Archive of Our Own ^beta

He leisurely begins walking away, slow, without purpose to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Without hesitation or fear, you reach out and clutch his vibranium arm. What bothers him even more is that your hold actually roots him in place. Your hold still on his arm, you hiss under your breath, "Hey, things start going to shit for you, they start going to shit for me too." 

His jaw clenches tightly. "I know."

"I know a place," you offer.

"Use it for yourself," Bucky grimaces.

"You know, I don't have to be here. I don't have to help you," you point out.

"Your point?"

"Right now, take all the friends you can get," you say, dropping your hand from his arm. "People aren't exactly lining up to help you out."

Bucky's clenched jaw loosens, he's smart enough to know when the cards are stacked against him. And right now, he had a losing hand. "Fine."

"Don't sound so excited, Soldier."

He grunts, "Lead the way."

He spares one last glance at his exhibit before following you out the side exit. A life he'd lived, but long forgotten. All culminating in a life on the run. But he is. He is on the run, and he needs to focus on that.

So he follows you. Down a restricted hallway. To an emergency exit. Then, a steel door with a large painted 'emergency exit' sign on it. Though the door warns that an alarm will sound, not a single sound is made as you freely swing the door open and step out into the disgusting alleyway.

There's a car waiting there. You've already hopped in and he pretends not to notice that the car is almost certainly stolen. 

In fact, he doesn't say anything.

He offers not a single nicety, not a murmur of small talk, he remains completely silent as you drive past city limits. He keeps his eyes trained out the road in front of you, the passing terrain becoming more unfamiliar with each passing hour.

On the small plane that you somehow managed to commandeer, he keeps one eye on you piloting the otherwise empty aircraft.

And still he says nothing. 

After many hours of silent travel, it's nightfall when you pull up to the unassuming apartment building in a completely new country. You grab both duffle bags stowed in the backseat of yet another mysteriously commandeered car, and with your heads low, you make your way up the rusty metal staircase. He tries to pinpoint exactly where you are. He knows he should've asked and that he probably could still ask, but the silence now feels like some weird competition of who can hold out the longest. 

The air is cold, the houses sparse and rundown, but the landscapes vast and breathtakingly beautiful. 

He allows himself only the shortest of seconds to scan the area and to feel the fresh breeze on his face before he follows you.

His boots thump and echo against the metal steps, and he can hear the heavy metal door groan as you unlock the door. He makes it up the flight of stairs just in time to see you forcefully open the door with your shoulder as your battering ram.

With his only two impressions of his newest hideout being the stairs and the door you almost tore down to get in to this place, he steps into the apartment with very little expectations. 

But in spite of the derelict nature of the building and door, the place inside isn't terrible. Especially not for a fugitive. It's relatively furnished, a bed and a couch in the small studio apartment. There's a small metal table in the small kitchen and another wooden one in front of the pull-out couch. There's running electricity and indoor plumbing. He knows that, for all intents and purposes, this was as good as he was going to get right now. 

You chuck the two bags on the small wooden coffee table, Bucky following your lead and dumping his alongside yours. 

"This place isn't terrible so let's try to make it stick, alright?" you rhetorically ask, speaking as though you hadn't spent the better part of 18 hours without a word between the two of you. 

"Fine."

"Okay, listen up," you command, though there's still remnants of your playfully sarcastic tone. You start unpacking the first bag, holding up a manila envelope, "Paper file for the technologically inept."

The muscles in his jaw ticks because of course. Of course you weren't helping him for the sake of being a good samaritan, you needed him for something, a job, a mission, an assignment. Something. Still, through gritted teeth, he asks, "What is it?"

"It's everything I gathered. Everything I know," you say, sliding the file across the table to land right in front of Bucky. "I figured I shouldn't know more about you than you do." 

He falters, the tension in his expression stuttering to a confused, furrowed look. He looks down at the file in front of him. He opens it and it's exactly what you said it was. He sees his name printed on the first page: James Buchanan Barnes. All of his basic information followed by pages and pages of forgotten memories. "You're just giving this to me?"

"My act of kindness for the day," you flippantly remark, continuing to unpack the bag. Bucky scoffs, his guard snapping right back up. He knows that there's more to it. More that you're omitting, more answers that you conceal in half-truths and roundabout answers. Before he can call you out, you continue, "Everything that you'll need should be in walking distance. Some cash that should last you a while. There's a burner in the bag if you need me. Try not to need me."

"You're not staying?" Bucky questions, putting the file to watch you pick up one of the two bags. 

"Easier to lay low alone."

"What are you going to do?" he ask before he can think better.

"Don't worry about me. I know places," you quip, a mischievous grin on your face. He knows that you know exactly what you're doing. The emotional and mental whiplash gives him no opportunity to ask questions, to demand answers. Before he can collect himself and stop you, you're walking out of the apartment. Only to turn back around and with your signature lighthearted, wry sarcasm, you ask, "Is it insensitive for me to say, 'get your shit together'?"

Bucky wordlessly shrugs, unsure of what to do with himself, or how to accept the strange act of kindness. 

You nod, offering him a kind smile. Before the door closes, you add, "Get your shit together, Soldier. It's not going to get easier."

Bucky nods once in understanding, "Thanks."

A Year Later...

His quiet, borderline normal life, lasted approximately a year.

A year before he saw the headline falsely accusing him.

A year before Steve stood in his apartment, begging him to let him bring Bucky in.

He ran from your place with only the black duffle bag you left him on his back. 

And he's running. Running from everyone. From his friend from a lifetime ago. From the newly crowned King of Wakanda. From Tony Stark and SHIELD. 

The little burner phone weighs heavily in his pocket. He contemplated calling you, but what were the chances that you'd show up for him again?

