Chapter Text
The dark-haired man stood in front of the exhibit, his shadowed eyes gazing intently at the picture of the man who had once been him.
The technologically enhanced picture had enlarged the man's features without compromising the quality of it, something the man, who now called himself the Winter Soldier, had come to consider as one of the many improvements in the twenty-first century.
Not that the Winter Soldier had spent much time thinking about such things, nor cared for them.
That was what the man would have said and believed, as short as a week ago. Now, however, he wasn't even sure if the 'Winter Soldier' was who he was.
The dark-haired man's head swiveled, his intense gaze turning to the larger-than-life pictures of the man in that uniform all around the room. The man who had been his mission. The only mission, in fact, as far as the Winter Soldier could remember, that he had failed to complete. Captain America, the world called him, their voices as reverent as Alexander Pierce's had been condescending.
The blond-haired man with the determined blue eyes, which had glinted with something when they had looked at the Winter Soldier. Steve.
I'm with you till the end of the line.
Abruptly, almost violently, the Winter Soldier shook his head, trying to dispel the headache that brought on. Those words, uttered just a week ago by Captain America, had come out of his own mouth too, once.
But that was a lifetime away. The dark-haired man was no longer the very same man whose picture adorned the exhibit, and neither was the blond-haired man.
Steve, not Captain America. Captain America was the man in the world-renowned, hailed uniform, the Winter Soldier's last mark. Steve was the blond-haired man under it, the man with blue eyes too old for his age and filled to the brim with the determined gaze of a man who believed in what he was doing.
The dark-haired man felt that such labels helped keep his memory-recovery-induced headaches at bay, whilst still allowing him to think of the blond-haired man. Just like while he was certain that he was no longer James Barnes, he also could not think of himself as just the Winter Soldier.
The Winter Soldier was ruthless towards everyone and anyone, and at least lived in the illusion that he knew what he was doing. James Barnes, according to the exhibit that had been held in the honor of his memory, had been a worthy soldier and comrade.
The dark-haired man couldn't say the same about himself.
He looked towards the life-sized model of Captain America again, remembering the fight on the last helicarrier, and dragging the man out of the sea, staring hard for a long time at something no one but himself could see.
It was a long time before the dark-haired man left.
...........
Walking on the crowded Saturday night streets of the city was something that made the dark-haired man's every hair stand on end, a fear comparable to what he felt whenever Alexander Pierce had brought that dreaded machine near him.
Pressed in by unsuspecting people on all sides, the Winter Soldier fought hard to not strike out on instinct, instead burrowing his metal arm deeper into his jeans pocket, the long sleeves of his windbreaker shielding the telltale prosthetic from view.
For as long as he could remember - and he had to admit that that wasn't much to go by, because of the many forcibly removed memories and the gaps they left in his mind - the Winter Soldier had detested blending in crowds. And ironically, that was one skill his job as Hydra's reliable assassin had never required him to master.
Any sort of confrontation with citizens and civilians that weren't his marks had been simple: the Winter Soldier would be brandishing a weapon, usually a heavy-duty machine gun of some sort, or in some cases, the deadly sharp knives he kept hidden away for close-range combat. Those weapons, in addition to the Winter Soldier's own intimidating aura and outfit, usually ensured that his interactions with them were limited to screaming and running off, both in their own part.
But the dark-haired man couldn't afford that now. Hydra and S.H.I.E.L.D. might have destroyed each other in the past week, but while the remaining Hydra members were either lying-low or already dead, S.H.I.E.L.D. would undoubtedly still have members dedicated to hunting down the remaining Hydra loyalists.
Members including those who had brought down all three of the helicarriers. Including Steve.
The blond-haired man had promised that he wouldn't fight him, and the dark-haired man believed him. But there was no telling what the man behind his actions, his direct in command, would order, and the Winter Soldier didn't want to know what would happen then- what Steve would do when he had to decide between loyalty and whatever obligation he had towards him.
The dark-haired man's head started to throb again. No, that wasn't a topic he liked to think about.
A particularly hard shove from a passerby sent the Winter Soldier snarling involuntarily, eyes turning to steel and hands tightening around the gun in his jeans. It took all he had to just stay there, stock still to all appearances but body coiled and tensed, ready to fight.
As if sensing the prospective danger, people began to back away from the Winter Soldier, shooting curious looks and wary glances his way. The Winter Soldier's fingers dug hard into his skin as he tried to make himself relax.
