Chapter Text
Though he'd technically won the battle by knocking Bucky out and bringing him to his apartment, with how his old friend had looked right through him and beat him half to death, it was clear he had another war to win. A day or so later, Steve came out of the laundry room with a fresh batch of linens to spruce up the couch cushions he'd lain on the floor next to where he'd cuffed Bucky to a pillar. "I still use the same detergent, buddy. It's a miracle they even sell it," he said, fully expecting to receive empty stares and silence or a string of curses. The Avenger lowered himself onto one of the cushions just out of arm's reach and crossed his legs Indian-style before holding out the powder-blue sheet he'd been yammering about. "How are you feeling? You ready for a change of clothes yet?" He himself had showered and changed into sweats and a form-fitting t-shirt since their original encounter, but so far it'd been too dangerous to release the assassin.
'The Asset' had been given a mission, and he would have done anything to complete that mission, even if his own life were on the line. That, however, had been the idea the whole time. Little did he know. Unfortunately, his target had been Captain America, and had proven an equal match for the Asset. When his mind seemed to grow fuzzy with forgotten memories, he had been knocked unconscious and hauled off. For the first day, he thrashed, cursed, and tried to escape his bonds. Later in the second day, he seemed to give in to his fate, slouching forward with tattered curtain of hair covering his features. Black paint blotched out his eyes, though they seemed to glow Amber from beneath the hood of his locks. Even as Steve sat down and began to speak to him, he only shifted one foot across the floor, only for it to fall back into its original position. "What part of 'I don't know you' do you not understand...?"This was growing tiresome, but he was lying. For some reason, he did know this man... And he had no idea why.
Steve bit back a sigh as he tossed the folded-up sheet next to Bucky's thigh. "You can keep saying that all you want, but it ain't changing anything. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes, but you always hated that name, so everyone called you Bucky," said the super soldier, repeating again what he'd said over and over the day prior. And sometimes, I called you 'Buck'... "You were born on the 10th of March, in 1917." He had hoped that smelling the same detergent as if it were fresh off the drying line would harken back to the good ol' days, but since that had failed, he kept trying to feed him facts. But as the Captain searched behind the shadow of the disheveled bangs for recognition and found little, he started to think maybe he was going about this wrong. Maybe Bucky didn't need to remember who he was just yet - maybe if Steve told him about himself, something would pop up. Forcing a tight smile, the Avenger went that route and braced his palms on his thighs with his elbows pointing outward and head leaning in conspiratorially. "Hey, I was gonna try to cook for you, but I was afraid I'd screw up like I did for your birthday in 1937. Burnt the cookies, forgot the pilot light was on in the oven - almost blew the whole building to smithereens. You laughed yourself to tears, while I ran around the kitchen like a chicken with my head cut off, eh-heh..." Even talking about the event had his smile deepening and his cheeks lighting up faintly with the memory of how embarrassed he'd been. And that was the day I almost... I almost…
Those hardened doe-brown eyes stared holes through the patriot, as if nothing he said seemed to work on him. It was sad, really; the Pavlov's dog of HYDRA, conditioned to not recognize anything pertaining to himself. No... What they had not anticipated was the fact that Captain America still lived, and the Asset would have had to encounter a piece of his past once more. The linens did bring up a small bit of his memory... Only faded, washed out pictures of their home town drifting in and out of view. Something made him feel comforted by the smell, and the images related to them. Something about the man in front of him, too. No doubt a strange sense of security washed over him, even if his instincts told him that he was the enemy and he wanted to slit his throat. Yes, that was the mission; why was he second-guessing himself now? Steve continued with a small story about the soldier's own birthday, furrowing his brow and glancing off to the side as if he could recall the incident along with those words. You never could cook, could you? "We went out... For burgers and milkshakes... Because we couldn't get the scent of charcoal out of our noses..." Why could he remember that so clearly? Those kicked-puppy eyes turned back to Rogers, perplexed and obviously upset he did not understand these memories. "... Who are you? Why do I remember that?"
