[oom] there are so many contradictions in all these messages we send

[from_the_outside]

Two weeks after leaving Thessaloniki, she steps off a plane at JFK and heads straight to the line of cabs waiting at arrivals. She doesn't have any luggage to wait for; everything she needs is in the tote bag she keeps slung over her shoulder.

"Downtown," she tells the driver, after sliding into the backseat. "Stark Industries offices, please."

He nods and pulls out of the line, glancing at her in the rearview. "Hey, you work for Stark? What's he like?"

She shakes her head, but there's a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Just meeting an old friend."

Bless New York City cab drivers; he doesn't ask her a damn thing after that and she can look out the window in silence to watch as the city rolls by and turn her thoughts to her next steps.

Or try to, anyway: what really happens is that she's wryly unsurprised when they only return, as they have almost every time she's had a few moments to herself to think, to the subject of Bucky Barnes. She's stopped fighting it: it's been two weeks since he vanished through the door and he's still living rent-free in her head. She knows when she's beaten.

(At this point the theme of those thoughts is a dead heat between running over and over all their conversations, the way he fights like he's a one-man wrecking ball, and how it felt when his hands landed gently on her hips, how warm he was against her.)

She hasn't tried texting the burner phone – he's almost certainly ditched it – but if she's successful in her mission, she might give it a shot anyway. She's got no other way of contacting him, and she hasn't heard from him.

The thing is, she has to be successful first, so she muses on the problem at hand and lets her thoughts move lightly and constantly, like a river. The danger is when they try to swirl in one spot for too long; that she actively stops whenever it begins. Preoccupation is one thing. Distraction is another, and she can't afford it.

The cab drops her within a block of Avengers Tower and she tightens her grip on her tote to shoulder her way through the crowd of tourists and cosplayers and off-brand street performers. Maria Hill is expecting her. Steve isn't.

Hill's office is bright and airy and very obviously civilian, but the woman behind the desk hasn't changed an iota. Sharon taps on the glass door, smiling warmly without letting it reach her eyes. "Ready to grab some lunch?"

"Absolutely." Hill pushes herself back from her work and stands, mirroring Sharon's smile right down to the sharp study in her eyes. "Let's go. We've got a lot of catching up to do."

---

Lunch goes about as Sharon expected it would. Hill has questions, but she's willing to let Sharon dissemble or outright refuse to give a straight answer in exchange for a drive full of what she knows is invaluable intelligence.

Neither of them says the name "Fury," but they don't need to. And when they're done, Sharon walks Hill back to the offices and they actually do get a little catching up done. They've never been close, but they're too similar not to respect each other. If pressed, Sharon might even say she likes Hill.

She still doesn't tell her where she got the intel, though. And Hill knows just why Sharon's accompanying her back: she's the one who contacts Steve and tells him to come to her office. And she's the one who glances politely away when Steve arrives and he and Sharon both spend a long second just staring at each other before he squares his shoulders like he's heading into a fight.

"I hear it's actually Sharon," he says, in a way that means I'm not mad, I'm just disappointed, and her stomach, which hasn't stopped flipping since he walked in, clenches.

"Yeah." She tightens her grip on the tote handle and offers him a winning smile that feels like a Hail Mary throw across three separate football fields. "I was thinking...how about getting that cup of coffee?"

---

Steve isn't anything like Hill. He's nothing like anyone she's ever known. He has a million questions, and once he's glanced at the drive and read through the note she hands him five times or more, his jaw clenching, he starts launching them at her like a pitching machine that's bound and determined to get through her swing and punch her straight in the gut.

"I don't know where he is," she says, for what feels like the hundredth time. "I don't know why he contacted me."

That's almost a lie, but not quite. But worst by far is when, after an hour or so, he finally stops asking and just slumps back into his chair, staring at the few words on the piece of paper and not even trying to hide the pain and fear and worry and loss that break across his face and don't stop. 

She can't stop herself. Just like in Thessaloniki, she gets the impulse and follows it; leans across the table to take his hand and squeeze it, totally unprepared for how it feels like running face first into a wall when his blue eyes flick up to meet hers and his hand – warm, strong, capable – squeezes hers back without hesitation.

And then he says, simply and with absolute sincerity: "Thank you, Sharon." And something tight in her chest just ruptures.

Damn. Damn, damn, damn. 

