Archive of Our Own

You’re not sure where you went wrong, honestly. The signs were all there. Bucky kept you close in the compound, watched your back on missions, invited you to his room to watch movies with him. All of those things on their own were innocent and platonic, sure, but then he looked at you. Bucky really looked at you. Bucky looked at you like nobody else in the world has ever looked at you. It made you feel special. It made you think you were special - to him, at the very least.

But you should have known better. You were only an agent, a damn good agent, but much further down the food chain than Sergeant James Barnes. Of course, his attention to you was too good to be true. You should have known.

It happens slowly at first, just like gaining his attention did. You find yourself in his wing of the compound less and less; you spend more time training with your Strike team than curled up in his bed and catching him up on the movies and TV shows he missed while under Hydra’s… Employment. It helps, though. You had felt yourself getting rusty on missions. While you ratcheted up your team’s training schedule, it helped whip you back into shape. Your reaction time was back, your aim was better, your endurance was certainly not taking the hit it had been when you were spending three nights a week laying in bed and snacking with Bucky.

Despite all of the personal progress you were making, and the professional progress you were making as your team improved under your new schedule, you feel like something is missing. And you know something is. Bucky still looks at you in a way that makes you feel like the world is shrinking until it’s just you and him. He still hangs around while you train your team, giving you little pointers on how to tell them to improve. He still has your back on missions.

But movie nights stop.

You don’t dare confront him because you know he’s still recovering from everything that Hydra put him through - the things they forced him to do. To question his actions would be to question whether or not he knows his own boundaries and you know he knows. Hopefully that he knows that you know that he knows. But still, it sort of aches when he pulls away like that because you’re not even being assigned the same missions as Bucky anymore. Your team used to run smoothly underneath his and missions would be completed in half the time allotted.

Now, though, you haven’t been on a mission in almost two months - let alone on a mission with Bucky and his crew. Ugh. You put your back into sparring with your weakest recruit, hoping to whip her into shape on the off chance that you’d be assigned another mission. She gets a few hits in because you’re distracted thinking about Bucky and how smoothly he’s pulling away from you but when you buckle down you take her to the ground easily. A jab to her throat, a sweep of your leg, a twist of your hips paired with a shift of your weight and you both go down like a sack of rocks. You let her struggle for a little bit longer before putting her out of her misery and making her tap into submission.

When you stand, you’re breathless and grinning. The recruit takes your hand and you pull her to her feet. “You did good, Private. Really holdin’ your own now.” She grins brightly.

“Thank you, Corporal!” She chirps, “I know you have a lot going on; it’s so nice that you said you’d give me extra training.” You both begin walking to the changing room because she had mentioned that she has a date with another recruit and you almost want to pretend like you have something to do, too.

“No problem,” You wave her off at the door, “I know y’all think that I have a lot goin’ on, but I don’t. Just me, myself, and I.” You shrug. “Go on, get ready for your date. I’m goin’ to work out some more.” The recruit nods, a twinkle in her eye as she turns to head into the change room but she pauses and looks over her shoulder.

“I shouldn’t be saying this, Corporal, but the team talks. They say that you and Barnes have a little somethin’ somethin’ going on.” She winks and shimmies her shoulders a little bit. “So you can go ahead and be not busy all you want.” She disappears before you can register the fact that you’re more on edge than ever. Your back hurts from how quickly you’d straightened out with surprise and your throat feels thick and tight. You had thought that there was something there - because of the way he looked at you and through you at the same time - but there wasn’t. His repeated distancing from you told you that, and that was fine. It had to be fine.

You have to be fine.

You take a deep breath and try to push your recruit’s humor-filled eyes out of your mind. It doesn’t matter what your team thinks, what his team thinks, what you think. It matters what Bucky thinks. You’ll put Bucky before anything and everything, even if it means risking your job and your happiness. The frustration that comes with the knowledge that he doesn’t feel the same way about you, despite the signs that had managed to convince you otherwise, burns off on the treadmill as you push yourself. You’d learned from the best when it came to burying your emotions and stubbornly not thinking about them so that’s what you do. You run until your mind is nothing but the bum-bum-bum of your rabbiting heart, the measured inhale and exhale that comes with endurance exercise, the feel of sweat dripping down your neck and under your shirt. Your mind calms in the familiar burn of your muscles and you finally push Bucky out of it.

For at least half an hour.

When you fish your phone out of your bag you have three messages from Bucky waiting and you groan. Just when you’ve finally put him out of your mind, he’s found a way right back in it. “The perils of finding a home in another person,” You muse out loud, opening the messages he’s sent you.

hey.

And then, ten minutes later, there’s another message.

you busy tonight?

Finally, after that, the message that came in less than five minutes ago.

team misses you.

Of course, being close with Bucky leads to close relationships with the other Avengers, too. Well, closer than your average Corporal is. As far as you know, you’re one of the only Strike team leaders that have spent any time with them casually or outside of active missions. It makes your heart warm, even as you frown at his message. Team misses you, he had written. Not I miss you. Team. You shrug it off and reply.

Not too busy tonight. Just got done training Private Ikeda & doing a workout of my own.

You chew on the inside of your cheek while you wait for his reply, but you can’t wait. It sounds weird to leave it at that, so you send another message.

Movie night with the team?

You can’t help yourself -

Or movie night with just us?

Bucky replies to your third message almost right away. You figure he was probably looking at his phone, typing out a reply, but you wonder if he was just waiting for you to be done sending messages. (In all of the time you two have texted he’s become used to the fact that you’re a serial double texter. Sometimes you’re more of a quadruple or quintuple texter.)

can steve join us?

You smile at your phone then. Maybe Bucky isn’t back to normal, but maybe he’s damn close. You’re just glad that he’s inviting you back to his room for movie night, even if Steve’s going to be there. (You have nothing against Steve it’s just… You miss your alone time with Bucky. Sure, you’re in love with the guy and think that he might feel the same way for you, but it’s more than that. The movie-night-intimacy is different when there are other people there and you crave what it’s like when it’s just you and Bucky.)

Sure! I hope he’s in the mood for a good 70’s movie. That’s where we’re at, right? What time is good for you two?

