AN: First chapter! You meet the OC, Sam, and Steve in this one. In the next, we'll meet Bucky/the Winter Soldier. It's already written, so review to let me know you're reading and I'll post it.

Also, the fics I've read rarely feature Sam, which is sad because I like him. He'll be a big part in this. A lot of fics also paint Bucky as either super violent, super angry, or whatever. I'm planning on doing this a little differently, treating him as a person with severe PTSD and keeping it realistic. Promise it'll be fun! I know this has been done, with female helping Bucky, but it'll be different from that as well. No SHIELD assigning her to the role, no Bucky locked up in a room—it'll be different. Promise. Just look at the OC! Ever read about an amputee war vet before? ;)

As for pairings, nothing has been decided yet. Let me know what you think, okay? I definitely want friendship pairs, but maybe a little romance, no?

Chapter 1

Though it had only been a couple of years past, combat medic Sergeant Moriah Fox felt like her time in the field had been lifetimes ago. Sometimes she found that she missed it, but most of the time she was content where she was; a grad student, attending UCLA and living in the bustling city of angels – Los Angeles. Folded into her couch with a textbook on unfolding memory in her lap, it was times like these when she would remember her old life, so wildly different from the calm in which she currently lived. Long gone was the desert heat, the rattling gunfire; long gone were the days of obeying barked orders, of seeing badly wounded men and being the first in a long line of people to help save their lives; gone was the sense of tension and urgency in which she had constantly lived in Afghanistan.

Now, her days were filled with warm sunlight instead of scorching heat; with textbooks on her lap instead of weapons; her hands were now busy scribbling research notes, rather than sticky with a man's blood. She would be lying if she said she ever really forgot; thoughts of war were always there, day in and day out, hovering in her mind, and the burn scars on her body served as a constant reminder, but sometimes, sometimes, it was easy to push those thoughts away and pretend to be a normal girl.

But that was the problem with pretend, wasn't it? Reality was always there.

She blew out a breath, puffing out her cheeks and leafing through her textbook; it was summer so class wasn't in session, but after having suffered from posttraumatic amnesia herself, she found the subject fascinating and liked to read up on it when she had spare time. She was reading a section on anterograde amnesia that had her caught up and engrossed. The sound of the oven beeping drew her out of the book, which was lucky; occasionally, she would be so deeply involved in her book that she wouldn't notice, leaving things to burn. She dog-eared the page and stood with a little effort, padding to the kitchen to pull the brownies out. She'd taken up baking once she'd gotten out of the army and found that she was good at it. She felt normal.

As she was setting the baking tray on the counter, she heard her cellphone ringing—a boring, old-phone style ring tone. She really should change it. The sound was grating on her nerves. She quickly removed the padded glove from her hand and hurried to grab her phone off the couch's arm. Glancing at the caller ID, a wide smile split her lips.

"Sam," she said warmly, plopping down on the couch.

"Hi, Mo," he said. "How are you, girl?"

"Better now that I'm talking to you," she said, and she heard him laugh on the other end of the line. "What's up?"

"You busy?"

"Just making brownies."

"No, I mean in general. School? Work?"

"Um, not really," she said. "Class is over for the summer. And no work, really. The GI bill's taking care of me all right. Hey—weren't you on the news a couple months ago? I thought I saw you."

"Yeah," he said slowly.

"What was that about? You okay?"

"I'm fine," he said, warmth in his voice.

"So you're the Falcon now, huh?"

"Shut up," he laughed. "Anyway, can I ask a favor? I could use your help." She sauntered over to the brownies and cut one out. She swore softly as it burned her fingertips. "You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," she said quickly. "Burned myself. Anyway, what's up?"

"I got this friend," Sam began slowly. "Went through a hell of a rough time, you know? It's bad." Moriah's brow creased and she frowned.

"PTSD?"

"For starters."

"Oh," she said sympathetically.

"Yeah," Sam said. "Anyway, he won't let me help him. And I was hoping I could count on you."

"I don't know if you can afford me, Sam," she scoffed, taking a bite of brownie and leaning against the countertop. "Of course you can count on me. But why not ask someone closer to you? Aren't you in New York?" There was a hesitation, and Mo wondered briefly if Sam had heard her. "Sam?"

