Chapter Text
People hunched over on the sidewalk, pulled up their collars and hoods. Umbrellas snapped open. The first drops of a winter storm splattered onto the concrete. A soldier slipped underneath a shop front. He braced against the cold, sharp wind blew across his nose and lips. It felt like ice, it seeped into his pours and forced out any warmth that he had managed to gain. Cars pattered through the street. Horns honked and people yelled. His eyebrows knotted into a glare. He hated cold. He hated people. A man in a pressed black suit and leather shoes handed him two dollars. The soldier tossed it into a puddle and yelled about not needing anyone’s money. He didn’t want help… but, then again, he actually really did need that money. It was slightly insulting when people treated him like a homeless person. He picked it up and shoved the wet wad of paper into his pocket after the man was out of sight.
He stepped out from under the shelter for a moment, hailing a cab that was pulled up down the street. It stopped in front of him and he slipped in. He mumbled an address and tossed enough cash to cover the fee onto the drivers lap, using the money he just earned. He had calculated the drive many times before. He rubbed his hands together and blew into them. His breath warmed up his skin briefly. The driver took the hint and blasted the heat.
The soldier stepped out of the cab, slipping against another wall for cover. He pulled his sleeves down over his hands, hiding what he hated most. Metal fingers poked out of the left side as he crossed his arms. Another cab pulled over across the street. A blond man carrying a backpack stepped out. His shoulders were broad and muscular. They didn’t fit with his body, but it made an attractive image. He stared at him as he entered an apartment building and disappeared. The soldier slid down a wall and rested his chin on his knees. He watched a light flicker on inside one of the apartments. A lone shadow moved about and stopped somewhere behind a wall. He had the same routine every day. He stared at a spot in front of his feet. He could see one of his toes through a hole in his boot.
His eyes wandered back to the windows on the apartment building. A white curtain is pulled open and an outline of a man stopped and stared out at the street. It bolted away and vanished. He furrowed his brows, bored and freezing. His shoulders shook with a slight shiver. Another wind brushed over his face. He hid his face in his knees, grumbling at the sudden stab of cold. He tapped his foot on the concrete quickly, a nervous habit he had had for almost two years (even though he could not remember the moment it started, or if it had ever stopped). His head snapped up at the shrieking of tires and the honking of a car. The blond was standing in the middle of the street. He apologized to the driver of the car and stumbled across the pavement. He watched the man like a hawk, hand grasping the knife in his jacket. No one ever talked to him, looked at him like that. No one had ever thought of him until that very moment.
“B-Bucky?” the blond man stuttered. The soldier wasn’t sure who Bucky was, but he knew exactly who this was. He just didn’t know why it was so hard to remember the details. He could feel something rising inside of him, a feeling he hadn’t felt in years. His fingers left the knife as his muscles relaxed. The blond just stared at him. Bucky, or whoever he was, took a moment to look over his appearance. He was slightly embarrassed by the sudden attention. The few glances he had gotten on the streets were enough. His left hand was gloved with leather, hiding his metal arm. His jeans were filthy and ripped at the ends. Bucky’s face was caked with dirt and his chin was stubbly. His hair was ragged and long, he had attempted to cut it himself. He didn’t talk, just stared back; their blue eyes were nearly identical. The blond double took his actions and focused on a car parked next to them for a moment to gather his thoughts. “I… where have you been?” Bucky sighed heavily, shoulders fluidly following the intake of air. There were dark circles under his eyes. He was sad to look at, like a stray dog with matted fur and dirty paws you would see on the streets.
“Everywhere, nowhere. I don’t know,” he replied. Bucky’s voice was raspy and unused. The man hesitantly sat beside him. There was a large space in between them, but Bucky could deal with being so much closer. He had forgotten what actual human interaction was supposed to feel like. His brain wanted him to slip his knife out and stab the man in the gut, but he couldn’t bring himself to comply. Kill, kill, kill circled in his mind, the assassin’s only instinct.
But was he really meant to kill this man?
“Buck, do you know who…”
“I don’t know who you are! Steve Rogers, Captain America, fucking Mr. Save the Day? I don’t know who you are anymore! I saw the stupid exhibit. They’re making me look like some tragic fallen hero! How am I supposed to live with that?” Bucky cried with a defensive tone. He hunched over and glared at the street. “I don’t know who I am anymore either. I’m not a hero. I kill. I murder… and I just know that I’m… supposed to be here.” Bucky hid his face and the tears that threatened to roll down his cheeks.
