You think your neighbor is part of the Russian mafia.

Of course, you've never heard of the mob being in your neighborhood, so it's just a theory. A silly one. You know that. Still, he just... He fits the part. You've heard him speaking Slavic languages through the thin walls. You've caught glimpses of him coming and going from the apartment across from yours. He wears dark clothes. Black gloves. There's a permanent scowl on his face. The one time you accidentally made eye contact with him, he didn't say anything. Just fixed you with steely gray eyes and ducked into his apartment like a roach scurrying under a rock. Weirdest almost-encounter you've ever had in your life.

You've never seen anyone else around that apartment. Maybe mobsters don't make friends easily. Or possibly... probably... he's just an anti-social man that doesn't make friends easily. Or he's a serial killer. You haven't considered the serial killer possibility yet. Three fantastic options, all around.

Not that you're the prime example of having friends of course. Things were easier back home in Connecticut where the towns are small and you see the same ten people every day. It's easy to get nostalgic for your coastal lighthouse home when the weather cools down. You dream about it... About the lighthouse, the ocean, the friends who stopped by without warning. Brooklyn is just so big. Your friends here are limited to your coworkers at the library and the nice, old couple that owns the coffee shop a block from your house. It's not many, but it's enough for just getting started.

December comes, and your holiday break comes with it. The day before you head home to the lighthouse, you make cookies for your friends and neighbors. Even the Russian mafia one. You scribble a snowman on the box so he'll perceive it as a gift and not a bomb and leave it at his door. There. That's your holiday work done before you leave for Connecticut for the rest of the season.

The box is still there the next morning when you pull your suitcase out the door, but as you wrap your scarf around your neck, your neighbor's door opens. He stares down at the box, eyebrows furrowed until he looks up to meet your eyes.

You have to remind yourself to smile. "Happy holidays," you say. Then, before he can respond, you're out the door.

You spend the holidays quietly by yourself at the lighthouse, entertaining the friends that visit with tales of New York. None of them think that your neighbor is actually mafia, but you laugh about it anyway. At night, you stand alone on the rocks and stare out at the ocean and try not to freeze.

Returning to Brooklyn is an ordeal. It doesn't help that the lighthouse is always in the back of your mind, and you never want to leave. But you have an amazing job in a big city that you have to have to pay for its upkeep.

You drag your feet back into your apartment building, keeping your head low, almost missing the post-it note on your door. It catches you by surprise, highlighter yellow against the dark wood, reading: Thanks, you too. A snowman is scribbled in the corner in blue ink.

The door behind you opens, and you turn just in time to see your neighbor flash you a tight-lipped smile before ducking out of the building.

As the season changes, the building's entire air conditioning unit breaks on the weekend because of course it does. It winds up being cooler outdoors where there's a breeze than indoors where you're trapped with the hot air. Most of your neighbors seem to think so, anyway. The block is crowded with tenants escaping the heat while the unit is being fixed. Kids are playing together, drawing with chalk on the sidewalk. Someone's brought out a cooler full of lemonade and soda. It's nice, you have to admit. Nicer than spending the day isolated indoors. This sense of community in the air makes you feel like you're in a living Norman Rockwell painting. But above that, it makes you feel like a person.

Still, you don't hold a long conversation with anyone until you see your Russian Mafia neighbor sitting on the railing of the steps with a notebook in his hands. He's buried under a baseball cap, hidden behind a frumpy, old jacket, moving his pen furiously across the page. He's engrossed in it, which makes you feel bad when he suddenly looks up and you realize you've been staring.

"I'm sorry," you say. "I just... Do you write?"

He blinks at you once before turning his gaze back to his notebook. "Just for myself," he answers. He's muttering his words like he's not used to talking, but he's using perfect, unbroken English.

"It's a good habit," you say. "Sometimes at the library, I get to restore the journals of people who just wrote for themselves. You never know where it'll end up, I guess."

You hope you're not imagining the twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Geez..." he says, flipping the notebook closed and staring at the red leather cover. "Hope this never winds up there. Don't need some punk doing a book report on me."

You smile and let a polite silence linger between you. The noises of children laughing and a breeze passing through the trees fill it. "I never got your name," you finally say, because it's a question you've had for a while. You can't just keep referring to him as the Russian Mafia neighbor.

"Bucky. Bucky Jefferson," he answers. It's almost a comical name to belong to someone so imposing, but it suits him somehow. Like he picked it for himself. "Yours?"

When you tell him your name, he repeats it back to you like he's memorizing it. He even says it with a nod and just the faintest hints of a smile. "You left me cookies a couple of months ago, didn't you?"

The entire incident had almost slipped your mind. The only thing you have to remind you is the thank-you post-it note that you're currently using as a bookmark in a fiction book about World War II that you've been engrossed in. "Oh, yeah," you say. "Guess I did. Hope you liked them."

Bucky nods. "Yeah, I did. Thanks."

"Oh, no problem," you reply.

Then there's another silence. Just when you think that the conversation is about to dwindle into obscurity, he starts it up again. "Um..." he says. "You work at the library?"

"I repair books," you answer with a nod. "Sometimes I get to completely restore them. It's not much, but it pays well."

"Sounds interesting," he remarks politely.

