"Yelena."

   She turned toward him, meeting his eyes, and he tilted his head to the side attractively. "Got a place to stay? Because I have a couple extra rooms."

   "Couple extra rooms? Where are you living?"

   "My old home from when I was a kid."

   The weirdness of his words hit her like a tsunami. She'd never imagined him as having a childhood, then realised how sad that was. She'd only ever known a part of him, the part of him that was barely human, despite the way his fierce and loyal attitude toward Yelena and Natasha had been. 

   Yelena did have a place to sleep, but she was curious, she wanted to see what his life was like now that he was in America, in Brooklyn.

   So she asked, "Got any pets?"

   "Yep. A cat."

   "I didn't take you for a cat person, Barnes."

   "Well, there's a lot of things you don't know about me, Yelena."

   "You know what?" Yelena stretched her arms, twisting her torso at the same time to loosen up her stiff muscles. "I'll come, for the cat."

   He rolled his eyes. "Alright then. Get on,"

   Yelena wagged her eyebrows, lifting her leg over the seat and sitting behind him. "We're going to your place now?"

   "We should grab your bags on the way, but yes."

   "Okey–dokey," she said cheerfully. "I'll direct you to the motel."

   He hit the kickstand with his foot decisively and firmly, and the engine roared to life. She clung to his waist as they flew down to the road. Yelena loved motorcycles–Natasha and her on a bike flashed through her mind, suddenly her smile faded, her heart pumping loudly despite the roar of Bucky's motorcycle.

   She was glad for his prescence back. In the Red Room, he'd done just about everything he could to help them, and maybe that was just his way of rebelling because that was who he was, but he had been as reliable as he could, the closest thing to a family.

There had been affection in the Soldier's eyes, all those years ago, and for some reason, she always could tell when he was fighting his hardest, even with the mess that was his mind.

    Trying to distract herself from thoughts of the Red Room and Natasha, she buried her head in his back, tightening her hold on him.

   Bucky glanced back at her, sensing that something was wrong, and drove faster.

One month earlier 

The Brooklyn  Royal Bank

  Bucky wasn't sure why he was at the bank. He'd gotten a text, and showed up just in case it was really important.

   He sat down and waited on one of the chairs near the door in the bank lobby, texting Sam, who was asking when he'd come to see his nephews next.

   "Um, Mister Barnes?"

   Bucky looked up to see a girl wearing a white flowy blouse over a pair of sky blue pants and white heels. Her blonde curls framed her face nicely as she looked down at him.

   "Oh. Hi, Sheril," Bucky said, standing up and trying not to appear intimidating. She always seemed to get nervous around him.

   She nodded. "I'll take you to your accountant." They passed through the door at the back of the lobby and weaved around cubicles with desks and people speaking quietly inside, and she whispered, "There's a guy who claims to be related to you. He looks like you, I think."

   A relative? Bucky swallowed his surprise, feeling his eyes widen.

   "Just let Mr. Higgens know if you need anything." She gave him a wave and turned away to usher in more clients and Bucky entered the cubicle.

   Two men were sitting in two of the three chairs, evidently having waited for him. "Sorry I'm late," Bucky told them.

   Higgens, Bucky's accountant, nodded politely and gestured for him to sit in the third chair. "No problem at all."

   "Hello, sir. I'm.. I'm James Dirk. I was actually named after you, believe it or not." The guy had dark eyes, Bucky couldn't tell what colour they were, a strong jawline, and messy dirty–blonde hair that was cut short and peppered with grey hairs. He held out a hand and shook with Bucky, then grabbed his briefcase and set it up on the desk, which was already strewn with papers and pens.

   Named after him? Bucky found that hard to believe. Maybe one of his siblings had named him out of nostalgia. He searched Dirk's eyes closely for familiarity, and found some, surprisingly. Dirk was the son of Becca. 

   Bucky took in a sharp, deep breath.

   His nephew reached inside and pulled out a file, which he handed to Bucky, who asked, "What is this?"

   James Dirk leaned back in his chair, fingers on his chin. "Look at it." Bucky sighed and opened the folder, his eyebrows raising at the familiar sight.

   His childhood home stared up at him, with a new swing set in the front yard, but the same pink hydrangeas out front. The paint was redone but shiny and new–looking. It was hard to tell how old the house really was at first glance, but Bucky had grown up there with his siblings.