Damn Bucky Barnes for putting her in this position. Damn him and his secrets and his determination to be alone. Damn Steve Rogers and all his optimism and goodness and warmth. Damn his pretty blue eyes and strong shoulders and gentle hands.

And damn herself, most of all, for getting mixed up in any of this to begin with. And especially for when Steve asks, all uncertain awkward charm, if, if she's staying long enough, she'd like to take a walk in Central Park with him before she heads back out again.

He never needs to know that she changes her flight to be able to say: yes.

Comments

[nerves_of_ice]

She's on her way up the scaffolding before he can manage a protest. Bucky looks up after her and shakes his head.

At least if she slips, he should be able to catch her.

He glances around to make sure they're unobserved, shifts his own hastily-assembled package to his right hand, and starts up after her.

[from_the_outside]

The nice thing about training for hours upon hours for multiple years on end is that even after two and a half glasses of wine and even with sore, not totally healed ribs, she can climb nearly as deftly as she could when she was six years old and scaling every tree in the backyard.

And it's worth it to get to the roof. It's a beautiful night, and she heads back towards the front of the building, where light and sound and music spill up from the festival, but there's nothing else between her and the night sky.

She turns to wait for him, then gestures around. "Perfect, right?"

She's pretty proud of herself. "I know you're pretty used to roaming around on rooftops. And this way, we don't have to worry about being seen, for a little bit."

[nerves_of_ice]

She looks smugly pleased with herself, and he has to admit she's got a right to be.

"Perfect," he agrees, with a tiny smile. The beat of pause is just long enough.

"Just as long as no one falls over the side. Come sit down, okay?"

[from_the_outside]

"That would put kind of a damper on the evening," she agrees. "Especially for the people down there."

She walks back his way, pausing just a beat before she quirks her eyebrows up at him and says: "So don't fall off."

A second later, she crouches to open the paper bag, removing a small bottle of wine, a smaller paper bag that gives off the heady scent of vanilla and another containing a couple of apples, then pulls out the two throws and shakes them out, one by one, to lay them on the rooftop.

[nerves_of_ice]

He chuckles, very softly, and moves to help, adding the bottle of water and what he can't help but think of as very fancy grilled cheese sandwiches to the haul.

"So am I forgiven for not getting in touch for a month?"

[from_the_outside]

She settles down on one of the blankets and stretches out her legs, leaning back against her palms, and lets her head roll to the side so she can look at him.

"Yes," she says, after a few long seconds. "But only if it wasn't because you decided to make my decisions for me."

[nerves_of_ice]

"It wasn't."

He takes a seat on the other blanket, one leg stretched out and one knee drawn up, his right arm loosely looped around his knee, watching her.

[from_the_outside]

"Then you're forgiven," she says, lightly, and unwraps one of the sandwiches to bite into it before making an enthusiastic noise meaning holy fuck this is delicious! the world over.

"Also because you brought me this amazing sandwich," she says, after she swallows the bite. The sandwich goes down for a second and she takes out the apples and uncaps the wine and the bottle of water, setting it all between them on the blanket before she picks the sandwich up again.

"So why was it a month?" For all her enjoyment of the food, the evening, there's still a shade of concern in her eyes. "Did you get in some kind of trouble?"

[nerves_of_ice]

"No more than usual."

He sounds casual about it, and busies himself with making inroads on the other sandwich.

"I had to track down some leads. It took a little while."

[from_the_outside]

She nods, accepting the offered answers without pushing for any more details, and focuses for a minute or two on the excellent sandwich instead.

(She may have made the climb up, but if she wants to get back down without injury, she needs some carbs in her stomach.)

"Do you want to hear about New York?" she asks, after a little while, when about half her sandwich is gone and she's had some water. "We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, but..."

She's not sure how to finish that sentence, she she just lets it drift off into the night air.

[nerves_of_ice]

Everything about him stills for a moment.

"Yeah." A beat. "If you're okay telling me about it."

[from_the_outside]

Her eyebrows flicker into a quick frown at that. "Why wouldn't I be?"

It's much worse for him than for her. Whatever she might think about Steve Rogers, he isn't her best pal from 70 years ago that she's actively trying to avoid.

She takes another sip of water and tears off a piece of sandwich to pop into her mouth. "I saw Hill first," she says, once she's swallowed. "Easy, very smooth information transfer. She has an encoded drive with the intel you gave me, and she doesn't know it came from you." She shakes her head.

