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You’re appalled when Steve Rogers brings you home. After all that you’ve done, after all the hurt you’ve caused and the way you’ve dragged him down, he still brings you back home. The old brownstone seems bigger as you ascend the front steps, the apartment seeming bigger still. You look around at how clean it is, how bright, and then you look down at the bruises on your wrists and the blood that covers your hands. It always covers your hands.
“I’m sorry.” You whisper.
Steve Rogers doesn’t answer. He locks himself in the bathroom. The shower turns on. You wait for him to come back, but he never does, not until after you’ve fallen asleep. You don't see him come into your room or pull the blanket under your chin. You lay in a subconscious misery and listen as the Bucky Barnes that died weeps for what you've done.
It's a couple of days later before the silence in the apartment is broken. You wake up to voices and the hairs on the back of your neck prickle. Your hand immediately goes to the knife hidden beneath your pillow.
"Have you got a fucking death wish?" You hear Steve's friend Sam hiss.
"He's my friend."
"He's not. Not anymore. You're lucky he hasn't killed you yet. You'd deserve it too, you goddamn idiot."
"He told me he's not going to hurt me."
"Oh, well that makes all the difference, doesn't it?"
You peek around the bedroom door and watch as Steve rolls his eyes. Your lips quirk up into a smile at that and your eyes bug out in shock the moment you realise what you've done. You don't smile. Bucky Barnes smiled. But never you.
"Look, I can't just throw him out on the streets. He's dangerous. At least here I can keep an eye on him. I can keep him under control."
Sam's eyebrows rise high on his forehead. "He's like a frightened wild animal, Steve. You can't control him for shit. I've seen the way that guy fights, and no offence, but if he really wants to take you down, he will."
"I can hold my own, Sam." Steve says stubbornly.
"I know, pal. But maybe not against him. Everyone has a weak spot. He's yours."
Steve Rogers drops his head in his hands and you feel as your throat closes up. You're his weak spot and your knees are trembling and your eyes are stinging with tears that will never come and you think about the way Bucky Barnes must have felt looking at his best friend in such a state and you think, maybe, you feel it too. You hurt too.
You want to set Steve free. You sit on the kitchen counter eating your cereal and stare at the television from out of the corner of your eye. You watch Steve get thrown against a building by some silver, robot, alien-like thing, watch him fall heavily to the floor, and then stagger to his feet again, his fists lifting. He looks determined, but you know Steve Rogers, and you can see the misery underlying every movement and every grimace on his face. The crunching of the cereal is loud inside your head and you swing your legs back and forth, kicking against the counter with your sock clad feet. You can't bear to concentrate on the news fully, scared that Steve will get seriously hurt without you there to help him. Then you remember that he probably wouldn't want your help anyway and suddenly your appetite disappears. You hurt his friend, you hurt him. You're not good enough. You can only destroy. That's what your hands are made for. You're not good like Steve Rogers, like Bucky Barnes. No. You're something else.
A loud explosion goes off and you hop off the counter and dump what's left of your breakfast in the sink. You slide to the floor and wrap your arms around your legs, count down from ten and squeeze your eyes shut. He'll be fine. Steve always gets back up.
He gives you a book. You walk back from the bathroom and it's set down on your mattress. You pick it up. American Psycho. You laugh.
You spend most of your time in your room. It's a decent sized space, painted white with hard-wood flooring and high ceilings like the rest of the apartment. The bed is large, and it's a tight squeeze now that the mattress is on the floor beside it. You've pushed it against the large window and you look up at the overcast sky, watch as the grey clouds move slowly with the wind. You roll onto your stomach and reach out until your hand is flat against the window, your fingers and palm immediately turning damp from the condensation. When you remove it, you watch as the water drips down from the clear handprint you have made. You're shocked when you touch your face and find similar droplets on your cheeks. Perhaps you are capable after all.
"Coffee, Buck?" Steve asks you on a morning several weeks later. It's the first time he's spoken to you and you fumble for your own words.
"Yes, please." You manage. It comes out strangled, but you smile a little just the same. You spoke. He spoke.
"Bucky took it black. Do you? Do you take it black, Buck?" He asks. His voice is very pointed and you can do nothing but nod your head. You're not Bucky Barnes, you're sure of it. You feel something break away deep inside and you choke on it quietly. You take a sip of the coffee that Steve slides across the table, some of the liquid sloshing over the side, and it is bitter and heady and you think it tastes a little bit like a forgiveness that he shouldn't be ready to give you yet.
"You okay, Buck?"
You nod, but your head hurts, and your heart's a mess.
"You sure?"
