July, 2014.

South of Aberdeen, Scotland, United Kingdom.

I rolled out of bed, bright and early, at one o'clock in the afternoon. Gerald gave me Sundays off, and he was always willing to let me have an unscheduled day off if I asked for it. I had spent most of the night before on my SHIELD-proof, hacker-proof, everything-but-God-Himself-proof laptop tracking U.S. government activity. Military activity was normal, operating dozens of routine routines on every continent except Antarctica. Although there was an Air Force plane due to depart Auckland International for McMurdo Station in two days. The CIA and FBI were doing their respective things. The ATF was running some sort of op in the middle of the Mojavi Desert. And SHIELD had collapsed in on itself.

That didn't stop individual agents from working. Natasha Romanoff had been spotted several times meeting with defected Russian intelligence officers. I made note of their names. Sam Wilson, a name I remembered from a Salute to the Troops special about medal recipients, was popping up all over D.C. and New York City. And Captain America himself was in Canada. I decided to check up on him more often.

I swung my legs out of the bed but stayed seated on the edge of the mattress so I could stretch. I didn't hear Bucky in the other room, and I didn't see him in the bathroom. I slid lazily off the bed and began padding across the carpeting. Then I tripped over Bucky's boots.

Luckily, I caught myself before gravity had the chance to pull me down. So, Bucky was home. I kicked his shoes out of the way, pulled on a pair of pants, and went in search of him. He wasn't in the living room, but without his shoes he wouldn't have gone far. He could have; he was a soldier and could do damn near anything if needed. But he wouldn't have for the very same reason. A soldier is only as good as his shoes.

I looked out the kitchen window and saw him sitting in the middle of our backyard, halfway between the house and the cliff. There was a hand size dent on the left edge of the counter surrounding the sink. It made me worry even more. I had to go out the front door and circle the house to get to him.

I was glad for marshy moat and lack of neighbors. It was obvious I had slept in the shirt I was wearing, but I didn't want to waste the time getting my boots on before walking outside. So I walked around the house barefooted and squinting against the sun.

He didn't move as I approached or when I sat down next to him. I left a foot of space between us, just because I knew he wasn't comfortable with close proximity. I mirrored his pose, stretching my legs out and propping my arms across my knees.

"Pretty day," I commented. He grunted, and I looked at him. He was wearing my sunglasses. The modernized vintage style looked alright on him, but I could tell he was wearing them out of necessity, not because he liked them. "I can see why you came outside to get some sun." Northern Scotland got a lot of cloudy days.

"Yeah," he agreed half-heartedly. He sniffled suddenly. It wasn't a sick sniffle or a cold sniffle. It was a crying sniffle. There was a tear stain down the side of his face I could see.

"Buck, what's going on?" I asked.

"Nothing," he lied. He broke his sullen façade and straightened up. "There's some leftover chicken in the fridge from dinner the other night. I had some for lunch. It reheats pretty good."

"I call bull," I told him.

"I'm not lying. I know my taste buds aren't very fine tuned, and you've called me a garbage disposal on three separate occasions. But it really was good," he reiterated.

"You know good and well that's not why I'm calling bull," I said sharply. "Tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing is wrong," he repeated, separating every syllable into its own argument. I took a deep breath and tried not to grit my teeth.

"Throw yourself a pity party with anyone but me," I told him. "I saw the counter. I know something happened. Just tell me."

"First of all, I'm not throwing a pity party," he objected.

"Okay fine. You're being a stereotypical alpha male, refusing to acknowledge your emotions," I corrected. My words were entirely laced with sarcasm and a fair bit of frustration. "Even if those emotions are obviously detrimental."

"Fine," he snapped. "I remembered something."

We sat in silence for a moment, letting the gales off the ocean force us to sway. I pulled my arms in over my chest, cursing myself for not putting on a bra before coming outside. It wasn't as if Bucky would notice, though.

"What was it?" I asked, and Bucky shifted next to me. My voice was barely loud enough to surpass the wind.

"A few things actually, and they all keep running together," he began. "First I'm dancing with a girl in New York, and she's laughing and smiling. Then I've got my hands wrapped around her throat, and she's dying. But we're still on the dance floor, and I've got this damn thing already."

He shrugged his left shoulder roughly. I didn't interrupt him; I knew he wasn't finished.

"And she's still in her dress and heels, but I'm in one of the earlier uniforms they gave me. Then she turns on me, and she's fighting back. People are watching and we aren't in the club anymore. She's gone and a soldier has taken her place and I'm killing him instead," he said. His voice broke, and he lifted his hand to his mouth. Another single tear fell down his cheek. "I know they aren't right, but I don't know how to fix it. How do you keep your memories right? You've got years' worth."

"My mother helped me figure it out. For a long time I had to write everything down. When things would get muddy, I would go back and read what I had written," I explained. "I keep a notebook on hand, just in case I ever need it again."

"And that works?"

"Until I got really good at sorting them as they came. It's second nature now," I confirmed. I stood up and brushed the grass off my butt. "Come on. I'll help you."

Bucky tilted his head up, but I couldn't tell if he was really looking at me. The lenses of my sunglasses were reflective. He stood up though, and he followed me into the house again.

He locked the door after we were both inside, and I went into the bedroom to find my spare composition notebook and a pen. There were a few pages covered in my personal shorthand, but it was unreadable to anyone but myself. When I sat it in front of Bucky, who had settled on the couch, he opened it to the first page. He stared at the writing, a confused look forming on his face.

"This is yours?" he asked.

"Yep. Even cursive is too slow when you've got a lot to put down. So it evolved into that chicken scratch," I said. I flipped past the first few pages and clicked out the pen before passing both back to Buck. "It sounded like you had three distinct memories that overlapped. If you can get all the details down, then you can sort them out."

He started to write, slowly as if it had been awhile. His handwriting was shaky, but he moved along at a fair pace. I stood up from the couch and began to leave him when he asked where I was going.

"To eat my breakfast. I'm going to give the chicken a try."

*

Author's Note:

Naturally, the notebooks and to come in at some point. What kind of author would I be if I didn't let my character take the credit?