lined the staircase with pumpkin string lights. He decorated the front doors and windows with window stickers and purple twinkle lights and stuck a plastic jack-o-lantern on a table. And that's not even getting into the way Sam's actual apartment looks like Halloween threw up in it. Or what he's done to the rooftop deck. Or the goodie bags he's been preparing for trick-or-treaters for like the past two months.

Inside the lobby, there are skeletons hanging from the ceiling and a life size witch holding a glowing cauldron. Outside, there's a blow up skeleton dinosaur with a bucket full of candy.

Bucky still doesn't understand the skeleton dinosaur, to be honest.

He cocks his head to the side and peers at said dinosaur for a moment – who, despite being a plastic decoration, is looking at him rather judgmentally – before shaking his head and going back to the playlist. He checks the time as the song switches from Nirvana to Eagle-Eye-Cherry, looks up, glancing in both directions just to make sure Carter's not going to pop up and try to see who he's texting, and then he sends Laurel a text.

got a bone to pick with you about something, he texts.

Her reply comes within thirty seconds. Stab in the dark. Chumbawamba?

why would you do that to me?

Don't be hateful, it's a very inspirational song, she enthuses. Think about it. He gets knocked down, but he gets up again. We could all stand to be more like Chumbawamba guy.

He snorts. what's the likelihood this song ever leaves my head?

Oh no it's going to be stuck in your head for years, she responds. That's the power of 90s one hit wonders. Sorry! And then she sends him like six smiley emojis in a row. You didn't hate all of it did you?

it's three and a half hours long, he reminds her. i haven't listened to all of it.

Well hurry up! I want a review!

He chuckles to himself, propping an arm up against the stairs. He goes back to the Spotify playlist and plays the fifth song on the list again. 5, he texts. the four star mary song. that's the one you thought I'd like the most, isn't it?

It takes her longer to respond this time, but when her text comes through, he can practically see the knowing little smile on her face. I don't know, she says. Is it?

''I have a problem,'' a voice says over the sound of the music in his ears. Without even looking up from his phone, Bucky hits pause and lifts his hand, dangling the bag from the Food Bazaar from his index finger. It's a stupid decision given the pain in his shoulder that still hasn't gone away, but occasionally he does enjoy being extra.

''What is – '' Sharon snatches the bag from him, peering inside. ''You think an Entenmann's chocolate cake and some Halloween themed Oreos are going to fix my problem?''

He tugs his earbuds out and tucks them in his pocket. ''Look under the cake and cookies.''

Sharon rummages around in the bag and then looks up, narrowing her eyes. ''You bought hummus?''

''Dip,'' he corrects. ''That's your problem, right? You forgot to bring the dip.'' Without even waiting for an answer, he turns and jogs up the steps of the brownstone. He has to move aside some fake cobwebs just to get to the intercom.

Sam really likes Halloween.

Maybe that's because he lives in a haunted house.

I mean, he doesn't. Because ghosts aren't real. He just happens to live in an ancient brownstone with groaning pipes, creaky floorboards, loud neighbors, and a not so insignificant chance of rats. But he's adamant about the haunting. He's even named his apparent ghost. Her name is Matilda and she likes to be acknowledged. According to Sam.

Sometimes Bucky thinks Sam might be fucking with him.

Or possibly cracking up.

In any case, the house rule is that you have to say hello to Matilda when you come over. Given that Matilda doesn't exist, Bucky thinks this rule is ridiculous (and also that Sam desperately needs to get himself a cat or something because it's clear he gets a bit odd if he's alone for too long) but he does it.

Like tonight for example.

When he presses the buzzer for Sam's apartment, he summons up all his charm and says in his most charismatic, flirtatious voice, as soon as he hears Sam pick up, ''Hi, Matilda. I brought a special treat just for you.''

''Oh my god,'' Sharon mutters.

''Now, why,'' Sam's voice drawls, ''are you trying to flirt with my ghost?''

''Don't be jealous of our bond, Samuel.''

''You're not even her type,'' Sam scoffs. ''Come on up. We're on the roof.''

He buzzes them in and Bucky courteously holds the door open for Sharon. She does not say thank you. Just saying.

''You know,'' she says, stepping into the lobby. ''I could be offended by this.'' She hands him back the bag. Notably after she takes the hummus out so that when they head up to the roof, she can take credit for it.

''By me doing you a favor?''

''By your clear lack of faith me in,'' she responds. ''It's very offensive.'' She looks up at the ceiling. ''Isn't it, Matilda?'' She cups a hand to her ear, listens for a moment, and then looks at him. ''She says yes.''

''She does not say yes. She says you earned it. You never remember to bring what you're assigned.''

''I'm a busy woman, Barnes,'' she says, voice smooth and unapologetic as they move toward the staircase. ''You look like shit, by the way.''

He pauses on the bottom step of the staircase, and looks at her up and down. Listen, there's not a lot he knows about fashion. But. She's wearing a long beige wool coat, a gray sleeveless cropped turtleneck, brown loafers, and high waisted wide legged leopard print pants. Leopard print pants. Like he said, there's not a lot he knows about fashion. His sense of style can mostly be condensed down to boots and leather. And not even in a fun Daddy and/or Dom way. But even he knows animal prints don't work. Oh, and –

''Your lipstick clashes with your outfit,'' he says, toneless, and then turns and heads up the stairs, mostly so she doesn't see him laugh when she lets out a shocked and offended gasp.

''It does not,'' she yelps, chasing him up the stairs. ''This is the exact shade of lipstick Carolyn Bessette Kennedy wore.'' She catches up to him, practically nipping at his heels on the stairs. ''She's a New York fashion legend.''

''Yeah, dull neutrals, big sunglasses, and plastic headbands. How original.''

''It's called minimalism.''

''It's called boring.''

''And yet I've never seen you wear a single pop of color.''

''Hey.'' He stops on the stairs, turning back to look down at her. ''Speaking of fashion, have you ever heard of Betsey Johnson?''

''Sure, I'm a millennial. We've all heard of Betsey Johnson.''

''How would you describe her style?''

''Well,'' she says, ''not minimalist, that's for sure.'' She gasps, suddenly enough that he rears back slightly, startled. ''The fruit print dress,'' she announces, snapping her fingers at him. ''That's the main thing I know about Betsey Johnson.''

''That what?''

''The fruit print dress,'' she repeats, as if that means anything at all to him. ''From the 2002 collection. It's one of the most sought after pieces for collectors. It comes in black or white, spaghetti strap or milkmaid sleeves. The print is watercolor fruit. It's whimsical. That's what Betsey Johnson is mostly known for. Colorful whimsy. It's not my vibe, but she was huge in the 90s and early 2000s.'' When he shoots her a deeply confused look, she just shrugs her shoulders. ''Fashion is art. I know art. People aren't always looking for framed paintings when they're looking to buy stolen pieces.''

He doesn't say much in response to that, just a quiet ''hm'' before he turns away and resumes climbing the stairs, but he does think about it. It makes sense to him. He can't see Dinah, the woman with the fuzzy slipper collection and the statement t-shirts, in a minimalist CBK wardrobe full of black and beige. He can see her in a whimsical fruit print dress. In fact, he'd love to see her in a fruit print dress. That just seems like it would fit.

''Hang on,'' Sharon calls after him, jogging to catch up. ''Why the hell are you asking me about Betsey Johnson?''

''No reason,'' he says, trying and failing for casual. ''Sometimes I go down weird Wikipedia rabbit holes when I can't sleep.'' It's a lie, but what else is he supposed to say? My neighbor made an offhand comment about collecting Betsey Johnson dresses and I remembered it because I have a problem and I'm in way over my head? No thanks. He doesn't need the comments. The team still hasn't let the Eras tickets thing go.

''Well, we've certainly all been there,'' she says, patting him on the back with both hands as she follows him up the stairs. ''I once stayed up until four am doing a deep dive on the 27 Club.''

He waits until they're on the second staircase before he looks back at her and asks, somewhat absently, ''What do you know about Hole?'' He stops immediately, closing his eyes. It doesn't make it better, but to be fair, he does hear it as soon as he says it. He opens his eyes and turns back around to face her. ''I'm thinking about rephrasing that.''

She's doing a good job of not cackling at him. ''It's probably your best bet.''

''I meant the band.''

''The band,'' she echoes. ''Like, Courtney Love's band?'' She looks at him strangely. ''I don't know,'' she says. ''Band from the nineties. Grungey riot grrrl stuff.''

''Angry,'' he says.

''That does tend to be a staple of grunge. I wasn't really a grunge girlie. I was more into Fiona Apple.'' She cocks her head to the side, fascinated. ''You listen to Hole?''

''I guess I kind of do now,'' he concedes. ''I'm…'' Okay, well, so much for not mentioning Laurel. ''I think I'm in a situation.''

She clicks her tongue, shaking her head sympathetically. ''Hate when I find myself in situations.''

''It's not a – I'm just – '' He blows out a breath. ''My neighbor made me a playlist.''

''Of Hole songs? Is she a very angry person?''

''No, she's…nice. Sweet. Funny,'' he says, but then pauses. There are a lot of things he can say about Laurel, but he feels like anything he says is going to give him away. ''It's not just Hole songs. It's…lots of things. What do you know about Four Star Mary?''

''I have no idea what that is.'' When he starts moving again, she hastens her pace to catch up with him. ''Sooo, your sweet and funny neighbor made you a playlist, huh? Is she pretty? What's her name? How long is this playlist? Tell me more about that.''

''Absolutely not.'' He speeds up, sprinting up the rest of the stairs. It's easy to outrun her. Sam lives on the top floor of the brownstone, four floors up, and Bucky is conveniently a super soldier. He leaves her in the dust. He takes the stairs two at a time. One might even call it fleeing. He's calling it self-preservation. He doesn't mind the teasing from others when it comes to whatever is going on between him and Dinah, but there are some things he wants to keep to himself.

And yet, somehow, Sharon persists.

There's really something in that Carter blood.

She's much faster than he anticipated. He leans back against the wall, trying to look patient and casual and not like he's just leaning because he's still in pain and the stairs killed his back. He pulls his phone out in the short waiting period, examining the picture of the Hometown BBQ menu Laurel has sent him. Real talk, she texts, what would you get? He doesn't even get a chance to answer. Sharon pops up in no time. She doesn't even look winded. He's not sure why he's surprised.

People do tend to underestimate Sharon Carter.

''Okay,'' he says, slipping his phone back into his pocket, ''let's switch gears to something you might actually be helpful with.''

''I'm literally your most helpful friend,'' she informs him, voice crisp. ''I developed your skincare routine.''

''Any news about our new vigilante lady friend?''

If the question surprises her (which he suspects it does) she doesn't show it. ''First of all, don't say lady friend,'' she says. ''We're nearly in 2025. Second of all, why do you ask?''

''I don't know. Dropping a body in front of the Winter Soldier – ''

''The former Winter Soldier.''

'' – was bold. And arrogant. Not to mention blowing out some guy's eardrums. And then she just disappears? Seems strange to me. I was expecting her to pop up more often.'' It's not technically a lie. He has been thinking about the mysterious woman who popped up back at the beginning of the month, took out a bunch of white supremacists, and then just disappeared. He knows SWORD has likely been tracking her or at least attempting to track her, but he did think he would have heard more about it by now. He's not even sure Sam's been kept in the loop. But the reality of the situation is that he's mostly just trying to take a minute to get himself together enough to go inside and not set off any of Sam's something's wrong with Bucky alarm bells.

Carter knows this. It's written all over her face. But she is kind enough not to say it. ''Don't think she wants to.''

''So you do know something.''

''Why aren't you asking Sam this? He's the team lead.''

''Sam doesn't spend as much time with Maria Hill as you do.''

If he's not mistaken, that's definitely the faint hint of a blush on her face. ''You spend time with her.''

''Not lately. She's been too busy.''

''If she's too busy to spend time with her drinking buddy, what makes you think she's been spending time with me?''

A faint smile crosses his face, but he says nothing.

She glares at him, but it lacks the heat needed to really make it land. ''I don't know much,'' she relents. ''They're keep this under wraps as much as possible. It's all very hush hush.''

''They?''

''Hill,'' she says, and then pauses. ''Fury.''

Suddenly he's a lot more interested. ''Fury's involved in this? Does he even officially work for SWORD?''

''He's a consultant.''

''And he has higher clearance than I do?''

''Sweetie, most people have higher clearance than you do.'' She at least has the decency to sound apologetic about this. None of the higher ups are at all apologetic about it. ''You're essentially low level muscle. Sorry.'' She pats him on the arm sympathetically. He has no idea whether or not she's being genuine. ''We're all insulted on your behalf.''

''But I'm Captain America's second in command.''

''Technically, on paper, I'm Captain America's second in command.''

He stares.

She does not break eye contact even once.

''Huh,'' he gets out.

She nods. ''Yep.''

Okay, honestly, that's kind of fair.

It's never been a secret that his contract with the agency sucks and he knows damn well that's because they don't trust him. No shit they wouldn't let him be Cap's second in command. He feels like he should be more upset about that than he is. And yet. ''Eh, whatever. Less pressure.'' He pushes off the wall and opens the door, letting Sharon pass by him into the apartment. ''So,'' he says, closing the door behind him and stepping into Sam's Haunted House of an apartment. The lights are off, save for the kitchen light, but there's still a faint glow in the living room courtesy of the many Halloween decorations, including the blinking pumpkin lights lining the window. ''Fury knows who she is?''

''I didn't say that.''

''No, I did,'' he responds, hanging back, letting her move ahead of him. ''Why else would they bring him in?'' He follows after her as they head over to the stairs to the rooftop deck. ''You know who she is, don't you?''

''I know the chatter,'' she says. ''If I had to guess, identity confirmation is the reason for the secrecy.'' She stops by the kitchen, turning around and reaching out to grip his right arm, meeting his eyes. ''Listen, if this woman is who we think she is, the situation is complicated.''

''Because?''

''Because she's been dead since 2016.''

He's not sure what level of surprise he's supposed to have here, but that doesn't really move him. Developing a crush on his neighbor? That shit floors him. A long dead vigilante coming back from the dead? That's just any other day. ''That does sound complicated,'' he says, though he's unable to keep the dryness completely out of his tone. ''Do I get to know a name?''

''Sure,'' she agrees. ''When you have higher clearance.''

''Does Sam know?''

Sharon presses her lips together and says nothing.

''He doesn't,'' he guesses, ''does he?''

She hesitates. ''You're going to have to ask him that,'' she advises, voice soft. It's hard to read when it comes from her, that quiet softness. It means there's something she's not saying.

If he puts his mind to it, he could figure it out, but he's trying to be less creepy and invasive. ''Maybe I'll do that.''

''You know where the Brooklyn Hangar is?''

Not a follow up question he'd been expecting. ''As in…an aircraft hangar?''

''It's a night club,'' she explains. ''Over on 52nd street. Close to the water. Heavily industrial area. Lots of warehouses.''

''There's a night club right by the sanitation department?''

''That, too,'' she nods. ''Rumor around the office is that there's a video of this woman taking out an entire group of men who were hanging around trying to prey on drunk women stumbling out of the club. With ease.'' She doesn't smile, but he can see the amusement glinting in her eyes. ''Some of them ended up in the water.''

Impressive, he has to admit that.

Bucky steals a fun sized Butterfinger from the plastic bats-and-cats dotted black bowl on the kitchen table as they make their way to the stairs. ''She's sticking around, isn't she?''

''I don't think she has any plans to leave,'' she agrees. ''Which is good. Means you don't have to be so desperate for her attention.''

He scowls. ''I'm not desperate for her attention.''

''You're sure asking a lot of questions about her.''

''I'm just trying to calculate the odds of having my eardrums blown out,'' he says, which, to be fair, is true. He would like to know what the chances are having his eardrums burst or his brains leak out of his skull.

''I wouldn't worry about it,'' she says, as they step out into the night air. ''Don't antagonize her,'' she murmurs in his ear, ''and I think you'll be fine.'' She tosses him a sunny smile, elbows him in the side, and then makes her way over to Sam and Torres, holding up the container of hummus, thrusting it triumphantly in Sam's general direction. ''I brought hummus!''

Sam, arranging cured meats, cubed cheeses, olives, and tiny pickles on a wooden board, looks up with a sly grin. ''Did you now?''

''I've never even seen you eat hummus,'' Torres says, from where he's struggling to open a bottle of wine.

''I love hummus,'' Sharon says, somewhat defensively. ''Big hummus fan.''

''That's cool,'' he responds. ''Not sure how that'll will pair with the salsa and queso I brought.''

Sharon throws her arms out. ''Did no one have faith that I would bring the dip?''

''Not really,'' Sam says. ''You never remember. Which is fine,'' he rushes to say, sending her a grin. ''You're good at other things.''

Bucky pops the Butterfinger bar into his mouth, holds up the Food Bazaar bag for Sam to see by way of greeting, and sinks onto the couch.

Sam's private rooftop patio – his pride and joy – is small but decked out with accoutrements, from heat lamps and furniture to artificial turf and a Captain America themed garden gnome from Cass and AJ to a fancy outdoor kitchen set that Sam spent an insane amount of money on and has used maybe four times. If there was real grass up here, Sam would be down on her knees, trimming it with scissors once a day. That's how much he loves his rooftop living room.

Bucky spends a lot of time teasing Sam about this little oasis he's got going on up here, all the time and money he's sunk into it, but he has to admit he's never been more grateful for this comfortable couch and the heat lamps.

He does not love that he's chosen the seat right under the giant grim reaper Halloween decoration, though. He tilts his head up to glare at Death.

Death is a lot less intimidating with a blow up Captain America decoration (also from the boys) standing right next to him.

Bucky grimaces as he leans forward to put the bag on the table next to the bowls of chips and crackers, the salsa and queso, and the plate of assorted fruits and veggies. He inhales sharply when he feels that painful tugging and throbbing around his scar tissue. He slumps back against the couch, clenching his jaw and squeezing his eyes shut. He rubs at his aching shoulder absently, forcing himself to breathe through the pain and not release a steady stream of expletives.

On the one hand, the pain isn't quite as bad as it was this morning.

On the other hand, sometimes he just fucking hates this stupid fucking body and everything that's been done to it against his will and everything he has to live with because of other people's choices.

''Hey.''

Bucky jumps, opening his eyes to look at Sam, standing over him, two glasses of wine in his hands.

Oh, shit.

Sam's still got that endlessly calm Sam look on his face as he looks down at Bucky, but the concern is evident in his eyes. ''You okay?''