You blow out a breath and tuck your phone back in your bag, heading to the showers. You’d been making your way through the decades with Bucky and had just started the 70’s when he’d started tapering off your time spent together. Hopefully, his invitation means things are going to be going back to normal despite how strange it is that he’s inviting Steve.

Again, you’d like to be able to call Steve a friend of yours. He’s a good Captain, respects you professionally and personally, and isn’t the blushing flower the media likes to portray him as. You’ve spent more than a few times bent over wheezing as he tells you some raunchy story from his time post-serum in the Army or pre-serum in 1930’s Brooklyn. In those moments you felt Bucky’s eyes on you, gleaming as you got along with his best friend. Those were also those moments that lent to your belief that maybe he held a fraction of the feelings you had for him, but when movie nights stopped you chalked things like those moments up to wishful thinking.

You shower quickly and then pull on the change of clothes that you’d brought with you. Just simple sweats and a sweatshirt with comfortable slides. As you gather your things and slip your phone in your pocket, you think about changing but it’s Bucky. (And Steve.) Neither of them will care. The most that you do is stop by your room to drop off your bag and fill up a water bottle to take with you. Like most movie nights go, one of you will end up ordering takeout so you don’t worry about eating anything even though you can feel your hands shaking. You have two messages from Bucky when you finally check your phone in the safety of your room.

steve says he’s okay with 70’s movies. he suggested rocky. how does that sound?

seven works for us.

Your eyes move to the time at the top of your screen. It’s six-thirty, but by the time you get to Bucky’s room, it’ll be six forty-five so you turn on your heels and head that way. There’s nothing wrong with being early, you try to tell yourself, it has nothing to do with how much I want to see Bucky. In your eagerness, you forget your water bottle on your nightstand.

Works for me! See you then.

Several people stop you on the way to Bucky’s room but you politely excuse yourself from the conversations. Tony has a weird look on his face when you tell him where you’re going, but you brush it off. He’s Tony Stark - he just looks like that sometimes. You’ve come to get used to it working for him and, also, being in his orbit via your friendship with Bucky. He thinks faster than you can comprehend so strange facial expressions come with the territory.

When you hit Bucky’s door, you hesitate. Normally you would let yourself in but everything has changed, so where does that leave you? Should you knock or would that distance yourself more from him? You sigh in frustration and your shoulders hike toward your ears as the tension you’d managed to run out of your body comes back and tightens around your spine. You finally decide to knock but before you can make contact, you hear voices approaching the other side of the door. You freeze after hearing your name from Bucky, stress holding down every syllable. Your hand hovers over the wood as you listen to what he’s saying.

“-should be here soon,” He sounds stressed, “I don’t know what to say, Steve.”

Steve’s voice joins Bucky, a deep timbre that cuts through the supposed soundproofing the apartments at the compound have. “Just tell the truth, Buck. Anything else won’t be genuine, and we all know you’re not a good liar.” Your eyebrows climb until they’re nearly launching off of your forehead. What the hell is Bucky trying to lie to you about? At one time you had thought that you knew Buck like the back of your hand - not as much as Steve does, of course. But you had thought you might have been close. But now you realize that you don’t really know him at all, do you? Although, he doesn’t have to tell you everything. You certainly don’t tell him everything.

“Yeah,” Bucky continues. It sounds like they’re literally standing on the other side of the door, “And say what, punk? Sorry I asked Tony to keep us separate on missions? Sorry I can’t stand to be around you without feeling sick to my stomach? Yeah, that’ll go over like a sack of bricks.” Your heart drops out through your ass and finally, your arm moves back to your side. Involuntarily you take a step back because he has to be talking about you. Who else would he be talking about? You’re the one that hasn’t been on a mission with your team in two months when, before, it was at least once every other week with Bucky’s team. You’re the one who can’t seem to pin down a time to go back to your regularly scheduled movie nights with him because he’s resistant. You’re the one that witnessed Tony’s confused face when you said Bucky and I are goin’ to have a movie night, Tony, I really have’t get going. He had said your name.

Oh, God.

You’d misread all of it. Every single thing. All of the time spent together, the way that missions went, the looks he was giving you. He didn’t… He doesn’t like you. It almost sounds like he hates you.

What had you done to make him hate you?

You hear Steve sigh through the door and can practically see his hands on his hips. “You know sayin’ shit like that won’t go over well. You’re not dumb, Buck, so stop actin’ like it. This all is above my pay grade. You do what you have to do.” Bucky groans. “No, I’m leavin’. I don’t wanna be here for this conversation. I had enough of that in the ol’ days.” You take several silent steps back when you hear Steve approach the door even more. Bucky’s voice comes through clearer like he’s hastily followed after.

“No!” He practically shouts, desperation hanging off of his exclamation. Your stomach drops even more, if possible, and you set your jaw to try to keep the tears at bay. You’ve never heard anyone so desperate to not be alone with you, and it hurts you in insecurity that you thought that you had buried long ago. “Steve, don’t go. I can’t - I can’t do this if we’re alone together. I can’t stand it!”

“Just be honest!” Steve returns, just as close to the door and loud as Bucky had been. “It’s not that hard, Buck. You’ve been dead honest with me since the ’20s. Why is this any different?” You don’t want to hang around to hear his answer. It’s almost seven now and you’ll have to disappear to your room before you deal with whatever emotions you’re having, otherwise, people will ask questions.

You turn and flee back the way you came, keeping your steps silent so that the super-soldiers with their God damn super-soldier hearing won’t catch your escape. When you’re down the hallway it doesn’t matter as much, because Bucky’s door has opened and their argument spills into the hallway, covering the slamming of the door as you head back into the main atrium and out of the Avenger’s wing. The emotional pain is so overwhelming that it’s physical, an aching settling in your chest and behind your ribcage. The voices are following you like Steve is trying to leave and Bucky is following him, and they’ll be on you at any moment. You slip into an elevator and just stand there once the doors close.