"It is," you confirm. "I like it. I like old, broken things."

He quirks an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

"Well, I like making them better," you clarify. "It's like... I don't know. It's like seeing them fresh off the press. Like how they want to be seen."

And that's true. You get so much satisfaction out of seeing old volumes come to life in your hands like you never touched them at all. Like that's how they always were. But it takes a split-second of quiet for you to realize that those are thoughts you've never spoken aloud, and they sound like the ramblings of an insane person who anthropomorphizes books.

"Sorry, I know that probably doesn't make sense," you say.

Bucky shakes his head. "No, it's..." He looks down at his journal and back to you. "It's an interesting way of seeing things."

From there, the conversation doesn't dwindle. It stays until the air conditioning is fixed and neither of you notices. The kids all go inside, the afternoon breeze stops. The Norman Rockwell scene is back behind frames. But you and Bucky are still outside, talking to each other like old friends. You get the impression that he was never shy or anti-social at all, but you have no clue what he is. You somehow feel privileged to get even this much insight into him.

When the sun starts to noticeably sink and the sidewalk lights come on, it stops you mid-sentence. You both look up at the artificial, offensive things telling you that your Saturday is over.

"Guess we've been out here a while, huh..." he remarks.

"Guess so," you answer, only just realizing you're the only people from your complex still outside. It's nice out here. There's an evening chill that makes you wish you had thought to bring a frumpy, old jacket, too. "We'd better go in."

Bucky nods, hops off the railing, and opens the door of the complex for you. When you reach the top of the stairs, you split ways. Bucky in his apartment, you in yours. Before you close the door, however, you turn around. "Have a good night, Bucky," you tell him.

"You, too," he replies. Then, wordless, you shut the door.

So, you don't think your neighbor is part of the Russian mafia. You don't think he's anti-social or a serial killer. What you do think is that you have no idea where to start with him.

You're perplexed by this person who grew up right here in Brooklyn and doesn't have any friends in town. A person who can spend the day talking to strangers without telling them much about himself at all. Someone who looks so haunted but smiles so warmly. He's not keeping the secrets you used to dream up about him just to spook yourself. But you wonder what he's burying. Wonder why you think it's any of your business.

None of this matters, you reason. Being intrigued doesn't give you some kind of right to him. At the moment, you're happy to have made something akin to a friend. Heaven knows you've needed one.

Outside of passing hellos and how-are-yous, you don't see Bucky again until next weekend. You can't remember for your life what you used to do on Saturdays in Connecticut. Well, that's not true. You used to sit by the lighthouse with your friends and throw pebbles at each other. Not a viable option right now.

Thankfully, Something To Do comes when the ice cream maker you ordered arrives on your doorstep. Unfortunately, it arrives as a collection of parts with an instruction manual that's completely in Russian. It's what you get for ordering from one of those extreme discount apps, you suppose.

You mull over different solutions in your mind. Try to piece it together, manual-free or suck it up and go buy an ice cream maker that you know works... It's not until you've already grabbed your wallet and started to walk out the door that you remember. Across the thin-walled hallway is a neighbor who is something akin to a friend who speaks Slavic languages. What are the odds that the Russian mafia neighbor knows Russian?

You knock without thinking, and the door opens before you have time to think better of it. There's Bucky with his hair pulled back and tied off and a loose grey tank top on his back. He has a metal arm. You don't know why you haven't noticed before. It's bright and shining, nearly blinding. Until you remember that he's had long sleeves every time you've seen him before. You can see now, the defined muscles of his flesh arm and the way the top stretches across the breadth of his chest. His propensity for layers has kept you from noticing how strong he seems to be.

"Hey," you breathe out. Then you clear your throat. "Sorry to bother you, but... Do you happen to speak Russian, by chance?"

It's quick, the way his eyes scan you up and down. Still, you catch it. It makes you think maybe you overstepped. Maybe "akin to a friend" is a massive stretch. Maybe he can't think of a single thing that would justify you being outside his door. But the uncertainty passes when he, too, clears his throat and says, "Er, yeah. Yeah, I do."

You nod. "Oh, well, I ask because I got this ice cream maker, and the instructions are all in Russian. And I was thinking if you're not busy..."

"Sure," Bucky says before you can even finish your proposal. "Yeah, um... Where is it?"

And so it is that he follows you into your kitchen without the fact that he's the first guest you've had in your apartment even crossing your mind. The ice cream maker pieces are scattered over the kitchen floor, and he grabs the manual off the counter and sits down cross-legged on the floor. He looks the booklet over once before quirking a brow and looking up at you. "Ready?" he asks.

You hesitate for just a second for reasons unknown to you before joining him on the floor and nodding. "Go."

It takes over two hours, and by the time it starts working, you and Bucky have fallen into perfect synchronization. He says a word in Russian, translates it, and hands you the corresponding part. You learn the anatomy of an ice cream maker in a foreign language in an afternoon. The language feels funny in the back of your throat, but he's encouraging. When you mess up, he laughs quietly and good-naturedly. He speaks the words slowly and makes you stare at his mouth as he forms the sounds again and again.

Ice cream makers are loud. You figure that out quickly. They're much too loud to hold a decent conversation over, so you and Bucky venture outside to walk around the block until the ice cream is done. It's only then that he clears his throat and asks, "So how did you know I know Russian?"

