Chapter Text
The dark-haired man snapped awake to the sound of birds chirping in the distance. For a moment, the Winter Soldier snapped back into place, instantly alert, glancing around attentively, while trying not to appear awake in case there were others in the vicinity.
Then his eyes landed on the jacket that had been hung across the chair beside the bed, and the past week came rushing back, including the events that had transpired the previous day. The Winter Soldier could feel a massive migraine starting up in his brain already. How could- how could he have let down his guard and done something as uncharacteristic as to break down in anyone's arms, even if it was Steve?
Once upon a time, the Winter Soldier had classified the people he knew on sight into three categories: His commanding superior, Alexander Pierce, his goons, and his marks.
Steve Rogers was in a category all of his own.
A glance at a digital clock by the bedside told the Winter Soldier that it was already seven in the morning; it was late by his standards. The Winter Soldier rarely slept well and always woke up alert and cautious. It was a habit that had saved his skin many times on his missions.
So to wake up like this was... Unusual. If the dark-haired man didn't think better of Steve, he would suspect that the blond-haired man had drugged him.
The apartment was a small one; four walls decorated with nothing but plain wallpaper and stacks of books and an assortment of basic household necessities. It didn't seem to hold anything that portrayed Steve's personality. Maybe the blond-haired man didn't spend much time here. The dark-haired man could understand that; he didn't feel like he belonged here either, out of time and out of place, in a city filled with people who knew too little about what he was.
The Winter Soldier frowned at the thought. What did he know of Captain America's personality? Wincing, he felt the migraine worsening. He couldn't remember ever having a headache that bad, but then there were too many gaps in his memory for him to be sure.
The couch was empty, but there were signs of it having been slept in. The apartment was small enough that there wasn't a spare guest room, and Steve must've let him have his bedroom. The thought made the dark-haired man feel a strange twinge of emotion in his chest.
Moving cautiously into the kitchen, the Winter Soldier found it empty, too. So Captain America was out. He frowned, glancing around him. He couldn't comprehend why the blond-haired man could trust him enough to leave him alone here, right in the middle of his apartment in the city. Even if Steve didn't leave any personal or professional effects here...
The level of trust... The Winter Soldier couldn't understand it. Even if Steve trusted Bucky Barnes enough to do this, how could he trust the Winter Soldier enough to do the same? He had to know that the dark-haired man wasn't the same man who had been his best friend.
Best friend. Where had that come from?
Pain assaulted the Winter Soldier's head, and he nearly punched a hole into the wall in his effort to regain control over himself. Shards of memories floated around in his pain-jarred mind like pieces of torn paper refusing to be caught and pieced together to form the whole picture, taunting him with a voice that sounded too much like Alexander Pierce.
He wanted to remember, he really did. But the memories never came back fully, just in pieces at a time that brought on a headache the size of a mountain with them.
But that was worth it. It would be worth it if he could remember just something, anything, from his old life. The dark-haired man didn't understand why he suddenly cared so much about his past, but that thought was a glimmer of light in the darkness as he fought against the pain to push himself to connect the dots.
It was there, it was all there in his mind, but every time the dark-haired man reached out, the pieces scattered again, always just out of reach and remembrance.
The pain felt like it was tearing the dark-haired man's head into two. But it was nothing compared to what Alexander Pierce and Hydra had made him go through, and this was for something the dark haired man wanted.
At the first touch on his shoulder, the Winter Soldier struck out instinctively, still too lost in the pain and darkness to remember where he was. The cracking sound of his fist connecting with something solid roused him, but not enough.
Hands were shaking him, and restraining the Winter Soldier's attempts to attack his captor. Snarling, the Winter Soldier reached out with electric speed, and in a practiced motion, tried to wrench the arms holding him aside.
His eyes opened wide, and all he could see was the sickly bright lit room where Hydra had conducted those experiments, with the scientists and nurses who couldn't be alive all around him, that eerily empty look in their eyes as they stared down at him.