''Fine,'' Bucky lies. Then, when he's given one of those looks, he relents. ''Bad day.''

''How bad are we talking? Motherfucker or Red Alert?''

''Motherfucker.''

Sam's concern doesn't waver. He has a very carefully curated non reaction to it, however. He's good like that. ''More wine for me then,'' he declares, and dumps the contents of one wine glass into the other. ''You're stuck with water tonight.'' He sits down in one of the chairs, sipping at his now nearly overflowing wine glass, and throws a look over his shoulder. ''Can one of you bring Bucky a water when you're done fighting over the pickles?''

''We wouldn't be fighting over the pickles if she wasn't eating all of them,'' Torres yelps.

''You snooze, you loose, baby bird,'' Sharon comments, flippant as she flops down onto the couch next to Bucky, the entire charcuterie board balanced on one hand, a cold bottle of water in the other. She hands the water over to Bucky and then goes back to eating all the pickles off the charcuterie board.

''You seriously have to stop calling me that,'' Torres complains as he plops down in a chair, clinging to the jar of pickles like it's a safety blanket. ''I'm a grown man.''

''You're hugging a jar of pickles the way Winnie the Pooh would hug a jar of honey,'' says Sharon, plucking the last tiny pickle off the board, sure to send a pointed smug look in his direction as she does so.

Bucky twists the cap off the water, leisurely sips at the water, and waits. As soon as Sharon is properly distracted, he steals the board from her, popping a cheese cube into his mouth with a smirk when his thievery elicits a startled shriek from her.

''Man, y'all are savages,'' Sam comments.

''Says the guy drinking an overflowing glass of cheap red wine and stuffing his face with Oreos,'' Sharon says.

''Excuse me,'' Sam snaps, through a mouthful of Oreo, ''you think my wine is cheap?''

Torres, grudgingly moving past Sharon's pickle theft, peers at the Oreos dubiously. ''Dude, what's up with those Oreos? Why are they orange?''

''Halloween,'' Sam and Bucky say at the same time.

''Now, is this a safe space?'' Torres asks, popping the top off the pickle jar and grabbing a fork so he can add more pickles to the charcuterie board. ''Can I make a confession?''

''Did you kill a man in Reno just to watch him die?'' Sam asks.

''I don't like Oreos.''

Sharon gasps. ''That's so much worse.''

''Disowned,'' Bucky says, monotone. ''Immediately.''

''I'm writing you out of the will,'' Sam says.

Torres looks at him, surprised. ''I was in your will?''

''Not anymore. Who doesn't like Oreos?''

''I prefer Keebler Fudge Stripes.''

''Is that because you're seven years old?'' Sharon asks.

''Fuck those elves,'' Sam says, pulling a face. ''They creep me out.''

''What?'' Torres looks personally insulted. ''Why?''

''They're shifty.''

''No, they're not, they're honest hardworking elves. You know who freaks me out? The Trix Rabbit.'' Torres nods sagely. ''He's got major groomer vibes.''

Sam chokes on his sip of wine.

''Bonus shout out to Mr. Peanut, the Kool-Aid Man, and the Bush's baked beans dog. I don't trust any of them. And the Pillsbury Doughboy. Why does he like when people poke him in the belly so much? Seems sus.''

''Maybe he has a degradation kink,'' Sam suggests, voice dry.

''You guys,'' Sharon cuts in, ''we're losing Barnes.''

''No,'' Bucky says, keeping his face completely blank. ''I know what a degradation kink is.''

Everyone looks at him.

He looks right back at them, perfectly innocent.

''I think,'' Sharon says, reaching forward to steal a potato chip and another pickle, ''that the Charmin Bears overshare.''

''Are the Keebler elves related to Snap, Crackle, and Pop?'' Bucky asks. ''Because I know them.''

''Damn, man, you think just because they're all elves, they have to be related?'' Sam points his wine glass at him. ''That's offensive.''

Unfortunately, although he tries his best, one of the consequences of being around Sam Wilson so often is that Bucky is way less good at the intimidating stare down than he used to be. He makes it about five seconds before he loses his battle and cracks a smile. ''Drink that slower,'' he warns, pointing a finger at the giant glass of wine, ''or I'm stealing it.'' He pulls his phone out. ''And eat something.''

''I am. I'm eating Oreos.''

Bucky shakes his head, but says nothing, going back to his phone to answer Laurel's earlier text. something with brisket seems like the best choice for a bbq joint but in general pastrami sandwiches call to me, she texts.

Fair, she responds. The girls bypassed the sandwich section completely. They're currently having a spirited discussion about tacos right now. I just want the cornbread and pickles tbh.

you can't just have cornbread and pickles, he tells her. that's not a meal. there's no protein.

She responds with a winky face and an indignant, Technically anything is a meal if you eat it at meal time. But fine, if you insist, I'll add some Korean sticky ribs to it. I'd get a pastrami sandwich in your honor but they only serve those on weekends.

they gatekeep the pastrami? he asks. that's not very brooklyn of them.

There's a pause in her replies then. The three little dots come and go. And then, seemingly reluctantly, she says, Ok serious question. Will you lose respect for me if I admit I've never had a pastrami sandwich?

His response is immediate. yes.

Dang it, she says. I guess you know where you have to take me on our first date.

''Hey,'' Sam's dry, unamused voice – along with the sound of him snapping his fingers – cuts into his conversation. ''Are we boring you here, Mr. Winter Soldier?''

''Yes,'' says Bucky. To Laurel, he texts, you deserve more than pastrami sandwiches on a first date.

''Who are you even texting?'' Sam demands. ''All your friends are here.''

''That's not true,'' Bucky says. ''Sarah's not here.''

''He's probably texting the Hole girl,'' Sharon says.

A beat. ''I'm sorry,'' says Torres. ''What?''

''The band,'' Bucky explains.

''You're texting Courtney Love?''

''No, I'm – '' He sighs. ''Nothing. It's none of your business.''

''He's flirting with his neighbor,'' Sharon informs them.

''Ah,'' Torres nods. ''That makes sense.''

''You ever going to do anything more than flirting?'' Sam asks.

Bucky raises an eyebrow at him. ''Are you?''

Sam opens his mouth, then pauses, closes his mouth, and takes a very large gulp of his wine.

''You know what we should be eating,'' Torres breaks in, before a conversation can break out about both Bucky and Sam's cowardice when it comes to relationships, ''is hot wings. Sam needs the practice.''

Bucky, currently debating whether or not it would be frowned upon if he moved past all the food and just went for the chocolate cake, looks up. ''For what?''

''For when he finally mans up and asks Luke out on a date,'' Sharon suggests. ''You don't want to be sitting at the table sweating through your suit because you can't handle spice.''

''I can handle spice,'' Sam insists. ''Why do people keep saying I can't handle spice?''

''Because you can't handle spice,'' all three voices say at once.

''I'm from Louisiana!''

''And yet somehow,'' Bucky responds, ''you can't handle anything other than base level spice.''

''And that's not what I meant,'' says Torres. ''He needs to practice his spice tolerance because…'' He trails off, looking at Sam. ''Can I tell them?'' He waits until Sam waves him on and then announces, excitedly, ''Sam's going on Hot Ones!''

''Hot Ones, huh?'' Bucky somewhat hesitantly tests out the store bought hummus with a piece of carrot. It's never as good as homemade. ''Talk to me when you're voted People's Sexiest Man Alive.''

''It's gonna happen if they know what's good for them,'' Sam says, around a mouthful of chips and salsa.

''And yet they so rarely do,'' Sharon comments. ''Remember when Blake Shelton was named People's Sexiest Man?'' She shakes her head, lowering her voice to a mumble as she prepares herself some cheese and crackers. ''In retrospect, that should have been a sign of the incoming apocalypse.''

''Congratulations on Hot Ones,'' Bucky says. ''I just get dipshits like Joe Rogan and Theo Von begging me to be on their dumbass podcasts like once a week, but sure, you get Hot Ones.''

''I keep telling you to get a restraining order against Rogan,'' Sam reminds him. ''Guy's desperate.''

''Small men usually are,'' Sharon says.

''I bet he just wants to see if he can take you in an arm wrestling competition,'' Torres suggests.

Bucky scoffs. ''He can't.''

Sharon sits back on the couch with her plate of goods, tucking her feet under her. ''That's about the only thing that would make his obsession with you make any kind of sense,'' she tells Bucky. ''It's not like you're some Alpha Bro he can shit talk with. If you're anything, you're definitely an Omega.''

He narrows his eyes at her slightly, confused. ''What?''

''Oh yeah,'' Torres nods solemnly, ''no doubt. You're even more Omega than Bruce Wayne and the Omegaverse was literally started because of him.''

Bucky is still gaping at both of them. ''The what?''

''Nothing,'' Sam cuts in. ''It's nothing.''

Sharon, apparently, disagrees with that, because she informs him, cheerfully, ''It means you're submissive and breedable.''

Bucky stares at her. He stares at her for a long time.

Torres is still nodding.

''At no point did I know how that sentence was going to end,'' Bucky says eventually, slowly.

''I find that hard to believe.''

''Submissive and breedable?''

''Submissive and breedable,'' she confirms. ''And don't try to tell me that's not you, Mr. America,'' she adds on in a whisper. ''We both know our mutual friend would have agreed with that description.''

He leans in closer to her, matching her tone to ask, ''You think Steve wanted to breed me?''

''I absolutely do.'' She pulls back with a wink and then drags herself to her feet, heading back over to the kitchen area.

Bucky makes a face. ''Why does everyone think – I used to throw Steve over my shoulder!'' He gets out in a frustrated yelp. ''I could carry him up three flights of stairs on my back! He was a twig!''

''I believe it's pronounced twink,'' Torres interjects helpfully.

''I wasn't the damsel! I was the big one!''

''We know, Grandpa.''

''Please don't ever refer to yourself as the big one again,'' Sam throws out. ''Also, there are pictures of you from back then and you weren't big.''

''I was bigger than him!''

''It was the comic books that really did you dirty,'' Sharon says as she returns. She's opted for the white wine tonight. And has added her signature ice cube that makes Sam look physically pained every time she does it. Tonight she's added not one but two ice cubes. Sam's eye twitches. ''They made you an overexcited child.''

''I'm aware,'' Bucky grumbles. ''I was still around when they started publishing those. The guys thought it was hilarious. My sister Louise collected the comics because she wanted to torment me with them when I got home. I wrote the publisher a letter.''

''You wrote a – '' Sam cuts himself off with a click of his tongue and a shake of his head. ''Of course you did.''

''They needed to know they were wrong.''

''And how did that go?''

Bucky says nothing. Just slouches down on the couch. Obviously it didn't go well. He's reasonably certain that after he sent that letter, the dweeb in the comic books got worse.

''Anyway,'' Sam says loudly. ''Moving on.'' He puts his wine glass down on the table. ''As excited as I am for the viral videos of me eating hot wings and crying, I do have some news.''

Bucky grimaces. ''I don't like the way you worded that.''

''What was wrong with my wording? I thought it was very neutral.''

''That's what was wrong.''

''Yeah, if it was good news, you would've said so,'' Sharon adds, dragging a piece of cauliflower through hummus before crunching down on it.

''It's not…'' Sam sighs. ''Okay, look,'' he relents. ''The director found out about Hot Ones. She was excited. So excited, in fact – ''

''Oh god,'' Bucky groans.

'' – That she thinks we should turn it into a full media tour for the team.''

''A what?'' Torres wrinkles his nose. ''Like, a press tour? Like we're movie stars? Doesn't that only happen when we have something to promote? What are we promoting?''

''Ourselves.''

Bucky rubs at his forehead tiredly. ''Thought we did this already, Sam.''

''No, I did an abridged version when I took up the shield,'' Sam corrects. ''That was for my image. This is for the team's.''

''This is what people do when they need to fix their image,'' Sharon says. ''Why does our image need to be fixed?''

Sam doesn't answer this question. He opens his mouth like he's going to, but instead he shoves a piece of salami in his mouth and avoids eye contact. That cannot be a good sign.

''Sam,'' Sharon says, warningly. ''Do people not like us?''

''People…'' Sam chews slowly and waits until he swallows. ''Think we're fine.''

''Just fine?'' Torres looks a little pouty at that. ''I think we're doing pretty good.''

''People don't really know us,'' Sam says. It's such a kind way to interpret things. ''And we're not exactly…'' He pauses. ''They've been calling us the B-List Avengers.''

''We're not Avengers,'' Bucky says.

''That's not even clever,'' Sharon gripes. ''Why not B-Vengers?''

''That's your critique?'' Torres shoots her an incredulous look. ''That they're not bullying us correctly?''

''They're not bullying us,'' Sharon says. ''No offense but grow up. We're like if you ordered the Avengers on Temu. It's just a fact. They had a Hulk and a literal God. We're just a handful of randos.''

''We have Captain America.''

''A Captain America half of them are still apprehensive about,'' Sam points out.

''And that half can go fuck themselves,'' Bucky supplies.

Torres says, ''We have a super solider!''

''We have a knock off super solider,'' Sharon corrects. ''Look at him.'' She jerks a thumb in Bucky's direction. ''He's got anxiety.''

''PTSD and brain damage, actually,'' he corrects mildly.

''Look,'' Sam adds. ''I'm gonna be so real with y'all right now: that alien in Central Park did not help our case.''

''Why do people keep bringing that up?'' Bucky grouses. ''I think we did fine.''

''To be fair, the most shared video that came out of that fiasco was of you two,'' Sharon points between Sam and Bucky, ''running away and leaving citizens to fend for themselves.''

''It was vomiting acid at us,'' Bucky shouts. ''I got third degree burns on my neck!''

''And we didn't run away,'' Sam tries. ''We temporarily retreated so that we could regroup and plan an attack.''

''Which we did,'' says Bucky. ''We attacked it, we killed it, we arrested the evil scientist guy, we saved the day. Good for us.''

''Uh, no,'' Sharon says, somewhat cutting. ''You killed the smaller version of it that was inside the big gooey version. You did this after the gooey version had molted and after the pile of remains had exploded in a mist of acid that sent nine people to the hospital.''

''Whatever,'' Bucky mutters. ''Nobody died. I count that as a win.''

''I'm not saying it wasn't a win,'' Sharon says. ''I'm saying from a PR standpoint, it was a disaster.''

''Since when has saving people's lives been about PR?'' Torres challenges.

''Since forever,'' she says simply, ''but most notably since the rise of social media.''

''That weird dude in Gotham and his team of teeny boppers have a foe named Condiment King who fights by squirting people with ketchup and mustard,'' he nearly shouts, ''and somehow we're the laughing stocks?''

Bucky blinks a few times. See, this is why he tries not to pay attention to the shit that goes down in Jersey. ''Wait, what?''

''In fairness, they never turn tail and run away from Condiment King,'' Sharon states.

If Bucky wasn't still in enough pain that sudden jerky movement seems like a bad idea, he would be throwing his hands up in exasperation right about now. ''We weren't running away!''

''Look,'' Sam says, ''we gotta face the facts here. We're more controversial than the Avengers right now and we need to work on that. If they had to jump through these PR hoops – ''

''Sam, we're not the Avengers,'' Bucky tries.

''We're the same concept.''

''Nah,'' Torres scoffs. ''We're so much cooler. Mostly because I'm here but also because we haven't destroyed an entire country yet.''

''Sokovia was not their greatest moment,'' Sharon acknowledges. ''Actually.'' She furrows her brows, cocking her head to the side slightly. ''When you think about it, their list of greatest moments is shockingly short. Remind me again why we're the controversial ones?''

Sam points at Bucky. ''Former assassin.'' He points at himself. ''Black Captain America, which shouldn't be controversial but quick refresher: America's racist as hell. And you,'' he points at her, but then pauses. ''Honestly, most of your controversial moments weren't for public consumption so I'm struggling with why people have a problem with you.''

''Oh, I can answer that,'' she says. ''It's because I'm a woman. You're welcome for decoding that one for you.''

''See, I was really hoping that wasn't it.''

''No, it's that,'' she says, confident. ''Plus, I'm technically a nepo baby. It's the kids' favorite made up buzzword right now and a way they can talk down to people without getting called out, so they're going to apply it where they can. Guess they wouldn't be wrong.'' She shrugs her shoulders, going for nonchalant. ''Aunt Peggy was a giant. I'll never be able to live up to that.''

Bucky would buy her nonchalance a lot more if he couldn't feel the tension in her body just sitting next to her. ''Don't sell yourself short. You're doing fine,'' he says to her, a rare moment of sincerity between the two that they both proceed to just blow right past before any gooey emotions can happen.

''Also,'' Torres holds up a hand, ''you have a cooler outfit. No offense to Peggy Carter.'' He swivels around to face Sam. ''What about me? Why am I controversial?''

''You're not,'' Sharon tells him. ''You're an angel and we're thrilled you're here, baby bird.''

''Thank you,'' Torres says, somewhat unsure. ''But you gotta stop calling me that.''

''No.''

''We're getting off track,'' Sam cuts in. ''Rambeau's the lead on this, so – ''

''Oh, great,'' Bucky mumbles, ''and she's terrifyingly competent. Which means she's already got us on the hook for shit, doesn't she?''

''Full email should be in your inboxes tomorrow,'' Sam confirms. ''From what I know, she's putting together a social media team and they're supposed to help us with curating our social media presence. They're already working on getting us booked for the full circuit. I've got Hot Ones and the Daily Show as of right now. Sharon, they're eyeing the Call Her Daddy podcast for you.''

''Ew, why?''

''I'm told it's the most popular girlboss type podcast. Sorry. They mentioned the Kelly Clarkson Show, if that helps.''

''…I'll allow it.''

''Torres – ''

''Please be Chicken Shop Date,'' Torres whispers to himself, crossing his fingers, ''please be Chicken Shop Date, please be Chicken Shop Date, please be – ''

''Sesame Street.''

Torres opens his eyes and stares. Just stares, completely flabbergasted. ''Sesame… Holy shit,'' he gets out, eyes widening. ''That is so much cooler than Chicken Shop Date.''

''We're trying to get you that too,'' Sam tells him. ''Sometime in the winter.''

''Oh, come on,'' Sharon complains over Torres' incredulous squeaking. ''How does he get Sesame Street and Chicken Shop Date and I get stuck with Alex Cooper?''

''Luck of the draw,'' says Sam.

''And what? Sesame Street didn't want Captain America?''

''I've been on Sesame Street. Twice.''

''What about Barnes?''