None, he decided.

He hadn't heard from you in a year. The phone probably didn't even work anymore. 

His eyes frantically sweep the area around him. And to say it was bleak was an understatement.

He's surrounded, all his enemies closing in on him from every direction when the burner rings at what has to be the most inconvenient time in recorded history. 

He's not even really sure why he answers. But he does, pressing the phone to his ear before his entire life collapses before him. 

Over the sound of his heavy footsteps still running, he hears you chuckle, "Laying low really means nothing to you, does it?"

"A little busy," Bucky grunts, holding the phone in the crook of his neck.

"I can see that."

"Wha-"

"Look up. On the overpass." He looks up at the overpass almost directly above him, the sleek silver sports car that's revving its engine. "Unless you want to keep playing with your friends?"

He huffs, but as much as he hates to admit it, it's one hell of a life saver. He doesn't think, just does. He narrowly escapes Steve's grip, jumping on a large SHIELD SUV, then grabbing the railing to the overpass. As he vaults himself onto the road, shots ring out all around him.

You impatiently rev the engine again. And you do so with a cheeky grin, pissing Bucky off before he's even interacted with you. 

He flings the door open and before he's even fully in the car, you take off. You zoom through the busy streets, expertly dodging civilian cars skidding to a halt, pedestrians gawking at the high speed car chase, Bucky's innumerable enemies all chasing the car. And through all this chaos, you seem completely unburdened, not at all worried that you'll be caught. 

"Here," you order, offering no greeting before handing Bucky the handgun in your holster. "Make yourself useful. And put your seatbelt."

He scoffs at the seemingly ridiculous statement, but says nothing, wasting no time before throwing his seatbelt on and aiming the gun out the window at the cars now tailing you. The overwhelming sounds of the high speed chase thrum in Bucky's ears, as though he could feel the sirens in the beat of his heart. 

He wants to credit himself and his excellent shooting skills as to how the two of you evaded all the cars the cars slowly but surely, but he can't. Not at all. The clip of the gun you gave him is empty before he knows it. 

"There's more toys in the back," you instruct. 

He turns so his torso is no longer leaning out of the car. He looks forward for a moment and sees the caution lights warning you that the very bridge you're about to drive on to will rise in the center, blockading any car from moving any further, flickering just a few meters in front of you. 

Without pause, you drive onto the bridge anyway, toeing the gas to propel the car even faster. 

"The bridge," he warns. 

"Thank you, Captain Obvious. That's how we're going to lose them," you cryptically remark, pumping the gas pedal again. "You have your seatbelt on, right?"

He ignores your question, bracing himself for whatever is about to happen. "You're not going to make it."

"I'll make it."

"You're not going to-"

There's no time to finish his words before the definitely stolen car is hauling up the rising ends of the bridge. His hand flies up to grip the passenger handle as you use the risen bridge as your ramp to freedom.

His stomach lurches as you breeze through the air. And the short moment that the car flies through the air feels like an eternity, the entire time Bucky thinks to himself that you're not going to make it. That SHIELD is going to fish you out of the water and you'll both be arrested. 

Only for the tires to hideously squeal when you hit the pavement. The car violently rattles and the smell of burned rubber fills the car, but there isn't a moment to doubt whether the car will still work because you're still hauling it down the street.

"Told you I could make it," you breathlessly laugh, your knuckles white as you clutch the steering wheel.

"You're crazy," he exhales, though you can almost swear you hear a hint of a chuckle from him. 

With only a helicopter desperately trying to maintain visual left on your tail, you swerve into a tunnel, losing everyone pursuing Bucky.

When he's certain you've lost everyone chasing him, he takes a deep breath, taking a moment to enjoy the light of freedom on his face before he's forced back into hiding. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"Now what?" he reluctantly asks.

For all he knows, you're going to dump him and his duffle bag out on the side of the road before he gets the both of you caught.

"Now, we ditch the car. Then, I've got another place where you can lay low," you offer, much to Bucky's surprise. 

This time he clearly hears the 'you'. You have a place for him. He shakes away his objection, focusing on the task at hand. 

Even more surprisingly, you pull into a packed parking garage. The kind that you don't need a ticket to get in our out. Your baseball cap still pulled low on your head, you pull into a parking spot with cars parked on either side of you. 

"Grab the bags," you instruct.

He nods, grabbing all three bags from the backseat. Then he watches as you scratch the VIN number on the dashboard, the model number from the side of the door, in one quick, sharp movement, you tear off the license plates, then wipe down everything that you or Bucky touched. 

"Thorough," Bucky comments, slightly impressed by your attention to detail and how quickly you just stripped the car of anything that could be traced back to you. 

"Thanks." 

"And now we steal another car?"

"Steal. Borrow," you shrug. "Same difference."

"But we're stealing?" he asks, bothered by your nonchalant reaction to grand theft auto. 

"Oh, definitely," you freely laugh. 

Though it deeply bothers him, he says nothing.

Beggars can't be choosers, he tells himself.

And anyway, you're still helping him. Even if he doesn't have the faintest idea of why you're doing it.

You languidly search through the garage as though you're just shopping for a car and definitely not on the run. Just as he's about to demand that you move faster, you pull on the door of a small, unremarkable sedan. It doesn't look old, but it's not flashy - he has no clue why it caught your eye. 

He figures that's probably the point. You unceremoniously pull at the door handle. And just like every other time, he swears that it's not going to work. That the car alarm will go off or at the very least the car will be locked and you'll be left looking for another car. 

But to his surprise, and annoyance, the door opens without a problem. No alarms ring through the garage. There's no struggle or broken windows. It's that simple for you.  

