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March, 2014

Iquitos, Peru

"Y'know," Bucky said from his post by the window. "I don't actually know that much about you."

Maggie looked up from where she'd been covertly siphoning HYDRA funds. She blinked. "You know everything about me."

He cocked his head. "No, I mean… I know all the stuff you've told me from when you were a kid, and I know about you as the Wyvern, but what about now?"

"Now?"

"Things you like. Things you don't. Dumb stuff."

Maggie thought about this. She realised that though she and Bucky had tied their fates together, she still didn't really know him either. She had data about him as Bucky Barnes and data about him as the Winter Soldier, but this new person was a mystery.

She frowned. The concept of knowing someone was strange. "How do we find out?"

Bucky kicked his feet up on the bed – that was a habit she knew he was fond of, making himself at home wherever he was. It was as if he'd endured so much discomfort and pain under HYDRA that he was determined to always be comfortable. Or perhaps that was the way he'd always been. "Well, we ask. I'll start – what's your favorite food?"

Maggie's nose wrinkled. "How will that help you to know me?"

He shrugged. "I guess I used to do this with the Commandos, back in the day. There wasn't a lot of food to be had on the front, so we used to describe these delicious meals we were going to have at the end of the war. Drove Dugan nuts, said it only made him hungrier, but it was fun. I still remember how much Dernier loved olives."

"What meals did you say you were going to eat?"

His lips quirked. "Nah, I asked you first."

She pursed her lips and thought about it. She and Bucky had been living off canned food, protein bars and dry goods since they'd escaped HYDRA. She'd noticed herself developing preferences; tomato soup over pumpkin, and so on, but she couldn't say if she had a favorite. Bucky had bought her that beer, and it had been nice, but she hadn't loved it. She tried to remember her favourite food as a child, but it was too hazy. She sighed. "I don't know."

Bucky didn't push her – he seemed to see her struggling. Instead, he frowned and murmured: "I suppose we haven't really been living it up."

"What was your favorite invented meal?" Maggie asked, to cut through the tension.

He rolled his eyes. "Well it always involved steak, I remember that much. Tenderloin, porterhouse… oh, and I used to tell Falsworth that I'd turn him over to the Nazis in exchange for a piece of fruit – usually an apple." He closed his eyes and smiled. "Anything from home, though, really. Steve and I used to buy hotdogs and popcorn when we could afford it. Sometimes even when we couldn't."

She liked the way the lines in his face softened when he talked about a good memory. When Bucky opened his eyes, he looked at her.

"You ever had any of that?"

Maggie shook her head. She knew what the foods he described looked like, but she couldn't even imagine the taste of them.

His mouth dropped open. "Well that ain't right. We've gotta start getting more stuff to eat, we've gotta-"

"Alright," she laughed, holding up her hands. "We'll do that. Ask another question."

But Bucky was still stuck on the food thing. "Really, never? What do you remember eating when you were a kid?"

She thought about it, fighting the ache behind her eyes that never failed to spring up when she forced herself to search for a memory. "I think… ice cream? With Tony? I don't really remember the taste, though, I just remember… he got distracted while talking about something, and his ice cream melted down his hand." She smiled, always glad to have another memory returned to her.

Bucky's horror softened a little. "Still, we've got to try more foods. I can't believe I didn't think of that. Food is… food is great. You'll love it."

"I'm sure I will," she replied, bemused. "And you had better make good on all those meals you promised to eat when the war was over."

That made him smile. "Alright, your turn to ask a question."

She frowned. "I don't know any questions."

"You just gotta make something up. Is there anything you're curious about?" He raised his eyebrows at her.

She leaned back in her seat at the table, eyeing Bucky. If he was uncomfortable under her stare he didn't show it, still leaning against the wall with his feet on the bed.

"Have you read books?" she eventually asked, then clarified: "not just ones about psychology. Story books."

Bucky's mouth dropped open again. "Have I… yeah, yeah I've read story books." His brow furrowed. "Meg, I'm sorry, I didn't realise how much stuff you've missed out on."