''I swear,'' Bucky starts, ''if it's one of those fucking podcasts, I'm – '' He stops abruptly, a sudden, somewhat violent, somewhat satisfying thought occurring to him. ''Actually,'' he says, thoughtful. ''You know what? Do it. Throw me in the deep end of the manosphere. Peterson, Rogan, Tate, those Fresh and Fit losers. Get me in with all of them.'' A slow, unsettling smile stretches across his face. ''Let's see what happens.''

Sam's response is a very flat, ''No.''

''But – ''

''We are not sending you out to dismantle the manosphere as part of our press tour.''

''Why not?''

''Well, first of all,'' Sharon says, ''that's not a press tour. That's a mission.''

''And second of all,'' Sam adds on, ''it wouldn't work. Those guys are too stubborn. They're like cockroaches. Hard to kill. A single podcast appearance wouldn't do anything.''

''I don't know,'' Torres pipes up. ''I feel like he could take down Theo Von. I know he plays up the Hi, I'm Theo and I don't know how to tie my shoes energy and he mostly pretends to be stupid – ''

''I don't think he's pretending,'' Sharon offers up.

'' – But he has the moral backbone of a paper napkin from Dollar Tree. He'd be easy to dismantle.''

''He's not going on Theo Von's podcast,'' Sam says, not quite using his Captain America voice, but maybe like a step away from it. ''As amusing as it would be to see you verbally or otherwise destroy morons, they'd still profit off your appearance and just agreeing to go on those podcasts, regardless of your intentions, wouldn't be a good look for you. I can't co-sign that.''

Bucky huffs. ''Ruin my fun, why don't you.''

''We're still trying to work out the specifics for you,'' Sam says. ''Rambeu thinks you'd do better in something that can be edited. Something that isn't live.''

''So SNL is out of the question then?''

''Could be a podcast, but there's no info on which one yet. Not one of the slimy ones. I think she'll draw a hard line there. It's just a matter of finding you an acceptable place with a slot open in the near future. But you have nothing booked yet.''

Sharon throws a scowl in Bucky's general direction. ''Lucky.''

He beams at her. ''Sometimes it pays to be crazy.''

''Oh, don't be thinking this gets you off the hook,'' Sam warns. ''This just means you and I are a packaged deal – ''

''Bucky Barnes glued to Captain America's side?'' Sharon smirks. ''A likely place for him to be.''

'' – until we can find someone who can handle your dumb ass solo,'' Sam finishes, without even acknowledging Sharon's playful dig. ''We're working out a date for Fallon. And we're already booked for Good Morning America.''

Bucky does a good job of not flinching, but he's not going to lie, he's having a visceral internal reaction to having to go on Fallon. If he had to pick a late night show to go on, that guy would be at the bottom of the list. He's like if a ferret was a person. It's really quite unnerving. And extremely obnoxious. ''When's the Good Morning America appearance?''

Sam doesn't answer.

Bucky's stomach drops. ''Fuck.''

''Okay,'' Sam says slowly, ''I need you not to freak out.''

''Sam.''

''It's Friday.''

''THIS Friday?''

Sharon whistles, grudgingly impressed. ''How the hell did you pull that off?''

''There was a last minute cancellation,'' Sam explains. ''Listen,'' he looks at Bucky. The tone he's using is one he usually reserves for children. ''It's gonna be a short and sweet segment. We'll be in and out. I'll do most of the talking. You just have to sit there and look pretty.''

''Or at least less murdery,'' Sharon suggests.

''I don't look murdery,'' Bucky counters.

''You look a little murdery,'' she insists. ''You could maybe try smiling?'' She sits up, turning her body all the way toward him. ''Come on. Give it a try.''

He glowers at her and then, reluctantly, he smiles.

She looks profoundly disturbed. ''Oh.'' She makes a big show of shuddering. ''And doesn't that just look sad and wrong.''

He stops smiling and opts to give her a single vibranium finger instead.

It really just seems to egg her on.

''I'd try to get you out of it,'' Sam says, apologetic, ''but it's about the Children's Hospital visit next month. You sort of need to be there for that.''

Bucky reaches for the chips and salsa, feeling decidedly petulant. ''I'm not even involved in that.''

Sam is not impressed with the deflection. ''What do you mean you're not involved in that? You're the one who set the Children's Hospital visit up.''

''Yes, for you. I'm not going.''

''Wait.'' Torres frowns deeply. ''Why wouldn't you go? We're all going.''

''And are any of you the Winter Soldier?''

''Bucky,'' Sharon says. ''Do you think we haven't done some unsavory things? We all worked for the US government.''

''Technically we still work the US government,'' Torres adds, without even looking up from where he's scrolling away on his phone. ''People not trusting us isn't entirely unfounded when you think about it.''

''It's not the same,'' Bucky insists. ''No kid wants to see me.''

''I kinda think they do,'' Sam says. ''Kids love superheroes.''

Bucky tenses. ''I'm not a hero.''

''There's a statue of you and Steve in Prospect Park called Hometown Heroes.''

''That's a memorial for two stupid dead boys,'' he says. ''Not me. No kid is going to look at me and think – ''

''This,'' Torres interjects, holding his phone out for Bucky to see, ''is Annabeth Caldwell.'' On his phone, there's a picture of a young redheaded girl in a pink princess dress. She's beaming at the camera with crooked teeth and one missing front tooth, her left hand curled around a doll. She's missing her right arm below the elbow. ''She's eight years old and lives in Queens,'' Torres goes on. ''You're her favorite superhero. She lost her arm in an accident last year and she likes you because you make her feel brave and less nervous about people seeing her prosthetic.''

He swipes to another picture, this one of a boy standing in front of a Lego tower, gesturing at his masterpiece with his right arm. He doesn't have a left arm. ''This is Diego Contreras,'' he says. ''He's six. He was born with a limb difference. His dad says that he's always loved superheroes but never thought he could be one with his disability. There's a lot of things he's always thought he couldn't do. Now, because of you, he's starting to understand that he can do anything he sets his mind to.''

The next picture is of a slightly older looking boy, sitting up in a hospital bed. He's pale, but he's looking at the camera with this determined smile that looks so familiar Bucky has to swallow hard when he sees it. ''This is Noah Hartley,'' Torres says. ''He's eleven. He's from Brooklyn. He says that if you can get through everything you've been through and come back stronger than ever, then he can go through chemo and kick cancer's ass.'' Torres ends his presentation on the picture of Noah, drawing it back, but keeping his eyes on Bucky. ''They all want to meet you, Bucky. They've been looking forward to it ever since this visit was announced.'' He sits back. ''There's a Facebook group. The parents have been talking about how excited the kids are since it was announced. These are only a few of the kids who want to meet you. You're actually decently popular with kids.''

Bucky feels the fingers of his vibranium hand clenching around nothing, a lump growing in his throat.

''Kids don't have a full understanding of things like assassins and brainwashing, Buck,'' Sam says gently. ''They understand courage. They understand you have it. That's all that matters.''

Bucky has no smartass response to any of that. ''Fine,'' he gets out, rasping it out around the lump in his throat. ''I'll go to the Children's Hospital. And Good Morning America.'' He pauses. ''Do I have to go on Fallon?''

''Afraid so.''

''Don't worry about it,'' Sharon advises, propping her chin up on his shoulder. ''All you have to do is sit there and laugh at his jokes. God knows he will. Now.'' She pulls back, turning her gaze to Sam. ''Are you ready to hear my take on PR for the team? I worked on the PR team for the OG Avengers after the Battle of New York. I know what I'm talking about.''

''You worked on that team for less than six months,'' says Bucky, ''and then Fury pulled you off and sent you on a long term UC op because you kept getting in Twitter fights with people.''

''Sharon Carter getting in fights on social media?'' Torres snorts, looking smugly amused. ''A likely place for her to be.''

Sharon scowls and swats at Bucky's arm. ''I told you that in confidence.''

''You didn't tell me to put it in the vault,'' he volleys back. ''If you don't tell me to put it in the vault, it's liable to slip out at any time.''

She looks at him for a second, cheeks red, and then, very suddenly, she switches over to serene, face smoothing into a smile.

He realizes instantly that he's made a grave mistake.

Sharon's smile widens into a toothy grin as she turns her attention to Sam and Torres and says, ''Did Bucky tell you that his pretty Hole neighbor made him a personalized playlist?''

.

.

.

Despite assuring Yelena that he wouldn't be late, Bucky doesn't get home until shortly after midnight.

It's quiet in Red Hook, dark and still, the scent of the salty ocean air stronger than it usually is at this time of year, coming in on the breeze blowing in from the water. The pain is finally starting to fade after a long motherfucker day and he thinks that if he gets a couple hours of sleep, it'll probably dissolve completely into his usual baseline of ow. Even his mood feels lighter, less bogged down and foggy.

It's irritating to admit, he does have a lone wolf reputation to protect, but being around people really does help.

That, and Sam spent the entire night handing him water and making sure he was properly hydrated.

He's distracted as he approaches his building, rolling a cigarette in between vibranium fingers, trying to decide if his headache has cleared up enough for it to be safe enough for him to smoke it before he goes inside without it triggering any nausea or throbbing.

He's so focused on himself, thinking about the Children's Hospital and the upcoming press tour and everything that's being kept from them about mysterious vigilante lady, that he almost doesn't notice the body standing in the shadows, off to the side by the front door, shrouded by darkness. He hears her before he sees her, the slight shift of shoes against pavement, a startled breath, and then –

''You're home late.''

He tucks the cigarette behind his ear and turns, watching Laurel ooze out of the shadows, phone in her hands, the glow of the screen illuminating her face. She's no longer wearing her leather pants. She's not wearing any pants at all. She's wearing a pair of criminally tiny red and black checkered sleep shorts, those same novelty pumpkin slippers, and an oversized navy blue pullover hoodie that declares in fancy white script MOTHER OF WILD ONES. There is a moment where he's distracted by her legs. Sue him, he's an imperfect man. And she is all legs. He doesn't think he realized that before now.

But now that she's moved into the lights from the building, the glow from the lobby, the streetlights, he can see her face better. Specifically, he can see what she was hiding under her turtleneck earlier.

Bruises.

Her throat is covered in bruises. Handprint shaped bruises. There are finger marks on her windpipe. There is no mistaking it. It puts the other bruises he noticed earlier, the ones she explained away as injuries from a fall, in a much more sinister light.

Bucky has a flash then, like a stabbing memory, of finding Steve, bruised violet, in alleyways, of Dreykov grabbing Natalia by the hair or the hungry hands roaming her body while she worked a mark in Omsk, even of Sam, bruised and bleeding from some LAF asshole back in August.

And of the blind rage that followed.

He lives his life with a lot of anger bottled up inside of him. It festers in his blood, waiting for a moment to explode out of him, a muddled mixture of PTSD and TBI related emotional problems, a simmering feeling of growing back anger he hadn't been allowed to feel for seventy plus years. It sits inside of him like a bird in a cage.

It always has.

The Bucky Barnes who belonged to Steve was sweet and affable. He was steady 98% of the time. One of them had to be. It was hard to shake him. To get him to show his hand. Ma used to say he got that from his father. George Barnes wasn't a man of many words, but he was the calm to Winnie's storm. Bucky was the same.

The James Natalia knew wasn't even a person. He was more of an idea, a borderline creature, like some bastardized version of Frankenstein's monster. He didn't understand anger. Wouldn't have understood it even if it was given to him.

And yet.

Underneath the sweet boy and the misunderstood monster, there lay a coiled spring, ready to pop off.

Looking back on it now, he thinks most of his steadiness stemmed not just from his father but from a deeply ingrained sense of responsibility, the burden of being the eldest child, the need to be the grounding force that brought Stevie and his sisters back down to earth. Whatever it was, whatever it is, whatever form of love this can be seen as, it goes like this: Do whatever you want to him. Beat him, break him, skin him alive, wall him up inside his own body, take him apart piece by piece. Doesn't matter. Cut him open and let the light stream out. See what darkness you can find inside. It doesn't matter. None of it matters.

But god help you if you touch them.

When he was sixteen, the Fisher boys sent Steve to the hospital, so Bucky bashed their heads into the same brick wall they'd bashed Steve's into and told them if they ever put their hands on his friend again, he'd take them apart.

The last time he saw Natalia, when they were forced apart, dragged away from each other, right before he was wiped the last time and sent out of the Red Room for good, he killed three guards, two scientists, and nearly killed four others trying to get away. And he would have kept going. He would have killed them all if he'd had a chance. He would have slaughtered his way through the entire organization just to get back to her.

A few months ago, some dumb fuck from AIM tried to shoot Sam out of the sky with an RPG, so Bucky pulled him through a wall and gave him a Grade 3 concussion.

A year before he was drafted, that prick O'Malley from the docks caught Mary with her girlfriend at the time and tried to blackmail the girls into giving him money neither of them had. Bucky set Mary up with Arthur, told them to protect each other for as long as they needed to, and then he took a baseball bat to O'Malley's knees.

Not every killer instinct inside of him belongs to Hydra. Some of it he comes by naturally. He has never been sure how he feels about that deep down, but he learned to accept it a long time ago. Not all love is clean love. Sometimes love is bloodthirsty and we do our best to live with the stains.

This is not quite that, but it's close enough.

Something sits in his chest like a rock when he sees those overtly handprint shaped bruises on Laurel's skin. It's not the white hot rage of his youth, but something cold. Something mechanical. He's thinking about someone putting their hands on her. He's thinking that he could, in theory, find those hands and cut them off. He's thinking no one could stop him if he tried.

''Why are you – '' Laurel cuts herself off, eyes widening as she takes a step back from him, one hand flying to her throat. ''Oh.'' A flash of panic flares in her eyes. ''Shit.''

His voice is cold when he asks, ''What happened?''

''I – ''

''And don't bullshit me,'' he interjects. ''You didn't fall up the stairs.''

She bites down on her lip. ''It's not a big deal.''

''Dinah,'' he grinds out through his teeth. ''Those are finger marks. Someone had their hands around your throat.''

''…Yes.''

''Who?''

''I don't know.''

He sighs.

''I really don't know,'' she insists. ''I don't know his name. I – okay.'' She pauses, taking in a gulp of air, slipping her phone into her pocket. He's never seen her struggle to figure out what to say next before. She's not someone who falters often. She always has something ready to go. You ask her a question and she has an answer. Whether or not that answer is an actual answer depends. Whether or not that answer is truthful is up in the air. But she has something to say. Watching her struggle is new. He can literally see her calculating her response. ''It's not a big deal,'' she says again. ''And I don't need you getting all heated.'' She shoots him a warning look. ''Got it?''

''Laurel.''

''I was mugged last night.''

''You…'' Mugged. Okay. He can do that. He can handle that. ''Where?''

''On my way home.''

''Where on your way home?''

''James.''

''What did he look like?''

''No.''

It throws him off. ''No?''

''We're not doing this,'' she says, voice firm. ''A member of Captain America's brand new shiny team is not going to be caught on bystander video street fighting some random mugger in Red Hook just because of me. I have it handled. Everything's fine.'' She sounds very pragmatic. Straightforward and sensible. ''I went to the police. I gave them a description. It's over.''

He doesn't believe her. He's not entirely sure why. She's an evasive person, yes. He's known that from the beginning. She talks her way out of answering any direct questions. She keeps a lot to herself. But that doesn't necessarily mean anything nefarious. Keeping things close to the vest is not the same as being a liar. It's just smart. Especially as a single woman (a single mother, no less) living in a new city next to a formerly brainwashed assassin. But this isn't just omitting things. This is lying. She's lying. She has no obvious tell, no increase in her heart rate, no change in the tone of her voice, but she's lying. He knows it. She's unflinchingly good at it. ''Muggers don't choke people,'' he tells her, after a second of staring at her bruised throat, trying to calculate the size of the hands that left marks on her skin. ''They grab the purse and run away.''

''I didn't have a purse,'' she says.

''Why didn't he take your phone?''

''Because he wanted my jewelry. My necklace. My ring.'' She holds up her hand, twisting at the silver bird ring on her finger. ''My sister gave me this ring.''

He looks at her closely, meeting her eyes. She very confidently does not look away. ''You fought back,'' he realizes.

''I don't recommend it,'' she acknowledges. ''But I did get away.''

That is…wildly irresponsible. He doesn't think he needs to tell her this, so he won't, but he can't help but think about all the horrific ways this could have gone wrong. He understands the urge to fight for your things, especially when there's sentimentality attached to it, but random civilians do not need to be out here courting death or serious injury by fighting against muggers. He doesn't want to call her lucky, but – no, she is. She's lucky there wasn't a gun involved. His stomach churns at the thought.

Laurel seems to be able to read his racing mind, because she reaches out to place her hand on his arm comfortingly. ''I really am fine. I've been through worse.''

Weirdly, he doesn't think she's lying about that. ''Worse than this?''

''You'd be surprised,'' she murmurs.

''Dinah…''

''I swear it's not a huge thing, James,'' she says. ''I'm choosing to take it as a lesson learned. I need to start carrying pepper spray and stop walking home alone so late at night. But it's fine. I was lucky.''

''You need to stop walking home alone so late at night,'' he echoes. ''And yet here you are standing outside in the middle of the night.''

''It's not the middle of the night. It's only midnight. It's early.''

''All by yourself. Right after getting mugged.''

''I'm not all by myself,'' she says, turning to nod in the direction of the front doors of the building. ''Ellis is right inside.''

That doesn't really make him feel better. ''Why are you out here anyway?''

She plucks the cigarette from behind his ear. ''Smoke break,'' she says, which – also a lie, for the record. She steps into his space, slides her hand into his front pocket, rifles around for longer than she needs to, and then fishes out his lighter.

He works really hard not to have a single reaction to that. Even manages to keep his face blank while he watches her light the cigarette up and take a drag. This is not her first cigarette. She puts her lips around it and pulls like it's an old habit. ''Thought you said those things'll kill you.''

''They will,'' she says. ''But they might have to try a little harder with me.'' She flashes him a grin. ''I'm waiting for Steph and Cassandra.'' She blows smoke out of the side of her mouth. ''Got a phone call a few minutes ago. Apparently Steph got trashed, so I told them to just come here instead of going back to Bed-Stuy by themselves. If they're drunk, I don't want them to be alone. I don't wany any of my kids pulling a Bonham and/or Hendrix.''

''A what?''

She doesn't respond, attention on the ground as she mumbles, a twinge of something shameful in her voice, ''Or I guess another way to put it would be to call it pulling a me.''

He so badly wants to take that bait, but he doesn't. He accepts the cigarette when she hands it back to him, taking a pull and then letting the smoke out slowly. ''How drunk is she?''