You can feel yourself flush bright red. "Lucky guess," you say. "I heard you speaking something Slavic once a long time ago, and I wasn't sure..."

"Okay, got it," he says. "Well, if you get anything else with instructions in Russian, Ukrainian, Polish, Czech, Romanian—"

"You speak all that?" you ask incredulously.

Bucky glances at you from the corner of his eye and smiles. "All that and humble about it, too," he says.

"Well, color me impressed," you laugh. "I wish I could learn languages like that."

Bucky shrugs. "I don't know. You seemed to pick up on those Russian words pretty fast."

"You think so?"

He considers you for a second before saying, "What language do you think you'd be most interested to learn?"

"Sign language," you answer immediately.

"ASL?" he clarifies.

You nod. There's always been something beautiful to you about the way hands form words through sign. You've found yourself entranced every time you've seen it used in person. "Yeah," you affirm. "I would love to learn ASL."

Bucky nods slowly, pursing his lips in thought. "I could teach you if you want," he says suddenly.

Eyeing him skeptically, you say, "You're not telling me you know all those languages and ASL on top of it all?"

"You'd be surprised," he answers with a shrug. "Is that a no?"

It's a moment's hesitation as you consider this absolute enigma of a man walking next to you. It's normal, you guess, to be constantly learning new things about new people. But you never expect to be invited to share in these things so openly and naturally. It makes you wonder again why he doesn't have any friends. He's so naturally inviting and accommodating and friendly. Or maybe that's just your new perspective on him.

"No," you answer. "No, I'd— I'd love to. If it's okay with you?"

Bucky's eyes go warm as he smiles wide at you. "Yeah," he confirms. "It's okay with me."

It works out that every Saturday morning, you and Bucky take up residence in a far corner of the coffee shop. It's there that your hands busy themselves becoming familiar with words that don't seem to make sense until those words become polite phrases and those phrases become ideas and opinions.

You learn quickly how to fingerspell your name, and then Bucky's. You learn very quickly how to sign, "Sorry, I'm still learning sign language." But your favorite sign is the one Bucky teaches you for "I love you." It's the simplest thing in the world. All you do is hold up your hand and fold your middle two fingers down over your palm. It's such a small gesture to get across one of the biggest concepts in the world.

Once the coffee shop begins to get redundant, you migrate all over the city. Sometimes, you sign to each other, but you mostly just talk. You quickly learn how to be with each other: sarcastic, playfully rude, and totally natural. It's the kind of friendship you learned early on not to expect from Brooklyn. It's a gift to have it despite everything.

Winter comes again along with your subsequent holiday visit to Connecticut.

"Gone for two whole months, huh?" Bucky remarks. The cold wind is turning his cheeks and nose red as you walk together along the pier. It's funny how crowded this place can be even during some of the coldest times of the year. It's less crowded, granted, but still just too crowded for your taste.

"Yep," you confirm. "It'll be good for me, y'know? And I know my friends are excited to see me. And I'm excited to be in a place where I actually have friends."

Bucky quirks his eyebrows up. "Gee, thanks," he teases.

You roll your eyes and nudge him with your shoulder. "Connecticut Friends. You know. Friends, plural."

Bucky smiles. "No, I get it," he says. "It'll be weird, though."

"What will?"

"Not having you around," he answers with a noncommittal shrug. "I think I've gotten used to you being just across the hall."

"Oh," you answer. And something clicks for you immediately. You've gotten used to him, too. Over just a year, one that flew by, he's transformed from the Russian Mafia neighbor to your good friend Bucky who lives across the hall and goes on long walks with you. And suddenly there's the faintest hint of reluctance to leave sparking up into a candle glow life. Well, maybe it's reluctance. Maybe it's something else.

That night, Bucky keeps you company in your kitchen as you make cookies for your neighbors. (You think you're going to make it a tradition to do that.) And while they're in the oven, you sit on your couch and watch discs and discs of the I Love Lucy box set you inherited from your mother. Bucky is on the floor, back against the couch, laughing like he's never heard any of these old jokes before.

He ends up leaving only a few hours before sunrise, and you give him a box of cookies (snowman scribbled on top) to take with him. You have to leave in a few hours.

Connecticut is as pretty as ever, of course. It's nice to see your friends again, and it's nice to feel the old comforts of your childhood home. But it's such a long time away, and the hours alone staring at the freezing ocean begin to feel empty. It's strange. They never did before. Even with your friends, you're starting to feel a disconnect that you've never felt. It's to be expected, you suppose. After all, you spend all of your time in New York now. They all spend most of their time together. But it's something else, too. Something you don't really want to admit. It'll be weird, Bucky had said. You think you've gotten used to him being just across the hall.

Two months drag by like pulling teeth, and finally packing your bags feels like drawing in an anticipatory breath for an upcoming sigh of relief. You hug your old friends goodbye and arrive in New York like coming into the embrace of another friend. Exhausted, you stumble into your apartment and collapse on the couch, feeling some tension relax from your shoulders.