“I know who you are,” Steve insisted. His voice was sincere and soft as if he was stepping careful over his words. Bucky could feel Steve’s worrying without even looking at him. He could feel that knot in his stomach tighten at the look he had on his face. Everything was his fault. It was his fault. “I know that you are James Buchanan Barnes and the best soldier I’ve ever known and I know that that confuses you, but damnit, Bucky you’re my best friend!” Steve raised his voice, immediately regretting it when people stared. Bucky had a feeling this man wasn’t used to swearing.
“I don’t believe you, I don’t!” Bucky crossed his arms, slouching in the cold. His eyes were turning red from the salt in his tears. He wanted to get up and run away, but he also wanted to bury his head in Steve’s chest and scream away all of his worries.
Steve dragged his hands over his face, a habit he has become accustomed to in stressful situations. It seemed all soldiers developed habits after a war. He took a shaky breath. Bucky shuffled his feet. He tapped one in a puddle. The water splashed and soaked into his jeans, which now uncomfortably stuck to his legs.
“Buck, I saw you die. I saw you fall and I couldn’t save you. I wanted to jump down and follow you, but I couldn’t. I know the things you went through were terrible and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Just give me a chance, will you?” Bucky glares at a puddle in the street. The crack in Steve’s voice dug into his head, forcing out the kill instinct we was trying to ignore. “You wouldn’t be here if something inside of you didn’t believe me. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t remember me.” The soldier looks at Steve. His blue eyes had something dark in them, under the lonely, abandoned look. “I swear on my life that I’m here with you. ‘Til the end of the line, remember?” Bucky remembered. He remembered beating Captain America’s face in with his metal hand. He remembered how it felt to have his fingers wrapped around his neck. “Buck I’m sorry.” He wasn’t the one who had to be sorry. Bucky was sick of him saying that over and over again. It was like listening to a broken record. But despite how annoyed he had gotten, he stood up.
“Then get me some fucking food, will ya? And get me out of this rain,” he said with a somewhat lightened look on his face. Before Steve knew it, Bucky was crossing the street, ignoring any oncoming traffic. He felt like getting hit by a car would relieve the pain, so he took the risk. Bucky mumbled something about being cold and wet, his heart pounding and blood pumping loudly. Steve opened the door to his apartment for Bucky and closed it behind them. It was warm inside. Bucky’s hands we’re stuffed in his pockets. He observed the room with a blank stare. He was routing the entire area, escapes roots and weapons included. Steve just stood and watched him for a moment. Bucky’s whole persona was different, the way held himself, walked, how defensive he got at every word spoken to him.
“Do you want to take a shower or anything? I can start the water, it takes a minute to…”
“No thanks.”
“But Buck… I apologize, but you’re filthy.” Steve stepped closer to Bucky, only receiving a small glare from the other man. Bucky cocked his head, listening to the swing music playing from a record player on a shelf.
“Is that Harry James?” Steve stared at him, mouth hanging open.
“What? Buck, you remember? You know who this is?” Steve was about to grip his shoulders, smile, and hug him. But he didn’t. Instead his hands hung limply at his side.
“No. I just saw the cover to the record there,” he replied, nodding to the shelf. Steve dropped his hands again and frowned. At least Bucky still had a sense of humor, but his face was emotionless and hard. Bucky kicked off his boots. He was missing a sock. Steve sighed heavily as he observed the older man. Bucky watched Steve’s eyes stray downwards. They stop on a spot around his abdomen. He followed Steve’s gaze on his shirt with a confused look, finding a splotch of dried blood. “That’s new,” he mumbled.
“Bucky, are you hurt?” He shook his head in reply. Nothing ever hurt anymore. “Let me see.” Bucky crossed his arms around himself. “You know, it could be infected.” Steve turned and disappeared into the kitchen for a moment. Bucky sharply drew in breath. He didn’t want to be touched, let alone take his shirt off. Steve returned with a wet washcloth, antiseptic, and some bandages. “I really need to see that, okay?” Bucky stared him down. He slowly uncrossed his arms and reached for the edge of his shirt. He felt cold air snap at his exposed stomach, but the heat was on and filling the apartment. Steve watched a little too closely as Bucky shed some of his clothing.
