A Birdie Lost in Time | Bucky Barnes

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She tore out of the room, walking stiffly down the hall and away from the man.

It was him.

The Russian.

"Why did I come here?" she panted, hands running through her hair. "Why am I here?"

Before that moment, nothing had seemed... real.

She'd done it again—let herself slip away—but this time she was in Germany. She was in fucking Germany, and the Russian was a dozen meters away, and she came here for what?

Even as she racked through the last sixteen hours, she couldn't think of an answer.

His name had been mentioned on one of the files she was searching through. Ironically, it was somewhat in connection to super soldiers, but thoughts of the serum went out the window when she saw his name.

How he was still alive.

It took a few hours, but she'd somehow tracked him down and then moments later, she was finding a red eye to Germany. She'd barely gotten to the airport with enough time to check-in before she was on the plane.

Then she was walking into a long-term care home.

She still didn't know why she'd come. Why, for any reason, she would decide to go through all of this.

As she berated herself, she came to a stop in front of a window overlooking the grounds. A few people were outside, but she mostly saw trees and flowers.

Pretty.

She could almost pretend that that's why she was there; to look at the scenery, but the weight of the man behind her was choking.

As if the sight was too much, she turned, pacing.

Why did I come here?

He didn't know who she was.

He didn't do anything to her.

He wasn't innocent, but he never hurt her.

The same way that Bucky never hurt her.

But there was a big difference between the two; Bucky wouldn't have done what he did.

A wave of nausea overcame her at the memories, and she had to still herself, waiting for it to pass.

Why did he do those things?

How could he treat someone like that?

Does he understand what he's done?

How much he hurt me?

It wasn't fair.

It's fucked up.

He gets to live his life, careless of the things he did to me.

She took a few steps down the hall, then a few more, her body suddenly rushing with adrenaline as her mind cleared.

It was the clearest everything felt in a long time.

As she pushed back into the room, she didn't feel the heat of being overwhelmed—instead, her veins felt icy, like the Siberian winds she'd been made to endure. Like the machine she'd been strapped into that scrambled her brain. Like the metal of her cot that she would be pressed against when the mattress would slip.

Rage pushed her towards the Russian's door, each step purposeful and determined.

When she finally pushed through, she stalked to the end of the bed, her fists balled tight at her sides. For the first time, she wished she had her suit.