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It’s been 6 months since Steve woke up on that rocky riverbank, bleeding and bruised but somehow alive. The Winter Soldier has gone off the grid; disappeared completely without even a hint of his whereabouts.
Sometimes, Steve tries to look for him but it’s useless. He’s a soldier, not a spy.
His physical wounds have healed but the feeling of a gaping hole in his chest never closes. Some days are worse than others. When he dreams of the Bucky from the past, he wakes up with the edges of the hole throbbing and raw. When he dreams of the Winter Soldier with his best pal’s face… he throws up into the waste basket next to his bed. Occasionally he’s so ridden with guilt that he doesn’t even get up for his morning run with Sam; he lies in bed and stares at the ceiling until his eyes burn and become foggy.
He has his own apartment now, near central park. He couldn’t take the concerned looks his team shot at him every time he entered a room and moved out of Stark tower within days of the incident on the helicarrier. Sometimes they come to visit him but they are becoming more infrequent as the weeks pass. Tony hasn’t come by in at least 2 months. The last time they saw each other, it hadn’t gone well; Tony’s patience had worn thin and he’d started going off about Steve being a ‘Suicidal idiot!’.
Steve had sat there and taken it until Tony had finally left in a fury, slamming the door shut behind him. It makes Steve realize that he actually may have been wishing for death when Bucky’s fists pummelled into his face. He hadn’t wanted to live in a world where a cold eyed assassin had stolen Bucky’s face.
Today, though. Today, when he wakes up with the remnants of Bucky’s hand slipping through his fingers (‘Grab my hand!)’, he forces himself to get out of bed, take a shower and go for a run. Sam is absent, probably on a mission for Fury, and Steve finds that he doesn’t mind all that much. Silence has almost completely become a part of him now; he finds solace in the fact that he doesn’t have to pretend that he’s okay.
Because he’s not. And it didn’t feel like he ever would be.
He runs until it starts to get dark. His sleeveless shirt is soaked with sweat even though Steve hardly feels any exertion as he walks back up the stairs to the 40th floor of his one bedroom apartment to try and burn some more energy. Maybe he’ll try to get a decent night’s sleep tonight. He approaches the dark wooden door to his apartment and freezes in his tracks.
The door is slightly ajar and a broken sliver of light creeps across the carpeted floor of the hallway. Steve clenches his hands into shaking fists as adrenaline spikes through his whole body; he hasn’t been in a physical fight for months and he’s ready to take on whoever might be behind that door. He’s pissed that someone would have the gall to break into his apartment, of all the damn places! He creeps up to it and kicks the door open with so much force that it almost comes right off the hinges; he barrels through the entry way with his arms raised defensively but it’s pointless. He is not greeted with the physical storm or burglar he was expecting but rather a metaphorical punch to the gut.
There is a clear figure sitting on his refurbished couch and he knows that face. Jesus, does he ever know that face. He gasps for breath and leans on the door frame for support.
“What are you doing here?” He forces out, his free hand trembling slightly. How was he here now? Steve had searched high and low and now he was actually here, sitting calmly on the couch like he just belonged there.
The figure is silent for a very long moment, intense eyes absorbing every detail of Steve with nothing but a quick glance. At first he had seemed confident but now it quickly withered at the look on Steve’s face.
“I know you.” He finally says. His metal arm reflects the dim light as he raises it to push short hairs off his forehead; the gesture is full of nerves.
Steve’s heart is still trying to catch up with his body but he finally calms himself enough to step fully into his apartment and close the door behind him. If the Winter Soldier wanted him dead, he would be dead. End of story.
“Yeah,” Steve says, cautiously entering further into the apartment but leaving a generous amount of space between him and the Winter Soldier. “Yeah, you know me. From a long time ago.”
The Winter Soldier does not move from his spot but looks up at Steve with Bucky’s eyes and the Captain’s heart stutters. It hurts. The pain is fresh again and the hole in his chest is gaping wider than ever the longer they look at each other.
Steve’s a little relieved to see that the assassin has seemed to have discarded the uniform that Hydra had put him in. Now he wore civilian clothing; a grubby red checkered button down, open at the collar and revealing white pale skin underneath, and ripped up dark blue jeans.
“This is not a safe place to live, Captain,” the man with Bucky’s voice says. “I found you with hardly any effort.”
Steve’s hands are clenched so tightly that his blunt finger nails are digging into his palm.
