September, 2014.

South of Aberdeen, Scotland, United Kingdom.

"Good morning, Aberdeen. It looks like we'll be having some right fine weather on this lovely Friday. The seas are fair, there's not a cloud in the sky, and we haven't gotten word of any auto wrecks or traffic delays," the voice from the radio belted out. I blindly sat up in bed and started to crawl for the nightstand a couple feet away.

"Gail, that's my hand," Bucky groaned. I opened my eyes groggily and saw my hand on top of Bucky's. He was shirtless in the bed with his back to the wall, in the exact position I usually slept in. And I was kneeling over him, still partially covered by the blanket but definitely in a strange spot.

"There's a bit of a chance of rain late in the evening, but we might very well see sixteen degrees today in the early afternoon. Probably be the last time before winter sets in that we'll see such a high temperature," the host continued.

"God, turn it off," Bucky groaned. I flipped the switch on the alarm clock and sat back on my half of the bed.

"What are you doing in here?" I asked him. He shoved the comforter away from his torso and sat up almost as slowly as I had. The house was a little chilly, but nothing a pot of coffee couldn't fend off.

"I'm sorry. I was really tired, but I didn't want to wake you up," he explained. He stretched his arms over his head and let out a primal moan. "Your alarm didn't go off."

"Crap, I'm sorry," I said in a rush. Bucky turned halfway around so he could speak to me more clearly. "But you got in bed with me?"

"Should I have slept on the couch?" he asked bashfully. I shook my head and tried to pull my hair back into a stumpy ponytail.

"I don't mind. You didn't hog the blankets or take up too much space," I joked. "Are you going to let me out of bed?"

Bucky rolled his eyes and stood up. He had slept in nothing but his boxers, which he promptly adjusted once he was standing. I laughed quietly at his display, and he didn't seem to care.

The rest of the day went by as it usually did. Bucky and I ate breakfast together, and I went to work. I rearranged shelves and displays and rang up the few sales that came through during the day. Gerald didn't really need my help, but he was kind enough to give me his. Around 3:45, I drove back to the edge of the marshes and came home to Bucky.

The whole day was perfectly normal, except for finding Bucky in bed with me. Every day, for three months, an alarm had gone off in the wee hours of the morning. I had a very clear memory of turning the alarm on right before I put myself down to hibernate. My memory had never failed me when sober, so I was comforted knowing it wasn't my fault. It was all I could think about most of the day.

Bucky was at the dining table when I came in, reading through my tourist guidebook with a couple sheets of paper torn out of his notebook covered in his casual handwriting. So far I had seen five distinct kinds of handwriting from Buck, and this was the kind that looked like days gone by. It was elaborate yet casual cursive, the kind of handwriting meant to be used for love letters.

"What are you doing?" I asked. He looked up and gave me a brief smile.

"I found some of your notes about where to go from here," he said.

"Those weren't in my backpack or anywhere private," I noted sarcastically. Bucky Barnes had very few boundaries.

"I agree we should go into Europe, but I think we should go north instead of south," he continued. He was oblivious sometimes. I sat down across from him and pulled his pages of notes across the table.

"Alright, lay it out for me," I invited. He passed the book to me, complete with newly tagged pages.

"Going south would put us in the countries with stronger militaries and more active police presences. Not exactly good. A lot of the cities have decent transient populations, and plenty of cheap labor, so that won't be a problem anywhere we go. The only issue I see so far is a lack of straight line transportation from Aberdeen, Scotland, to anywhere in mainland Europe, much less Scandinavia," Bucky summarized. I looked at the figures he had drawn on the papers. There were random numbers and small charts that I could hardly make sense of before he explained them. He couldn't get military statistics out of his head, so he put them to use. Half of the alphabet had been used to label different places we could go and why we should go there. Plan A was Oslo, Norway.

"I can't say you're wrong," I admitted. "My only qualms about anywhere cold is that we're going into winter. What does cold weather do to your arm?"

Bucky looked down at his hand, which was casually twirling a pen, and grimaced. He didn't remember.

"I don't know," he told me, just as I had expected. "They called me the Winter Soldier. Surely it can handle the cold."

"If Oslo is plan A, how do we get there?"

"We may need another friend of yours willing to do us a favor," he said slowly. He was trying to gauge my reaction, so I nodded solemnly and fetched my laptop. After a ridiculously long time booting up, I navigated my way through a dozen different websites until I came to the log-in page of a very dark chatroom. "Is this how you contacted Ian?"

"No, I already knew his phone number," I corrected. "But this is how I'll find anyone willing to help."

I started a new topic of conversation, and Bucky watched with a furrowed brow, trying to understand the code.

Honeycutt: FfPD. 2 seats ABZ-OSL. Neg. USD PD. ETD: TBD.

"What the hell does any of that mean?" he asked.

"I know, it's a little short," I conceded. "Roughly translated: 'Favor in exchange for a payout. Transportation for two people from Aberdeen to Oslo. Negotiable U.S. dollar payday. Estimated time of departure is to be determined.'"

"I guess that makes sense," he decided. He pointed gently at the screen, right in line with my username. "Honeycutt? Like from M*A*S*H?"

"The very same," I confirmed. I logged off, shut down the laptop, and closed it.

"Why not Hawkeye?" Bucky asked.

"Well, some asshole already stole that name," I answered.

"Yeah, that's right. I think he was one of my targets at some point," he said. He tucked his chin to his chest, a sure sign he was thinking and remembering and figuring stuff out. "No, it wasn't him. Some other sharpshooter. But he was on Hydra's radar."

"You know what, Clint would probably be proud of being on Hydra's hit list," I laughed. I stood up and took a step into the kitchen. "You want some coffee?"

"Always," Bucky answered. He kicked his feet out lazily, propping them up in my vacated chair. "You know Clint Barton?"

"You know his last name?" I retorted. I took down our almost empty container of coffee grounds and grabbed the coffee pot from the drying rack. We went through a fair amount of the God blessed stuff.

"Like I said, on the watch list," Bucky explained. "But you know him?"

"He recruited me to SHIELD. Showed up in the middle of Iraq and offered me a job," I said. "He used to check up on me every now and then."

"Not anymore?"

"Well, I am MIA," I reminded him. "He probably thinks I was Hydra."

Which pretty much sucked.