Certainty (A Bucky Barnes Fanfic)

━◦○◦1.2: Shay Next Door ◦○◦━

episode 1 - New World Order

(The song Shamara sings.)

Some days, Bucky had a constant stream of swears going through his head. Usually in English, but depending on who was around him, a dozen other languages.

He stared at the wall in his apartment, jaw flexing. One moment, raging guilt flashed his nightmare—his memories—through his head, projecting them onto the wall. The next, he remembered Leah and his date. And Dr. Raynor's irritating but usually accurate advice.

"If you are alone, that is the quietest, most personal hell. And, James, it is very hard to escape."

Yeah, no one had to tell him that. But Doc had. She always said the hard things, didn't tiptoe around him, which was nice. It made him feel better to be annoyed at the therapist he was forced to see. He could be as aggravating as he wanted, and she had to keep going. The most annoying thing was, again, she was right.

Even Yori Bucky only spent time with because he had to make amends. And once Yori knew the truth, he would never want to see Bucky again. There were plenty of people like that. "Quietest, most personal hell," yeah, I don't get much choice.

A familiar cold flashed through his chest, and he let his head fall back against the wall. He liked Yori. And Leah. And the variety of other Japanese Americans he had met through Izzy's. So though his amends had been the first reason why he started hanging out with Yori . . . now, it was going to hurt.

But you have to tell him. Pain is comfortable for you. You can't pretend there is another way, and it was your hands.

Bucky flexed his hands, finally looking at the window. Mid-afternoon. He would need to make a plan for his date, or it would be too clear that Yori was the only one planning it. He got to his feet, crossed his bare apartment, and stepped into the hallway. He paused, listening as his neighbor sang in Arabic. Shay's voice floated through her cracked door with thick spices. Bucky couldn't keep himself from stepping closer, narrowing his eyes at the crack.

Shay was . . . confusing. He knew she was military but not American. She didn't fit any of the training styles for Middle Eastern governments and especially not terrorist groups. If anything, she had too many techniques from too many groups. And the only organization that had done that . . . no, not a chance. Maybe she was a bodyguard or a spy that had worked for hire. Adopted the traits of whatever government had her.

"Are you just going to stand there?" She asked without looking up.

Bucky didn't blink, "The song. Which is it?"

She took a sip of her iced coffee, and he nudged the door a little wider. She was taller than most Arab women he had met, and her skin, hair, and eyes were all rich shades of brown. Her thin, long hooked nose looked almost Yemeni, which had thrown him off the first time he saw her. Her Hebrew wrist tattoo also confused him. But the rest of her features, though undoubtedly Arab, weren't as distinct.

Maybe she's not from just one country. That would explain her methods too.

It was tricky to describe how he knew her military form by merely seeing her for the months he'd been in the apartment. But between her stance . . . the way she spoke when she had to speak to anyone . . . how she worked in the office and worked out . . . Shay had been well-trained by someone who knew how to train women. Not any of that Red Room crap—Natasha Romanov had been the best of her day because of who she was, not her backward, sexist training.

"Guess," she looked up at him, making him lift his eyebrows appreciatively.

"Sounds Lebanese," he nudged the door a little more, leaning against the frame as she had in his door that morning.