That had been the day he was gonna do it - be a man and own up to the weird, wrong, homosexual feelings he'd been having. He was gonna do it when Bucky blew out his candles, just come out and say it... But with all that had gone wrong, he chickened out. But that had been so long ago, and now he was just... speaking into the ether, for all intents and purposes. The sudden movement of his friend looking away from him kicked a fresh wallop into Steve's stomach, but as painful as this was for both of them, he was going to keep trying. He just had to. Burgers and milkshakes... "Wh--?!" The one-two punch of having his faint hope smashed only to have Bucky somehow finish the story for him elicited a choked laugh and he covered his mouth with his palm as the rims of his eyes started stinging. "O-oh my God, that's right! I didn't hear the end of that one for a while!" Something had gotten through, and it was all Steve could do but stop himself from bridging the gap between them and wrapping the assassin in a bear hug. No, he kept his heart-aching, bitter-sweet glee tempered, and pulled his fingers away from his face. "Steven Grant Rogers. Y-you... you called me Stevie, sometimes. You were the only one I let do that... because we're best friends. Always have been, pal - since we were kids. You... you kept the bullies off of me, because I was... I was a shrimpy punk with way too much pride." The word 'punk' cracked in his throat strangely, but still, the Avenger swallowed past it.
The more he stared into him, the more he seemed confused by his own memories. The man sitting before him was much... bigger than he remembered. But that face; he could not forget that face burned into every fabric of his being. For the moment, he let the man speak in his tearful joy, every word pulling on his mind like a string in the darkness leading him to the end of the tunnel. But, it was so bright at the end... Would he burn once he got out? "... Because you were a punk who never knew when to quit..." Though his voice sounded far off and faded, it seemed that reversing the tactic, reminding him of who Steve was rather than himself, was working. Even if he were confused, and angered by his confusion. Perhaps because, by the time he remembered this much? He had already been 'wiped' clean to start over again. "You got bigger..." How could he even begin that he could recall the way he gazed up at Steve after the first time he had been experimented on, and led to safety along with hundreds of other captive men? But... "The train... That was the last time I saw you. Before... Before..." Metal hand curled into a fist behind himself, gritting his teeth in his jaw and falling deathly silent.
Steve blinked away moisture from his eyes, but though he was fighting valiantly to keep a stiff upper lip, he couldn't prevent the pale blues' darkening with emotion, like a choppy sea before a hurricane overcame it. Even the force with which the other soldier replied didn't appear to phase him overmuch; he just kept that wistful, sheepish grin up on his lips. "Ah... heh, yeah. Yeah, I did." But that explanation was for another time - he didn't want to mention scientists, or labs, or experiments when they were so close to breaking through. However, the strength he was known for by the rest of his teammates and America itself faltered the moment Bucky brought up the day he'd 'died.' In an instant, Steve's entire demeanor changed: his smile ran away from his face and was replaced by pursed, parted lips, and his lifted brows drew together to form a deep crease and shadow his eyes further. More moisture emerged from them and could not be sniffed away, so when the Captain unthinkingly reached across the divide between them in an attempt to grab onto any part of Bucky he could, literally as much as figuratively, a tear trickled down the side of his cheek and clung, as if frozen, to his serum-altered jawline. "I should have had someone go back," he whispered, façade utterly shattered. "I should have just done it myself... I didn't think... If I'd known there was any chance you were..."
For the moment, Bucky had been lost in the events following his falling from the train. He had no idea how long he had been down in the ravine before HYDRA found him and dragged him back to their base. Though Steve seemed to be talking, the assassin's mind was elsewhere - reliving the horrors that haunted him. How they cut off what was left of his arm, replaced it with a new one. They tried to brainwash him several times, and only after he had killed half their men had they succeeded. If I'd known there was any chance you were... Doe-brown eyes swiveled back toward the Captain, staring rather blankly at him with a sort of look that the old Bucky might have given when he were genuinely scared. It quickly faded, only for him to blink and let his head droop dizzily. "What... What happened...?" The pain in his voice could have been from anything; at the moment, it was confusion combined with a horrible headache.
Steve raised his body up off the floor and balanced it on his knees as he braced a powerful palm on the assassin's metal shoulder, not flinching in the slightest to the smooth, cold material. "HYDRA must have captured you..." he said softly, terrified that saying the name of the organization would trigger another violent outburst. "I don't know what they did to you since then, but... You're here now, wh...with me." His other hand raised and tentatively hovered near the side of Bucky's head while he wrestled with the urge to push the hair out of his eyes, or just... touch his face. But he couldn't - all that old fear combined terribly with the guilt he carried for wanting to dump all his feelings out when the other man was hardly in the right place for sudden revelations. The patriot's heart broke to see his friend in such a God-awful state, but he was at a loss for what to do. "And... that means no one is... I'm not gonna let anyone else touch you. Never again." Still, that hand hovered, inches away from lending comfort in any meaningful way. Still, more tears fell, tumbling freely now. What do I do, Buck? Tell me what to do…