The Seventh Avenger: Memories Never Die// Bucky Barnes

NINETEEN: RUNNING OUT OF TIME

WASHINGTON D.C, 2007

"What's wrong, my darling?"

At the all too familiar and welcome sound of the quiet but firm voice floating from somewhere behind me, I twist in the white patio chair to see none other than Margaret Carter standing in the doorway of her back porch, wisps of her white hair blowing gently in the cool, autumn breeze. Her brown eyes, which have never lost their colour or warmth over the years study me intently, the corners of her lips tugging into a troubled frown when she sees the tear tracks left on my red cheeks, illuminated by the blinding light of the setting sun in the horizon.

I hastily reach up to wipe them away, not making direct eye contact with my great-grandmother. If I did, then the dam of emotions that I am already struggling to keep together will break and seep over, drowning me in an overwhelming manner. I've always hated crying in front of Gran, and I have since I was a child – nothing has changed much in the past eighteen years.

"I'm fine, Gran. You shouldn't be out here. It's too cold."

"Nonsense," she rebuts, ignoring my protests as she steps onto the porch and slides the door shut altogether.

I watch from the corner of my eye as she shuffles forward before sinking into the free patio chair beside mine, a small wince slipping past her lips as she settles her back against the hard wood. Despite her age, Gran has always been determined to keep moving, causing her to push her body to its limits and beyond. I know better than to scold her for doing so now, however. I've been on the receiving ends of one too many of her insulted reprimands before; I'd rather not have to be put through one tonight.

She now lets out a satisfied hum as she stares at the setting sun, the ball fire in the sky causing the twinkle in her eyes to sparkle even more. "I've always enjoyed a good sunset," she quietly muses, voice almost lost in the gentle breeze that bites at the tops of our ears and the edge of our cheeks. "They're especially pretty to watch from Brooklyn Bridge. A signal for new beginnings."

There's a hint of sadness underlying her tone at the mention of Brooklyn, but I keep my curious thoughts and comments to myself. I've learned over the years when to push any burning questions I have to the side. Gran's lived an extraordinary life, having seen and done so much that some people can only dream of; she's learned to keep her fair share of secrets along the way. Secrets that she's always managed to keep a tight lid on with the combination of her strong will and unwavering determination.

We sit in silence then, the two of us just staring towards the horizon, left to sit and mull in our own thoughts while the setting sun reflects in the glass of our eyes. It isn't until the orange ball of fire only peeks over the tall and glittering buildings of Washington and casts her small pots of plants in the garden in shadows that Gran questions, "Are you going to tell me what's wrong, darling? Or do I have to sit here and try and pry the information from you myself?"

Her tone is gentle and warm, and her encouragement causes fresh tears to spring behind the backs of my eyes. Sniffing and reaching up to press the palms of my hands against them in an effort to keep the tears at bay, I concede. If I didn't tell her now, then I would be sure to tell her later whether she would seep the truth out of me herself or not.

"It's harder than I thought, Gran."

"What is?"

"The training." The confession comes out as a broken sob, and I clear my throat before more can follow. Inhaling sharply through my nose and wiping my palms across my face, I continue, "The training at the academy. I knew that it wasn't going to be easy. But I didn't expect it to be so hard."