Now, Bucharest, Romania:

A burnt photograph laid on the wooden floor that was covered in ashes and dust from what appeared to be an attack of some sort. The subject of the photograph was difficult to discern as the edges were frayed and singed. The only part of the photograph that remained untouched by the flames was a smiling couple; an odd contrast from the eerie scene in which the photo was found. If someone were to come by the apartment, they'd be struck by how tragic the scene seemed what with the subjects appearing so happy, yet their home was burnt to the ground.

Who knew a burnt photo could give so much information?

Then, four months ago, Bucharest, Romania:

Bucky had a difficult evening. Not that having a difficult day was anything new to him, but this one had been particularly hard. Memories had been coming back to him steadily; some good and some not. And when the bad memories came back, it was never a good day. Sometimes the most innocuous object or person would send another fragment of some past incident ramming straight to the forefront of his mind begging to be acknowledged. Once Bucky actually began to process what he remembered, that was when the mental torture began. He blamed himself for not snapping out of Hydra's control, for not realizing that what he was doing was wrong. Extremely wrong.

The memory that cropped up that day at the sight of a wine bottle happened to be an assassination of some important political leader named Sarah who had been enjoying a good time out with her friends, before receiving a bullet straight through her head. Suddenly their dinner wasn't a joyous occasion anymore. Their food was covered in blood and they screamed and they cried. In short, it wasn't something Bucky wanted to remember on his way back to his cramped apartment.

Being on the run was already about the most challenging thing life had tossed his way, bad memories were just an added problem because being on the run entailed things like: never using or responding to your real name, not being able to use legal documents, not having any close friends and lying multiple times on a daily basis. Not fun stuff. Then again, when had life been fun for Bucky ever since he shipped out for the war?

Suddenly, Bucky was hit with a pang of sadness at the children laughing and playing in the puddles on the other side of the street. Childhood was blissful ignorance; something he could only dream of having.

Walking up to the front door to his apartment complex, Bucky was thankful for how mild the Romanian winter was. It was a welcome change from Russia's winters. In his memories, it had never been nice to trudge through the snow or feel the razor-sharp winds cut into his skin. No, he decided, the temperate winter in Romania was much, much better.

"Excuse me, mister, I forgot my key. Can you keep the door open for me?"

Bucky snapped out of his thoughts to turn around and see a child expectantly looking at him. It was one of the kids who'd been playing in the rain.

"Of course," Bucky faintly smiled. So maybe the kids had been playing in the rain to pass the time.

Opening the door, he stood back to let the child go inside first. Poor kid was soaked to the bone. "You might want to dry up as soon as you get inside or you'll catch a cold," he added on.

"I will, and thank you!" The kid said, then hurriedly ran up the stairs.

Anything to keep the memories out, even for a moment, Bucky replied bitingly in his mind.

"That was nice of you," a woman commented, stepping fully out of the doorway that lead to the laundry room.

"It was nothing," Bucky tried to play it off. He was supposed to be keeping a low profile, not getting noticed for little acts of kindness. But he didn't want to live life that way. He wanted it to be like before, like when he could be as loud as he wanted and most importantly, himself. Even if he didn't know what being 'himself' meant currently. It was a strange mix between the man he'd read about at the museum, himself, and the deadly assassin dubbed The Winter Soldier.

And currently, The Winter Soldier demanded to go unnoticed.

"Hey, I haven't seen you around the building. I'm Clara," the woman greeted. Deciding it was better to keep talking with her, Bucky took a good look at her. He needed to know about everyone who knew about him lest something was to happen.

She was tall, probably in her mid-twenties, brown hair and seemed to have come back from a gym class of some sort. Maybe boxing? There were wraps on her hands, so it seemed likely.

"James," he offered, before turning to go up the tall stairway that was nothing but red rails and walls that desperately needed to be re-done.

James was acceptable. Bucky, on the other hand, was not. James was a much more commonplace name, while Bucky was a nickname that had been given to him by his closest friend. In fact, that was a good memory that had come back to him one day; the day Steve had given him a nickname. Bucky liked it when memories of his old life came back, those were moments that affirmed his resolve to keep going in life. They gave him purpose and a sense of belonging rather than making him feel like an amnesiac murderer with no soul.

Finally, opening his apartment door, he immediately dropped his backpack on the floor and shut the door. No matter what memory came back, he'd told himself that he'd write it in the notebook he kept in his house. So this time, he wouldn't be writing a happy memory in it. Instead, he'd be writing about an innocent woman named Sarah who was murdered having dinner with her friends. And what for? Bucky didn't actually know. All he knew was that HYDRA willed it, and he did it.

So he began to painfully etch the story of how Sarah had died at his handsーfor no reasonー into his journal. Blessedly, the book contained a majority of memories before he was the Winter Soldier. More often than not, it was the memories of Bucky that filled his mind. And when they did, he'd write them down eagerly for if he was to ever forget, at least he'd have his journal.