She thought she might have gotten defensive if he'd said that a few weeks ago, but she'd made that promise to be honest to herself. He was right – if one was looking for normal experiences and behaviours, then Maggie's life ended at five years old. She'd done certain things for infiltration missions, such as sipping an alcoholic beverage or pretending to read a newspaper, but she had only ever been thinking about the mission. She'd only ever complied.

Bucky took his feet off the bed and leaned forward. "I'm sorry, Meg. We can… we can do things. We've been running, and we're still running, but that doesn't mean we have to live like we did under HYDRA. Let's do things you've never tried before, things I haven't done in seventy years." His eyes were serious, and his face was alight with energy.

"Like what?"

"Like…" he looked around the room, as if searching for answers. "Like reading books that aren't just about fixing our heads. Trying foods. Going outside and looking at stuff, anything you want to do." He ran a hand over his jaw, agitated at himself for not having thought about this sooner.

Maggie considered it. Her research into psychology had said that engaging with the world and participating in hobbies was important to improving mental health. At the time she'd set that data aside, like the data about seeing therapists, because she hadn't thought it possible. She didn't have hobbies. She couldn't engage with the world. But Bucky seemed to think it was possible. The idea was simultaneously terrifying and thrilling.

"Alright," she decided. "But first you have to tell me what your favorite story book is."

That seemed to ease his agitation. "Uh… I always told my English teacher that I liked the Shakespeare plays, but that wasn't one hundred percent true. I remember reading this one book with Steve when we were kids, his mom bought it new for his birthday. The Hobbit. S'got… dwarves, and a dragon, and this little guy." He seemed pleased with himself for remembering.

"Would I like it?"

Bucky cocked his head. "Don't know. Worth finding out, though." He got to his feet and pulled on his bike gloves. "C'mon."

She blinked. "Where?" They didn't need any supplies, and they weren't planning to leave this safe house or Iquitos for a while. They'd been slowing down their travel before the separation, and didn't need to jump from city to city quite so quickly any more.

"Outside for a walk," he said. "We're going to do something. Like people." He shrugged.

Maggie got to her feet slowly. "Are you sure?"

He nodded. "We're doing alright, Meg, no one knows where we are and we're working on getting our heads right. But I remember walking around the city because I could, I remember doing things because they were fun, and not just necessary. And neither of us have had that in a long time. Do you trust me?"

"Of course," she replied. The idea of just walking out the door without a plan was alien to her, but it was clear that Bucky remembered more about being a person than she did. "For the mission?" she asked, with a smirk.

"For the mission," he replied, and opened the door.

They only walked a few blocks before they came across a bustling market with vibrant stalls, shouting children, and music drifting through the air. Maggie looked at Bucky in alarm, but he just shook his head at her, smiling, and they strolled into the thick of it. Neither of them were going to lose track of their surroundings, and they both had all the training they needed to spot any sign of a tail.

Keeping close by Bucky's side, Maggie stared at the spectacle around her. People streamed up and down the street, hopping from stall to stall and talking over one another. It was all so colourful. Scarlet canvases stretched over each stall to protect the wares from the sun, and the locals didn't shy away from wearing bright colours. As Maggie stared they passed a stand bursting with fruit, another with rows of green glass bottles, and another with stone and wood trinkets. Bucky seemed just as in awe of the market as she was – he nudged her arm, and pointed at a woman selling various animal skulls on a plastic table. As they watched, an older gentleman haggled over the price of a crocodile skull with the leather still on.

"I think markets are a bit different than I'm used to," Bucky murmured, before they kept moving down the street.

They ducked under several low-hanging ropes draped with beaded necklaces and wooden masks. Maggie stared unabashedly. She'd never been somewhere just for the wonder of it, and she found she didn't mind the feeling.

A wafting smell of cooking meat hit her nostrils, and her stomach growled. Bucky heard it, even over the babbling crowd.

"Time to start trying new foods?" he asked, smirking. She rolled her eyes.