"Special toy," you cheekily explain, flashing Bucky the small device as you duck into the car. 

He rolls his eyes but climbs into the passenger seat, dumping the three bags into the backseat again. He briefly wonders why you have two bags for yourself when he could've sworn that a year ago you only had one. He dismisses it, a lot can change in a year. But there's a pesky little thought in the back of his head that something isn't adding up. While he's trying to reason everything out, you drive off without another word.

"What did you even do?" you ask after a considerable time in silence, your tone too light and playful for Bucky to even consider it an accusation.

"Nothing," he swears.

"Well, what do they think you did?"

"Wait," he falters, unused to anyone giving him the benefit of the doubt anymore. And that you do so without hesitation, even more questions crop up in Bucky's head. "You believe me?"

"You've never given me a reason not to."

"The UN. They think it was me."

"Jesus," you exhale, shaking your head to tame the runaway thoughts. 

"Why are you here?" he asks, his tone bordering on accusation again. 

"Saw your face in the paper. Was passing through. Thought you'd like a getaway car."

He watches you for a moment, looking at your focused expression for any signs of insincerity. And though he can't quite reconcile the events that brought you here, he finds not a trace of deceit on your face, "Thanks."

It doesn't sit right with him. There's things that you're not saying. This endless rotary of places that you have that you're just offering up. Especially after he just blew the cover of one of your safe-houses. 

And it bothers him even more how nonchalant you are about it all. You seem completely unaffected by the fact that everyone is looking for Bucky. And by helping him, they're looking for you too. 

After crossing several borders and escaping the areas where he's most wanted, he feels only marginally better. He wants to go straight into hiding, to get to this place of yours and stick his head in the sand for the next six months until it all mostly dies down. 

Even as the sun lowers on the horizon, he doesn't feel safe. He feels vulnerable out here in plain sight. 

But you take him to a bar. 

He shakes his head in disbelief because you actually take him to a bar. 

A bar, of all places. 

It sits on the very edge of a city that's a little too populated for Bucky's liking. He's on edge from the very moment you walk in.

While you walk in with your chin up and a wide, flirtatious grin that just begs to be looked at, his legs shake with unbridled anxiety, his jaw hasn't unclenched since you first picked him up, and his head pounds with millions of rampant worries.

And you look perfectly fine.

From when you order a round of drinks and a greasy burger for the two of you, you look completely and totally at ease. 

You casually sip at your drink. Your eyes roam around the bar, slowly drinking in the entire scene before you. The patrons drunkenly boasting about their respective wealth and their ostentatious lifestyles. The bartender that flirts with you every time you approach for a fresh drink. 

He remains in the booth, watching you make trip after trip to the bar. It's after your fourth trip that he grabs your wrist as you move to stand up again. "We should go."

You slide back in the booth with your empty glass still in hand and prop one of your feet up. "You need to relax. Have some food, drink a little. We're gonna be fine."

"I can't get drunk."

"Neither can I, but you don't see that stopping me," you chuckle, downing the rest of your Old-Fashioned. 

"Can you take this seriously? We need to get out of here," he hisses, leaning as close to you as the table will allow him to. 

"Fine," you groan. "But one more drink."

He huffs, but you still get up and slowly saunter to the bar. You leisurely flag down the bartender, tipping your glass toward him with a flirty smirk. He watches as you casually giggle and hang onto every word the man says as he prepares your drink. 

"Thank you," you coo, your hand resting on the man's forearm as he hands you the drink. 

You don't come back to the table this time.

You sip at your drink, slowly swirling the liquor with the small wooden skewer. Just as Bucky's about to stand up and haul you out of the bar, another blonde, greasy-haired man approaches. Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky saw this guy with another girl. Presumably his date for the evening. Only moments ago, his date got up to use the bathroom, and here the man was shamelessly flirting with you. 

You showed no signs of telling this man to leave you alone nor made any indication that his advances were unwelcome. No, you lean into him, laughing a little too hard at slurred jokes and brazen come-ons. 

"What the hell is she doing?" Bucky mutters to himself.

You lean so far into the man that, for a moment, Bucky worries that you're going to fall off the bar stool. Just as he's sure that you're going to fall or kiss the guy, you playfully push the guy's shoulder away.

Bucky lets out a breath of relief, relief that he doesn't want to admit that he feels. 

And just when he's confused as hell, he sees your left hand. The one sneaking into the man's obscenely expensive leather jacket and slyly stealing his wallet. 

He scoffs in utter disbelief. He knows he can't really claim the moral high ground, but still he snatches up his jacket, slaps a twenty on the table and leaves in a huff. He doesn't look back to see if you're following him, but he can hear from the crunch on the gravel that tells him you are. 

He's not even sure why he tried to leave the bar in the first place. He knows you have the keys and that you're the only one that knows the location of the safe-house. But God, that stunt pissed him off. 

"So you're a thief now?" he accuses over his shoulder.

You gasp, mostly in a playful tone, "I resent that, I am not a thief! I prefer con artist. More classy."

He stands at the passenger door impatiently waiting for you to unlock the car. You're unhurried and take a moment to notice how even in the dead of night, even as he glares at you, his eyes are stunningly blue. "You just stole that guy's wallet!"

"I only steal from people who deserve it," you defend, finally unlocking the car.

"And what exactly did that guy do?"

"Besides trying to slip a little something in that girl's drink?" you rhetorically question, holding up the little packet of crushed up powder the guy had been itching to use all night, then examining the content's of the man's wallet. You look at the man's ID with a furrowed face. "His name is also Chad. You just know he's an asshole."

Bucky sighs deeply, opening the car door in a huff, "What happened to laying low?"

