remains • b. barnes

7

Later that morning in the Compound parking lot, Bucky reached out, offering to carry my bag. As I handed it to him, our fingers brushed together, and he muttered an apology at the same moment that I thanked him.

"It's fine," I said.

"I'm sorry," he repeated.

"I'm not upset," I said.

In the kitchen earlier, when I'd run off, I had suddenly thought of yesterday at the red oak. I'm sorry, he'd said. I didn't mean to upset you.

Something about that memory, about the stilt in his tone, gave me chills, even after last night and this morning. Every time I recollected it, I became wary of him. I couldn't shake it, no matter what explanation he or I assigned it.

When I ran off, I packed a bag—the one Bucky was now carrying—but now I couldn't even remember what I'd thrown into it. Clothes, hopefully. Shampoo and a toothbrush, if I was lucky. I'd been completely out of my mind. I wasn't sure how long they wanted me to stay in the Compound. I wasn't sure how long it would be until I was safe in my apartment, or how long it would be until I felt safe there.

I trailed a couple steps behind Bucky through the parking lot, neither of us speaking. But when the wind picked up, and the chills were coming from too many directions, both inside my body and out, I sped up to be nearer to him.

"You're okay," he assured me quietly, noticing. He slowed his pace to match mine. I smiled at him gratefully, but I could only handle a split second of eye contact before I looked away again.

He'd been quiet since I'd run off in the kitchen, too. Confused, maybe. Definitely worried about touching me. He kept space between us.

"Grace, you had me worried!" Sam called the second we entered the building.

I smiled as he strode over and wrapped me in a hug. I hadn't expected that—I hadn't expected the concern at all, really. But it made my heart full. He'd been standing in the lobby waiting.

"Did you get to sleep? Do you hate Bucky after dealing with him all night? Am I squeezing you too hard?" he asked, barely pausing after each question.

"Yes, I slept," I answered. "No, I don't hate Bucky. And no, it's a good, healthy squeeze."

"Good, 'cause it's making me feel better."

"It's making me feel better too," I said.

He let me go a second later, taking a step back. He was looking at Bucky—they were having a silent conversation over my head. Sam was amused by whatever they'd been communicating, shaking his head. I glanced back at Bucky. He wasn't amused.

"I'll show you the rooms. You can pick yours," Sam told me, pressing the button for the elevator. "Or wait until Bucky's picked one, so you can make sure you don't share a wall with him. He punches holes in them."

"I don't punch holes in walls," Bucky said.

"He does it all—plaster, exposed brick, drywall, cinderblock. You name it, he'll punch a hole in it." Sam said, stepping onto the elevator. Bucky nodded for me to go in front of him. Then he stood in the corner opposite from me—as much distance as he could get.

"Is this an uncontrollable rage thing, or just a hobby?" I asked, glancing up at each of them.

"Neither," said Bucky.