You just have to get back to your room. Tomorrow is the first of the month and they’ll post new missions then. All you have to do is get back to your room without seeing Steve or Bucky, deal with your emotions, and then begin mission prep for whatever you’re assigned for this month. You jam the button for your floor and as the elevator starts moving you realize that you might not have any missions. Especially if Bucky asked Tony to stop assigning your teams together - you had thought that the Avengers liked you well enough, but what if they were just putting up with you because of Bucky? What if now that he hates you - the thought burns its way through your body and hot tears begin tracking down your cheeks - what if they don’t want anything to do with you, either? Would Tony punish you for whatever you’ve done to make Bucky act like this? Would he bench you - and by extension, your team? The elevator opens on your floor but you don’t step out.

Okay, new plan.

“FRIDAY,” You ask in a shaking voice, “Can you tell me where Tony is right now?”

“Mister Stark is currently in his office looking over the schedule that Captain Rogers has provided.” You try not to cry more when it sounds like the AI is pitying you. How fucked up does your life have to be for an AI created by Tony Stark to pity you?

“Can you take me to that floor?” You ask, “Can you lead me to his office?”

“Of course, Corporal. Would you like me to tell him you’re seeking a meeting?”

“No,” You decide, wrapping your arms around yourself, “No, I just need to stop in and see him.” FRIDAY doesn’t reply but the elevator hums to life again, taking you higher than the third floor that your wing was on. You climb further than you think possible and the elevator finally opens on the seventh floor.

“Mister Stark’s office is at the end of the hall,” FRIDAY informs you. You thank the AI and step out of the elevator to wipe at your eyes. Hopefully, your face isn’t puffy or red, but if it is there’s nothing you can really do about it. Tony will just have to ignore it.

You hesitate outside of his office door. While Tony is still technically the head of the Avengers, he shares most of his duties with Steve. They balance a lot of the responsibilities, even down to scheduling. Steve lays the month out in the way that he thinks it should go, and passes it to Tony who will make any changes that he sees fit and, if Steve agrees with them, that becomes the schedule. You know that you should talk to Steve and Tony together because of this, but if Bucky had gone to Tony to override his best friend you sure as shit would too. You don’t care that it’s breaking every rule that you’re technically supposed to follow. This is an emergency and you absolutely will break rank to get what you want.

What you need.

Finally, after nearly ten minutes of standing outside of Tony’s office and trying to calm yourself down, you knock on the door. From inside there’s panicked shuffling and then a muffled who the fuck is at my office this late? which is followed by a much louder, intentional: “Come in!”

You barely open the door before you’re slipping in. Tony sits up straighter when he sees you. “What are you doin’ here? Thought you and Team Elsa were havin’ a movie night?” You make a strangled noise and shake your head, opting to stand near the door rather than approach.

“I need a favor.” You grit your teeth and shake the thoughts rumbling in your head away just for a few more moments. “I want my team on as many solo missions as possible this month.” His eyebrows climb but you hold your ground. “We’re good for it and we haven’t been out of this place in two months.” Tony sighs and drops his head into his hands.

“I can’t do that. Sure we have missions open, but they’re all for one person. Not the right kind of solo.” He looks at you, something unreadable brewing behind his eyes. You respect Tony. Hell, you might even consider him a friend. But you’ve never been able to read what he hides behind his brown eyes. (Of course, you’re sure that you’ve never been able to read anyone considering what you’ve just found out about Bucky and the way it’s directly opposite what your assumptions had been.)

“So just send me.” You shrug, “I don’t care what anyone else has told you about my skills as a leader or an agent, but I’m good at what I do. My team is the most efficient Strike team you have and it’s because of me.” He looks like he’s been caught, but you don’t dwell on that. “I need to get out of here, Tony. I need to get out and stay out for at least three days as soon as possible or I am going to go insane and do something I regret.”

“Like what?” He challenges.

“Like quit.” You volley back.

“So you know that Barnes told me to stop assigning you together.” Tony leans back in his chair, looking haggard. You don’t answer but you don’t break eye contact, either. “I can do my best to get you on the roster for at least one recon this month, but I can’t guarantee anything. I’m not the only one that has to agree.”

“Well,” You open the door behind you, “You have until tomorrow to get him to agree, Tony. I can’t handle being stuck in this compound because Barnes doesn’t trust that I can do my job.” You bid him goodbye before whatever argument was bubbling below the surface could escape Tony. He’d looked shocked at your candor and blatant lack of recognition for the fact that his rank is technically higher than yours, despite not being enlisted like you are. You wish that wasn’t true because you feel the desperation clawing up in your chest and how willing you are to throw your rank around to get what you want, even though you really shouldn’t.

Halfway to the elevator, you realize that Steve might be ditching Bucky so that Bucky will talk to you, but also to go over whatever decisions that Tony’s making. You turn around and take the stairs down to your floor, thanking whatever God that may be listening that you run into nobody. By the time you hit the wing where your team and another stays you are practically sprinting to get to your room. You hit the door hard, shaking so bad that it’s hard to get the door open. But you manage. You manage to get inside and get to your bed before you fully collapse in on yourself.

When the sun rises, you’re still awake. You’ve long since stopped crying and boxed up all of your emotions, shoving them into the back of your head so you can focus on your schedule for the day. You have the first half of the day free and then some exercises to run outside with your team so you take your time making breakfast and getting dressed.

You take your time until you remember your impromptu meeting with Tony the night before when your emotions were running high. Almost immediately your stomach is in knots and you’re out your door. Ikeda is there with her best friend, chatting in the hallway about the prior’s date. You’re sure you know the friend’s name but it escapes you as you barely acknowledge the fact that they’re there. The schedule is in the main atrium, on the first floor, and you’re sure that Bucky and the others will be there checking since it’s so early, but you can’t find it in yourself to care.

You just have to know if you’re going to be stuck in the compound for another damn month being ignored by someone you thought loved you.

There’s too much empty energy in your body to justify taking the elevator, so you take the stairs. Focusing on how your heart rate raises with every step you take helps keep your mind off of the pain that’s creeping back in now that you aren’t putting your whole focus on compartmentalizing. It’s there, under the surface of your skin, just waiting for someone to tap on your armor and spill out for everyone to see. You can’t let that happen - you don’t want Bucky, or anyone else to know, that his lack of care for you hurt you so deeply and so much that you went running for the first mission you could find. Despite that, you have to take a second before entering the atrium to wipe at your eyes and school your face.