Bucky stretched his arms above his head with a slight groan. There were knots all over his back. He felt unused, in need of repair. Steve worried about his left arm. The skin where flesh met metal was ragged and pink. It seemed like Bucky used to have it regularly worked on and the actual flesh was taking a toll from the lack of maintenance. He drew his eyes away from it, not wanting to embarrass him. Bucky sat on the couch and kept his arms out of the way from the injury. It was a deep and angry, red gash that stretched over two ribs and to the center of his stomach. Steve furrowed his brows when he looked at it. Bucky could imagine what he was feeling: the feeling of not being able to help, being completely useless.
He sat next to Bucky, turned sideways so he could reach the whole wound. He began to gently rub the washcloth over the gash. Bucky flinched at the stinging sensation and slid away. He glared at Steve and chewed on the inside of his mouth to distract from the pain in his gut. “Just let me put some bandages on it.” Bucky timidly allowed Steve to get close, squeezing his eyes shut when Steve placed the first bandage on the bloody wound. He eventually watched Steve’s hands perfectly and gently bandage him up; curious about how he was able to take all of the pain away so easily.
“You’re good at that,” he mumbled. His lids were drawn over his eyes halfway. Steve glanced into his eyes, taking Bucky’s hands and cleaning them off.
“You can’t eat when you’re all dirty like this. Can’t you just shower? Or bathe? I don’t care.” Bucky could tell he was a bit of a clean freak. He took his hands out of Steve’s grip, drying them off on his jeans. He wasn’t sure why Steve stared cleaning them in the first place.
“I don’t want to,” he said sharply. How many times did he have to say it?
“Why not?” Bucky sighed, helpless. He leaned on his elbow and closed his eyes. He had tucked some of his hair behind his ear, giving an easier view of his face.
“It’s a long story.”
“I’ll listen.” Bucky cleared his throat. It was hard for him to talk about the past that he remembered. No one ever understood what he had gone through. His voice was soft and quiet at first, but it began to choke after some memories flooded it again.
“Okay…” he paused a bit, maybe sorting out words. “When Hydra took me and after they erased all my memories, they’d punish me for asking questions. I asked who you were once and I remember waking up with a clean slate…” He almost missed getting wiped sometimes, having all of his emotions recalibrated and turned off. Bucky stopped, his eyes opened and he stared out the window across the room. The soft, yellow glow of a streetlight shone in through the curtains. He wasn’t sure how mechanic he sounded. Wasn’t sure if his words sounded like a script he had read over and over again. “I was supposed to obey. To stay silent and listen and kill. I was supposed to be a muzzled dog. But whenever I wasn’t… whenever I remembered a slight image of the past, they would use water to- to torture me. Whether it’d be water boarding or electric shocks, that’s all I ever got. The only stimulation.” Steve folded his hands. “Other than sensory deprivation.” Those words sunk into the room. He was so blunt, so straight forward. Bucky took a deep breath, feeling a torturous weight be lifted off of his chest and the first breath to his lungs in ages. “I don’t like the feel anymore. How it gets cold if you stay in it too long. How it got cold when I wouldn’t listen.”
The torture wasn’t the worst part. It never seemed to bring that pain he was meant to feel. Only the after effects brought pain as he soaked in punishment and muddy water, trying to regain control of his screams.
“Okay, that’s fine,” Steve assured him. Bucky wanted Steve to leave him alone about the matter. He pulled his knees up and buried his face in the fabric of his jeans. He had been the one living on the streets, not Steve.
“Can I have something to eat?” Bucky asked, voice muffled and croaky. “And maybe some clean clothes?” Steve smiled softly. He got up from the couch and wandered down the hall. Bucky sat silently in the living room, listening to the music and trying to remember everything all at once. It wasn’t working through. Nothing came up beside the snow and the ice. He picked up a black notebook on the coffee table and opened it. It was filled with drawings of him, that’s at least what he thought, but they all said Bucky. That wasn’t him anymore. He was nameless like a dog without a collar.
