From Darkness

Bucky was uncommonly nervous for the next few days. He was usually always paranoid and vigilant, but I could see the renewed tension he felt after my run-in with Barton. He did less work outside in the market and even went so far as to ask Elena not to send me on errands for a while. This, of course, prompted an argument in Romanian that was so rapid-fire, I didn't have enough time to translate most of it myself.

She did have my best interest at heart, and I had a feeling her late husband hadn't been as caring and kind as she was. She was more protective of me than she was of Bucky. But eventually, she relented, and I wasn't sure what he said to convince her, but she did look at me with more pity than usual. She didn't tell me what he'd said, and I decided not to ask just in case my lie didn't coincide with his.

When he got home later, he told me that he'd given her an elaborate story about how I was supposed to marry someone else. But he'd stolen my heart, and we ran away together. My supposed ex-fiancé was apparently very wealthy and dangerous. Elena was harsh, but she was a romantic at heart. She agreed to help us and never sent me out for errands again.

But I was going to go stir-crazy if I was locked up all the time. So whenever Bucky had a day off, we'd spend the whole day away. Sometimes we even went to the movies or got dinner. Sometimes he'd take us so far, we'd end up in the woods. Then he'd hand me a knife and tell me which trees to hit or help me practice my hand-to-hand combat skills. There were even times when he'd leave me in the woods alone and tell me to track him or evade him.

He was better than I was, and even though it was expected, it irked me to no end that he was better than me at the only real skill I had. Our training lessons became more competitive until we made bets and deals about who got what if they won. Sometimes the bets were simple, like "Loser makes dinner for a week" or "Loser has to do the dishes," but sometimes, they got more complex and high stakes. "Loser has to do winner's laundry" (Bucky knew I hated that) or "Loser has to do that thing in bed that winner really likes" (Bucky knew I loved that).

Sometimes he let me win on purpose. Mostly because the only time I ever actually seemed to win was when our bets got sexual. There had been more than one occasion where we'd ended the training session in the backseat of a stolen car with my pants around my ankles and his head between my legs.

One day when we were coming home after a training session (that I lost), Elena stopped us in the lobby as we hit the stairs. Her door opened, and her head popped out, thanks to her unnatural sixth sense for knowing exactly who was coming home at any given time.

"Iacob," she said. "Mail for you." He paused on the third step. He still had his hand in mine, and I could feel his fingers tighten. We never got mail. We did everything under the table through Elena. We weren't even really legal residents in her building. She took care of our rent and our bills, and anything else that might require a mailing address.

"What?" he finally replied after trying to compute this for a moment.

"I accepted a parcel for you," she explained. "Let me get it." She disappeared into her apartment, and he looked down at me.

"No one knows we're here," I whispered. He shook his head and went down the stairs.

"Stay out here," he warned. Elena returned with a small package, and they shared a few words. He gave her hand a comforting squeeze before returning to me.

"It's for you," he said. Then he headed up the stairs, and I hurried to follow after.

"What do you mean it's for me?" I replied. He held up the package. Addressed on the top was the name "Jo." Just Jo. Nothing else. "Elena doesn't know my real name."

"She does now."

"She isn't concerned about why we don't use our real names?"

"With that vengeful ex-fiancé of yours? No, she just wants us to be safe."

"And it's not a bomb or something?"

"It's photos."

"How can you tell?"

"I can feel them."

"Who the hell sent it? Is there a return address?"

"It's from the states. No return address. There's only one person I can think of who knows for sure that we're here."

"Unless someone found us and wants to force us back."

"I don't know, Jo. I guess we'll find out." I ran up the stairs to his side and yanked the package out of his hand, then I continued on my way. He followed me to the top floor, not even commenting on my ability to make it to the top without running out of breath. He usually kept it slow.

As soon as we got the front door open, I ripped into the package. My heart was pounding, and I was expecting something terrible. Pictures of Clara and my parents tied up with a ransom note. Someone trying to force me back to the states. But that's not what I was.

It was a few photos, just like Bucky said. But they were all of the same person. A fat little baby wrapped up in a little red blanket with a sticker on his forehead. The sticker was an arrow, and the baby looked bewildered by whatever had been stuck to his face.

I dropped the empty package to the floor and put my hand over my lips.

"What is it?" Bucky asked since my eyes were watering, and I was pretty sure I gasped.

