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The Winter Soldier—James—Bucky—Barnes—he's not sure what to call himself. He generally settles on not calling himself anything. He spent two weeks going through what he knew had to be withdrawals from whatever drugs HYDRA pumped into him. He didn't have much choice but to hunker down in a crumbling, abandoned house and shake and vomit his way through it. He gave himself one day to really recover after the shaking stopped—a luxury, really, to have any time just to feel good—and then set to work. Weapons, clothes, money, food. He found (stole) it all.
And now he's busy cutting a swath through Europe and the Americas, taking down any base he remembers spending time at. He's got a pocketful of fake passports with his face on them; he somehow knows how to wink and smile his way through the metal detector that shrieks at his arm. He doesn't remember practicing these skills. He doesn't remember taking the photos, hair short and face shaved, a smirk on his lips.
He knows Rogers is following him, accompanied by the man with wings and occasionally the Black Widow. Something about her puts him on edge but simultaneously makes him feel...pride? He admires her, but knows enough to be wary. (How does he know? It's in there somehow and he's done beating his head against the wall, metaphorically and literally, trying to piece it all together. Instead of wondering, he accepts his inexplicable knowledge.)
His journey, truth be told, is almost over. The trip is exhausting. He's not used to being out of cryo this long; he's not used to choosing his own destinations and arranging the transport. He's not used to coming face-to-face with his past at every turn—another chair here, a van full of restraints there, files and files of information on how to keep him “docile.” He has broken his flesh hand more than once when a screaming rage possessed him to fight the concrete wall beside him. He's had to recalibrate and repair the other arm, as well, from the fight on the hellicarrier, and he's not used to having to do that, either. He's shocked himself more than once on accident by prodding the wrong wire, but he seems to have some instinctive penchant for fixing things. He hot-wires cars without pausing to consider how to do it.
Useful as these ingrained skills are, it often leaves him breathless with anger and frustration. How do I know this? He screams at himself every time another one surfaces. Was this my life or what they put in my head?
He is back in the United States, back in the northeast, back on soil that makes his head feel more cloudy but his breathing steady. He knows, cognitively, this is his motherland, not Germany, not Russia, though both have been programmed into him at different times by different people. He knows he is James Buchanan Barnes, of Brooklyn, New York, of the US Army, of the Howling Commandos, of Steve Rogers.
The last one hits hardest. He shakes it off and ignores it. He has to ignore it to finish his mission.
Camp Lehigh is rubble and this is not something he knows. He doesn't know what happened. He doesn't know why. He doesn't care, really. He uses the arm to shift mountains of fallen mortar and crawls into the bunker he somehow knows is underground. His heart pounds and he wonders if he's malfunctioning—no, injured, because he is not a machine anymore but a person now. He knows this was the final resting place of Arnim Zola, his creator, his destroyer. He saved this for last because he knows there will be no one to punish here but himself.
He sweeps through the filing cabinets methodically. He compartmentalizes, lets his mind go blank, becomes the machine. He is gathering intel. None of this affects him. Not yet. There is no chair here. He's not sure what he's looking for or if there's any chance he'll find anything.
But he does.
He is on the last filing cabinet in the room. He's been below ground for hours. He knows Rogers and the Falcon won't find him yet; they were traveling like civilians and didn't have the benefit of stolen identities to hide behind. They aren't even back on US soil yet.
The bundle of papers he finds is crumbling and yellow with age. He stares at the language that isn't his native tongue but he knows nonetheless, hears in his nightmares saying things like ah, and how much does this hurt? and Sergeant Barnes, do you understand me now? He finds himself staring at Zola's original notes, from Italy, from when he was strapped to a table and experimented on, from his second of three or maybe four lives.
He has to set the papers down before he tears them. Notes about his pain tolerance, notes about his understanding of German, notes about what he screamed in the throes of fever dreams, notes about how often he cried for his mother, notes about when he stopped crying or screaming.
The subject repeats his serial number and rank often, the notes say. He will forget soon enough.
Subject now responds in German.
Subject has surpassed other subjects' life span.
Subject shows increased healing capacity.
Subject has stopped spitting at scientists when they come near.
He sees Steve's name written down more than once. His usual hallucination, it seems, was Rogers, and he often screamed for Zola to kill him before hurting Rogers.
