Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“That’s a wrap! JARVIS, order us something, would you?” Tony chattered away as the quinjet finally touched down atop Stark Tower, oblivious to the awkwardness choking the jet passengers, “What are we feeling like? Chinese? Japanese? Sudanese?”

Steve pays him no mind as he pulls off his seatbelt and hauls himself out of the jet gracelessly, practically crawling out of his skin with tension. Their latest mission had been an especially tough one, and over the course of two days pretty much everything that could go wrong had gone wrong. They had been vastly outgunned from the start due to out-of-date information, and the black market arms dealer’s base had been much more seriously defended than they had been led to believe. It had all gone downhill from there; with bickering breaking out over whose fault the oversight had been, and the whole thing had ended with Steve throwing his shield just in time to intercept a bullet heading straight for Wanda’s head. Clint’s sarcastic suggestion that she start wearing a helmet on missions had broken the stunned silence that followed her near miss and had started off a whole new round of arguing, much to Steve’s dismay.

As he took the jet steps two at a time, Steve let his thoughts turn to Bucky once again. While he truly was happy that Bucky had remained safe and comfortable back in the tower where he was out of danger, Steve had missed him more fiercely than ever on this mission. When Bucky and Steve fought side by side, they had a sixth sense for each other, not needing to speak to communicate. They moved seamlessly as one unit, a skill honed in the war but developed on the streets of Brooklyn, although that had been less ‘fighting together’ and more ‘Bucky saving Steve’s scrawny ass’. Throughout the war, Bucky had always been meticulous about planning their attacks where Steve had wanted to throw himself headfirst into everything – had he been on the mission with them, he never would have let them walk into a fight so unprepared. Instead, Bucky had been stuck here, having failed the psychiatric test that Fury and Tony had insisted was necessary before Bucky could join the team and take part in missions. Its results had come as a genuine shock to Steve - he had really thought that Bucky was making progress and getting better, and he hasn’t seen evidence of any issues that would make Bucky, in his own words, ‘spectacularly flunk’ the test.

The results concern him, of course, but the idea that Bucky was hiding how much he was struggling from Steve worries him even more. There had been roadblocks in Bucky’s recovery, sure. There were the frequent nightmares that woke Steve up from down the hall and ended with Bucky curled up in a scalding shower for over an hour or nursing a cup of green tea on the couch to soothe the vocals chords he had screamed hoarse. There was the almost total refusal to discuss anything that had happened to him, except to blame himself entirely for the actions of the Winter Soldier, unwilling to absolve himself of even the slightest piece of guilt. And there was the disassociation, the thing that scared Steve the most; sometime Bucky would just…go away. He would disappear somewhere into his head and sit silently for hours, or move through tasks without being truly present, like he was on autopilot behind empty, unseeing eyes.

Alright, so many Steve had noticed some issues. But they had known it wouldn’t be easy, and that he wouldn’t be the ‘old’ Bucky straight away, if ever. Bucky had a therapist for almost every aspect of his recovery and still talked to Shuri and her team of experts weekly to make sure their trigger word removal therapy had been successful.  Bucky was relaxing, slowly, and would even crack jokes from time to time, making Steve’s heart stutter with unbridled joy every time. Steve had missed him for more than just his combat ability and strategy while he was away with the team; he missed the quiet smile that was getting more frequent and was finally reaching Bucky’s eyes, and their domestic routine of shared meals and gym sessions.

As he ducked into the tower, Steve waved a quick goodbye to his teammates and made a beeline for the elevator, wanting to get back to his floor before the ‘where did this go so wrong?’ bickering could start up again – or worse yet, bickering about what kind of take-out they would order, which had the potential to end in literal bloodshed. As he stepped out of the elevator and into the empty hallway of his and Bucky’s apartment, he propped his shield under the coat rack and toed off his combat boots. It was dark, he noted, which was unusual - it’s not like Bucky never left the tower (although he did take some convincing, these days, sent into a panic by the poor sightlines and unclear exit strategy in a crowd) but he was always waiting for Steve when the team returned from a mission. It has become kind of a thing between them. Steve would grab a super soldier sized portion of junk food on his way home, and Bucky would be waiting up on the couch in front of those 70’s British sketch shows that he, much to Steve’s amusement, seems to have decided are the best media the post-war era has to offer. It felt almost like old times, albeit with their roles reserved. Before, Bucky had been the one coming home sore and exhausted from a long shift at the docks to find Steve sketching on the couch, still too sick and weak from this week’s ailment to work himself. Steve wonders briefly if Bucky thinks of it like that too, or if he even remembers all those nights Steve would wait up for him. Bucky’s memory is improving every day, but a lot of the details of his life in the ‘30s and his imprisonment under HYDRA are still lost or fragmented. Mostly his memories exist on a macro scale; he can give you an outline of each year of his life, now, including any important places, people and events, but he only has vague memories of individual months and days. As much as they are both happy with the progress Bucky’s made, it seems to upset him and Steve equally that he doesn’t have a firm grasp on the small moments that defined their friendship; lying on the beach all night until Steve caught a cold, watching the 4^th of July fireworks while leaning out the window of their shitty apartment, trips to Coney Island and sneaking into Dodgers games. The memories may yet come back; more and more are every day. But it bothers Steve to think that they won’t – even though Bucky is with him now, and there are plenty of opportunities to make new memories, the weight of everything they have been through since 1943 sits heavy between them. Bucky’s time with HYDRA and his arm, the serum that runs through both of them and the responsibility it brings, the lives they have both taken and failed to save, the war and their lost family and friends. Steve worries they will never be as carefree and happy as they were before the war again, and Bucky will never even remember a time when he was happy.