“Is that a threat?” He grinds out. He doesn’t know if he can do this again; doesn’t know if he can fight Bucky again. The last time, it nearly got him killed. He doesn’t have it in him to hurt Bucky, regardless of who he had become.
“No, not a threat. A warning.” The Winter Soldier says, frowning, as if confused by his own actions. He sits perfectly still as he stares Steve down; his eyes are sharp and calculating. “There are people who are hunting you; if you stay here and you are caught alone, they will kill you. Without hesitation.”
“Why are you telling me?” Steve’s head is full of cotton, throbbing and pulsing in time with his heart.
Now, the Winter Soldier moves. He sits forward but does not get up. Steve registers briefly it’s because he’s trying to make himself small, trying to make himself as unthreatening as possible.
“I see your face, sometimes, when I’m sleeping.” the assassin says, tapping his temple with a metal finger. “And also, when I tried to kill you, you didn’t fight back,” he leans back into the couch again, crossing his arms over his chest. “That’s why. You got a death wish or something?”
Steve bristles at the mention of being suicidal because it reminds him of Tony and how he had shut out his team when he really should have been asking for their help.
“Maybe.” The Captain says finally. “Or maybe I just thought you were someone I knew.”
Steve finally decides that the Winter Soldier doesn’t have any intentions of killing him, tonight at least, so he pulls up a wooden chair from the dining room table and plops it down near the couch. He faces the back of the chair at the assassin and spreads his legs to accommodate the awkward sitting position. The Winter Soldiers eyes visibly darken but Steve can’t tell if it’s because he’s intrigued, annoyed or something else entirely.
“Maybe…” The soldier echos, beginning to look strained. “Or maybe that person you knew is long gone.”
“If he was gone,” Steve says, is voice deadly serious. “I would have been dead 6 months ago, not sitting here having a friendly chat with my neighbourhood assassin.”
The joke is dry and completely lost on the assassin. Steve can see his words are beginning to pierce the Winter Soldier’s skin and he knows Bucky is in there somewhere; he just needs to push a little deeper, spark his memories somehow.
“Bucky,” Steve starts but doesn’t get further than that.
“I am not Bucky!” The Winter Soldier all but roars, his eyes looking wild for a brief moment.
“Okay, okay,” Steve raises his hands in a calming gesture. “What do I call you, then? Winter Soldier doesn’t really roll off the tongue, you know.”
The soldier pauses and frowns. Before Steve went in the ice, he can clearly picture Bucky’s face; he looked so much younger than he does currently. Now, his face is dark and dirty; there are lines creasing around his eyes that Steve knows weren’t there in 1943 and he’s willing to bet there are new scars on his body that weren’t there before either. The thought of it makes Steve’s heart ache a little bit more.
“I don’t have a name.” The assassin frowns, glaring slightly at the Captain.
“Okay. Alright,” Steve relents, leaning forward and resting his forearms on the back of the chair. “How about you just tell me why you came here tonight.”
“I know your face.” The Winter Soldier repeats what he said earlier and they aren’t getting anywhere, Steve thinks.
“How do you know my face?” Steve pushes because he wants to hear it, wants to hear that Bucky remembers him; he’s scared of asking too much but with his best friend so close he can’t stop the words from flowing past his lips.
“I…I know you…” The soldier’s face is beginning to crumble and he’s starts to gasp. It sounds like the beginnings of a panic attack. “I know you!”
Steve is completely silent as the Winter Soldier covers his face with his hands, breathing harshly as he tries to compose himself. After several minutes of silence, Steve makes a move to get up, to get closer; he’s so desperate to help, so desperate to have Bucky back. But just as he begins pushing himself out of the chair, the assassin raises the non-metal hand from his face, fleshy palm facing Steve. He keeps the metal one over his eyes.
“Stop,” the soldier whispers raggedly. “Don’t come closer.”
‘I’m dangerous’, his tone says. ‘I might hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you.’
“Okay.” Steve complies, sitting back down.
He doesn’t know the rules here. He doesn’t know how volatile the Winter Soldier can be and he’s scared to set him off, afraid to send him running. Steve gets the feeling that if he doesn’t get this conversation right this time, he may never see Bucky again.
“I…I remember you,” the soldier says softly, dropping both hands into his lap and looking away from Steve. “I remember you, but smaller. You were so small and you would gasp for breath when we walked up a flight of stairs,” he looks directly in to Steve’s eyes now, searching, gauging his reaction maybe. His eyes are clouded. “I even carried you once, didn’t I?”
Steve’s hands were shaking visibly and he swallowed down a lump in his throat.
