Krakow, Poland. 

June, 2015. 

A week after Novi Grad was lifted off the map, Bucky and I packed up and took a train to Krakow. We spent the first night walking the city and looking for somewhere to live. Within another week, we had an apartment and a new routine. Bucky picked up work in a warehouse, more heavy lifting and moving things around, and I found yet another food establishment willing to pay me in cash. The lock on the door of our apartment tended to stick, there were a couple small patches of questionable mold in the bathroom, and there was no air conditioning, but we managed. And this time, we stocked our newest home with a radio.

~

My daily prayer was answered when my copy of the apartment key actually turned in the lock without sticking. The door only squeaked a little, but far less than usual.

In the year we had been travelling, I had lost some of my edge, the sharpness agents and veterans rarely forgot. I only realized that fact after I heard someone in the kitchen. Music was playing, and something was frying.

I lowered my bag to the floor and removed the small pocket knife I kept tucked into my Converse and against my ankle while I crouched. The smooth and silent rolling of my feet was still second nature. Something deep down reminded me not to engage until I saw my opponent, and Bucky would've gotten stabbed if it weren't for that voice in my head.

"Damn it, Gail. You're going to make me burn this," he said urgently when he noticed me.

"That's my line," I replied somewhat playfully, and I lowered my gun. It found a new home on the kitchen counter as I tried to approach Bucky from behind. He stopped me right as I smelled bacon. "What are you making? And why are you home so early?"

"I'm making dinner, and I got off work early," he answered shortly. I tried again to peer around him, but he turned around and held me by the forearms. "Gail, go change. Get out of my hair."

"Again, I think that's my line," I teased. "Come on. Just tell me. I know it involves bacon."

"You're not wrong, but I'll eat every single piece if you don't leave me be," he threatened. A smile cracked through his grumpy facade, making me smile more.

"Fine. I'll be back in five minutes," I bargained. I circled the room to get to my set of drawers, and Bucky went back to the pan on the stove. I got a fresh set of clothes out of the top drawer and continued trying to peek around Bucky as I went into the bathroom.

I hung my uniform, a plain white shirt and patterned, knee-length skirt, on the back of the door and put on a pair of thrifted shorts and one of Bucky's Henley shirts. After washing my face, I estimated my five minutes had passed and left.

"Is it safe to come into the kitchen, Mr. Ramsay?" I asked.

"I think I've actually seen that show, thank you. And yes, you can," Bucky answered. I walked the last few steps to the main room of the apartment and saw him setting two plates on the chest-of-drawers. He realized I was watching and made a show of displaying our dinner.

"What on earth?"

"I told you, I made dinner," he said. "Come on, sit down."

I did as he said and took a seat on the foot of the bed. Bucky took a couple bottles from the fridge and turned the radio volume up before joining me. He passed one bottle to me, and I read the label.

"This is Yuengling," I noted. Bucky smiled proudly and took a sip. "This is an American beer. How did you get this in Poland?"

"You have your allies, and I have mine," he said. He kept the bottle at his lips and smiled.

"And this is a BLT," I continued, picking up half of my sandwich.

"With honey mustard. Which is impossible to find in Poland, by the way. I had to make it, so I hope it's okay," he warned. I took a bite out of the sandwich while Bucky watched for my reaction. "How bad is it?"

"It's not bad at all," I told him with my mouth full. He finally took up his sandwich and joined me. When I had finished the first half of my dinner, I leaned back on the mattress with a smile on my face. "So, are you going to tell me why you went through all this trouble?"

"It wasn't really trouble," he corrected. He kept digging in until I nudged him with my knee to get him talking. "I felt bad for not doing much for your birthday."

"You did as much for my birthday as I did for yours," I pointed out.

"You're right," he acknowledged.

"I always am."

"Let me finish," he quipped. I smirked and sat up again. "It's also been a little over a year since you came to Nova Scotia and started helping me."

"If that's your way of saying happy anniversary, then thank you," I told him sincerely.

We went back to eating and drinking and listening to the radio. When we had both finished, Bucky took my plate and carried it to the sink. He was humming the song on the radio as he went. It was such a casual thing to see, especially in our strange life. He abandoned the dishes in the sink and held out his hand for me when he turned around. I gave him a wary look, which only made him laugh.

"Come on. Dance with me," he suggested. I slowly left the bed and walked a couple steps into the kitchen. Bucky immediately took my hand and pulled me closer. The song playing was upbeat and light, and we moved somewhat awkwardly. "You're not very good at this."

"There's not enough room for the Charleston," I teased.

"The Charleston? Really?" Bucky sighed. "God, that was before my time."

"I know," I laughed. I looked up at him to see him smiling too. "I just wanted to see your reaction to me calling you old."

"You do that almost every day," he said. The song in the air changed, and our mood shifted with it. The new song was slower and a little sultry. Bucky closed the gap between our bodies and shifted his hand from my waist to the small of my back. He moved our clasped hands closer until they were right between our hearts.

There was something about the way Bucky was holding me that made me want to get even closer. It was protective and gentle. Even his smell was doing something to me, but I couldn't name it.

I lifted my hand from his shoulder to his cheek, and he leaned into it, closing his eyes at the same time. That was surprising enough, but then he turned his head and gently kissed the pulse point on my wrist. I could feel his heart pounding, the mirror image to my own.

The song ended and faded into a commercial, but Bucky and I were still swaying together in the same spot on the kitchen floor. My face was flushed, but it wasn't the lack of air conditioner making me hot. It was the fact that I was cuddled up to Bucky that was making me blush.

"Gail," Bucky whispered. I made a small noise to let him know I was listening. "I want to kiss you."

For a split second, I was frozen in place.

But then I kissed him. We both dropped the dancing formalities, and I lifted my newly freed hand to his other cheek. If it had been seventy years since the last time he kissed a woman, I couldn't tell. It was a short series of kisses, but a very telling one.

"Was that a terrible idea?" he asked quietly. His forehead was bowed against mine, and he was practically clinging to my arms.

"Probably, but I wouldn't be opposed to making it a really terrible idea, though," I told him. To prove my point, I kissed him again.

~

Later we sat by each other on the bed, my hand on his knee and his hand on top of mine.

"I keep thinking about the day Novi Grad fell," he said. We had each drank another beer since the kiss. It kept playing over and over in my head, and it worried me to no end. The alcohol kept other memories at bay, thankfully, and I let Bucky keep talking. I focused on his words. "When I got back to you in the restaurant, I wanted to kiss you then, but I thought that was some knee-jerk reaction to the threat of imminent extinction. But I've just been thinking about that feeling more and more the last few weeks. If this really is a bad idea, I can go. You can go back to the States or something and get back to your life. I can figure out some way-"

"No," I said, squeezing his knee without meaning to. "Stay. It might not be a good idea, but it's not the worst idea I've ever had."

*

Author's Note:

And here is one of the first chapters I wrote, nearly two years ago. We still have so much ground to cover between this point and the events of Captain America: Civil War, which are jammed pack with material I've already half-written. I've also ran out of pre-planned (albeit loosely) chapters that were listed on an all-powerful Word document, so we'll see what happens next.