Then there's a knock on the door, and there's only one person who knocks on your door this late at night. Jumping off the couch, you hurry to the door as fast as your feet will carry you and swing the door open. There Bucky stands in the doorway, eyes wide and dumbstruck. Gosh, you wanna hug him. There's a magnetic pull that's making it hard not to.

"Sorry, I know it's late," he starts.

"Yeah, a little," you answer with a grin.

His eyes dart back and forth, never quite meeting yours. "Yeah," he repeats with a cringe. "I, uh... Y'know, thin walls. I heard your door, and—"

Okay, you can't take it anymore. Instead of letting him stay another stupid word, you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him into the tightest hug you can manage. Outside of a slight "oomph," he responds immediately, folding his arms over your back and pressing his nose into your shoulder.

"Do you wanna come in?" you mutter close to his ear, not letting go. "I was gonna turn on I Love Lucy before I went to bed." Which... is so not true. Your intention was to sit for a little in peace before digging some pajamas out of your suitcase and falling asleep in your own bed. But you like having Bucky right where he is, and you're willing to pull out all the stops to keep him there.

"Yeah," he answers. "Yeah, just give me a minute." And he doesn't let go either. For another minute, true to his word, he just stands with you— holds you— in your doorway. Yeah, of course, you'll give him a minute like this if he needs it. You'd give him hours.

Eventually, you pull apart just to smile and turn into the living room together. On the couch, you sit pressed arm to arm, watching episode after episode. Just about the time Ricky Ricardo crosses the little grayscale screen to say, "Lucy, I wanna speak to you about goss'ping," you're starting to doze off. If your head tilts a little bit towards Bucky's shoulder, he doesn't say anything about it. And right there on a ratty New York couch, you have a night of better sleep than you have for months at your Connecticut home.

When you wake up, it's because it's suddenly way too bright in your living room. The first rays of sunlight are committing the federal crime of breaking and entering into the peace of your home. Really, how dare they. It's warm enough right now without the sun. You grunt against the intrusion and turn your face against the morning light and directly into someone's arm.

Your eyes shoot open in an instant. There's no way... You know you didn't fall asleep next to Bucky. Well, on top of Bucky. He's more reclining against the arm of the couch than he is sitting up, and you're just... sprawled across him with his right hand resting comfortably on the small of your back. There's that source of warmth that's got you thinking you don't need the sun anymore. It gets even warmer when you flush from the tip of your ears to the tips of your toes.

Lifting your head, you try to sneak a glance at his face. Mercifully, he's still very much asleep. If he fell asleep, too, there's a decent chance he would have no idea this happened. If you could just leave before he wakes up. Oh, but it is so warm right here. And you haven't seen him in so long. And he did fall asleep, too... Well, part of you is tempted to fall back asleep and let him wake up to deal with the consequences of this.

Once again, you grunt. This time with the knowledge that you can't just do that to him.

You carefully extract yourself from the position and tiptoe across the floor to hide in the kitchen. The best course of action is to just not think about anything that happened back there, so you just don't. You don't think about how many times you've shared space with your friends and how that felt so, so different from any of those times. You don't think about how there's a new kind of nausea swirling in your stomach, and you don't think about how it isn't... unpleasant. Instead, you think about unpacking and making yourself breakfast. Because that's the best course of action. Along with just not thinking about it.

As difficult as it is to actively not think about it for most of the morning, it all flies out of your head when Bucky shouts from the living room. Like he's in pain. Like someone's hurting him. An unpleasant wave of nausea washes over you in full swing, as you rush to the living room. He's still on the couch, asleep and perfectly still except for the occasional twitching of his tense limbs. If you didn't know better, you would say he's tied down. He's still making noise, alternating between screams and whimpers.

You reach a tentative hand out to his metal shoulder and gently shake him. "Bucky," you call to him, desperate to guide him through the fog. "Bucky, hon, you're having a nightmare. Come on. Bucky, please."

All in a flash, his good hand darts up to grip your wrist with bruising force. His eyes jump open, and he's breathing hard as he stares at you before glancing at his surroundings. Not once does his grip on you relax.

"Are you okay?" you ask after he's had a chance to reassess.

He swallows hard, not meeting your eyes. "Yeah," he answers. "'M fine."

A beat. "Bad dream?"

Leaning his head back, he closes his eyes. "Something like that," he mutters. Then, quieter, "You get used to it."

"Bucky?"

"Hm?"

"You're still holding onto me."

He opens his eyes to look down at where his hand is still wrapped around the weakest part of your arm. It occurs to you that it would probably take nothing for him to just snap it if he wanted to. And yet, that doesn't bother you at all. Especially not when he rubs his thumb across your skin twice before slowly loosening his fingers with a nearly audible creak. "Did I hurt you?" he asks.

Yes, a little. "No," you tell him, latching onto your own wrist and repeating the thumb across skin motion. It's not the same. "I'm going to make you some tea."

Once tea for the both of you is made, you settle next to Bucky on the couch the same way you were settled last night. Arm to arm, you drink in silence, waiting for the other person to break.

"How was Connecticut?" he finally asks.

Not the conversation you want to have right now. "Fine," you answer. "The lighthouse is in good shape. The renovations were finished over the summer, so the heating was a lot better than it was last year."

"Sounds nice."

"It is."