He sits down hard, holding his head in his trembling hands. Memories are flashing through his brain—fire from the needle into his veins, what language do you speak hissed menacingly as a pair of pliers came ever-closer to his fingernails, restraints wearing sores into his wrists and ankles only to be healed and cut open again, and then Steve, magically tall and broad and breathing easily, Steve ripping the restraints like paper, Steve pulling him upright and touching his face.
He hits his head against the wall to stop the flood. He can't do this here. He'll never get through the papers if he succumbs now. He does, however, retch slightly when he finds a bill of sale. As if he were another piece of lab equipment, a vehicle, an animal. He rips that one up, because he can and because he wants to.
There are no more notes, but there is a worn, grainy newspaper photo of what he knows is the Howling Commandos. He and Rogers aren't focused on the camera but on each other, Rogers' hand on his shoulder and both their heads tipped back in a laugh. He stares at the picture a long time, wondering what they'd been laughing about, and studying each face in turn. He can match the names to the faces but has trouble drudging up even a scrap of memory. If he squeezes his eyes closed and balls his fists and really forces it, he thinks he can smell woodsmoke from a fire and hear a distant shout of Wahoo!
“Well. I thought I might find you here.”
He scrambles to his feet, already crouching and ready to fight. It's the Widow. He curses himself for getting lost enough to let her sneak up on him.
“Оставьте меня в покое!” He snarls at her. She arches one eyebrow but doesn't back away.
“Давно не виделись,” she replies dryly. “Why don't you speak English? You're American. The American, from what I hear.”
“отвали,” he spits. She laughs at him.
“Well,” she says, apparently determined not to speak Russian to him, “you may not remember, but we've already done that.”
His eyes widen. He definitely does not remember that. Maybe that's why he admires her. He doesn't know how to respond to that and he's angry again that she has the upper hand. He wants to pick up the newspaper photo and leave—he knows he can get past her, despite her skill—but he doesn't want her to know about it. He doesn't want her to know he has a weakness.
“Steve saved my life here, you know,” she tells him conversationally. He feels his brow furrow. What's her endgame? Is she distracting him so Rogers has time to get there? But that's ridiculous; it will be hours still until Rogers' plane even lands. “HYDRA sent a bogey after us. He jumped down the hatch and blocked me with his shield.”
He doesn't understand the feeling welling up in him. Not surprise, that's for sure. Annoyance, he's familiar with that one. But there's something else, something warm that starts in his stomach and rises up to his chest.
“He saves a lot of people,” she continues, and then looks him straight in the eye. He glares at her.
“I'm not going back to him,” he says, his English a little rusty and his voice more so.
“I don't see why not. You're done with this mission, aren't you?” She juts her chin at the filing cabinets.
“I can take care of myself,” he growls. “I don't need him.”
“Did you ever think he needs you?” She asks softly. He scoffs.
“He doesn't need me,” he insists. “He's not helpless. He's doing fine without me.”
“Is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night? He's not helpless, sure, but he's not doing fine without you, especially not now that he knows you're alive. It was bad enough when you were dead, but the possibility of you is driving him crazy.”
“I don't sleep at night,” he mutters before he realizes he's saying it. The look she gives him is one he's seen on a few (very few) HYDRA agents' faces: pity. It makes him angry. He doesn't want pity; he wants his life back. He snatches up the grainy photo from the floor and takes a step toward the door behind her.
“I'm leaving,” he says. “Don't follow me.”
“I won't,” she says, and he actually believes her. “I've been where you are. I know you need time to find yourself. I just want you to consider coming back when you're ready. Steve does need you, and I think you need him. Not to survive,” she adds when he opens his mouth to protest, furious. “To make life better.”
“Can't get any worse,” he says before disappearing.
He goes back to the abandoned house in DC and pores over the photo. He gets more pieces of memory every day. A skinny set of shoulders beneath his arm, the sound of a painful wheeze in the middle of the night, warmth and laughter no matter the weather. Someone calling him Jim despite his protests, laughter in the dark over something someone mumbled, bathing in a river and shrieking over the cold. A wooden spoon across his knuckles for cursing, tying a ribbon in a little girl's hair, ducking his head obediently for the prayer over dinner.
These are memories of his life as Bucky, he knows. They make his stomach hurt in a way entirely different from vomiting or going hungry. They make his breaths ragged and his chest tight. He knows Rogers isn't in DC anymore. He knows Rogers went to New York to live with his new team. He knows Rogers gave up on finding him and something about that is incongruous, sits heavy in his mind. Doesn't make sense, something tells him. Rogers doesn't give up.
