October, 2014.

Oslo, Norway.

On the day Bucky ordained for our departure, he slipped out of the apartment at dawn but only after he woke me up and told me to roll up our sleeping bags.

I changed into my clothes and put on my boots then organized everything else into my backpack. I rolled up the sleeping bags and fastened one of them to the bottom of my pack. Luckily, it didn't look out of place. In my glorified hiking boots and all-weather jacket, I would look like any other American backpacking across Europe. All I was missing was a smart phone, social media, and my passport.

Two hours after he left, Bucky came back to the apartment. I moved the chair out from under the door when I heard his knock, and he came into the room in a hurry.

"Do you have everything together?" he asked. He grabbed his sleeping bag off the floor and tucked it under his arm.

"We're all ready. I made the executive decision to leave the camp stove. It's too big and heavy," I answered. He nodded. "I also wiped down every door handle, counter top, and smooth surface in the place."

"Good," he said shortly. "We need to leave. Our ride's downstairs."

Neither of us held any sentimental attachment to the tiny flat, and there was no quiet moment of reflection as we left. Buck held the door open for me, and I went downstairs. Bucky passed me as we came to the ground level.

"Meet me in the alley. Can you find Stig and give him some good reason as to why we're leaving?" he requested.

"No problem," I agreed. When we exited the stairwell, he cut to the left and I went right. I found Stig behind the reception desk, still asleep and completely unaware of his tenants sneaking away. Giving him an explanation was nice, but leaving before he could ask for an explanation was even better. I turned to walk away and made it halfway down the hall when I heard him stirring.

"Leaving without letting me know? That's not very polite," he accused, although I could tell he was joking.

"The rest of Oslo hasn't been as accepting as you. My friend and I are going south," I told him.

"What is there to the south that isn't here?" Stig asked. Immediately, I knew the answer. But I couldn't say any of it.

"More," I said instead. "We need to leave. Thank you for keeping us."

"That man you're travelling with, your friend. Does he treat you well?"

The question dumb-founded me, but I supposed it made sense. Bucky still stumbled over Norwegian, so I had always been the one that stopped to have conversations with Stig.

"He's a perfect gentleman," I assured him with a laugh. "I wouldn't let him get away with anything less."

Stig nodded thoughtfully. We said one last and final goodbye, and I followed Bucky's path out to the alley. I pushed open the door and nearly dented the fender of a truck.

"Oh, my God. Did you steal a truck?" I whispered at him, even though he probably couldn't hear me. I walked down the length of the truck, which he had backed down the alley. I opened the passenger side door and threw my stuff inside. Bucky's backpack and sleeping bag were already in the floorboard, so I sat mine in the center of the bench seat. "You stole a truck."

"Yes, I stole a truck," he confirmed. It was another older model truck but nothing that would draw suspicion, even in the city. Bucky pressed in the clutch and started the engine. "People have stopped driving stick shifts. Did you know that?"

"Yes, I did," I laughed. "Is this what you meant by it being your turn to handle the illegal stuff?"

"Did you expect me to steal a train, Gail?" Bucky challenged sarcastically. He came to a stop at the end of the alley and pulled into the street when it was clear.

"Well, no, but I didn't think you wanted to do any of this illegal stuff," I said. "I thought you were back on the straight and narrow and just a little clandestine."

"I don't like you being the one going out and handling everything," he told me. I narrowed my eyes at him and smirked.

"Is it because I'm a girl?" I teased. If it hadn't been for Bucky stopping at a red light, we probably would've been t-boned in the intersection. He snapped his head around to stare at me.

"No, it is not because you're a girl. Aren't you nearly thirty anyway? I wouldn't call you a girl," he commented.

"Twenty-eight. I had just turned twenty-eight a few months before you showed up in D.C.," I told him. "Wait, are you saying I look old?"

Bucky nearly turned white, then beet red in a matter of seconds.

"No, Jesus. I'm saying--I meant that--you know what? I have no idea what I meant. I took a shot in the dark," he explained, obviously a bit flustered. I started laughing almost hysterically, and Buck cut his eyes over to me in the passenger seat. From outside the truck, we must have looked so normal. Just a jovial couple, dressed for the weather and headed out of the city. Eventually, the light changed, and Bucky forgave me. "So, your birthday is in what? February?"

"January," I answered. "January 17th."

"Mine's March 10th," he said.

"I didn't realize you had finally remembered your birthday," I said. He let go of the gear shift and sort of pushed his backpack towards me.

"I just thought of it. You talking about it made me remember. Can you write it down?" he requested. I unzipped his backpack and took out the notebook I had seen him filling in most recently. It was a newer one, bound in moleskin and already well-worn. I found the first blank space, a few pages in, and wrote in a very simple missive. Once I was done, I thumbed through what else he had written. He knew I read his memories in my spare time; he had invited me to start doing so.

"What are these names here?" I asked, pointing vaguely where I knew he couldn't see. "Rebecca, Helen, Thomas. I've seen them a couple times."

I knew those names. They were his siblings. He had remembered the name Rebecca months ago, and that made sense to me. They had been born barely a year apart, and they had been the breadwinner for their two younger siblings after both of their parents died.

"I know Rebecca is my sister, so I'm guessing the other two names are my other two siblings. The names just don't stick to the faces, you know?"

"I think I understand," I said. "It's amazing how fast your memories are coming back."

"It makes me wonder just how many times they fired my brain," he muttered. It was quiet enough that it took me a moment to realize what he said, long enough that he started speaking again by the time I understood. "If all of this has come back in six months, then they probably shocked me as soon as something popped up. Maybe once before they put me on ice, and again each time I woke up. Just in case."

I stared at him, but he just kept watching the road. He was a good driver, and I realized that I had never taught him about modern cars. He had learned it all on his own.

"How much of it will never come back?" he asked. I knew the question wasn't for me. He was just speaking one of his fears. "Will I be that lucky?"

"Lucky? To not remember?"

"I don't want to remember some of it, Gail," he admitted lowly. There was something in his voice, something raw that I had never heard before. Gone was my hard-headed travel companion, the quiet man with a wry sense of humor who never understood my references to pop culture. I was looking at a broken man holding himself together with nearly ancient blood, sweat, and tears. "I want to forget half of the things I've remembered."

I closed the notebook silently and laid it back in the backpack. I zipped it shut again and drug the bag to my side of the floorboard. Bucky ignored me as I unbuckled my seat belt and traded places with my backpack in the middle seat. I put the lap belt on and patted Bucky's thigh. He finally seemed to notice me and glanced down at my hand on his leg.

"I want to forget some things too. I know you probably don't want advice. I know I never did when either of my parents tried to give it to me. But, my mom always told me to think of the things I wanted to remember," I told him.

"I want to remember everything that had happened since I left Washington, D.C.," he said quietly.

"Me too."

*

Author's Note:

Try as I might, I could not find mention of Bucky's siblings' names anywhere. I Googled everything I could possibly think of, and every time all I got was Rebecca. Because of this, I took some creative liberties when it came to naming Bucky's other brother and sister. If, by sheer luck, you know their canonical names (and can provide some proof to back it up) please share them with me so I can correct them.