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one hundred seven

IN ALL HONESTY, Emily expected Barnes to be gone the next day, ready to forget everything that happened the night before – or, hours before she awoke – only to see him sprawled on her couch. His torso was still gloriously exposed, spots of purple and red scratches scattered on it, and she could see drool dripping from his open mouth. Ever so often, he released quiet snores with every breath he exhaled.

She approached him cautiously, a bat clasped in her hand – just in case he went all crazy and decided to attack her once more. Her bare feet padded against the hardwood of her apartment and she raised her bat, ready to swing when –

"I appreciate you taking care of me, but I think it'd be best for the two of us if you didn't hit me," he murmured lowly, opening one eye before closing it again. "I'm sleeping. We'll chat in the morning, thanks,"

She scoffed, putting down her bat and sitting on an armchair near the couch where Bucky laid. "It is the morning, you insufferable little tosser," she grumbled and poked Bucky's leg with the end of her supposed weapon.

Bucky's eyes snapped open and slowly, a lazy smirk incorporated his features. It wasn't a surprise for him to feel pain when he began to sit up, but a silent hiss did go through his lips when he did. He leaned against the arm of the couch, resting on his shoulders, and said, "Can you tell me just what about me is small?"

His words held more meaning to it and Emily knew it. Her hazel eyes narrowed at him, hating how he could act so casual yet careful at the same time, and uncrossed her legs, getting up to walk to the kitchen where she began making pancakes. He wasn't very quiet with the way he moved, grumbling incoherent words when he stood up, and it made her able to tell what he was doing.

While cooking, she inched closer and closer to the knives that hung, wonderfully gleaming in the light of the room. She had no clue if the man with the metal arm was actually harmless, or if he wasn't actually who she thought he was. She was completely and utterly defenseless and she hated how she felt so vulnerable.

He could attack her – her back was turned and her hair up in a ponytail that dangerously exposed the parts of her neck he had to press to make her black out. Her pajamas were hardly bulletproof – so if he ever did decide to shoot a bullet through just the right spot, she'd be dead in seconds. Running through her head were more than a handful of scenarios of how she could die by the hands of a monster.

She would have grabbed a knife by now and have it against his throat, feeling unexplainably satisfied if having him weak against her. She would have thrown him out of her apartment by now, not wanting a massive burden to lie on her shoulders that already had far too much weight. She would have killed him the moment she had him pinned against the wall of a dark alley and he was making no move to stop her.

But she didn't. She couldn't. She didn't even know why she couldn't, and that was the worst part.

Perhaps it was the way he looked just as hurt and in pain as she was – the way he looked ashamed at the thought of what he's done. It might be because of his reasoning – it sounded too far-fetched but he looked so truthful when he retold the story and she couldn't help but not doubt him. Maybe she didn't kill him, or leave him to die, because she found something similar between them.

They were both so alone. Everything they had was taken away from them, and it left them with absolutely nothing. They were both broken – torn to bits by the bad of the world, by the monsters that continually made more monsters.

She was munching, quite violently, on her syrup-drowned-pancakes when he approached her, almost hesitantly. "May I have some?" His voice was low and bashful, like he was ashamed that he had to be asking food from her, but it was polite. She could tell that his old self was showing. His eyes wandered off at everything but at her and she had to give him a piercing gaze for their eyes to meet.

She scoffed, dabbing her mouth with tissue, and told him, "Make some yourself." She remained cold, indifferent to the way his teeth gnawed his lower lip and he looked so desperate, to be out of the situation. A heavy sigh escaped his lips as he walked to the stove, eyeing how it looked so technical and trying to read the words bellow the knobs.

He turned one of it, his eyes lighting up in fascination like how the ring of flames did, and mouthed a small woah. He found it amazing how the fire erupted as if from nowhere, when back in the time they used matches to light up fires. It was one of those reminders that he was definitely not in the correct era.

He turned the knob once again, and the flames disappeared with a click, while a look of sadness mirrored itself on his face. He missed the forties, when he was back in Brooklyn protecting Steve from bullies. He missed the old-fashioned language and how the women then were so conservative. He missed her – god, he missed her so much – and how she smiled without a care and how she acted like there wasn't a war going on.

He missed how she would flip her brown hair over her shoulder and bite her lip on concentration while she read an interesting novel. He missed how her green eyes would shine when she discovered something knew because god, even if he didn't remember much about her, he remembered how she loved to learn.

He missed the little Steve, how that damn annoying kid wouldn't back down from a fight because he believed it'd just satisfy the bullies. He missed how he was so much taller than Steve and was able to protect him and fuck, he was just thankful he was able to protect him in that train while trying to capture Zola. Even if it did mean falling to his supposed death and being captured by HYDRA and being experimented on. It was all worth it because it was Steve and he knew that he'd always put himself between danger and Steve, even if it meant dying.