"He hasn't even noticed his wallet's gone," you dismiss, climbing into the driver's seat. "And he's wasted, he won't notice until tomorrow morning. He's been running a tab all night so he'll just think he left it here. And by then, we'll be long gone. It's not a big deal."

"And if you get caught?"

You roll your eyes, shaking your head. "I was trained in the Red Room, I think I can handle some lame trust fund baby."

"Don't pull that shit with me anymore."

You roll your eyes and start the car, "Et tu, Brutus."

In the silence, you think about the last year. The old men you swindled and conned that really believed you were the one. Each word you whispered in their ears, promising them that it could be love. Passing through town after town like a bandit, only to disappear like an elusive puff of smoke. 

It hurt a little more than you wanted to acknowledge that Bucky judged you for the things you'd done. You thought that out of everyone, he might be one of the few people that could understand, a bandit just like you. 

Though you began your drive at the very beginning of nightfall, the sun slowly creeps up on the horizon when you break the tense silence, "Well, I hesitate saying this since you're still in a pissy mood, but before we get any closer to the safe house, we're going to have to switch cars again."

"How far away are we?"

"Couple hundred miles out."

"And we need to switch now?" he grumbles. 

"Yes. We switch now, make it look like we're going East when we're going West. Gets them off our trail for a while longer."

"Are you going to steal the car too?" Bucky snarkily mutters.

"Oh my God, you're still on this! Why do you even care?"

"Because it's wrong!" he chides.

"The way I see it, us traitors never win, so forgive me if I really don't give a shit."

"I'm not a thief."

"Whatever," you scoff. "And yes, we're paying for the car. In cash. No paper trail. No stolen cars that people are looking for."

This second part of the trip is even worse than the first. Even worse than the trip you made with him a year ago. 

To fill the tempestuous, suffocating silence, you blast the radio. You don't care if Bucky's glaring holes at the side of your head in clear displeasure, you do it anyway. As he scoffs his way through a shady, back-alley car dealer with an even sleazier salesman, you smirk and pretend like you don't notice his terrible attitude. 

You flirt your way through a incredible deal with even more incredibly forged documents. He takes a glance at them as you're going through all the motions and he swears they look like legitimate. The only difference between himself and the salesman is that he knows better.  

And once you're settled in an even crappier, but much more legal, used car, you turn down the obnoxiously loud music because you see Bucky's eyelids drooping, the exhaustion etched in his features as the adrenaline from the days prior leave his system.

You watch as he fights the sleep that slowly over comes him, each sleepy droop of his heavy eyelids warded off by a sharp jolt of his head snapping upright as though he's been watching you the entire time. You know he's about to crash, he's fighting against days worth of travel and a draining life on the run. You know this exhaustion well.

And you turn the music off completely when he starts quietly snoring in the passenger seat. You steal a few glances at him as you drive through the open road. The age melts off of him when his eyebrows aren't furrowed at you, when the judgement isn't as clear as the day that passes you by on the open road, nor the scowl that seems to be specially reserved for you. 

You drive the entire way, stopping only at gas stations where you fill the tank and grab some crappy gas-station junk food for the two of you.

It's entirely miserable and you yourself don't know why you're going this far out of your way to help someone who so clearly wants nothing to do with you, but there's a part of you that's glad you're going it anyway.

You're glad because you believe him. You believe that he's not a bad man. Not when he's the reason you escaped the clutches of the Red Room. You see a person who was put in circumstances just as unfortunate as your own. 

And you remind yourself of that until the car screeches to a halt in front of another of your safe-houses. 

"Home, sweet home," you sarcastically retort, dropping the bag on the couch as you both enter the safe-house. "For you, anyway."

You waste no time unzipping the bag to reveal its contents to get Bucky on his feet and partially sustain him until he has to move again.

Except this time, he sees the wad of cash, nicely bundled, sitting right on top of the bag's contents. He doesn't even know why it bothers him so much. You're right, he has no moral superiority here. He doesn't even really care about that sleaze-ball you robbed blind.

You're right, the guy will be fine. 

It's you, he decides.

You're what's pissing him off. Not the days worth of travel he wears. Not the fact that he's a fugitive.

It's you. 

Your aloofness.

Answers that are riddled with half-truths and heavily redacted plans. The fact that he can't pin you down. That he has no clue what you want from him nor why you're going this far out of your way to help him.

Loose lips sink ships. But so do loose cannons.

He knows it's you that's pissing him off and still, he looks up from the wad of cash in the bag back up to you with silent accusations in his eyes. 

You shake your head at the man, feeling the considerable amounts of judgement as he stares you down. So you take the purposefully take the bait, "You should've seen the guy I stole that from." 

"That's not funny," he sneers.

"Come on, Soldier. Lighten up," you tease, unafraid of the growing scowl and intense look deepening on his face. 

"Don't call me that."

"Bucky?" you taunt, remembering the old nickname from his file. 

"No."

"James?"

"Knock it off," he seethes.

"Lover?" you over-enunciate, dragging the word out to tantalize Bucky.

"Is everything a joke to you?" he snaps, pinning you against the wall with his forearm pressed against your collarbone. 

"God, you'd think a year alone would've given time for that sense of humor to form," you chuckle.

"Why do you even care?" Bucky demands.

You try not to laugh at the ironic 180 this conversation just took, but you smother the laugh, instead offering the same excuse you gave him the first time you helped him, "I already told you. Things go to shit for you-"

After the twelve hour nap in the car, his brain is no longer muddled with exhaustion. Pieces of the puzzle are coming together and he doesn't like what he sees, not one bit. "You're lying."

"No, I'm not-"

This time, he doubles down, "You said you came because you saw my face in the paper, but then you asked me why they were after me. If you saw the paper, you already knew that."