Steve shakes himself out of his sombre thoughts and heads down the corridor towards Bucky’s room when he finds the living room empty and the TV off. Stopping outside the closed door, he suddenly feels stupid – maybe he should just go to bed? It’s the middle of the night; Bucky probably just got sick of waiting up for him and went to bed too – and god knows he could use the sleep. But the abrupt change in their usual routine and the oppressive silence of the apartment makes him knock anyway, thinking Bucky could still be upset about failing his psych evaluation. When there is no answer, he knocks again a little louder, not wanting to wake Bucky but needing to know that everything is alright and he’s just being paranoid.

When a minute passes and there is still no answer Steve presses his ear to the door gently, straining his super soldier hearing for the quiet huffs of Bucky’s breath as he sleeps or the rustling of the bed covers but coming up empty. After a few seconds of nervous hesitation, he pushes the door open, calling out to Bucky to warn him that he’s coming in. He’s surprised when the door offers no resistance; it had been unlocked, despite Bucky’s near-feral desire for a private space. Steve had never set foot in his room, or even really seen inside of it, and stepping into it now without Bucky’s knowledge feels like trespassing. The fact that he had left the door unlocked because he trusted that Steve would never even try to enter only makes him feel worse.

But it was the right thing to do, because Bucky isn’t asleep – he’s gone. His room is dark and quiet with no signs that anyone has been in there for at least a few days, and is largely bare except for a few pieces of basic furniture. While the other Avengers, including Steve, have made their rooms more homely and personal, Bucky hasn’t made any changes to his room at all, rebuffing Steve’s attempts to get him to an Ikea, despite the promise of ‘the best meatballs Buck, I swear to god’.

There are no signs of a struggle, which is a relief, although Steve knows objectively that nothing could get past JARVIS and the towers security systems, much less take Bucky of all people. Nothing is obviously missing either; the bookshelf is still full of the journals that Bucky is constantly scribbling in and the collection of history books he had covered in sticky notes as he tried to piece together the Winter Soldier’s actions over the last 70 years. But how can Steve really tell what is missing when he has never even set foot in his room? The thought sends a spike of frustration through his chest; despite living in such close quarters after years of separation, it sometimes feels like the distance between them hasn’t closed at all.

Thor had returned to Asgard upon the completion of their latest mission, but Steve knows the rest of the team will be in the common room tucking into whatever lavish take out spread JARVIS has prepared for them on Tony’s dime tonight. He used to join them after a mission, crawling out of his skin with the need to be alone but paradoxically desperate for some human connection as he came down from the mission’s adrenaline rush. The quiet companionship of Bucky, their couch, and a mountain of fried chicken had provided exactly what he needed, and Steve had chosen to forgo the team meal in favour of his own apartment ever since Buck had returned to him. He heads back into the elevator, depositing the super soldier sized portion of fried chicken he’d grabbed before boarding the quinjet on the kitchen counter, appetite all but disappeared and no desire to go through the motions of his post-mission ritual without Bucky.

The team turns to him in surprise when he enters the common room, clearly not expecting him at their post-mission meals after months of running straight to Bucky instead.

“Cap! To what do we owe the pleasure? You and the terminator have a fight? Did he give you the…” Tony pauses for dramatic effect for a solid minute too long, and Steve has to resist the impulse to roll his eyes.

“Cold shoulder?” Clint interrupts, just as Tony finally delivers his punchline, having decided he had built up the comedic tension enough.

“…cold shou- fuck you, Barton!” Tony yells, throwing a spring roll in the vague direction of Clint’s head before turning back to Steve. “You get it? Because of the metal arm? Cold shoulder?”

Natasha shuts Tony up with a well-aimed dumpling between the eyes as Steve simply ignores him, not in the mood for Stark’s terrible collection of cyborg puns tonight.

