a lion among wolves, bucky barnes (hiatus)

five.

WASHINGTON D.C.
2014

JUNE knew she shouldn't be alive.

As Steve lead her through a neighborhood beyond her recognition, to a porch leading to a house she did not know, it was the solitary thought on her mind. The explosion still rang in her ears, her legs were still numb and every step was agony, but June did not care. She was bristled with anger and with embarrassment. A panic attack. A panic attack. She repeated those words over and over to herself. Her cheeks were hot with humiliation as they hobbled up the front steps, Steve rapping urgently on the door. Was that all it took? Was the simple mention of Hydra enough to send her spiraling? June still felt the effects of the episode; her heart had not settled entirely, her lips were as dry as a desert, the few breaths she managed to take in weak and short. June felt like a newborn foal learning to walk, frightened by the monstrous blue world she suddenly found herself trapped within. She was glad she had Steve to lean against.

The screen door slid aside, and a man greeted them. His complexion was dark, he had a goatee, and he was wearing a purple running shirt and athletic shorts. His eyes were kind. He took in the two before him with baffling calmness, and looking to Steve, he smiled. "Hey, man."

"I'm sorry about this," Steve gasped tiredly. "We need a place to lay low. We're out of allies."

The man surveyed them carefully, then stepped aside. "Not entirely."

• • •

"I'M not sure if you were thinking this," Steve said gently as he stepped from the guest bathroom, a towel in hand as he scrubbed the ash and dirt from his hands. "But I don't blame you for anything back there. Nothing was your fault—that missile was coming no matter what."

June looked up from her tedious attempt to extract a small piece of shrapnel that had buried itself in her palm. Steve leaned against the doorframe, broad shoulders made to look even more broad by the simple tank-top he wore, soot still lingering on his face and in his sandy hair. His arms were crossed as he peered at June with hearted concern, eyebrows raised expectantly. She sighed.

"Maybe," she mumbled. "But I didn't make things any easier. I'm sorry."

"You apologize too much," Steve told her, tossing the towel down and moving to sit across from her upon the bed. "Can you tell me why you froze up?"

"I didn't just freeze up," June argued faintly. "I had a damn panic attack. All because—" She caught herself, biting her lip in frustration. Idiot. You can't tell him.

"Because what?" Steve prompted softly.

June could not meet his eyes. She gnawed on the inside of her cheek, internally at war, fighting the urge to  reveal to this man, whom she hardly knew, every nightmare that had ever haunted her, every torture she had ever endured. He might resent her if he found out everything, for there was so much she knew, so much information she should have disclosed earlier. But Steve had been nothing but merciful since they had met . . .

"Because of Hydra," she shot out, surprising herself. "Hydra and I . . . we go way back."

Steve didn't blink. "How far back?"

"Far enough." June stared at her hands shamefully. "It was never dead, not really. 'Cut off one head, two more shall take its place.'" She repeated Zola's words with sickened contempt in her voice. "Hydra was never one for creativity. It began human experimentation again."

Steve pursed his lips, nodding wordlessly.

"I didn't volunteer, if that's what you're thinking," June explained defensively. "My family was . . . struggling. We were barely scraping by. My parents had four kids to support, and I just wanted to find a way to help them. I found out our local hospital was paying people to participate in medical surveys and studies, stuff like that. On the day I turned twenty, I went down to the address, and . . ."