They squeezed through the crowd toward the food stalls, and Maggie immediately deferred to Bucky's judgement. She'd never been presented with so many options before. Each vendor seemed to have something different: vats filled with stews, barbecuing fish, skewers of meat, tables full of bread and cured meats. The smells clashed in the air, a tantalising and strange aroma. Bucky seemed a little lost, too – there were certainly no hot dogs here – but eventually picked a stall and strode toward it. They walked away with two bowls of tacacho, which seemed to be a local delicacy but which neither Bucky or Maggie knew the ingredients of.

Bucky watched Maggie out of the corner of his eye as she ate the chorizo-and-vegetable-mash combination, and found himself chuckling at the sheer amazement on her face.

"It's like the beans!" she exclaimed through a mouthful of food. "Chilli!"

He laughed again and continued eating his share, as they explored the market. There were clothes, food, art and hundreds of things that neither of them had seen before. As they walked, they continued their back-and-forth questions.

"Favorite… colour?" asked Bucky, now chewing on a pork skewer. His eyes flickered around, scanning the crowd and the exits, then went back to Maggie.

She hadn't thought about that before, so she looked to a nearby art stall for inspiration. They had very colourful, intricate artworks here. She cocked her head.

"Red," she decided.

"I was going to accuse you of making that up on the spot," Bucky said, "But I think you're allowed to do that."

She stopped at a stall filled with flower arrangements, and blinked at the vibrance of the colours. "Do you know any jokes?" she asked.

Bucky adjusted his cap. "Uh, maybe. Why?"

"It's my turn for a question," she scolded, and bumped her shoulder against his to get them walking again.

He ducked his head, smiling. "Alright… no, I don't think I remember any. I know the Howlies told some pretty, uh, colorful jokes in the war, but I don't remember them. Sorry."

"That's alright. I remembered a joke the other day. I remember telling it to everyone in the mansion, because I thought it was hilarious. I told it to Tony four times and then he locked me out of the workshop."

"Alright," Bucky said. "Let's have it."

Maggie cleared her throat. She hadn't told a joke in over twenty years, she wanted to make sure she did it right. She made sure she remembered the exact wording before she opened her mouth. "Why did the elephant paint his toenails red?"

He frowned. "Uh… no idea."

"So he could hide in the cherry tree," she explained seriously.

Bucky's frown deepened. "Alright…" She could see him trying to muster up some kind of polite response to her joke.

Eventually, she asked: "have you ever seen an elephant in a cherry tree?"

"No…?"

"Works, doesn't it?"

Bucky tipped his head back and groaned, even as he laughed.

Maggie grinned from ear to ear. "See, that's the reaction I remember getting!"

They kept exploring the market, shooting questions back and forth, and agreed to keep trying new foods. As they came to the busiest part of the marketplace, however, Maggie fell silent mid-sentence.

"Meg?" Bucky rapidly scanned the crowd around them, his eyes flicking to vantage positions and choke points, but he couldn't see anything amiss. Then he followed her gaze, and sighed when he realised what had silenced her.

It was one of the bands performing at the market: they stood on a slightly raised stage, performing to the milling crowd. The band had three men playing piano, drums and guitar, and a woman singing.

Maggie was transfixed. The song was smooth and velvety, and the chords flowed through the air like some kind of magic. The singer was a large woman with a cloud of jet-black hair, and she crooned the Spanish lyrics with absorbing passion, her eyes closed and her fists clenched. Her voice rang like a bell. Maggie had never seen – or heard – anything like it. She found herself walking closer, almost without thought, straining to catch every note. Before she knew it she was at the base of the stage, staring at the singer as she belted out the last few notes.

Bucky noticed that Maggie looked overwhelmed, her eyes bright and her face flushed.

"Are you alright?" he murmured, when the song ended.

"I just… didn't know… that it could be like this." She turned to face him, shaking her head.

"What?"