In spite of the dangerous position you find yourself in, you wryly chuckle, "So you caught that. Very astute, I'm impressed."

"Who sent you?"

"I told you, I don't take orders anymore. Least of all from you."

"I don't buy it," Bucky sneers, putting just a little more weight into his hold. "Why are you helping me? What do you want?"

"Trust issues much?"

"Why?" he orders.

You finally begin pushing back against the weight of him. He doesn't stumble back, but does ease up on the amount of force he uses. "I don't need you. I don't want anything from you. You have nothing to offer me. Have you ever thought about that?"

"Then why?" he fumes.

You shrug, once again too blithely for Bucky's liking. "You helped me once. Maybe I just don't like owing people."

"Bullshit."

"Maybe. Maybe not."

"Do you ever just give a straight answer?"

"No."

His voice laced with desperate pleas, he softly whispers, "Why are you helping me?"

You take a breath, taking a moment to decide how you want to proceed. And the second you look up at his pleading eyes, your voice drops along with Bucky's. "Have you ever thought that maybe I just wanted to help you?"

"No."

"You want me to say it? I'll say it, I wanted to help you. You got me out, I didn't forget that." 

"That explains the first time. And now?"

"Is everything an inquisition with you?" you quickly retort. 

"Only when mysterious people show up out of nowhere and decide to help me without a good reason."

"I didn't say I didn't have a good reason," you whisper in his ear, sending shivers down his spine. He's not sure if this is just your training or if you're actually being honest with him, but against his better judgement, as the words leave your mouth, he believes you. "You're a good reason."

"You weren't in the area," Bucky concludes, finally removing the forearm that pins you against the wall.

"Not even a little bit," you reluctantly admit.

"What do you want from me?" he murmurs, leaning so close to you that his breath becomes your own. 

"Nothing," you exhale.

"You sure about that?"

You look at him dead in the eye and nod ever so slightly, "Yes."

"Stay," he mutters in your ear, his words a confusing blend of a desperate question and a intense order.

Though he's no longer holding you in place, you remain rooted in place under the blue eyes that glimmer as though they were filled with stars. You shakily nod, "Okay."

"Good."

You clear your throat, tearing finally freeing yourself from his gaze, "We should get some food. Scope the area out."

"Alright."

It's been a while since you've been here. It's one of your favorite safe houses, somewhere tucked in a small yet beautiful Romanian city. Though you haven't returned to Bucharest in years, you still remember all your favorite little spots. 

It's also one of the only places that only you know about. You've never told anyone about this place, it's cover has never been blown. It's the perfect place for the two of you to hide. 

Bucky's hand almost jolts when you reach out for his as you walk through the town square to a small little restaurant, before you even explain the cover, he relaxes and intertwines his fingers with yours. 

Still hand-in-hand, you two duck into the small diner. 

It isn't long before you're both seated in a booth, tucked into the very corner of the restaurant with two plates of food in front of you and Bucky. And though it's easy for you to pretend that this is your own little corner of the world, isolated from the dangerous, dark clouds always looming on the horizon, it's clear that it's not that easy for Bucky.

His shoulders remain rigid. Head lowered. His face set in what seems like a permanent scowl carved onto his face. 

He's practically inhaled his food, while you pick at your plate, enjoying your first real meal in days. He quietly whispers, "We should get back."

"Will you relax? We're safe here."

"And if we're not?" he quickly retorts.

"Do you trust me?"

Though the inexplicable 'yes' is already on his lips, he pauses for a moment, if only to allow rationale and reason to finally step in. It doesn't. "Yes."

There's a strange sense of pride that swells in your heart that he admits that he trusts you. From your years on the run, trust was hard to come by. Worth more than any other resource or emotion. Trust was so fragile, a little flame that could easily burn out, only to be given to the most delicate, dutiful hands. "But I know I shouldn't."

"No, you shouldn't," you agree. "But I'm glad that you do."

"You said 'us traitors'," he prompts, hoping that you'll allow his prying this time.

"Uh-huh?" you languidly lilt, though alarm bells are ringing in your head to change the course of conversation. 

"Who'd you betray?"

You put the fork down with a sigh, though there's still a slight humor in your tone, wiping your mouth before you speak. "You want the list?"

He wordlessly nods, silently urging you on. 

"Alright, but it's not pretty."

He says nothing, still waiting for you to stop stalling and tell him what he desperately wanted to know. 

"Okay, don't say I didn't warn you."

"I'm waiting..." he chortles.

"Well," you start, only allowing the conversation because it's the first time you've ever seen Bucky look even remotely relaxed. "Let's start off with the big ones. The United States."

"Obviously."

"Mexico, England - actually all of the United Kingdom, France, for time purposes, let's just say most of Europe," you start, then prattle on for almost five minutes about all of the countries you were currently wanted in. And you were certain that there were more that you didn't know about.  "And most surprisingly, Portugal."

"What the hell did you do in Portugal?" he snickers.

"I don't remember."

And maybe Bucky was being overly sensitive, hyper-aware of the slight change of inflection in your tone, but from the slight twist in your mouth to the lack of a sarcastic comment, your memory sounds like a pretty sore subject.

"They think I bombed the UN," Bucky unexpectedly offers.

"But you didn't," you remind him. 

"So we can't go anywhere in North America," he decides, not even realizing that, for the first time, he'd just acknowledged the two of you as a unit. Or that this would be a perpetual partnership.

"Uh, that's not true. I actually am welcome in Canada."

"Canada... nice."

"We can go anywhere. The countries aren't the problem, it's the people that want us that make it a little tricky."

"So who wants you?"

