March, 2015. 

Gdansk, Poland. 

There was something very entertaining and quite antiquated about the way Bucky fussed over our little apartment in preparation for Ian's arrival. He had restocked the fridge and cabinets, washed the sleeping bag Ian was set to borrow, and folded every single piece of clothing either of us had. Of course, our shared go-bag was left in its usual place of honor at the head of bed.

"Do you want any help?" I checked. Ian had only sent a message saying when he would be in Gdansk, and I had told him where to meet me in the city. I wasn't dumb enough to throw my address out into the ether for anyone to see.

"I think I'm done for the most part. I was going to pick something up for dinner instead of cooking," he told me. I could only imagine the conversation that was bound to occur between anyone working the counter when Bucky went in search of take-out.

"Okay, I'm going to get Ian. I'll be back within an hour, and if I'm not-"

"Sokovia," Bucky finished. "I know. Then give you a week to meet up with me and go anywhere else if I still haven't heard from you."

"As long as you know to go to Sokovia," I laughed quietly. I finished tying up my shoes and grabbed my apartment key and gun. "Give me two minutes to get to the ground floor and start the hour."

"I'll walk down with you," Bucky said. He picked up his copy of the apartment key and met me at the door. We walked downstairs together, chatting about what we wanted for dinner until we reached the exterior door. Bucky held it open for me and quietly wished me luck with Ian. "See you in an hour."

~

"Richards, it's been a while," Ian said as soon as I was within earshot. "How's the grump?"

"Somewhat less grumpy," I answered. Ian met my outstretched hand and pulled me in for the hug that I had been expecting. "We need to get a move on. I told him to ditch the city if it took me more than hour to bring you back."

We started walking through the alleyways of the city, back in the direction of the apartment. Ian walked silently next to me, the changes in his stride from his prosthetic completely unseen.

"Gail, be honest with me. How much trouble is it to travel with the Winter Soldier?" Ian asked. I stumbled across the cobblestones, on a crack that probably wasn't there, and had to catch myself.

"How did you know I was with him?" I replied. Ian shrugged, and we kept walking. "He came to the Smithsonian after shit hit the fan in D.C., and I offered to help him. He hasn't been any trouble though, if that's what you're asking. Total gentleman, very 1940's."

"I've been keeping tabs on Honeycutt, you know? In the network and all that," Ian continued. "You've been careful, right? He's worth a lot. If it gets out that you, Honeycutt, are with him, an even bigger amount of shit is going to hit the fan."

I grabbed Ian's arm and stopped him. I drug him into an alley and pushed him against the wall as gently as I could.

"I swear to God, if this is some sort of set-up, if you're using me to get to him, Ian. I will shoot you where you stand, and I won't feel guilty at all," I threatened, my voice shaking as I tried to speak without gritting my teeth. "I'll even take your damn leg so you can't come running after me if I miss."

Ian tossed his head back, narrowly missing the bricks behind him, and belted out a hearty laugh. I took a step back and fully realized what I had just said to him.

"Easy, mama bear," he chuckled. "I'm here because I need a place to stay before I get the hell out of dodge. If you trust Barnes, then I trust Barnes. And I'll keep my mouth shut about him being with you."

"Thank you," I said softly, shamefully. "I'm sorry I threatened to take your leg. And shoot you."

"I'm more surprised you said 'if I miss.' Since when do you miss?" Ian teased. He pushed himself away from the wall, and we started the walk to the apartment again. "You must care about this guy if you're quite literally threatening my life and limb."

"We've lived together for almost a year. It's like being back in basic or on a deployment. You get close. You care about the people around you," I explained.

"I can't wait to meet the grumpy bastard for real," Ian said.

~

"Forty-two minutes," Bucky announced when I unlocked the door and brought Ian inside.

"Nice to know you didn't leave early," I deadpanned. "Ian, you remember my friend."

Ian stepped around me, and Bucky met him with a wide stance and barely tempered glare.

"Do you prefer James or Bucky?" he asked, holding out his hand. Buck glanced at me over Ian's shoulder, questioning me.

"Gail has called me a half dozen different versions of my name, but it's usually Bucky," he finally answered. "I didn't realize she had told you who I am."

"I kind of guessed. Then she threatened me, which was confirmation enough," Ian said lightly. "Good to know she hasn't been wandering through northern Europe without someone to watch out for her."

"I've been looking out for him too, you asshole," I interjected. Bucky didn't even crack a smile as I stepped around Ian and put my gun away. "And I'll have you know that he is not easy to watch out for."

"Neither is she," Ian told Bucky, who nodded minutely. "She ever tell you about how we met? About why I owe her so much?"

And like that, they were comparing war stories. Literally. Ian had taken up illegal drug dealing after his retirement, smuggling medical supplies out of Canada and into countries where they were too hard find or too expensive to buy. It was exactly like something he would do; using the black market to do good things. Bucky listened far more than he talked, and he stayed near me the entire night.

He had brought home take-out from a tiny, ten seater restaurant a couple blocks away. Both he and Ian inhaled their meals, broke out a beer each, and moved on to talk about me.

"Last thing I remember before the pain meds kicked in is this crazy woman grabbing a captain by his shirt collar and leaning in real close. Then I hear a few very creative insults and the helicopter is taking off," Ian said, lifting his hands dramatically. "Like a miracle."

"You still don't have all your appendages, so I wouldn't brag too much," I retorted.

"She's blackmailed people, come home with a black eye twice, and she laid me on my ass back in Canada," Bucky listed off. He took a drink of his beer and pushed his left sleeve up his arm again.

"I wish my leg looked as good as that arm," Ian mumbled, gazing at Bucky's arm. We knew from the first time I mentioned Ian's visit that he couldn't hide his arm all night. So, he showed it off right away.

"Inside of it is even more impressive," I added. Bucky looked a little uncomfortable until I bumped his shoulder with mine. "Not that he didn't go through hell to get it."

"My experience really can't compare with yours, can it?" Ian asked, smiling gently. He had a warm smile. I could remember him smiling as I tightened a tourniquet around his leg, smiling when an American Navy surgeon told him they had to take his leg because 'at least his heart was still beating.'

"No, not really," Bucky agreed. He passed his beer bottle from one hand to the other. "Excuse me, I'm going to put this in the recycling downstairs."

He stood up and crossed the room. Ian turned to watch the door close and then looked at me once Bucky was gone.

"How bad is his PTSD?" Ian asked bluntly.

"Worse than mine, better than you'd imagine. There have been a couple times when I got a little worried, but he can always be talked down," I assured him.

"What are you going to do if you can't talk him down?"

"Shoot him, I guess," I mused. Ian glared at me. "You were being serious. Sorry. I guess I don't really know. I've been counting my blessings so far."

Bucky came back in a few minutes later, breathing harder than he should have been for a super soldier who had only walked up one flight of stairs. After another half hour of discussing the inappropriate things I had done, we all decided to go to bed. We gave Ian his sleeping bag, and he began taking his prosthetic off. Bucky actually cracked a genuine smile when Ian posed it in front of the fridge.

"You might be jealous of this thing, but I wish I could take it off sometimes," he chuckled. "Gets heavy."

*

Author's Note:

Bucky Barnes has PTSD and anxiety, especially around new people. I've decided it. No point in arguing.