"Being a person," she said, gesturing at him and the market around them. "Knowing that there are people who can do that-" she nodded at the singer, who had begun singing a more upbeat song. "And being here, to eat things and just experience it all, it's… it's wonderful." She shook her head again. "Thank you for this."

Bucky was watching her, with a slight smile on his face. He was giving her a look she'd only seen a few times before, like he was seeing her for the first time.

She squinted. "What? I've never done anything like this before."

"Surely you listened to music before?"

"Yes, on missions. But I wasn't… well, the music wasn't why I was there. And I never listened, I don't think I knew how to listen to music. So maybe the last time was from before HYDRA, but that was mostly covering my ears while Tony blasted his rock music."

Bucky cocked his head. "Rock?"

"Rock and roll," she elaborated. "I remember the names – Led Zeppelin, Van Halen, that sort of thing. Tony loved them."

He was still looking at her with a quizzical face, like the one he made when she started talking about advanced programming or aerodynamic theories. "Well," she said. "I am going to show you rock and roll."

They agreed to buy some ingredients for a stew that Bucky thought he remembered how to make, and then head back to the safehouse. Before they left the main plaza, however, Maggie sensed someone watching her. She shadowed her face and glanced around surreptitiously, and furrowed her brow when she spotted her observer: a little girl, no older than eight, in a white shirt with a bright red skirt. The girl's wide brown eyes were fixed on Maggie.

Maggie frowned – she knew better than most the danger a child could pose. The girl seemed to take her frown as an invitation, and marched right up to her.

Bucky, sensing Maggie's discomfort, turned around just as the little girl came to a halt at their feet.

"Eres muy bonita," ["You're very pretty,"] announced the girl, her head tilted back to look into Maggie's face.

Maggie could see from the girl's bearing and expression that this was not a trained assassin. This only made her tense further – she knew how to deal with assassins, but when it came to innocent children she was clueless.

The silence streched out, while Maggie and the girl stared at each other. She could sense Bucky watching her with amusement.

Finally, Maggie bit out: "¿Dónde están tus… padres?" ["Where are your… parents?"] This was her first real interaction with a child since she had been one, and she had no idea what to do.

"Por ahí." ["Over there."] The girl gestured behind her, without taking her eyes off Maggie's face.

Bucky finally took pity on her. He squatted down, adjusting his cap so he could meet the little girl's eyes. "¿Cuál es tu nombre?" ["What's your name?"]

The girl looked away from Maggie's face. "Mayra."

"Soy Bucky," ["I'm Bucky,"] he said, gesturing at himself, then nodded up at Maggie. "Y esta es Meg." ["And this is Meg."] Bucky smiled.

Maggie stared at him as he interacted with the child – he clearly knew how to do this. There were still hints of the Soldier in the line of his shoulders and his constant wariness, but the way he smiled at the girl and made his voice softer, non-threatening… that was Bucky.

"¿Cuantos años tienes?" ["How old are you?"] he asked, and then gestured to himself again. "Tengo noventa y siete años." ["I'm ninety seven years old."]

Mayra wrinkled her nose. "No los tienes!" ["No you're not!"]

"Los tengo," ["I am,"] Bucky confirmed, with the solemn gaze of one imparting a great secret. "Meg, cuentale." ["Meg, tell her."]

Maggie sighed, and knelt beside him. As she knelt, she realized that Bucky's birthday must have passed, for him to be ninety seven now, and not ninety six. She recalled the display from the museum: March 10, 1917. They had been separated on his birthday – he was probably alone in the Amazon. Maggie didn't have a lot of data about birthdays, but she was aware that they involved celebration and presents. He hadn't had any of those.

As if sensing her thoughts, Bucky nudged her arm and shot her a soft smile. His gaze said humor the kid, so she did.

"El tiene razón," ["He's right."] she told Mayra. "Él es un hombre muy viejo." ["He is a very old man."]

Bucky snorted, and Mayra's face creased in thought.

"¿Eres muy viejo?" ["Are you very old?"] she asked Maggie, and then her face brightened. "¿Tienes cien años? Mi abuela tiene cien años, pero ella no es bonita." ["Are you one hundred? My grandma is one hundred years old, but she isn't pretty."]