''I heard her in the background of the call and she was scream singing the Hannah Montana theme song at the top of her lungs, so I'd say pretty drunk.''

''I don't know what Hannah Montana is.''

''She also drunk texted her ex,'' she says. ''Which I know because he then called me freaking out that she was so out of it. And then I got a call from his…dad and got a lecture about letting the girls get drunk.''

''Steph's ex's dad called you to lecture you?''

''He's…'' She doesn't finish. She does take the cigarette back from him, though. ''It's a long story.''

''They're legal,'' he says, ''aren't they?'' He waits until she nods before shrugging his shoulders. ''Then they're going to get drunk.''

''Oh, I know that,'' she says. ''I'm just not exactly a trusted source when it comes to responsible alcohol consumption.'' She blows a smoke ring and then hands him back the cigarette. ''That, and the family Steph and Cass come from can be a little…intense. And co-dependant.''

''Cass is Steph's sister?''

''She's Sin's sister, actually. They have the same biological mother.'' Laurel beams at the confused look on his face. ''Trust me, Jimmy, you have no idea how convoluted things are in my life.''

''Right, because nothing about my life is convoluted,'' he deadpans. ''And don't call me Jimmy.''

She snickers at him, and he eases up, a tiny bit of the tension draining from his shoulders. ''Look,'' she says, after a second, watching him lift the cigarette to his lips. ''I'm sorry I lied to you. I am. But I have two children and I'm the only parent they have. They don't need to stress about Mom almost getting choked out by some nameless guy with anger issues. I didn't want to scare them. So.'' She squares her shoulders. Sets her jaw. ''I fell down the stairs.''

Bucky doesn't say anything for a moment. He puffs on the cigarette and looks at her. Tiny shorts and MOTHER OF WILD ONES hoodie aside, something about the look in her eyes as she tells him this reminds him of a woman he used to know. Another single mother. One of the strongest women he's ever known.

Sarah Rogers.

He thinks when most people think of Sarah Rogers, Captain America's mom, they think of the woman from the comic books, the sweet older lady with the apron and the graying blonde hair, with an unflinching kindness, all soft edges and stereotypes. A narrow view of a mother. And entirely inaccurate. The woman from the comic books and the history books and all that printed propaganda that ultimately meant nothing was not the Sarah Rogers he knew.

For starters, the woman he knew was a redhead.

She was also only thirty-nine years old when she died.

People don't realize that. He can't necessarily blame them. He never thought about how young she was until recently. He wonders if Steve did. When you're a kid, you don't think of your parents as young. They're your parents. You view them as old and wise. But Sarah Rogers wasn't old. She didn't even make it to forty. She was the same age Laurel would be now if not for the Blip.

She was fiery, too. Not just because of her hair. And she was loud. She had one of the loudest laughs he's ever heard. She was free with that laugh in ways women weren't back then. She had a strength to her that was born out of necessity, a kind of grit. She was a real powerhouse of a woman, just like his own mother. Two women who did the best they could with what they had for their children, who worked hard to provide for their children, took on the single mother mantle with grace and dignity and refused to allow themselves to bend under the societal shame people wanted to heap onto them.

Sarah was kind, yes, but she was determined and brave and tough as nails. She was fiercely independent, mostly because she had to be, and she moved through life with a steel spine brought on by years of hardship. She was amazing. Of course she was. Look what she created.

That woman was responsible for Captain America.

She's a legend just as much as he is.

Life was hard. There is no way around that. It was never anything but hard for her. A dead husband. A sickly son. The pressure of keeping a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. She was tired most of the time. It's difficult to think about what life did to her, just like it's difficult to think about what it did to his mother, two women worn down by life, both gone too soon. They were still young women when they died. There is a visceral sort of unfairness to that truth. It would be unthinkable tragedy to die that young these days.

It's impossible to look at Laurel and not see them in her. Although he has tried his best not to. He can admit it's strange to look at someone you're developing some sort of feelings for and think of your dead moms. But how can he not see it? She has that same fire. That same drive and determination and strength. She has that same exhaustion, too. That same sense of vulnerability.

He would have done anything then to take some of the weight off Sarah and Ma's shoulders. He would do anything now to do the same for Laurel.

''You fell up the stairs, if I remember correctly,'' he says, at last. ''You were rushing with a load of laundry and you tripped. That's all they need to know.''

Laurel visibly relaxes. ''Thank you.''

He nods. ''You went to the police?''

''Made a report and everything.''

Given the NYPD's track record, that isn't particularly comforting, but he has a feeling that's all he's going to get. ''And they haven't caught the guy?''

She takes the cigarette when he offers it to her. ''Guess not.''

''But they'll let you know if they do?''

''That should be how it works, yeah.''

''And you're not going to give me a description?'' He's not surprised when she doesn't even bother giving him an answer. Just raises her eyebrows and brings the cigarette to her lips. He tries a different angle. ''If I brought in someone who does fight at street level and works as a PI, would you give her a description?''

She considers the question. Or at least pretends to. ''I'll think about it.''

He doubts that, but he does make a mental note to contact Jess tomorrow. He looks at her for a second, weighing his options, trying to figure out if it's a good idea to push the issue. It's not. It is really, really not. He's reasonably certain if he pushes the issue further, she'll shut down completely. He glances down at her pumpkin slippers. ''It's really hard to take you seriously right now.''

''Why?'' She looks down at her feet. ''Oh, these?'' She smiles brightly, all teeth, all dimples, eyes lit up. Then she kicks at him. ''I like to be festive. You should try it sometime.''

''I'm festive.''

''You don't have any Halloween decorations up. Even Mrs. Nelson has an autumnal wreath on her door.''

''I bought that wreath for her.''

Laurel pauses, the cigarette burning away between her fingers. ''You did?''

Bucky grins. It always feels good to catch her off guard. It's so hard to do. Should've figured Mrs. Nelson would do it.

Mrs. Nelson is the woman who lives directly across the hall from him. She is not the kind of old lady who gives people homemade cookies and everyone refers to as Grandma. She's the kind of woman who seems bound and determined to earn her building wide nickname of Witch Lady. He's learned that in the months he's spent living directly across the hall from her. Aside from Laurel, she's the only other person in the building he's had sustained interactions with and none of the interactions have been particularly pleasant on her end. She is quite possibly one of them meanest people he's ever met. There's very little she likes in life other than her slice of the garden on the roof and her two dogs – cheerful but dumb little Archie who's just happy to be here and a growly, yappy little Chihuahua named Greg who looks so old that Bucky is not overly convinced he's 100% alive. And that concludes the list of things she enjoys.

Nobody in the building likes her.

He's still going to take her trash out for her when he can and he's still going to help her in the winter when she uses her walker on the coldest mornings – even if it means risking getting whacked with her purse. He's still going to bring her bagels and lox on the weekends he's in town and fresh produce and seasonal décor from the market and when he has the time and the energy to actually cook dinner instead of ordering out he's going to make enough for her as well because she looks like a strong breeze would take her out and he's genuinely concerned about her eating habits.

Ma would crawl up out of her grave and smack him over the head with a wooden spoon if he didn't do these things.

''Sure,'' he says. ''From the Farmers' Market.''

''You go to the Farmers' Market?''

''Of course I go to the Farmers' Market. Don't you?''

''Sure. The greenmarket at – ''

''Grand Army Plaza,'' he finishes. ''In Prospect Park. That's the one. I'm a regular.''

''I never see you there.''

''It's a busy place. And I tend to go early.''

''Ah,'' she nods. ''Yeah, we're not so good at early. We usually make it there after lunch. Maybe if we roll out of bed early enough next time, we'll see you there. I could use someone to carry my bags.'' She raises the cigarette to her lips. ''Don't think I've forgotten about complaining about your lack of Halloween spirit.''

''Well,'' he says, ''there's still time.''

''Hm.'' She hands him back the cigarette, stepping closer to him as she does so, tugging at his leather jacket with one hand. ''I guess we'll see what you come up with.'' She doesn't step away from him, keeping close, watching him take a drag from the cigarette and turn his head to blow the smoke away from her. ''How was your night?''

''Fine,'' he says. ''Good. I needed it more than I thought I did. How was your barbeque?''

''Delicious, but expensive. Should've just gone to Defonte's. Just as tasty and the prices are better. Defonte's is a – ''

''I know what Defonte's is. I was there when it first opened.''

''Oh right. Sometimes I forget you're a fossil.''

''I prefer antique. It sounds better.'' He twists his lips into a half smile. ''I guess next time you want to eat out, I'll just have to pay.''

''Is that a promise?''

''Would you like it to be one?'' The cigarette burns away between his fingers. She's still standing right in front of him, considerably close, one hand grasping his jacket lightly. There are…ways this could end. There are definitely ways he wants it to end. It's not the right time for any of them, he thinks.

It's not? Natalia's voice asks. Why not?

He inhales sharply.

There's a twinge of brightness in Laurel's eyes when she hears that. A glint that he can't look away from. ''It was, by the way,'' she says softly. ''The Four Star Mary song. It was the one I thought you'd like.''

''Yeah? How'd you know?''

''It sounds like you,'' she says simply.

''It sounds like me,'' he parrots, somewhat baffled.

''Yep,'' she nods. ''It's energetic, kind of edgy, there's some anger there, even a bit of hurt and confusion, but ultimately it's sincere and catchy and fun.''

The thing is, that's not an altogether incorrect interpretation of the song. Edgy but catchy is probably how he would describe it. It just might be an overly generous interpretation of him. He's not sure he would describe himself as fun, that's for sure. Then again, he thinks he might be finally starting to understand that people see him very differently than he sees himself. For better or for worse. It's going to take a minute to learn how to accept that. Gently he extricates himself from her grasp and steps over to stub the cigarette out in the ashtray on the ground by the front door. ''You think I'm fun?''

Laurel stuffs her hands in the pockets of her sweatshirt. ''You could be,'' she tells him. ''I'm going to find out.''

''Sounds like a promise.''

''It is.''

Without thinking too hard about it, despite the warning bells going off in his head, telling him not to do it, he steps into her space, gently brushing hair away from her neck so he can examine the bruises on her skin. ''Are you sure you're okay?''

''I'm fine,'' she says. ''Welcome to New York, right?''

His fingertips just barely graze the bruises littering her throat and he finds himself drawing back instantly when he feels her shiver under his touch. ''Sorry. Did that hurt?''

''No,'' she shakes her head. ''No, it just – It's cold.''

''Wearing pants might've helped.''

''Give me a break,'' she swats at him. ''I was half asleep when I came down here. It's been a weird night.''

''Weird how?''

''Just…'' She kicks at the ground with a pout. It's unreasonably adorable. ''I'm having a moment in my life. Things are odd. I'm five years behind. I'm in a new city. My kids' birthdays are coming up and I feel old. Sometimes these things catch up to you.''

''And things caught up to you tonight?''

''After the girls went to bed, I was putting together their Halloween goodie bags that they open on Halloween morning – ''

''Their Halloween goodie bags?'' He raises a brow. ''You really are a Pinterest Mom, aren't you?''

''Yes, thank you for noticing,'' she beams at him. ''I love being a Pinterest Mom. I also made them Halloween advent calendars. Every day for the two weeks before Halloween, they get a new pair of Halloween themed socks.''

''That's so excessive.''

''But it's fun. And children go through socks like nobody's business, so I'm just trying to keep their toes warm.''

''What do you put in these Halloween bags?''

''Various odds and ends,'' she says, breezily. ''I did the Mom thing and tried to put in healthier candy alternatives because I know they're going to get enough crap from elsewhere. Halloween themed coloring books and pencils. That's a tradition. Ms. Rachel and Bluey for Maggie. Nightmare Before Christmas themed makeup and scrunchies for Sin. Oh, and some blind boxes. You know those little boxes with the collectible – ''

''Toys that are popular on social media?'' he finishes. ''I know. Cap's nephews are into those. I don't get it.''

''I don't either,'' she admits, ''but Sin likes them so I hunted down some Halloween themed ones. I also made goodie bags for my cousin's kids and my godsons.''

''So you don't just spoil your kids. You spoil all the kids in your life.''

''I 100% do,'' she confirms with a nod. ''But I had to this year. My godsons have this new cool uncle in their life so now I have to compete.''

''Ah, well, I bet you'll win.''

There's an inexplicable mischievous sparkle in her eyes. ''You think so?''

''Sure,'' he shrugs. ''Who can compete with the popularity of blind boxes?''

''Right. Thanks, capitalism,'' she adds on, voice dry. ''Anyway, I couldn't decide if I wanted to continue my Vanderpump Rules rewatch while I was making their bags or have a mini Dawson's Creek marathon – ''

''I don't know what either of those are.''

Laurel stares at him in abject horror. ''You don't know what – '' She gapes, aghast. ''I'll give you Vanderpump Rules but how do you not know what Dawson's Creek is? Teen drama? Love, sex, friendship, bad dialogue, all against the backdrop of a fictional smalltown in Massachusetts even though it was obviously filmed in North Carolina? Dawson Leery, the worst main character of all time? Pacey Whitter, the guy all millennial women spent years looking for in boys who never once lived up to the high standard? It girl Katie Holmes as adorable but perpetually frowny Joey Potter? You don't know any of that? It was a massive part of the cultural zeitgeist of the late 90s and early 2000s!''

''Are we really going to go over the reasons why I don't know any of these things again?''

''Excuses, excuses.''

''I might vaguely recognize the name Katie Holmes,'' he divulges, ''but it's probably from the firm's client list.''

''Makes sense,'' she nods. ''She's based out of New York. If she ever hires you directly, the pressure's on, buddy.'' She points a finger at him. ''You better keep that woman safe. She's a national treasure and she's been through a lot.''

''Noted.''

''At least now I know what our after dinner activities will include when I finally convince you to come over for dinner.''

''You're going to make me watch a teen drama from the 90s?''

''I am.''

''Even though you just watched it tonight?''

''I didn't watch it tonight,'' she refutes. ''I decided to do something that wasn't so aggressively millennial coded for once and I watched Outer Banks. Which was a mistake. Sin's been talking about it a lot, so I thought I could watch it and find something to talk to her about but it just made me feel a million years old. Which means I watched an episode and a half and then proceeded to have a very unexpected sobbing breakdown about time passing and getting older and how fast my kids are growing up and then I ate all the Reese's Peanut Butter Cups from my stash of Halloween candy and fell asleep watching cobbler videos on Instagram reels.''

He whistles. ''Quite the night. And here I just sat on a roof and ate chocolate cake.''

''That honestly sounds much more enjoyable than trying not to wake your sleeping toddler because you're having an emotional breakdown,'' she says. ''I promise I'm not usually this emotionally unstable,'' she adds on hastily. ''I just didn't sleep much last night so I'm exhausted.''

Right, and also she was mugged and choked apparently. A little odd how little that seems to have affected her. ''Probably still a more emotionally stable night than some of the nights I've had,'' he says lightly. ''Now, when you say cobbler videos…''

''I mean shoe repair, yes,'' she confirms. ''I find it relaxing to watch someone bring a vintage pair of Louboutins back to life.''

''Interesting. Every time I go on Instagram, the algorithm just shows me a bunch of sad cat videos and I do not care for that shit at all.''

She laughs. It's not her usual laugh, that amused but calm chuckle. It seems to boil up and bubble out of her, like something she can't control. She steps forward again, into his space, bringing her hand to his face without, it seems, even thinking about it. ''You're such a sweetheart,'' she gets out, ''and you don't even know it.''

''No, I know it.'' It's impossible to keep a straight face when she's this close to him and her hand is on his skin and she's giggling, though he tries. ''I'm very sweet. My ma always called me her sweet boy.''

''Okay, that's even sweeter.'' She's still laughing and her hand, the right one, with the anatomically correct heart tattooed on the palm, is still soft and warm against his cheek, her heart pressed against his skin. ''You'll have to tell me about her sometime.''

''I will.''

''And maybe seek out some happy cat videos so you can heal your algorithm.''

''Or cobbler videos.''

''Ooh, or ribbon candy making videos,'' she says, and then nods seriously. ''I highly recommend those. Very soothing.'' She puts her hand on his chest briefly, lingering perhaps a moment longer than necessary, fingers inching toward his dog tags like she wants to run her fingers over them. ''Just something to keep in your back pocket.''

Before he can say anything, before he can even force his eyes away from her, the moment ends when his phone rings. He's reluctant to draw himself away from Laurel to answer it, but if someone is calling him at nearly one in the morning, he should pick up. He glances at the caller ID, frowning when he sees Yelena's name, and then answers. ''Lena?''

''James! Hello! How is everything? Are you having fun?''

Laurel steps away from him. It could just be the darkness, the shadows that fall over her face, but he swears the expression on her face tightens up just for a fleeting second when she hears Yelena's voice.

He doesn't have time to examine that. Yelena's voice is loud and boisterous, purposefully chirpy and extremely awake for this time of night, and the second he hears it he's certain he's going to need to book it upstairs. ''What's wrong?''

''Oh, nothing,'' she says. ''I was just wondering if you had a fire extinguisher. Not that it's urgent or anything.''

''LAUREL!''

Both Bucky and Laurel startle at the sound of the delighted, if not a bit slurred, shriek that is carried over to them in the night air. He turns his attention to the black SUV idling just outside the parking lot gate and the purpled out blonde emerging from inside.

''Yelena,'' Bucky says slowly, ''is something on fire?''

''No, of course not!''

Right, so.

That's a yes.

''Are you okay down here?'' he asks Laurel, pulling the phone away from his ear to look over in Steph's direction, watching a shorter, dark haired girl try to help her out of the car. ''Do you guys need help?''

''No, I've got it handled,'' Laurel assures him. ''I'll grab Ellis if I need backup. I think you have more pressing concerns.''

Back over by the gate, Steph doesn't seem to mind that she's stuck outside the gate, too busy giggling to herself as she continues to struggle out of the SUV in her heels. ''LAUREL!'' She calls out again. ''I'M GOING ON LOVE ISLAND,'' she shrieks, and then immediately steps out from the SUV, gets her foot caught on something, and goes face down onto the pavement. To her credit, while her friend, presumably the aforementioned Cass, is covering her face, shaking in laughter, Steph pops right back up, throwing her arms up in the air and declaring, ''I'M OKAY!''

Meanwhile, inside, in the background of Yelena telling him that she decided to make festive Halloween cupcakes and everything is fine, the fire alarm goes off.

There's a simultaneous ''shit'' from both Bucky and Laurel and that's it.

