Buchanan • Bucky Barnes

Chapter 01

Sometime after Captain America: The Winter Soldier...

Taking the subway back home is always worse than getting to the pub. In my line of work, it's either I go home in a drunken stupor or drunk with fatigue. Today, I'm the latter. It's three in the morning and the once busy streets of D.C. are now swept with the lesser crowd as I walked alone back into my apartment building with my guitar and a satchel.

I still even have to take three flights of stairs to reach my pad. Ever since I moved in, the elevator already had police tapes and out of order signs on every floor and no one, not even the landlord, gave a shit. This was all I could afford.

I finally reached the third landing with a huff and a puff. I flung the satchel over my free shoulder and fished the keys out of my back pocket.

When I finally pushed the door open, a cool breeze brushed across my face. Here I thought I left the fridge door open again. But then, my heart jumped to my throat seeing two silhouettes of men in my living room, both large and unmoving. I shrieked and they stirred. My hand was groping for the switches before one of us could move any further.

"Holy shit!" I cried as soon as my mind registered who they were. "That was not cool, guys. Not cool!"

The Steve Rogers and the Sam Wilson were sitting on my couch with as much dignity as they could conjure. I met these guys at my other job before but we never talked. We only acknowledge each other with as much as a nod. But that was a history long gone.

"Georgina Ross?" Steve stood up, his full height towering over me even at a distance. "We're very sorry. We waited by the door around eight but it took so long and we didn't know when you'd come. So we went by the window instead," he explained, pointing at the only window I had. There were a few shards of glass left on the pane. The floor below was a mess. "It couldn't take both our weights."

That explains a lot. I'll have to make them pay for that.

"So..." I gave a nervous chuckle. "Well, this is creepy. And not the right time, actually. Can't it wait until tomorrow?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "We came a long way. Let's just get this done and over with," he spoke. He sat still with his arms crossed and eyes bloodshot.

"Okay," I said, gingerly setting my satchel and guitar on the floor while my mind raced with questions. They'd never been this conversational to me before. "Uh, can I get you anything?"

"No, we're just going to to ask you a few things and hopefully you'd do us a favor," Steve replied.

My heart skipped a beat with favor. Maybe they want me back in. But something tells me there's something really odd going on. Whoever breaks into a person's house at 3 a.m. for a petty favor?

"I'd like a cocoa, please," Sam chorused, raising a finger lazily.

I went for the fridge. I took my time thinking of the situation I'm about to be in by the end of this conversation. I poured on a cup full from a carton and walked back to reality. I handed Sam his drink and sank down on a beanbag across from them. "Okay, I'm listening."

Steve leaned in, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together. "What is it exactly that you do for a living?"

"I'm a freelance musician. I play the guitar every night in a pub across the city."

Sam nodded, half-amused. "So, that explains the hair and the rocker outfit."

I shot him a dirty look. What a stereotypical idiot. Pink wasn't exactly the highlight I wanted for my lengthy hair but things went kinda off track with peer pressure. And the rocker outfit he was pointing out was a Ramones shirt and ripped denim jeans with leather boots. If this is them trying to undermine me by my profession and the way I look, then this conversation is good as over.