“Bucky’s missing,” Steve explains worriedly, “He’s not on our floor, and it doesn’t look like anyone’s used the kitchen or his bed in days.”

He’s almost certainly overreacting. Bucky is a grown man, even if he is in a vulnerable mental and emotional state and nowhere near finished with his recovery.  He’s allowed to leave the tower without telling Steve. Maybe he needed a vacation. He thinks the team will laugh off his panic, but if anything they look even more disturbed than he does.

Steve considers briefly what Bucky must seem like from their perspective; they have barely seen him since he moved into the tower from Wakanda. His presence in the tower is almost non-existent; he avoids all social interaction that isn’t strictly necessary, and typically mumbles out a few words and disappears whenever he bumps into any of the team on his way to the front door or the tower’s gym. He had been told, upon moving in, that he could request anything he wanted from JARVIS, be it food, entertainment or clothes, but he had yet to request anything at all, even when reassured that JARVIS would use Bucky and Steve’s army back pay instead of charging Tony’s account. In fact, Bucky avoids almost all the amenities Stark tower has to offer, never setting foot in the pool, common room or restaurant. Steve has finally managed to convince him that he is allowed to use the things in Steve’s apartment – their apartment, now – and doesn’t need to ask to turn on the TV or take a shower, though Steve expects that behind the privacy of Bucky’s bedroom door he is still not sleeping in the King sized bed. He eats and drinks only when Steve does, and insists on washing all the dishes and cleaning their whole apartment by himself, despite the team of cleaning robots that inhabit the tower. Does he think that he doesn’t deserve the luxuries that are available to him now? Is he scared of punishment should he overstep the careful boundaries that he has set for himself?  Does he think this is all an elaborate trick, and he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop? Is it Tony, perhaps? It makes sense that he would want to be as small of a burden on Tony’s generosity as possible, not wanting to owe Stark anything that he could hold over him. Steve suspects Bucky is simply trying to make himself as unobtrusive as possible as if the team have forgotten he is here and he is scared that if he makes too much noise or uses too much they will remember, and kick him out – or worse.

To the team, he must look unstable; shutting himself away, constantly on edge, never unarmed and looking permanently sleep deprived. Not to mention the parade of therapists and psychiatrists that traverse through the tower up to their apartment most days. Add in the failed psychiatric evaluation that has stopped Bucky going on missions with them, and it is no surprise the team looks so concerned to hear that he’s gone AWOL. While Steve had been worried about Bucky’s safety, they are worried about everyone else’s safety from Bucky.

But they haven’t seen the side of this new Bucky that Steve has, shut up together in their apartment in between missions. The way he’s gotten way too into 80s power ballads and whistles them while he burns pancakes for their breakfast on the weekends. The sound of his laughter as he listens to Shuri and Okoye roast T’Challa over video chat. His borderline obsession with the shittiest cooking shows that America has to offer, and those nature documentaries the old British guy narrates. The way he curls up on the couch with their fuzziest blanket, pushing his toes underneath Steve’s thigh to combat the bone-deep cold that has haunted him since 1945, leaning into Steve’s chest to see what he’s sketching today.

(It’s usually Bucky)

Bucky’s strong and fast, skilled and deadly – hell, he had successfully fought off half the Avengers by himself when under Zemo’s thrall. But he’s not dangerous, not how the team is thinking. He’s hurt, and he’s struggling, and he’s recovering, slowly but surely.

“JARVIS,” Wanda addresses in a quiet voice. Steve thinks that she, at least, looks more scared for Bucky than of the possible resurgence of the Winter Soldier. “Is Bucky in the tower anywhere?”

Again, Steve feels like a fool for rushing to the worst possible conclusion and bothering the team with it. It isn’t unusual for Bucky to disappear to the gym in the middle of the night to tire himself out when he can’t sleep. And he hadn’t even thought to ask JARVIS about Bucky’s whereabouts, the only (sort of) person that stayed in the tower with him while the team was away.

“Sergeant Barnes left the tower via the east exit approximately 45 minutes after the team departed the tower for the most recent mission, Miss Maximoff. He has not returned.”

Shit. He had waited for them to leave, then immediately taken off – and that had been nearly two days ago.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Steve rages, “Why didn’t you call me and let me know he had disappeared?”

 “Sergeant Barnes is not a prisoner, Captain Rogers. I have not been instructed to keep him confined to the tower or to report his departure. Sergeant Barnes appeared cogent and in no obvious distress when he packed a bag and vacated the tower, therefore there were no grounds on which to relay information of his absence.”

JARVIS isn’t supposed to be capable of judgement, but his tone seems particularly condescending when he replies, and Steve feels appropriately cowed. Beside him, the others have put down their Chinese food and are looking more concerned than before.

