Setting: TWS

You weren't sure how many days it had been since you'd been pulled out of your car by the man with the metal arm. The only things that made you believe it actually happened were the two injuries that you had gotten when someone had hit your car.

You stood in front of the mirror in your tiny bathroom, examining the wounds on your head and cheek. They were sensitive to the touch, but the doctor had only given the gash on your head stitches. She said that the cut to your cheek would take a while to heal on its own, and there wasn't really anything she could do for it.

Ironically, she couldn't cure the other pain you felt, either—the aching feeling in your heart.

James Barnes had hurt you, but not in the way of physical pain. He had barely mumbled a few words to you, words that you couldn't get out of your head. You couldn't get him out of your head.

"I'm afraid I know about as much as myself as you do." He said.

"But we're strangers, so I don't know you."

"Exactly."

You looked down into the sink, a drop of blood falling and landing in the basin. You brought your hand up to your head, unaware that you'd pulled a few of your stitches loose. You pulled your hand away, red coating your fingertips. Leaning over the sink, you grabbed a hand towel and held it to your head with your clean hand, then turned the faucet on and ran cold water over the other hand to wash the blood away.

You left the bathroom in search of your car keys, still holding the towel to your head. Grabbing them off of the table, you opened the door of your apartment and left, scurrying down the staircase. You were walking so quickly, your eyes on your feet, that you nearly ran into a man on the stairs.

"Are you okay?" The man asked quietly, his voice sounding slightly familiar, though you couldn't see his face because of his baseball cap, and because he was a few steps below you.

"I'm fine. I just pulled a few stitches loose, so I'm going down to the hospital to get fixed up." You told him as you stood idle a few steps above him.

"You probably shouldn't drive like this." He replied, his voice still low.

You narrowed your eyes at him, taking notice of a few strands of hair that had fallen loose from the knot he had tied in his hair at the back. He looked up slightly, the baseball cap still leaving his face in the shadows, except for his lips.

"James?" You stepped down one stair, catching his eyes as he looked up at you and pulled to baseball cap off.

It was him. It was James Barnes, a man you thought you'd never see again.

"I'm sorry." He sucked in a breath, stepping up one step so that you were only two steps away from each other.

"For what? Saving my life?" You asked, a small chuckle escaping your lips.

"I wouldn't say I saved your life." James pursed his lips, his eyes studying the hand towel you held against your forehead.

"If you wouldn't have pulled me out of the car, that bullet would have hit me." You exhaled, feeling some strange comfort now that you were in his presence again.

"No, it wouldn't have. That bullet never would've come close to you if I hadn't been there." He explained, pulling the hair tie out of his hair.

"Why would someone shoot at you, anyways?"

He forced a low laugh, "A lot of people try to shoot me, sweetheart."

You shifted on your feet, narrowing your eyes at him, "What does that mean?"

"I'm a wanted man." He admitted, "I've done some unforgivable things."

"Like what?"

"If I told you, you'd only be more at risk."

"At risk of what?" You asked, pulling the towel away to see if the bleeding had stopped.

He didn't answer, he only took the towel from your hands and closed the space between you. He pressed the towel against your head again, gently.

"James?"

"It's Bucky." He looked down at you, his blue eyes tired.

"What?" You questioned, looking up at him.

"My name. . .it's Bucky," he repeated himself, dabbing the gash on your head.

He pulled the towel away to examine your stitches, then wet his lower lip with his tongue before speaking again.

"Беспорядочный." He said, raising an eyebrow as he pressed the towel to your head again.

"What does that mean?"

"Messy," he chuckled.

"Can I ask you a question, James?" You chewed on your lip anxiously, your eyes trailing down to his arm, his metal hand poking out of his sleeve.

"Bucky," he corrected you, "but yes." He noticed you eyeing his metal arm, and he suddenly felt self-conscious.

You were the first person he'd had this much interaction with in years. He'd only ever dealt with Hydra, and he didn't think they qualified as people. They were monsters—just like him.

"How did you find me?" You asked; you were curious, because he had never even asked your name that day on the bridge. So, it wasn't like he could have looked up your address.

"I've been keeping an eye on you since that day." He said hesitantly, afraid of how you'd react.

You nodded, not really sure of how to respond. It was hard to piece together everything; Bucky was a mystery, a puzzle that you couldn't solve.

