Lila picked up the fruit, examining it. She tried to relax, but her heart was racing. It had been a few years. She had searched. Going from country to country. She'd gotten close a few times, missing him by a day or even a few hours.
He had to have been paranoid. She understood that. If she was in his shoes, hell, she was in his shoes once, she'd be paranoid, too. He kept running. And Lila kept chasing.
Bucharest.
She'd tracked him here a few weeks ago. She kept a close eye out. He was nervous, that was clear to her. But she kept her distance. She needed to. She didn't want to scare him away. But she couldn't hide forever either.
That's how she ended up in the small market. She tried to focus. But the idea that he could show up at any second kept her on high alert. Would he run if he spotted her? Would he even know her face?
"I'll take the plums," she heard him say quietly from a few rows over. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. He was here. He was so close. And she had no idea what to do. Panic took over and she turned to go. She wasn't ready for this. All the time was wasted.
She simply couldn't do it.
She rushed back to her tiny apartment. She leaned against the door and closed her eyes, breathing heavily. She'd been so damn close and she couldn't, she couldn't bring herself to talk to him. Every negative scenario flashed through her mind.
She wasn't sure how she ended up at his door.
She heard him shuffle behind it. He was probably wary. No one paid him visits. Would he think she was a threat? Would he hurt her? He slowly opened the door and her breath hitched in her throat.
"James," she said softly, looking up in his eyes. There was a flash of recognition in his own and it was enough to bring on the tears. He looked at her for a long moment, trying to remember. He knew her face.
He'd seen it every time he closed his eyes.
But her name. It still escaped him no matter how hard he tried. "Do you know me?," she asked softly and he nodded a bit. Yes and no. Part of him desperately wanted to remember and the other part of him feared remembering.
Remembering equaled pain.
"Do you know who you are?," she asked him and he nodded again. That much he'd worked out. But everything was fuzzy, blurry. There were gaps and he often wondered if it was best that he couldn't remember it all.
"I won't hurt you," she went on, her eyes still locked on his. He knew she wouldn't. He wasn't sure how he knew that, but he did. That she was someone good, gentle. She was someone to him. Part of his past that just wouldn't come back to him.
He led her inside and she looked around. It was small, sparse. Everything was for need and not comfort. She understood that. She'd done the same when she'd escaped HYDRA. Her heart ached a bit for him. Her fingers brushed over the journals that laid about and she couldn't help but smile.
"I keep them too," she said softly. "Helps me remember. Sometimes I dream about my past," she went on, mostly to herself. He swallowed audibly, watching her carefully. He couldn't have torn his eyes away from her if she wanted to.
"I needed to find you," she said after a few moments. "I needed to know that you were safe." He nodded, his heart still pounding in his chest. "I saw you," he said quietly, almost inaudibly. "On the bridge. You and the other man," he said and she nodded.
At least he remembered something.
"Steve," she said and he looked at her, that name he knew. He'd seen it in the museum, flashes of memories. War, a train. He couldn't quite piece it together. "I hurt you," he continued and she noted the sadness there.
"It wasn't you," she said simply. And she knew that was the truth. That was the soldier, not her Bucky. She understood the difference. "But I did it," he swallowed and she sat the book down and looked at him. "But you wouldn't have. You would have never hurt me."
He looked at her curiously. How did she know him so well? How did she seem to understand him, almost like she could read his thoughts?
"I don't want to push you," she told him. "I want you to remember on your own, James," she looked at him and smiled softly. "The fight," he said suddenly, "you were there, too," he said and she sighed. She didn't want to relive that.
"It doesn't matter," she told him truthfully. "It doesn't," she repeated, trying to assure him. "But I hurt you then, too," he went on and she held up a hand. "Don't do this to yourself, Bucky," she implored him, "don't dig. It only makes it worse. That wasn't you up there either."
"But I did it all," he said softly, turning away. He hated this, he hated feeling this way. Remembering. He hated that, too. He hated that he'd put his hands on her. He hated that he hurt this beautiful woman, one who clearly cared so much for him.
"Stop," Lila said, touching his shoulder. He turned around yet couldn't meet her eyes. "Stop torturing yourself. I'm here. I'm alive. And so are you. And that's all that matters, Bucky," she told him, practically pleading with him to understand. "I would have moved heaven and earth to find you, to be standing here, right now."
He looked at her, searching her eyes. He still couldn't understand. That after everything he did, everything he did to her, she was still here. That she'd spend years searching for him. "Why?," he asked her softly, "why me? Why go through all of this? I'm not worth all of this trouble."
She looked up at him and smiled, cupping his face in her hands. She leaned in and softly kissed his lips, waiting for some resistance. When she didn't get it, she sighed and deepened the kiss. She didn't need words. She needed to show him why.
After a moment, she pulled back, their eyes still locked on each other. He smiled a bit, letting his eyes flutter shut. It felt familiar. It felt like home. He knew her, he remembered. She was his home. He let out a shaky breath, opening his eyes and it all came back to him, every single thing.
"Lila."