Another long stretch of silence passes in which you have to decide whether you're going to try to talk about the nightmares or if you're going to try to ignore how tense he still is. Eventually, your choice is made for you when he looks down into his mug and mutters, "I'm sorry you had to deal with..."

If he was going to attempt to finish his sentence, you don't let him. Instead, you set your mug down on the table. "Bucky, I don't care," you tell him. "I mean, I do care, but I don't. You understand what I'm saying?"

The corner of his mouth twitches up in a mirthless half-smile. "I understand, but I don't. Understand?"

You settle even further back into the cushions. "I guess, I do," you mumble. "But I don't." You really don't get it. How can he not understand why you care? He's Bucky. Your Bucky. The only one you've got. Of course, you care. Even your natural curiosity about where the nightmares come from is trumped by your desire to just dig out whatever's hurting him and let it die without him to feed on.

"Don't look at me like that," he tells you suddenly.

"Like what?" you ask.

"Like I'm a wounded animal," he answers. "It makes you look like a wounded animal."

Furrowing your brows, you scoff. "What do you mean?"

"You're making me feel worse for you than I do for myself," he says with something of an ironic grin and a gentle elbow in your ribs.

And you know he's trying to deflect your concern, and it somehow makes everything that much worse. But you can't show it. So, you stick out your lower lip in a mock pout. "I'm sorry," you tease. "You just remind me of a little kicked puppy is all."

Bucky rolls his eyes. "Shut up," he says, but he's smiling softly.

And the conversation should probably be longer and hold more weight, but it ends right there. He knows you care. That's the important thing. No, he doesn't know how deep that care is digging into you every minute. No, he doesn't understand why you care. But he's going to spend at least the next couple of weeks knowing that he is cared for. Really, that's all that matters. Not the nightmares and not the questions that those nightmares bring up. Just him.

You and Bucky fall back into your regular routines like riding a bike. Like no time has passed at all. There's no shortage of things to talk about, places to go, or movies to watch together.

Tea after stressful days is a nice new addition to your weird, friendship rituals. Sometimes, after Saturday coffee, you go to one of the little shops in the downtown area that has novelty teas just to see if there are any flavors you want to try. In the post-holiday sale section, you find some discounted mugs and flavors like peppermint and gingerbread. Bucky points to an unnaturally adorable snowman-shaped one and says, "Hey, that looks like the snowman you draw on the cookie boxes."

You respond to that by pointing to another snowman mug. This one looks like the Ebenezer Scrooge of snowmen. Scruffy and grumpy. "That one is you," you tell him.

So, you end up buying them both and using them year-round.

The library keeps the summer busy for you with summer reading programs for kids motivated by prizes, but they have a good one for adults as well. After all, gift cards to a grocery store is nothing to thumb your nose at, and you've been meaning to finish that book on World War II, anyway.

During one weekend that you and Bucky get up early to catch the morning sun coming up over the beach. You bring your beach chairs and book, and he brings the towels and his journal. He's assured you that his prosthetic won't be damaged if he swims, but neither of you is ready to do that just yet. It's nice to just sit in silence with your own things, slowly acclimating to the growing light.

At a certain point in your book, you poke Bucky's arm. "Look," you say, turning the pages to him. "One of the Howling Commandos was named Bucky."

He looks at the book and nods. "Yeah, I know," he says. "James Buchanan Barnes. He was Cap's best friend. Died in action. Only one of the Commandos that did."

"Oh, you knew," you mutter, bringing the book back to yourself. "Were you named after him or something?"

Bucky looks back at his journal. "Or something," he mutters. After a while, he adds, "He grew up in Brooklyn, too."

You glance over at Bucky with a quirked brow. "Oh, are you suddenly the James 'Bucky' Barnes expert?"

"Yes," he answers immediately and without a hint of irony. "Do you wanna know something else about him?"

"Sure."

He actually thinks it over for a little bit. "He cried like a little girl when he was drafted," he finally lands on. "Not a lot of people know that. He was terrified to go overseas, but he put on a brave face for Steve. That kind of thing was important to Steve, and he didn't want Steve to catch him crying over it."

You roll your eyes and shift your attention back to your book. "You're just making stuff up," you grumble.

"Maybe," Bucky allows. "But I have a ninety-nine percent chance of saying something true. Wanna know something else?"

With a sigh, you bookmark your spot with Bucky's snowman post-it note and close your book. "Go for it," you say.

There's something intense behind those gray eyes that's forcing you to give him your full attention as he says, "I think Bucky was probably in love."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he continues. "I think he probably had a girl he was so crazy about that he'd given some serious thought to just forgetting it all and running away with her. Probably just wanted to get out of Brooklyn with her and start a real life. But who knows? Maybe he'd wanted to get out of Brooklyn for a long time. Longer than he'd ever known her. Maybe he didn't know why he couldn't ever seem to leave, but maybe she was starting to give him the courage to actually do it. But I think, regardless, he'd probably be jealous of a lighthouse in Connecticut to escape to every winter."

You don't know why it's so difficult to swallow, but it is. "What about you, Buck?" you manage to get out.

"What about me?"

Do you think you could ever be in love? That's what you want to ask. But of course, you don't because there's no reason to be stupid. "Do you want to get out of Brooklyn?" is what you settle for instead.

