Cara was alone.

For the first time in days, she was completely and utterly alone.

The safe house they had chosen was a small apartment on the outskirts of town. It was a short, nondescript building, almost completely abandoned. It cut down the chances of collateral damage. She'd be transferred somewhere in a few days, when they set up something more secure and permanent.

Cara knew how this worked. The two solemn CIA agents that followed her in didn't tell her anything. They didn't say anything as they walked the perimeter, and checked the windows and doors. They didn't say anything as they left her standing alone in the kitchen without so much as a goodbye, leaving only a bag of some takeout food, and some instructions to be ready to leave at any moment. They said nothing, but she knew what this was. She knew then it was bugged, that they were watching outside, and had a tactical team on call in case went wrong. . . Or in case Bucky showed up.

She knew the windows were made of bulletproof glass, and that the doors could only be opened from the inside, or with a specific key. She knew that there were no weapons on the premise that she could use, other than the knives in the kitchen. She knew that this place really was just a glorified prison. She also knew that if the Deathless found her, no tactical team or bugged walls would be able to stop him.

She walked in a circle around the small apartment. It was one bedroom, with a kitchen, and a bathroom and not much else. There was barely any furniture, just a table and two chairs, and a bed, old and small. The walls were bare, the fridge was empty, and everything was a dull, dusty tan color. Despite that, it still managed to be cramped and crowded, and felt like it hadn't been opened in years. She hated it.

A quick sweep for bugs found that there was one under the table, one by the door, and one in lamp beside the bed. It was all painfully obvious. Cara had a gut feeling that the technology in this place hadn't been updated in years. She also found a first aid kit in the bathroom, the label yellowing, and opened it, doing a quick inventory. It was basic stuff, and she tucked it away again, making sure it was easily accessible.

Sam had given her a book, but it was short, just a bunch of collected poems from throughout the 1800's. Poe, Coleridge, Shelley, those type.

(Sam had stopped her as she was rushed out.

"Cara!" he said, as he ran up next to her. Agent Masters shot him a glare, which Sam ignored. "You okay? What happened?"

"Yeah," she said, weakly. She knew she wasn't convincing anyone. She was still shaking hard. "Yeah, yeah. I'm okay. And I don't know."

The nurses were rushing around, and the alarms were going off. It was chaos. Cara couldn't help but feel guilty. This was happening because of her. If anyone had gotten hurt in the blackout, it was her fault. She needed to get out of here.

"Where are you going?" he said.

"That's classified," Masters snapped.

Cara shrugged, helplessly. "Sorry. I know about as much as you do."

Sam looked thoughtful for a moment, before handing her the book he was carrying. She held it in her good hand, the other still in a cast. Hitting the television didn't help it at all, but she couldn't say she any regrets there.

"Here. Something to read while you're laying low. Nat recommended it. It's nice. I like it."

Cara glanced down at it. "Didn't take you for a reader of poetry."

He grinned. "Hey, I like a lot of things, and Coleridge is a genius."

"Heard of him," she said. "Don't remember where. But I trust you."

"He wrote Rime of the Ancient Mariner," he said. "You know, the poem about the bird that gets shot down. And thanks. Glad you trust me."

Masters sighed impatiently, and grabbed her arm, yanking her towards the door. She flinched, and she saw Sam's eyes flash, stance changing ever so slightly. She pulled away from Masters, although she continued walking towards the door.

"Bye, Sam," she said, clutching the book against her chest. It sounded an awful lot like a final one, even to her.

"I'll see you when this is all over," Sam said. His arms were crossed. She could tell he didn't want to let her alone leave with the CIA, not without added protection. "You can come live at Steve's fancy new apartment with me. Being an Avenger pays well apparently."

"Sounds good," she said, trying to smile as she walked out into the main hall. "But I don't think the hero's life is quite right for me."

"No one does," Sam said, with a small smile. "But trust me. I know different."

The door slammed shut before he could say anything else. She could just catch the look of utter helplessness on his face as he watched her leave.)

