Chapter Text
The pavement beneath him was damp, water puddled in the dips and cracks around him. The air held the familiar scent of rain, but it was tainted by the smell of wet garbage from the dumpster beside him.
Bucky pulled his worn jacket around himself, hunching down against the back wall of the alley, keeping himself in the corner. He couldn't risk someone surprising him from behind. He'd come too far.
Things still weren't clear, but some of his memories had returned. He knew his name now, or at least the one that floated through his dreams. He wasn't just James. He was also Bucky, though he wasn't sure that name suited him just yet.
When he thought of the odd name, it brought him to a different place, or maybe it was a time, he wasn't sure. He had memories of a scrawny kid with an attitude saying it. He remembered watching out for the blond-haired kid, pulling him out of fights in alleys, fights he had no right to be in given his size.
His head started to hurt the more he tried to remember. It was easier to let things slowly come to him. He'd learned patience over the last few years since he'd been away from Hydra, away from the chair. He shivered at the memory. Every time they'd put him in the chair, he’d lose himself, become a machine, a weapon. He was the Fist of Hydra. The things he'd done, there was no forgiveness for that.
After he'd first escaped, he didn't remember much, but within months, shards of broken memories began to piece themselves together. He didn't just start to remember who he was, he began to remember what he'd done. The faces of the dead began to haunt his dreams, and he nearly lost himself to the pain.
That was until his travels brought him back to Brooklyn, and he met someone that reminded him of the blond kid he'd known so long ago. The kid from his memories may have been gone, but he could do something to help the one in front of him.
He'd been settling down for the night, curling up in the corner of the alley, a piece of cardboard acting as a blanket, when he heard the scuffle. He didn't like to get involved in skirmishes, but it was four on one, and the little guy was losing. He tried to convince himself that it wasn't his fight, but something in him caught on the way the kid just kept pushing himself back up.
"That all you got? I can do this all day."
Something clicked in his mind. He could remember those words coming out of the skinny blond a lifetime ago.
Whoever this kid was, he didn't back down, and Bucky could appreciate that.
One of the guys swung, and the kid dodged, quickly returning the hit with one of his own.
"I don't want to hurt you," the kid said, wiping the blood that was dripping from his nose on his sleeve.
Bucky shook his head and sighed. Did the kid not notice he was getting his ass whooped? The last thing he wanted to do was get in the middle of something, he was trying to hide, but he couldn't let the kid get beaten to a pulp either.
One of the thugs laughed. "Only one getting hurt is you. We warned you once. I think it's time we taught you a lesson."
The thug pulled out a knife, and instead of running, the crazy-ass kid smiled. "Don't say I didn't warn you."
Bucky couldn't watch anymore. He threw the cardboard off him, reaching for his gun at the same time. They all jumped, noticing him for the first time.
Leveling his gaze on thugs, he stalked forward, gun raised. He flicked his eyes to the kid for a second and then back to attackers. His head tilted to the side as he stared them down. He knew how to make people fear him. He was trained for it. "We got a problem?"
The guy with the knife shook his head, taking a step back. "No, we're just leaving."
Bucky continued to watch them, eyes hard. "Cowards. I should just shoot you."
"Uh, hey, no, that's not necessary. Murdering people is kinda frowned upon, ya know? So maybe just let them go?" the kid rambled from beside him.
Bucky didn't look at him, just raised a brow. He lowered the gun, and the thug with the knife smiled.
Wrong move, Bucky thought, just before he shot him in the foot.
The thug screamed, his buddies ran, and the kid turned on him.
"You can't just shoot people!"
Bucky shrugged. "He's breathing." He took a moment to really look the kid over. He was way too thin, a stiff breeze could take him out. "What's your name?"
The kid chewed his lip for a second, eyes locked on the gun. "If I tell you, you can't shoot anyone else."
"No promises, kid."
The kid swallowed, then looked up to meet his gaze. "Peter."
Bucky nodded. "James. Let's go find you some food."
And so began his newest mission.
Keeping Peter safe.
He shared his food and kept an eye on him, scaring off anyone who might try to mess with him. It gave him purpose, and it felt good. For the first time in a long time, Bucky began to feel like maybe there was something out there worth staying alive for.
Despite trying to look out for the kid, Peter still managed to get into scrapes. Bucky would see him passing through early in the morning, bruises on his face, and protective rage would flare in him. He'd tried talking to Peter about it, but the kid stayed quiet, clearly protecting someone.
He started following him after that, keeping to the shadows. His training let him go unseen. That's when he caught sight of the kid, bruised and bleeding behind an apartment building by a dumpster. It looked like he'd been stabbed in the leg and beaten severely.