"Why?" You asked, tilting your head to the side, his hand still holding the towel to your face.

"I already answered your question, now it's my turn to ask you one." Bucky remarked.

"Fair enough," you replied, "ask away."

"Are you scared of me?" The muscle in his jaw flexed as he awaited an answer, hoping that you'd say no.

"Scared?" You glanced up at the staircases above you before looking back at him, "No. Should I be?"

"I don't know," he admitted, pulling the towel away again. "But I do know that you need these stitches redone."

You stared at him, the staircase growing silent.

"What?" He asked, finally breaking the silence.

"Well, are you gonna offer to drive me to the hospital or not?" You asked, the corner of your lip pulling up into an amused expression.

Bucky shook his head, "I can't."

The expression faded from your face.

"But I can stitch it up myself." He said.

"Oh? I didn't know you were a doctor?" You chuckled, taking his metal hand in yours as you turned and lead him back up the stairs to your apartment.

"There's a lot of things you don't know about me."

"I think I've figured that out by now."

You twisted the knob to your apartment door once you'd climbed all three staircases, Bucky's metal hand holing onto yours. Normally, you'd never invite a stranger into your home, but Bucky didn't feel like a stranger. You knew little about him now, but you wanted that to change. You wanted to help him.

"Welcome, to my humble abode." You joked, closing the door behind him as he looked around the cramped space.

"It's nice."

"What's your place like?" You asked as you released his hand and walked over to the kitchen counter, placing your keys in the decorative bowl on top.

"I don't—I don't really have one." He admitted, looking over at you.

You walked back over to him, gesturing him to follow you into the bathroom.

"You, my friend, are a тайна (mystery)." You said, glancing over your shoulder at him to see a shocked expression on his face.

"You speak Russian?" He asked, surprised.

"Goodness, no." You chuckled, opening the bathroom cabinet to retrieve supplies he would need to stitch you up. "I looked it up online after we met."

"Why 'тайна'?" He raised an eyebrow, taking the supply kit from your hands

"Because, that's what you were. A mystery," you sat on the edge of your tub, looking at him.

He didn't say anything; he only tucked your hair behind your ear to expose your face and looked in the supply kit.

"Bucky?"

He looked away from the needle and thread in his hands and looked at you, his eyebrow raised.

"What happened? To your arm?" You asked as he placed his metal hand under you chin and tilted your face up.

"Long story." He replied, steadying his hand to start stitching the gash.

"I've got time." You chuckled, eliciting a look from him.

"You know, you never told me your name." He said as he finished off the first stitch, his eyes fixated on the gash so he wouldn't mess up and hurt you.

You winced at the feeling of the needle, "It's (Y/N) (Y/L/N)."

"(Y/N)," he repeated, working on the second stitch.

"So?"

"So what?"

"Are you going to tell me how you lost your arm or not?" You asked, causing him to sigh and look down at you.

"You're a pain in the ass, you know that, right?" Bucky shook his head, his lips pulling into a smirk.

"You have no idea." You chuckled, trying to stay still.

"I lost it in an accident." He said, finishing off the rest of your stitches. "All done."

You smiled up at him, his metal hand still holding your chin up. You hadn't expected it, but before you could thank him, he was lifting your chin up to meet him, his lips pressing against yours.

Almost as quickly as he had pulled you in, though, he let you go, "I shouldn't have done that."

"Bucky—"

"I'm not who you think I am." He stood up, running a hand through his hair. "Hell, I don't even know who I am."

You sat still, looking up at him. You could see how he was struggling; he was internally fighting himself, but you didn't know why. Something had happened to him, and though you barely knew anything about him, you knew that he was lost.

"How can I help?" You asked, standing up.

"забудь меня (forget me)." He said seriously, his blue eyes looking colder than before.

You watched him carefully, taking a step closer to him, "You don't have do this."

"I do. I have hurt so many people, (Y/N). And it isn't fair for me to hurt you, too." He explained, his voice low.

"You haven't hurt me, Bucky."

"But it's only a matter of time before I do."

You frowned, "I don't believe that."

"You don't know me." Bucky sighed, backing away from you.

You watched his expression change—soften. He didn't want to do this; you knew he didn't.

"You need to forget me. Forget that you ever met me."

And with that, Bucky Barnes was gone as quickly as he'd come into your life.