Moment over.

''You need to get up there,'' she advises. ''Please don't let our apartment building burn down.''

''Please be safe and make sure you get some rest tonight,'' he responds, and then, before he can think too much about it and talk himself out of it, he steps back into her space and kisses her cheek.

He's gone before he can even see the look on her face when he pulls away.

.

.

.

On Halloween morning, after spending the entire month of October not thinking about it at all and after he and Yelena finally manage to clean up burnt cupcake mess in the oven, Bucky makes an emergency run to the Food Bazaar and buys whatever candy is left on the shelves.

Yelena quirks a brow at him when he comes back with a bag full of candy and a bag full of half assed Halloween decorations, looking up from where she's scrolling through online recipe blogs, trying to find something undoubtedly absurdly Halloween themed to make for dinner. She spares him whatever sass is brewing inside of her when he tosses a bag of Sour Patch Kids at her.

She's actually very patient with him. She even quietly decorates his door with fake cobwebs, glittery black garland with bat and cat shapes, and an orange and black wreath full of spiders while he takes a video call in the kitchen from Cass and AJ and listens to them talk about the Halloween package that their Aunt Lolo sent them. He's never met this Auntie Lolo and all he knows about her is that she's Sarah's best friend, but watching the boys excitedly show him their bizarre little Disney Halloween food themed plushies tells him that she's his biggest competition in the ''coolest extended family member who is not Uncle Sam'' category.

Maybe he needs some advice from the Pinterest Mom next door.

That night, at seven o'clock, while Yelena is putting together a Halloween feast with startling amounts of precision and determination, someone knocks on his door and when he opens it, he is greeted by the tiniest bear he's ever seen – complete with a walker decorated to be, he's guessing, a pot of honey.

Maggie, slouched in her costume, probably tired, brightens up considerably the second she sees it's him. Perks right up, beaming like the sun. ''Hi!'' She bounces on her unsteady feet, vibrating with excitement, mouth struggling to get the words out. ''Hi,'' she settles on, again. It doesn't appear to be what she wants to say but it's all she's got in the tank. ''Hi!''

A smile stretches across his face, unhurried, relaxed, easy. If he were to look in the mirror, he's not sure he would recognize himself. ''Well, hi there, little bear.''

''She means trick or treat,'' Sin supplies helpfully. Unlike her sister, she's not wearing a full costume, still cloaked in her usual uniform of ripped jeans, her green utility jacket, and her blue beanie, but she's added on sparkly black fingerless gloves and a pair of purple and black wings jutting out of her back. Along with a lot more makeup than she's usually allowed to wear. Black lipstick, dark eyeliner and eyeshadow, and her nails have been painted to look like Jack Skellington. There are multiple scrunchies, all of them Halloween themed, stacked on her wrist. Even her backpack is Nightmare Before Christmas themed.

She has yet to look up from her phone or look even remotely interested in what they're doing, but the obvious care she's put into her outfit gives her away.

Laurel isn't wearing a costume either, but she is wearing a glittery cat eared headband, those same dangling bat earrings from before, a pumpkin necklace, and her shirt, almost hidden under both her coat and her oversized ghost printed cardigan, says THIS IS MY TIRED MOM COSTUME.

It's exactly what he was expecting.

He doesn't quite know what to do with the warmth that floods his insides when he opens the door and sees them standing there. It's not anything he's used to. ''Trick or treat, huh?'' He catches Laurel's eye. ''I think I have just the – ''

''IS THAT A BEAR?!''

Yelena bursts into the fray like the Kool-Aid Man (if the Kool-Aid Man wore autumn themed aprons that say Pumpkin Spice & Everything Nice), hip checking him out of the way, nearly knocking him out of the doorway completely. Her eyes are wide in exaggerated shock as she seeks out Maggie. ''What a ferocious beast!'' She crouches down with one of those sly smiles of hers, a bowl nearly overflowing with candy in her outstretched arms. ''Would you like some candy, little bear?''

Maggie almost hyperventilates just looking at the bowl full of candy, nodding enthusiastically.

''Take as much as you want,'' Yelena encourages. ''Really. We have too much.'' She looks up at Sin. ''You too, dark and mysterious fairy.''

Bucky isn't necessarily surprised by Yelena's uncanny ability to adapt to the situation she finds herself in. She's a Widow, first and foremost, and that is what they do. It's something practically etched onto her ribcage. He would know. He did some of that etching. But the effortlessness she displays with the girls, how easy she is with them, the kindness, that's…not altogether expected. Gentleness does not happen because of the Red Room. It happens in spite of it.

He watches Yelena patiently draw conversation out of Maggie. Listens to her entice the girl into giving her best ''ferocious bear'' growl. He wonders if this is something that is just so deeply Yelena, who she is as a person, or if it's something she was taught during those years in Ohio, something she picked up from Natalia, even from Melina and Alexei, and never let go. Regardless, something fond unfurls in his chest as he watches her charm both the little bear and the sullen teenage fairy.

He looks at Laurel, catching her while she's got her eyes on her girls, taking in the easy softness in her eyes, the familiar sense of tenderness.

Wait.

Laurel is looking at her babies the same way he looks at Yelena.

Bucky has a brief moment of incredulity, a quick thought of what have you gotten me into, Natalia, and then Laurel looks at him and he finds himself easily distracted by his ongoing quest to make her smile. He snags a lollipop out of the bowl of candy in Yelena's hand and tosses it to Laurel – who catches it, rather impressively, without even looking. ''So,'' he says, leaning against the doorframe. ''How'd you guys make out today?''

''Actually,'' she smiles, eyes crinkling. There's a certain exhausted dullness to her eyes and the bruises are still evident on her face and neck, but even that can't dim that same determinedly sunny disposition he's learning is commonplace with her. Something that she, too, has in spite of the things she and her girls have been through. She unwraps the red lollipop with fervor. ''Much better than expected,'' she tells him. ''This neighborhood is surprisingly great. I guess I'm…'' She pauses, looking over at her girls. ''We haven't been part of a community like this since I was pregnant with Maggie.''

''That's Red Hook for you,'' he acknowledges. ''It's always been close knit.''

She hefts her bag up on one shoulder. The backpack she's carrying is much smaller than Sin's and covered with Winnie the Pooh characters, all decked out and ready for Halloween. He suspects, given Maggie's costume, that the bag belongs to her. He gets the feeling that these are the Halloween goodie bags she fills for her kids. Not little cellophane bags for a few pieces of candy, but entire backpacks full of treats.

It sounds about right for her.

''Plus, I took Maggie into the city earlier this afternoon. There was a trunk or treat event in Central Park with some of the Avengers. She loved it. We're, uh,'' a slow sort of smile covers her lips and she looks at Sin out of the corner of her eye, mother and daughter sharing a look, ''big Captain America fans in this family.'' She pops the lollipop into her mouth and doesn't add anything else.

''Oh yeah,'' Bucky nods, casual as can be. ''I heard something about that.'' By heard something about that, he means Sam has basically spent the entire week talking about it and spent all day yesterday polishing the shield and making sure his suit was spotless and double, triple, and quadruple checking that his schedule was clear. Pretty sure he practiced his Captain America For Kids act in the mirror. Man can take down terrorists and defuse hostage situations and deal with alien crises without so much as breaking a sweat, but the idea of spending an afternoon with a bunch of toddlers nearly had him in a fetal position on the floor. ''How'd he do?''

Laurel laughs at that, that same quiet little laugh, as if she's laughing at a joke she forgot to tell. ''He did great,'' she says, earnest. ''Very charming. Amazing with the kids. Although surprisingly I think Tiny's favorite was Captain Marvel.''

''Not surprised by that,'' he says. ''Carol's great with kids.''

''Truthfully, I was surprised you weren't there.''

He shrugs. Doesn't mention that Sam spent all day yesterday trying to convince him to go. ''Not really a superhero.''

''Oh,'' an extremely familiar look twists into Laurel's eyes. ''I think a certain someone would disagree with that.'' She crouches down next to Maggie. ''Hey, Tiny, who were you most excited to show your costume to today?''

Maggie points right at Bucky. ''B-Be-Bear!''

''That's what she calls you,'' Sin says.

Bucky blinks. Uh. …Okay? Unexpected. ''…Why…does she call me that?''

Laurel stands straight, lollipop in her mouth, and, as if she has been waiting for this moment since the first time they met, reaches over and produces a tattered, well loved teddy bear from Sin's backpack.

Bucky recognizes it instantly. ''Oh, god, I thought they stopped making those.''

''I've had this since the day I was born,'' Laurel says, handing it over to Maggie, taking the lollipop out of her mouth. ''Both my girls have had their turns with it. Maggie still sleeps with it every night.''

''And you never mentioned that?''

''What can I say?'' She looks entirely unapologetic. ''I was waiting for the right moment.''

''Hold on.'' Yelena frowns, tilting her head to the side in curiosity. ''What is that?''

''It's a Bucky Bear,'' Sin says.

''It…'' Yelena pauses. She looks like she's having trouble computing. He can see the thousands of jokes banging around in her head. Slowly, she turns to look at him. ''James,'' she says, very seriously, and that's when he knows he will never hear the end of this. ''It's a what?''

''A Bucky Bear,'' says Laurel. ''It's a Captain America merchandise thing. It originally came out back in the sixties, but it was really popular in the eighties and nineties. All millennials have a Bucky Bear.''

''A Bucky Bear,'' Yelena repeats. Then, again, with emphasis, ''A Bucky Bear.'' The worst smirk he's ever seen stretches across her face. ''Oh my god.''

He groans, covering his face with his metal hand.

''Bear!'' Maggie chirps, pointing the bear at Bucky. ''Bear! B-Bear!'' She taps at her chest. Out of all of them, she seems the most solemn. ''Ma-Maggie bear!''

''Honey, trust me,'' he tells her, ''you make a cuter bear than I ever did.''

''She is the cutest bear, isn't she?'' Laurel scoops Maggie up into her arms, settling her on her hip. She – somewhat reluctantly, he notes – allows the girl to steal her lollipop.

''That's why she wanted to be a bear for Halloween,'' says Sin. ''Because she's, like, obsessed with you right now. Sergeant Bear.''

''B-Be-Beeear,'' Maggie shrieks.

Yelena cackles next to him, pointing a finger at him. ''You're blushing.''

''I am not.''

''You are!''

''You kind of are, dude,'' Sin says.

''Beeeaaar,'' Maggie says.

''All right,'' Laurel cuts in, all authority in her Mom Voice being severely compromised by the easily identifiable fact that she is struggling not to burst into laughter. ''Let's not torture Sergeant Barnes. It's almost bedtime and we have an early flight tomorrow.'' She nuzzles her bear's cheek. ''Girls, can you say thank you to Bear - I mean Bucky - and his friend?''

Sin, being thirteen, rolls her eyes, but politely says thank you.

Maggie gives him a shaky thumbs up with her right hand.

Yelena elbows Bucky in the ribs and leans in close to him to whisper through her teeth, ''This is so cute I want to die.''

''Nah, I should be thanking you,'' Bucky says, ignoring Yelena completely. ''We could never eat all this candy by ourselves. In fact,'' he looks between Sin and Maggie, ''there's so much leftover, I might still need your help.''

''Just what they need,'' Laurel says with a laugh. ''More sugar.''

''I do love sugar,'' Sin says, and swipes another mini pack of Starburst from the bowl.

''We should go.'' Laurel cuts her eyes to Bucky, lingering on him for a second, before moving to Yelena. ''I don't want to take up too much of your time. I'm sure you two,'' she looks between them, ''had plans? I hope we weren't interrupting anything.''

He catches onto what she's inferring right away, with a growing sense of unease and horror, but before he can even rush to deny it, Yelena waves it off and says, matter-of-fact, ''Oh no. He was waiting for you.''

''I wasn't…waiting…''

''He was,'' Yelena says. ''He was waiting. All day. Just for you. Bucky Bear bought candy for you.''

''I bought the candy…for myself...''

Yelena looks at him, raises her eyebrows, and then looks right at Laurel and shakes her head.

''Oh,'' Laurel chuckles. ''I like her.''

''Don't listen to her,'' he says. ''She's Russian. You can't trust Russians.''

''You can't,'' Yelena agrees, easily. ''I apologize, by the way. I still haven't introduced myself. I'm Yelena,'' she says, extending a hand to Laurel.

Laurel's smile is kind and welcoming as she reaches out to accept Yelena's hand without a second thought. ''Hi, Yelena,'' she says. ''I'm Laurel. I'm James' neighbor.''

''Oh, I know,'' Yelena says. ''He talks about you all the time.'' Whatever wolfish grin she's going for loosens up immediately, becoming something soft and steady and whole as she looks right at Laurel and says, voice confident, without no reluctance whatsoever, ''I'm James' little sister.''

.

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There are darknesses in life, and there are lights. You are one of the lights.

- Bram Stoker

Chapter Text

Chapter Seven

Don't You Know People Write Songs About Girls Like You?

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Everyone's a little high
on love or grief. All of us moving
toward or away from something
we want.

– Joy Sullivan

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November 2024

''Have you ever been to the Grand Canyon?''

Bucky shifts the two brown paper grocery bags to one arm, searching for his keys with the other, letting out a snarl when he comes up empty. ''What?''

''The Grand Canyon,'' Yelena repeats, without looking up from her phone. ''Ever been?''

''Uh.'' He struggles to keep hold of the cumbersome bags, checking his pockets, patting down his jacket. ''No. When would I have gotten around to that?''

''Maybe the Winter Soldier kicked someone in at some point,'' she suggests, and he only hates himself a little for the startled huff of laughter he lets out at the absurdity of the suggestion. ''How am I supposed to know everywhere you have and have not been?''

''Not exactly a clean kill,'' he says, and then explodes in a string of Russian expletives when one of the paper bags rips in his vibranium grasp, sending her precious coffee creamer to the floor of the elevator.

Yelena catches it with her foot, barely even looking up, and kicks it back into the air, catching it in the one paper bag she has tucked into the crook of her arm. It'd be a lot more impressive if it didn't land right on top of the bread.

''Show off,'' he mutters, doing his best to keep the groceries from spilling out all over the floor.

She looks very proud of herself.

''Why are you asking me about the Grand Canyon?'' he asks, and patiently doesn't roll his eyes when she tucks her phone away, reaches into his jacket pocket, and retrieves the keys on the first try.

''I want to see it,'' she says, simply, as if that should have been obvious. ''It's one of the Seven Wonders of the World.''

''No, it's not.''

''It is!''

''It's a bunch of rock.''

''You're so boring.''

''Okay, so, when do you want to go?''

She swivels her head around to face him, stunned. ''What?''

''You want to see the Grand Canyon,'' he says. ''I'll take you.''

She doesn't seem to believe him. ''Just like that?''

''I'm not saying we're going right now,'' he says. ''But yeah. Just like that. Let's go to the Grand Canyon. You and me.''

She stares at him, incredulous for a second before something softer takes over, the look in her eyes turning into something muted, like restrained fondness. She looks away before he can see it deepen into anything more than that. She does that. Yelena is, in many ways, an emotional person, but she's tightly wound, everything about her is controlled, far more so than she'd like people to see. She's like Melina that way. He's not exactly racing to risk his life by bringing that up with her, but he sees it. That need for restraint. That desire to hide, to be a ghost, hard to know and hard to see. That feeling of needing control at all times. It's Melina, it's Natalia, it's Madame B, it's Department X, it's the Red Room, it's all of it.

It's him.

He is partially responsible for putting that there.

It wasn't like he had a choice, none of them did, that wasn't part of who they were before, but it's still something that he feels responsible for. He put those shadows in her eyes. He turned little girls into killers. He forced them to endure. He made her. Just like he made Natalia. Sometimes it's still hard to look at her and not see that – and not see only that. Sometimes he thinks maybe he made a mistake drawing her out. Maybe it's unhealthy for the both of them. She has very bluntly refused his offer to let her move in with him permanently, insisting that she has a life back in Mount Vernon and that she doesn't want to live in the city. Maybe that's a sign. Maybe it would be better to just let go.

But she wants to see the Grand Canyon.

And the second bedroom in his apartment, once full of nothing but dead things and ghosts, is hers now whenever she needs it. And she keeps showing him pictures of Fanny at doggy daycare the way people show off pictures of their children. And she stood at the top of the Empire State Building and looked down at the world below and he saw, for a second, in the light reflected in her eyes, the little girl he never knew, the one who lived in Ohio with her parents and sister and played soccer on the weekends.

Last night he helped her make mummy dogs and popcorn balls and deviled eggs and a cheese ball with prosciutto carefully placed on top so it looked like a human face that had been flayed alive and she laughed so hard there were tears in her eyes. And he thinks he would do just about anything to hear that laugh again.

So, no, he's not going anywhere.

The thing is, he's tired of losing.

He spends a lot of time feeling hollow, trying to decide if Bucky Barnes is real or not. He has a slowly growing life. He has ties. He has friends, but he has no foundation. Everything that made him is gone now, ash and bone, dead and buried, casualties of time.

Except for her.

Yelena is the only part of his past that remains.

That does mean something. He suspects that means something for her as well. He doesn't want to miss anything else. He doesn't want to miss her. His entire life is like a story of some poor bastard stuck in a time loop. He is always running late. He is always missing the train. He is always falling from the train. He is always the one leaving people behind and he is always the one being left behind.

Jim Morita and Gabe Jones, the last Howlies left standing, died in 2013 and 2014, not long before the Winter Soldier failed his last mission and Bucky Barnes dove into the Potomac after Steve. Gabe's grandson, Antoine Triplett, died in 2015 and never got to meet either of the men his grandfather told stories about. Peggy Carter died in 2016 before Bucky could even properly figure out what she meant to him.

Becca died in 2019.

While he was dust.

Ain't that a bitch.

He turned to dust thinking about her, about how badly he wanted to see her, about how he should have gone to her in 2015 when he read her book, about the horrified panicked look on Steve's face and the drink he never got with Natalia, and when he came back, when he opened his eyes a few seconds and five years later, all three of them were either already gone or about to go.

Regardless of the shadows, he refuses to miss Yelena. He's already missed enough. She means too much now. He's in this for the long haul. She's stuck with him. Maybe one day they might even be able to pull some of the shadows from each other's eyes.

''Figure out a time and place,'' he says. ''I'll be there. I'm driving.''

She doesn't say anything, gaze fixated on the elevator doors, but her lips tighten ever so slightly. ''My birthday is in January.''

''I know.''

''We could go then.''

''I'll make sure my schedule's clear.''