"Doctor Zola will want to see this," A brown-haired nurse said, jotting something down into a notepad. In another life, Bucky might have found her attractive, but all he could see now was her empty eyes and the demonic smirk that he knew was twisting her lips in a gruesome smile. He could imagine the blood on her delicate, small hands. The memory of the pain came crashing back down, and Bucky screamed, his mouth wide open in a soundless cry for help that never came.
This isn't real, this isn't real, the dark-haired man thought fervently, but how could he know that? How could he even know for sure, knowing all the things Hydra could do and had done to him? Wiping his memory mercilessly had been the least of their sins.
'Sins'? It isn't like you haven't done all of those things before, and more.
The thought struck the dark-haired man like a bullet through his heart. He could be hallucinating all of this, but the knowledge of what he had done would always stay with him, whether in reality or imagination. He'd spent the past week blocking away that path of thought, but now it was too late. He was too deep down in his mind to stop them.
The dark-haired man dug the fingers of his metal arm deep into his normal arm, with enough strength to cripple it. He couldn't care less; in that long, torturous instant, all he could think of was to stop that thought, and all the painful implications and torrents of guilt it brought.
Besides, that metal arm had been given to him by them. Hydra, and Doctor Zola, the man with the eyes that shone with that light many mistook for passion but the Winter Soldier knew for as insanity.
In that moment, the dark-haired man wanted it gone, damn the consequences. Maybe if he squeezed hard enough... The tendrils of pain that shot up the sensitive nerves were good for maintaining his concentration. If he could just-
"Bucky! BUCKY, LISTEN TO ME!" The voice was a shout in his ear. The Winter Soldier knew that because he could feel the harsh breathing against his skin, but the sound was muffled, echoed, as if the speaker was a million miles away.
But that voice. Bucky would have known it anywhere, in death, at the end of the world.
Or an icy chasm, hanging a thousand feet from the huge, gaping jaws of the frozen, unfeeling peaks beyond. A scream, and then falling.
Bucky remembered falling, that endless moment of flying, the cold air currents like icy blades that slid under his uniform to cut unforgiving marks across his skin. He remembered the acid taste of fear in the back of his mouth, of trying to open his mouth to scream, but nothing coming out.
And then suddenly, arms were wrapping themselves around his frame, pulling him close. Warmth enveloped him from all sides, fabric brushing his face as the person holding him tugged him ever closer.
Warmth. The dark-haired man remembered that. He could relax. He was safe.
The tension went out of him with a long breath, and when the dark-haired man recovered enough to open his eyes, Steve was there, in a shirt that only people in the twenty-first century would wear. He relaxed against the blond-haired man.
The dark-haired man could smell the sweat on Steve, sticking his shirt tight against his skin. He must have just came back from a morning run.
"Bucky." Steve's voice was solid, firm, grounding, but as warm as his touches had been. Still were. Bucky might have reached out and hugged Steve back, hard, but the most the Winter Soldier could do was stay in the embrace.
"What happened?"
The dark-haired man waited a beat before answering. "I was... Trying to recall. My memories." His voice sounded hoarse to his own ears, pathetic. Behind closed lips, his teeth clenched together, painfully hard.
Steve was quiet for a long moment. Finally, when he spoke, he raised his eyes to meet the Winter Soldier's. "You were having flashbacks?" He asked, and his voice was as quiet as it had been before, with no inflection to it other than a disturbing calm.
When the dark-haired man looked hard into Steve's eyes, he saw a storm in those blue eyes, unidentifiable emotions warring for control. Then it was gone, and the stable look of determination was back firmly in place.
The dark-haired man was suddenly angry. Why was Steve hiding his emotions from him? So Captain America could trust him enough to let him stay at his apartment alone, but Steve Rogers couldn't trust him enough to let him in.
I thought you trusted me enough to let me in.