She had finished reading the book quickly, practically devouring the distraction. (Sam was right, Coleridge was a genius. She remembered reading a line from the poem in Frankenstein, using it to explain to Bucky exactly what she was. She had an albatross around her neck, she was just as cursed.)

But the moment put it down, she couldn't stop moving. There was almost nothing to do. Her phone had been confiscated (fantastic). There was nothing in the house to clean. There wasn't even a television in the house.

So, she paced. Back and forth, and back and forth, and back and forth. There was a rhythm to her step, and she focused on her breathing, taking it a second at a time. Second by second. Not letting her thoughts focus on anything in particular. Trying her best to keep her mind blank, to not to let herself drift into any memories. But that was hard. There was always something there, lurking under the surface of her mind. Things she thought she had forgotten. Things she had tried to forget.

Her childhood was one. The Deathless loved that stupid Firebird ballet. He always had it playing. She had watched it more times than she could count. She knew the steps by heart, each crescendo, each note, even now. She used to watch it in her room... it was really the only thing to watch while in the Gray Building.

God, the Gray Building. It was an ashy charcoal on the outside, almost like stone, so people couldn't look in. On the inside, it was a translucent silvery color that made it feel like the inside of a mirror. All made of a glass that couldn't shatter. The great Glass Palace of the Deathless. Of course, she hadn't known about all that. She hadn't been kept above ground, no. She had been in the labs downstairs. She hadn't even known what the sun was until she was almost four.

Her footsteps landed unsteadily on the floor, and she began to walk faster. Faster, and faster. She could remember the smell of hospitals. The white halls that stretched on and on and on. The click of shoes coming to get her, just like how hers were clicking on the wood floor now.

Click, click, click.

"It's just a memory," she said, fingers tangling in her hair as she pulled. It hurt, but not enough to ground her to reality. "Just a a memory."

But it wasn't now, was it? It could very well become her reality again. She could find herself locked away again. She could lose herself, her freedom, her humanity, and become nothing more than a lab rat.

Click, click, click.

What if she had to go back to that place? She wasn't that scared little girl anymore, and she could fight. She would fight for herself, but if she couldn't win, then what? She promised herself that they would never take her away again.

The narrow, tan walls seemed to be closing in around her, trapping her, suffocating her.

She knew that if she had the choice, she'd rather die. That if she was backed up that far in a corner, she would rather take her own life than ever have to go back again.

Click, click, click.

The white light burned her eyes, even though it was dark in the apartment. Something was crushing her chest. She couldn't tell if it was a strap from a hospital table, or her own lungs collapsing. She wanted to scream, she wanted to scream. But she bit it back, gasping.

"Don't think about that," she said. "Forget it. Forget it. I want to forget it. I want to forget!"

There were so many things she had pushed to the back of mind for so long, rising up and bubbling beneath the surface of her skin and she felt sick.

The smell of it. The feel of needles. The bright lights. The music from the ballet. Slowly, she sank down to the ground, legs burning. The muscles around the bullet hole in her side ached. Her eyes drifted to the clock on the wall, ticking away steadily. She had been walking like that for over two hours. Sighing, she leaned her head back against the wall, and that's when she began to laugh. She felt like she was losing her mind. After all these years, she was losing her mind. Maybe it would be better that way.

She focused back on the poem that Sam had given her, remembering the words she quoted to Bucky. "Like one who, on a lonely road, doth walk in fear and dread," she murmured. "And, having once turned round, walks on, and turns no more his head. Because he knows a frightful fiend doth close behind him tread."

It was so close to her current situation, she wanted to cry, or laugh, or something. But she didn't. She just stared at her hands, and sat in silence, save for the ticking clock. Slowly, her mind began to calm. All thoughts faded away. Nothing felt quite real. It felt like there was void in her chest, one that spread through her veins and numbed her limbs. She couldn't even find the energy to hate how that made her feel.

There was a knock at the door. She flinched violently, sitting there for a moment, trying to pull herself together.