He missed the simpler times – when they would eat at a diner and walk around the streets of Brooklyn, trying to pretend that Bucky didn't have to leave for war the next morning or that she didn't have to go to work. He missed his home.

Clearing her throat, Emily stood up and left the room, knowing that he was watching the swing of her hips and how she sauntered almost tauntingly and – dare he say – invitingly. His blue eyes scanned the kitchen before they landed on the plate she left on the lone table.

Two pieces of pancakes remained untouched on her plate, and Bucky had to bite back a small smile that itched to crawl its way across his lips.

"So what the hell happened to you that you showed up all...bloody on my doorstep?"

They were seated – quite awkwardly, Emily had to admit – across from each other on the dining room table as he quietly drank the coffee he had miraculously brewed. He savored the bitter taste, thinking of a way to properly explain the events that had occurred – after all, how could he tell her that he was attacked by a man who controlled electricity and his friends?

"I – um – I was attacked," he finally said and remembered how his ratty apartment was blown into bits when the man who had a gun for a hand shot the windows. "There were four of them, I think, and they were enhanced, like that Maximoff kid, you know?"

Emily sat straighter. "Kids," she corrected and Bucky gave her a look confusion, his eyebrows furrowed and his head tilted slightly to the side, resembling a puppy. "There were two of them – Wanda and Pietro Maximoff, twins. Until, of course, Pietro died in Sokovia in the battle with that deranged artificial intelligence Stark created – Tron, or something."

She said this all very casually, like she was particularly used to talking about the death of a hero. Bucky, however, held the same look of confusion – that may or may not have gotten worse at Emily's words – before he shook his head and continued his story.

"I killed one," he revealed, looking down in shame as he fiddled with his thumbs. "One shot, that's all it took. He had a fuckin' gun for a hand, well – I'm one to talk."

Bucky tilted his head to his metal arm and his fist clenched and unclenched as Emily's eyes lingered on the gleaming silver. Her eyes wandered up his arm and to his bare shoulder, where the metal connected with his skin and she let out a sharp breath. This was the arm that had killed so many, the arm that haunted her dreams and taunted her mind. He was the man that stayed in her brain day and night for nearly twenty years, hiding in every dark corner and making his way into her nightmares.

She looked away and Bucky let out a frustrated sigh. "Why did you help me?" he asked. "I ruined your life before it could even begin – killed everyone you held dear – and you could have just left me there to die but you didn't. You could have killed me in that alley and no one would've found out that you did it. So why?"

He sounded in pain, like every gunshot and wound and hurt he had inflicted on others, as the Winter Soldier and as himself during the war, had finally been reflected back onto him and he was the one suffering. His hands remained clenched, the sharp metal drawing blood from his palms, while he awaited an answer.

It felt like the tables have turned – just days before, she was desperate for an answer as to why he killed her family, and now he was just as desperate for an answer as to why she didn't leave him there to die. It felt almost ironic, how they were playing a game of deaths but they seemed so skilled at the game that neither of them could lose.

"Well, there were these tiny people – they're my neighbors – and they were shouting at me to bring you inside because you were at my door and they were sputtering nonsense in different languages that I couldn't possibly understand. So I carried you in and healed you because this one scary lady told me to," she rambled, only stopping the moment she saw his raised brow.

She pursed her lips, mentally cursing herself for being so fucking stupid for saying that, and felt like crying – not because she told such a horrible lie, but because she simply told a lie. You didn't mean to, calm down, she repeatedly told herself but her hands shook and her palms sweated and she felt like she was suffocating under the enormous pile of lies she's told other people.

"Is that the truth?" His words made her eyes snap open and her mouth dry. He had this look on his face like hew knew her like the back of his hand and his gaze was piercing, almost like he was trying to read her when she felt like it should have been the other way around.

"Of course it's the truth – what am I now, a liar?" she snarled, anger masking her face as she let out an animalistic growl.

"Well, I'm not exactly calling you a truther," he shot back, almost as angry as she was, with the most confidence he's had since he woke up from cryo. But the confidence quickly dissipated the moment he saw the way her nostrils flared and her eyes widened in such a size he didn't know was possible. He had to admit, she could be terrifying.

"You've got some fucking nerve, Soldier. After everything I've done for you – wait," she paused, a look of amusement crossing her face as she bit her lip in an attempt to keep in her laugh. "Did you just say truther? What – been watching Drake and Josh lately?"

"Who the hell are Drake and Josh?"

And with that, Emily released the loudest guffaw she ever heard from herself since she was twelve. The sound of her laugh filled the room, almost echoing inside the four walls, as she clutched her belly that was starting to hurt. Her eyes were shut, but even Bucky could see the tears threatening to escape from them.

After what seemed like hours, but was really just barely a minute, she calmed down and recomposed herself to see Bucky sporting a wide grin across his face. He loved her laugh – loved how he knew that she barely let herself loose but when she did, it would be amazing. He loved how her laugh wasn't forced, sounding natural as he smiled proudly for making her laugh.

