He told me about Hydra — at least, the fragments he could remember. How they kept him frozen between missions, erased his memories, rewrote his mind. They used him — turned him into a weapon, a ghost story whispered in fear.
But even with all that, I could feel the weight of what he wasn't saying. Controlling someone like him — someone so strong, so stubborn — couldn't have come easy. The scars that don't show, those are the ones that made him pause between sentences. There must've been more than memory-wiping: pain, reprogramming, psychological torture. Things he didn't want to revisit. Things he probably couldn't.
When he finished, the silence that followed was thick and heavy.
The beer was long gone, not that either of us really felt anything from it. I sat there, trying to come up with something to say — but what do you tell a hundred-year-old man who's been brain-fucked by Nazi scientists for seven decades?
"Sorry, here's a cookie?"
Yeah. No. Definitely not that.
"So… now you're afraid of me?" he asked. His voice was calm, too calm. He kept his head turned away,
"No, I probably should be, though. Huh?"
That made him turn to me, a flash of confusion — and maybe relief — crossing his face.
"Why not?"
I shrugged. "I don't know. People always told me I was crazy growing up. Maybe they were right."
That earned a real smile from him — one that tugged at the corners of his mouth like he hadn't used those muscles in a long time. We both laughed, maybe because it was funny… or maybe because it was so not funny that laughter was the only thing left.
After a moment, I said, "Those people I laundered money from? Arms dealers. It wasn't just one group — lots of them. I've lost track, honestly. But it's safe to assume most of them are looking for me."
He glanced around the tiny apartment. "Why'd you take it?"
He was fidgeting with a bottle cap, absently flattening and reshaping it with those precise metal fingers.
"I said I stole it," I replied. "Didn't say I kept it." A strained smile touched my lips. "There were people who needed it more than they did. And I never really wanted to be in that world, anyway."
He stayed quiet, listening. His eyes flicked up to meet mine through the strands of hair falling into his face — sharp and blue, cutting through the dim light like a scalpel.
"My dad was a bastard," I said, words falling out slower now. "Low-level gun runner. Worked for one of those dealers. My mom… she was a drug addict. Not exactly the poster for a happy childhood."
I paused, unsure why I was telling him all of this. But it felt right. Like if anyone could understand darkness, it was probably him.
"I was good with numbers, like really good. Always had a thing for math. So, by the time I was fifteen, they gave me the books for one of the smaller ops my dad ran. I spotted discrepancies — money missing. Found out later my mom was skimming to feed her habit."
I exhaled slowly. "They executed her in front of us. Shot her in the head. Just like that. Lesson learned, I guess."
"I'm sorry," he said quietly.
I let out a dry snicker. "Don't be. She was never really a mom anyway. Always too high, too drunk, or too busy partying. Only advice she ever gave me was, 'Life's short, so just party.'"
"Interesting advice," he murmured.
"My dad didn't last much longer. Tried to run off with money that wasn't his. Got himself killed, too. I don't know how it happened, but we all ended up stealing from people way too dangerous to steal from."
His gaze didn't waver, didn't judge.
"By twenty-three, I was a full-blown accountant for a ton of arms dealers. They moved me to Madripoor. No extradition, no rules. I kept their money safe, and in return, they kept me alive."
He tilted his head slightly. "So, what changed?"
I sighed. "I didn't want to end up like my parents. Addicted, paranoid, dead in a gutter. When the whole Sokovia thing happened, the world was chaos. I saw an opening — funneled their money through backdoors, donated most of it to recovery efforts, left a bit for myself, and vanished."
I looked around the room — peeling paint, flickering lights, emptiness that echoed.
"Been hiding ever since. But… as you can see, that money ran out fast."
I let out a small, nervous chuckle.
"So, what do you do now?" he asked, shifting upright to sit beside me.
"Now?" I glanced around the room like it might help answer. "Make friends with my weird neighbor and freelance as a math tutor at a few public schools. They pay what they can. I mostly get paid in barter."
A flicker of confusion passed across his face — probably the weird neighbor part. But hey, someone had to tell him.
"What time is it?" I asked, realizing I had no clue if it was night or day.
We looked at each other — neither of us had a clue. The blackout curtains were still drawn, and the only light came from that sad, flickering bulb overhead.
I go over to the only device in the room with a clock, my laptop.
"Well?" he asked, eyebrow raised.
"It's late. Or early depending how you look at it, 4am" I chuckled. "But that doesn't bother you, right? You don't really sleep."
He narrowed his eyes. "How did you know that?"
"I hear you at night sometimes. You have nightmares. A lot."
He shot back quickly, "And why are you awake at those times?"
I hesitated, then shrugged. "Everybody has nightmares. But some of us weren't trained to survive. We just lie awake, hoping the mouse trap doesn't snap shut on us."
His gaze dropped back to the bottle cap he'd been toying with. By now, it was completely smooth — no ridges left.
"I'll help you," he said suddenly.
I blinked. "What?"
"You need to learn how to protect yourself," he said, eyes still on the cap. "So you don't end up in the trap."
I crossed my arms. "And what's in it for you?" knowing everyone in this world doesn't give something for nothing.
He flipped the cap toward me like a coin. I caught it. Smooth, rounded, almost perfect.
"I don't like crowds," he said simply, straight-faced.
"Right," I said, examining the bottle cap in my hand. "So it's a win-win."