It was probably some CIA agent. That's all it was. That's what she told herself. If she didn't answer, they'd assume she was dead or something, and break down the door. She didn't really think she could deal with that right now. But... it could be anyone else, too. Could be anyone their way to kill her, or capture her. She stepped into the kitchen, grabbing a knife, knowing full well it wouldn't do anything to help her.

Walking cautiously to the door, she could feel her heart racing, steps echoing. There was no way to check outside, so she shut her eyes (for only a moment), and opened the door a crack. She gasped, knife dropping from her hands.

"Bucky," she murmured. He looked awful, much worse that before. The bags under his eyes were heavier, his skin paler. The bruises on his face were turning that awful yellow, purple color. He was wearing a jacket, the same one he leant her, and his red shirt they had bought, and gloves, and a baseball cap.

"Hey, sweetheart," he said. "Miss me?"

She grabbed his arm, dragging him in. His eyes darted around behind her, to the knife on the ground, then back to her, raising his eyebrows. She ignored him, holding him at a distance while she scanned over his body for any new injuries, fingers pressing on his ribs, down his arms. When she didn't find any, she glared up at him.

"You moron. You- you- you idiot. You goddamn idiot. Do you realize this is a trap? For you? They'll kill you," she said, shaking her head. "God, they'll kill you right here. You need to get out, now."

"I'm not leaving you alone here," he said, quietly. "There's no way in hell I'm leaving you alone."

"Bucky, I swear to God, if they catch you-"

"You'll kill me?" he said with a dark smile, cutting her off. "Kind of defeats the purpose of wanting me to leave, doesn't it?"

Idiot, she thought, glaring at him. "Don't joke. If they find you're here, what will you do? Just fight your way out? Bucky, you look like you haven't slept in days."

He didn't respond to that, walking a few steps in, taking in the basic layout of the apartment. He glanced back at her.

"I know how to stay invisible. Looped the security cameras, disabled any bugs, and my arm disrupts heat detection. I'll be fine. We'll be fine."

"That's what I said. And then we were outsmarted, and captured, and I was shot," she said, hand dropping her side. Bucky's gaze followed the gesture, the smile disappearing off his face. "You cannot be here. You have to run."

"This isn't breaking into a place we don't understand," he said. "I've gone over everything. Both SHIELD and HYDRA were years ahead of the CIA in terms of tech. I know what to do to stay a ghost."

"I know that," she said, and she ran a hand through her hair. She was losing this battle, and he knew it. They both did. "Please, please, just get out, before it's too late."

"It won't be. Trust me. I know what to do."

"I-I know that. I know that, and I trust you. But... you're in the middle of the lion's den, Bucky."

"I think I've made it clear that that doesn't matter to me," he said. "I'd walk through a thousand lion dens if it meant I could stay with you. I'm not losing you, Cara. I can't risk that. I won't them lock you up somewhere. And I'm not leaving you alone, not after what happened at the hospital-" She flinched. "I'm not letting face this on your own. I'm going to be right here, ready to face it with you."

"You know about the hospital?" she said.

He nodded. "Claire told me. Sorry I wasn't there."

She stared down at the ground, the trembling coming back to her hands. The music echoed in her head. He reached forward, grabbing them.

"I won't let them get you, Cara," he said. "You'll never go back there. I promise. I promise, I'll keep you safe."

"No one can keep me safe, Bucky," she said. "Safety is an illusion. You told me that."

"Yeah, well, I was wrong," he said, and there was an edge of a challenge in his voice.

She shook her head, looking up at him. He was exhausted. She could feel him shaking slightly beneath her.

"You're not going to leave, are you?" she said.

"Nope," he said, and smile came back, if only for a moment.

"Come here," she said, pulling him down into her arms. He rested his head in the crook of her neck, breathing deeply, arms wrapping around her waist. Her fingers ran through his hair, tracing the back of his neck, and he sighed, relaxing against her. "When was the last time you slept?"

"I tried to last night," he said. "Didn't... didn't really work."

