This chapter contains swearing. And breif suicidal and self-harmful thoughts (which I do not ever encourage. It is for the sake fo character developement and in my opinion it is a part fo the character that I don't want to leave out of the story).

   The Winter Soldier lay with his eyes open, puzzling over those two girls. The blonde one and the red-haired one, two of the best fighters out of all of the students.

   The one with the red hair had stared at him urgently, as if there was something wrong. Something important, and about him.

   He took a deep breath as he heard the lock on the door of his cell being picked. By the time a teenage girl stood in the empty doorway, he was already on his feet.

   "You have to remember," Natasha whispered carefully, her fingers twitching fearfully. "Please. I won't hurt you. I'd never hurt you. Not like they did..."

   Confusion whirled in his gut, sending mixed signals. One stood out though, taking over.

   Knowing when to keep his own mouth shut, he didn't shout or say anything, just shoved her by the neck against the cold cement wall.

   She gasped breathlessly, her fingers groping his metal fingers. She couldn't hide her horror. He always saw it in every face that looked at him.

   The spaces between the plates pinched her tightly, and she flinched hard. Suddenly, he was falling, falling into what felt like a memory but had to be a dream. A time that didn't exist, but did somehow.

  He was standing with her in the training room. The blonde haired one standing to the side, watching. Both had slightly shorter hair, seeming younger.

   Natasha didn't get the step, and he didn't blame her, so he showed it to her "just one more time, okay?" He showed her the arm movements again, slowly and patiently.

   "Do you understand it now?"

   "Yes."

   "Do it with me, then."

   She took a deep breath and raised her arms. "A little higher," he corrected her. She complied, then stepped closer to him and their arms locked as he blocked the movement. They were so close, and she gave him a small smile. Just as she pulled away, her hand caught on the parts of his arm as they shifted.

   "Agh!" She gasped and her face convulsed.

   Guilt bubbled up like the bile in his mouth. He'd killed so many without a second thought, but she made him feel so shitty with one simple expression of pain. Caused by him.

He let out a soft gasp.

   Natasha still squirmed under him, struggling for breath, and wanted to die suddenly. He yanked his arm away from her, wishing he could tear it off, rip it apart, and melt it down.

   She coughed and gasped, keeling over in pain. His heart raced. What if Karpov heard? He shook those thoughts away and knelt down beside her, afraid to touch her. Natasha finally looked up at him, her neck bright red.

   Despite everything, she found the strength to reach out with a shaking hand... and touch the side of his face. I could never be that brave, he thought.

   "D-do you remember?"

   His eyes lowered to the ground. "I remember enough. Let's... let's go, Natalia."

   "Okay." She nodded, leaning on his real arm as they got up. 

   James lay down on the training room floor, hearing Natasha and Yelena grunt softly as they did their Bulgarian split squats with the chairs in the corner of the room. He took a deep breath.

   His heart was going crazy. Why was it beating so fast and hard? It was as if he'd just run five miles in a sprint, no breaks.

   There were never breaks.

   He felt winded, but somehow in a good way. It was his feelings, he knew. He just didn't know his feelings, or how to navigate them.

   What could have done it, affected him like this? Natalia, he thought instantly.

   Way back in the hallway, as they met up with Yelena after Natasha brought back that memory and regained his trust, she'd given him a simple but affectionate hug. He hugged her back, and that's when it bloomed.

   It wasn't romantic, that much he knew. He somehow just knew that it couldn't be. I was something else, something he'd felt for a long time, ever since he started training the girls. He'd always been a little too nurturing, a little too flexible, even if he was harsh and cold.

   A memory nagged at his mind. A... regret? Something he could have done better?

   And then it came to him: Rebecca.

   His heart sank.

   Oliver. Oliver told Bucky she'd be fine, that her childhood would still be there when he came back from the war.

Present day, outskirts of Brooklyn

  "Do you like beef, or chicken better?"

   "Chicken," Yelena replied, dumping taco seasoning on the refried beans and giving it a stir.

   "Good, because that's the only one I have," Bucky pulled a package of uncooked chicken breast from the fridge, turning on another burner. He placed a second pan on the stove next to the beans, and started to cut the chicken. 

   The tortillas were laid out in a stack on the counter next to Yelena, and she had leaned down to smell them when Bucky had put them there. He grinned.

   Yelena watched absentmindedly as Bucky smoothly manoeuvred the chicken with his right hand, handling the knife in his left so that he didn't get chicken on his cybernetic arm. Yelena noticed him taking a deep breath, like he was trying to calm himself. She kept stirring, and he clenched his teeth tightly as he laid the chicken on the pan.

   The pan sizzled and hissed loudly as Bucky looked at her. She turned down the heat on the beans, and turned to face him. "You know, clenching is bad for you," she started.

   "Oh," Bucky said as he dropped the last of the chicken onto the pan. It sizzled even harder, and he took a spoon and stirred it, then placed a lid on it. "I had no idea." Sarcasm seemed to pour out of his mouth.

   She took the knife and cutting board and put them in the sink, away from him, and she didn't miss the relief in his eyes.

   "Are you okay?" Yelena poured dish soap on them, and took a washcloth and scrubbed them both down in the sink.

   When they were clean, she rinsed them and set them, then put them in the drying rack. Bucky crossed his arms, leaning on the fridge. Yelena pulled his arm gently. He gave her a confused look, but let her guide him to the sink.

   "Wash your hands, Bucky."

   He met her eyes, and did as she told him. As he meticulously dried his hands, she asked again, "Are you okay?"

   "I... No."

   Yelena stepped closer to him, wrapping her arms around his torso. She heard him gasp as she rested her head on his chest. She waited until, finally, he returned the hug carefully, his metal hand sliding across her back and causing shivers to run up her back.

   His stubble rubbed against her forehead. "Thank you," he whispered.

   He smelled of sweet vanilla, cool mint, and cinnamon spice.

   "I owe you from the last time I saw you, Barnes. You've done a lot for me, its the least I can do."

   "It's still a lot, you know it..."

   She couldn't suppress a grin, and squeezed him tightly. "I do know,"