But maybe he does on you, another voice, a sinister voice that might have Zola's accent, sneers. He never looked for you after you fell off the train.
“He didn't know I was alive,” he says aloud, pounding a fist on the ground and sending a few rats skittering. He forces himself to stop brooding aimlessly. He takes stock. He's uninjured, he's sheltered. He's not exactly clean but there's a stream a few miles from the house where he's been washing. He doesn't have any soap. He's almost out of food.
The next day, he slinks around DC, picking pockets. Something inside him hates doing that, hates taking money off people who earned it, but he deliberately chooses only people in fancy suits and, if he sees it, who are rude to the people serving them. He is considering his next target when a shadow falls over his boots and he looks up to see a man with general's stars on his shoulders.
“Hi,” the man says cheerfully. He doesn't respond. “I think you should walk with me.”
He's considering the best plan of escape—knocking the general over would attract too much attention, so slinking into the crowd is probably a better idea—when the general smiles and surreptitiously slips something into his palm.
“From a mutual friend,” the general says, snapping off a salute that makes his hand, of its own accord, rise to his temple. The general melts away into the crowd. He looks into his hand and sees a folded piece of paper, which he opens to find the looping script he somehow knows is Rogers'.
I'm in Stark Tower in Manhattan, the paper reads.
That's all there is. He frowns and flips it over to find a DC address and the name Colonel James Rhodes written in different handwriting. Here to help if you want it.
He waits until nightfall and climbs in a window. The colonel is in the kitchen. “You don't like front doors?”
“How do you know Rogers?” He asks, ignoring the question. The colonel—Rhodes—sets down his fork.
“I know him through Tony Stark. I've known Tony a long time and now he works with Steve.”
“Iron Man,” he mutters. “Howard?”
“Howard's son,” Rhodes says, more cautious now. “You knew Howard in the War?”
He ignores the question again. “Why did Rogers put you up to this?”
Rhodes looks at him for a long time. “I spend a lot of time in DC. I'm someone you don't have any history with.” Rhodes shrugs. “He just wanted someone to look out for you.”
“I can take care of myself,” he snarls, the same words he'd said to the Widow. Rhodes goes back to eating.
“That's what he told me. He just thought you might like some backup if anything goes south.” He starts to head back to the window and pauses when Rhodes calls, “Door's always open. Or window, as the case may be.”
He tails Rhodes for a few days, wanting to make sure there's no threat there. Rhodes spends a frankly horrifying amount of time in meetings. He hears his name come up in one.
“And what of the speculation that this Winter Soldier is Captain America's Sergeant Barnes?” A sour-faced man with a mustache asks.
“Seems a little far-fetched,” Rhodes says calmly. “Both of them frozen for seventy years?”
He goes back to Rhodes' kitchen, through the same window. It's unlocked this time. There's a plate of food on the table that he eyes.
“Help yourself,” Rhodes says. “You like curry?”
He doesn't answer. He doesn't know what curry is or if he likes it. He mostly eats protein bars; cheap, so he can buy a lot with his (stolen) money, but packed with nutrients he needs. He watches Rhodes carefully. He doesn't think the food will be poisoned; he feels hesitant to trust anyone, but at the same time feels a tug toward trusting anyone Steve—Rogers trusts.
He takes a hesitant bite. It's spicy and flavorful and his eyes water a little. He's not sure he likes it but it's chicken and he hasn't had meat in weeks.
“You know,” Rhodes' voice is casual, easy, and it sets him on alert. “I'm going to Manhattan tomorrow.”
He pushes the plate away and turns to leave.
“You don't have to stay in Manhattan. Just see him.” Rhodes gives up the casual game. “He's not doing very well without you.”
“He can make it on his ow,” he says defensively.
“He can,” Rhodes agrees. “But I think he'd like it better with you there.”
He leaves through the window and doesn't go back.
He does make his way back to Manhattan, but not with Rhodes, and he doesn't go to Stark Tower. It is summer, so he sleeps under a bridge like so many others. Something in his head insists he share the protein bars with those around him, even though giving up his resources is illogical. He does it. He likes the idea of doing something the Winter Soldier never would.
He hesitantly starts thinking of himself as Barnes. When one of the other squatters asks his name, he says James. He doesn't give a last name and no one asks.
“Tomorrow the doctor's coming,” one of the bridge-dwellers tells him. “He takes care of us.”