"Why do you call me that?"
"It's your name." Steve says, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion.
"I'm not him. I'm not your friend."
Something in Steve's jaw twitches, but he doesn't move, doesn't say a single thing.
"Bucky Barnes died when he fell off that train."
Steve nods. "Okay. So, what shall I call you?"
"I don't know." You whisper. You stare down at the black steaming liquid and feel the back of your neck go hot with shame.
"Can I call you James?"
You think about it. That's Bucky Barnes' name too. But you're not Bucky, and you're not the asset, and Bucky was never really James, so maybe you can be. "Okay."
He gives you a book called The Shock of the Fall. You read it in a day and wonder what Steve Rogers was thinking when he gave it to you.
You stumble into the living room in the middle of the night, your hair mussed from where you've been running your fingers through it and pulling at it in your frustration. You can't sleep and it is driving you insane. You may have liked the silence and the darkness before, but now it just feels oppressive. You don't want to be left alone with your thoughts. You're surprised when you find Steve curled up on the couch with a sketchbook perched on his lap, his charcoal moving quickly across the page.
"Can't sleep either?" He asks without looking up.
"No."
Steve makes a clucking sound. "I'm tired as fuck."
You laugh without humour. "Me too."
"D'ya wanna go out? There's a diner around the corner?"
"Sure."
You slip into your old worker's boots and throw your hoodie over your head before following Steve out the door. You stare up at the sky as if it's the first time you've ever seen it. It's been a few months since you last left the apartment and the fresh air feels like a drug. You hate that this time is limited, that you'll be shut away again before long, so you take deep breaths and let your eyes take in everything they possibly can; you want to commit it to memory. You know there's a reason why you're kept inside, that you're still a threat, that Steve Rogers doesn't really want to keep you hostage. He does it because he's a hero, because it's his job. You don't blame him.
The diner is a bit of a dive, but the smells are wonderful. Greasy bacon and fried eggs. Coffee and strawberry milkshakes. It's two in the morning, but there's still about six people sat in there. Steve slides into a booth with red leather seats and picks up the menu. You copy him and look at it blankly, overwhelmed by the number of choices. When the waitress comes over, Steve orders pancakes with a side of bacon. You feel a little sick, so you just order a coffee.
"You sure? You can have whatever you want." Steve says.
"No thank you. Just coffee."
Steve hums and stares at you with narrowed eyes.
"What?"
"Bucky never would've turned down the offer of food. It's weird, seeing his face on somebody else."
You nod. You can't imagine what it must be like. What it would be like if Steve was no longer Steve, but still walked around with his face like a mask. "I'm sorry."
"I know you are." He says, trying for a smile. It falls flat.
Your coffee comes and you stare into it intently. You can't look at Steve anymore, not when he looks so suddenly heartbroken. You know you've disappointed him, that you'll always disappoint him. He'll never be able to accept you. Not as this thing, whatever it is. You're not Bucky Barnes, and Steve Rogers hates you for it. He thought he'd gotten his friend back, but instead he'd been given you. You are not who you're supposed to be. Steve Rogers has mourned his friend twice over now and you can only watch as the pain continues to cripple him. He doesn't sleep. He rarely eats. He just watches as you move around the apartment, a look of confusion and sadness on his face. It hurts you too. You watch him too.
Things get better, just as they'd gotten worse before. You listen to Steve's comings and goings, talk when he can actually stand to look at you. You hide away in your bedroom when Steve's not there and try to hang on to that thread that's still somehow keeping you together. Steve leaves often and you're shocked to find that you miss him. You feel Bucky Barnes' yearning and worry pulling from deep inside and you listen and you feel and you think you're more of a person then than you've been in a long time. Steve Rogers, as always, has become the very point you revolve around. The end to your beginning.
"What's that?" You ask when Steve walks through the door. In his hand is a clear bag filled halfway with water, a small goldfish swimming around in circles inside it. He's been gone for a few weeks and this isn't what you were expecting when you'd imagined his return.
"A fish." Steve replies seriously.
"Why do you have a fish?"
"I thought you might like to have something to look after, since you're always in the apartment."
"I'm only here because you won't let me leave by myself."
Steve sighs almost long-sufferingly. You can't blame him. He's got a lifetime's worth of shit to complain about and you're that one hurdle he just can't climb his way over. You keep him trapped down in the dirt, watch as he almost escapes only to trap him and pull him back down again. "You attacked Clint, James. It's either this or I take you to Shield."
You nod slowly. You know. You do. You've got nowhere to go anyway, no one to see, but you hate feeling caged. You always seem to be in a goddamn cage. "What am I going to do with a fish? They don't do anything."