The backpack the kid always carried was beside him, hanging open, a bloodied suit of some kind hanging out. It took him a moment to make the connection, but when he did, the bruises and injuries made a lot more sense. Peter was the spider guy that had been hanging around Queens. He'd heard of him, and he wasn't sure whether to be proud or horrified at Peter's choice of hobbies.
Knowing that Peter probably wanted his identity to remain a secret, he stuffed everything into the bag and zipped it up before grabbing Peter and taking him someplace safe. Hydra had given Bucky enough training that he could handle treating most wounds.
As he worked on him, a familiar feeling settled over him. This was something that made sense to him, caring for people, or maybe better put, caring for stubborn kids with no self-preservation. He wished he could remember more. It was like grasping at smoke, the harder he tried to grab into the memories, the thinner they became.
He kept an eye on Peter after that, and Peter seemed to keep an eye on him. There were times he'd slip into the past, but the kid didn't seem phased. He'd just keep talking, even if Bucky began speaking in Russian or German.
He never told Peter he knew about his secret, and Peter never pushed him about any of his. They made a good pair.
Everything was okay until the day that Peter didn't come home. All he found was a note tucked under the mat Bucky slept on, saying not to worry, that there was something he needed to do.
Bucky tried not to overthink it, but soon, one day turned into two, and then into a week, and Peter didn't show. He couldn't help but be hurt.
He searched the city but didn't find any trace. He didn't even know where to look. It wasn't uncommon for one of them to disappear for a while, but not for that long.
After a while, Bucky started to question his own mind. Maybe the kid hadn’t even existed to begin with. Maybe it was just his messed up brain playing tricks. He pulled his coat around himself and laid down under cover of the small shelter he'd made, hoping that wherever Peter was, that he was okay.
Time past in a slow rhythm, and despite it all, he still kept recovering. More and more memories began to return, both good and bad. The scrawny kid from his memories became more evident, and a name seemed to float around the picture of him in his mind—Steve.
He could remember pulling bullies off him, nursing him back to health, and maybe, though he wasn't sure, he thought he could remember him having a growth spurt? He wanted to remember, but it physically hurt to force it.
He was watching his surroundings from the small spot he'd set up camp when he saw a car approach. It stuck out against the overgrowth of the old construction lot he was hiding out in.
Immediately, he went on alert, grabbing his gun from behind him and getting ready to move. It had been a long time since Hydra had sent anyone after him. He'd done an excellent job of hiding, but that was no guarantee. He slid the gun along his leg, keeping it hidden, but aiming at the driver. The car rolled to a stop, and Bucky tensed.
As the driver’s door opened, he was prepared to bolt, but the face he saw made him freeze. It was familiar, but it didn't seem possible. His head hurt as he tried to process it. His memories collided in his mind, and he struggled to think. The uncertainty of the situation made him want to run, but he found himself watching, his body tense.
The passenger side door opened, catching his attention, and another familiar sight greeted him, a head of brown curls and a smiling face—Peter. He looked better than Bucky could ever remember seeing him. His face had filled out, there was color in his cheeks, and he seemed happier.
His gaze went to the man who was now standing beside the car. He looked so much like Steve, it was uncanny. There were subtle differences, though. This guy looked more worn by life-like things hadn't been easy for him, but he had Steve's eyes. They were sharp and clear, catching the light. The beginnings of a beard grew on his face, but it didn't hide the familiar jawline and defiant chin.
He scowled at the pair, watching them closely.
The Steve lookalike pursed his lips, his brow tightening. Bucky stared him down, warning him off. There was no way he could be the real Steve. Bucky didn't have a great grasp of time, but he knew it had been too long for him to look so young. Something was very wrong.
Peter began to round the car, walking over to him. Bucky pushed himself to his feet, tucking his gun in the waistband of his jeans. Even though he knew Peter, he was still wary.
His gaze flitted between the approaching kid and the impossible Steve, who was still standing rooted beside the car.
Bucky swallowed, his shoulders tense, finger on the trigger of the gun. Every fiber of his being said run, but he stayed. Maybe not the best tactical decision, but he was curious.
Peter paused a few feet away, his smile faltering. “Hey,” he said, lifting his hand in a little wave, then his eyes fell to the gun. "You really need to stop with the gun."
Bucky pressed his lips together, the edges of his mouth pulling into a frown. He kept an eye on the Steve clone standing by the car, not trusting him. “Take care of what you needed?”