He worries his bottom lip thoughtfully with his teeth before releasing it, and you have to make a conscious effort not to look at his mouth. "Yeah," he answers decisively.

A moment passes in silence as you consider each other. "Why don't you come with me this year?" you say.

Bucky raises an eyebrow. "To the lighthouse?"

You break into a grin as you nod. "Yeah. To the lighthouse."

He turns his head back to the city. There's a whole world over there choked with traffic lights and smog, and you can almost see the gears turning in his brain as he considers it. Then, as he looks back at you, he smiles. "Y'know... I might have to take you up on that."

It's a nice beach day, after that. All your favorite beach activities seem better for the fact that Bucky's right by you doing them, too. When it's all over, he wraps your towel over your shoulders and walks you back to the car.

The drive back is mostly quiet, but you get very into your own thoughts. "I hope what you said about Bucky Barnes isn't true," you tell him suddenly.

Bucky keeps his eyes on the road, but his jaw twitches. "Which part?"

"The whole thing about the girl and wanting to start a life outside Brooklyn," you say.

Another moment of silence. "Why?"

"Bucky, that would be so sad," you tell him. "He died. He never got to do any of that."

Bucky takes a deep breath in and out. "Yeah," he says on the exhale. It's not until you get back to the apartment complex and you're both standing in your respective doorways that he adds, "Wasn't there some kind of poem about loving and losing, though?"

You lean against the frame of your door. "Are you talking about Tennyson's poem?" you ask.

"Probably," he allows. "'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.' I think that's the way the quote goes."

"That sounds right," you agree. "But so what?"

"I think it's better that he loved her even if he never got to do any of those things with her," he says. "Maybe... Maybe he was happy just being her friend even if it was only for the little bit of time they had together."

You mull it over for a moment before saying, "Maybe. It still makes me sad, though." It's a little stupid being sad over a hypothetical like this, but he's discussing it so earnestly.

"Me, too," he mumbles before turning into his apartment for the evening.

That year, you spend the holidays quietly with Bucky at the lighthouse, and the truth comes out. It comes out because every single one of your friends is a loudmouth. Not a single one of them can shut up about how you used to think that Bucky was part of the Russian mafia, and you could just die. But Bucky laughs hard when he figures it out and says, "Well, I'll be sure to tell the Russian Godfather that you make good cookies, so you deserve our protection."

"Great," you answer. "I'll be sure to let the library know I've got mafia friends next time they try to schedule me for a weekend shift."

Bucky's a good fit in your friend group. He's outgoing enough when the situation calls for it but naturally quiet enough that it's not awkward when he isn't saying anything. He loves the lighthouse. You knew he would. You love seeing him here. It's better than being alone. Sometimes, you can get way too into your own thoughts if it's just you by yourself. And (you can admit this now) the past two years, the lighthouse seemed more like a funeral home than your home.

Having him here, now? It's almost more like a home than it's ever been. Sometimes, when he's just sitting in the kitchen with his journal, you feel a phrase forming behind your back. You just fold your two middle fingers down over your palm and hold the sign where he can't see it. Even just that settles something in you like the quiet eye of a hurricane.

When his nightmares start, you can hear him yelling from your room. Tiptoeing to the guest room, you half-recline on the floor against the wall next to him because he never sleeps in a bed. You remember that conversation. "Sleeping on your couch was probably the last time I slept on anything resembling a pillow," he had said. Well, if he can sleep on your couch next to you, you can sit with him on his floor.

You let him curl into your side and breathe heavily against your shoulder when he wakes up. You don't say anything to him, then. He doesn't say anything to you. But he lets you stroke his hair until he falls back into a more peaceful sleep.

They're getting worse, the nightmares. He doesn't tell you that, but you gather it when he spends most of the night awake. Even in the times where you manage to fall asleep on the floor, he'll still be awake when you get up. But you don't talk about it. Not until the day before the last day of your trip when you're out doing nothing but sitting in sleeping bags and heavy coats looking at the ocean together.

It starts when you lie back on your blanket and say, "I don't know what I would've done if I wasn't able to keep this place." It's just a thought that comes to you in the moment, but that thought has been repeated a couple of times since Bucky's been here with you.

"You never explained how you were able to keep it," he reminds you.

You shrug. "The money my parents left me helps. That takes care of the house part of it," you answer. "But the lighthouse upkeep itself runs mostly on government grants. I mean, I don't know how to operate it. The state pays me enough to hire someone who does."

"Did your parents know how to operate it?"

"Oh, yeah," you say. "Yeah, my dad used to take me up and try to teach me, but it never caught on. After the wreck, I tried everything to figure it out, but I'm just not wired that way. I think it was mostly grief that made me want to learn, but I had to remember that Dad didn't need me to know how to run a lighthouse to be proud of me. I think he would be proud of me for what I'm doing right now."

"I'm sure he would be," Bucky agrees. "You know, as someone who didn't know your dad at all, I'm sure he would be."

"Psh," you whisper to yourself more than anything. For the first time, you realize that it doesn't sting so much to talk about your parents. They used to be an unapproachable topic. You used to shut yourself away for days. In fact... "I used to have nightmares about them right after they died."