Steve stares at the bag as if it's his first time seeing it and shrugs nonchalantly. "Feed it. Clean the tank out."
"Do we even have a tank for it?"
"No. I thought we could just keep it in a bowl."
"Okay." You say. You don't argue because Steve's hands are shaking and he has a strange look on his face and you think maybe you've done something wrong.
"Steve?" You ask gently.
"Yeah, Bu— James?"
"Thank you. For the fish."
Steve looks at you and smiles. It's weak, but he smiles. He smiles.
The next day Steve comes back with a kitten. You call her Anya and fall in love, even if she does eat the fish.
You sit together on the couch with a box of Chinese take-out in both of your laps. A documentary is playing on low volume on the television, but neither of you are really watching it. It is snowing outside and the white glow makes the apartment seem even brighter than usual. You look over at Steve and notice that he's staring out the window too, but then suddenly he's looking back at you and you don't know what to say.
"You used to love the snow." Steve says. He's smiling, but his voice is painfully sad.
"I remember." You whisper back.
Steve's eyes go wide. "You... remember."
You nod. You don't want him to get his hopes up, to think that this means you're Bucky again, because that's not it at all. You feel different from how you did a couple of months ago. You're no longer slipping back into the asset. No, now you're something else. Not the asset. Not Bucky Barnes either. You're James now.
"What else do you remember?"
"I remember your Ma. I remember going to your house the day after Christmas one year. She gave me a slice of bread and butter pudding that she'd saved 'specially for me because she knew my folks couldn't afford to make one that year."
Steve laughs and it's wet, but also filled with so much joy.
"I wish it made a difference." You say quietly, staring down at your food.
"What?"
"I wish I could be Bucky for you."
Steve lays a hand on your shoulder and a shock runs through you. You haven't had any human contact in so long. "You don't need to be anyone but yourself. Okay? It doesn't matter what you say, what name you go by, you'll always be my Bucky."
You shake your head. "I'm not."
"But you are though. You see this cleft here in your chin? Bucky." He whispers, holding your face gently in his hand. "Your goddamn insistence that you're not good enough, the stoicism? Bucky. I know you've changed. I do. But you're still him, even if not entirely."
Your eyes fill with tears and you turn to stare out the window. "I remember being him, but he doesn't feel like me anymore. I can't—"
"It's okay. You don't have to explain."
"They just took... so... much. Hydra took and took and took." You murmur.
Someone attacks. You wake at the sound of a window latch catching in the living room. It's almost imperceptible, but you have super-soldier hearing. They're stupid to even try creeping around. You sit up and wince at the way Anya digs her claws into your chest. She's grumpy about getting off you, but all too happy to curl up in the spot you just vacated to snuggle into your leftover body heat. You leave your room silently and begin to walk down the corridor, but then you hear something smash and someone struggling and you run. A man in black combat gear has Steve on his back on the floor and you see red. You throw yourself at the intruder, tackle him to the floor, punch him again and again with your metal fist until you feel Steve pull at your other arm.
"Stop, Buck. That's enough. He's out. Come on."
You fall back onto your knees and wipe his blood off your knuckles using your shirt. "Who is he?" You ask.
Steve sighs. "He used to be a Shield agent. He must by Hydra."
You grind your teeth together until you can feel it in your skull. Hydra. They're always coming after you, never letting you find any peace. You should have known.
"I'll call Fury, let him know what happened."
"Are we gonna kill him?"
"We'll push him over the window ledge. If it doesn't kill him, he'll at least have one hell of a headache."
You grin at him and he puts his arm around you. You freeze because you're so shocked, but then you lean into it, starving for his touch. It's been so long. So long. But, a sobering thought hits you. "He's here because of me. I put you in danger."
Steve frowns. "No. He was here for me, not you. He was in the Strike Team. One of Rumlow's lot."
You don't know who Rumlow is, but you hate him with a burning passion anyway.
Steve Rogers is too good. You wake up in a cold sweat, screaming, from a nightmare, and he runs into the room and falls down at your side. You throw your arms around his waist and pull yourself into his lap without thinking, and he strokes your hair as you whimper. He coos at you and rocks you back and forth, says, "It's okay, James. It's okay." But that's not what you want to hear. Not at all.
"Call me Bucky. Please, Stevie." You hiccup.
And then Steve is crying too. And you're both a mess, but it's kind of beautiful in the most bittersweet way possible, and you don't know what you're doing, but all you know is that laying in Steve's arms feels more right than anything else ever has and perhaps you are more like Bucky Barnes than you think.