August, 2014.

South of Aberdeen, Scotland, United Kingdom.

"Well, go ahead," I urged. Bucky lowered himself onto the same piles of rocks I was sitting on but on the opposite side of the beer bottle shards.

"You could've brought these inside," he said. He took one of the bottles out and pried the cap off between two of his metal fingers.

"You know those were twist off tops, right?"

"That's just cheating," Bucky informed me. He took a sip and let out a long sigh. "Nice to know beer hasn't changed much."

"Why mess with a good thing?" I tried to joke. Bucky quietly sipped his drink, and I didn't go for another.

"How did it go with Arty? Should I even bother going in a couple days from now?" he asked.

"He was fine with it. He said that as hard as you've been working, he doesn't mind you needing a day or two," I relayed.

"Good," he replied offhandedly. "That's good."

"Are you feeling more like yourself?" I checked. Bucky chuckled darkly.

"Now that is a loaded question," he murmured. "I'm not one hundred percent sure what myself is nowadays, but I feel like I know what's going on in my head right now."

"That's good," I mimicked. I nodded without saying a word and Bucky did the exact same. We were quiet as mice for a few minutes, listening to the waves below and the wind around us.

"So why'd you come out here to drink?" he finally asked.

"Because I'm a loner, Bucky," I said sardonically. And a cynic apparently.

"Then you're preaching to the choir," he reassured me. He bumped his shoulder into mine, and I was really glad it wasn't the metal one. "You've helped me. Now it's my turn. Talk."

His logic was obnoxious but undeniable.

"I should've waited to do the dishes until you were up. Maybe it wouldn't have startled you so much," I told him.

"That's what's wrong? Gail, you can't beat yourself up over that," he advised.

"It's not like I've been tiptoeing around you. In fact, I've been doing the opposite," I reminded him. He smiled, and I had to pull my hood back to actually see it. The wet weather was kind of miserable.

"But now, you're drinking out in the rain and smashing glass bottles because you think you've done something wrong," he summarized.

"Since when did you get all sensitive? You're a man born in 1917. Men didn't have emotions back then," I said, attempting to distract him. Anything mildly insulting towards his era usually did a pretty good job. Not today though.

"I had two younger sisters," he told me happily. I didn't need to look this time to know he was smiling. "And a younger brother. I only remember one of their names. Rebecca. She was the second oldest, after me."

"I guess that explains that," I decided.

"You still have a little explaining though," he pointed out.

"Damn it," I muttered. "I'm not getting out of this."

"No, you aren't," he confirmed. He waited while I mustered my courage, but in reality I was trying to wait him out. It was wet, pretty humid, dark, and kind of cold. My coat could adjust to the climate, but Bucky was stuck in the cloth jacket he had commandeered somewhere in Canada. We were both hardheaded, but in the end I lost our stubborn and silent little battle.

"You know how you've seen some shit and can't always remember it?"

"Yes."

"Well, I can't forget it," I said. "Seeing you in there, not knowing where you were or who I was, reminded me of some stuff I wish I could forget."

"What kind of stuff?" Bucky asked tentatively. "I mean, I can already remember a few missions, and none of them ended well for the people I targeted. I imagine being a medic can't be much better."

"Most of the time it wasn't too bad. Sometimes, it broke my heart," I told him. "I didn't run a lot of missions, especially ones expecting some return fire. Part of it was the old fogies higher up not wanting a woman responsible for dragging a 250 pound man out of the way, and I understand that. The other part was that a woman usually got better results on humanitarian missions. No matter where I went, no matter where anyone went, there was always something bloody and dismembered to see."

I checked on Bucky and saw him picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. He looked paler than usual. He really didn't like blood or carnage.

"People would come back from those kinds of missions and feel like they couldn't do anything. One soldier had been trying to get in with the base's shrink, but his CO kept putting it off. He didn't want him confined on that base in case he was needed. I don't know what he saw, and I don't want to know. It was bad enough for him to eat his gun in his quarters one night, though."

"Gail," Bucky murmured. It sounded like an apology.

"I stayed in contact with one of my friends who live in D.C. even after I joined SHIELD and he retired from the army. We made a deal to meet for dinner once a month, to catch up and all that. It made us feel kind of normal. One night he didn't show up so I started calling him. He didn't answer. I went to his apartment, but he didn't open the door. I convinced his land lord to let me in so I could check on him," I told him through my gritted teeth. I could see what came next. It wasn't a surprise to me, and I doubted it was a surprise for Bucky either. I forced myself to relax the muscles along my jaw so I could continue speaking. "He was on a cocktail of sleeping pills and anti-depressants and mood stabilizers, all prescribed from the VA but no one had bothered to mandate counseling. He emptied three brand new refill bottles, and I found him dead."

Bucky didn't talk. He bowed his head to the wind, letting it soak his hair further. Little rivulets of water ran down his temple and cheek and jaw.

"He thanked me in his note," I concluded.

"God," Bucky whispered. "You felt like it was your fault."

"He thanked me for staying in touch and making him go out. He said it's what kept him around so long," I clarified. I felt him put his arm around me cautiously, and I didn't say anything. Memories of middle school dates came to mind. It was a very careful movement, as if he trusted his right arm as little as his left.

"Please don't blame yourself. I don't blame you."

"Thanks, Buck."

*

Author's Note:

Ahh, informal therapy sessions initiated by booze.