Bucky looks down at you, one brow quirked.

"Horrible ones," you continue. "I hated being here because of how bad they got. That's when I started looking into moving to New York. It was only when I got there that I started to realize how good I had it here. But now, I can exist in both places. I feel like I've learned the secret to being content in any and every situation."

"What's that?"

"Just knowing that things get better all the time," you answer. "However bad it is right now, it gets better."

There's a long stretch of silence before either of you says anything else. It must last at least an hour.

Bucky's the one that breaks it first. "I don't know if it'll ever get better," he says suddenly. When you turn to him, he's not looking at you. He's looking out onto the ocean, watching the waves crash on the rocks. As you observe the hard edges of his profile, you can't help but think how much the gray of the air suits him. It softens him even as his words cut your heart to pieces.

You sit up, propping yourself up on elbows and keeping your legs stretched out in front of you. There's a long silence as you try to think of something to say. Anything to say.

Before you get the chance, Bucky looks over at you. Takes in the look on your face. What had he said before? You look like a wounded animal. You're sure that's even truer now. He smiles at you, and you get a feeling that it's only for your benefit. "Hey, come on," he says. "It's not so bad."

"How is it not so bad?" you ask. "Bucky, you barely sleep anymore."

"I didn't sleep much, to begin with," he tells you.

You look back out to the ocean, brows furrowed. "You know it's more than that."

"Yeah, it is," he admits. He says your name with all the care of a master painter. "There's. There are some things that... That I don't tell you. Not because I don't want to. Just because I... Because I can't. Not if..."

He doesn't continue. "Not if what?" you press. Anxiety is swelling in you like it hasn't since before you met him.

"Just," he starts. "Don't ask, okay?"

And that's like a punch to the stomach on top of everything. "You brought it up," you remind him. "Bucky, I just want you to get better."

"I know," he says, voice growing tight. "Maybe I will someday. Surprise myself."

"But I can't help," you add. "Because there are things you won't tell me." You know you shouldn't feel like you're being ripped to shreds, but you can't help it.

"Not won't," he corrects you. He almost snaps. "Can't. Not won't."

You bunch the blanket under your hands in fists. "But why? Do you not trust me, or...?"

"No, I do," he says. "It's just that this thing... It's bigger than you or me or both of us together. And if I tell you, nothing's ever gonna be the same."

"You don't know that," you say. "I don't know about you, but the past two years have been some of the best of my life, and I'm not changing my mind about that anytime soon."

Bucky looks over at you and holds you in his stare. "I didn't say you would," he reminds you. "But we could still feel the same about everything, but it wouldn't keep things from changing. I do trust you. I need you to trust me, too."

You trust him. Right now, you hate that you trust him, but you do. "Right," you say, standing and gathering your blanket. "Well, if you don't mind, I will be trusting you from inside the house."

Bucky calls your name as you start to walk away. "Can we not fight?" he questions after you.

You turn around, but keep walking backward. "I won't fight with you from inside the house," you allow. "Looks like rain, anyway. I'd come in soon if I were you."

He doesn't actually come back in until it's been raining for ten minutes, and you're in pajamas watching Jurassic Park and feeling sorry for yourself. All the lights are off in the house except for this stupid "anxiety relief" candle set that one of your friends got you for your birthday that makes the whole house smell like apple pie.

You pause the movie. "Hey, stupid, you're going to catch a cold," you call to him from the couch when he comes in.

He has one foot poised on the stairs, but he pauses and leans over the railing. "I was going upstairs to get a blanket that isn't soaked," he explains.

You shake the throw blanket next to you. "I have a dry one right here," you tell him, scooting over to make room for him.

There's only a moment of hesitation before he comes to sit next to you and curl under the blanket like a cat. "Are you still mad?" he asks.

"No," you answer, and hit play on the movie.

When the dinosaur comes on screen, Bucky whispers your name, and you hum in response. "This kind of technology isn't possible, right? I mean, dinosaurs are still dead." He's eyeing the screen skeptically and looking exhausted.

"Yeah, Buck," you say, making a mental note to jot that down on the list you keep of the weird questions Bucky sometimes asks. "They're still dead."

That's the last thing he says before he's out like a light with his head on the pillow in your lap. It sends your heart pounding. Not in an anxious or unpleasant way. It's in a way that emboldens you to run your fingers through the wet strands of hair on his temple. In a way that emboldens you to lean close to his ear and whisper, "I think you're my best friend. I know you're my best friend."

And for the second time, you fall asleep together on your couch. Only this time, you both wake slowly in the morning and stay there for a little bit. Neither of you talks about the fact that you're both holding onto each other for dear life because what would be the point?

When you eventually move to the kitchen, you're both still attached at the hip. Like you've been for a long time now, you suppose.

"It's Saturday," you tell him. First words you've spoken all day. "You want some coffee?"

He yawns and signs Yes, please.

When you hand him his coffee in his snowman mug, your hands brush too close together. When you sit at the breakfast bar with him, you can't help but bump shoulders. Your space is his, his space is yours. And it's the most comfortable you've been with a friend. Ever.

"My clothes are still damp," he grumbles into his coffee. "I'm going to go change here in a second."

"Yeah, I'd better get dressed, too," you agree.