When he finished writing about Sarah's tragic end, he flipped to one of his favourite pages of the journalーthe one where he'd remembered the night before he shipped out to Europe. It was a small entry, but it always made him smile. It was about Steve taking him to a bar so they could celebrate one last time, because if Bucky never came back at least they'd have that memory. It was ironic, Bucky thought without humour, because he never did come back from the war.

Eventually, Bucky shut the journal and went to put it on top of his fridge where it always laid in case of a quick escape.

Turning around, Bucky jumped when he heard a sharp succession of three knocks on the door. He never received guests at his door, ever. Nobody came to deliver mail in an apartment building either, so just who the hell could it be? A potential threat? Someone who figured out who he was? If so, they'd be a complete idiot if they came by themselves.

Bucky cautiously walked to the door, cringing every time the old floorboards creaked a bit too loud. Maybe stealth wasn't the best option.

"Who is it?" Bucky called through the door, not willing to open it for a potential threat.

"You left your key in the door downstairs, I just wanted to give it to you," the person on the other side replied.

Female, a bit of an accentーEuropean of some sort, but he couldn't place it. It sounded exactly like the woman from downstairs. What concerned Bucky was the fact that she knew which room was his. It wasn't like they had a list in the building stating who lived where, because if so he definitely wouldn't be living where he was.

"How'd you know which apartment was mine?" A bit of a risky question, but then again, half of the people living in the building were shady, so it wasn't exactly out of the norm to ask.

A hesitation from the other side. Hesitation normally brought good things, so Bucky braced himself only to hear:

"I live on the other side of the railings," the woman replied.

Okay, so maybe he was a bit paranoid. But who could blame him after all he'd suffered through?

Bucky opened the door a crack and was faced with the same woman from downstairs. How the hell had he not seen her around before? Sure, there was lots of inhabitants in the building, but she lived just on the other side of the stairway. So much for being observant.

The woman held out her handーstill covered in wrapsーwith his forgotten key. Just how the hell he'd left it in the door was beyond him. Maybe the memory of Sarah had been a bit overwhelming at the time.

"Thanks," was all he said when he took the key from her hand with his arm that wasn't metal.

Yeah, the metal arm was probably his largest problem while trying to hide. It gave him inhuman strength that he had to carefully keep under control. Then there was the matter of having to cover it up; when he'd first came to Romania it was summertime, therefore quite hot. Suffice to say, it was painful always having to wear long-sleeved shirts. And perhaps, worst of all, the arm made mechanical noises when it moved. That was the most difficult aspect to hideーthankfully he was rarely in quiet enough environments for others to hear it.

"Alright, well I'll see you around James," Thankfully, she left with that.

He never used the name Buckyーeven if he'd preferred itーbut it wasn't everyday one would encounter a person with the name Bucky. It was a given nickname and apparently, according to the museum, was used by everyone he knew. Hell, maybe people at the museum referred to him as Bucky too. So James would have to do.

Another day after the gym, another time to wallow in self-pity. Clara hated doing so, yet there she was sitting on the couch desperately wishing she could be anywhere that wasn't her crumbling apartment. Once upon a time, she had a lovely home to go to that was filled with all the technology and memories she loved. But that was nothing but a distant dream now.

She was faced with the reality of having no money for a TV, eating shitty meals almost everyday, and that damn drip that wouldn't stop coming from the tap. So yeah, life had been pretty shitty ever since she'd left her home in Hungary and her only escape had been going to the gym. She'd even became so good that the people at the gym had appointed her an instructor for boxing.

Boxing was a great escape from reality. That, and she'd already done her act of kindness for the day when she gave that man, James, his key back. He'd helped that kid out, which warmed her heart, so in return she gave him his key back.

He was a bit of an odd guy, but then again, so were half the people in the neighbourhood.

And she didn't want to even think about why she was misplaced from her home in the first place. That always made her depressedーshe couldn't even use her given name because of it. Sure, Clara was a nice name, but she missed being called her other one. Originally she'd hated it, but now she realized just how nice it was once she could no longer be called by it.

So she sat alone in her apartment despising herself for hating herself.

She needed another distraction, and quickly, or she'd forever be stuck in a self-fulfilling hole of pity and despair. Maybe a friend could fill that void. The people at the gym were nice enough, but Clara couldn't trust herself to get close enough to them. Maybe she needed someone who was just as shady as she was. In fact, maybe James wasn't so odd after all.

Because, in the end, she had to be just as weird. She spent all her time instructing people how to box at a gym when she had the capability to earn a high paying job.

But she was runningーand nothing could deter her from staying hidden. But that didn't mean her life had to be absolute hell while doing so.

So maybe she would go make a friend.

AN: I probably use hyphens too much, but oh well. Constructive critisism is always helpful too!