Coldness gripped him, turning his mind and body to stone. He could feel the people's eyes on him; varying from disdain to curiosity to sympathy, their stares freezing the dark-haired man in place. He was afraid that if he moved right then, he would do something the part of him who was no longer quite the Winter Soldier would regret.
Suddenly, a warm hand landed on his normal arm, firm but not threatening, just warm and there, more of a comfort than restrain. Still, involuntarily, the Winter Soldier's instincts sprang to life, his arm bucking and jerking, trying to get the hand off.
To his surprise, the hand remained firmly lodged. Men who could physically restrain the Winter Soldier... They were few and far between, and the Winter Soldier could count on hand the ones who had even the slightest possibility of appearing right there.
Without looking, the dark-haired man already knew who it was, but still felt a shocking thrill run through him as he lifted his head defiantly to meet the clear, blue eyes of the blond-haired man.
"Bucky," The blond-haired man breathed, his eyes locking with the dark-haired man's as if he were afraid that the man would disappear right in his hold.
The dark-haired man sucked in a breath, his body tensing, ready to fight, or maybe run, from this one man that he didn't know how to confront anymore. Still, his stood there, unable to tear his eyes away from those blue depths.
What were the chances that Captain America had stumbled upon him in this huge, yet typical downtown Saturday night crowd? The dark-haired man understood the call of duty, but that didn't mean that he wanted to be caught in the middle, between Captain America's patriotism and his personal obligations.
Being captured by what remained of S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't something the Winter Soldier wanted to experience, and he would fight Steve to that end. Mostly because the Winter Soldier remembered Hydra's painful experimentations and Alexander Pierce's complete disregard of his emotional and mental state of mind in exchange for a complaint, pliable soldier.
He didn't think S.H.I.E.L.D. would be any better, especially towards someone who had been on Hydra's side, and had the power to hold his own against Captain America. Steve might not agree, but the other members would have no qualms towards experimenting on him.
A dull twinge went through the dark-haired man's thoughts. Steve might not agree? When had he started thinking of the blond-haired man as someone who would side with him?
I'm with you till the end of the line.
You're my friend.
Steve's other hand reached out, his motions soft with something the Winter Soldier couldn't understand.
The Winter Soldier's arm twitched, and he lashed out before he could control it.
The punch caught Steve by surprise, the Winter Soldier's fist hitting him square in the jaw, hard enough to hurt even Captain America. He leaned back, expecting the other man to retaliate, hit him back twice as hard.
Steve's head was jerked sideways by the force of the Winter Soldier's blow, but when he recovered, his eyes were shaded; his face expressionless. On his face, where a normal person would have a bruise the next day, the spot where the Winter Soldier's blow had connected was already healing.
Steve's face was a mask as he led the dark-haired man away from the crowd, the hand on his arm still as unthreatening as before. The Winter Soldier went with him; their little tiff had created enough commotion amongst the crowd already, and going somewhere quieter would greatly increase his chances of escaping without revealing his identity to everyone in the vicinity.
But Steve wasn't leading him to an alleyway, or somewhere quieter and darker where they could resume their fight. Instead, Steve led him towards a more residential area, with the tall flats and lighted stories that the Winter Soldier had sneaked into for jobs, but never to stay in for long.
Looking at the trimmed shrubs and street lamps decorating the area, the Winter Soldier couldn't begin to imagine why Steve was bringing him here. Why would Captain America risk letting him know where he lived? He briefly considered the idea that this was where the remaining S.H.I.E.L.D. members were staying, but then eliminated it. The flats here weren't big enough for all of them to reside in, and besides, they wouldn't risk all staying together in such a downtown area.
Steve didn't say a word as he went up the stairs, his arms swinging and pulling the Winter Soldier behind him.
Steve stopped in front of a door, unlocking it with a key he procured from a pocket in his jacket. The dark-haired man had a flash of déjà vu; in another life, another time, remembered the blond-haired man doing exactly that, with he himself standing behind him, just as he was now.
Then Steve had opened the door, and was walking right in, openly showing the Winter Soldier his unprotected back. In any other circumstances, with any other man, the dark-haired man would have seen it as a challenge, but all he did was follow Steve into the apartment silently.
Steve sat down on a chair, silent. In the half-light, his features were dimmed, his expression unreadable. The Winter Soldier stood, awkward for the first time in years, standing in the doorway, not knowing what Steve wanted.
