Bucky looked tired. Although his body biologically wasn't, you could see it in his eyes. And today it seemed like the weight of the decades had finally caught on.

He sat alone on a mint green couch in a small office. He had gone ninety-nine days now without saying a single word. In the first forty-five days Natasha had kept him company. But after day number forty-five Fury had told her that she was no help and she had left at his order off to other missions. It made Natasha sad to see Bucky come in each day with his lips pressed tight together and she always went down to help him up, hold the door open or telling him a joke accompanied by an occasional shoulder-bump. She watched patient over him, while he finished scribbling some notes into his journal. The journal was small, with wrinkled corners and a dull gray cover. It looked like the flag of permanent defeat.

Bucky was pale and marked with dark rings under his eyes. The shadows the trauma brought from years and years of abuse filled them almost completely. They spread down like cancer and his shoulder had the deep-angry scars from metal fighting against flesh. But none of these scars were fresh. They were as old as the white of a blank paper.

Everything about him was tense except his eyes. They had the same color as rain clouds and were lifeless and broken.

"Russia," Natasha said to him as they climbed the stairs from where the office was located. "I could go with you again. We've made some memories."

Bucky had taught her to speak up for herself and Natasha loved him.

He shook his head.

"Remember how you went silent for one-hundred-seven days and then you started to talk every day for the next three weeks."

Bucky nodded and his gaze got captured by a big S.H.I.E.L.D. symbol. Natasha noticed.

"Fury made me leave. I am an agent and I must obey my orders."

Another nod.

"He hasn't much faith."

Slightly Bucky tilted his head.

"But I do," she continued. "Can I get you a beer and then we'll head back to the tower?"

He shrugged and followed her. Together they sat and some of the agents made fun of him and he was not angry. Others, of the older agents, looked at him and were sad. But they did not show it and they spoke politely about new firearms and of what they had seen. The agents that came back from their recent debriefing already started to brag, filling the room with chatter and stories. The names were removed, the locations cut out and the details taken, but they always showed a hint of truth. Bucky could smell it. But the only thing that would reach him now was the faint scent of death and snow. When it vanished it left a warm and dry room behind.

"Russia," Natasha said.

Bucky smiled softly. He was holding his glass and thinking of many years ago.

"You want me to come with you tomorrow?" She asked.

He declined her offer with another movement of his head.

"I would like to. Maybe I could...," she stopped in mid-sentence and sighed into her drink. "I wonder how old I was when you first took me on a mission. I can remember screams and smoke and flames and the noise of the shooting. I can remember you throwing me behind a sofa where the foam was already ripped and the impact of bullets made the fiberfill dance and feeling the whole building shiver. The sound of you punching him like chopping a tree down and the sweet blood smell all over me. I remember everything from when we first went together."

Bucky looked at her with his paled, uncertain loving eyes. Carefully he reached out and put his hand over hers.

"May I come with you?" She tried again. "Or, I could just wait outside."

Bucky refused, however he seemed hesitant. There was a time when his hope and his confidence had been gone. But now they were freshening as when a breeze rises.

"Okay, at least let me drop you off at the office."

Finally he sighed in agreement.

A satisfied smile graced her face. With a silent 'thanks' he ruffled her hair in a gesture of affection. He knew he had attained humility and he knew it was not disgraceful and it carried no loss of true pride.