"I trust you, Mo. It's—it's important. And you're not an official shrink or anything. Titles will probably make him uncomfortable."

"What's happened to him?"

"Wouldn't know where to begin. Just been through hell, basically. Could use some help acclimating, adjusting. You don't have to do it, Mo."

"No, of course I'll do it. I'm bored here anyway. I could use some action in my life. Besides, it's not every day a celebrity calls you asking for your help." She smirked.

"More of a hero than celebrity, really," Sam said, and she tilted her head back and laughed a genuine laugh. "How soon can you come?"

"As soon as you need me."

"Great!" Sam's voice was bright. "I just bought your plane ticket. You can be ready by seven tonight, right?"

Her heart stuttered. "It's noon!"

"Seven hours is more than enough time," he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. "Don't you worry about a thing. Just bring your clothes. I'll pick you up at the airport when you land, alright?"

"Christ, you don't mess around, do you?"

"It's urgent," Sam offered.

"You just miss me," she sighed. Her heart was racing with nerves, with excitement. New York! She couldn't wait to be back. To be honest, her day to day routine had grown tiresome, without school or her usual line of work, leading group therapy sessions for soldiers returning home.

"You know you're a little excited," Sam said, and she smiled. "You love this spontaneous stuff."

"I do," she said.

"Go get ready," Sam ordered. "I'll see you soon. Thanks for doing this, Mo." And he hung up.

Sam stood with his hands in his pockets, scanning the sea of the faces for Mo. He was ecstatic that she'd agreed to come; he knew that she would be invaluable given his current predicament. He did feel a little bad. He should have given her more information, but he told himself that she hadn't asked. If it was important to her, she would have asked, right? He puffed out his cheeks nervously. Time would tell, but he needed her now. He couldn't turn to anyone from SHIELD; Steve was adamant about that. In fact, he knew Steve would probably be angry about Mo, too, but Sam wasn't sure what else to do; they needed help, and Steve hadn't left him with many options. And when it came down to it, he trusted Moriah, the young wounded soldier.

He'd met her around a year ago; she'd been leading a therapy group, just as he had. She'd been able to relate to the other soldiers, having experienced PTSD herself, much as he had. She'd gotten through it, just as Sam had, and the both of them understood that PTSD wasn't something you could get through alone. And, when she had slipped up slightly, gotten into a bad place last year, he had helped her through it, just as she had helped him when his own bad memories and feelings of guilt had been triggered.

Since SHIELD was out of the question, and so was anyone who was a real, qualified doctor, Sam had thought of Moriah. She was a good friend. She could be trusted. They'd kept in contact; he knew she was a grad student at UCLA, studying psychology. He knew she had suffered posttraumatic memory loss. He knew that she was endlessly kind and understanding, a rock when things got chaotic, tough when she needed to be. He'd always called her a social chameleon; never the same person around two different groups of people. She was always exactly what she needed to be, and somehow she always knew exactly what she needed to be without being told.

He was uncertain as to how she would react when he got her back home. Mo was known for being calm. Given her job as a combat medic, that came naturally to her, so he wasn't too worried. She knew how to take a situation and roll with it. She was pliant. He had all the faith in the world in her.

Finally, he spotted her. She was easy to identify, stood out form the crowd. Though she wore no uniform, and she'd been three years out of the army, she still walked like a soldier. Head high, shoulders straight; she had those watchful eyes, too. All signs that others might overlook, but signs another soldier would recognize. Of course, the scars gave her away, too.

She wore a scarf, usually to cover the burns on the right side of her neck. Through she wore a burgundy leather jacket, he knew those scars covered some of her arm and the right side of her chest, licking beneath her jaw as well. Her helmet had saved a lot of her face, but it was marred, however, by a scar that sliced through her right eyebrow, down to the top of her cheekbone.

Mo was lucky to be alive.

He waved her down and she smiled, her earthy green eyes lighting up. If he hadn't already known, he wouldn't have ever guessed that the right one was fake. She raised her arm and waved brightly at him and he came to meet her. She wrapped her arms around him and he lifted her off the floor a little, squeezing her tightly.

"Geeze, muscles," she said as he sat her back down. She squeezed his bicep playfully. "You really let yourself go, huh?"