“Yeah,” Steve cleared his throat and clasped his hands together tightly. “You did. More than once, actually.”
“How’d you get so big?” The assassin looks lost now, his eyes are no longer cold and calculating but younger somehow. He has only fragments of memories, can only piece together so many pictures as they come to him in his dreams. And he so rarely sleeps anymore.
“Super soldier, remember?” Steve smiles weakly.
Steve is starting to break apart but he manages to hold his composure on the outside. He’s longing to jump up and scoop Bucky in his arms; he wants to hold him until they wake up in 1940 and avoid the war completely before it takes both their lives. But that time has come and gone and they are here now and Bucky is alive; that’s really all that matters. Bucky may not really know himself anymore but perhaps one day, they can have the friendship that they once did.
“You’ve said that to me before,” the assassin’s brown eyes sparkle a little, like he’s surprised to remember anything at all and Steve sees a flicker of Bucky for a moment. “I remember, and I said… I said…”
The Winter Soldier is looking at him in shock, like he really can’t believe what he’s remembering. Steve shifts uncomfortably under the gaze, looking a tad embarrassed. Of course, he could remember the night clearly. The first night of holding Bucky so tight in his arms, so relieved that he’d found him alive in that Hydra base, unable to stop himself from pressing their lips together. Craving anything Bucky would offer and more.
“Were we…” Bucky doesn’t finish the sentence; he eventually settles on gesturing between himself and the Captain a little frantically.
“Yes.” Steve says. There’s no point in denying it; if Bucky’s memories are coming back as fast as they have been, then he’ll remember soon enough.
“I don’t remember that part,” the soldier looks frustrated as he presses his metal fist to his forehead and clenches his eyes closed. “Why can’t I remember that?”
“They stole your memories from you, Buck,” Steve stands and this time Bucky doesn’t make any protests. He moves to sit next to his friend on the couch but he doesn’t touch him, making sure to leave a big gap. “I can help you get them back.”
“What if I don’t want them back?” Bucky’s (because it truly is Bucky who is resurfacing now) lips are quivering and his whole body trembles. “What if I don’t want to see the faces of the people I’ve killed, huh?”
“We’ll get through this, Buck, and I promise,” Steve says fiercely, cautiously resting a hand on Bucky’s knee. His friend flinches away from the touch and Steve tries not to feel hurt. “I’ll stay with you until you ask me to leave.”
Bucky doesn’t risk a glance at Steve; he stares straight ahead and swallows several times around a lump in his throat that won’t go away. He doesn’t know this world, hardly knows who he is or who to trust. Doesn’t have a name. For all he knows, the small amount of memories he has now were implanted in his brain to give him false hope. But when he finally turns to Steve and looks into those baby blue eyes, his gut gives a harsh tug and tells him he’s going in the right direction. Coming to Steve was the right choice. Asking this man for help pained the assassin that writhed inside him but Bucky stomped that feeling down. He knew from research that Captain America’s face was an open book and apparently, so was Steve Rogers’. The honesty in his eyes is so clear it hurts.
“You’re damn stubborn, pal.” Bucky finally rasps, lips quirking a bit in one corner and it’s not quite a smile but it’s a promising start.
“That’s right.” Steve grins widely. It looks like he wants to clap Bucky on the shoulder but he visibly refrains.
“I can’t promise that you’ll get your friend back.” Bucky warns softly. He doesn’t know if his brain is too damaged to recover any more memories and he curses at himself internally for saying anything. Steve Rogers is his only link to the past and if he loses that, he has nothing. He will be nothing.
“What do you mean?” Steve says gently, with kind eyes and a warm smile. “You’re sitting right here, Buck.”
Something inside Bucky breaks a little but at the same time, his whole chest fills to the brim with warmth and he doesn’t recognize the feeling. He thinks maybe for an instant that he might be dying and he flutters his good hand, the flesh and blood one, over his heart for a moment, waiting for pain. But it never comes and the full feeling stays and Steve is looking at him with too big eyes and too kind a smile and it hurts but it feels good all at once.
“Okay?” Steve asks, his smile turning into a frown and suddenly Bucky never wants to see that look on his face again.
“Okay,” Bucky says quickly and Steve’s smile is back and yes, yes, that’s what he wants. He wants Steve’s smile and his eyes and his everything. “Punk.”
Steve grins so wide that Bucky is almost blinded. He even manages a weak smile back. Maybe at the hands of Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes’ future doesn’t look quite so bleak anymore.