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“Bucky?” Steve froze on the bridge, starring at him. His eyes were ringed, and his hair long. But it was unmistakably him.
“Who the hell is Bucky,” the voice said tonelessly. And while the words ran through Steve’s head, while he processed it, while the dots slowly connected, Bucky raised a gun and shot him dead in the chest.
Steve fell slowly. The force of the bullet alone was enough to knock him over. But he wasn’t bleeding. A figure stood over him, wearing Bucky’s face. But Bucky didn’t hold is body like that. He didn’t snarl like that. Slowly, Steve’s eyes closed. The bullet was a tranquilliser. A gloved hand slipped under Steve’s neck, and a metal arm went under his knees. The last thing Steve thought was how much he wished it was his Bucky holding him like that.
Steve came to consciousness slowly. He didn’t open his eyes, and kept his breathing even. He let his other senses explore. He was on concrete, sloped against a wall. His hands were cuffed behind his back, and there seemed to be a chain attaching his cuffs to the wall. He was wearing the same clothes, but all of his weapons were gone. Someone was breathing quietly near him. Not too near, but in the same room.
“I know you’re awake,” Bucky’s voice said. “Might as well open your eyes.”
Steve sighed and opened them. Not-Bucky was sitting in a chair on the opposite side of the room. It was small, 10 by 10, with no furnishings other than the chair Not-Bucky was in. An uncovered lightbulb hung from the ceiling, and one wall was bars that lead into a hallway. Not-Bucky observed him, and Steve did the same. Not-Bucky sat up straight, his arms on the armrests of the chair. His left arm was metal.
“Steven Grant Rogers,” Not-Bucky said. “You have been captured by Hydra. You will be contained here until further notice.”
“Bucky,” Steve whispered. “Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. Do you remember?”
“Negative. I am Asset 1. Food will be brought to you once a day. Relieve yourself in the-”
“Stop it,” Steve interrupted. “You knew me. What happened to you?”
Not-Bucky didn’t answer. He got up and unlocked the cage door, and closed it behind him. As he walked down the hallway, Steve could hear him talking to himself.
“I knew him. How did I know him? Negative. Mission… he’s a mission.”
Steve sighed and sat up. He wiggled his hands under him so they were in front of him. The chain attaching the cuffs to the wall was long, 7 or so feet, so Steve stood up. Going by the stiffness of his body, he had only been out for a few hours.
“Hello?” he called. “Is anyone else there?”
No one responded. Of course. His eyes fell on the chair. To his surprise, there was a pad of paper and a pencil. A peace offering.
And so Steve passed the time, doodling and humming old songs. After he drew Not-Bucky, he drew his hands in the cuffs, then the cell. But he kept returning to Not-Bucky. There was something off. Why did he look so different?
“No, that’s not it,” he muttered. “Fine, let’s draw Bucky, then Not-Bucky.”
So Steve turned to a new page and started sketching. First, the rough shape of his face. He knew it well. Then the short hair. The shape of his eyes. The wrinkles. Steve drew him at the same angle with the same expressions, but still, something seemed so different. Even when Steve drew on the long hair, and dirt or whatever it was around his eyes, something was different.
Then it hit him. The skin itself was different. Bucky’s skin was softer, more relaxed. Not-Bucky’s skin was shallow, as if he hadn’t been nourished properly. There were creases on his forehead, but no smile lines. His very eyes were sunken.
“Why did you draw me?” a voice said.
Steve jumped and looked up. The Winter Soldier had appeared in front of the cage. He held a plate of bread and cheese.
“Because I knew you,” Steve answered cautiously.
Not-Bucky opened the cage door and stepped in, placing the food on the ground. He leaned against the wall and closed the door with a slam. They were locked in there together
“Tell me what you remember,” Not-Bucky said.
Steve looked at him. His irises were the same. If he stared at those, just those, he could almost pretend it was his Bucky. The logical voice in his head told him that Not-Bucky was a spy, just gathering information, but the words tumbled out of him anyway.
“We were best friends. I loved you. You loved me. You… you saved me. You kept me alive, and I… helped you. A bit. But then you… we were in the war… and you fell…” he trailed off. Tears were running down his cheeks. When had that happened?
“Fell off a train,” Not-Bucky said. “Lost my arm.”
Steve looked at him. He was slouching slightly, and his eyes were downcast.
“I thought I was done for. I watched a train drive way above me. I wanted to be on it. And then… people came. They saved me. Gave me a new arm… and then-” He broke off abruptly and stood up. “Negative. Information gathered. Food will be brought to you twice a day. Relieve yourself in the drain. You are a prisoner. Food will be brought…” he slammed the door behind him and walked down the hallway, still muttering the instructions.
But for a moment, Steve realised, it wasn’t Not-Bucky. Bucky was still in there. And Bucky was just as caged as he was.