He laughed, noting that she felt different in his arms. Softer. "Good to see you, too." And it really was good to see her. The thing about Mo was that she had a certain warmth to her, and he wasn't the only one who thought so; others she had helped had mentioned it as well. But Mo radiated warmth and welcome; it was impossible to feel uncomfortable around the wounded soldier. Given the hand she had been dealt, she would have had every right to give up and turn bitter. Instead, she grew more optimistic, passionate about helping others who had been hurt.

He smiled. "Let's get your things."

"So, where am I staying, exactly? How long will I even be here for?"

"You can stay with us," he said, lifting two of her large bags. She looked sheepish.

"I wasn't sure how long I'd be staying," she said sheepishly. "But it seemed like it might take a while."

"It will," he said. "Anyway, you'll stay with us as long as you want. I'm living with two other guys, but don't worry, they won't bother you. Actually, they're the ones you'll be helping, so it'll be convenient."

She raised her scarred eyebrow at him.

"Well, one needs your help more than the other, but, you know. They won't give you any trouble, promise."

"I think I can take them," she said, smirking, which drew a full laugh from Sam. The thought was absurd.

Steve paced around anxiously, his hands clasped together behind his back. Sam would be back soon, any minute now, he was sure. He wasn't sure who the person was Sam had elected to help them, but he trusted that his friend had made the right call. He prayed that he had. He couldn't risk it.

When the door opened he spun around. Sam stepped in, a smile on his face; he was talking animatedly to someone behind him. There was a feminine laugh and Sam stepped aside, revealing a girl—a woman. She had dark skin, a caramel color a few shades lighter than Sam's, and a mane of honey brown curls. She blinked her green eyes up to look at Steve; their eyes met and she gasped.

"I—oh, my God," he heard her breathe as he stepped forward. She looked accusingly at Sam, her eyes narrowed furiously. "You—you didn't tell me—"

"Steve!" Sam interrupted brightly. "Steve, this is my good friend and ex-combat medic, Sergeant Moriah Fox. Mo, this is Captain Steve Rogers."

"You don't say," the girl, Sergeant Moriah Fox, said. Steve saluted her and she returned the gesture, shock etched into her features.

"Sergeant Fox," Steve said, inclining his head. She shook her head, the curls bouncing.

"Ex sergeant," she insisted. "Call me Mo. Or Fox, if you want."

Fox felt right; Mo was too familiar.

"It's a pleasure, ma'am," Steve said.

"Same," she replied, looking around the apartment. "I just—oh my god, Sam, your roommate is Captain America? Who's the other guy? Thor?"

"Definitely not," Sam said uneasily. "We'll get to that later. Why don't we get you settled in?"

"Right," Fox said. "I'm fine on the couch or whatever."

"Don't insult me," Sam said, nudging her. "Steve and I are sharing a room. You've got your own."

"And the other guy?"

"Later, like I said."

"So tell me about yourself," Steve said, seated across from Mo. The mystery man had apparently opted out of joining them. She couldn't blame him; it was past three in the morning. Mo had settled into her room with her clothes and her textbooks, and now they were all in the kitchen seated around the table, drinking coffee. At 3am.

"I, uh…" she trailed off. It was easier to speak if she wasn't looking at him. Captain America. She couldn't believe that there was anything wrong with him – surely he couldn't need her help. God, was he good-looking. She didn't know what to say. She didn't want to embarrass herself. And her face. She bit her lower lip. He must have noticed the scars. He must have questions. She looked at Sam, who raised his eyebrows at her.

"He's cute, huh?" he said, winking. She glared at him. "Don't be star struck."

"Um," she tried again, looking back at Steve. She noticed his eyes trailing over the scar on her face in the way she was used to people doing; eyes skirting the top to the bottom, then flitting away guiltily. She sighed. "Let's start with the elephant in the room, yeah?" she said, meeting Steve's eyes. "The scars. I saw you looking." He lowered his eyes.

"I—"

"It's okay," she cut him off with a gentle smile, then gave Sam a meaningful look. "It doesn't bother me like it used to. I'm surprised Sam didn't tell you."

Sam raised his hands. "Not my story."

"You don't have to tell it," Steve said kindly.