''Yes, we wouldn't want it to interfere with any of your neighbor pining.''

''I'm not pining.''

''Okay, loverboy.''

The elevator doors open.

The first thing he becomes aware of is the sound of music. It's loud, obnoxiously so, thumping throughout the hallway, even without his enhanced hearing. It's some poppy, summery anthem and the sheer volume immediately makes him recoil, a breathy voice singing birds of a feather, we should stick together.

''That's it,'' Yelena says, stepping off the elevator a second behind him, ''that's what I'm changing your ringtone to.''

The second thing he notices is that the music is coming from Laurel's apartment.

He stops in his tracks, perilous hold on the grocery bags be damned, and narrows his eyes suspiciously at the closed door.

Yelena doesn't stop, still heading over to his apartment, keys in hand, but the same element of suspicion is in her voice when she says, ''I thought Laurel said she had an early morning flight.''

''She did.'' He knows because there was a whole back and forth about who was paying for the tickets. He tried his darndest, but Laurel was not budging on that one. Told him he'd already gotten the concert tickets and a ''fancier than necessary'' hotel room, there was no need to pay for the plane tickets, she had it covered. He also knows because she sent him a text at seven thirty this morning complaining about how early it was and sent him a picture of herself sitting on the plane, hair mussed, squinting at him over the rim of her sunglasses, looking, for all the world, like she had just rolled out of bed, gotten on a plane, and wasn't particularly happy about it.

And because a few hours ago she sent him her music recommendations for the day, informing him that since she was going to be stuck listening to nothing but Taylor Swift for at least the next week, he was going to be stuck with her. Listed her personal top five in order and everything. Clean, Getaway Car, The Albatross, my tears ricochet, The Bolter. He has no real opinion on this. He's not exactly a Taylor Swift scholar.

Yelena, on the other hand, took one look at the list and said, ''Oh, yikes, your girl's got issues.''

He's still not sure what that means.

He cocks his head to the side, listening as the music inside turns down, going down to a more reasonable volume for apartment living. Not some sort of technology fluke then. Someone's in there. He makes his way over to Yelena. ''Take the groceries, go inside, and lock the door.''

She glances up from unlocking his door. ''James,'' she says. ''She probably has someone staying there to take care of things.''

''For three days?''

''You are not breaking into your crush's apartment,'' she hisses at him.

''People case apartments in New York, Yelena,'' he whispers back. ''They know when someone's going to be away. They – ''

A low whistle cuts into their conversation from behind him. ''And here I didn't believe her when she said you were handsome.''

He turns around, eyes falling on the woman leaning against the doorway of Laurel's apartment. For some reason, Snow White's dangerous cousin is the first thought that springs to mind. Maybe it has something to do with the shiny red apple she's eating. She's pretty and pale, around 5'6, he'd guess mid thirties maybe, around the same age as Laurel, with blue eyes, full lips, and dark, wavy hair that frames her face and falls down her back. She's not the most intimidating person he's ever seen, standing there in blue cartoon pajama pants and a white tank top, even with the cool, crawling smirk on her face as she looks him up and down, but he knows the second he lays eyes on her that something is…wrong.

That woman is dangerous.

It's the body language. The posture. The way she holds herself, trying to appear casual and normal. He doesn't know what she's trained for, but she's trained. Well trained. It's certainly not helping his suspicion.

Yelena, despite the barely noticeable shift in her posture, the way she slides so readily into Widow mode, just wrinkles her nose. ''Is he?'' She gives him a onceover. ''I don't see it.''

The woman takes a bite out of her apple. ''Can't believe that pretty face is the last face so many people saw.''

Bucky's mood darkens considerably. He reaches over with one hand, turns the key in the lock, and opens the door. ''Go inside,'' he orders, shoving the grocery bags at Yelena.

She can't stop him from shoving the bags at her, but she does glare at him. ''And miss this?''

He glares right back until she has no choice but to haul herself and the bags of groceries inside. Which probably has more to do with the fact that one of the bags is ripped and about to fall apart and send everything spilling all over the floor, but he likes to think maybe his glare has something to do with it. He waits until she's inside and then looks back at the woman, still leaning against the doorframe, casual as can be. ''Do I know you?''

''No,'' she says, with no follow up.

''Helena,'' a voice from inside calls out, ''please stop antagonizing the Winter Soldier.''

The woman – Helena – shows no sign of moving, shrugging her shoulders carelessly. ''I'm not antagonizing anyone,'' she says. ''I was complimenting him. I called him pretty.'' Her careful apathy takes a real hit when she suddenly yelps in pain and jumps as a finger is crammed into her lower back. A wheelchair rams into the back of her knees and she grumbles, but steps out of the way.

Bucky notices the redhead – glasses, a stern but kind and very pretty face, maybe a few years older than Laurel and Helena, and piercing green eyes – but finds himself far more distracted by –

''Hiiii!'' Maggie exclaims from the redhead's lap. She's in her little cap sleeved Barbie nightgown with her hair wet and scraggly and he can tell by the way it takes her a second or two longer to get that hi out that she's stressed. He doesn't know whether seeing her makes him feel relaxed or more on edge. ''B-Be-Bear! H-Hiii!''

''Hi, sugar,'' he greets her with a smile. Then, just between the two of them, he signs, Are you okay?

Mama, she signs back. Bye.

''I'm sure she'll be back soon, Tiny.''

''She will,'' the redhead murmurs into Maggie's ear. ''Before you know it, sweetie.'' She kisses the girl on the side of the head and then turns her attention to Bucky. ''I apologize for my tactless friend over here,'' she says, jerking a thumb in Helena's direction. ''She's not housetrained. Let's start over.'' She's a lot gentler than her friend. She has a friendly smile and an even keeled demeanor, offering him kindness without a second thought, her expression open and easy.

All fake, of course.

He knows, within the first thirty seconds, that she is the bigger threat out of the two women. He can't quite put his finger on what it is, but there's something about her that triggers every internal alarm bell he has.

''I'm Barbara Gordon,'' she greets. ''This is Helena – ''

''Just Helena,'' Helena cuts in sharply.

Okay, all right, let's take a minute to regroup here.

These women are dangerous. He knows this, the same way he knew with Natalia, with Yelena, even with the Carter women. Everything about them practically drips with it. They exude confidence the way mercenaries do. But. They're also…

Laurel's friends?

Maggie doesn't seem 100% comfortable, which sets him on edge, but she also doesn't seem scared, which hopefully means her discomfort is just due to being without her mom. She certainly seems content enough to curl up on Barbara's lap like a cat. That's a good sign.

''I'd introduce myself,'' he says, ''but I think – ''

''Oh, we know who you are,'' Helena drawls, her gaze flicking to his gloved left hand. ''What kind of grown adult goes by the name Bucky?''

He stares at her, unfazed. ''What kind of grown adult wears Lilo & Stitch pajama pants?''

''They're Laurel's.''

...And you know what? Admittedly that does track.

''Again,'' Barbara sighs, ''I apologize on her behalf.''

''I'm not sorry,'' Helena says.

Barbara cuts her eyes to her, but only for a second. ''You're the neighbor who got Laurel tickets to the Eras Tour,'' she says, throwing her attention back to Bucky. ''Which was an incredibly nice thing to do and we're all very grateful, by the way. We haven't seen Sin that excited in – well, ever. She's a pretty cool customer. Thank you for that.''

He nods stiffly, tucking his hands into his pockets. ''Sure.''

''Actually, this is good,'' she says, cheerful. ''I was going to come over and introduce myself anyway.'' Even as she says this, she keeps herself and Maggie a safe distance away. It's a clear don't come any closer message. ''We're friends of Laurel's,'' she tells him. ''We'll be staying with Maggie for the next few days while Laurel and Sin are in Indiana. Sorry in advance for all the crying.'' She looks at Maggie, then back up at him. ''Someone isn't used to being without Laurel.''

Just Helena snickers. ''And that someone is you.''

''Did fine without you both for five years,'' Barbara snaps back, ''didn't I?''

''Obviously not, you had a can of Easy Cheese in your pantry when we got back.''

''I'm surprised she didn't take her,'' Bucky comments.

''Nah, Tiny wouldn't do well in a concert environment,'' Helena says. ''She doesn't like loud noises. They took Cass instead.''

''Plus, it's good for Laurel and Sin to do things just the two of them,'' Barbara adds. ''And it's always good for Sin to spend time with her sister.'' As soon as she says that, she regrets it. ''I shouldn't have mentioned that. Laurel isn't big on sharing. I assume she hasn't told you anything about – ''

''Cassandra,'' he interjects, ''right? Sin's biological sister.''

Barbara's eyes widen. ''She told you about that?''

''Wow,'' Helena scoffs. ''And you had to hack into her records just to find out her birthday when you guys first met.''

''It's April 10th,'' Bucky says.

Helena and Barbara both snap their heads around to gape at him.

Before he has a chance to feel too smug about this, the elevator dings, the doors slide open, and a male voice calls out, ''TACOS!'' A man comes trotting out, going straight for Barbara, arms full of bags from that food truck that's usually on Van Brunt. ''It's possible I may have over ordered but I'm never sure what to get Mags, so I thought maybe variety would – holy shit.'' He stops before he can even get to Barbara, eyes widening as he stares at Bucky. ''It's Bucky Barnes.''

Despite the way the man is eyeing Bucky with something more akin to awe than the derision he received from Helena, he has the same danger, danger energy radiating off him in waves. Possibly even more so. Except.

No.

Red's still the most dangerous.

(There's always a redhead.)

''This is Richard,'' Helena says as she lifts Maggie from Barbara's lap, settling her on her hip, one hand tenderly smoothing damp baby fine hair out of the girl's face.

''It's Dick, actually,'' the guy corrects.

''Yes, I was giving you a chance to change that.''

''Man.'' Dick's face brightens up as he grins, bold and bright. He hands over the bags of food to Barbara and steps into Bucky's space, extending his hand. ''It's good to meet you,'' he says, and lights up like a kid on Christmas when Bucky accepts the handshake. ''I used to dress up as you for Halloween when I was a kid!''

''Um,'' says Bucky. ''...Thanks?''

Dick has an athletic build, lean but powerful if the strong handshake is anything to go by, around 5'10, somewhere vaguely around Laurel's age, maybe younger, though it's hard to tell with the youthful beaming grin on his face, dark tousled hair, and he is looking at Bucky like he's meeting a childhood hero. At the same time, he's got his body angled toward Barbara in a way that says he would absolutely try to stab said childhood hero in the face if he needed to. Or possibly even just if she asked him to. ''I wrote a history paper on you in eighth grade.''

''You get a good grade?''

''Well…no.''

''He's very stupid,'' says Helena.

''He's just a bad speller,'' says Barbara. She wheels forward to grasp his wrist, peering around him to smirk lightly in Bucky's direction. ''He's my kept boy.''

''I'm – '' Dick's brain actually visibly comes to a grinding halt for a second. You can hear the record scratch. When the gears start turning again, his face flushes crimson. ''Babs,'' he hisses, turning to look at her. ''Honey, you have to stop telling people that. I'm her husband,'' he says to Bucky. ''We're practically the same age.''

''Not anymore,'' Barbara snorts. ''I'm seven years older now.''

''Good thing I love cougars,'' Dick says. To Bucky, he sighs and says, apologetically, ''I'm sorry, were they doing their overprotective thing?'' he asks, gesturing between Helena and Barbara. ''They get like that with each other. All three of them.''

All right, so… The conclusion is Laurel just has strange and unusual friends? Is that where we're at?

…Actually, yeah, no, that sounds about right.

''No, no, they've been perfectly polite,'' Bucky says.

Dick doesn't believe him. ''Helena was polite?''

''Hey,'' Helena scowls.

''Okay, they've been mostly polite,'' Bucky amends. He looks over at Maggie, unable to keep the smile off his face when she gives him a cheerful gummy grin. ''You guys should eat your dinner,'' he says. ''It's almost Maggie's bedtime.''

''Oh, heck yeah,'' Dick exclaims. ''It's Taco Tuesday!''

''Sweetie, it's Friday,'' Barbara reminds him.

''Eh,'' Dick shrugs and in one surprisingly fluid motion, he's snatched Maggie right from Helena's arms and swung her up onto his shoulders, eliciting a cackling laugh from the little girl. ''Taco Tuesday's more like a vibe. Right, Mags?'' He holds one hand up and Maggie, still giggling, reaches out and gives him a high five. ''Bucky Barnes,'' he says again, tossing him a very charming grin. ''Nice to meet you. If we run into each other again while I'm here, I'm totally showing you a picture of my Halloween costume from when I was a kid.''

Bucky nods. ''Looking forward to it, Dick.''

Dick takes this very calmly, with a nod and an appreciative, ''Nice.'' Then he leans down to take the bags of tacos from his wife and Bucky notices him mouth oh my god he said he's looking forward to it! ''Play nice, birds,'' he singsongs, sending a wink in Barbara's direction as he backs toward the apartment door.

''Richard,'' Helena snaps, but Dick has already instinctively ducked down, successfully avoiding hitting Maggie's head on the doorframe as they disappear inside, door shutting behind them.

Leaving Bucky alone with two women who do not seem to like him much. Realistically, he's been in worse situations, but something about these women kind of makes him want to squirm a little.

Helena snorts at the closed door with a shake of her head. ''He's never gonna wash that hand again.''

''I guess thank you for that, too,'' Barbara says. ''I'm sure that was the highlight of his day.''

''Always nice to meet a fan,'' he says. ''I don't have many of those.''

''Probably on account of all the murdering,'' Helena supplies.

He doesn't flinch, which he knows is what she's aiming for. Merely nods and says, even keeled and unmoved, ''Probably.'' For a second there, he swears there is the hint of a grudging almost smile on her face. ''Well,'' he tries. ''I should get back to – ''

''Your girlfriend?'' she finishes.

''Sister!'' Yelena calls from just inside the door. Where she has been standing this entire time. Likely armed.

Helena raises an eyebrow. ''Hmm.''

Bucky accepts the flat stares he's getting for about five seconds, waiting for something to happen, and then he has to ask, ''Do I have something on my face?''

''Nope,'' says Barbara.

''It's a nice face,'' adds Helena.

''Meh,'' Barbara shrugs. ''Adequate.''

''Just so you know,'' he starts slowly, ''there's nowhere to bury a body around here.''

''Please.'' Helena scoffs. ''Water's right there, pretty boy. Don't need a burial if you're sleeping with the fishes.''

''Am I about to be sleeping with the fishes?''

The two women share a quick look. ''That depends,'' Barbara deadpans, and then they proceed to fully converge on him, with Barbara wheeling closer to him and Helena practically stalking her way over to him, the both of them looking him up and down, circling him like prey. It's oddly tactical.

God, real life is so goddamned weird sometimes.

You never really get used to it, but you resign yourself to it. Like when you see a talking raccoon armed to the teeth on a battlefield and you're just like - what the hell, sure, why not. Or when a giant angry grape turns you and half the world to dust with one snap of his sausage fingers and your only thought as you crumble to ash is - yeah, okay, whatever, this might as well happen. It's just the world we live in nowadays. Aliens and sorcerers and time travel. Nazis with serious sunburns. Horrifying miracles of science. A couple of frozen old men. A literal princess who takes time out of her busy princess life to fix some white fool's head and make him an indestructible arm. That Spider Kid swinging around Queens. (Exactly the sort of shit that happens in Queens.) That new mysterious and potentially undead vigilante who blows people's eardrums out. The goo monster in Central Park with the major reflux problem. Whatever the fuck was wrong with John Walker.

And this.

Whatever this is.

Being hunted by a girl gang in his own hallway was so not on his list of things to do today, but fine, whatever.

It's just one of those days.

Bucky throws a quick glare at his own door when he hears Yelena move inside, desperately trying to telepathically warn her not to come out guns blazing and just stay put for fuck's sake, don't make this worse, and then he tries to smooth out his face, doing his best to appear unmoved and not make any sudden movements. ''On?'' When he doesn't get an answer to that, just more intense stares, he sighs and takes a guess. ''Listen, I know my reputation isn't exactly stellar and if you want me to stay away from your friend, I'd – ''

''You know, Mr. Barnes,'' Barbara cuts in, voice stern, no nonsense, very business like. ''Ever since she moved here, Laurel's been happy. Really happy.''

''Downright perky,'' Helena agrees. ''It's a little creepy.''

Barbara pauses her interrogation to throw Helena a slightly exasperated look.

''Oh.'' Not really what he'd been expecting them to say. ''Well, that's – that's good. I want her to be happy.''

''Yes,'' Barbara agrees, keeping her gaze steady and even. ''It seems you do.''

''So do we,'' Helena informs him. Her voice is, suddenly, serious, not softer but less threatening, more genuine. Laurel does tend to bring that out of people. ''And we'd do just about anything to keep it that way.''

''Including not killing me and feeding me to the fishes?''

''Including not running you off,'' she corrects. ''Which we could do. Easily.''

''But that's not what she wants,'' Barbara says. The unsaid thing, hovering in the air between them, is the part Bucky doesn't know what to do with. She wants you. ''And I'm not sure it would do her any good for you to just disappear. It would just upset her.''

''Which means you get to stay and this 90s romcom thing that's going on between you two pathetic lovelorn losers.'' Helena gestures vaguely with a sneer and a somewhat disgusted sounding huff. ''We'll allow it.'' She glowers then, narrowing her eyes and stepping closer to him. ''For now.''

''But we're watching you,'' Barbara warns. ''I'm watching you. And if you hurt her, if you hurt those girls…''

''Wild guess,'' he starts, ''the fishes?''

''And cement boots,'' Helena says with a firm nod. ''Don't forget about those.''

''How could I?'' He looks between them for a second and then, for several reasons, decides his best option is Barbara. ''I don't intend to hurt her,'' he says, meeting her eyes. ''You have my word.''

Her smile is brittle. ''Of course you don't,'' she says quietly. ''But that's what they all say. Oliver used to say it all the time. That was his specialty. I promise I won't hurt her. I'll do it right this time. We'll get it right.''

''Never once managed to keep that promise,'' Helena says darkly.

Bucky thinks he does a very good job of not reacting to that, even as he realizes that this is the first time he's been given a name to place on the looming shadow that is Maggie's father, the first time that empty place has been given an identity. It doesn't matter, the man's dead and gone, but there is something about having a name that makes this dead echo of hurt feel bigger somehow. More human.

We weren't the family he wanted.

