March 10th, 2028

He's lost count of how many days have passed since he found out. Clint and Laura keep ticking off dates on a calendar they taped to his fridge, but he doesn't look at it. Can't be bothered to.

Many of those days he's spent curled on his couch. It's his makeshift bed, his makeshift table, his makeshift solace, because he cannot be in the places where all those beautiful moments had been born.

The Bartons try their best to help him, taking turns to stop by his apartment, bring him food, and encourage him to shower. He barely acknowledges them when they enter; he half wonders how they have a key.

"The door was locked." Bucky grunts, not moving from his spot on the couch. Laura was in the middle of sweeping the panel flooring when she paused, clearing her throat.

"She offered hers," she says, quickly adding. "after she asked how you were doing."

How was he doing? Not that it was any of Wanda's business, not anymore.

Bucky realizes he is being absolutely pathetic, hiding himself away like a child. He hates how he's acting, wishes he could change it but he can't help how his body reacts to this change.

Make it stop. Please.

March 28th, 2028

Working out has always been a place he can lose himself, and he finds he does it more and more. His workouts last nearly four hours now, but when a persons day starts at three in the morning, finishing his makeshift routine at seven am doesn't really eat much of his time.

He's grateful for the emptiness the early morning provides. Headphones blasting, he rides his bike to the gym, doesn't bother to turn the headlight on. Not like anyones awake anyways.

It's still chilly, and it only intensifies the loneliness. His apartment has become suffocating, he can't stand to be in it. He finally convinced Clint he didn't need round-the-clock care, so their visits had dropped to once a week; but now, the silence was choking him.

Kick stand up, he hauls his duffle onto his back, shuffling inside the SWORD operated gym. There's low music playing, and a singular person is in the gym, mid-squat; aside from the lone squatter, it's deserted.

Bucky drops his duffle, wipes at his eyes as he stretches. He hadn't realized he'd been crying; that seemed to be a common occurrence noweredays. Bending, his fingers scratch the ends of his toes. His headphones are nearly vibrating; they're so loud, and soon he loses himself in the movement.

Working out is easy; you push or pull weight, move your ligaments and joints until they nearly collapse under the pressure, and keep even, keep based. Working out can't hurt your head. Your brain can't hurt as your leg muscles scream.

He doesn't realize he's being spoken to until a hand smacks his shoulder. He drops his dumbbells, whirling around as he pulls his headphones off.

"You snapped too, right?"

He's taken aback by the stranger's question. She's large, for a woman; her black hair is tied high on her head, large thighs constricted in dark leggings. There are silver bands on her wrists, and her eyes are trained on him.

"Uh," Bucky replies, still breathing hard. Who interrupts a man in the middle of his set?

"You don't know me, I'm Sif." She says, hands on hips. "I think...you're Steve Rogers bitch right?"

Her terminology throws him. "And you are?"

She laughs, her arms dropping. "Guess you could say I'm Thor's bitch. Or I was."

Bucky stabs the inside of his cheek with his tongue. "You're from Asgard?"

"Yep," Sif nods, back peddling her legs to her rack. "I'm stuck here now. Wanna workout tomorrow?"

Bucky isn't sure why he says yes.

They settle into an odd routine; meeting at ungodly times in the morning, pushing their bodies to the physical limit for a few hours and barely speaking to one another. He enjoys it, the companionship is not a terrible thing. It keeps his mind busy for a few hours at least.

When Sif doesn't show up one morning, he hates to say he's a bit disappointed. He could've really used her for his set. He makes due, wondering halfheartedly what color t-shirt Wanda was currently sleeping in. He stretches, arms high in the air, before dropping his limbs to his toes, and repeating. It's easy, it's grounding, and he momentarily forgets the color of her eyes.

The next morning, Sif is there before him, running on the treadmill. She's sweating, most of her hair falling from its band and he drops his bag beside her machine.

"Overslept yesterday?" He asks, crossing his arm over his chest to warm up. She doesn't answer, instead speeds up the machine, arms swinging as she runs. Bucky shrugs; they aren't friends. She doesn't owe him a conversation.

He begins his ritual. His heart is hammering, and for once it's not from hurt. His limbs ache as he commits to his shoulder press, his metal arm whining in resistance. Reaching the top, he gives out, dropping the weights. They come slamming down, knocking his headphones from his ears. The device shatters, hitting the floor with a crunch and Bucky swears. The sound of the treadmill is still vibrating, and he glances at the rows of machines.

Sifs face is bright red as she runs, and she's gasping, pressing the button faster and faster. Looking down at his broken headphones, Bucky swears again, kneeling down to glare at them. Work out officially ruined.

The sound of skin hitting rubber rings through the gym, a thump echoing, and Bucky stands straight, peering around. Sif is no longer on the treadmill, she's sprawled next to it.

"You alright?" Bucky asks, striding to her and kneeling. Her eyes are closed, red cheeks puffing out.

"Lost my damn footing." She huffs, hand pressed to her forehead. Bucky stands, holding a hand out to her. Sif looks at it in annoyance, but takes it, and as he pulls her up she wobbles, falling back to the floor.

"Fuck!" She shouts, resting her elbows on her knees. Bucky kneels back down so they're eye level, looking at her. She glares, nostrils flared. "What're you staring at?"

He stares harder, not able to put his finger on it. Sif blinks once, twice.

Aha.

"You fell because you're drunk." He gives her an incredulous look. Sif narrows her eyes.

"What's it to you."

"Nothing," he says, rolling his eyes. "Just stating the fucking obvious."

"You gotta mouth on you." She retorts.

His nostrils flare. "So do you. And you people are supposed to be etherall."

"No one gives a shit what we do," she laughs, but it's humorousless. "Why do you think I'm stuck here?"

The last sentence isn't a question, it's a commentary. Filler to help him understand why a once asgardian knight is spending her early mornings drunk at a gym. He gets it, and opts not to judge. He's pretty much doing the same thing.

"Well next time don't crack your fucking skull open." Bucky muses, raising to the balls of his feet with his elbows placed on his knees.

Sif raises her brow, her mouth twisted and they both feel it. He breathes out slowly, his mouth dry, and he doesn't know which one kisses the other first.

Teeth click, skin burns as they grab for one another, Sif pulling him atop her on the gym floor. His heart elates, chest fills and he didn't realize how much sorrow was on him until he felt it rise.

He knew this feeling was fleeting, he knew it wouldn't last. But it was a moment of ease, a moment to bury himself in something that wasn't her agony, and he took it swiftly.

Their lips are bruising, hips pushing as he presses her into the floor. He isn't holding back as his metal arms grips her top, ripping it from her shoulders. Sif gasps in his mouth, her fingers in his hair as her tongue swipes at him, pulling harshly.

His hips are snapping into hers painfully, head dipped to the crook of her neck, biting her salty skin. Scrunching his eyes closed, movements erratic, the feeling of relief subsiding, and the colorless world is inching its way back.

He has to bite his tongue to keep from saying her name into this other woman's hair.