Bucky started laughing in earnest now, his eyes crinkling. Before Maggie could set the record straight, Mayra's parents called to her.

"¡Adiós, ancianos!" ["Goodbye, elders!"] Mayra called, and rushed off.

"¡Adiós, Mayra!" ["Goodbye, Mayra!"] Bucky called, and he and Maggie got to their feet.

Maggie frowned. "We missed your birthday."

"It's alright, I've apparently had a lot of them." The interaction with the child had greatly improved his already good mood.

Maggie shook her head. "But most of them were with HYDRA. What did you use to do for your birthdays?"

He thought about it. "At home I'd get a few presents, maybe go out to Coney Island or the pictures with Steve. In the war I got a bottle of scotch and a pack of smokes from the Commandos, and Steve gave me…" he smiled. "He gave me a sketch of my sisters."

Maggie felt wretched. She hadn't even thought about it. "What would you like for this one?"

He smiled at her again. "Today. Today has been pretty good."

She smiled at that. He had been right, getting them to try something because it was fun, instead of necessary. She could feel her many demons lurking, waiting for her to drop her guard or fall asleep. She knew she'd still have nightmares that night. Bucky would, too. But that didn't make today, with its market and food and singing, any less enjoyable.

Of course, Maggie couldn't rest until she'd procured Bucky a proper belated birthday gift.

The next day she came back from a solo supply run with a bottle of scotch, a pack of cigarettes, and some stationery for his notebook. She presented it to him in the plastic bag from the grocery store, and beamed when he thanked her.

Then she revealed the two porterhouse steaks she had purchased, and they cooked them poorly in the safehouse's tiny kitchen. Bucky kept giving her bad cooking advice, so Maggie had to consult the internet. By the time she'd figured it out the steaks were slightly overcooked, but Bucky proclaimed that it was his best meal in eighty years. He'd thrown out the cigarettes, but they shared the scotch during their meal.

Maggie slid the last part of his present across the table: a copy of The Hobbit (or rather, El Hobbit) which she'd spotted by chance at a book vendor on the road back.

Bucky went still at the sight of it, his eyes fixed to the cover. "Shit," he said eventually, and looked up with bright eyes. "You're good at presents, Meg, y'know that?"

She hadn't been sure about it, so she let out an imperceptible sigh of relief.

"Thank you," he said. He looked… touched. "You should read it first, though."

She shook her head. "It's your present, you read it first. By the way, did you know there are more books by the same author? I checked the dates, they were published after the war."

Bucky's eyes shone. "There are more?"

April, 2014

Ocean spray on her face, the cold tarmac of the launchpad under her bare feet. Confused, she was so confused. She'd been brought here, she was sleeping – or, she was still sleeping…

Go on, you need to go. The man with huge round glasses, like insect eyes. He was small and frightened. She remembered his hand on the back of her head while he tore her apart. No, while he made her strong–

Go… where? Her child voice was flat – she knew only the mission.

Away from here! Fly away, get away from them.

But I did, she wanted to say. But her jaw was wired shut, frozen. Had she gotten away?

What's my mission?

The man sighed. He saw her, saw the girl inside the monster. He opened his mouth and said: To be free.

The ocean roared, climbing up the cliff face to clutch at the Wyvern's feet. She screamed, but the man with the insect glasses wasn't watching her any more. She watched the hole open up in the back of his head, and the spray of blood that gleamed like mist. The ocean pulled her down, over the cliff and into the depths, away from the man who'd given her a mission she hadn't understood or obeyed.

Faces loomed in the dark water – two crying, trembling women, side-by-side in a small room. Choose one. She chose neither. They both died. Lightning like fire through her body. A man and a woman the next time – they died, too. Choose. Choose. Choose. She chose, one after the other, lifting the gun and pulling the trigger. Her hands were so small.

