WASHINGTON D.C.
2014

JUNE WAITED for night to fall.

It certainly was not any quieter, traffic was still blaring on the streets below, but June was counting on the noise.

Sneaking into a master assassin's bedroom while he slept to steal his things required every advantage she could get.

So evening arrived. The familiarity of a mission came with it. June was curled up on the couch with a book in her lap when Bucky bid her goodnight. It was the first time they had spoken since that afternoon, and while he looked like he would like to say more, a grimace fell over his face and he turned into the guest room, shutting the door with a small click.

June waited until the clock read 1:00 a.m.. Putting use to her enhanced hearing, she listened for Bucky's breathing and found it was slow and deep and carried a soft snore. He was sleeping. Lightly, June knew, but her chance was there.

She slipped on a pair of socks and tied back her hair. Dressed in leggings and a white tank-top, June eliminated every restriction or hazard from her person. Drawing in a deep breath, she started down the hall towards Bucky's room.

The band of light from his bedside lamp spilled from the crack beneath the door. June reached for the handle and pushed the door open a fraction of an inch. Through the small gap she could see Bucky's dozing figure. June gave herself more room to wriggle through the doorway, quietly relieved that the hinges did not squeak.

She crept inside Bucky's room. Her gaze fell immediately on his face. He looked somewhat peaceful, pink lips parted slightly, his long eyelashes dark crescents against his cheeks. A small scowl formed above his nose, and his chest rose and fell rhythmically; even in sleep, his hands curled into fists at his sides.

Shaking herself out of her distraction, June scanned the bedroom for Bucky's backpack. She found it slumped against the bed frame, and in one swift movement, she snatched up the bag, darted out of the room, and shut the door without a sound.

Too impatient to make it to the couch, June sat down on the living room floor and unzipped the backpack with shaking hands. She rummaged through the scattered dollar bills and crumpled newspapers until her fingers brushed against soft leather. June excavated the six notebooks, handling them like priceless artifacts. As she gingerly flitted through the pages, she found that they were all empty, save for the very last one. Taking a deep breath, June began to read:

Her heart was beating wildly. So, he had been planning to come to the apartment since the beginning . . . Frowning, June flipped the page and scanned the next entry.

Bucky remembered the war, and he remembered fighting for a just cause. But most of all he remembered Steve. June read over the last sentence carefully. Was that resentment? Or simply restating what had happened? Engrossed, June turned another page.

June wondered how far apart Bucky had written these. Had he remembered Steve before he remembered himself? Another page:

How long ago? Upon the next page was scrawled only one word—

June froze. Stark. Tony Stark? Natasha had never mentioned Tony Stark having anything to do with the Winter Soldier . . . June's wrist moved mechanically.

Her blood ran frigid. The girl who told him to get his dislocated shoulder looked at. That was her. Bucky had written about her. Chest still hammering, June made to continue reading—

"What are you doing?"

June started so fiercely, the journal flew out of her hands. Bucky stood six feet from her, terrifying in anger, his face demonized by black shadow that made his eyes glow white. His stare moved from her to the notebooks. "June . . ."

"I'm sorry," she said in a rush. "I'm sorry. I just . . . I had to know."

Bucky advanced forward. "Had to know what, exactly?"

"Everything you weren't telling me!"

June hadn't meant to shout, but Bucky flinched anyway. He recovered quickly, his eyes narrowed to slits. "I had a reason for not telling you certain things."

"You're afraid."

June really, really wished she would keep her mouth shut, but words kept coming and they kept being true.

Bucky's mouth tightened. "You didn't have to read them, June."

"I know," June got to her feet, palms up in surrender. "I'm sorry. But I had to know. I just—I can't help you any more unless I know."

She was closing the distance between herself and Bucky. He watched her warily, though he leaned toward her slightly.

"I wasn't ready for you to know everything," Bucky whispered.

"I'm not stupid," June said. She could have reached out and touched him. "I guessed most of it. And you already told me more than you thought . . ."

She tilted her chin up. Bucky was very close.

"I guess you have a way of weeding secrets out of me," he said. "I think it's the Russian in you."

June hazarded a smile. "Then you clearly know nothing about Spaniards. Soviets aren't the only charmers, I'm afraid."