There’s already a crowd forming around the schedule and you grit your teeth as you fight through it. Natasha is there at the front, looking over the papers with an unimpressed look. You barely notice her when you finally make it past all of the other Strike team leaders - maybe if you had looked closer you would have realized that Bucky was on her left side, watching you search the paper for your name.

There’s one mission scheduled for the end of the month with your team - a quick in and out protection gig, nothing special. It frustrates you the way that Steve and Tony set the schedules up. What is the point of going from the last of the month backward? To make it inconvenient?

You get antsy when you’re halfway through the schedule and your name doesn’t crop up again, but then you sag with relief. There, on today’s date, you’re slotted for a ten-day solo mission into Norway. You’ll be flying out in the afternoon and then it will be you, the Norwegian/Russian border, and a system of safehouses for a blissful ten days to get your shit together. Natasha hums when she sees what you’re looking at.

“Shame you’ll be gone so long.”

When you look at her, she’s looking at the man on her other side even though she’s speaking to you. It’s the first time you realize that Bucky is there and you immediately shut down. You have to put those emotions away, especially if you’re leaving today. He has an unreadable expression on his face and opens his mouth to speak, but you cut him off and glance back at Natasha.

“Not such a shame. Give me time to get my priorities straight.” You shrug. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to pack.” You turn and fight yourself back out of the crowd, but you know that Bucky is following you. You can practically feel his presence behind you as you break free of the crowd, his strong chest and broad shoulders taking up the space behind you like there’s a brick wall tethered to you. It sets you on edge. You keep going, set on ignoring Bucky, but he refuses to let that happen.

He’s stubborn and you know this, but you still startle when his strong hand wraps around your wrist to catch your attention. “Hey, where were you last night?”

“What?”

“You bailed on our movie night.”

You look at Bucky, eyebrows raised. Honestly, you’d almost forgotten that was the plan for the night before. You’re still swimming through the emotions and trying to digest what you’ve found out about the man standing before you so your head is a little foggy. That and the mission is now taking up a lot of your bandwidth. “Oh,” You say, “I’m sorry. I forgot.”

The hurt crosses his face so quickly that you’re not sure that’s what you saw. In fact, you’re sure that’s not what you saw, because how could it be? How could he be upset that you missed movie night when he said those things about you? When he’d begged his best friend to stay because being alone with you makes him sick? You scoff before you can help yourself, looking away from Bucky. It hurts to look at him, like taking a hammer to your chest every time you inhale. You used to love looking at Bucky, watching the way his face lights up when Steve tells a joke or Sam does something dumb. You loved watching how his brows furrowed when he was trying to figure something out, or the way that he drew his lower lip between his teeth when working with a new piece of Stark tech. You used to love that you know how much it means to him that Tony trusts him to not only hand over prototypes but to take whatever advice the tech-savvy super-soldier gives back. When you look back to Bucky, a story Steve once told you wafts to the forefront of your mind.

He used to drag me’n whatever girl he had on his arm to the Stark Expo every single time it came around. It’s no surprise he’s already so used to the twenty-first century. Buck’s whip-smart and loves technology. It just makes sense.

“You forgot?” Bucky brings you back to the present. “You were the one that asked to have it.” A frown tugs at his face and you want nothing more than to smooth out the lines between his eyebrows. You grit your teeth, shoulders once again hiking up toward your ears when you process what he’s said. Like you’d forced his hand into agreeing to spend time with you.

Taking a deep breath, you try to keep yourself level. “I forgot,” You repeat again lamely, “I’m sorry, okay? Maybe we can set one up when I get back from Norway.”

“Maybe?” He echoes, taking another step toward you. He’s basically pressed up against your body, “What’s up with you? This isn’t like you.” Bucky’s concern looks real, but your hurt is so palpable that you can’t see past it. It thrums on your skin, pinpricks up and down your arms from where his hand is still wrapped around your wrist and tethering you to the spot. It burns over your body and reminds you just why you went to visit Tony, begging for a way out of the compound. Everything clicks into place and you remember what your therapist once told you about anger. Anger, she had said to you after a mission gone wrong, is a secondary emotion. Anger is almost always triggered by something else - like hurt, or sadness, or grief. At that moment, trying to figure out what to say to Bucky that will get him off your case long enough for you to disappear into the Norwegian wilderness, you feel that spark ignite.

All of the hurt and grief that’s swirling inside of you like a storm coalesces into a stick of TNT. It’s heavy in your stomach and you think you’re going to pass out but then it ignites. The explosion is metaphorically deafening as the fire rockets through your body, leaving a burnt-out shell of anger in its wake. You’re pissed - at yourself, at Bucky, at the fact that you’re in love with Bucky and he can’t stand you, at Tony, at Steve. You’re pissed off at everything because being pissed off is a hell of a lot easier to deal with than the strangling sadness you’d had before. Bucky takes a step back as he watches you go from eager-to-leave to shaking-with-rage. “What-”

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you, Barnes,” He flinches and it leaves you with some sick, twisted sense of satisfaction. Later, when you’re alone in the wilderness, that will surely turn into twisting dread or sadness but for now, you let the gratification guide your tongue, “Like you were ever really honest with me about who you are.” His face goes blank for a brief second, taking in your words, but by the time you realize what you’ve intended to say and what he’s heard you say, you’re already marching back to your room to pack for your mission. Everything after that passes in a haze of emotions. You pack your bags, collect your weapons from the armory, and by the end of the day, you’re waiting in line to get onto the jet that will drop you in Kirkenes. There are a few recon missions heading out that way and you’re angry all over again when you see Bucky standing near the cockpit with Steve.

You should have known that if there was Hydra activity in Russia that they’d be going. Luckily you won’t be anywhere near them, checking in when you get to Kirkenes and then hiking to Hesseng to make the first safe house. Surely they won’t be anywhere near your route - if God is real, you think, I will be alone for a blessed ten days. Bucky looks like he wants to talk to you when you find a seat on the jet, but Steve cuts him a look and you pull your missive out of your hiking backpack as the jet takes off. You want to go over the route before you get to Kirkenes so you don’t have to do anything but check into the first safe house, make sure it’s still safe, and then head out for your next stop.