Some were old, dated back to the 40’s. This Bucky guy was all dressed up in a military uniform with a cap and everything. He looked happy, alive. Bucky wondered how he could have ever looked like that, how he could have been such a different man. He flips through the pages finding several other people. All people he didn’t know. He stared at an older one of what he assumed to be his past self again until Steve came out of the hall holding clothes. Bucky slams the notebook shut. “Sorry, I was just curious.” He wasn’t really sorry. His whole life had been surrounded by ignoring privacy anyway.
“Oh, no it’s fine,” Steve blurted, turning red at the cheeks. He crossed the room and sat in the same spot, but closer. Bucky watched Steve’s face light up. He didn’t know whether it was about him or about the other people he had drawn. “This is one of my older sketchbooks. I found it again awhile ago.” Steve took it from Bucky, opening it up again. Their fingers had brushed and Bucky had froze, but Steve didn’t notice. The contact felt weird. It sent shooting sensations up his arm. “You know, this might help you remember something about yourself.” He names off the people in the book and asked Bucky if he knew them. The answer was “no” to all of them. He was only focused on the passion in Steve’s voice. One of the last pages was some pretty girl with bright red lips. Steve smiled.
“You seem like you were in love with her… or still are in love,” Bucky suggested, only prodding into Steve’s life further. He didn’t know what love was supposed to feel like, but he wanted to know.
He could see it in Steve’s eyes. It was obvious and painful to look at. Steve met Bucky’s gaze. He looked at him like Bucky had just reappeared out of nowhere. It was confusing and strange. Bucky had never seen that look in someone’s eyes before when they saw him. He only ever saw superiority, hatred. No one was ever happy to see him.
“Her name is Peggy. I was, I suppose in love with her, but I can’t be anymore. She barely remembers anything now.” Steve dragged his hand across his chin. “We were in the war together, with you, Buck.” Bucky’s eyes sparked with a little bit of life, but he glared when he didn’t remember a single image from the past.
“All I remember is you. I remember you being small and then like… this.” He gestured towards Steve’s body. The blush on Steve’s cheeks grew brighter, more obvious. “And then I remember when…” He stopped, words being swallowed up by sudden fear. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” His face turns dark and cold again; all of the life had been drained out of him. He picked up the clothes Steve brought and briskly stood.
“Down the hall, second door to the right.” Bucky left Steve alone on the couch. He followed the directions and entered the bathroom, locking the door behind him. Bucky slid down the wall. He put his face in his hands and attempted to hold back a sudden flow of anger and sadness and fear all at once. He was terrified of the one memory he had. The train, the snow, and the regret he had seen in Steve’s, or somebody’s eyes when the grip he had on the train gave out. He remembered that Steve looked like he thought it was his fault. He remembered hitting the ground and tumbling into the snow. He remembered screaming and a red glove reaching for his own.
He remembered white. And then black.
He choked on tears silently, rocking against the wall. His fingers were fisted in his hair. He wanted it all to the end. He wanted to die, but he couldn’t abandon Steve again. Something told him to stay.
Bucky reappeared from the bathroom. He leaned against a wall of the kitchen and examined the room. Steve had given him sweatpants and a long sleeved shirt. They hugged his body close around his muscles, outlining his figure and making him warm. His face was slightly blotchy around his cheeks and eyes. It was obvious he had cried moments before, but he tried to act normal.
“I ordered food,” Steve said.
“Pizza?” Bucky asked, having heard the conversation form the bathroom. Steve nodded and tossed a bottle of water at him. He caught it, reflexes lighting fast.
“I didn’t know what you liked.” Bucky didn’t know what he liked either. “I hope it’s okay.”
“You worry too much.” Bucky moved across the room, examining Steve’s possessions. He ran his fingers along books and vinyl records. A lot of them were worn and old, the kind you would find in a rundown thrift shop. It was cute that Steve held onto everything he remembered. Bucky was jealous that he was able to. He found another sketchbook and opened it. Steve turned his head and occupied himself with a scrap piece of paper. “You drew this guy ‘Bucky’ a lot.” Bucky looked up at him. “How’d you never forget what I looked like?” He didn’t know how long it had been, but he knew anyone else wouldn’t be able to remember something for that long. Steve shrugged his shoulders.