The faces pressed against her: pale, drowned creatures hungry for her flesh. The Wyvern kicked, but she couldn't get away. She tried to lift her wings, to fly out of the ocean, but they wouldn't move.

Verre. [Glass.]

No, not that-

Transmission. Affamé. [Transmission. Starving.]

Not again, she couldn't stand it-

Sept, veiux- [Seven, old]

"No-"

Sécurité. [Safety.]

"Stop!"

Trois, tunnel- [Three, tunnel]

There was a warm hand on her mouth, and the Wyvern opened her eyes to the glint of metal and a scarlet star. She screamed and lashed out, throwing a punch into her attacker's chest and following up with a sweep of her heel spur – the blade missed, but her attacker backed off. She cut herself out of her constraints – bed sheets? – and threw herself to the hard floor, rolling toward the nearest exit. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, and her throat was raw from screaming. The words, the faces, the… the mission.

"Meg, wait!"

The Wyvern froze, already half in the next room – a kitchen? She felt compelled to listen to the voice, but her instincts still screamed no and run. Chest heaving, she seized a knife from the drying rack and whirled around, arms up.

The man in the room she'd escaped hadn't chased her. He stayed against the far wall with his hands raised – one flesh, one metal – and searched her face.

Her mind whirled. She knew him, that arm, it…

"Soldier?" she croaked, not lowering her knife.

A flash of pain creased the Soldier's face. "No, it's… I'm Bucky, remember?" His voice was low, but she heard the edge of tension in it.

"I…" the Wyvern looked around the room. There was a bed with shredded sheets squeezed into the corner, and on the other side of the room a laptop sat open on a plastic table. "Where am I?"

"Peru," the man named Bucky said. "You're in Peru, Meg, remember? It was just a nightmare, you're here with me."

The Wyvern noticed that the hand holding the knife was shaking. Her whole body was shaking, covered in a sheen of sweat. She put her free hand on her forehead. She was malfunctioning – had she been poisoned? "I'm…" she shook her head. "What's my mission?"

She finally stopped glancing around the room, and met the man named Bucky's eyes. They were grey-blue, and glittering with turmoil. "Me," he murmured. "I'm your mission, Meg."

The mission.

Maggie let out a shuddering sob as her nightmare finally released her, and the memories came flooding back. The knife fell from her trembling hand and she collapsed to her knees. Bucky was instantly by her side, tossing the knife away from her exposed skin and grabbing her arms, keeping her from toppling completely to the ground.

"Bucky," she gasped, her chest shuddering. "Bucky, I-"

"I know," he murmured, and pulled her into his chest, embracing her with flesh and metal arm alike. "I know, Meg. You're back."

His warm touch thawed some of the frozen terror lodged in her gut, but she couldn't control her breathing – she was gasping, choking for air. Bucky let her go.

"C'mon, Meg, breathe. I'm going to touch you, here-" He gripped her hands and placed one over her chest and the other over her diagphragm. "Breathe in."

She did as he said, closing her eyes and trying to take a long, slow breath through her nose.

But her heart was still pounding, her muscles spasming, and she needed more air. She gasped out and in again, eyes flying open. It reminded her of the dream, of drowning in faces with no escape.

Bucky was talking. "You're okay, you're safe. You've just got to breathe."

But she was drowning, and she couldn't escape.

"Wings," she gasped, gripping Bucky's arm. "My wings, I need my wings."

He was gone and back in an instant, dropping the duffle bag by her side and lifting out the first wing. Still hyperventilating, Maggie leaned forward and pulled up the back of her shirt. He slotted in the left wing, making her tilt to the side, and then the right.

When the weight settled on her spine, anchoring her down, Maggie was finally able to take in a long, slow breath. Using the familiar weight to centre herself, she remembered her coping techniques and went through them, counting her breaths, relaxing her muscles, and reminding herself that she was safe. Your name is Margaret Stark. You're with Bucky. He is your mission. You are a person.

When her breathing and heartrate settled, Maggie opened her eyes and settled more comfortably on the floor, folding her wings close to her body. Bucky had gone into the kitchen while she went through her relaxation techniques, and now he sat beside her.