There are only five safehouses on your list to check, but they’re some of the most critical. Four of the five are in Norway but the last is just over the border in Russia. God forbid you fuck up your job and then, one day, someone needs the safehouse and it’s compromised. A shudder runs through you at the thought.

After checking in and making sure of the safe house just outside of Hesseng you’ll hike on to Melkefoss. There’s two there but they’re only two miles apart. You’ll plan to stay in Melkefoss for the night, maybe even make it to the second safe house before sundown tomorrow. After Melkefoss, you’re heading straight for Vouvatusjärvi. After that is the hard part: getting over the Russian border without being caught so that you can get to the final safehouse in the Pasvik Nature Reserve. Your report says that if you hike nonstop it’ll only take you about thirty hours to get from Kirkenes to the Pasvik Nature Reserve. You bet that you can get this mission done in five days, tops.

Of course, that’s if everything goes right. Plus that’s not even counting the time that you’ll have to take to get from the Kirkenes Airport to the actual town where the safe house is. You tuck the report away, sit back in your seat, and groan. You run over the list in your head, mouthing the names of the places you’re going, making sure to commit it to memory. Kirkenes, Hesseng, Melkefoss, Vouvatusjärvi, Pasvik. The rest of the flight passes like that and you’re secretly glad that the two Avengers at the front of the plane don’t confront you. They have almost ten hours to do so - the average flight from NYC to KKN is sixty or so hours, but with Stark text that’s slashed almost entirely. The thought makes you sick to your stomach and you learn forward, setting your elbows on your knees and holding your head in your hands.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Kirkenes, Hesseng, Melkefoss, Vouvatusjärvi, Pasvik.

Focus.

By the time you’ve calmed down Bucky and Steve have sat down across from you and sent you into another tailspin. You wonder what Bucky looked like when he said those things to his friend, if they were surprising to Steve. How many times had he heard his friend complain about you? How many times had Bucky asked Steve to be the buffer between the two of you, only to cancel your movie nights when he was refused? You spend hours thinking about it and honestly, you’re surprised you’re not a little green with how badly your stomach is churning.

The plane touches down and you’re the first one off of it, despite being at the entire other side of the jet’s seating area. Your bag is heavy on your back, but not as heavy as the weight of your thoughts. There’s several cars waiting on the tarmac for other agents, but you’re not taking any of them. You were given your orders: do not leave any fingerprints, do not give anyone your name, do not take any cabs. (Of course, that makes your fifteen minute drive from KKN to Kirkenes into a two and a half hour hike and then your seven minute drive from Kirkenes to Hesseng an hour and a half, but you understand why they’ve given you orders like that.)

The wind bites as you make your way to the trail that you’ll follow to the town. You pull up your mask and tug down your beanie to cover most of your face. You’re halfway across the tarmac when a car pulls up next to you, its electric engine humming near silently. You ignore it as the window rolls down, Steve ducking his head to look at you.

In a rusty, unpracticed accent he says, “Går du vår vei?” Bucky laughs from the passenger seat. You snort at the come on and continue walking, the car easily keeping pace with you.

“Nei.”

Steve pouts after Bucky translates what you’ve said but then leans over the console. There’s no malice or hurt on his face when you glance at it, but his voice leaves no room to argue. “Sett deg i bilen. Vi kan kjøre deg til Kirkenes. Fifteen minutes versus two and a half hours is a no brainer, Corporal.” His voice carries the weight of an order, but none of the heat that would go with one. You stop walking, chewing on your cheek and debating on just how much trouble you’d be in if you kept walking to the trail, but it’s not worth it. Plus, he’s right. You’ll get to Kirkenes in fifteen minutes and it’s only fifteen minutes of being in the car and ignoring everything about Bucky and Steve.

It’s tense, just like you thought it would be, but it’s over before you know it. When Steve asks if you’re okay as you’re getting out of the car, you pause. You look at Bucky. He looks back at you. Finally you sigh and shut the door behind you, leaning down and speaking through Steve’s open window. “Beklager. Jeg føler meg uvel. Det er sannsynligvis en forkjølelse som går rundt komplekset med tanke på hvor syke andre mennesker føler seg.”

Like everything else in your life, the mission goes tits up. Getting dropped off just outside of Kirkenes had put you way ahead of schedule, but then finding squatters in the safehouse had put you hours behind as you had to figure out what to do about that. To top it all off, you never make it to the safehouse outside of Hesseng. You’re in the forest when you feel someone watching you, tracking you through the trees and cold air. It’s subtle, but the hair on the back of your neck stands up and your hand goes for your firearm before you really even process what’s happening. There’s spatterings of cabins in the woods and you clock one in the distance.

Barely, you see the flash of a muzzle pointing out of a second story window. You’re fast, but the bullet that hits you in your shoulder is faster. You don’t go down and manage to fire off three shots before you set yourself up against a tree. The bullets don’t stop and you can hear whoever’s shooting at you yelling in Russian. Hydra? Or just a Russian seperatist hiding out over the border in Norway? To be honest, you don’t care to find out.

Your adrenaline is still high, keeping the pain at bay as the blood pours down your front. You don’t bother trying to return fire because you’re too far away. Instead you pull up the emergency frequency on your watch transceiver, hoping that anyone is close enough to hear your broadcast. You tap out the morse code on the watch face, hoping to God that Tony Stark knew what he was doing when he put one of the Army’s more tried and true communication machines into a fucking smartwatch.

Code Silver: Dah dit dah dit. Dah dah dah. Dah dit dit. Dit. Pause for space between words. Dit dit dit. Dit dit. Dit dit. Dit dah dit dit. Dit dit dit dah. Dit. Dit dah dit.

Hesseng: Dit dit dit dit. Dit. Dit dit dit. Dit dit dit. Dit. dah dit. Dah dah dit.

You wait when the gunshots slow down, daring to stop your call for backup and peek around the tree. The pain is beginning to settle in again and it makes your vision sway as you look for the muzzle in the window again. You don’t see it, but you do see the person coming out the front door and heading your way. Oh, fuck. Instead of repeating your message, you press the hand opposite to your hurt shoulder into the painful, bleeding wound to keep yourself from bleeding to death. You know that you’re going to get reamed for leaving your bag behind, but you’ll make quicker time by leaving it underneath the tree.