He starts to sweat slightly. He can't remember any good experiences with doctors; he has his memories of Zola, obviously terrible, but he also has hazy memories of being shooed out of a white-walled room by an angry doctor and feeling incredibly resentful.
“The doc's real nice,” another camper chips in. “Doesn't treat us like we're scum just 'cause we don't got houses like other people.”
I could have a house, he thinks. I could live in a mansion. He wonders what they'd think if they knew he has options. But, he reflects, some of them have similar situations, family asking them to come home and live on terms they don't agree with. He's not sure what terms Steve would give him, but the thought of facing Steve makes his stomach clench.
The doc comes the next day, as promised, and Barnes lurks around a corner, out of sight. This doctor doesn't seem to be causing anyone harm. He sets a woman's hand that she broke in a fight. He cleans a wound on a man's foot he got from walking barefoot. He comes bearing a box of clothes and shoes and food and books. Barnes slinks out, feeling drawn to the books, and thinks in his life as Bucky he might've liked reading.
“Hi.” The doctor smiles at him and he hunches his shoulders. “You're new around here, right?”
Barnes shrugs. In a manner of speaking, he could be new here. Really, though, he's less new around here than the doctor. He picks through the books and something in his brain delights over The Complete Works of Isaac Asimov. He doesn't know how he knows the name, but he thinks he's read some before.
“Asimov fan, huh?” The doc keeps trying and Barnes feels, distantly, an appreciation for stubbornness. “That came from a friend of mine. He's pretty into science fiction.”
“Pulp magazines,” Barnes murmurs to himself, remembering now where he's read these stories. The doc raises his eyebrows slightly but doesn't otherwise comment.
“Do you need a doctor for anything?” He asks. Barnes considers showing the arm just to scare him, but the doctor has kind eyes and Barnes doesn't like scaring good people. He doesn't doubt this doctor is a good person; he's out amongst a crowd most people look away from, bringing help and entertainment.
“I am functional,” he says accidentally. He does his best not to talk about himself like a machine these days but sometimes it still slips out.
“Okay.” The doctor smiles at him again. “But are you comfortable?”
Barnes snorts a little and looks back at the encampment. His bed is a patch of dirt not covered by rocks. Still, it's not the most uncomfortable he's ever been. The doctor laughs a little, ruefully, and holds out a small card.
“If you ever need anything, you can find me here,” he says. Barnes glances down and sees the address listed is Stark Tower. He drops the card and starts backing away.
“Wait.” The doc holds up a hand. “Please. I won't tell Steve you're here if you don't want me to.”
“How did you find me?” He demands.
“I didn't come here because I knew you'd be here,” the doctor promises. “I really do come every week. I had no idea you'd be here.”
“How did you know who I was?”
“Steve told us everything that happened. We all saw the news. And, uh, you know, we all grew up learning about you in school.”
Barnes wrinkles his brow. “Why?”
The doctor chuckles. “You're an American war hero.”
“I'm a traitor,” Barnes says bitterly. “Everything about me is a lie. Even my death.”
The doctor is quiet for a long time, pursing his lips. “You weren't a traitor,” he finally says softly, then adds, “Not by choice.”
“What does that matter?”
“Choices mean a lot.” The doc looks momentarily haunted. “Our choices are sometimes all we have left.”
“I can't go to him,” Barnes says, looking at his muddy boots. “I—I can't.”
“That's okay,” the doctor says. “I understand staying away. I do. Just promise you won't run forever?”
“I don't make promises.”
“From what I've heard, you made Steve a few.” The doctor smiles again, looking sad. “I'm just saying, he's waiting. He's in Stark Tower and he's not going to leave anytime soon, because he's hoping you'll come when you're ready.”
Barnes doesn't know what to say, so he turns and leaves. He doesn't know if the doctor gets his message; he turned his back, which is a sign of trust rather than dismissal. He picks up the card as he walks away. Dr. Bruce Banner.
He likes the park. It is open enough to breathe but crowded enough not to feel suffocating in its space. There are usually dogs there. He finds he likes dogs. There are also children there, and something about seeing children makes him wistful. Seeing little girls reminds him that he had sisters, when he was Bucky. He wonders what ever happened to them. Seeing two young boys playing together reminds him of a boy with a fragile body and too much fight, a literal heart that wasn't strong but a figurative one that was. He's learned not to lurk around the playground; he gets distrustful looks when he does, so he sits on a bench halfway between the playground and the sidewalk and watches people go about their daily business.