"What – surprised I have funny bone in here somewhere?" she asked sarcastically, rolling her eyes as she stood up and picked up the two empty mugs – one once held hot chocolate and the other once held coffee – and placed them on the sink.

He shook his head, the amused smile finding its way on his lips once again, as he hastily replied, "You're much more tolerable when you're laughing and not trying to kill me,"

"You're much more tolerable when you're not trying to choke me to death," she retaliated just as quickly, a slight smirk gracing her features as she tilted her head just the right angle to get a good glimpse of him. "So about these bad guys – what did you say they were called again, the Resistance? – they just attacked you, like, out of nowhere?"

Bucky nodded and swallowed a gulp of saliva. "I – I don't think they wanted to kill me. Their attacks weren't fatal and the man – the electric one – it was like he had himself on stun, rather than kill."

Emily perked up, her eyes wide in interest as she gazed thoughtfully at the man sitting opposite her. "So you're saying they tried to capture you?"

»»

BUCKY DIDN'T LEAVE even after Emily cleaned his wounds and abled him to take a shower. When he did what he was told to do, it felt to him like the first shower he had taken decades. War didn't give him any opportunity to bathe in warm water with soap and good shampoo, and HYDRA didn't even let him go anywhere between his missions, so it was a change he was actually glad for.

Blood stained the water that dripped to ground, mixed with a hint of dirt, and he was more than happy to be cleansed – scrubbing himself like it would remove the blood that tainted his humanity. He took long – far too long, in fact, as he tried to savor the feeling of experiencing luxury. In a way, he felt humane – and in that shower, he could pretend like the last 70 years hadn't happened and he was in his old Brooklyn home in one of the few days he wasn't in war.

It was illogical, of course, since there weren't showers as nice or water as hot as he was experiencing at that moment. Stepping out of the shower, he felt, for once, clean. Like every essence of HYDRA was washed away down the drain and all that was left was a man trying to be good.

He didn't wait for Emily to come back in the bathroom. Instead, he lounged around her large apartment, trying to figure out how to work her difficult television, and even examining the remains of his old backpack and his worn-out stuff. The cellular phone Wilson had given him was destroyed – fried in his pocket when Voltaire electrocuted him – and he hardly even remembered the first four numbers of Steve's phone number – something he severely regretted.

"You look like a hobo," she stated bluntly as she threw him the new clothes she had quickly bought in ten minutes for him. She avoided looking at his body like it was the most disgusting piece of vermin, trying not to be entranced by the fact that he only had a towel wrapped around his waist to cover him. "Put those on, make yourself decent for god's sake."

Bucky would've thought she was throwing insults at him, had he not seen the red that tinged her cheeks as he walked to the bathroom to wear the clothes.

"So you've been with HYDRA for what – seventy years?" she asked once they were seated as far as they could be on the couch with their respective hot beverages in their hands. He took a sip of his coffee and nodded at her, completely uncomfortable with the way she was speaking of his years in confinement like it was nothing at all. "And you haven't had the time to keep up with time times then? Listen to the Beatles, witness Audrey Hepburn's legendary acting, watch any of the Harry Potter movies?"

"Three questions – " he gulped the rest of his coffee down, ignoring the heat that burned at the back of his throat, and sat to face her. "Why the hell would I listen to beetles, who's Audrey Hepburn, how many Hardy Pot-whatever movies are there?"

In a matter of minutes, they were both curled up on the couch, with her wrapped in the snuggest blanket she could find and with his arms crossed across his chest as he stared at the television in an almost glare. Suffice to say, he wasn't very used to watching a movie with color. A snore from his left made him stop watching the part where that kid named Malfoy left Hardy in some sort of forest.

Emily was fast asleep, her mouth opened wide in an almost embarrassingly fashion, and he had to admit, he enjoyed her guard down. A dribble of saliva was slowly making its way down her chin, and although he found it disgusting, amusement was the only emotion mirrored on his face at that moment.

With a poke on the nose from his metal arm, she woke up with a jolt, looking around frantically – in an almost frightened way, Bucky observed – before calming down and staring at him with a particularly murderous look on her face.

"Don't ever wake me up – "

She didn't even finish her sentence when gunshots were heard, and in a matter of seconds, all her windows were broken, glass scattering the floor, and three unfamiliar figures stood in her living room.

The third word is one hundred seven – a part of him not even HYDRA could destroy.

»»

From Gabriella —
Fun Fact: I was binge rewatching Drake and Josh when I was writing this – I got distracted a lot – which is why the word "truther" came out. I laughed for two minutes and nearly twenty seconds, my brother timed it 😂 This was such a difficult chapter to write, obviously since this is only 3200 words while the other two are an average of 4000, since I'm obviously not very good at writing realistic dialogues but I tried fam! 🐸☕️