Once I had landed I took a cab to the Smithsonian, undoubtedly one of the the most famous landmarks. A place with nineteen museums, galleries, gardens, and a zoo, located between the United States Capitol, and the Washington Monument. 

Like always, the institution was jammed with people, combusting from the amount of visitors. Yearly, thirty million people visit the Smithsonian, a let down of a number when trying to find someone within the swarm. But, I could narrow it down to one place, the National Museum of American History, and one display, the Captain America exhibit. 

Past the entrance, deep within the American history, and down the corridors led the large room dedicated to the heroic Captain. 

I walked past the billboard broadcasting the exhibition, saying "Captain America. The living legend, and symbol of courage". 

The visitors were crammed in tightly, yet there was anonymously a shushed silence that hung in the air, everyone having respect for the past, and keeping quiet despite the overwhelming crowds. The relics of yester-years giving off an intimidating aura of admiration, and I couldn't help, but think about the fact that I technically was a relic too. 

Everyone around me looked enthralled, the artifacts mere interesting trinkets to them, and not the real life terrors, and depressing aspects that they were to me. 

The memories of World War II, the exhibit itself, brought me back in a way so real, and raw. I saw everything differently because I wasn't an observer, I was an experiencer. 

I stepped into the dark alcove illuminated up by spotlights, the dark walls closing in on me, and I was now deep within the portion dedicated to Captain America's life, the place where the Howling Commandos showed up. 

The black and white photographs, the antiques, everything were things I've touched, and lived within.

I saw photos of myself, my memorial, and it was so strange to see me, but in a way I hadn't before. This wasn't the same as looking in the mirror, this was something more brutal, and sharp. 

Scanning around the space I searched for someone in particular amidst the collection of strangers. Eventually spotting a tall brunette with a black baseball cap on casting a shadow across his face, his dark longer strands of hair hugging around his neck.

He stood in front of the row of Howling Commandos uniforms, the mannequins propped in a line, and I saw my combat uniform now with the others, right next to Bucky's outfit. 

All around me were memories, images of us in the past back then, fighting, laughing, smiling, protecting each other, and living. The historians had combed through all of the books, somehow even finding pictures of pre-serum Steve, before I was a nurse me, and even when Bucky was still a three-time YMCA welterweight boxing champion. 

I stepped over to him, and glanced over at the image of himself engraved within the glass memorial, a message written beside it.

In a whisper I began to read, catching Bucky's attention. 

"Bestfriend's since childhood, James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes, and Steven Grant Rogers, Captain America, were inseparable on both schoolyard, and battlefield. Barnes is the only other Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country, the other being his wife, Rebecca Barnes. A war nurse, and eventual prominent member of the Howling Commandos, working alongside her husband, and close friend Steve on the frontlines. Presumably died while searching for her husbands body in the snowy Alps after the HYDRA train ambush." I finished, looking over at him. 

His face was silhouetted by the caps visor, but I could see the guilt. Guilt because of what he had done as the Winter Soldier, and guilt because of what he had put Steve, and me through. I couldn't decide which one was more substantial, knowing Bucky, probably both. 

Quietly, we went outside away from the crowds, and crossed Madison Dr. The patch of lawn, and trees in between the National Museum of American History, and the Freer and Sackler Galleries the ideal spot with the least amount of visitors. 

We found a spot beneath a flourishing oak tree who's leaves were crisping with orange, the scent of autumn in the air. 

Bucky was still quiet, his hands shoved almost embarrassingly into his jacket pockets. 

"Why aren't you talking?" I asked, my composure Topsy-Turvy like a sinking ship. I finally had him back, but now he was distancing himself from me. I wanted to know why. 

"I hurt you..." He spoke up, his voice low, raspy, riddled with guilt, and regret. His pale blue gaze refusing to meet mine. 

"Yeah, well you'll hurt me a lot more if you remain silent, and don't speak to me." 

More silence... More dejection. 

His lack of, well everything, creating a fear so strong within me that it made my heart tremble. I hadn't thought of this, but maybe it was true. 

"D-Do you not love me anymore?" I asked, my voice shallow, cracking at the end.

My query apparently igniting Bucky's attention, and he lunged towards me, gripping his hands tightly around my shoulders. His body stiff, yet voice uneven. 

"No! That's not it..." He countered, filling with panic before he cooled down a bit. "I don't deserve you..." 

My eyes widened at his remorse coated words, and right now I felt like slapping him. Not because I was mad at him, but because he was so immeasurably, ridiculously inaccurate. 

"You think I give a damn about what you've done, James!? You think that after all this time I'd see you as a monster? You think that I'd be afraid of you? You're wrong, so indescribably wrong about those things. I love you, James. Always have, always will, still do, and I'm not leaving you." 

I watched as Bucky's oceanic pools filled up with tears, his guilt slowly transitioning into gratitude, and longing. 

He pulled me into a hug, his arms wrapping around me protectively, and I clasped my hands around his neck. 

"I love you, Rebecca. I'm sorry... I'm so sorry." He murmured into my hair, his words weighed down by shame. 

I buried my head into his chest, the familiarness so piercing that it practically hurt, but now in a good way. In a happy way like happy tears, or like someone receiving the greatest gift of all time, and to me, that was Bucky. 

I pulled away just enough to capture his lips with my own, and hesitantly he kissed back. He acted so differently from the 40's Bucky who was all teasing, and passionate. Now he acted as though he'd hurt me if he touched me, like I was made of paper. Something so fragile that he still didn't think he deserved, and I was going to tell him someday that it was the other way around. That I didn't feel like I deserved him. 

"It's not your fault, James. None of it." I assured, breaking away to whisper sweet nothings, words I knew the demons inside of him wouldn't ever say. 

I pulled out an item from my bag, the third item that I had retrieved from my combat uniform, and grabbed hold of his bionic hand, slipping his golden band back onto his metal ring finger. 

Bucky's slate blue eyes lit up, and for once he stared down at his metal arm adoringly, a cherished piece of his past back rightfully where it belonged. 

"You had it..." 

I nodded. 

"I found it in the snow on that day. Had it on me ever since." 

I held onto his metal hand, our golden wedding rings touching. 

"I don't know what the future has in store for us, but it's me, and you, Buck-Buck." 

He smiled, a broken, yet beautiful smile. 

"I remember you calling me that." 

"Yeah, I used to say no one kills my Buck-Buck. And, remember-" I began to say, but was cut off. 

"Only til death do us part, right?" Bucky said, remembering, finishing my sentence. 

I grinned, kissing him again. 

"Right."