Peter's bit at his lip, shifting his weight between his feet. “Sorry about taking off like I did.” He rubbed at the back of his neck and then look over his shoulder at the lookalike. “I met some people. They took me in—helped me.”
Bucky squinted, glancing at Peter. “You smell better.”
The kid scrunched his face. “Um … thanks?”
He huffed, his gaze flicking to the fake Steve. The man was flexing his hands in and out of fists at his sides, his face pinched. He leveled his gaze back on Peter. “Who came with you?”
Peter shifted his gaze, looking past him. He chewed his lip. “It’s complicated.”
Bucky raised a brow, asking him to continue.
“Um … it's a weird story. I don't really know where to start.” Peter lifted his chin to look Bucky in the eye. “I know this sounds weird, but you don't happen to recognize him, do you?”
Bucky kept his outward composure, but internally he was panicking. He did recognize the guy, but he knew it couldn't really be him. His concern that this was somehow an elaborate Hydra scheme to get him back made him tense. He began to calculate escape routes, plotting the fastest ways to get away without hurting Peter.
"James?" Peter asked.
He blinked, looking to Peter for a moment. "I don't know."
The sound of footsteps made him tense, and his gaze snapped to the lookalike. He gave him his best glare, telling him in no uncertain terms that he needed to back off.
Fake Steve seemed to get the hint and stopped. His expression twisted, and he looked like someone was shoving a stick up his ass.
"What's going on?" Bucky asked Peter, not looking away from Fake Steve.
"You know him, don't you?"
Bucky licked his lips, ready to run.
He saw Peter look to Steve, then turn back to him. "Your name wouldn't happen to be Bucky, would it?"
Panic washed over him, and he moved without thought. With one last glance at Peter, he bolted down the street, running for any cover he could find. He didn't know what was going on, but he didn't want to risk hurting Peter in a fight.
He could hear the kid calling after him as his feet hammered the ground, but he didn't slow, wanting to get as much distance as he could.
The sounds of his own footsteps were soon joined by the heavy beats of another. He tightened his jaw, knowing they were too fast and heavy to be Peter's. Fake Steve was closing the gap.
Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the determined eyes of the other man locked on him.
"Buck, wait!" Fake Steve yelled.
He growled, trying to push himself harder, but the other man was faster. He debated shooting at him, maybe just in the leg, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Perhaps that was Hydra's plan, why they chose someone with Steve's face to bring him in.
Bucky could hear Fake Steve getting closer. Knowing he couldn't outrun him, he ran for the cover of old construction equipment, weaving between them. A length of rebar laying on a pile of broken cinder blocks caught his eye, and he grabbed it.
Knowing he couldn't outrun him, he prepared himself to fight. In hand to hand, he hoped to have the advantage.
Using surprise to his advantage, he waited until Fake Steve was nearly on him, then spun, jumping and coming down with the chunk of rebar, not aiming to kill, only incapacitate.
The steel bar connected with Fake Steve's head, making the man yelp. "Just stop! I only want to talk!"
Growling, Bucky dropped to a crouch, circling Fake Steve, twirling the metal bar. He kept an eye on his surroundings in case it was an ambush. "Who are you?"
The other man's expression shifted, the corners of his mouth turning down. He sounded hurt when he spoke. "You don't recognize me?"
Bucky narrowed his eyes, trying to stay focused, but memories of Steve, his Steve, were flooding his mind. "You're not him, and I ain't going back!"
He charged forward, catching Fake Steve off guard, knocking him to the ground. Bucky began slamming his metal fist into his face, again and again, anger, hurt, and loss driving him.
No matter how many punches he threw, Fake Steve just took it, his face becoming bloody and bruised.
"Fight me!" Bucky snarled.
Fake Steve gave a small shake of his head. Blood was dripping from the split above his eye, cheek swollen and bruised. "I won't hurt you, Buck, so I guess you'll just have to kill me."
"You're not him."
Steve met his gaze, the best he could with one swollen eye. "My name is Steven Grant Rogers, and when your sister Becca tried to reach me to dance, I broke her toe. I never knew when to back down from a fight and still don't."
Bucky began to let his fist fall, processing his words. His resolve began to falter, and he began to question himself.
Fake Steve continued, "You were my best friend, and I hope you still are. I don’t know what’s happened to you, but we’ll figure it out. I'm with you, Buck, ‘til the end of the line."
Like a puzzle piece snapping into place, his words completed something in him. Hydra might be able to change someone's face, but they couldn't fake those words.
Bucky's gaze raked over the other man's face, taking in the familiar features beneath the bruises. His heart skipped a beat. "Stevie?"