That was what she said, right? We weren't the family he wanted. The man who didn't want Maggie. Didn't want Dinah. The moron who wasted seventeen years playing tug-a-war and still couldn't get it right. Who cheated ''repeatedly'' and blamed her for it and helped her wall herself up in her own head to the point where she can't answer a question without being evasive and has never settled anywhere, running around California and Alaska and New Jersey and Rome and Asia instead of finding a home.

Girl meets boy. Boys an idiot. Girls spends seventeen years lacking the self-esteem and self-respect needed to sever ties.

His name was Oliver.

Oliver was a fool.

''I'm not him,'' Bucky says.

He thinks he does a fairly good job of keeping his voice mostly neutral, but something about his tone or maybe the look on his face must be off because Helena and Barbara share a look that he, rather frustratingly, cannot read at all.

''No,'' Barbara says eventually, soft but curious. ''I suppose you're not.''

He looks at the door to the Lance family apartment. If he concentrates, he can hear the sound of Dick's voice, keeping up a running commentary on every food item he pulls out of the bag while he sifts through looking for something Maggie can eat, and the sound of Maggie's curious little chirps and quiet laughs. ''Hey, listen,'' Bucky looks back to Barbara and Helena. ''Feel free to be as wary as you'd like around me, that's fair, but has Laurel told you about Alpine?''

''Alp – oh.'' Helena frowns, blinking, genuinely stumped. ''Your cat?''

''If Maggie has a hard time without her mom tonight,'' Bucky explains. ''Come knock on my door. I'll send Alpine over. She's good with her.''

''Is she a therapy cat?''

''Just for the ones who need her.''

It's not a big offer for him, just more of the usual, but something in both Barbara and Helena's expressions soften at that. ''We'll keep that in mind,'' Barbara says. ''Thank you, Sergeant Barnes.''

''Sure. Anything for Maggie.'' He's pretty sure they're still not going to be joining Dick's Bucky Barnes fanclub, but he does think it's good enough to get him out of sleeping with the fishes for the next few days. ''It was nice to meet you both,'' he says, stepping back, toward his own apartment. ''Enjoy your tacos.''

.

.

.

''Congratulations,'' Yelena smirks at him a few minutes later, while he's trying to clean up the groceries she unceremoniously dumped on the floor by the door. ''You made it through your first shovel talk.''

He snorts and thinks, That was hardly my first.

''What are the chances you survive those two if you fuck this up?'' she asks, perching herself on the kitchen counter with Alpine, the both of them opting to watch him put away the food rather than helping him.

''Those two?'' He puts the milk, coffee creamer, and eggs in the fridge. ''Like 1%. If that.''

She clicks her tongue at him. ''Guess that means you better not fuck this up, James.''

Yeah, he got that.

Message received. Loud and clear.

And here he thought the most unsettling part of his day would be reviewing the team's new PR strategy. He really didn't have spooky overprotective coven on his list of things to expect. That's the thing about Dinah, though, isn't it?

She's never who he expects her to be.

.

.

.

If we're being honest here, Bucky hasn't actually looked at the bulk of the emails from the team's brand spanking new PR team that he's been sent today.

He's supposed to. That's his homework. This stupid media management/press tour shit is about to be so fucking annoying. He can feel it. The first email that came in the other day was just a basic breakdown of various appearances that had been booked (none of them for him) or were in the process of being booked, but the various emails that have been coming in all day, ever since he and Sam were sitting backstage at an ungodly hour waiting to go live for GMA, contain various phases of their new strategy and complete outlines of each step they'll be taking.

Step one is listed as cultivating your online presence.

Disgusting.

The end goal is to make sure the American public at the least accepts and does not actively hinder Sam Wilson's Captain America and Friends.

It's not the worst goal to have.

He understands the purpose of this whole thing. It feels stupid, like saving people and avoiding alien disasters should not involve needing an online presence or a PR team, but he's in this world enough to understand the necessity of it. He understands the value in a well formed, thoughtful, likeable media presence and a glowing press tour. He may be old but he's not nearly as ignorant about things as people thing. He sees how things go. How life works in 2024. Who you are is not what makes or breaks you these days. It's how you're perceived.

And right now the public perception when it comes to so-called superheroes just as a whole is lukewarm at best.

This is both understandable and slightly annoying, in his opinion.

Personally, Bucky's all for the anti-military, anti-capitalism, anti-government, anti-corporation, leftist values that's all the rage among the kids these days. He can get on board with that. He's a veteran. He knows how fucked up that machine is. Look where fighting for his country got him. Chewed up and spat out. And down a whole fucking arm. For 70 years, he was right there, right under the American government's nose, a POW who no one was coming to save, and now he's essentially a human shell. He's entitled to some negative feelings about that. Tear it apart, kiddos. He respects that. He respects how involved they are. How much they care about what's going on. How informed they are. The kids are alright.

For the most part.

But they're still young, which means they lack nuance, follow through, and general critical thinking skills. No offense. Very developmentally accurate. These things are expected given their age and lack of maturity, but it can be frustrating to wade through. Not to mention that due to social media, kids these days also have an unfortunate habit of falling heavily into black and white thinking and then refusing to understand that doing that means leaning into the conservatism they claim to hate. They mean well, they do, he can see that, but very few of them can see the forest for the trees.

This is inconvenient for the business Team Cap is in.

I'm sorry, but it just is.

This is a weird world. Full stop. It needs certain people to protect it. It does suck that those people so often wind up tethered to various government entities and maybe it shouldn't be that way, hopefully one day there can be more independent superhero factions like that one secretive and insulated one that Superman is associated with but that's going to require more time and work. Which means this is where we're at. Sometimes situations require compromise. Sometimes you don't always sleep well at night. That's called being a person. We live in shades of gray. That's just life.

Sam Wilson's Captain America and Friends are here to stay (for now at least) and if they have to pull people out of hostage situations or burning buildings, he would really appreciate not being fought on it by a misinformed college aged kid who would rather stay pinned down in an overturned cable car in San Francisco than be rescued by someone the chronically online community considers ''fascist-adjacent'' because of the government ties.

There needs to be a certain amount of acceptance here.

Simple as that.

If talking to them in a way they understand helps bring about that acceptance, he's all for it. He's going to do the PR campaign. He's going to go on whatever podcast they make him go on. He's going to sit there with Jimmy Fallon and laugh at jokes that aren't funny. He'll even open his Instagram for the first time since Sarah made it for him and promote Sam's Hot Ones appearance and Torres' Chicken Shop Date and Sharon faking it till she makes it appearance on Call Her Daddy. He's going to do it for Sam.

God knows he's done worse for Steve.

At least he gets to go home to a warm home and warm food and a huge modern shower with hot water at the end of the day now. He used to sleep in trenches and go hungry and spend hours lying on his belly in the mud, barely breathing, with a sniper rifle at the ready for Steve. This is an improvement. Unless they try to make him do TikTok dances. Then he'll be longing for those trenches.

But that all seems like shit for a different day.

Today, he's going on barely any sleep, he spent half the day in Manhattan for the GMA appearance, listened to Sam happily ramble about the Avengers trunk or treat yesterday and how excited he was when one of his old friends showed up with her kids (Birdie, he called her, and just who the hell is naming their kid Birdie in this day and age), and then he went grocery shopping with Yelena, which, honestly, more chaotic than the goo monster in Central Park.

All due respect but fuck the emails.

He took one look at the first one, his eyeballs were assaulted by phrases like how to create viral content and your social media rebrand is underway and a list of pre-approved influencers to connect with, and then he decided to just exit out of his email account and not look at it for the weekend.

Congrats to Rambeau for going full steam ahead and hiring a team that is eager to get shit done but he refuses to look at any of that until at least Monday.

No regrets.

He's not wasting his weekend creating viral content or connecting with influencers. He'd rather fall off another speeding train. He has plans. Yelena has to leave on Monday to get back to Fanny and her job at the bakery in Mount Vernon. Before then, they have a lot of leftovers to eat, a stack of classic horror movies that they didn't get to last night, they have reservations at Raoul's tomorrow (mostly because he wanted to show off that he now has connections and can get last minute reservations at the best places in the city), and he's sure she's going to be dragging him to IKEA tomorrow. Fuck the rebrand. It's Friday and the work week is over.

Though, for the record, yes, he has spent an inordinate amount of time in the group chat, which has been in shambles for most of the day.

(Carter: How was GMA?
Sam: Are you saying you didn't watch?
Carter: No chance in hell I'm getting up that early the day after Halloween.
Sam: It was good. Went as well as it could have. We talked about the hospital visit. Bucky asked inappropriate questions about the two anchors who had an affair. You know. Normal stuff.
Bucky: well I wanted to know! I saw a compilation of suspicious chemistry moments between them. seems juicy.
Carter: So you asked their former colleagues about it on air????
Bucky: of course not. I asked before we went live.
Carter: Oh
Carter: And?
Bucky: think Snuffleupagus knew
Sam: Hold up. Snuffleupagus?
Bucky: yeah you know the little guy
Sam: Stephanopoulos
Bucky: exactly what I said
Carter: You think he knew about the affair?
Sam: Given how obnoxious and unapologetic the two cheaters are I have a hard time believing everyone at that studio didn't know.
Bucky: they had to at least suspect
Torres: Hey yo when did you get the Captain America insta handle????
Sam: What? I don't have the Captain America handle. That's still Steve's, isn't it?
Torres: Nah man it's you now. He's been archived.
Carter: Oh that must be the rebrand.
Sam: That starts today?
Hill: Did none of you read the email that got sent out this morning??????

Torres: Hey did someone give these PR people permission to deactivate my Instagram account?
Hill: Yes. You. When you signed a contract with SWORD.
Torres: Aww man I had all those recipes saved in my likes. I was gonna make lasagna soup tonight. It's soup season.
Hill: I know the director went over this with you. Nothing's being deleted. It's just being rebranded.
Sam: Wait a second. You don't cook.

Hill: Sharon, why do you have a fake Instagram that only follows Bruce Wayne?
Carter: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
Hill: Was he affiliated with the Power Broker?
Carter: No
Hill: Your aunt?
Carter: Not really
Sam: It's the gym selfies, isn't it?
Carter: I'm not saying a word
Torres: I had 2 ex girlfriends put him down as their hall pass.
Hill: Even I acknowledge he's a ridiculously pretty man.
Hill: And I'm a lesbian.
Bucky: what about me? do you think I'm pretty?
Hill: I might've but then I got to know you and realized you're just a brat
Bucky: that wounds me maria
Torres: One time Bruce Wayne posted a video about some charity fundraiser and he was shirtless in the ocean and Instagram crashed for like a full day
Torres: He has freckles. Did you guys know that?
Carter: Ok I don't want to fuck Bruce Wayne but I'm starting to think you might.

Hill: Barnes, do you remember the password to your Instagram account?
Bucky: I have an Instagram account?
Hill: Like I said.
Hill: Brat.

Sam: Hill, what are the chances this rebrand could involve tiktok dances?
Hill: Why are you asking me? I'm not the lead on this.
Sam: You're our handler. You're supposed to handle us.
Sam: You want me to ask the director of a super secret spy troop about tiktok dances?
Carter: If someone tries to make me do a tiktok dance, I'm going back to Madripoor.

Torres: This whole thing would be a lot cooler if Vine was still around.
Torres: Holy shit, can we bring back Vine?

Carter: If you're going to force us all to be on social media, can I at least choose the picture for my bio? I don't trust this social media team to get my good side.
Hill: Only temporarily. Rambeau's setting up a photoshoot for you within the next few weeks. Those pictures will be on all your official accounts.
Hill: All your sides are good, by the way.
Bucky: are you serious? right in front of my salad, maria?
Hill: Whoever is showing Barnes memes needs to stop.
Torres: WE'RE GETTING A WHOLE ASS PHOTOSHOOT?????
Bucky: how does an overproduced photoshoot make us likeable?
Sam: You know what would make us likeable? A calendar. I'm thinking big here. And I'm calling July.)

But the rest is Monday's problem.

So, he opts to ignore that mess, fields texts messages from what feels like every person he's ever met in the 21st century because of the Good Morning America appearance (Sarah bullies him and Sam about their wardrobe choices and then says she's proud of them, Barton sends a texts that just says was anyone going to tell me you guys were going on GMA or was I just supposed to find out because I was up all night with my sick kid, Thor sends a text of him standing in front of a hospital television screen with one of those big excited puppy dog grins of his and two thumbs up, Colonel Rhodes says great job for your first time, Barnes, maybe next time you go on national television try not to look like a scared little boy, even Banner sends a very polite but genuine congrats, boys text), and spends the day with Yelena.

In the dark of the night, finds himself on the rooftop with a cigarette in his mouth and his phone sitting on the ledge. It's not overly cold, but it's breezy and he can smell more than feel the future promise of winter on the horizon. He does feel somewhat pathetic, standing here, leaning back against the ledge, pretending he's just innocently up here to sneak a smoke after dinner when really he's just trying to dredge up the courage to call a friend.

In the end, it takes three cigarettes and an internal pep talk and then he hits the call button.

''Wow, James,'' Dinah greets. ''You miss me already?''

''Oh, did you go somewhere?'' he asks, innocent. ''I hadn't noticed.''

''That's a lie. I have such a large presence. My absence is always felt.''

''Your absence is felt,'' he acknowledges. ''Speaking of, I met your friends.''

''Oh, crap.'' Abruptly, her pleasant, humorous demeanor shifts. He can hear the cringe in her voice. ''I forgot to warn you about Babs and Helena, didn't I? I'm so sorry.''

''It's fine.''

''No, it's – I know they're a lot to take in.''

''Don't worry about it,'' he says. ''It's nice to have friends that have your back. They're certainly protective of you.''

''Oh god,'' she moans. ''Did they give you the shovel talk?''

''I can assure you no shovels were brandished,'' he tells her. He opts not to tell her about the fishes or the cement boots. ''Although I think Helena might have thought about it.''

''I'm sure Babs was thinking it too,'' she says. ''She's just better at hiding it.''

''At least one of them likes me,'' he tells her. ''Did you know Dick – ''

''Used to dress up as you for Halloween?'' she finishes. ''I did. I've seen the pictures. You both look very good in navy blue. Seriously, though, I'm sorry. I should have told you they would be staying. It was a last minute thing,'' she says. ''I was planning on taking Maggie with us, but – ''

''I get it.''

''I was fooling myself with that one,'' she says. ''It's not the best environment for her. I was just dragging my feet with accepting that. It's the high volume and flashing lights. With her epilepsy, I didn't want to risk it.''

''Probably a wise decision,'' he says. ''I'm sure she'll be fine.''

''Oh, she will be,'' Laurel chuckles. ''She loves her aunties. And they love her. I'm sure she'll be spoiled rotten while I'm away.'' There's a pause. He can hear her thinking. ''Although... She's never been away from me and she's incredibly attached and has a hard time sleeping without her nighttime milkies and I'm concerned about how they're going to get enough calories in her because she hates eating and I don't know if they have enough patience to stick it out with her, so…'' A beat. ''Oh, god, I've made a huge mistake.''

''Dinah,'' he says, voice firm but reassuring. ''You didn't make a mistake. A loud concert that goes late into the night and has flashing lights isn't a good place for a disabled epileptic toddler. Even if you'd brought her along with you, what would you have done? Stayed in the hotel room with her while Steph and Cass took Sin to the concert? Sure, it could have worked, but you deserve to have this experience with Sin. It's okay to take a break. You made the best choice for everyone involved. Especially Maggie. You know that.''

She audibly takes in a breath and then lets it out. ''You're right,'' she acknowledges. ''I do. I guess I'm just a little nervous. I've been told I'm a bit of a helicopter mom.''

Bucky turns, looking out over the water. He purposefully avoids looking at Lady Liberty. ''Is this really your first time away from Maggie?''

''The only other time I've spent a night away from her was right after she was born,'' Laurel says. ''I was in the ICU, she was in the NICU.''

''The ICU?'' He frowns. ''Why were you – no, sorry,'' he shakes his head, ''that's none of my business.''

''No, it's okay,'' she says. ''I don't mind. Maggie was, um, unexpectedly born outside of the hospital and there were complications. I had a bad hemorrhage. I was all alone and couldn't call for help, so I wound up losing a lot of blood before a friend found me. It took them a while to stabilize me. Ended up in the ICU for a few days and she was in the NICU as a precaution.'' She says that all very calmly. Almost nonchalantly. As if it's not a completely and utterly terrifying thing to divulge.

When he was a kid, there was a nice couple who lived above them, Mr. and Mrs. Carmine. They were kind people, easygoing and charming, never bothered by the gaggles of children who lived in the building and liked to cause chaos. On the contrary, they loved kids. He was a loud, boisterous, joyful man who all the kids flocked to because he was funny and because he would awe them with his magic tricks. She was a sweet woman who brought cookies on your birthday and had a soft touch and seemed to have this effortlessly sweet and maternal nature. They wanted their own family very badly, everyone knew that. They tried for the better part of two decades to bring a child into their lives, but it just never quite happened for them. Looking back on it from an adult's perspective, he's pretty sure Mrs. Carmine's frequent illnesses were most likely troubled pregnancies and losses.

When he was around twelve or thirteen, while his own mother was pregnant with Becca and right after his father died, Mrs. Carmine finally carried to term. There were a lot of whispers about it around the building because she was seen as ''too old'' to be having a baby (36, she was 36) but she and her husband seemed like they were walking on air for those nine months. They were over the moon. He still remembers that. She used to come over to have tea with Ma and commiserate about their heartburn and swollen ankles, but what he remembers most is hearing her gush about how excited they were.

Mrs. Carmine died giving birth to that baby.

It was a hemorrhage. The baby was fine, a girl named Katherine who went on to become Becca's best friend growing up, a sweet kid with her mother's eyes who spent a lot of time at the Barnes residence, but poor Mrs. Carmine was not. Bled to death in her own bed. He knows that because both Sarah Rogers and Winifred Barnes were two of the women who went racing to help when things went south with the birth. It was horrific. You could smell the blood when you walked past the apartment for days. People were sad about it, her husband was inconsolable (and remained that way for a long time), but no one quite felt the same sense of dread as Bucky and Steve and Mary did.

It happens sometimes, Ma told them. You don't need to worry about that right now.

It was a monumental thing to have happen at the time, partly because it came on the heels of George Barnes' bloody accidental death at the docks and partly because Bucky and Mary spent the rest of Ma's pregnancy absolutely terrified. Every day was like a slog through aimless grief and paralyzing fear for a while there. The memory has mellowed out over the years, like waves receding from the shoreline. Become just one of those things. Background noise. A memory that lingers because of the impact it had at the time but isn't fully there, overshadowed by other trauma.