He didn't need to finish. Nightmares. She understood that.

"God, Bucky," she murmured. "You can't do that to yourself."

"I know," he said. "I just... I missed you."

"Here. The CIA made us dinner," she said. He shot her a look. "Let's eat something, and then you need to sleep."

She lead him into the kitchen, and sat him down in one of the chairs, grabbing the bag off the counter. It was sandwiches, which looked as plain as the apartment. She handed one to Bucky, after he had taken off the jacket and hat. He eyed it suspiciously.

"CIA dropped this off?" he said.

"Yeah," she said.

He put it down sharply on the table, as if it burned him.

"Barnes, if it's poisoned, we'll both just die," she said. She took her own, and biting into it, sitting down across from him. It tasted like nothing. "It'll be tragic, and beautiful. Lovers, killed by sandwiches. We'll be legends. They'll make a movie about us."

He glared at her. "Don't joke about that."

"About getting killed by sandwiches?" she said, raising an eyebrow.

"About dying," he said.

"Yeah," she said. She forced a smile, with a shrug. "Guess that's a bit too soon for that, huh?"

"It'll always be too soon," he said, before falling silent. He glanced up at her, like he was really looking at for the first time since he got here.

She leaned back in her chair. "They won't kill me, you know. The CIA I mean. At least not on purpose. I'm the only one who knows anything about you. I'm basically in witness protection in case you try to murder me before I rat out your location."

"Thought you said this was a trap for me," he said.

"Hey, I never said it was particularly good witness protection," she said. "But until they have something else on you, I'm valuable. You're the real danger here."

He considered her words carefully, tilting his head, and taking a bite, chewing thoughtfully. When he detected nothing, he shrugged.

"I am the real danger," he said thoughtfully, taking another bite. "Should be very worried about me. I'm a ghost story."

"Mmm," she said, leaning forward. "You're terrifying. You, and your adorable smiles, and your distrust of sandwiches. I'm so afraid."

"I am," he insisted, looking at her seriously.

"Of course you are, Bucky," she said, reaching across the table and patting his hand. "Very dangerous. Very stupid. Very beautiful."

He shot her a dirty look, but the corners of his mouth twitched. She grinned, and his face lit up, as he entwined their fingers, the metal cold against her skin.

"You're lucky you're cute," he said. "Don't know how I'd put up with your otherwise."

"Mmm, I'm not cute," she said. "You can do better than that."

"Come over here, and I'll show you better than that," he shot back. They both blinked, before he looked simultaneously taken aback and pleased with himself.

"God, you get more unbearable every day," she said, laughing. "Were you always this bad?"

He shrugged, not saying anything. From the way his eyebrows drew slightly together, she doubted he had an answer.

"Will you take me up on it though?" he said, leaning forward, eyes dark.

"Depends," she said. "On how much of jerk you are today."

He smiled at her, leaning back, and in that moment, she was just... happy to have him back. Happy to have the void filled, the silence gone, the noise in her head drowned out. She wasn't alone, not right now. She was happy, for a moment, and so was he.

Then something flashed across his face, like he was suddenly reminded of something. The illusion shattered. He reached into his pocket, any trace of happiness gone. It was a photo, a polaroid. He stared down at it a moment.

"I found this," he said, sliding something over to her. She reached forward, picking it up, and breathing out slowly. It was the ransom picture of her, the one from the two bounty hunters she killed. Her eyes were staring dead into the camera with a cold hatred. There were no masks. That was her, as she really was.

She dropped it, quickly.

"Shit," she said. "You found that."

"Yeah," he said. "I found it.

"Seems like a lifetime ago," she murmured. "Before you knew who I was."

"Were you ever going to tell me?" he said.

"No," she said. "Probably not."

"Why not?" he said. He still held onto her hand. She could hear the plates in his arm shift.

"It didn't seem important."

"Those people were going to kill you," he said. "If you were a real civilian, they would have killed you."

"No. You would have gotten me out," she said firmly.