"Besides you?" you quip. Bucky rolls his eyes, but this time you do manage to get a slight chuckle out of him. "Dreykov, but the Widows are the real problem there. SHIELD isn't too pleased with me, but they've got their hands full with HYDRA, who now that I think about it, I also pissed off. I think Romanov's given up on finding me, at least for now."

"Jeez, I thought I pissed off a lot of people."

"Please," you scoff. "I don't have the king of Wakanda, Tony Stark, Captain America, all on my shit list."

"Maybe," he snorts.

You omit the names of the people left behind. Those in the Red Room, he already knows those names well.

Logically, you knew you could not and should not take responsibility for them. But you left. Even years on the run were better than staying in that hellhole. You owed an unspoken and un-payable debt to the man in front of you. You spent years alone, it was better that way, but for the man who risked everything for you all those years ago, you were going to do the same for him.

Six Months Later...

He hangs from your lips as you walk through the town square. You laugh, pushing his shoulder to look at the fruit stand in front of you.

As you reach for the small basket of plums, you can pinpoint the very moment when it all goes to hell.

When the skeletons in your closet, plotting hard to fuck this up, finally escape. You hear the frantic, hushed whispers as you pass through the town square. Whispers you've never heard before. People strangely scanning the area, all on high alert. Your shoulders stiffen, squeezing Bucky's hand three times to alert him of the danger. 

You also see the very moment all his walls go back up.  

"Shit," you hiss under your breath, tugging Bucky by his hand through the crowd of people. 

You've been here too long. Been too complacent. Too at ease. Distracted by the man in beside you, you let your guard down. 

You stand with his hands on your waistline. It's a scene that's already begun and you're out here in plain sight, you can practically hear the whispers of accusation as they pass by.

And for the first time in very long time, you feel vulnerable. 

You know he feels it too.

The little flame you pretended could burn forever was being threatened before your very eyes and you felt utterly helpless to stop it. 

And though you tell yourself that if he just holds your hand without dropping it, it'll all be fine, but you're not even sure that you believe it. 

You've always been the first to leave, to cut ties once people could no longer carry their own weight, but you couldn't bring yourself to do it now. You couldn't leave him behind. 

You both scan the area for watchful, anachronistic eyes. And it's your eyes that catch a SHIELD agent in plain clothes hissing into a hidden communication wire on their shoulder. 

"We have to go," you caution, tearing your eyes away from the agent as they stand up from their seat. "Now."

That's when the first shot rings out from a vantage point above you. One of the first bullets clip you in the arm, and Bucky tears you away as more shots surround the two of you. He takes your hand, ducking into a small alcove just out of sight. It's not a permanent refuge, but it's a pause to gather your bearings.

"I don't have anything," you hiss, clutching your injured arm. 

"Me neither. Is it bad?" he asks.

The worst part of it is that he actually sounds genuinely concerned, his eyes are filled with sincerity as though a graze wound is more important than the fact that you're both hopelessly surrounded. You ignore his question, keeping an eye out for anymore SHIELD henchmen. "We need a plan."

"We're not getting out of here unarmed. I'll go back to the apartment, and-"

You vehemently shake your head, clutching his arm to keep him in place, "They'll have it surrounded by now."

"I'll be fine. I'll get the bag. You got the getaway car?"

"Yeah," you hesitantly nod, a strange sense of impending doom rising in your throat.

"Hey," he pauses before he takes off. A firm hand on the back of your neck, he kisses you with all the intensity he can muster. It's unsettling how much it feels like a goodbye. "We're gonna be okay."

You nod, squeezing his hand one last time before he runs off. You watch him duck out of the alcove into a narrow pathway leading to your apartment. 

With bated breath, you scan the area. You shake away the last of the dread, tugging off the baseball cap and pulling up the hood of your sweater.  

Running calls too much attention, you know this from experience. So with your head low, you briskly walk down the cobblestone streets to just up the road where several cars are parked. You won't even take the time to figure out what will work best, what will get you away quickest. You'll take the first thing you get your hands. 

You yank the handle of the first car you reach. 

But you're not thinking clearly. Worry is muddying your mind. You forget you don't have your handy little device in your back pocket. The car alarm sounds, practically deafening to a person trying to remain inconspicuous.

You curse yourself, the foolish mistake of leaving it in your house. It was a safe-house, it was never meant to be your home. But you lost sight of that. 

And now SHIELD agents have caught sight of you again. 

"Damn it," you hiss, climbing into the car. 

The SHIELD agents shouting at you are drowned out by the obnoxious car still blaring. 

With unmeasured, indecisive movements, you do your best to start the car in front of you. 

Your breathing comes quicker and for the first time in a very long time, you're not calm, you're not steady. You're worried. Carrying not only the weight of yourself, but Bucky too. You've tethered yourself to another person and that implication truly weighs on you now. 

With sloppy, novice moves, you finally get the damned thing started. 

One hand on the steering wheel, the other frantically throwing your seatbelt on, you take off down the street, ignoring the squealing of other cars behind you. You already know that this entire area will now be crawling with SHIELD agents and whoever else is looking for Bucky.

You take a sharp turn down the sloped road that leads straight to the safe house. You sigh, clutching the wheel, your only focus on reaching Bucky. 

And that's your Achilles' heel. 

Because before you even see them barreling toward you, before you can react, a large van violently smashes into you, sending the small sedan rolling down the sloped road. 

You gasp as the impact takes you by surprise, the sheer force knocking the wind out of your lungs. 

Your head smacks against the window on the driver's side, you feel glass shards in your hair and swiftly cutting and scraping against your skin as you tumble through the car. 

