May, 2014.

Aberdeen, Scotland.

When the time came to disembark, Bucky looked almost giddy. Or at least as giddy as someone who seemed frozen in a scowl could look. He led the way off the boat while I struggled to keep pace with him and his long legs while avoiding the raised lips of portholes.

"Hey, jolly green giant, I'm a lot shorter than you," I reminded him. He stopped at the end of the gangplank and waited for me, all while searching the darkened pier. Although the ship had docked around noon, we waited to leave until dusk.

"Where is Ian's friend?" he asked.

"I'm calling him right now," I answered swiftly. I found the only number saved into the phone, which found cell signal thankfully, and hit the dial button. Bucky and I began a careful pattern of pacing that allowed each of to continue surveying the dock without leaving a blind spot. My knowledge came from a few years of combat and a few more years of SHIELD training and experience. Bucky's seemed to come from instinct, but I knew better.

The phone stopped ringing against my ear, and I heard someone fumbling on the other end.

"Damned piece of garbage. Who's this?" a man snapped.

"A friend of Ian's," I said. I hadn't been given a code word or phrase, and I was perfectly willing to hitchhike back to Canada if Ian had forgotten to tell me such an important tidbit of information.

"Gail, right?" he checked. I gave him a nonverbal confirmation, and he continued talking in a Scottish accent. "Right, then. I've got a car and a safe house set up for you. You see the sailors walking away from the boat? Follow 'em out of the shipping yard. I'll see you."

"How?"

"You a lady?"

"Yes," I said slowly.

"Something tells me you look a bit different than the blokes on the boats," he explained. I couldn't argue with his logic. I hung up on him and gently chucked the phone into the water. It banged against the hull of the boat before gently dropping into the waves.

"What if we need that again?" Bucky asked, staring after the phone.

"Then we go swimming," I told him.

"We?"

"Then I go swimming," I corrected. I began following the small crowd of sailors walking towards the perimeter of the shipping yard. "Our ride is this way."

Bucky followed mutely, but I still caught him looking over his shoulders regularly. He had gone so far as to ask for a gun. It was a request I quickly denied. I was surprised he hadn't stolen one of mine while I slept. I had checked.

The foot traffic led right out a gate, and an old Jeep Cherokee pulled up before I could begin searching for our ally. Bucky lowered the brim of his ball cap imperceptibly.

"Ian said you were pretty, but I do admit to doubting him," the man told us through a rolled down window. When I didn't answer immediately, he got a little nervous. "Tell me you're Gail."

"I'm Gail," I confirmed plainly.

"Jump in, and I'll give you the rundown," he instructed. I didn't look at Bucky before I did as this stranger suggested. Bucky took the backseat, staying in the shadows, and I took the front. Our driver moved away from the curb before he started any sort of conversation. "There's a map of the area in the glove compartment with instructions on how to get to the safe house. Keys to get in are on the same chain as the car key. Take care of her; someone may or may not be looking for her."

"Great," I muttered. Bucky shifted in the backseat as the man took a sharp turn up a different row in the parking lot. He slammed the breaks behind a newer version of our gifted vehicle.

"Almost forgot your new faces. Ian sent me an old picture of you, but said he only knew your friend back there was a man. You'll need to get a picture of him and attach it," he said. He pulled a pair of maroon booklets from one pocket on his windbreaker and an envelope out of the other. "Those'll make getting out of the country easier if you need to. Little bit o' money and driver's licenses. If you need anything more, like birth certificates, God forbid, just get Ian to contact me. I'll do my best."

"Thanks," I told him. I handed everything to Bucky in the backseat while the man got out.

"One more thing," he said quickly after I had slid over to the driver's seat. I pulled the door shut, and he leaned in the open window. "Ian wanted me to ask if you know anything about a car blowing up in uh, Lawrencetown, I think it was."

Bucky chuckled breathily in the backseat, but I kept my composure.

"Can't say I do," I lied flawlessly. "Sounds like fun, though."

I rolled the windows up and quickly left the parking lot. Bucky tucked our new identities into his backpack and then began climbing into the passenger seat. To my shock, he was surprisingly graceful as he shimmied in between the seats.

"I guess explosions do draw a little attention," he told me. I took a quick look at him before turning onto a new road and caught him smirking. It was hardly there, but one side of his mouth was definitely turned up.

"Find the map, Buck. Tell me where I'm going," I ordered. He did as I told him and opened the glove compartment.

"Remember, we're in Scotland. Drive on the other side of the road," Bucky said. I jerked the wheel to the left and got in the correct lane. Luckily, I was the only driver in sight and wasn't in danger of hitting anyone. "And did you just call me Buck?"

"Yeah, I guess I did," I muttered. Bucky found the map, but he also found a pistol. He held it in his hand like an old pro.

"Do you trust me?" he asked.

"Sure, why not?"

He dropped the magazine out of the gun and sat it on his leg before racking the slide back. There wasn't a bullet in the chamber. He reloaded the magazine, but left the chamber empty. It was a seamless stream of movements for him, and a familiar one for me. I did trust him, I realized.

"Eight rounds. Looks like our ally left us a present," he assumed. And now he had a gun. "Needs a good cleaning. Did you bring anything for yours?"

"I wouldn't be a good soldier or agent if I didn't," I told him. "Where are we going?"

"South," he answered. "On the A956. Should be coming up on it."

I followed a few small signs to the route he directed. Bucky continued shifting the gun in his hands, never once letting the barrel point in my direction.

"My kit is in the middle pocket of my bag if you want to clean it now. Under the first-aid pouch, in a green plastic case," I instructed. I watched out of the corner of my eye as he opened my backpack and found the container. The sound of a gun being broken down came soon after. I kept driving, with Bucky pointing out directions as needed.

"You want me to clean yours?" he offered. He leaned into the back row and stashed his new toy.

"There's a .380 in a pocket holster in the middle section, and a .45 in the largest pocket," I told him.

"And the third?"

"How did you know there was a third?" I challenged. There was another smirk.

"I can see the outline of a small pistol in the front pocket," he bragged.

"Then you can clean it too," I laughed. There was a soft chuckle from his side of the car before he went back to gun maintenance. It was a strange way to bond, but it seemed to work for us. "So, what are our new names?"

Bucky once again reached for the back seat and pulled out the passports. He angled them into the passing traffic lights so he could read them.

"Assuming this one is yours," he began. "Barbara Glenna Boyd."

"Well, that's mouthful," I noted. "What should I call you?"

"Jaime. That's creative," Bucky said. "Jaime Calum Ross."

"Creative indeed. It's like they were following a pattern and just switched our initials around," I realized.

"Does your middle name start with a C?" Bucky asked immediately. I enjoyed having a small upper hand against him by knowing his middle name. It made patronizing him all the more fun.

"Yep. C for classified."

*

Author's Note:

For those of you not following me, I've been having some issues with my Wi-Fi. Fear not, they seem to have abated. For now.