Sure, you’re going to be easy to track. The through-and-through bullet wound is practically gushing blood down your front and your knees feel weak as you crash through the underbrush. All of your training is out the window as you feel the wooze of blood loss creep up on you. That was fast, you think. Way faster than I thought it would happen. I thought I had more time. Your foot crashes through a pile of leaves that had been perched on the edge of a sharp drop, and you tumble down - rolling and rolling and rolling until you’re sure that you’re going to be sick. When you land you realize that there must have been a landslide or something, because where you had fallen from is jutting out compared to the rest of the small cliff face. There’s just enough room for you to press your body back into the sharp rocks and hard dirt - just enough room that if your attacker looks over the edge they won’t see you.

After a few moments filled with the sound of blood rushing in your ears you go back to your transceiver.

Message repeat: Dah dah. Dit. Dit dit dit. Dit dit dit. Dit dah. Dah dah dit. Dit. Pause for space between words. Dit dah dit. Dit. Dit dah dah dit. Dit. Dit dah. Dah.

Code Silver: Dah dit dah dit. Dah dah dah. Dah dit dit. Dit. Pause for space between words. Dit dit dit. Dit dit. Dit dit. Dit dah dit dit. Dit dit dit dah. Dit. Dit dah dit.

Hesseng: Dit dit dit dit. Dit. Dit dit dit. Dit dit dit. Dit. dah dit. Dah dah dit.

The watch face is covered with your own blood. Your hands shake. You do your best to not think about Bucky because, well, Jesus fucking Christ you’re dying. You’re dying and your brain wants to think about Bucky and how you left that mess? You bite back a groan and press your hand back to your wound. They have to know - whoever is hearing your emergency broadcast has to know you’re hit. It’s so hard to think past the haze of pain and blood. It’s like someone shoved a hot fire poker into your shoulder and then filled the hole left with lava. It’s white-hot and hard to think around. You alternate between pressing down on your shoulder and sending out more broadcasts.

Mayday: Dah dah. Dit dah. Dah dit dah dah. Dah dit dit. Dit dah. Dah dit dah dah.

Mayday: Dah dah. Dit dah. Dah dit dah dah. Dah dit dit. Dit dah. Dah dit dah dah.

A haze begins to settle around your vision and your throat is dry. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You go back to your transceiver and don’t even bother to check for any returns from your first broadcast. There’s two or three, but you don’t have time to answer them.

Agent down: Dit dah. Dah dah dit. Dit. Dah dit. Dah. Pause for space between words. Dah dit dit. Dah dah dah. Dit dah dah. Dah dit.

Mayday: Dah dah. Dit dah. Dah dit dah dah. Dah dit dit. Dit dah. Dah dit dah dah.

Mayday: Dah dah. Dit dah. Dah dit dah dah. Dah dit dit. Dit dah. Dah dit dah dah.

You begin to choke on your own blood, not actually sure how that’s possible. Maybe when you fell… Maybe when you fell something happened. Your chest hurts, but is it from the bullet wound or because you broke your ribs? Regardless, you can taste iron on your tongue, feel the vibrations of return messages, hear your phone ringing in the distance. It’s so hard to keep pressure on your wound, you’re so weak now… What if you… You could just send one more message… One more mayday or Code Silver? Would that save your life?

A shadow looms over you and you look up, hoping that it’s another agent or… Really, you’re hoping that the shadow is Bucky but it’s not. The shoulders aren’t broad enough and the hair is too light to be him. You groan and tip your head away hoping to open up your airway and so that you don’t have to watch whoever is in front of you shoot you one last time. You pass out before they even pull the trigger again. The soft haze of unconsciousness settles over you and it feels good. The numbness creeps up your wounded side, lapping the pain away like the ocean on a beach. Wherever you feels warm and soft, and you sigh.

If this is what dying is like, you’re not that mad about it.

Then, as you float down the river of slowly dying via blood loss, you think about Bucky. It’s hard not to think about him because you love him. You’re in love with him. You know that you’ve hurt him - and hurt him badly. What had you said to him? You’d said… Back in the compound… Your voice floats back from the darkness around you, snarling and angry like a cornered animal. “Like you were ever really honest with me about who you are.” You feel the hot trail of tears down your cold face even though you’re sure that you’re dead and, honestly, it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense for a dead person to be able to cry. At least now you’ll be able to see if there’s an afterlife. Maybe you’ll get stuck on Earth and be able to haunt Bucky, to apologize to him from beyond the grave.

But maybe you’ll just leave him alone. If he couldn’t stand to be around you when you were alive, what are the odds that he’ll be able to stand you if you’re a ghost? The pain that strikes through you is so real for a moment you’re convinced that you’re alive, that it’s the second bullet ripping through your body, but then you groan and begin to gasp for breath. You’re sobbing. The emotions in your chest are ripping up out of the trunk of your body and through your mouth because you can’t handle it. You can’t handle the fact that you’re either dying or dead so early in your career - your life. You can’t handle that Bucky has apparently fucking hated you for your whole relationship despite how eager and sure you were that he might have felt some love for you. You can’t handle that you’re not sure whether or not you’re already dead or if you’re just somewhere between life and oblivion, about to fall off of the face of the Earth in some God damn fucking forest in Norway.

With a rattling breath, you’re thrust back to the waking world in a much softer place than the bed of twigs and rocks. The air around you is cold as you gasp through the resurgence of pain from your shoulder. Your other hand comes up to press against it - finding gauze and a sling to keep you from moving. “Wha’ the hell?” Something rustles from behind you and then Steve comes around the couch that you’re laid out on, a plate of food in one hand and a cup of tea in the other.

“Good, you’re awake.” He sits on the coffee table in front of you and the smell of his food turns your stomach. “We were wondering when you’d wake up.”

“We?” The pain makes you groggy and unable to logically think about your situation. Steve, obviously, heard your mayday call. Nobody else is in the room, even though when you look your eyes roll and you groan again as it makes you feel sick. The pain is expanding like shaving foam into every part of your body, making it hard to think.

“Buck and I,” Steve says around a bite of his sandwich. He chews for a second, takes a sip of his tea, and then sets his cup to the side. “He’s out gettin’ more meds for your shoulder.” You think you’re going to be sick.