You don't have time to assess injury or even the severity of your situation, because the second the car is done rolling, you unhook the seatbelt. More glass scrapes against your neck as you hit the roof of the upside down car. 

You reach for the door. With all your force you try to pry the door open, but the crumpled metal wedges the door shut. 

Panic rises up in your throat, but your training reminds you to shove it back down. You remind yourself that you're still you. You're well trained. You have that going for yourself. You can handle this.

Although you can hear the shards of broken glass cutting into to your jacket and you can feel each small cut of your hands, you position yourself away from the window. With both of your feet and one swift kick, the window breaks just enough to allow for an escape. 

You claw your way out of the car before anyone can reach you. In spite of the pain throbbing in your body, you bolt again. In search for anything to get you and Bucky away from here. 

At the foot of the road, you see a small bike. It's not ideal, but it's all you've got. 

This time, it's only adrenaline that fuels you. 

You manage to get the bike started and immediately take off in search of Bucky. You swerve down pedestrian walkways, small back roads not intended for vehicles. You cut corners and dodge pedestrians as they shout in fear and dive out of your way.

And you finally find him in the very center of the circus. The same circus you turned into your twisted love story. 

His head shoots up at the sound of the revving engine. And this time, he takes no joy in the sight of you. He looks at your face, bloodied and bruised. Your extended hand bloodied and shaking from pain or anxiety, he's not sure.

Though you yourself are barely standing, you extend a frantic, shaky hand to him, "Come on. I know a place."

This time he shakes his head. Partly because he's tired of running, tired of constantly looking over his shoulder and waiting for the other shoe to drop. But mostly because he can't be selfish anymore. 

The vultures are circling and he knows the price of being caught. And though he didn't want to admit it, every day it seems more and more likely that you both are going to get caught. After all, how many places can one person know?

And worst of all, the price is much steeper for you. You get caught and he knows you have little to no chance. There's no one out there feeling sorry for you. You don't have Captain America as a bargaining chip or as leverage for freedom. Steve's not championing your cause, fighting for your future.

He knows it's an asshole move, making the choice for you, but he also knows you'd never give up on him.

You watch as he takes a step closer to the people chasing your tail. A step away from you. "Come on, Soldier. Don't do this."

"Us traitors never win."

And with those words, he takes off. The bag you gave him strapped on his back, the money, and everything you'd spent a life on the run cultivating, all gone with him.

He leaves. Leaves you there, still surrounded, vastly outmanned. But it's his words that hit you like a shotgun shot to the heart. 

"Fuck," you angrily sigh, slamming your injured hand on the bike. 

You contemplate going after him. Even begging him to take your hand. But you're not a beggar, you remind yourself. You're a traitor, destined to lose. 

You kick off the road, revving the bike and taking off in the getaway car. You murmur a goodbye to the only traitor that ever mattered to you.

And remind yourself that you should've been the first to leave. 

2 Years Later...

"Remind me again when I started taking orders from SHIELD?" Bucky sarcastically asks, popping in the small earpiece. 

"When you were pardoned under the condition that you contribute to society," Sam quips. 

"And I can't just pay taxes?"

"No," Nat interjects. "Besides, this one's a little personal for me. But I think for you too."

Bucky grunts, unimpressed by the vague details he had going into the mission. He knew two things: he was to get dressed nicely and he was apprehending someone. The sparse details and checkered information he had were a little too reminiscent of his former partner in crime from almost 2 years ago. "Are you going to explain?"

With a wry smirk and a knowing look, Nat slides Bucky a fuzzy still from a hotel security footage. He knows just from the vague outline exactly who this is. 

A uncharacteristic chuckle bubbles out of his mouth at the sight of a person he'd been trying to find for the better part of a year. The person who ran with him through hell. 

He tried that number so many times, only to be met with an annoying beeping and a monotone operator that informed him that the number had never once been in service. Just like that you were gone.

Nothing more than a fleeting memory of the best of times and the worst of crimes. 

"Did you just laugh? Did he just laugh?"

He shakes his head, ignoring Sam's question and staring down at the picture. "What are you going to do with her?"

"That's really up to her. She's a slippery one. She'll smell me coming from a mile away," Nat remarks, and Bucky vaguely remembers you telling him that you thought she'd given up on finding you. It's clear to Bucky that it wasn't the case. "But you? She might listen to you."

"I'm not going to force her to be here. I won't arrest her."

"I don't want you to. You shouldn't have to force her to be here. She's been on the run long enough. If they can find a place for me here, they can find a place for her."

And the second he gets to the swanky hotel bar, his eyes find you immediately. Like they're drawn to you and only you. He can only see the back of your little black dress. Something that blends in, but with an elegance that sets you apart from the other businessmen leering at you from afar.

Your shoulders stiffen after he looks for a moment too long. It's as though you can feel his eyes on you before you ever see him.

He adjusts his suit jacket and walks the length of the room, ending at the bar. If you've noticed he's standing right beside you, you don't say. You take a long sip from your drink, looking unaffected at his familiar presence. He takes a moment to study your profile, the familiar slope of your nose, the jawline he'd traced countless times on sleepy mornings, lips he once hung from. He flags down the bartender with his gloved hand, "I'll take an Old-Fashioned."

"You don't like bourbon."

"Maybe I'm here for the experience."

"You can't get drunk."

"Neither can you and yet, here you are." You say nothing to him, taking another long drink from your glass as though the liquor will somehow start to work after all these years. He chuckles, "I almost can't believe it. It's bold, even for you. New York, right under SHIELD's nose. Does laying low mean nothing to you?"

"Get out of here," you sharply order, the softness in your voice once reserved for him long gone. 

"I know a place," he offers, hoping the sentimentality of the phrase will make you more amendable to leaving with him - to staying with him. 