"Here," he murmured, and handed her a glass of water.

She gave him a shaky smile, then noticed the careful way he brought his arm back to his body. "I hurt you-" she winced. She remembered punching his chest, swinging her heel spur at him, and felt sick. "I'm so sorry, Bucky."

"I'm alright," he reassured, tapping his sternum to prove it. "Just a bruise. You had me worried, there."

"I'm sorry, I should have recognised you-"

"No, Meg-" he ran a hand through his hair, and gathered his thoughts. He looked shaken. "I thought you forgot about yourself, about who you were. That hasn't happened for more than a second before."

Maggie sighed. She knew she had to talk about it, to keep the dream and the memories from festering, but the thought of it made her fingers tremble. She took another steadying breath. "I dreamed… there was a HYDRA technician who wanted to save me. He told me that my mission was to be free, and I didn't understand. The Project Leader shot him and wiped me."

Bucky watched her as she recounted the dream, his grey-blue eyes warm in the darkness.

"And then… people I killed, like I always dream about. They were drowning me. I remembered my trigger words, and I almost got through all of them before you woke me up." She shivered. Her metal wings were cold against her exposed skin, but she used the hard edges to remind herself of reality. "Bucky, what if I'd gotten through all of them?"

"I'm going to touch you," he warned, and when she nodded he put his flesh hand on her shoulder. He knew she liked the warmth, the way it pulled her away from her cold memories. "It was a dream – even if the words triggered you, the only one in control of you would be you. And I'm here, I'd make sure you came back to yourself."

"But what if-"

"You did it before, Meg," he said, leveling his gaze. "You broke away from the words, away from HYDRA. You can do it."

She bowed her head. "I don't want it to take twenty years the next time."

"It won't. And there won't be a next time – that's part of the mission, making sure we stay people. I wouldn't let it happen to you, just like you wouldn't let it happen to me."

She looked up at that, and the sheer determination in Bucky's eyes reassured her. She let out a long breath, and ran her hands over her face. Wisps of hair were stuck to her sweaty forehead.

"I've done research on brainwashing," she said, shifting so she could see him better. "Most of the available data is about escaping domestic abusers or cults. They said the best way to break that kind of brainwashing is ending isolation, educating yourself, and getting through the denial and fear." She shrugged. "I guess we've done some of that. But I couldn't find anything about what was done to us – memory wipes, trigger words, programming… whatever HYDRA did, they kept it a secret." Bucky's face was solemn, but he didn't look as disappointed as she thought he'd be. She'd been looking into this for a while now. "I'm sorry," she added.

"Not your fault," he murmured. "Besides, I didn't think HYDRA ever meant for anyone to break out of the programming. I'd say we've made it pretty far already."

Maggie sighed. "You're right. I just hoped… I wanted to fix us, or at least that part of us. Make us safer."

"You're a genius, Meg," Bucky said. "But even you can't find the answers to impossible questions. It's alright."

She ground her jaw, but didn't continue the topic. Either she found the answer or she didn't, debating it with Bucky wouldn't do anything.

With his solid presence beside her, and the reassuring weight of her wings, the thunderstorm of emotions in Maggie's chest started to abate. Bucky had started meditating after his nightmares, but she hadn't really liked it when she tried. The stillness, and the emptiness in her head, reminded her too much of her blankness as the Wyvern. She preferred to be thinking, feeling, reminding herself that she was a person.

"There's something I want to try," she eventually said. "Not to get rid of the programming, but more to… make things a bit easier. It's… it's supposed to be done by a therapist, but I've done all the academic reading, and I hacked into an online training module, and I can teach you-"

Bucky huffed a laugh. "What is it, Meg?"

"It's called EMDR – Eye Movement Desensitisation and Reprocessing Therapy. I access a bad memory, and then you…" she lifted two fingers and brought them back and forth across her face, following them with her eyes.