“Fro’ where?”

This time, Steve waits until he swallows his bite before he answers. While he chews he observes you and, past the pain, something about it deeply unnerves you. He looks like he’s reading your mind and enjoying what he finds. One of his eyebrows rises and he shakes his head. “Buck was right about you, kid.” Steve sighs. “We’re at the last safe house you cleared. Figured it was best until the other agents who responded tracked down who shot you.”

Your neck hurts from looking over at Steve, so you relax and watch the ceiling spin slightly above you. Most of the pain is radiating from your shoulder so maybe… Had you been shot again? “How m’ny times I get shot?”

“Once. We were in the area.” The clatter of porcelain tells you that Steve has set his food and drink down. A second later he takes your cold, clammy hand in both of his warm hands and sighs again. “You’re lucky. He was goin’ for the kill. How’d he get the drop on you?”

And that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? How in your head were you about your relationship being built on the foundation of your misunderstanding? Was Bucky right? He asked Tony, told Tony, to take you off of missions with his team. Had he been picking up your slack on missions until he got tired of it? No - you know you’re good at your job. You have to be. You’re a Strike team leader for crying out loud. But - how much of that was Bucky? How much did you rely on him? You make a strange choking noise when you realize that must be why he hates you - he’s always been cleaning up your messes.

And now you’ve dragged him into another mess while he’s got other things to worry about. Steve says your name to get your attention but you’re already spiraling. Between the pain and the realization, you start crying again, taking deep and heaving breaths that leave your entire body aching. Steve stands, calling your name again, but you shake your head and do your best to weakly push him away. “I didn’t know,” You say in way of explanation, “I didn’t know that’s why.” What had Steve just said? Bucky was right about you, kid.

Outside, over the soft wind of nightfall in Norway, you can hear a car pull up and then a door shut. It serves to make you cry harder, clutching at your shoulder as you imagine all of the ways that you’re going to apologize to Bucky and also quit your job. There’s a moment of pause from Steve as your crying ratchets up a notch, emotions loosened by your realization and whatever pain meds they had given you. The door bursts open, slamming against the wall with such force you can feel the couch shake underneath you.

“Buck…” Steve straightens, holding his hands out in front of him like he’s calming a wild animal, showing them that he means no harm.

“I leave you two alone for half an hour and I come back to this? What did you say?” Bucky’s voice is low and dangerous. You clench your eyes shut, turning your head toward the back of the couch so you don’t have to look at him when he inevitably comes around to confront you about how careless and reckless you were. If hearing him say those things to Steve about you, you can only imagine how awful it’s about to be for him to say them to your face. He and Steve bicker for a few moments before Bucky’s heavy footfalls signal he’s moving around the couch. The first thing he does is peel your hand away from the bullet wound on your shoulder - you hadn’t realized how tightly you were clutching it. When Bucky finally gets you to let go he covers your hand with his and calls your name softly. The pain begins to recede now that your fingers aren’t digging into the tender flesh around your stitches and it clears your head a little bit.

That doesn’t mean you’re not convinced that Bucky, the man sitting on the edge of the couch and trying to coax you to look at him and stop crying, doesn’t hate you. Steve makes his way to the door and hesitates, “I’ll give you two some time. I think you need to have a talk.” His voice has a weight that you don’t fully understand and then he leaves. You calm down enough to stop sobbing, but your lip still wobbles as Bucky rubs one hand up and down your free arm, the other still clasping your hand. “Can you look at me?”

“I don’t wan’ to.” You close your eyes and rest your neck. Bucky feels like he’s sitting right next to you, warming your side, and if you open your eyes you’ll be able to see him. You’re not sure you can handle seeing the disappointment on his face. “Please, I can’t…” The hand that had been caressing your arm moves up - his fingers skate over your collarbone before he cups your face.

“Sweetheart, please.” And, Christ. Bucky sounds so desperate and broken that you have to look at him. “What happened? It’s not like you to miss movie night and… Tony said that… Said that you went to him ‘n requested a mission to keep you out of the compound. Said you threatened t’ quit.” You want to be angry. You want to be able to yell at him and ask him what the fuck he means, but you can’t. Between the gunshot wound, the emotional pain that comes from Bucky hating you and also thinking you can’t do your job, the way his hand feels on your face… You can’t do anything but furrow your eyebrows and let your lip wobble. You hate being so vulnerable but you hate that it took learning that your best friend fucking hates you to get to that point.

“Yeah,” You whisper, “Yeah, I did.”

Bucky sighs and rubs his thumb over the arch of your cheekbone. “Why?” His voice sounds choked and you don’t know why. What does he have to be upset about? You shake your head, half to respond and half to try to knock his hand away from you. How long had you dreamed about such an intimate touch? How many nights had you woken up from dreams of his hands on you, only to shiver in your empty bed? “C’mon, sweetheart, you can talk to me. What’s wrong?”

“Does it matter?” You snap, finally looking at Bucky. He looks nearly as wrecked as you feel - you’re sure that you don’t look any better. His face is blotchy like he’s been crying, and Bucky looks haggard. He looks like he hasn’t slept since the jet ride to Norway. “Does it really matter?” He sighs and leans closer to you until he’s kneeling next to the couch. Bucky being so close to you sends your head spinning again because, despite how hurt you are physically and emotionally, he’s still Bucky. He still smells familiar to you - safe to you. He still feels like home, despite everything.

“Of course it matters,” He says, eyebrows furrowed. You almost feel bad because he looks so genuine and worried about you. It makes your stomach churn again because it’s so opposite to what he had said to Steve behind a closed door. And say what, punk? Sorry I asked Tony to keep us separate on missions? Sorry I can’t stand to be around you without feeling sick to my stomach? Yeah, that’ll go over like a sack of bricks. You think you might be sick. “Hey, what’s goin’ on in that head’a yours?”

You shake your head, but Bucky’s hand stays fast on your cheek. His hand is big, warm, and soft. In your dreams, they’re always calloused and rough, but you still love holding them. Briefly, through the haze of everything going on, you wonder if he moisturizes. “How’s your stomach feelin’?” You whisper, eyes misting up again. There’s a better way to go about this, sure, but you’ve been shot and you’re on God knows how many pain killers. You just want answers so that when you leave your job and move away, you’re not worn down with what-if scenarios.