"That's not what I did for HYDRA," he said. "I didn't get people out. I let them die. If I had team, it was their responsibility to get out on their own, unless I was ordered directly to help. I had a few protection jobs, but what I did, what they trained me to do... Cara, I made sure there were no survivors."

"No," she said. "I know you. You would have gotten me out. You've always had my back. We've gotten out of worse than that."

"You don't know that," he said, letting go of her. "They... They had you. There was a knife against your neck, and you were a hostage. Cara, I don't know how to handle that. I never worried about hostages, or civilians, or collateral damage when I with them. If I got that picture, and went down to rescue you, I would have panicked. I mean, I already have. When we were there, and Grail had the gun against the back of your head... I didn't know what to do. God, I didn't know what to do."

"There was nothing to do in that situation," she said. "There was nothing either of us could have done."

He stared down at hands, and Cara could practically feel the guilt pouring off him. She got up, and walked around the table.

"Look at me, Bucky," she said, gently touching his shoulder. He did so, slowly, his hands landed on her waist. "I love you. You know that, right? I love you, and I trust you, and you're a good man."

"Please," he whispered. "Don't. Don't do that."

"It's true. Nothing will ever stop that from being true."

"You almost died," he said, and his hand brushed over the bullet wound. She kept her face level. "Because of me."

"No, because I was stupid and reckless, like I always am," she said, gently tracing down his cheek. "Not because of you. You'd never do something like that to me."

Something flashed across his face. Terror, maybe. Or despair. It broke her heart.

"I might," he said. "If they said the right thing, said the right words, I'd shoot you where you're standing. I'd do whatever they tell me to. I'm never really going to escape them."

"They'll never get close enough to do that," she said. "They'll have to go through me. I'd die before I'd let them ever have you again."

"Don't say that," he said, pulling her down sharply into his lap. His arms tightening around her as he buried his face in the crook of her neck. "Don't ever say that again."

"It's true," she murmured. "I'd die before I'd let them lay a finger on you."

"Please," he said. "Please, don't say that again."

She hummed quietly. "Alright, my love. Alright."

Not saying it didn't make it not true. They both knew that.

He leaned back, and lifted up the bottom of her shirt, staring at the dressing covering the bullet wound. His fingers brushed over it tentatively, his other hand doing the same on her back.

"Does it still hurt?" he murmured, glancing up at her face.

"A little."

"Is it healed?" he said.

"Not quite," she said. "Still bleeds a bit. Not as bad as before though. Could be worse."

"Yeah," he breathed. "Could be worse."

"Don't think about that," she said, running her fingers through his hair. "Please don't think about that. We got out."

"Cara, what are we going to do now?" he said. "If you leave, you'll be wanted, like me. And if you don't-"

"If I don't, something worse could happen," she said. "We just… we just need a plan, and we'll get out of this, and then we'll disappear."

"Like ghosts," he said.

"Like ghosts," she repeated. "Ever think you'd want to be that?"

"I've been one for so long," he said, pressing his forehead against hers, closing his eyes. "I don't know what else I could ever be."

"You're James," she said. "You're Bucky. That's who you are. That's who you are, and that's who you always will be."

He laughed, almost harshly, pulling her as close as he possibly could. Neither of them said anything, and she didn't know how long they sat like that. All she could think about was how he was here with her. The void was in the empty, dusty air of the apartment was filled, the silence was gone. His hand ran down her back, lightly. She wasn't alone. She wasn't alone. She wasn't alone.

And for the moment, time didn't matter. The ticking of the clock faded away, and the seconds that haunted her seemed to stop. It didn't matter just then, and for that, Cara was eternally grateful.

A/N: ok so i hate college and i'm emotionally drained because marvel is destroying my soul (in a bad way... they have made... mistakes... many mistakes... so many... i am so tired). that's really my excuse this time. but i gave you bucky barnes hug time so love me anyways.

i would just like to say... i'm so sorry cara. that hurt to write.

things will start moving again next chapter. i have about half of it written now, so we'll see it up pretty soon!