"Meg." He opened and closed his mouth."That sounds kinda…"

She smiled. "I know how it sounds. But the eye movement simulates what happens in REM – which happens when you're asleep, and dreaming – and the studies show that it helps to process the memory, make it less… sensitive." She ran a hand through her hair. "I thought it couldn't hurt to try."

He still looked skeptical. "It's not gonna hyptonise you or anything?" She chuckled. "You're thinking about a swinging pocketwatch, aren't you?"

Bucky looked embarrassed. "Well, it kinda sounds the same."

"Well no, it's not going to hypnotise me. Though I might cluck like a chicken afterwards if you ask me nicely." He laughed, and she rolled her eyes. "If anything, the EMDR is just going to make me remember the bad stuff, which is better than trying to forget about it. Would you be alright with doing that for me? To do the hand movements, and to be there if I… if something goes wrong."

Bucky's arm whirred. "Of course. You should do it on me, too."

"You don't have to-"

"I want to," he replied, with a quirk of his lips. "You think this might work, and I trust you. We can use all the help we can get."

She smiled back. They had been using every technique they could find to get even a modicum of control over their own brains: they'd been keeping up the cognitive behavioural therapy, reading self-help books, going out into the world more often (usually a brisk walk around the block while they both scanned the people and buildings around them), and even adjusting what they ate to get appropriate nutrition.

They'd tried out exposure therapy, within reason: after a dream where indistinct Russian voices whispered in the dark, Bucky had started listening to Russian podcasts. He'd eventually worked his way up to googling one of his victims whose name he remembered, and read their obituary. Maggie had been avoiding lying on her front, because of the flash-memories it sparked of lying face-down on an operating table, so she started intentionally lying on her front while working on the laptop. Each time one of them tried something they were uncomfortable with, the other was close by their side, ready to step in in the case of a panic attack or other bad reaction.

And they had been getting better, though sometimes it felt like they were taking one step forward and three steps backward. This nightmare had been the worst one Maggie'd had in weeks. She barely ever threw up upon waking any more. She counted that as a small kind of victory. They had to maintain constant vigilance whenever they went outside, but sometimes just leaving the safehouse to go for a walk, or to see a famous landmark, felt like weeks of therapy: exhausting, but with a sense of achievement.

"So the wings, huh?" Bucky eventually asked. They were still sitting on the timber floor of their safehouse, in the dark.

Maggie glanced up and frowned.

"They make you feel safe," he clarified, nodding at the folded metal. "That's why you wanted them."

She colored, and the wings unconsciously folded even tighter. "I know they shouldn't," she whispered. "I know they're a part of all the horrible things that HYDRA did to me. And you don't have the option of taking your arm on and off, I shouldn't-"

Bucky was shaking his head. "It's not a bad thing, that they make you feel safe. I just didn't realise – if they're a good thing, you should use 'em more often."

Maggie cocked her head and eyed him. It was difficult to make him out in the darkness, but he looked like he'd had a good day – the lines in his face weren't so deep, his hair was clean, and he didn't look gaunt like he did after a nightmare. "You think so?"

He looked right back at her. "I do. There's too much shit in the world that brings back the bad memories. If those wings help, then I wish you could wear them all the time."

The wings unfurled a little, the telescopic Adamantium skeleton extending silently. "Would you want the arm removed?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I don't think I'd complain too much if it was – it's a weapon. But we could use a weapon, just in case, and I'm… working on it." She knew that meant he was working on accepting it, turning over his thoughts and feelings about the arm in his therapy. She didn't push.

She centered her weight, and got to her feet in a fluid move. "You should sleep now," she said, rolling her shoulders and trying to work out the tension that the nightmares always brought. She shuffled her wings. Bucky stood as well, and cleared the shredded sheets off the bed.

"You're going to be alright?" he asked, as he rolled onto the mattress.

She took his place at the desk. "I'm going to be," she nodded. "I'm going to find that EMDR training module for when you wake up."

He smirked. "Giving me homework?"

"I'll give you more if you don't go to sleep."

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