"Exactly."
"Okay. But first… what's your real name? Nobody's actually named Bucky."
The floor creaked softly as he stood and crossed the room to where I sat.
"James," he said. "James Buchanan Barnes."
I reached out my hand. "Elizabeth Romano."
He looked at it for a second like he wasn't sure what to do. I laughed under my breath. "You shake it, James."
He smirked faintly. "Bucky. Just Bucky." He extended his right hand and shook mine — careful, but not weak.
"So… when do we start, Bucky?"
"Tomorrow. You'll need sleep."
He turned away and picked up the empty bottles, clinking them together softly as he tossed them into the recycling.
"Are you actually going to sleep?" I asked, watching him move.
"I don't really get tired. But I try. Sometimes."
He crossed back toward me, and for a moment, I wasn't sure what he was going to do.
He leaned in slightly, closing the space between us. I looked down, suddenly all too aware of how red my face must be again.
"Good night, Elizabeth," he said, his voice low — right by my ear. He slipped past me, fingers grazing mine. Just a touch. Just enough. His scent lingered behind him, faint and warm.
"It's just Liz, smartass," I said softly, smiling as I watched the door close behind him.
The room was quiet now. Still. I stared down at the bottle cap in my hand — smooth, warm from where it had passed between us.
I slipped it into the drawer beside my bed, like it was worth something.
Maybe it was.
I lay back, still grinning, unsure if the butterflies in my stomach were from the alcohol or something else entirely.
It started the next day. He taught me how to hotwire a car — we took it to the edge of the city, a remote field where no one would see us. That's where the real training began.
Hand-to-hand combat was first, although let's be honest — it was mostly him kicking my ass.
Bless his heart, he tried to hold back. He even chained up his metal arm to keep it as restrained as possible. He was kind, patient. He never swung at me, not really — I think he was too nervous he might actually hurt me. He mostly used his legs, blocking me only when absolutely necessary. And as I started getting the hang of it, he pushed me just a little harder.
Then came marksmanship.
"It's a lot easier to shoot someone than it is to fight them hand-to-hand. If you get the chance, take the shot."
I wasn't a great shot — truthfully, I was just okay. I hit the target, sure, but not quite the kill zones he pointed out.
By the end of each day, I collapsed into bed, beyond exhausted. It helped with the nightmares — I was too tired to dream. Too tired to feel anything but sore muscles and growing calluses.
As per our agreement, I helped him, too. Sometimes it meant running errands into crowded places so he could avoid them. Other times, it meant going together — so he had a familiar face nearby when it all got too loud, too much.
It was working. For a little while, things actually felt okay.
But happy times don't last forever.
Just a few weeks after we started training, things changed.
I was walking home from a late tutoring session. The streets were quiet. I kept feeling like I was being followed. The sound of footsteps behind me... but every time I turned around, there was nothing. Just the cold hum of empty streetlights.
I quickened my pace. Only a few blocks to my apartment.
Still, I couldn't shake the feeling. And just because I didn't see anyone didn't mean they weren't there. That's what scared me most.
Was this it?
Is this how it ends?
Shot in the back by someone I never even saw coming?
I had just started enjoying life again. I made a friend. A real one. I'd never had that before.
Tears started streaming down my face before I even realized. My walk turned into a run. My shoulder bag strap snapped — papers and books spilling out across the pavement, swallowed by the dark. I turned. Still no one. Then a raindrop hit my cheek.
The sky opened up with a cold, steady rain.
Forget the bag. I didn't care. I had a book in there for Bucky. I'd thought he might like it.
But all I could think was: Damn it, Bucky. Bucky. Bucky.
His name echoed in my head like a lifeline.
I sprinted the last block, crashing through the front entrance of my apartment building and stumbling to the floor, soaked through. I couldn't even tell what I was wet from anymore — rain, sweat, tears. All of it.
"You get caught in the rain?" a voice called from near the stairs.
"AAAHHH!" I screamed, flailing backwards until I hit the wall. My vision was blurred with tears. My breath sharp and uneven. I reached into my pocket and yanked out the small knife I always carried, swinging it wildly.
Clang.
The blade caught — stopped in a grip.
"It's me. Bucky," the voice said again, calmer this time.
My blurred vision slowly cleared. My hand trembled. My whole body trembled. Relief hit like a freight train, making my knees go weak. I dropped the knife. He gently took it and tossed it aside.
I couldn't breathe. It felt like I was drowning in my own fear. My heart thundered like it was trying to escape my chest.
"Bucky?" I whimpered, voice cracking.
"Yeah. It's me."
And just like that, everything broke open. I didn't think I could cry harder — but I did. I sobbed so violently I couldn't get air. Couldn't stop choking on it. I felt his hand gently touch my shoulder.
I flinched — slapped it away, kicked out again, crawling backward into the corner of the lobby.
"No, no, no, no," I gasped between sobs.
Don't touch me.
I'm scarred.
The thoughts screamed in my head, too loud to silence.
I curled into a ball, arms shielding my head like I was bracing for a blow. It was the only thing I'd learned to expect.
"Okay. I won't touch you," he said gently, his voice a whisper.
"I'll sit here until you're ready."
I peeked up through wet lashes. He was crouching a few feet in front of me — far enough that I knew I was safe. Close enough that I wasn't alone.