A dog runs up to him and he tenses. He likes watching dogs, but he has some memories of snarling guard dogs and a few well-placed bullets he'd shot. He doesn't think it's a good idea for dogs to get too close to him.
This dog is missing an eye and sniffs him eagerly. He can't imagine the smell is good—he still sleeps under the bridge, and he only bathes when he goes to the free showers at the shelter he avoids. A blond man comes running over, out of breath. He has a bandage across his nose.
“Hi,” he says breathlessly. “Sorry this dog's bothering you.”
“Is it yours?” Barnes asks.
“Nah, he just stays with me.”
Barnes blinks, a little confused, but doesn't say anything. The dog licks his hand and the blond man tugs at the dog's fur.
“Come on, Lucky,” he insists. “Leave him alone.” Lucky huffs and promptly lies down across Barnes' boots. The man cringes.
“Aw, dog, no,” he says. He apologizes for “this dog” again.
“I don't mind,” Barnes says, and he doesn't.
“He'll get up soon,” the man promises. “Hopefully.”
Barnes doesn't know if he's supposed to respond to that, so he doesn't. They sit in silence for a few more minutes, the only sound Lucky's sniffling breaths as he chews on Barnes' shoelace.
“You live around here?” The man asks. Barnes examines him from the corner of his eye, pretending to watch a pigeon terrorize a group of teenagers having a picnic.
“Yes,” he says finally after he determines the man likely means no harm. But he doesn't offer more.
“Me, too,” the man supplies, even though Barnes didn't ask. “Brooklyn, actually.”
The word makes Barnes' spine stiffen. He knows he lived in Brooklyn. He knows Brooklyn is Steve's home, too.
“Never been there,” he says. It's not necessarily a lie. He hasn't in this life.
“It's nice,” the man offers. “I'm Clint.”
Barnes hesitates and decides against offering his name. It seems too dangerous, this man from Brooklyn knowing his name. He nods but says nothing.
“Look, I'm not going to play the con anymore,” Clint says suddenly. “I'm an Avenger.”
Barnes can't stand up because the dog has, seemingly, fallen asleep across his feet and the idea of harshly pushing an innocent dog seems terrible. It's laughably ridiculous considering the crimes he's committed.
“I didn't follow you here,” Clint says. “None of us are actively looking for you, but Bruce told us he saw you.”
“He said he wouldn't,” Barnes mutters.
“He didn't tell Steve.” Clint is quiet, assessing, for a minute. “Steve doesn't talk about you as much anymore. When he first moved to the Tower, I think he mentioned you every other sentence. It's been three months. He's starting to get discouraged.”
“He doesn't get discouraged,” Barnes says, but then he gets a flash of a small body lying in bed saying he's too tired to keep fighting.
“He pretends not to,” Clint counters, and Barnes' head says yes, that's right.
“He shouldn't hope for me,” Barnes says quietly. Clint takes a deep breath.
“I was under mind control once,” he admits. “Just for a few days. And I felt like I shouldn't be around anyone good for a long time. Felt like I'd make 'em dirty.”
Barnes feels his eyes getting hot and ignores it.
“You can't change what happened to you. You can only keep going from this point on.”
“Profound,” Barnes snaps sarcastically. “If you know anything about me you know it was more than mind control and more than a few days.”
“I do know,” Clint says. “I'm just saying, Cap didn't hold it against me and he didn't even know me. There's no way he's going to be anything other than happy to see you again. He misses you.”
Barnes nudges the dog gently, prompting him to make a very annoyed sounding whuff and stand up. Barnes stands up, too.
“Tell your team to stop,” he says. “Stop following me. Stop trying to get me to come back.”
“We're not following you,” Clint says. “We're really not. But I don't think any of us are going to stop trying to get you to come back. Cap misses you and he's not going to do it himself.”
“He gave up,” Barnes hears himself murmur before he can stop. Clint tilts his head.
“He said he's giving you the dignity of your choice.”
Tears sting against his eyes again. “Maybe the rest of you should, too.” He leaves the park and doesn't go back.
The problem is, winter is coming on, and he's still sleeping under a bridge every night. He asks one of his new companions, a guy who calls himself Jeremy, what happens in the winter and gets a blank stare in return.
“Same thing that happens in the summer, 'cept it's a fuckton colder.”