“Didn’t really have anything else to draw,” Steve murmured, embarrassed and flustered.
“They’re nice. Museum worthy.” Steve glanced up through slightly draped eyelids. He was tired after a long day of sitting in the new S.H.I.E.L.D facility. “Wait, there is one of your sketchbooks in the museum.” It made him feel like that tragic fallen hero again, and he hated it. Bucky’s face had dropped. He was constantly going from a small bit of light to the Winter Soldier in a matter of seconds.
“Buck, are you okay?” Metal fingers pushed the journal back onto the shelf gently. He wasn’t okay. He was never going to be okay again, whatever that meant. “I mean, have you… been better?” Bucky raked his fingers through his hair. Everything was being jumbled up again. It was all so confusing and messy. He preferred not to think about it at all. He opened the bottle of water, plastic cracking under his grip and water bubbling as he gulped it down. Water clung to his lips as he capped the bottle. His tongue flicked over them quickly.
He didn’t speak anymore.
The doorbell rang and Steve answered it, bringing in a warm box of pizza. He set it on the kitchen table gently along with two paper plates. Bucky slid into a seat across from Steve, serving himself two slices. Steve watched him eat for a moment. Bucky looked like he hadn’t eaten in weeks, immediately biting into the warm slice. Steve told him to slow down and that he didn’t have to worry about food. He ignored him, eating quickly and only stopping for water. Food was food and he had to take the opportunity to eat it. Bucky had never had pizza before, or had he? He couldn’t recall anymore.
Bucky stood up, still without words. He mumbled something about sleep, so Steve showed him to the guest room. Bucky wanted to sleep without worrying that his own throat was going to be slit. He wanted to sleep without worrying that he’d kill anyone within a 50-foot proximity.
“It’s not much, but there are blankets in that drawer.” Bucky’s eyes strayed to the window across the room. “It’s locked, don’t worry.” Bucky stepped into the small, cozy room and nodded, somewhat content with the situation. He wanted to pull Steve in there and hug him and never let go, but he didn’t. He didn’t even look at him.
“Aren’t you worried I might complete my mission?” Bucky inquired. He had reported a failed mission status to whatever was left of his handlers. No one ever replied though. The lines were all static. He didn’t know if he was supposed to forget or try again.
“No because you wouldn’t be here if you were going to kill me. You’d be outside, just watching and waiting like before.” Bucky nodded and turned to look at Steve. He wanted to see if he was scared of him. All he saw was honesty, respect. That was new. He had never seen that pure look in someone’s eyes before. “Good night, Buck,” Steve whispered. Their eyes met in the dark hallway for what seemed like an eternity. The sadness and guilt Bucky saw in Steve’s blue eyes hurt like hell and stabbed a hole in his chest.
“Night, Steve.” Bucky closed the door before he could say anything else. He knew it surprised the blond that he called him that. He turned around in the dark room, finding comfort in the undisturbed darkness. He slipped a knife out of his jacket and tucked it under a pillow. It was the biggest bed Bucky had seen in a long time. He fell into it and sunk into the mattress slightly. He grumbled, too soft. Bucky was used to the floor, but beds meant being warm. He grabbed all three blankets from the drawer and curled up underneath them on the bed. They were all thick and made for winter, but he still managed to feel a bite of cold, especially in the area where metal met the ragged flesh of his shoulder. His feet were icy against the soft sheets and blankets.
**
Bucky shot out of bed, knife in hand. His face was streaked with tears and he was covered in sweat. His heart pounded underneath his ribs like a drum and his lungs struggled to keep up with how hard he was breathing. He was glad that he hadn’t woken up screaming like past nights. Steve would have probably busted through the wall. Bucky wiped his face on his shirt, sighing into the fabric. It was terrifying and torturous. He couldn’t get those images out of his head. They swirled around and around, threatening to take over. He could feel a coldness seeping in through his clothes. Twelve o’clock flashed on the electric clock that sat on the nightstand as dim moonlight filtered in through the curtains. He quickly moved across the room and pulled on his boots and jacket. He stuck his knife in one of his boots and slipped a gun into the waistband of his pants. He opened the window, hopping out onto the fire escape. Bucky, or whoever he was, disappeared into the darkness without a single sound.