a lion among wolves, bucky barnes (hiatus)

sixteen.

WASHINGTON D.C.
2014

THE week went by somewhat mundanely, to June's surprise. Bucky was quiet and shut tight, like an old house in a bitter winter, but he made for a decent roommate. They ate their meals together (often in silence, but June couldn't say she minded all that much) and always said goodnight before retiring to bed. Every day Steve called, and every day June answered, forgetting the guilt she had suffered initially from keeping Bucky a secret. Steve's and Sam's search was relentless—one morning they might be in Europe, and the same evening June would find out they had begun scouring Canada.

Because of this, it became almost habit for June to ask Bucky if he would like to talk to Steve.

"It's him again," she would say.

"Not yet," he always replied.

They fell into such a routine that occasionally June would forget Bucky was around—or, had grown so used to him, she was hardly startled by his presence anymore. He seemed to have warmed up to her, too. She learned things about him. Even stranger was the fact that Bucky was learning as well; it was as if he was meeting himself for the first time. So along came the realizations that Bucky took his coffee black, but with plenty of sugar, preferred Bing Crosby over The Ink Spots (they had snooped through Steve's records), and hated falling asleep in the dark. Night after night, when June slipped past his door on her way to Steve's room, the light from a bedside lamp spilled out from under the door and illuminated a strip of the hall.

Sunday morning was as soft and quiet as all the other mornings before it. June shuffled into the living room, her hair a tragic mess (the result of another sleepless night impeded by nightmares) and her limbs never feeling more heavy. Bucky was already up, as was his custom, a mug of coffee wrapped in his hands. He was perched on the couch, leaning forward with his elbows rested atop his knees. Bucky's blue eyes blazed, a deep crease in his brow as he stared straight ahead at the wall before him. June sighed; she wished he would relax.

"Morning," he said tonelessly.

"Good morning," replied June with a faint smile. "How did you sleep?"

"Decent." Bucky shrugged.

Liar, June thought sadly.

She made her way into the small kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee, unsure what to say next. The fact that neither of them were very good at conversation did not ever help their situation.

"Um," began June, her heart beating very quickly, "I was thinking . . . today we could work on your, uh . . . your mind. Your memories. I guess . . ."

Bucky did not move. "You think so?"

"Yeah," she remained as offhanded as she could be. "It's worth a try. Isn't it?"

Bucky maintained his unreadable façade. "It can't hurt."

Cautiously optimistic, June meandered back into the living room. She perched on the edge of an armchair across from Bucky and crossed her legs, quietly studying his demeanor. His gaze had dropped from the wall to the floor, and he gripped his mug so tight his knuckles were beginning to turn white. Bucky's entire stature was tense with anxiety—the hunched shoulders and bouncing knee were telltales June knew all-too well.

"We can start with something simple," said June, her voice gentle in the manner that one would take when coaxing a wild dog. "Can you tell me why you won't talk to Steve?"

Bucky gnawed on the inside of his cheek. "Because . . . just . . . I . . . I can't face him. Not after what I did--what I tried to do. He said we knew each other our whole lives . . . and I almost killed him."