“But...don't you worry about freezing to death?” Barnes asks. He remembers a man freezing to death during the winter of '30 and his mother forbidding him to go outside until the body had been cleared away. He had, of course, sneaked out and he and Steve had seen their first dead body. He'd thrown up and Steve had nearly fainted.
Jeremy shrugs. “Happens to a few every winter,” he says, unconcerned.
Barnes feels a distinct distaste at the idea of freezing to death. He detests the cold, already nipping at his extremities in the night, and dreams of being put in cryo more and more as the temperature drops. He doesn't want to die, he realizes in a rush.
But he doesn't want to go to Steve, either.
It's more than just Clint's idea that he feels guilty and dirty, that he'll taint Steve. It's true; he does feel that. But it's also a certain...pride, he thinks. He doesn't want to go back to Steve, tail between his legs, because winter came on and he had no other options. He is resourceful. He is a superspy. He doesn't need help.
He goes to the shelter with Jeremy and showers and shaves. Jeremy always offers to cut his hair and he always refuses. He trusts Jeremy enough to sleep a few feet from him but not with a sharp object near his head.
“Sometimes in the winter I go home to my mom when it's really cold,” Jeremy admits softly as they walk back to the bridge. Barnes looks at him, surprised.
“You have a mom?”
Jeremy nods, staring straight ahead. “She's, uh...she's got some problems with me. But when it's really cold she lets me in.”
“She doesn't let you in when it's not cold?” That feels wrong in Barnes' stomach; that's not what mothers are supposed to do. Mothers are supposed to scold you and tease you and whack you every now and again when you're getting mouthy, but they're also supposed to slip you the biggest piece of chicken and an extra slice of pie and rub your back when you're sick.
Jeremy shrugs. “Things aren't so good with me and my mom. I'm lucky she lets me in a few nights in the winter.”
“The doc doesn't help?”
“He's never been here in the winter. He's already talking about what we're going to do. He's bringing blankets this week and he said he'd talk to his rich friend about some housing options,” Jeremy says this with air quotes audible, an eyebrow raised dubiously. “I've met some rich people who wanted to help, but none of them wanted to help enough to give us somewhere to sleep.”
Barnes wonders if Steve will hear the conversation Dr. Banner will be having with his rich friend, who must be Tony Stark. If Steve hears it, it'll be game over. He'll cram every last one of them in whatever sleeping quarters Stark set up for him. Barnes smiles a little at the thought. Like with everything else, he has no specific memory to back it up, but it's just something he knows clear down to his bones.
“I got a friend looking for me,” Barnes admits, since Jeremy had offered information. He's relearning conversation and this is something he's noticed—one person says something, and the other says something comparable.
“Yeah? Bad news? We can keep a lookout for you.”
Barnes wants to laugh at the idea of needing help to hide, but instead smiles at Jeremy's willingness to help. “Not bad news. He's...” Barnes licks his lips, unsure. “He's good. I'm the bad news.”
Jeremy nods, taking this in stride. Unlike Steve's friends, Jeremy doesn't try to argue with him. “I feel that, man. I've had some friends like that. Think they're too good for me.”
Barnes feels a flash of annoyance. Steve doesn't think he's too good for anyone. “He doesn't think he's too good for me.” He doesn't know why it's suddenly so important to explain this. “He wants me to come back. He—I did bad things. A lot of bad things. And I...” He's starting to sweat and he's not sure why. Talking about Steve is difficult. “I'm bad. I could hurt him.”
Jeremy wrinkles his brow. “Wait. You did bad things and he still wants you to come back, but you won't?”
“I'm bad,” Barnes repeats, slower in case Jeremy missed it the first time. Jeremy waves a hand dismissively.
“First day you got here you were already sharing,” he points out. “But that's not the point here. The point is, bad or good, this guy wants you to come back, yeah?”
“I'm not who he thinks I am. I'm—I'm not who I was when he knew me. And he thinks I'm still...who I was.”
Jeremy kicks a rock. “Drugs?”
Barnes shrugs, a little frustrated. Drugs had been involved, he supposes, but that's not really the problem. But he can't exactly say murder, complete and attempted, now can he?
“I left 'cause my mom does drugs. She's still got her house, but when she's high she's just awful. But if she came to me and said she wanted to change, I'd help her.”
“You don't understand,” Barnes practically yells. He walks away from Jeremy angrily. “It's none of your business anyway.”