Until now.

Now, suddenly, he very vividly remembers the sound of Mr. Carmine's wails and the smell of Mrs. Carmine's blood and the sadness and exhaustion that hollowed out Ma and Sarah's eyes for days after and little Katie Carmine asking him if he knew her mother and if he could tell her what she was like.

Maybe it's naivety, maybe he just hasn't bothered to research that aspect of the future, but it's nerve wracking and quite appalling to hear that even with modern medicine, that kind of thing can still happen. It's even worse to think about it happening to Laurel. While she was all by herself.

''You nearly died giving birth?'' he asks, working hard to keep the genuine horror from his voice. ''Alone?''

He doesn't know why that's the part of her story that stands out the most to him, but it really bothers him that she was alone, that she had to go through all of that by herself. It feels so...cruel. She could have died alone. That's awful. Even Mrs. Carmine didn't die alone. She died in her husband's arms. There was always a strange sort of comfort in that, even if it was cold. She was held and loved until the last second. Everyone deserves that.

People aren't meant to die alone. We always get that so wrong in this world.

''Maybe,'' she says. ''Kind of. It's a long story.''

No chance in hell he's pushing that issue. ''I think I can understand why you're a helicopter parent then,'' he says. ''You and Maggie have had a bumpy road together.''

''Lance Family Drama,'' she says, halfway between flippant and possibly slightly bitter. ''It's a thing. We're a dramatically unlucky bunch.''

''I feel like I should give you a piece of my medical trauma just to even things out,'' he says dryly, ''but it's all pretty public. Not sure I have anything new to share.''

''Eh, if you did, you'd win.''

''It's not a competition.''

''Not when you're here, it's not.''

''Well,'' he allows, ''I have technically been lobotomized.''

''Winner winner chicken dinner.''

He doesn't even feel bad about laughing at that. He feels like if it was anyone else, he might try to steer clear of the dark humor but he's comfortable around her to let it lie. ''I'll remember that for the next pissing contest I get into.''

''Please do.''

''You know, if you want,'' he starts, somewhat hesitantly, ''I can check in on Maggie while you're away. Stop by after work. Maybe bring Alpine around for a visit. Not that – I'm sure your friends will take good care of her. I don't want to overstep.''

''No, that would be great, actually,'' Laurel cuts in. ''I trust my girls – and Dick – and I know Maggie's safe with them, but I also know she loves a routine. She's going to be thrown off by the chaos. If you could bring Alpine by to see her, that would be amazing. Your cat's great with her. She's incredibly soothing. She's very intuitive.''

''Cats are intelligent,'' he says. ''Or so they say. She once chased a fly straight into the open garbage can and then panicked because it was dark. Spread garbage through my entire kitchen. Then she glared at me like it was my fault.''

''What a comedic father-daughter duo you two are.''

''Yeah, we're thinking about taking this show on the road.''

''You're joking, but I can tell you right now you'd make a shitload of money doing that. A wickedly attractive guy and his adorable cat? The girlies would be flocking to your show just for the TikTok cred.''

''Dinah,'' he drawls, ''you think I'm wickedly attractive?''

''Oh, shut up,'' she mutters. ''I know you own a mirror.''

''I'll keep that idea in my back pocket for retirement,'' he says. He looks at the Statue of Liberty for a second, scraping his eyes over the shape of the shield in her outstretched hand. He can never look at her for long these days. It's fucked up, he knows, that he moved into a building that overlooks what is essentially a memorial for the guy who left him behind. ''I should go,'' he says, somewhat reluctantly. ''It's late. I just wanted to let you know I've met your protection detail.''

''I'll tell them to tone down the overprotective bit, but I can't make any promises.''

''Nah, wouldn't dream of it. So, how's Indianapolis so far? You guys get settled in?''

''We did,'' she says. ''We're ringing in our first night here with pizza, a spa night, and a showing of that Taylor Swift Netflix documentary.''

''How sick of Taylor Swift are you going to be by the end of this weekend?''

''I'm not worried about it,'' she declares. ''I've got a plan.''

''Oh yeah?''

''If I start feeling like I'm overdosing on Big Swift, I'll just escape to the hotel gym for some Nina Simone and Drops of Jupiter and call you to complain.''

''Oh, I'm your plan.''

''You are. I'm also going to be sending you live updates throughout the whole weekend. That's what you signed up for.''

''When did I sign up for that?''

''When you got us tickets to the Eras tour.''

''Ah, right, that,'' he nods. ''How's Sin doing? Is she excited?''

''Oh my god,'' there's a smile in her voice, ''she's beyond excited. I can tell she's trying to play it cool but it's just oozing out of her. Seriously, I wish you could see her. She's so happy.''

''I'm glad,'' he says, ducking his head, looking down at the brick ledge of the rooftop.

''I am too,'' Laurel says. ''It's been rough over the past – well, always, I guess. It…'' She pauses and he hears her take a breath. ''It hasn't been easy for her,'' she says, and he notes the bittersweet edge to her voice, the regret that comes through. ''Having me as a mom.''

He finds that incredibly hard to believe. He doesn't think he has ever met anyone who exudes natural maternal energy the way she does. He's watched her with her daughters. He's seen them interact. Seen her endless patience and emotional intelligence at work. Most important, he's seen the way those kids look at her. She guides those girls through life like it was what she was put on this earth to do and they look at her like they wouldn't have it any other way. She does a good job of appearing confident and nonchalant, but for the first time he finds himself wondering if she knows that. If she's fully aware of how much she is loved by those girls. ''I doubt she'd see it that way,'' he tells her.

''That's because you only know this witty and delightful version of me,'' she admits. ''You didn't know me then. Back when I first became a mom. Sin and I grew up together,'' she says, which – you know, that's probably true.

If Sin is thirteen going on fourteen and Laurel is thirty-four going on thirty-five, that means she would have been – what? Twenty-one when Sin was born? Even if she adopted her as a young child and not an infant, she still would have been in her early twenties. And she did it alone. All by herself. A single mother. That's an extraordinarily heavy load for a young woman. That's…

Actually.

How did a twentysomething single woman (who is not, as far as he can tell, rich enough to do whatever she wants without anyone paying attention) just adopt a child all by herself?

''We lived through some pretty tough circumstances at times, her and I,'' Laurel goes on, still quiet. ''She's been through a lot. She had to grow up a lot faster than other kids her age. Not just with me, but with everything we've been through with Maggie. I know that weighs on her.''

''I'm sure it has.''

''Plus, she just – she puts so much pressure on herself, you know? She's so incredibly determined and so incredibly stubborn.''

''Gee, I wonder where she got that from,'' he interjects, letting the sarcasm drip through.

Laurel chuckles. ''Okay, fine, I will accept that,'' she concedes. ''It's possible it might be something she picked up from me. And I love that about her. When she sets her mind to something, she does it, no matter how hard. But that's also a lot of stress and I know she's been feeling it lately with this school thing.''

''What school thing?''

''Oh, she's got her heart set on going to this performing arts high school in Boerum Hill. She created a whole power point presentation about why I should let her apply.''

''And you're not into the performing arts thing?''

''No, I'm into it,'' she says. ''I guess I was just surprised when she told me. She's had a very clear cut vision of what she wants her life to look like as an adult and this wasn't part of it. I'm supporting her. We're going through the application process together. She has a live audition on November 15th that she's thrown herself into preparing for. If she gets in, I'm all for it.''

''But…?''

''But performing arts is kind of cutthroat,'' she says. ''Her life is going to be different. She already knows she's most likely going to have to stop competitive gymnastics to make room for the huge focus on dance, but I don't know if she's really aware of how intense it's all going to be. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't worried.''

''Sounds fair,'' he acknowledges. ''But if there's anyone who can help her deal with that pressure, it's you, Dinah. You're amazing with those kids. They adore you. You know that, right?''

''Well,'' even over the phone he feels like he can see the wry, somewhat dismissive smile on her face, ''I do my best.'' She doesn't necessarily sound like she believes it. ''It's just nice to see her act like a kid, I guess is what I'm saying,'' she tacks on quickly. ''She's always been in such a rush to grow up, but right now she's just like any other girl her age. And that's because of you.'' Her voice softens. ''I don't think I'll ever be able to tell you how grateful I am for that, James. I don't want you to forget that.''

''Trust me,'' he says. ''I won't.'' He doesn't think he could if he tried. ''I'm just…happy you guys are happy.''

''We are.'' She clears her throat, brightening up. ''And she does know it was you who gave us the tickets, by the way. I know you were a little hesitant about telling her, but if I didn't tell her it was you, she would've just assumed it was Bruce and I'm not letting him take credit for this one.''

''Bruce?''

''He's…a friend of mine,'' she says. ''My point is, you're going to get a friendship bracelet when we get back and you better act like it's the best gift you've ever been given.''

''Maybe it will be the best gift I've ever been given,'' he says. ''No one's ever given me a friendship bracelet before.''

''And I hope you're ready to see about five thousand probably blurry pictures of Lucas Oil Stadium.''

''I'm looking forward to it,'' he says, and means it. ''Good night, Dinah.''

''Good night, James.''

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.

.

Moments later, while he's in the elevator, he gets a text from her. It's a selfie of her and Sin with sheet masks on their faces, a piece of red licorice hanging out of Sin's mouth as she gives the camera a peace sign.

Sin says I should give you a look at the inside of my head as an apology for not warning you about Babs and Helena, she texts. And she says I need to leave you with some song recommendations that aren't Taylor Swift related. So here are some of the songs that always seem to wind up on my Spotify Wrapped.

- Midnight City by M83
- Heaven Is a Place On Earth by Belinda Carlisle
- Ain't No Mountain High Enough by Marvin Gaye & Tammi Terrell
- World of Our Own by Westlife
- Put Your Records On by Corinne Bailey Rae
- Tenderness by General Public
- Huddle Formation by the Go! Team
- The Best by Tina Turner
- Always Love by Nada Surf
- O-o-h Child by The Five Stairsteps
- Then He Kissed Me by the Crystals
- Could You Be Loved by Bob Marley & the Wailers
- Girls Like You by the Naked and the Famous
- Only You by Yazoo
- 23 by Jimmy Eat World

It's silly, childish even, the way something stirs inside his chest when he sees the list of songs. It's not that they're overly familiar to him. He knows the Marvin Gaye song and the Five Stairsteps one (and he'll realize upon listening to it that not only has he heard Put Your Records On coming from next door several times but it's also one of the songs Sarah sings to herself while she's working) but the majority of the other ones are mysteries to him. It's the explanation that has him feeling some type of way.

Laurel has made it very clear that she sees music as something intensely personal – so personal that she still hasn't told him her favorite song – and meaningful – so meaningful that she has dedicated herself to finding his favorite song. He knows what it must mean for her to share these songs. It's not so much a peak at the inside of her brain. It's the inside of her heart. He's sure this is quite carefully curated, not enough to give away the whole story, probably surface level, but he also knows that for her that's still something intimate.

At first, he plays it cool.

He texts back later, after he and Yelena have listened to the songs while they put together the new bedframe and headboard in the guest room, a quick, joking, yeah that's pretty much what I've always imagined the inside of your head looks like.

Because that's true.

Dinah, his sweet, gorgeous, extroverted neighbor has become a light in a very strange, often dark world. She is something soft, cheerful and kind of quirky, a wonderfully ordinary person who wears fuzzy slippers and novelty shirts that say SOMETIMES MY MOM VOICE IS SO LOUD THAT EVEN MY NEIGHBORS CLEAN THEIR ROOMS. She does sound like Tenderness and Heaven Is a Place on Earth. She is Midnight City and Huddle Formation. She is someone who listens to songs like Put Your Records On and O-o-h Child when she wants to smile. She is someone who sings along to Only You and Then He Kissed Me in the shower and Always Love on road trips and dances with her girls to Ain't No Mountain High Enough and World of Our Own. There's life in these songs. An inherent sweetness. A kind of warmth. Something a lot like love.

They sound like her.

He doesn't know if he would like all of those songs without the attachment to her, in fact some of them are a little grating (although he thinks he would have appreciated the Nada Surf song regardless, just solely for the way Yelena is so clearly loving it but remains staunchly determined not to show it because it doesn't fit her brand) but tonight he enjoys every single one of them.

any chance your favorite song is on this list? he asks later, while he's in the kitchen making Yelena her nightly tea and she's complaining about his movie pick for the night. you know the one you weren't ready to tell me? just out of curiosity.

Nope, Laurel responds. You're still going to have to wait for that one. But it's nice to know I've got you so thoroughly on the hook, Barnes. :)

It doesn't occur to him until later, after about an hour of Maggie crying next door and about fifteen minutes after Dick sheepishly came knocking on the door asking if they could ''borrow Alpine'' for the night, that the most revealing thing to come from that list of songs isn't about her at all. It's about him. It's about his feelings for her. Because there are feelings. As scared as he has been to admit it, there are feelings. Quickly growing ones, in fact.

It's difficult to want things when wanting is not something you've been permitted to do for seven decades. It's difficult to reconcile the feeling of forward momentum with the comfort and safety of stagnant numbness. But, with her, he finally feels like he's starting to remember what it was like once. To want. He wants her. Perhaps more notable, he wants to want her.

He can't think of anything more terrifying than that.

Recovery, like life, has stages. It comes in waves. It's progressive, like a disease. You keep going and you keep going and you keep going until eventually, you reach the part where you have to make a choice. Right now, it feels a lot like standing on a ledge high above the city and trying to drum up the courage to jump just to see what will happen. Most likely he'll plummet to the ground and become a human pancake.

Or he could fly.

It's up to him to find out.

Bucky lies in bed, doing his usual insomniac routine of staring at the ceiling, with don't you know people write songs about girls like you and you'll sit alone forever if you wait for the right time swirling around inside his head, and tries to figure out what the fuck he's doing and where he's supposed to go from here.

Somewhere around two in the morning, just as his eyelids are beginning to droop, still thinking of Dinah, he opens his eyes to the sound of scratching on the wall. He's been doing his best to really tune out the sounds coming from next door, to not be evasive and weird, but they do have his cat, so for a moment, just a moment, he's willing to listen in. He closes his eyes and focuses his hearing and listens to Alpine meowing and scratching at the wall. She doesn't sound distressed, more annoyed than anything. Considering she thought she was going to her favorite place and instead found it full of strangers, he thinks that's understandable.

Also, someone over there is snoring.

She is historically not a fan.

''Alpine,'' he says, calm but firm. ''It's okay. I'm still right here. Yelena's here. Go to sleep. Watch over Maggie. I'll see you tomorrow.''

The scratching stops.

She meows once, resigned but seemingly relieved he's there, and then quiets down and, hopefully, goes to sleep with Maggie.

It's an odd form of domesticity he's found himself falling into, but it is domesticity, isn't it?

''What a family you're putting together,'' Natalia's voice echoes in his head as his eyes close, the blurred image of her becoming clearer, the sight of her knowing eyes, the little smirk, and then he finds himself standing in front of Yelena's closed bedroom door with a ghost. ''I bet you never thought you'd get here, did you?''

''No,'' he admits. ''I thought I'd die alone.''

''And now you get to live,'' she reminds him, bumping her shoulder against his. ''Imagine it. How beautiful it could be.'' She looks at him out of the corner of her eye with that sly smile of hers, all bravado and charm, and then she looks at the bedroom door. Her sister lies behind that door, sleeping, alive and well, and Nat will never be able to open that door and step inside ever again. She softens around the edges, a sadness seeping in. ''You do deserve to be here,'' she whispers. ''To have things. To want things.''

''So do you,'' he tells her. He wants to touch her, thread his fingers through hers, but when he tries, when he reaches for her, there is nothing to touch but ash and dust.

She doesn't seem surprised by this at all, by her lack of form, the way she slips through his fingers, only offering him a beaming smile and twinkling green eyes. ''James,'' she says. ''That ledge you're standing on. Don't you think it's about time to step off and see what happens?''

''Maybe that's not a question I need answered.''

''душа моя,'' her voice is warm and her breath is on his neck and it feels so real that he almost forgets for a second that she's gone, that he will have to miss her when he wakes up, that he will have to miss her for the rest of his life, that this is him missing her. ''Of course it is.''

.

.

.

He would dwell more on the strangeness of this all, on his deepening feelings for his neighbor or his inability to let go of his grief because it's the only place he can still find Natalia on Steve or maybe on the weird girl gang (and Dick) next door, he might even engage in some light stalking, just to make sure Maggie's okay, but he doesn't get the chance.

The next night, after dinner at Raoul's, while he and Yelena are walking down the street bickering (probably a little too loudly, mostly in Russian) over where they should go for a nightcap, the Cap alarm on his phone goes off, freaks out everyone else around them, and then he's off to work again.

Besides.

On November 3rd, when Laurel and Sin are in some hotel bathroom in Indianapolis, dousing themselves in glitter and making sure they've got enough friendship bracelets to go around, probably pre-gaming with an overdose of Swift songs, he's in the Wyoming wilderness with the team and an additional support team, getting ready to face – no, he's not joking – an alien bear.

Strange is relative.

.

.

.

In Wyoming, the bear is scared.

It's about three times bigger than a grizzly bear, with razor sharp spines coming out of its back, and talon-like claws that glint in the cold white light of incoming winter. It's out of space, it could be out of time for all they know, and it's scared. Agitated. Confused. He doesn't know where he is. He's never been here before. He doesn't know how he got here. He doesn't know how to get home.

And he is surrounded, cornered, caged in by humans who should know better – some of them with guns and sharp, pointy things that he must know spell trouble for him.

What small, fragile creatures they must seem like to him as he towers over them, opens his gaping maw, and roars.

It's not so much that he makes a choice, there in the Wyoming wild, silhouetted by mountains. He's an animal. He runs on instinct. He only knows how to do one thing and that's survive.

The bear attacks because that's what bears do, no matter where they're from. The bear registers a threat, several of them, and goes for the most noticeable gnat in front of him, the one up in the air with a shiny shield, a perfect target. It's not a choice. It's purely instinct.

It's Bucky who makes a choice.

.

.

.

The choice is Sam.

.

.

.

You'll never recover
from that kind of devotion.

– Leah Horlick

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Probably should have posted a link to this sooner but the official TSSOYV soundtrack is on Spotify! Featuring all of Laurel's recommendations in order (including those top five ''your girl's got issues'' Swift songs and, yes, of course Drops of Jupiter) along with every other song that's been featured. Updated with every new chapter so you can listen along!