Chapter Text
—June Jones, Maryland, 2014—
I wasn't anyone important. I wasn't ordinary, either, I guess. I worked as a nurse in the ER division of one of Maryland’s local hospitals. I watched old action movies like Die Hard and Mission Impossible on repeat. I lived alone.
I was his neighbor.
He moved in six months after me. The news was flooded with press conferences after the S.H.I.E.L.D helicarriers dropped on Washington, DC. Everyone was in a state of unease. I was fiddling with my keys in my hand, holding a plastic bag full of Japanese takeout in the other.
I heard footsteps. I glanced down the hallway.
He wore a lot of layers for the sweltering month of July. Hoodie, jean jacket, even gloves. My eyes kept traveling to his left arm for some reason—something was off about his posture, but I couldn't place it.
I saw something glint against his dull gloves. It was a key. He stopped at the vacant door next to mine.
“Hi,” I said.
His head snapped up, startled, like he’d assumed he was untraceable as shadow. His gaze crept to the side at me, slightly turning. His eyes were a vibrant blue-gray, like a sky at unrest. He wouldn't meet my gaze directly.
“Are you moving in?” I asked.
He nodded once. His chocolate-brown hair crept forward to veil his face. “Yeah...I am.”
His voice was soft like a whisper. Like it wasn't used often. I clutched my keys in my hand and offered him a small smile. “I guess we’re neighbors. I'm June.”
He nodded again. “...Bucky.”
My head tilted to the side. “You don't seem too sure.”
Bucky stiffened. Only then did I notice both hands were held in tight fists.
I carried on, “If you need anything, I'm right next door. I'm a cardiologist, I work at the hospital a couple blocks away. I promise I don't make a lot of noise.”
Bucky swallowed. I studied him. He's wearing so many layers—maybe he came from up north. His eyes look black and blue, when was the last time he slept? Toll of traveling? Must be exhausted.
“See you around,” I said as I finally opened the door to my apartment.
I caught his soft words right before I shut the door. “See you.”
That's how it started. I ran into him in the mornings, when he was going out for his jog and my shift was about to start. He spoke softly, like a librarian or someone who read poetry and could only be heard from a mic. He smiled more. He asked about my day, what I liked and disliked. Later on, I started seeing him when I came home, too.
“Hey,” I winked as I walked up to him. He was by my door, a newspaper folded up underneath his arm. He always wore gloves. I asked about them once. He said his hands got cold easily.
“Hey,” Bucky offered me a small smile. I’d been around him long enough to know it was genuine, and his version of a grin.
“How was your day?”
“Stressful. I had to replace someone’s stent…” I looked up at his blank, clueless expression. “Heart stuff.”
“Ah.” Bucky nodded. “Are you still having that Bruce Willis marathon?”
I sighed as I leaned on my doorframe. “I could watch the first Die Hard over and over.”
“I still don't understand how you can watch that,” He said, leaning on the other side of the frame. “Hostages, flying bullets, going barefoot on glass…”
“It's got some funny parts too,” I countered. “It's exciting...and it's much more entertaining than some drama.”
I took a chance, tightening my grip on the plastic takeout bag. “You’re welcome to come in and watch with me.”
His tempest eyes darkened with something. Bucky glanced down, “Are you sure...that's a good idea?”
I shrugged. “Probably not. We run into each other every day, and...I really like talking to you.”
My pulse was a rapid tap against my ribcage. It was just a movie. But I didn't think of Bucky as just a neighbor.
“I really like talking to you, too.” He said, swallowing.
We stood there for a minute, barely two feet between us, the silence stretching on and on. Bucky looked...hesitant. His body language always confused me. There was something there: I used to work as a child abuse investigator, and I learned a few things. Bucky looked too stiff, quick, jerky movements. His eyes darted around too much. He didn't take care of his appearance much, either. His hair was still long and always blocking his face, like a shield.
There was nothing ordinary about Bucky. I wasn't blind: I could see the signs. I had theories: maybe he traveled to escape an abusive relationship, but I didn't bet all my money on that one. He mentioned that he served in the army; maybe it was some intense form of PTSD. Sometimes he really confused me, and I couldn't depict whether he was the victim or...I didn't like to think about that.
