Work Text:
Bucky has a history of remembering things he isn’t supposed to.
He doesn’t remember all the important parts of his life, still forgets people's names sometimes, and zones out mid-conversation, but things he’s not supposed to know? They light up a little part of his psyche called, actually fuck you, and he can’t help but poke at them, like a sore tooth.
So when, at his court-mandated grief circle counselling session, he glances up at the man speaking and sees a face he’s never met before but somehow knows, he’s immediately focused.
They're in a half-lit multipurpose room at the community centre near the far edge of Brooklyn. The coffee is burnt, the room smells like radiator dust, and it’s raining outside.
All that fades away as he looks at this man.
He’s got the kind of face people trust—open, kind, all big brown eyes and a crooked mouth, fluffy brown curls. He’s dressed casually in a butter yellow sweatshirt and jeans that appear to have already lived a full life.
But there’s just something about him.
It’s not a flash bang thing or some sweeping revelation—more like a creeping surety. Like the instinct that tells Bucky when someone’s watching him, or that he’s walking into a trap.
The guy's saying something about his dad, or his job, or maybe his cat—Bucky isn’t listening. He’s too busy cataloguing details: the strong shape of his hands, the faint shadow of a scar under his jaw, the way his leg jiggles nervously as he talks.
Bucky knows him.
And Bucky—who doesn’t remember things he’s supposed to—sits up straighter and starts paying attention. Because maybe this isn’t the kind of thing he isn't supposed to remember, and those are his favourites.
The man looks over at him and falters.
His words catch when their eyes meet. Bucky watches him and doesn’t blink, doesn’t look away.
The guy tries to keep talking, but it’s obvious—he recognizes Bucky.
That’s another thing Bucky is familiar with, having people look at him with recognition in their eyes when he’s got nothing in his brain about them but static. It’s all over this guy in the way his jaw clenches and his eyes keep flicking back to Bucky.
Bitter guilt wells in Bucky’s throat, an old friend. Maybe he did something bad to this kid, or to his family?
Somehow, the kid makes it to the end of whatever story he’d been trying to tell.
"Thank you, Peter," the counsellor says gently.
Peter.
Peter awkwardly nods and leans back in his seat. There’s no fear in those eyes, though, no anger or resentment. If anything, it looks like grief.
Bucky thinks he'll see him again next week, but the chair stays empty.
He dreams about him instead. Dreams, or memories—he isn’t sure. In them, sirens scream in the distance, and adrenaline burns through his veins. Peter is there beside him, a blur of red. A hand cups Bucky’s face, impossibly gentle, and then a soft mouth presses against his own.
Then Peter starts slipping away.
Every day he wakes up with a little less than he had before—the sound of his voice, the shape of his hands, the feeling of his mouth. One day, Bucky wakes and cannot recall the stranger’s name.
He's spent most of his life forgetting things. He's had memories ripped out of him before, torn apart and stitched back together. This feels dangerously familiar.
That face stays, though, haunting Bucky’s dreams even as everything else about him slips away.