“You're the one who brought it up!” Jeremy calls after him. He keeps walking.
It happens at the train station. Barnes has not actually gotten on a train since awakening. He doesn't remember it, but he knows how he “died” the first time. (Or was it the second?) The train makes him feel clammy and panicked. But he can sit on the benches there and not get funny looks; no one wonders why he's there. Snow is starting to fall and he's shivering. He's wearing a heavy jacket Dr. Banner had brought, and for the first time he wonders where the clothes come from. Steve had donated the book; was this once Steve's coat? He likes to think it is when he wraps it tightly around himself.
He pulls the newspaper clipping from his pocket and stares at it with his eyes out of focus. He's got every last ink dot memorized by now. He just likes seeing Steve's face. He remembers a lot now. He remembers teaching Steve to shave. He remembers going dancing and Steve spending the whole night holding up the wall. He remembers the shock of Steve's new body, bigger than him for the first time in their lives.
“Bucky?” He hears, and a little shock goes through his whole body. It's Steve. He sounds like someone knocked the wind out of him and Barnes feels the same way. He turns slowly. He should get up and run. He should leave right away. But he's weak, and he wants to see Steve. He misses him, he thinks.
He turns and looks at Steve, drinks in the angular jaw he sees in his dreams at night, the hair styled differently than he used to wear it when Barnes was Bucky. Steve takes a step closer and stops. It's the closest they've been since Barnes almost killed Steve.
“Are you okay?” He asks. “I'm not gonna beg you to come back with me, Buck, I promise, but please, just tell me. Are you safe?”
Barnes stares at him and he feels like he's going to cry. He remembers crying on Steve before, a hundred childhood heartbreaks cried out over Steve's skinny shoulder and then, later, fear and nightmares bleeding together and spilling over onto Steve's broad chest. He suddenly wants to bury his face in the crook of Steve's neck, the way his body remembers, and cry.
“I am functional,” he whispers for lack of a better response, and Steve's face screws up as if he's in pain.
“Functional isn't good enough,” he responds. He takes another step forward. Bucky—Barnes—is torn between wanting him to stay back and wanting to close the distance himself.
“I...” He doesn't know what to say.
“Been leaving my window open every night,” Steve tells him. “Just in case.”
“You shouldn't,” Barnes says automatically. “That's not safe. Catch your death in this cold.”
Steve's got tears clinging to those ridiculous lashes but he smiles a little. “So could you.”
“Steve,” Barnes murmurs, and a tear spills over Steve's eyelid at the sound of his own name. “I can't.”
“Okay.” He drags a hand across his nose. “You don't have to. It's up to you. I just—Buck, I worry about you. Please, just let me...” He takes a deep breath. “Will you let me give you money?”
“No,” Barnes says angrily. “I can take care of myself.” His voice is shaking.
“I know you can.” Steve nods. “I know. But you've been alone a long time now.”
“I'm not alone. I got people.”
Hurt flashes across Steve's face before he hides it again and it surprises Barnes. Hurt that he's with other people but not Steve? His body is screaming at him to go with Steve. Steve is safe. Steve is warm. Steve is home.
“You missed your train,” Barnes says as a train pulls away. Steve hasn't taken his eyes of Barnes' face the whole time.
“Don't care,” he says with a shrug. “Another one will come. Where you going, Buck?” Bucky gives him a look and he holds up his hands in resignation. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. You don't have to tell me. You don't have to—I'm going to go. Is that what you want?”
No. “Yes,” he forces himself to say. He tries to ignore the way Steve's face twists before he turns away. Just before he disappears into the crowd, Steve turns back.
“Take care of yourself,” he says, and it sounds like a plea, like a prayer.
“I will,” Bucky promises, and then the crowd swallows Steve up. Bucky panics suddenly. He's not supposed to lose track of Steve. He's supposed to make sure Steve's okay. Steve wasn't okay just then. Steve's hurt. Bucky can't let Steve be hurt.
He makes himself stay on the bench instead of chasing Steve down. He has no doubt he could find him. He stays on the bench for hours, perched in one position like he's on a stake out. He falls into a stupor, suddenly apathetic about everything. When night falls, he lets his feet carry him where they will. He should have known better. He ends up at Stark Tower.
How am I supposed to know which window is Steve's? He wonders.
Doesn't matter, another part of him shoots back. You don't get to go there.
