Bucky sat awkwardly on the motel’s bed. He didn’t quite know what to do with himself. Memories were coming back in disordered flashes—a flying car, a rush of white, a blond boy with a winning smile.

Your presence wasn’t helping. It would almost be helpful if you were a HYDRA handler, but you weren’t. You weren’t demanding or sadistic. You weren’t treating him like a weapon. It was making his head hurt.