Till the End of the Line

Sarah was out to buy materials for the quilts the following day. Bucky had already been up when she came downstairs, watching the news. Neither of them had mentioned his nightmare or flashback or whatever it was from that night, although Sarah felt slightly more concerned to leave him by himself when she went out. It wasn't so much that she didn't trust him, on the contrary: after seeing him in such a state as the night before, she was sure that whatever had happened to him after he fell must have been more terrible than she could imagine. Although it had frightened her at the time his first, violent reaction was a sign that he had been through some tough times, but this second time had given her the sense that he would never purposely harm her. Her reluctance to leave him was a mixture of pity and guilt; she wanted to comfort him, as she had wanted to that night, but the fact that she had not been able to do this bothered her intensely.

The scene from the night before kept replaying in her mind as she made her way back home, her bag now filled with new spools of thread and a few swatches. About two blocks from her apartment she suddenly noticed a black car, similar to the one she had been forced into after seeing Bucky at the Smithsonian, driving slowly behind her. Immediately assuming it was tailing her, she tried to act as if she hadn't spotted it, and kept walking without looking back. When she was almost home, she considered taking an alternate route, but when she dared a glance over her shoulder the car was gone. She felt slightly relieved but she was still a bundle of nerves when she finally reached the safe confines of her apartment.
She found Bucky on her laptop at the kitchen table, staring intently at the screen until Sarah came in. She put the kettle on and sunk into the seat opposite him, a look of panic still plastered on her face. Bucky surveyed her, then after a moment he asked: "Did something happen?"
She wasn't sure if she should tell him; after all, nothing had actually happened, and she didn't want to needlessly alarm him. But on the other hand, he was in a state of constant vigilance and it might be useful information to him even if she didn't think so. He managed to pick up things in the news that she deemed insignificant, which had become evident the day before. Therefore, she thought, she would tell him anyway. Just in case.
"I thought I was being followed just now, but the car was gone before I got to this street."
"What kind of car?" he asked, somewhat expectedly.
"It was black, I'm not sure what make it was.. I think it might have been a Chevrolet…"
His eyes narrowed, and without responding he started typing something on her laptop.
"What are you doing?" Sarah asked quickly, "should we be worried?" He kept typing, apparently he didn't hear her, or pretended not to. "Hey!" Sarah said impatiently, and he looked up.
"Sorry," he said, leaning back in his seat and running a hand through his hair. "No, you don't need to worry about it. It was probably nothing." But Sarah was sure he wasn't being honest with her. Even though she wanted an honest answer, Bucky had fixed his attention on the laptop screen again and seemed completely oblivious of his surroundings, and she thought she'd probably have a better chance if she asked him when he was less distracted. She took her bag into the study and locked herself in there until dinnertime.

In the days that followed Sarah noticed a change in Bucky's behaviour. He was starting to become increasingly more relaxed around her: he would share stories about his life before his fall, as he seemed to have regained most of those memories, giving Sarah a first-hand account of the war. Since this topic interested Sarah immensely, she was very eager to hear him out, and in return she tried to fill him in on the developments of modern society. For some reason he seemed quite well-informed about political and technological matters, but there was still plenty for him to learn, and Sarah's plan to educate him by chronologically watching classic movies proved surprisingly helpful. But she noticed something else: although they hadn't had a repetition of his flashback-nightmare, she could tell he was still very tense, especially if she'd left him by himself for a while. Whenever he wasn't talking to her he seemed to lapse into a state of somber restlessness, spending more and more time on her laptop, a determined frown gracing his features most of the time. Sarah had tried to elicit an explanation for his preoccupied behaviour from him, but his answers were always evasive, and after a while she simply gave up.
It frustrated her that he was being so selective with the information he shared with her. She knew almost everything about him; everything up to the point of his fall, and this was exactly the subject she was most interested in. But he wasn't keen on telling her anything about that, except his brief explanation of how he'd gotten his metal arm.