   It was the last place he'd seen his mother. Bucky lowered the folder onto his lap. "Who owns it now?" He asked, tilting his head.

   Dirk gave him a smile. "You,"

   "It was in their will, wasn't it?"

   "Yes. Your parents lived alone in it after you 'died', and Rebecca was married to Oscar Dirk, my father, and she lived on the other side of the city. George and Winnifred weren't sure what to do after you were KIA..."

   Bucky felt a jab of pain and a prick in his eyes at the sound of his parent's names.

   "They never changed their will, but after they died, since you were gone and they hadn't even considered the possibility that you wouldn't be around anymore, it was handed to your younger brother, Benjamin, who died a few years back. His wife moved across the country to her family back west, leaving the house. No one has given a second thought about it since. I, er, wanted to offer it to you. It's in your inheritance,"

   Giving the picture another glance, Bucky wasn't sure what to do. He didn't think he could feel as much nostalgia as he was, and it shocked him. He bit his lip, getting ahold of himself.

  He missed his brothers, and Rebacca.

   The house had been mentioned to him a couple times, but that was two years ago, back when he was depressed and lost. He knew what he wanted now, and he'd accept his past as well as he could. 

   He looked up at Dirk. "I'll take it,"   

Present day

    Yelena told Bucky where the motel was that she was staying in, and he waited for her to get her bags, which they strapped onto the back of his motorcycle. As she finished securing the last one, she paused.

   "Thank you for this, James."

   He looked downward, his blue eyes sparkling in the sunlight through his lashes. "You can call me Bucky, Yelena. And you're welcome, anytime. I mean it."

   Yelena smiled sadly and sat behind him, leaning against his back again, and he started the engine up.

   In the outskirts of Brooklyn, Bucky slowed the bike to a stop and parked it out front. There was a driveway, but Bucky said that the street was too calm to worry about thieves, and he also had security cameras on the house, she noticed.

   Inside, he showed the way to her room. The walls in the living room and hallways were creamy white colour, light pearly blue tiles in the kitchen.

   Old, grainy photos of his family members were hung up on the walls: three preteen boys with their toddler sister in a cute little dress, standing with their parents for a Christmas photo. It seemed like a tradition, as in each photo, they grew slightly and matured.

   "Here we are, just dump your bags and you can leave your shoes anywhere, as long as you don't make a mess. There's a bathroom connected," Bucky gestured at the door on the other side of the room. She nodded thank you, and he left the room.

    She flopped down on the bed, testing the fluffiness. It was surprisingly soft.

   Just like Bucky, now. This new him was changed, and so free. He almost seemed like he wasn't... Well, him. But then again, she'd never really gotten to know the whole him, had she?

   Yelena went out into the hallway, looking at the photos again, and she stopped when she found one where they all were old. More lines on their faces, especially his parents'. Bucky, she assumed, had his army uniform on and had his arm around his mom and dad tightly, as if he knew he'd sacrifice his life in the service, and they clung desperately to him. He didn't seem to mind. His siblings also wore sadder, morbid expressions on their faces, arms around each other.

   This was the last photo of them all together that Yelena could find.

   She wondered what the army had been like. Was it massively different from the Russian army? What had it felt like, leaving his family?

   Yelena stood in the hall connected to the kitchen and looked at a photograph of Bucky's mother, who had lines across her face. Smile lines, which weren't being used when the photo was taken, obviously. This was after Bucky's death, Yelena realised. Her hair was lighter in this photograph.

   "Yelena?" Bucky asked. "Hey,"

   She faced him. He had one hand on the kitchen counter and one hand on his hip, an eyebrow raised. "Yeah?"

   "[You up for some tacos?]" He asked in Russian, licking his upper lip.

   Oh gosh, she thought. Sir, your tongue.

   "Uhm... A–always, Barnes."

   He burst out laughing. "Sorry about that. My lips are always dry," They both said nothing for a second, until he clapped his hands. "Well, then. I'm gonna get going on the tacos, wanna help?"

   Yelena walked into the spacious kitchen, admiring the cute cupboards. "Yeah, sure. What can I do?"

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   Lots of love,   Emily!