From Darkness

Thirty-Seven

Bucky and I both agreed that finding me a job wasn't going to be easy. Not just because there was a significant language barrier and I was nowhere near ready to communicate in full sentences, but also because we weren't sure how I'd react to high-stress environments. Bucky had no problem dealing with them now. He was uncommonly strong and spent his days lifting boxes and working at restaurants and markets under the table. But he could communicate without a problem, and when people did give him an attitude or cross boundaries—all he had to do was give them a good glare. They were smart enough to back off. In their defense, he was big and tall and intimidating on a good day. At least for people who didn't know what it felt like to be cuddled by him.

I was none of those things, of course. I couldn't communicate, and as much as it pained me to say, I didn't exactly have the intimidating femme fatal thing that Hill and Romanoff had perfected. He didn't want to risk leaving me at the mercy of strangers who may feel comfortable yelling at me or grabbing my ass again. Thus making me feel threatened enough to wipe out an entire block like a goddamn red tide.

But I wanted to help out. And I wanted to pay Elena back for all her help. I wanted our bills to get paid regularly. I wanted to eat now that I was gaining back the weight I'd lost with Hydra. I didn't want us to try and live beyond our means. I didn't see much for us outside of that crappy little apartment. But I wanted us to live well enough to not be noticed.

Elena ended up coming to our rescue again. Bucky mentioned that I was looking for work but wasn't ready to carry on conversations in Romanian, and she decided to hire me as her assistant. She was getting on in age, hated walking up and down the stairs. And tenants always needed help fixing things or moving things. Every time someone moved out, she had an empty apartment to clean all by herself.

She didn't have much money to spare for wages, so we agreed that paying us with food and docking some of our rent was sufficient. Once I'd recovered from the accident on the bus, I got right to work.

The job was easy for me. It kept me busy during the day because there was always something that needed to be cleaned or patched up. The only problem was that it was too damn quiet. And there was nothing I hated more than being left alone with my thoughts. So after a few days, Bucky came home with an old pink radio he'd found and tried to get it working again. That way, if anything, I could listen to something to drown out the silence. And maybe work on my Romanian.

He was sitting on the floor, tinkering away at it while I tried to read a newspaper—emphasis on try. I'd gotten the hang of reading Romanian well enough to get the gist of what was being said. But the sound and pronunciations were so different from French and Spanish that I'd only be able to pick up a few familiar words in a verbal conversation. And even then, it had to be at a snail's crawl, or my brain just wouldn't latch onto anything.

I felt like a little kid, stumbling over the words, sounding them out as Bucky corrected me and guided me on my pronunciation. Most of the time, he didn't even have to look up from what he was doing to know what word I was butchering.

And then, finally, I heard the sound of radio chatter. I looked up just as Bucky did. He grinned triumphantly.

"I knew I could get it working again," he said. I smiled and went back to the newspaper.

"I had no doubt that you could."

He always could. He was constantly helping Elena fix things in the building. Broken fridges, stoves, even TVs. Once he set his mind to it, he'd pick it apart like a puzzle and work at it until it made sense. A radio would be easy.

I wasn't paying much attention as he flipped through the stations. Each one of them was in Romanian, with occasional blips of other languages. News chatter, sports announcers, the quick beat of a pop song. And then he stopped very suddenly. The apartment filled with the sound of violins. In that old-fashioned way that immediately made me think of the radio by my grandma's bed. When she'd listen to Bing Crosby and tell the story of how Howard Stark rescued her and my grandpa in a back alley in New York.

"I know this song," Bucky said. I looked up. His face was dark with concentration. And then the vocals started. Not Romanian. English. Clear as day. I squinted.

"It sounds familiar," I admitted. He nodded slowly.

"It's uh—I know who it is—I remember this song." Then he laughed. "Bing Crosby." I smiled.

"That explains it. My grandma used to listen to him."

I turned back to the newspaper, but I couldn't concentrate now. The song was old. Old enough for Bucky to remember. And he was clearly having a moment. The song lured him in and dragged him back to his youth. Or at least that's what I thought he was thinking. Until he was standing in front of me, hand outstretched. I looked up with question.

"Dance with me?" he asked. I couldn't help but laugh. But I slid my hand in his anyway and let him pull me to my feet. He pulled me close, one hand on my hip and the other in mine. He pressed his forehead against mine as I slid my arm around his shoulder.

"Why do you think they're playing this?" I asked as Bing crooned from the small pink radio.

"I don't know," he said.

"You don't think it's for you, do you?" He shook his head.

"No. I think it's harmless. It's a classic. Romantic. Might as well take advantage of it."

"It is a nice song."

"And it's the first song we've ever danced to. I guess that makes it our song."

I looked up and then moved my hand from his shoulder to caress his cheek. Maybe I was pessimistic, but I expected things to fall apart over time. I thought we'd grow to resent each other, start fighting. Or somewhere along the line, the magic and newness of it would fade into something comfortable. As if we'd realize at some point that we were only in this to protect each other. Not because we wanted to be.

But he was looking down at me, blue eyes narrowed, expression soft. The song crooned about wooing beautiful dreamers. His head turned just a tad when I touched him as if he was eager to feel more of me. And even though there were a million things to be sad about. A million more things to worry about; it felt peaceful. It was the first time I'd felt genuine happiness since we'd found each other again. The words burst into life inside me. Always so unexpectedly. God, I love him. I really, truly, genuinely love him.

"This is a good first song to dance to," I agreed.

He smiled and moved to kiss my knuckles. And even though I knew he had even more things to worry and stress over, I knew he felt it too. We still had nightmares—both of us. And sometimes, I'd wake in the dark to find him trembling and staring wide-eyed at the wall. But I would hold him in my arms and whisper words of comfort. He would always find his way back to me. And then, when it inevitably happened to me, he would do the same. He'd pull me out of the Darkness and into the warmth of his touch and his chest. And I'd feel just a little more in control. So when he looked at me now, I knew he felt the same. He wanted to be here with me. Not out of obligation. Just love.

"I have a question, though," I said as the song came to a close, and I thought of something.

"What's that?"

"You know this song. So I can't help but wonder—how many girls have you danced with to this song? Or should I say dames?" He laughed and dropped his head against mine again.

"Just one," he admitted. He pulled away slowly to return to the radio to find something else to put on. "To that song anyway," he said with a sly smile over his shoulder.

"Jerk," I muttered.