On the twelfth night of Bucky's stay at her place, Sarah was woken up again in the middle of the night by a piercing scream, coming from the living room. Immediately alert, she ran downstairs to find Bucky on the floor once more, screaming and writhing in a tangle of blankets.
When she finally managed to wake him up he looked as if he was going to be sick. Sarah already had a glass of water standing by, which she tried to hand to him, but he was still shaking too violently to hold on to it.
"You know, sooner or later you'll have to tell me what's going on…" she murmured, lifting the glass to his lips for him. He closed his eyes and drank gratefully, then leaned back and nodded his head, his eyes still tightly shut.
"I know…" he whispered hoarsely.
"I can't go on like this if you don't tell me, well... something!"
He nodded again, still with his eyes closed. Sarah fumbled with the glass for a moment, feeling helpless. She couldn't bear seeing him like this. She wanted to know what was going on in his mind, know why he was suffering like this, why he seemed so much more anxious than before. After a moment's hesitation, she put the glass down and moved a little closer to him. He screwed up his face as he sat up straight, as if he was in physical pain, his breathing still erratic. She smoothed some of his hair out of his face, and again, at her touch he opened his eyes. They were bloodshot, and he looked intensely miserable. Sarah bit her lip and, throwing all caution aside, pulled him close to her, wrapping her arms around his neck. She could feel he was a little surprised at first, but then he leaned in to the embrace, folding his arms carefully around her waist in return.
They sat like that for a moment, holding each other close. Then Sarah released him, handing him the glass again. He kept his eyes fixed on her while he drank, and when he put the glass down he ran both hands over his face, rubbing his eyes and temples.
"You're too good to me," he murmured, and Sarah smiled slightly. "And you deserve to know everything… But I.. I can't tell you, not yet…" he shifted closer to her, laying a hand on her knee, "I know it's not fair to you, you've been so good to me even though you have no idea what you're dealing with. You've accepted me into your home, promised to help me while you barely knew me.. I've told you who I was, and I wish that was all there is to know about me. But I have changed: Bucky Barnes from the 107th doesn't exist anymore," his grip on her tightened for a moment, "I can't tell you who I am now. I know it's a lot to ask, but I need more time."
His blue eyes seemed to burn into hers, and for a moment she couldn't think or move as she stared back at him. She could feel him removing his hand, but before he could do so she covered it with hers.
"I'll wait," she whispered, "but not forever."



He moved quickly, noiselessly. Like a ghost.
In a sense, that was exactly what he felt like most of the time: a ghost.
The streets were empty, except for the occasional stray cat. He bypassed the park and turned into an alley, where a jumble of dumpsters stood against a wire fence. Checking if the coast was clear, he pushed one of the dumpsters aside and loosened the tile on which it had been standing. Underneath the tile was a hollow space, almost five feet wide. He plunged his hand into the opening and retrieved a large, heavy duffel-bag which he swung over his shoulder before putting everything back in place again.

His mind strayed to the apartment, imagining her, peacefully asleep while he was roaming the streets. He felt a pang of guilt, but he knew that what he was about to do was necessary.

After a long struggle he had finally overpowered the man. Both breathing heavily, they stared at each other as he pushed the man against the wall, his metal hand closed around the man's neck and his gun against his temple. The man glared defiantly back at him, his eyes wide but determined.
"Kto yeshche posle menya?" he demanded, his finger on the trigger. The man gazed back at him, looking surprisingly calm for someone held at gunpoint, and he tightened his grip on the man's neck, repeating the question more forcefully.
"A kak dolgo yeshche mozchesh terpetj?" the man retorted, leering at him, his eyes flashing with savage glee. Before he could do or say anything else, he saw the man dislodging one of his teeth with his tongue and crushing it between his jaws.
"Hail Hydra…" the man muttered, before his mouth filled up with white foam. He let go of the man's limp body, cursing fiercely under his breath.