Bucky flinches just a little bit, eyes moving back and forth between yours as he begins to put the puzzle together. You don’t have to say anymore and you know it. He’s whip-smart and a quick thinker. Plus, how hard would it be to forget that he’s alone with a person who makes them sick? You know the moment that he puts it together because the color drains from Bucky’s face and he pulls his hand away from your face. “Sweetheart…”

“It’s fine,” The world spins around you again when you turn your face to the back of the couch again, “It doesn’t matter. Just leave the medicine ‘nd I’m sure Steve’ll give it to me.” After a moment, you add: “Better yet, I can do it myself. You two don’t even have to be here.” You set your jaw and, if you could, you would get up and head to one of the bedrooms or the kitchen just to get away from Bucky. That being said, you’re trapped until he decides to take your advice and scram.

When Bucky speaks, his voice is impossibly quiet. If you weren’t so attuned to him you might not have heard it. “You heard me? Talking with Steve? Is that why you skipped movie night?”

“You weren’t being quiet.” He cups your face again and gently moves you to look at him. You’ve been crying for a while and thought you were done, but when you look at Bucky and he’s crying - fat tears rolling down his cheeks and lip wobbling - another wave of tears hits you. He looks destroyed by the realization that you overheard his conversation with Steve but in your defense, he knew you were coming over and still decided to stand by the door and announce his hatred for you.

“It’s not what you think,” He shakes his head, moving from the floor to sit next to your hip. It can’t be comfortable for him, but you can’t think past your scrambled brain because now both of his hands are on your face, gently holding you so that you two can hold eye contact. “Please, please, you have to believe me.”

“Why?” Your uninjured arm moves like someone is puppeteering you, hand settling on Bucky’s wrist to hold his hand to your face. It feels nice, especially after getting shot and then hunted like an animal through a Norwegian forest. You’ll drink up all of the soft human contact you can get before he decides to leave you to your devices. “Why should I? I heard what you said.” Bucky shakes his head again.

“Oh, God, darling. I promise you that what you heard wasn’t what you think.”

“You said I make you sick.” Your voice breaks and the wound on your shoulder pulses as you heave a breath, trying not to start sobbing again. “You said you can’t stand to be alone with me.” He shakes his head again - for the third time? - and then leans forward. Several things come to your mind: he’s going to kiss you, he’s going to kill you, he’s going to use your head as leverage to push himself up off of the couch and leave you to take care of yourself.

Instead, he leans forward and presses his lips desperately to your forehead. “Sick with nerves, sweetheart. With nerves. I can’t be alone w’you because I’m dizzy with it. Can’t handle bein’ alone because I’ll make a fool’a myself and… And… You mean too much to me to do that.” His face is still dangerously close to yours and Bucky looks so earnest. His hands are shaking on your face and you’re speechless. He looks so vulnerable, so open. “I asked Tony to stop sendin’ me on missions with you; I didn’t know he was goin’ to stop sending your team out. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Your hand flexes on his wrist.

“I thought… Bucky, I thought you hated me.” He shakes his head, eyes falling closed as he takes a shaky breath.

“Never,” He presses his forehead to yours and the closeness takes your breath away, “I could never hate you. Sweetheart, darlin’, I love you. I’m in love with you and I don’t know what to do about it. I was tryin’ to get advice from Steve but he just said… Just said I should tell you.” Despite being literally face to face, Bucky doesn’t open his eyes. You can see the light sunspots that dot over his nose and cheekbones, every eyelash of his closed eyes, the way his eyebrows are furrowed. He takes another deep breath. “I guess I should’a just told you.” The idea of Bucky - strong Bucky, funny Bucky - being in love with you is almost laughable but at the same time… You’ve wanted this, dreamed about this, for so long… Your body feels warm underneath the pain and hope bubbles in your chest. Now you’re blinking away tears for a different reason.

“Bucky,” You whisper, running your hand up his arms and to his shoulder. When he doesn’t open his eyes, you say his name again. “Bucky.” Finally his eyes open and you can see the fear in them. You smile, albeit wobbly, and press your face forward until your nose nudges against his.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” You whisper, “Why did it take me gettin’ shot for you to tell me? Buck, I’m in love with you too. I’ve been in love with you. That’s why I was so desperate to get out - couldn’t be in that compound w’ you when I thought that you hated me.”

“Because I’m me. I’m… I’m the Winter Soldier.” He shakes his head, jostling his nose against yours. “Why would you love me?”

“You’re not the Winter Soldier,” You argue, bringing your hand from his shoulder to the back of his head, “You’re James Barnes. Bucky. You’re as close to perfect as anyone can get, I think.” He laughs softly and refutes it, but you press on. “You’re a good person and a good Avenger. I wouldn’t lie, promise.”

“Only when you say that you forgot about our movie night, huh?” For a moment you think that he’s actually mad about that, but then you register the soft smile on his face and the soft movement of his shoulders as he laughs. “We’ll have to take a redo when we get home, Sweetheart.”

You brush your lips against his, “No Steve this time?” Bucky chuckles, a sly grin on his face as he moves even closer to you so that he can speak before inevitably kissing you.

The door slams open again, the man himself rushing into the safehouse. “We gotta make tracks, Buck! Just got word that the gunman is headin’ back this-” Steve stops gathering things up and shoving them into a duffel bag when he sees Bucky leaning over you on the couch. “Oh.”

Bucky takes a deep breath through his nose and leans back to look at his friend over his shoulder, face dark with frustration. “Yeah, Sweetheart, without Steve this time. Because I’m goin’t kill him.”

Går du vår vei? // Are you going our way?

Nei. // No.

Sett deg i bilen. Vi kan kjøre deg til Kirkenes. // Get in the car. We can drive you to Kirkenes.

Beklager. Jeg føler meg uvel. Det er sannsynligvis en forkjølelse som går rundt komplekset med tanke på hvor syke andre mennesker føler seg. // Sorry. I feel unwell. It’s probably a cold that goes around the complex considering how sick other people feel.