“Maybe some other time,” Bucky offered.
I looked away to hide my disappointment. I shrugged it off, “Okay. See you later.”
“I'm sorry, June.”
I glanced back at him. Bucky’s voice sounded grave and full of regret. It was so serious. Like he was apologizing for more than missing a movie and Japanese food.
It was like a curtain surrounded Bucky at all times. Some sort of barrier that hid the true, deeper meaning. I never peaked inside. Something was there, but I never knew what.
“It's fine. I’ll see you,” I finally squeezed through the entrance to my apartment. When the door was closed, I leaned on the other side for a minute.
My cat, Kramer, came up to greet me. He was a calico with splashes of brown and black and white, and meowed in a defiant way as he smelled the Japanese.
“I could have worse neighbors,” I muttered as I slipped off my shoes, following the bossy cat into the kitchen. “I could be Jerry Seinfeld, and have to put up with you and Newman all the time.”
“Mrow.”
“Don't give me attitude, cat.” I went straight to the microwave, knowing the Japanese was probably cold by now, and slipped the container in. The rectangle full of rice and steamed vegetables began to rotate.
I leaned on the counter, staring absentmindedly down at Kramer. Like the wild, neurotic character from the nineties sitcom that he was named after, Kramer’s hair stood up at the top of his head, almost like it was fried or styled wrong. If I stared into his black-brown eyes long enough, I could see a hint of hysteria there.
“What? He's nice. He's polite, he's always respectful, he's incredibly good-looking, in a dark, mysterious way,” I said, describing Bucky. “You could learn a thing or two from him.”
“Mrow!”
“No, having a tail to swat me with does not give you bonus points,” I muttered.
When the microwave was done, Kramer jumped from the beeping noise and scrambled down the hallway, like the madman he was named after. I rolled my eyes as I took out my steaming dinner, and began a calm, ordinary evening with the sound of bullets flying and hostages screaming.
Every now and then I would glance above the television, at the wall neighboring Bucky’s apartment. I never heard very much. One time I heard a shattering noise, but when I asked him about it, Bucky said he accidentally broke a coffee cup.
I wondered what he was doing now. Bucky told me he was working on a journalism project—it was probably why it was so quiet over there. I turned the television down a few notches.
I found myself staring at that wall too much. I got up and kept myself busy by getting everything ready for tomorrow. Picked out my clothes, checked my schedule, reviewed the background for the surgeries tomorrow.
Later on, I finally slipped into the shower. When I turned off the water, I heard music faintly from Bucky’s apartment. He always played forties classics.
I wrapped myself in a towel and stood before the mirror. I fumbled around the sink, grabbing a toothbrush. I looked up and froze as I saw the shadow behind me. My eyes widened.
I shrieked and threw my toothbrush at Bucky, who barely flinched as it bounced off of him. I snatched a hairbrush next and held it defensively, feeling suddenly cold after the hot shower.
Bucky held up his hands in surrender. “I'm sorry about this, June—”
“What are you doing in my house?” I shouted. I was loud enough to rouse Kramer, who’s head popped in the cracked door of the bathroom. He snuck inside and rubbed against Bucky’s calf, like the protective guard dog he was.
“Traitor!” I hissed at the cat.
“Please keep your voice down—” Bucky started. I realized that he was fully dressed now. Gloves, baseball cap, even a backpack.
I secured my towel and glared, trying to look menacing with wet hair and armed with a hairbrush. “Why? Why are you in my house? I thought you were nice, and respected women—”
“I do!” Bucky politely averted his eyes from my exposed skin.
“Then why did you break into my house like a creep?”
“Because they found me!” He exclaimed.
My eyes narrowed. I lowered my hairbrush.
Bucky swallowed as he met my eyes. “I'm sorry. I didn't tell you...I’ve done some things, that I didn't want to do, for some horrible people...and they tracked me down.”
If he was expecting a reaction, I didn't give him one. Maybe a little surprise, that my wild theories were correct. “Okay...what does this have to do with me? Why are you in my house, then?”
Bucky’s eyes lowered to the tile. “Because they’ve heard our conversations...they heard me talking to you...they know I like you. And now they’re coming for you, too.”
A knock at the door cut him off.