It doesn't.  

"I'm not going with you," you curtly decline. 

"They're not exactly giving me a choice." 

"So do it," you challenge, whirling around in your seat and presenting your wrists to him. He takes in the sight of your face for the first time in years, and immediately notes that there is no warmth in them for him. In spite of the ire, he maintains eye contact with your icy glare and coyly smiles at you. "What's another betrayal to you?"

He ignores the bait, taking out his ear piece and dropping it in the glass in front of him. He knows the thing is probably high-tech enough that it won't completely malfunction in liquid, but it gives him a chance to talk to you without other listening ears present. "They're not that bad, you know. Once you get past the superhero complexes and self-righteousness."

"I'm still not going with you."

"Think about what you're doing here."

"I wonder if it'll be a maximum security," you audibly think, simply to egg Bucky on. "Or will they save themselves a prison break and throw me on the Raft?"

He frowns deeply. "Is it really worth it? Locked up for the rest of your life because you don't want to be a good guy?"

You stand up out of your seat, downing the rest of your glass as you slide off the stool. "Not good enough."

"Dance with me," he offers out of the blue.

"What?"

"One dance. For old time's sake," he lies, trying to buy himself enough time to stop whatever comes next.

You look to the small quartet in the corner of the room, then the the few couples swaying on the marbled dance-floor. "Dancing is a dangerous game."

"Then it's good that I can handle myself."

Your eyes narrow, sizing Bucky up. "Lead the way."

He takes your hand. It's a familiar feeling, almost second nature to intertwine his fingers with your, his thumb lightly grazing the back of your warm hand. He only strokes your hand once before you rip your hand out of his hold. He schools his expression, taking the defensiveness in stride. Instead, he puts his his right hand on the small of your back. 

The moment you reach the dance-floor, he tugs you closer to him. His gloved metal hand on the small of your back, guiding you to the slow rhythm of the music. The other hand finally back in yours.

"I think the last time I danced was with you. In Romania."

"You know, I'm not a very sentimental person." you reply simply, cutting off Bucky's attempt at a trip down memory lane.

"Clearly."

"Holding onto the past is useless, I've learned. Especially when it ended the way it did," you coldly remind him. 

"Does that bother you?"

"You've moved on to bigger and better things. It doesn't matter to me."

His head lolls, clearly mulling over your words. "Bigger? Maybe. Better? I don't think so."

"That's a terrible pitch, Soldier."

"I know better than to sell to you of all people."

"Mm... flattery. You're getting desperate," you flippantly point out. 

"You don't need me to flatter you."

"But it sounds so nice coming out of your mouth."

He chuckles, taking the moment to spin you out and back into his arms, even closer than before. Still faced away from him, his right hand is in your left. He lowers his face down to the crook of your neck, speaking lowly, "Well, then let me tell you how beautiful you look tonight. Your poor target. It's the most lethal things that come in the most beautiful packages. Designed to lure you in, to entice, and then... well, you know."

"Very astute." He twirls you again, this time you end up facing him. You slowly inch your face closer to Bucky's. His exhales become your inhales. His lips are so close to yours, as close as they can be without touching. "My target is anything but poor."

"You wouldn't need to do this anymore. You could stop running, stop looking over your shoulder."

"It doesn't matter," you mutter against his lips. 

"Why?" he breathes, lowering himself to capture your elusive lips. 

As he lowers himself, you take a step back. With a cheeky smile, your hands drop from his shoulders as the song comes to a close. "Because your time is up, Soldier. Did you decide? Are you going to arrest me? Or tell those people sitting outside that you lost me?"

"There's a third option there."

A bitter chuckle leaves your mouth, "I'm a lot of things, but a fool is not one of them."

"Exactly. You know when you're outmanned."

"You can't strong-arm me into the Avengers Compound."

"You said I was a good reason," he abruptly interjects.

"Because I thought you were. I suppose should've known better." He shuts his eyes, your words hitting him like a shot to the heart. He feels you slipping away from him. All he can think is that this is the last time he's ever going to see you again. One way or another, this is the only chance he has left. "I was wrong about one thing though."

"What?" he asks, his eyes opening to see you standing right in his face. 

You finally look him dead in the eye, lowering yourself to meet his eye line. "Some traitors do win."

"I remember," he blurts, grabbing your wrist to stop you from walking away. "I remember everything."

"Good for you," you scoff, trying to wrench your wrist from his hand.

"It's why I did what I did. I ran because I - I saw that look on your face. I knew we weren't both getting out of there. I didn't get very far. Only made it about a mile before I was surrounded."

"I don't give a shi-"

"I went to Wakanda," he continues as though you hadn't tried interrupting him. "Back in cryo. The trigger words don't work anymore. And I was pardoned under the condition that I help the good guys, but I looked for you. Every day, I looked." He reaches in to his pocket. For a second, you think that he's pulling out a gun, but then you see the glint of the burner phone you gave him all those years ago. It shocks you that he kept it all this time. "I tried calling. I still try calling you. But you were gone. You're kinda a tough person to get ahold of."

"Yeah, well, I'm still on the run. Can't exactly list my phone number."

"I wanted to apologize. To thank you. To- to tell you I missed you," he say, vulnerability slowly creeping into his voice. He loosens his grip on your wrist, letting his hand slowly skate down until he feels the warmth of your fingertips. He grabs your hand, squeezing it three times. This time there's no danger lurking just around the corner, it's because he knows it going to be a long road. Not an easy road, but a road he doesn't want you to face alone anymore. "I know a place. For the both of us. No more running. No more games. Please."

You sigh, staring into his blue, pleading eyes filled with silent promises. "Lead the way."