"I don't know if she's managed to get it to Fury, but if anyone can, it'll be her.

"Then she helped put me in contact with Steve."

[nerves_of_ice]

He shrugs in answer to her question and stays silent, listening. Whatever he's thinking isn't evident from his expression.

[from_the_outside]

"He wasn't very happy," she says, her eyes on his face, her voice quiet. "He asked a lot of questions. He really...misses you. And he's worried about you."

And he's desperate to find him.

But all that, Bucky knows.

She takes a breath and settles onto her right hip and hand to face him a little more fully. "But, after a while, he accepted it. For now, anyway. I'm pretty sure he believed that I didn't know where you were or why you'd contacted me, and I think he bought that I didn't expect any more contact, because he didn't try to give me a message for you. And he was grateful for the intel. He said Stark had dealt with Extremis a little while ago, so they had some first-hand experience with it."

Her eyebrows rise and fall and she lifts and drops her left hand. "And that's it."

[nerves_of_ice]

He wasn't very happy.

He knows the twist in his gut is reflected on his face before he gets himself under control, sinking back into the cold empty space where he can keep from showing anything. Anything at all.

Steve, I'm sorry. It's for the best.

As Sharon goes on, he realizes what he hadn't really let himself think about before. He can't keep doing this, not if she's going to have any hope of any sort of friendship - or more - with Steve. It's not fair to expect her to keep his secrets.

"I'm glad it helped."

The noise on the street is distant enough that his words carry across the small space of the roof between them, quiet as they are.

"And I'm sorry. I won't ask you to do that again."

[from_the_outside]

She reaches her left hand over to put it gently on his – she's got no idea how much sensation he has in the metal left arm, but maybe the small gesture will count for something even if he can't feel it.

"You don't need to ask me," she says, gently. "It has to be done and right now I'm the only one who can do it."

She squeezes his hand lightly, then pulls hers away again. "You don't have anything to apologize for."

[nerves_of_ice]

He shakes his head, clearly disagreeing, but he doesn't argue, and he doesn't move.

[from_the_outside]

She's not sure what to do with a Bucky Barnes who won't argue with her, even if it's just to be stubborn.

Which gives her only one other task to clear. "I shouldn't have surprised you with that photo," she says, after a second. "I thought it might help, proof he's doing okay, but...it was insensitive. I'm sorry. I know it's hard to keep your distance. Seeing him probably only made things worse."

[nerves_of_ice]

His head comes up and he stares at her in surprise. He opens his mouth, but at first no words come out.


Finally --

"...uh, no," he manages. "No, it's okay. You don't - don't apologize, Sharon."

He swallows, hard.

"You're right. It helps to ... to see him happy."

[from_the_outside]

She furrows her brow at him, bewildered by first his surprise and then the rush of words after.

"Are you okay?"

[nerves_of_ice]

"Yeah," he says, almost gently. "Yeah, I'm okay. Don't worry about me."

He reaches for an apple and takes a bite, effectively silencing himself.

[from_the_outside]

"I think maybe I should worry about you," she says, slowly. She's trying to piece together what just happened and make his reaction make sense, but nothing is fitting correctly and she gets the distinct feeling she's missed something.

Maybe something kind of important.

Damn, she shouldn't have had that second glass of wine. "You've been weird ever since I showed you that picture. If it's not because you didn't want to see Steve, then what is it?"

[nerves_of_ice]

He finishes the slice of apple and shakes his head at her.

"Sharon." Still gentle, still quiet, but firm, and he's holding her gaze. "Don't worry about me. There's nothing to worry about. It's fine. I'm fine."

A beat of silence hangs between them before he smiles, just a little.

"Besides. It's too nice a night for worry."

[from_the_outside]

"It's a beautiful night. And if you say the word 'fine' one more time, I'm dangling you off this roof until you talk."

The words might be sharp, but whatever he says, there is worry in her eyes as she sits up, studying him intently as she tries to remember everything that's happened tonight so far.

She comes up empty. She's got nothing.

And that small smile aches just as much as her bruised ribs. "If we're going to keep doing this," she says, finally, "I need to be able to trust you. And I don't think you're telling me the truth."

[nerves_of_ice]

"I'm not lying to you."

Everything about him shuts down in an instant, withdrawn and wary.

"You'll have to decide for yourself if you can trust me. Most wouldn't."