I lifted the picture to show him. Someone had written a name on the back. "Bernard/Bernie." Bucky took the picture as I shuffled through the rest of them. There was no more info—just pictures of the little baby squiggling in an incubator that was undoubtedly Stark-grade tech. There were no pictures of Clara. And nothing to explain who'd sent the photos except for the arrow sticker in the first one.

"Who sent them?" Bucky asked, watching me shuffle through them.

"You saw the sticker on his head, right?"

"Barton. He knows where we live."

"This is the first news I've gotten from home in months." He sighed deeply.

"I really hope you're right about him," he muttered.

"He's had plenty of chances to tell them, and no one has come for us yet."

"No, but he sent a package. Someone could have traced it."

"Barton is a spy. I'm pretty sure he knows how to send a package without it being tracked."

"He shouldn't have put your name on it."

"I don't think he knew what else to put. Bucky—it's going to be alright." I squeezed his shoulder, and he took a moment to relax. He sighed before turning back to the pictures.

"He's cute," he remarked.

"He's adorable," I said, going back to them.

Even though it wasn't much, I was glad Barton sent them. He knew I'd want to know. I didn't want Bucky to be worried again, but it was nice to know Clara's pregnancy had gone well and that I had a nephew somewhere in the world. We'd probably never get to meet, but it was still nice to know he existed—some beautiful little confirmation of the continuation of life. Clara would move on without me. She'd be happy.

"Why do you think it hasn't been in the newspapers?" I asked.

"Stark may not want his enemies to know he has another weakness," he said without a hitch.

"Yeah, but he's usually so open about everything."

"Different, I think, when you have children to protect from so many enemies."

"I guess so." He stuck the picture back into the pile, and I could see him studying me. I couldn't guess what he was thinking, so I chose to ignore it.

"Did you ever want kids, Jo?" he asked me quietly.

I was startled by the sudden question. We'd never talked about anything like that. Never really brought up anything permanent. The closest we'd ever got was when he said he'd have married me if things were different. But that was just a passing comment spoken in the heat of passion and the fear of impending death. I didn't really think it counted.

"I don't know," I said, feeling suddenly flustered. "I mean—eventually. It's not that I don't like kids. Just that—my mom used to say I'd be good for nothing other than motherhood, and I guess I was just determined to prove her wrong." His eyebrow rose.

"She didn't say that."

"Not in so many words, no. And I know she didn't mean it that way. It took me a long time to realize she meant it as a compliment. But that's what I took away from it." I decided to change the focus from me to him. "What about you? Did you ever want kids?"

I regretted it the moment it slipped out of my mouth. He looked equally startled and didn't answer for a long time. I felt like an asshole for even asking. Especially since he told me it hurt him too much to think about what he could have had. I was one second from trying to backtrack when he answered.

"Yes," he said plainly. Then I just couldn't let it go.

"You did? Really?" He shrugged.

"I grew up in a different time. We had different expectations. I wasn't necessarily making plans, but it was definitely something I expected to happen sooner or later. Thought I'd come home from the war and start a family. Just like everyone else." I pinched my lips.

"But did you want it?" He blinked a few times as if he really had to think about it. Sometimes what was expected wasn't what was wanted. I needed to know if he knew the difference.

"More than anything," he admitted.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be." I decided the conversation was over. So I stacked up the pictures and set them down on the island. I had my back to him, and for the first time in months, I felt awkward and weird. "Maybe someday," he said from behind me, in a voice that was so low I almost didn't catch it, "things will be different."

I knew what he meant without asking him to elaborate. Maybe someday we'd be able to live in a world that wasn't trying to hunt us down and kill us. Maybe we wouldn't be a danger to the people we loved. We might find a way. Even though I usually tried to avoid thinking about it, I realized very suddenly that I wanted that "maybe someday." My mom also used to say that we want things more when we can't have them. That was mostly about the Garden of Eden's forbidden fruit, but I understood the metaphor.

I always knew it was something that would be out of reach for us, probably forever. I just didn't expect that realization to hurt so much. I imagined what it would be like to have that life with him. A decent house where we could live in peace and quiet. Maybe like the small little farm in Belarus. Where we could have a couple of kids. We'd be happy. I knew we would. And even though I didn't think I could be a good parent before—I wasn't so sure now.

I was happy now. I was happy with Bucky. We could—if things were different—be good parents.

I tapped the edges of the pictures to line them up. I didn't have anything else to do with my hands, and I didn't want to turn around. I cleared my throat, hoping that he wouldn't hear the heaviness and ache that settled there.

"Yeah," I agreed anyway. "Maybe."