You shuffle up the stairs together. Still too close. Only in your own rooms do you feel like there's space enough to breathe between the two of you. But that only lasts so long. Soon, you're both back out in the hall, and Bucky is dressed in a light blue henley and flannel that brings out his eyes. Once again, everything is just too close. You can feel the warmth coming off of him.

"Last day," you say, swallowing hard and breaking a silence you probably could've cut with a knife. "What do you want to do?"

Bucky blows air out of his cheeks and doesn't break eye contact. Not even a little bit. "That's the big question, isn't it?"

"Seriously," you answer. "What do you want?"

Out of jokes, he takes a step forward. Closer to you. "Bigger question."

If you thought you could feel the warmth off of him before, that's nothing compared to right now. Right now, you might as well be standing next to a fireplace. Next to him is probably the warmest that winter ever gets. "I'm asking," you tell him, unable to keep from looking at the curves of his mouth.

Your chest is heaving. So is his. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Perfect synchronization.

And before you have the chance to ask a second time, he's pulling you in by your waist and sealing his lips over yours with the urgency of a thirsting man in a desert finding a stream of water. With the seriousness of an oath. With the devotion of a lighthouse keeper to a lighthouse. You keep me. I keep you.

His hands move to frame your face, his thumbs pressing in and brushing over your cheekbones. Your own hands find they work best on either side of him, feeling the soft and blazing skin of his torso just under the hem of his shirt. His lips are just... They're impossibly soft, but still not as close as they could be you decide. You move one of your hands to the back of his head just to draw him closer. Just to hear the sigh he breathes through his nose when both of your mouths break open.

There comes a point when you have to break for air. When that happens, Bucky doesn't even move far enough to take his nose off of your cheek. He lets you both get in three hard breaths before he's saying your name in a low voice and pressing in for more.

Somehow, it's everything in the same way that a single piece makes the whole puzzle. It's soft and solid and fluid all at once. It's the kind of kiss that makes you wonder why you didn't just kiss him the first day you met so you wouldn't have to bother with making up for lost time. It makes you want to say a three-word phrase that gets truer every second you spend with him even if it's one you're terrified to say just yet.

Still, he holds your hand during the entire two-hour drive back to New York. You listen to Glen Miller because it's something you can mutually agree on and cast shy smiles back and forth like you're keeping a secret from everyone else on the highway.

"So, did you like the lighthouse?" you ask.

He gives you a nod and a smile. "I can see why you miss it all year."

"I was thinking..." you answer, your fingers tap, tap, tapping on the wheel in time to the big band music. "Maybe you should come with me next time. Maybe the next year after that, too." Is that weird to bring up after you've just now started kissing? Probably weird, right?

But Bucky's smile just grows wider. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you answer, deathly serious. "Only if you want to. Obviously, I'm not forcing—"

"I'd like to."

You take your eyes off the road for two seconds, just to look at him. "Okay."

"Love to."

"Okay," you say. A small silence passes. "Me too. I'd love for you to." It feels like you're speaking in code, but that's what you can manage right now.

It's dark by the time you get back to the apartment, and you linger in your doorway. "I Love Lucy before bed?" you ask Bucky.

"Yeah," he agrees, dropping a kiss to the top of your head and squeezing your hand. "Get it set up. I'm going to drop my suitcase over at mine, first."

You nod and walk inside to turn on the TV and brew some tea in both of your mugs.

The tea is lukewarm by the time you decide to go see what's taking Bucky so long, but he isn't even in his apartment when you get over there. His suitcase is standing in the middle of his living room.

"Bucky?" you call into the empty apartment. "Bucky? Calling Bucky Jefferson. Do you copy?"

No answer.

You pull out your phone and pull up your texts. "Hey, where'd you go? Tea's getting cold."

No answer for hours. Or ever. Ten phone calls go unanswered.

When he isn't home within the next couple of nights, you decide to file a missing persons report. It doesn't take long for the police to come back and tell you that there is no such person as "Bucky Jefferson." They also make a point to tell you in no uncertain terms that sometimes guys just get cold feet and book it. But that isn't Bucky. He could've been part of the freaking Russian Mafia hiding under an alias the whole time, and it still wouldn't have been him to just leave without warning. With nothing moved out of his apartment or anything.

The worst part is having to keep on going with life without acting like your whole world for the past two years didn't just drop out from under your feet. You still have to go to work and smile at people and not curl into yourself every time anything reminds you that you're missing one of the most important people you've ever known. Your best friend. Someone so much bigger than that.

On a Friday, a copy of In Memoriam A. H. H. by Alfred, Lord Tennyson comes in for repair, and out of some desire to just feel something you turn to the last few stanzas of the poem and read.

I envy not in any moods

The captive void of noble rage,

The linnet born within the cage,

That never knew the summer woods:

I envy not the beast that takes

His license in the field of time,

Unfetter'd by the sense of crime,

To whom a conscience never wakes;

Nor, what may count itself as blest,

The heart that never plighted troth

But stagnates in the weeds of sloth;

Nor any want-begotten rest.

I hold it true, whate'er befall;

I feel it, when I sorrow most;

'Tis better to have loved and lost

Than never to have loved at all."

You wince at the last two lines and shut the book.