Bucky lifted an eyebrow. "Taking my stuff isn't charming, Ivanski."

"Well," June shrugged, her skin warm and cool all at once, "you're not intimidating up close. I wasn't worried about it."

Slowly, shakily, Bucky touched the knuckle of his forefinger to June's chin. "Steve can't know."

June only had time to be puzzled for an instant, because in the next Bucky's lips touched hers. The embrace was soft and momentary, but when Bucky pulled away June chest swirled like a cloudburst; her legs felt like jelly, her mouth like fire.

Bucky looked rather embarrassed. "I'm sorry," he said hoarsely. "I—shouldn't have done that."

"It's . . . it's okay."

Bucky stepped back a good foot. He gnawed on his bottom lip, brow furrowed, dark hair falling over one eye. "I . . . I'm sorry." He staggered backwards, then turned and slipped into his room without another word.

• • •

June went to bed eventually. As soon as sleep claimed her, a nightmare came as well.

Hands connected to phantoms groped and tore at her, unseeable mouths hissing and spitting.

"You killed us," they all howled. "We're dead and it's your fault. You don't want to be alone? Don't worry. We'll never leave you. We'll stay with you, June, as long as you're alive. We'll stay. For you, we'll stay forever—just like you always wanted."

She woke up screaming. Eyes misted with tears, she ripped away her sheets and leapt out of bed, so frightened she couldn't breathe. June stood in the middle of her room, hands clutching her knees, her mind spiraling out of control. She felt as if she had been doing a violent amount of exercise and was on the brink of throwing up.

Just as she was about to snatch up her phone and punch in Steve's number, June heard sounds of despair that were not her own. Smearing tears from her cheeks, she straightened, and turned her ear towards Bucky's room.

She realized with a pang of cold worry that the man across the hall was in perfect anguish.

• • •

[It was not the nightmare that woke him. The nightmares would never wake him. They ensnared him, trapped him, suffocated him within their phantom faces and abusive hands and devilish voices and gleaming instruments that made him bleed. But they would never do something so merciful as to wake him up.

It was his own scream that yankee him from sleep. It was his own agonized whimpering for help that dragged him from the horrible lull he always found himself in, a lull between life and death, between being human and being a machine. And so his back left the sheets in a jolt of cold fright, blue eyes flying about his empty bedroom as his chest rose and fell with feverish breathing, the dream repeating itself behind his gaze over and over and over and it wouldn't stop, the hell wouldn't stop, and as he raked his trembling fingers through his thick tresses of hair Bucky wished savagely that someone would just do what the world had been dying to do since Washington and give him a pistol, because with one flinching movement he could make everyone's lives easier and he could end this—]

"Bucky?"

June's whisper broke the agony that had fallen like a vapor over the room. His eyes flew to her voice, and Bucky found June standing in the doorway, tentative and wary. Her eyes were streaked with red and her face gleamed.

"Are you all right?" June asked him, her voice shaking slightly.

"Yes," Bucky answered mechanically. "Just had a bad dream." He paused. "Did I wake you?"

June shook her head. "No, I, um . . . I had a nightmare too. Nothing unusual."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

June pressed her lips into a thin line. Bucky's gaze darted over her face and he remembered how she had looked up close, her olive skin warm and scattered with freckles here and there. He remembered that he kissed her, and he decided that he would like to again, but knew it was neither the time or place. Bucky cleared his throat, aching to say something more, but found he could muster very little to overpower the chattering of his teeth and the tremors of terror that wracked his body.

June, seeming to sense his handicap, took a careful step towards him, then another, and then she was at his bedside.

"Move over," she commanded. In the yellow lamplight she was breathtaking. Bucky was still for a moment, then complied. June wriggled beneath the blanket. Her back pressed against Bucky's chest. June nuzzled into the pillow, one arm pushed beneath it. Bucky was motionless for a long time before he felt the tensity leave his muscles from pure exhaustion alone, and he sunk to the mattress. Almost instinctively, his left arm draped itself over June's waist. Her body tensed, then relaxed, and they fell asleep simultaneously, and neither were plagued by monstrous dreams the rest of the night.

note.
listen here bitches that's TWO updates in TWO days i deserve the nobel peace prize