We lay there in silence, his warmth still nestled between my legs, the aftermath leaving my skin sticky and flushed.
I could feel his breath against my bare neck, my skin clinging slightly to the old, tattered red shirt he hadn't taken off. My legs were still trembling from the ethereal pleasure that had just overtaken me.
Bucky slowly began to pull away from me, and my skin felt raw where we'd been connected. He carefully climbed over my limp body and slipped off the bed, heading into the bathroom. I heard the water run.
Guess the water's working again.
He returned with a small washcloth in hand. His fire had quieted, tucked away and covered. He extended the cloth to me.
"Want me to help you?"
A chuckle slipped out as I took it. "No, I've got it."
I rolled into a sitting position, and once my legs felt steady again, I headed into the bathroom to clean up.
"I think I'm actually going to shower, since the water's working again."
After a quick rinse and a change into jeans and a T-shirt, I came out to find him fixing my door.
"Where did you get those locks from?" I asked.
He paused. "I change mine a lot, so I have spares," he replied, not lifting his gaze from the task.
I flopped onto the bed, noticing the bent metal bar was gone from the pipe. But I was greeted with new damage — the top of the metal bed frame was crushed on the left side, twisted like part of an old wire hanger.
That's when it hit me — aside from the moment he touched my back, I hadn't noticed his metal arm the whole time. Was that where it had been?
"You okay?" he asked gently.
"Huh? Oh—yeah, I'm fine."
"I saw them…"
A silence fell between us. I knew what he meant — the scars. The slits and gashes on my thighs, remnants of pain I'd fought hard to bury.
"Oh, those. Yeah… they're just…"
I trailed off, unsure what to say. I figured he probably thought I was pathetic, if he didn't already.
"You don't have to tell me," He said softly, rolling up his sleeve to reveal his own scars — too similar to be coincidence.
Finishing with the door, he handed me two sets of keys.
"These are yours. Each lock comes with two — hide the extras."
I took one set and gently closed his hand around the other. "Keep it for me? Just in case I lose mine again."
He nodded and tucked them into his pocket without a word.
Who knew that small moment would be the start of something more?
From then on, we grew closer. We never said it out loud, but we became each other's person. Each other's safe place. On nights when the nightmares got too loud, he'd quietly unlock my door and hide away in my bed.
We never really went to his place — he called it a war zone and never bothered cleaning it. He had no plans to stay there, I guess.
He started showing up after my late-night sessions, walking me home in the dark without a word. He just… appeared.
We found peace in the silence. Me, doing puzzles. Him, scribbling into that little black notebook. Somehow, the quiet made our demons less loud.
One night, I was lying on the floor doing a puzzle while he leaned against the wall writing.
"Hey," I asked. "Am I in that book?"
His pencil paused. He looked at me, silently. I'd never read it.
He didn't talk much about the things he remembered. He just wrote them down — said he needed to, so he wouldn't forget what he'd done… or who he hurt.
"Well, Barnes?" I teased.
"Yes," he said, going back to writing.
"Oh yeah? What did you write?"
He paused again. "Your name. And that I can trust you."
"Seriously? That's it?" I smirked.
I mean, we hadn't technically had full-on sex, but we'd done everything else over this last year. Surely, there was more.
"Come on, you've got to have written more than that."
I crawled over and settled between his legs. He instinctively opened his arms for me. I nuzzled into his chest as he brought the book back down for us both to see.
Some pages were in different languages. There were pamphlets, newspaper clippings of Steve Rogers — Captain America — tucked between some pages.
He had told me about Steve before. As the memories came back, so did the guilt. Steve was like a brother, and Bucky couldn't bring himself to face him. But like a father watching from afar, he kept track — proud, and broken all at once.
I noticed the colored tabs. "Where am I?" I asked.
He gently plucked a purple tab and flipped to a section titled Romania.
All the text that followed was in Romanian. I couldn't read much, just basic phrases I'd picked up living here — but I recognized my name, bold at the bottom of the page.
"What does it say?"
"Learn Romanian," he teased.
I looked up at him. "Smartass."
"But what if you forget Romanian?" I asked, quieter now. "Will you forget me too?"
The question hung between us, heavy and real.
I shouldn't have asked. But it had been on my mind.
He kissed the top of my head gently. "I'll find you."
"Yeah? Well, I know just how."
I stood and crossed the room, opening my nightstand drawer.
Returning with a small box, I handed it to him. "Here. Open it."
He eyed it with suspicion, then carefully removed the lid. Inside, nestled on a firm chain, were two dog tags.
"You used to be a soldier. Figured you might miss having these."
His fingers traced the metal. One tag read:
I am James Buchanan Barnes
Bucky, a free man
And the other:
You knew me once
Know me again
Find me — Elizabeth Romano
"I left the backs blank," I said, "so you can add whatever else you don't want to forget—"
He pulled me into a crushing hug, cutting me off. "Thank you," he whispered into my ear.
A warm smile crept across my face. I had a feeling this was the first gift he'd received — a real, thoughtful gift — in decades.
"If you ever forget anything," I whispered, "just find your way back to me."
"Always. Just… don't forget me either, okay?"
I giggled. "How could I forget my weird neighbor with the metal arm?"
And we stayed like that for a long time. Quiet. Peaceful.
Knowing that in our world, peace never lasts.
But for that moment, we had it.