When Steve finally spoke, his voice was tired and tinged with something that made the dark-haired man feel an unfamiliar pang.
"Bucky. I'm not going to hurt you." Steve said softly, his voice hushed in the silent room.
The Winter Soldier stayed silent, but the stubborn light in his eyes told his emotions well enough.
The dark-haired man watched as Steve's expression changed, shades of hurt, sadness and regret passing over his features before the man smoothened them over. When he raised his head to look at the Winter Soldier, his look was steady. It was the look Captain America wore when he was on a mission.
The Winter Soldier instinctively sought to react; to tense and to be ready, but that nagging voice in his head, the foreign part of his mind that had been growing in the past week made him pause.
"I'm not bringing you back to them, not unless you're ready, Bucky." Steve said, and his blue eyes were sincere and sure.
Maybe it was foolish, trusting someone just because of the look in their eyes, or that serious, solemn expression. But the dark-haired man believed him. He nodded once, his posture finally relaxing, tightly coiled muscles untensing.
A look of relief passed on Steve's face, clear as day. Maybe he wasn't the only desperate man in the room, then.
Desperate. It was an emotion that the Winter Soldier had rarely felt, but the dark-haired man was sure that was what he felt right now. That growing part of him, probably suicidical, wanted to be close to the blond-haired man as much as Steve wanted to be with him. And what scared him the most was how right that felt, because he didn't know why.
Steve rose from his seat and walked closer to the Winter Soldier, his eyes bright with something like hope. He approached the Winter Soldier just a little too fast, and the Winter Soldier's arm tensed when Steve laid a hand on it.
Close up, the Winter Soldier could see Steve's expression change, the blue eyes going from breathless hope to dark pools of sorrow. The blond head bowed, hiding his eyes from the Winter Soldier as the hand on his metal arm tightened almost uncontrollably, then relaxed again.
The warmth of Steve's palm was a stark contrast against the cold of the metal arm. Throughout the years, the Winter Soldier had gotten used to the hypersensitivity of his prosthetic arm, the way the lightest touch sent thrumming shivers up his delicate nerves.
But this touch, this touch that threatened nothing but warmth and comfort, so unlike anything the Winter Soldier had ever felt - this was a novelty, a gift the dark-haired man wanted to savor. A faint memory of a life where such contacts had been taken for granted surfaced in the back of his mind, and the beginnings of a headache throbbed in the back of his head. Without thinking, the Winter Soldier's instinct would have been to strike out and escape from the shockingly intimate contact, but with Steve...
The dark-haired man only realized his actions when Steve's words came out in a shaky whisper. "Bucky..." The blond-haired man whispered, his deep voice emotional. The dark-haired man could feel the reverberations of the sound in Steve's chest, from where their bodies were connected by him leaning against the blond-haired man.
They'd been in similar positions before, but that had all been in the process of combat. Without the pounding heartbeat, elevated pulse and adrenaline coursing through his veins, this was different, more about the warmth the contact was bringing than trying to hurt and maim.
The Winter Soldier was frozen now; this sort of contact was foreign to him, and he couldn't wrap his mind around why Steve was doing this, why he himself was allowing and even enjoying the touch.
But the other part of the dark-haired man- that man that was a shade of what Bucky Barnes had been -was taking over now, relaxing automatically into the not quite embrace, even wanting to deepen the contact by burrowing himself against Steve.
Impulsively, the dark-haired man buried his head into the crook of Steve's neck, breathing hard against the skin there and feeling the vibrations as the blond-haired man swallowed hard.
He could feel Steve struggle with his own mind, his free hand hovering over the dark-haired man's shoulder, not quite touching. He didn't care, just reached around and clutched hard at the Steve's back, the metal fingers digging into the man's skin. It had to hurt, but Steve didn't say a word.
Against his ear, the dark-haired man heard Steve sigh. Then Steve's fingers were curling around the back of his neck, slow and tentative, as if touching a horse that might buck at the slightest touch.
The Winter Soldier would have lashed out at that touch against his neck, knowing that Captain America could snap it before he could retaliate if he wanted to. But the dark-haired man only shut his eyes, and enjoyed the touch.
They stood like that for what seemed to be an age, just another two people in a city full of inhabitants, the dark-haired man shaking in the embrace as Steve held him.