February, 2015

Copenhagen, Denmark. 

If there had ever been something I couldn't explain to people, it was the sheer enormity of memories we gathered in a lifetime. Normally, our brains couldn't keep subjective things straight for very long. Facts and figures? They rarely changed once sorted away, but personal memories, especially emotionally charged ones, could easily be mutated.

Mine were safe from that though, someway, somehow. Every time I remember something, I remembered it the same way. And I remembered things all the time.

"Almost ready to go?" Buck checked. I nodded and added the last of my things to my backpack. Immediately, memories flashed through the back of my mind. Composition notebooks into my high school backpack. A couple MREs into a rucksack during basic training. Civilian clothes into a suitcase during my first leave home. My dad's life into boxes after he died.

"Yeah, this is the last of my stuff. Everything else is down in the car," I answered. We had decided it was time to leave Copenhagen and had found a ferry to Poland.

"Bathroom is wiped down. I'll get the kitchen if you want to take your stuff downstairs," Bucky said. I nodded and lifted the bag to my shoulders. The weight of medical supplies on my shoulders and a day-long walk through sand. A kid on my shoulders, playing and laughing, at the end of that same day.

I left Bucky in our apartment after double-checking to make sure I hadn't left anything in the bathroom or under the bed. I walked down the hallway to the stairwell. Hallways of the barracks, beige walls and weird green carpet with mystery stains. Sharing a room with another female soldier. Jogging down the stairs to go off-base for drinks, and jogging back up the stairs later that night. Coming down the stairs at home in a floor-length red dress to meet the group of friends I was going to prom with.

Outside, it was still dark. Early morning, indigo sky kind of dark. Sneaking out. Of my room, out the window and a short drop to the grass outside the dining room window. Of the barracks, when the walls seemed too close and I couldn't stand to be inside anymore. Of my apartment in D.C., locking the door behind me and sprinting. Sprinting through the city like a thief who'd been spotted, like the fire in my lungs would burn away the dross in my mind if I could only stoke the flames a couple strides farther.

We had ditched the truck, and I had stolen a little Skoda car that had seen better days. It was plenty of space for us to pack our bags and would easily be welcomed onto a ferry. My dad's pick-up truck. My mom's sedan. Some college boy's motorcycle. A bus from the airport to basic training. God knows how many Humvees. Black, federally funded SUVs. A metro bus after my retirement.

I tossed my bags into the backseat, leaving nothing but a gun tucked into the pocket of my winter coat. Dad and me at a gun range on base while he taught me how to shoot; the feel of a .22 rifle against my shoulder, a weight in my hands appropriate for my size. Target shooting becoming our way to bond after Mom died. It didn't require much conversation besides the occasional "high" or "little to the left."

Bucky met me on the stairs as I rounded a corner. We ended up chest to chest as we stopped suddenly. Austin- first kiss. Michael- first everything else. Stephen- first ride on a motorcycle. Lee- first partner in combat medic training and first partner in the field. Christian- first mistake. Clint- first Shield handler.

Liam. First gut-wrenching, world-stopping, heart-stopping, and mind-bending love.

Bucky. To be determined.

I drove, since I had been the one to look up the directions to the ferry port. We boarded the earliest ferry of the day, gathered our bags from the car, and went inside to the passenger waiting areas. We sat across from one another at a two-person table so we could each see half the room. Dates. Austin, Michael, Stephen, Lee, Christian, Liam. We all sat across from each other at one point or another, always over a meal. Even Clint had buttered me up with take-out brought fresh across the Atlantic from somewhere in New York and a beer. A real beer. Not one of the non-alcoholic beers in the mess hall fridges. Bucky and I ate haphazardly. Sitting on literally any piece of furniture imaginable or standing or walking.

As soon as the boat was out of the port, Bucky stood to find breakfast. He returned with pastries and coffee, balanced in his gloves hands. Dessert. Chocolate chip pancakes. Mint ice cream. Marble cake. Macarons.

Breakfast and coffee were done and gone before I walked out to the deck of the boat, Buck lagging a few feet behind. I felt the wind on my face, cold and all salt-spray. Humid summer winds, rustling trees and heavy with the building pressure of a summer storm. Cold winter winds, crisp and whistling. Beach side breezes filled with the sounds of waves and seagulls and family. Pine forest breezes that carried the smell of burnt gunpowder. Desert gales that pushed sand and grit through the crack under the door. A gust of wind through the trees planted in the sidewalk in old East Berlin.

That memory began to spiral, wildly and out of control. It was a trigger. Berlin. Blood. Death. Endings.

I reined it in and felt Bucky's hand on my shoulder. His duality. Cool, unflinching metal and warm, unsteady flesh. Gentleness, born from being an older sibling. Murderous skill, bred through years of torture. A distinct hatred for potatoes, and a surprising love of peanut butter.

"You alright?" he asked. I nodded. I was staring at the Baltic Sea again, not a cobblestone sidewalk in Germany.

"I just remembered something. Stuck in my mind for a second," I admitted. It happened sometimes. He knew that.

"We can, uh, we can talk about it," he offered hesitantly. "If you want."

I smiled to myself and looped my arm through his as I decided to lead us back inside the ship. We had a long ride ahead of us, and I could only handle so much saltwater thrown at my face.

"Since when did you get all in touch with your emotions?" I teased. I could practically feel the heat coming off his blushing cheeks. He opened the door for us to re-enter the passenger area, and I caught an older lady smiling at us sweetly. Bucky saw her too and ducked his head to avoid the insinuations in her gaze.

"You've been a questionable influence on me," he replied quietly. Our old seats had been taken, but we found an empty patch of carpet and sat down.

"Questionable?" I asked.

"Yes, questionable. Some good, some bad. Overall questionable," he reasoned. I shrugged began shirking off my bag and coat. Bucky did the same and leaned his head back against the wall, eyes closed as if he was actually going to sleep surrounded by so many strangers. "Go to sleep, Gail."

"Got it, Sarge," I said. I positioned my backpack behind me and covered myself with my coat, the gun in the pocket still within easy reach. Bucky placed one hand on my side as I laid my head in his lap. "Wake me up for lunch, please."

"Yes, ma'am."

*

Author's Note:

We are rapidly approaching one of my favorite chapters, which I probably wrote a year ago.