The words were on the tip of his tongue, but the Winter Soldier would never let the words slip out. So the dark-haired man lowered his eyes, and kept his silence.
Steve sighed, like the Winter Soldier was being particularly testing. "You don't have to push yourself, Bucky. I know you want to remember, but we have time." His voice was still that quiet intonation.
The dark-haired man wanted to shake him, maybe punch him again with his metal arm and shake him out of his self-imposed control. Why did Steve think he was so desperate to regain his memories as quickly as possible?
It was for Steve, of course. The dark-haired man wanted to know more about himself, yes, but why did he want that? He wanted to remember Steve, what they had done together back in the day, what they had been.
He didn't want those blue irises to look at him forever with that tinge of sadness that came with knowing too much and pity.
What was the point of coming back, reclaiming his past as Bucky Barnes without Steve Rogers there with him? The dark-haired man had no relatives here that he knew of- and even if he did, he wouldn't know how to interact with them. They weren't Steve Rogers; what would happen if he lost control around them?
Besides, the Winter Soldier still had a cold remoteness towards anyone other than Steve, despite the overwhelming guilt he felt for what he must have done.
The silence hung between them, condemning and heavy.
"What do you know of what I want?" The dark-haired man finally spat, and the voice of the man who had once been Bucky inside him screamed at the wrongness of it all. But the dark-haired man didn't know how to fix this, how to say it right other than what he actually felt.
Steve flinched; and wasn't that a sight all by itself. Something to make the great Captain America feel uncomfortable. "I know you, Bucky."
When he looked up again, the blue eyes were empty, hollow. And that made the Winter Soldier feel even more wary than the controlled gaze had. The dark-haired man wanted to say something more, maybe scream at the blond-haired man until he understood, but he kept quiet.
Most times the dark-haired man felt like he didn't know how to speak anymore, knew the words but not how to form them to convey his true meaning.
So he kept silent, his jaw working as he watched Steve turn and walk away, still carefully guarded, but his body language told the Winter Soldier all he needed to know. Steve was disappointed, somehow.
About what? Because he hadn't replied? Because he couldn't recall anything whole, even after how hard he'd tried?
Because Steve was disappointed that he still wasn't Bucky, despite having escaped Hydra's sphere of control? That made the dark-haired man feel cold, colder than even the arctic depths of the mountains. What if he never fully remembered?
Either way, the dark-haired man wasn't going to be just Bucky anymore, not in a long time, maybe not ever. Steve knew that, didn't he?
...........
Bucky was still standing there, in the exact same position, when Steve returned from his errand. He wasn't angry, hadn't been from the start, but now the fiery rage was back- directed at himself.
He shouldn't have left Bucky alone, knowing what had happened just in the morning. Bucky could have suffered from another panic attack, or worse, tried to push himself harder because he thought that that was what Steve wanted.
Guilt surged within Steve, and he walked towards Bucky, hands outstretched to hold the smaller man.
But Bucky was avoiding his eyes, his body tense as Steve's hands made contact with him. With a sinking feeling, Steve realized that something had passed between them, a barrier formed from too many unspoken words.
He gazed hard at Bucky, through the head of black hair that fell to shield his eyes from Steve's view. The man didn't move, but nevertheless, Steve could feel the tension coiling in the muscles under his hands.
"I'm sorry," Steve said softly, trying to reach beyond the facade of the Winter Soldier, and let the words penetrate the man behind it. Only he wasn't sure if it was just a facade anymore. He believed that Bucky was somewhere in there, but he didn't know how deep, and how long it would take for him to resurface.
Steve just knew that pushing him away, and letting the man before him brood over it alone definitely wasn't the solution.
So many words, so many sleepless nights spent trying to get them right for Bucky, and here he was, right in front of him, tongue-tied, speechless.
"Come on, let's get you some sleep." Steve finally said, clapping a hand around Bucky's back lightly.