"It's fine," Mo said. She raked a hand through her thick curls "I joined the army at seventeen, right out of high school. Deployed at twenty. I was supposed to be gone for nine months in Afghanistan, combat medic, like Sam said. I was seven months into my tour when our vehicle hit an IED. Blew it apart. Blew me apart." She tugged down the neckline of her top, revealing the burns on her shoulder. She tilted her head back, showing the ones on her jaw as well. "I got burned," she said, gesturing to the right side of her body. "Mostly on this side." She touched the scar on her face. "Shrapnel caught me here, laid me open." Then she stood and balanced her weight on her left leg. "My leg got caught up in the wreckage somehow, and was severed." She smiled softly, rolling up the leg of her jeans, revealing the prosthetic. Steve steepled his fingers in front of his face.

"I'm okay, though," she said with a shrug. "I'm alive. I couldn't remember anything about the accident for a while, but they helped me recover the memories." She looked darkly at her hands for a moment before looking back up at Steve. His face was solemn, thoughtful. "But I'm fine, really," she said. "I'm not just saying that. I'm happier than I've ever been, and if I think even for a second that you're pitying me…" she trailed off, glancing at his massive arms. "Well, there's not much I can do. But I'll tell Sam."

"Don't pity her, man," Sam said, shaking his head. Steve smiled softly. "And don't stare, either."

"I am sorry," Steve said. "War is a terrible thing. You didn't deserve that."

"Yeah," she wrinkled her nose. "I didn't. But I've accepted it. I've moved on." The room was quiet for a few minutes before she laughed. Sam was looking at her with something like pride in his eyes. "Geeze. Heavy. So anyway, now that that's out of the way…"

Steve seemed to appreciate her light attitude. He smiled softly. "How do you know Sam?"

Mo yawned. Even jetlagged, she was tired; it would be midnight in LA now. "PTSD group sessions. We were both group leaders. We met here, in New York, actually. He helped me out a lot when I hit a dark time. That's the thing with PTSD. You just cope, but you're not cured. Sometimes I still get bad memories resurfacing, you know? You have bad days. You're never completely… better."

"Ain't that the truth," Sam said with a wry smile, then nudged Mo. "Mo here's my best girl."

She rolled her eyes at him. "Damn straight."

Steve quirked his eyebrows. "You two…?"

"No," Sam laughed. "No, not like that. She's special though." Mo snorted. "I definitely think she can help us. She's studying and researching memory, too."

"Well, because I lost mine for a bit. Not everything, but, you know." She shrugged. Sam and Steve exchanged a significant look, but she caught it and watched them suspiciously.

"You're not a doctor?" Steve asked her.

"Medic?" She replied, quirking her brows.

"No, I mean psychologist."

"Oh. No. Just, like, a group leader for a bit through the army and whatnot. And a student, mostly."

Steve looked at Sam, and Mo wasn't sure if she liked the expression. "Uh." She said.

"She's good," Sam insisted. "Alright? She's got this."

"I got this," she reassured with a bob of her head, though she wasn't sure what this was.

Steve and Sam did that thing again, and Mo decided it was annoying. They had that whole silent communication thing down. Sam stood first, then Steve. Mo looked between them and followed suit, puzzled.

"Mo," Sam said, looking at her with a kind smile. "Why don't you head on up to bed? I just need to talk to Steve for a bit."

"So, that's it?" Sam nodded. "Right. Okay then. Goodnight, I guess?"

"Night," Sam said. "I'll wake you in the morning. We'll get things started then."

"Kay." She looked at Steve and inclined her head. He nodded. "Goodnight, Captain Rogers." Her voice faltered a little. She was definitely still star struck by him. Her heart fluttered. Sam rolled his eyes at her.

"Goodnight, Sergeant Fox." She shot him a look, but decided reprimanding Captain America—Captain America. She was sharing an apartment with Captain America.—probably wasn't the best of ideas. She turned on her heel instead, heading up to her borrowed bedroom, wondering who their friend could be. Certainly someone of prestige, right? Her heart fluttered at the thought. Tony Stark, perhaps? A secret agent? She felt her palms start to sweat as she locked her door, just in case—she didn't know this other man, after all. But she was tired after an eventful day, and she fell asleep, for once not dreaming of war, but dreaming of the possibilities instead.

Disclaimer: Only Mo is mine. Review, please? You know how much they mean :)