November, 2014.

Copenhagen, Denmark.

We settled into Copenhagen with shocking ease. Bucky once again found himself working with shipping containers and heavy things. He was a natural at the work, which gave him an opportunity to wear long sleeves and thick work gloves. I started working in a slightly dingy bakery. The best part of both of our jobs was the fact that our employers agreed to pay us under the table. I left each night with a handful of Euro bills, and Bucky's boss agreed to stick an envelope full of cash into his locker in the worker's break area once a week.

We were both excited by the prospect of steady income, but I was more excited by the shower in our apartment. It got warm water on a regular basis, and I was finally able to bathe standing up. There was no shower curtain, or even a curtain rod, but it was a shower nonetheless.

"Why would you do this yourself? Peroxide and bleach are dangerous for your hair. It has to be done carefully," the stylist said, scolding me with the exact same tone she'd been using for half an hour. I had already answered the same question twice before, so I just sank lower in the chair. My brunette roots were getting more noticeable by the day. I had found an okay-looking salon and made up a sob story. "The only smart thing you've done with your hair is let a professional fix it."

She had told me that no less than seven times in a half hour.

"I just hate being the only one with dark hair in my family," I said sadly. That was the sob story that she, and the four other stylists working for her, had accepted without a problem.

"Tell them to--"

"No," my new friend, Mathilde, snapped. One of the younger woman had been suggesting I tell my family to collectively screw themselves since I came in the shop. "Self-esteem is important, but so is intelligence."

I braced myself, and a half second later Mathilde had whopped me on the head with her comb. She had also done that no less than seven times, but I couldn't just walk out with half my head in foil. I had seriously considered it, though. More than once.

"I'll remember that," I assured her. She nodded smugly at our reflections.

Mathilde kept working and chattering with her assistants while I sat and glared half-heartedly at my reflection. I had never been one to dye my hair. I could remember my mom with grey in her hair and the way she had been so proud of it. She said it proved she had lived a long life, even though she died young. Besides that, I had never found the time. It was never a priority, being fashionable. Now it was a matter of blending in, and suddenly I could find the time. So I resigned myself to a little more discomfort, a little less money, and a lot more psychological torture.

~

I ate my dinner without looking across the room at Bucky. He was staring from where he sat on the couch, and I could feel it. The idea of his eyes on me made my cheeks turn pink no matter what I tried.

"Okay, why are you staring?" I asked finally. I stood up from the bed and walked the short six feet or so to the couch. The last tenant had left a small, square coffee table in front of the couch, and I had to skirt it to stand in front of Bucky. "Here I am, trying to eat in peace, and you're staring."

"You're also blushing," he commented, avoiding the question. I had finished my meal before him, and he moved to take another bite. I nimbly took his bowl and spoon and put them on the coffee table.

"Not the point," I told him. I squatted in front of him with my elbows on my knees, and he raised one eyebrow.

"Why are you being so persistent?"

"Why are you being so avoidant?"

"Is that even a word?"

"Of course it's a word. I just said it, didn't I?"

He didn't have a comeback for that, only a crooked smile.

"I didn't sleep good last night. I was staring off into space," he excused. He rose from the couch, and I rose from my haunches. I followed him with my eyes as he picked up his bowl and mine and carried them to the kitchen. He pushed his sleeves up past his elbows and turned on the tap.

"That's plausible, sure, but I don't think that's it," I told him. I could see him take a deep breath, but he didn't turn around or say anything. "You were sound asleep when I got in the shower this morning. And barely awake when I left the apartment."

"Exhaustion, Gail. Eventually, I had to sleep," he reasoned.

"No, that's not true," I argued innocuously. "You were a sniper during World War Two. Snipers are trained to stay awake, to function perfectly on limited sleep. It would take you days to get to the point of exhaustion, and you've been sleeping like a rock for the past week."

Bucky rolled his shoulders back just the slightest, drawing his shoulder blades together. He knew I was right, but I hoped I hadn't just triggered some memory from the forties. I took a couple tentative steps forward.

"I always said I wouldn't bring work home with me," he said softly. I could barely hear him and was glad I had moved closer. "Someone had the loading docks pointed out how much I look like the Winter Soldier."

I swallowed the information tensely. We had been here for less than two weeks. We were just starting to earn back the money we used in Oslo. Moving again so soon wasn't just time-consuming. It was time-wasting. Suddenly, everything we'd have to do to move to a new city started rolling through my head in an overwhelming tsunami. Pack, find transportation, maybe get new passports. Make it past another border, find a new city, find a new place to live. Get a job, put down temporary and passable roots, the kind that withstood friendly interrogations after we had left. Each item on the checklist branched off into possibly helpful contacts, the tactical advantages, and prospective costs. Lines were drawn between commonalities until the entire thing was a spider web of choices that I just couldn't untangle. 

"Gail," Bucky snapped. My mind cleared, and I was standing on the border of living room and kitchen again.

"Sorry," I said automatically. "Zoned out."

"You don't zone out," he reminded me. "What were you remembering?"

"I wasn't remembering anything, not really. Just thinking about everything it takes to move," I answered.

"We're not moving," Bucky decided. It was my turn to arch an eyebrow at him. "Someone thinks I look like me. People are going to do that everywhere. We can't pick up and run every time that happens."

"You have a plan," I surmised. He nodded and walked past me. Our backpacks were still mostly packed, but some things had been removed and stacked in the floor or on the coffee table. He went for my backpack and started to paw through it. "Fine, don't tell me the plan."

"I need you to cut my hair again. I'll tell you the plan while you do it, if that's okay," he said. He stood up with my scissors in one hand. I held my hand out for them, and he placed them in my outstretched palm.

"We don't have a broom in here, and I don't want to borrow the neighbors for one. Let's go to the stairwell," I suggested. Bucky breathed out a short laugh and followed me out of the apartment. I held the door to the stairs open for him, and he sat down on the ascending steps. We had both wanted a top floor room, but none had been open when we spoke to the landlord.

"How's your Romanian?" he asked. I sat down behind him, close enough to reach his head, but far enough to let the cut hair fall to the concrete floor.

"Passable," I answered. "Don't want anyone to overhear us or something?"

"I'll go with or something," he said. "We're not leaving because that looks suspicious."

"I agree."

He turned to look at me, a gentle glare that said 'let me talk.' So I stuck my tongue out and let him talk. I took the scissors in one hand and ran my free hand into his hair while he started to speak.

"I'm going to get the full names of the people who are the most suspicious. I need you to get dirt on them," he explained simply. My work slowed by the slightest degree, enough for him to notice. "All of us work off the books. I'm not the only one who comes in on Monday morning to a blank envelope full of cash in my locker. If I know their dirt, I have leverage to shut them up. Only if I have to, of course."

"Only if you have to," I mimicked. "It shouldn't be a problem to get that sort of information on people, but what does a haircut have to do with any of this?"

"A haircut has nothing to do with this," he chuckled, speaking quiet English again. He looked over his shoulder at me and grinned. "My hair was getting long again. I just needed a haircut."

*

Author's Note:

I'll be perfectly honest, I didn't know where the whole 'Sassy Gail and Sassy Bucky sass at each other' thing was going until it got there.