He stares up at the Tower for a long time. Steve wants him there. He's always been able to read Steve like a book and the want was written all over Steve's face. And he feels, in his bones, in his heart, in his stomach, it's his job to get Steve what he wants. The fact that it's what he wants too is a bonus.
Well. Steve said his window would be open. Right? Bucky can find the open window. Except Steve said he was keeping his window open. What if no windows are open now? Not being a machine anymore is exhausting.
He starts scaling the side of Stark Tower and feels like the air is too thin. The sides are sleek and slippery and his body remembers the sensation of falling all too well. He knows Steve's room will be near the top—has he had specs of this building before? He doesn't know. All he knows is his hands are clinging tightly to every hold he can find.
And then, when he's starting to despair, he sees it. An open window. He wants to cry. Two stories above him. He gets there easily, looking up instead of down. He pulls himself up but out of sight, wanting to look through the window first to be sure.
There's Steve, star-fished across the bed the way Bucky remembers. Even when his whole body didn't take up the bed, he slept that way, taking up more space than he had any right to. Bucky climbs through the window silently and kneels beside the bed, just staring for a little while. He wants to crawl in beside Steve. He wants to wind himself around Steve the way he used to. He wants to cling to Steve. But he can't. He shouldn't. He's not allowed.
He's filthy, really, figuratively and literally. He doesn't want to dirty Steve's bed. But it's warm, so warm in the room, and he's tired, all his adrenaline draining to leave him drooping and hollow. He lets himself lean his head against the bed and ends up falling asleep.
He wakes up the instant something touches him. He snarls and finds his feet, but the awkward position he'd fallen asleep in left them numb and useless. He topples to the ground and forces himself onto his hands and knees, still ready to fight, ripping a lamp from the bedside table to use as a weapon.
“Buck, it's me!” Steve says, and Bucky stops completely, frozen like the cryo kicked in. “Sorry I freaked you out. I was—I just thought about running my fingers through your hair. It used to help you sleep and you were...you were talking.”
“What was I saying?” He asks warily.
Steve's eyes flick to the side, like he's going to lie, but then they settle on Bucky's face and he frowns. “You weren't speaking English,” he finally says. It's not a lie, but it doesn't answer the question. Bucky shakes his head.
“Sorry,” he says, not entirely sure why he's apologizing. “For coming in here.”
“'S why the window was open,” Steve points out. His hand twitches but he sets it back on the bed. “I'm glad you came.”
“I shouldn't have,” Bucky protests. “I broke your lamp.” He'd clamped down with the metal fingers too hard and was left holding only shards. Steve shrugs.
“I don't care,” he says simply. “Break a thousand.”
They stare at each other for a long time, neither saying a word. “What if I break you?” Bucky finally whispers. Steve bites his lip, rubs a hand along the back of his neck.
“I'm pretty tough,” he says, and Bucky can't take it anymore. He drops the shards of broken lamp and launches himself into Steve's arms, and Steve, of course, of course, catches him. They still fall back onto the bed a little, all finesse going out the window, but so what?
“Missed ya, Buck,” Steve murmurs into his hair.
“You gave up,” Bucky accuses. “You quit looking for me.” Steve sucks in a quick breath and pushes Bucky back a little so he can look him in the face.
“Figured you didn't want to be found and you'd come to me if you ever wanted. You haven't gotten a lot of choices the last few...decades.”
Bucky ducks his head, ashamed he'd said it. He knows Steve wouldn't abandon him. Steve dropped his shield, ready to let Bucky kill him, because he wouldn't fight him.
“I'm sorry I let you fall,” Steve whispers. “I'm sorry I didn't look for you.”
Bucky shakes his head and pulls Steve close again, hooks his chin over Steve's shoulder. “You didn't know. You couldn't know. You couldn't've stopped Schmidt if you were looking for me.”
“Didn't actually do any good anyway,” Steve says bitterly. “Least they wouldn't have had you.”
Bucky doesn't know how to respond to that. “Well,” he starts awkwardly. “We're both here now.”
Steve's arms tighten around him and he thinks he'd like to bottle the feeling. “We are,” Steve agrees. “You staying long?”
“Long as you'll have me,” Bucky tells Steve's shoulder.
“Oh, good,” Steve says, a smile in his voice. “Forever, then.”
And Bucky holds onto Steve and Steve holds onto Bucky and Bucky thinks to himself—yeah. Forever sounds alright.