LEGACY: a bucky barnes story

Chapter 26 - Nigh

James wrote tenaciously for most of the day. I took several laps in and around the safehouse, each time coming up empty for hidden stores of food, but finding various daily living-rooms. On a particularly fruitful lap, I found the barracks with actual cots, pillows, and blankets. I coughed in fits as their dust engulfed the air, but it would be much better than sleeping on concrete. On my fourth lap, I stopped to check in with him.

"How's it going?"

"It's—they're coming... but the painful ones are making it difficult." His jaw clenched with chiseled form.

I slowly approached his crouched figure, bending downwards to meet his eye level.

"I'm sorry, I'm sure this whole thing feels harmful—but it is better than harboring, and then risking memory retrieval delay. I was thinking about going for a walk to find a store or something, will you be okay here while I'm gone?"

"No—I... will you wait for me? I'd like to go with you."

I leaned back on my heels and tilted my head. "Oh? I mean, I won't be gone long, and with your journals... I thought—"

"I don't want you going by yourself."

I could feel warmth heating up through my body, making itself known in the crimson hues on my face. "James, I'm a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent... I'll be fine—"

"I don't want another Rosslyn," he uttered.

I paused. What is he talking...?

The night at the motel outside Rosslyn. The creeps.

"James—"

"Please. I wouldn't forgive myself."

I sighed. "Okay. But I'm only letting you because I'm currently injured..."

James smirked. "Of course."

He rose after finishing another journal. He dusted off his trousers then looked to me.

"Shall we?" he asked.

"We shall."

...

We walked for the latter half of the day, deciding on bartering items from the safehouse for produce and other goods. Kindhearted sellers let us have the old or less aesthetically pleasing produce for free. I chewed on a bruised apple as I noticed James walking back toward me. He grinned devilishly as he held a live chicken in his hands.

"James?"

"I got us a chicken."

"For what?"

"Food."

"It's... alive?"

"And?"

"How did you even get that?"

"Traded a Hydra knife."

"Oh my God," I muttered.

"He gave me some of her eggs, too."

"Buck—"

"Her name is Linda."

"Jesus, Buck—James—I don't want to know that."

He chuckled to himself, with Linda firmly cradled in his arms. "You don't have to correct yourself, it's alright if you say 'Bucky'."

I rolled my eyes and smirked. With my arms wrapped in produce bags, we journeyed back to the safehouse. James stayed close behind me, checking all angles as we slinked along the shrubbery. He set Linda on the concrete as he wrenched the door handle open, guiding Linda inside with his metal arm and locking it behind us.

I scanned the main safehouse area we'd confined ourselves to as Linda scurried off. Ignoring the runaway chicken, I noticed the half a dozen journals stacked away. "Do you want to read any of what you have so far, say them out loud, maybe?" I ventured as I set down our bags. "Oh! But first, I found the barracks down this corridor—we can sleep on cots tonight."

He gave me a lopsided grin as he grabbed his journals and followed me toward the barracks, with Linda trotting closely in tow. Eyeing the cots while stood in the doorway, James watched as I set myself down on two stacked cots.

"And you need two because...?"

"These cots are thin—I may even need three," I protested.

"Oh my."

"Tease all you want; I'm going to sleep comfortably—or as well as I can." I plopped myself down on my stack as Linda hopped up on a cot. "So, shall we crack open those journals?"

He took a sharp intake of breath, slowly making his way toward his journals.

"But, James—you don't have to if you don't want."

Picking up the second journal, he flipped through a few pages as he sat next to me. "No, I want to—just certain memories only. It's not much, but... my mother's name was Winifred... and George was my old man's name. I have a sister—Rebecca. Her name is Rebecca," his eyes scoured the page with great intent, "I was enlisted and sniper training earned me 'Sergeant'. I served as a sharpshooter during the war... I fought with Steve and the Howling Commandos before... before I fell off the train... and then—"

He squeezed his eyes shut; their closure unable to hide the welled tears. His breathing began to pick up pace. I slid closer against him, gently placing my hand on his back. We laughed as Linda chittered on her way out of the room. Hushing his staggered breathing, I turned my head to meet his gaze.

"You're making good progress. Please don't push yourself to a breaking point, James."

His eyes couldn't decide where to focus—my eyes or my lips.