“Did he leave on foot, or take a car from the tower?” Natasha asks, ever the pragmatist.

“Sergeant Barnes procured a motorcycle from the Stark Garage, Agent Romanoff.” JARVIS answers and Steve breathes a sigh of relief; all Stark vehicles have a built-in GPS, so they’ll be able to pinpoint exactly where Bucky’s gone. JARVIS is one step ahead of him.

“According to the bike’s internal GPS, it was parked outside a used car lot approximately 37 hours ago and has not been moved since. There is no CCTV available at the establishment and Sergeant Barnes' Stark Credit Card has not been used, but the business appears to accept cash.”

“So he could be anywhere,” Bruce says, and Steve feels his momentary relief dissipate.  Bucky had purposefully covered his tracks, making himself untraceable like he had in the year between the fall of SHIELD and their reunion in Bucharest. Why would he disappear like this? Had something triggered him back into his old programming? Hadn’t Shuri gotten all the words out?

Tony’s voice interrupts before his thoughts can spiral out of control.

“JARVIS. Go all Big Brother on us for a second here: what was the last thing Robocop did before he left?”

“Sergeant Barnes visited the Memory Suite briefly before his departure, sir.”

Steve isn’t entirely sure what JARVIS is referring to, but it seems to piss Tony off.

“Who gave him permission to access B.A.R.F.?” Tony asks, “That tech isn’t accessible to the public yet, it’s still in beta testing!”

“Sergeant Barnes was cleared for access to the Memory Suite at the suggestion of Miss Potts and the Sergeant’s psychiatrist, sir, as a treatment for his residual amnesia.”

Tony looks like he might protest again, but he knows better than to argue with Pepper by now.

“I feel like I’m going to regret asking this, but… barf?” Clint asks wearily.

“Sir is referring to the Binarily Augmented Retro-Framing project, Agent Barton; an invention of Stark Industries that allows the user to vividly relive memories for therapeutic purposes. The user can alter the projection to re-experience the memory in a less traumatic form, though Sergeant Barnes has chosen to disable this feature.”

“So he was watching some HYDRA home movies and then what? Got nostalgic for the good old days and decided to head home?” Tony sneers, half joking but still distrustful of Bucky even after allowing him to stay in the tower.

“Tony. He hasn’t defected!” Steve says sternly, seething at the implication that Bucky would willingly go back to HYDRA.

“Maybe Shuri couldn’t get all the triggers out of his head. They probably don’t activate him when he just remembers them being said but having it played back to him through the B.A.R.F. projection…” Natasha trails of. It makes sense, Steve thinks, and he had come to a similar conclusion himself, though it doesn’t bear thinking about.

Tony seems to have come to some sort of decision, jumping out of his seat and clapping his hands together in front of them.

“Alright! Let’s go see what we can find,” he announces, heading past Steve and into the elevator, throwing his empty take out box into the trash as he goes and missing horribly. The others simply stare at him, unsure of what Tony is planning and if they are expected to follow. As he prods buttons on the elevator wall, he turns to see that the team are yet to move and sighs in frustration, moving his arm in a sweeping gesture of come on, idiots!

Obediently, they follow, Bruce bending to pick up Tony’s discarded take out box and placing it in the recycling as he passes. Sam watches the motion and leans in to whisper to Steve as they walk side by side to the elevator.

“There’s a joke in there somewhere. Something about him being green? But god I’m tired.”

Steve huffs out a laugh despite his worry for Bucky, and the whole team squeezes into the elevator. The tight squeeze reminds Steve abruptly of fighting Rumlow and his STRIKE team in the elevator, and he feels his muscles tense with the memory. Luckily, the elevators of Stark tower are almost nauseatingly fast, and they arrive at a floor Steve has never been too within seconds. As they move through the corridor and into a large, white room, Tony explains at breakneck speed what they’re doing there as he shuts the door behind them.

“So Buckaroo’s been fooling around with B.A.R.F., right?” He says, shooing them further into the room like cattle. “And something in whatever memory he was watching made him up and leave. So we reverse engineer his little disappearing act; access the memory files and see what made him tick, then figure out where it might have led him.”

It’s a good idea, Steve muses, not quite processing the implications that have put a frown on Sam and Wanda’s faces until Tony starts speaking again, rapidly pressing buttons on a rig hanging from the ceiling in one corner of the room.

“JARVIS, project the last memory accessed by Sergeant Barnes.” He orders and is immediately met by a flurry of protest.

“You meant watch his memories?” Steve gasps, incredulous, as the others all put in their objections, speaking over one another.

“-such an invasion of privacy, Tony-”

“-hasn’t had any autonomy for 70 years-“

“-barely trusts any of us except Steve, are you trying to make sure he never-“

“-no idea the content of the memory or how traumatic-“

The way they all genuinely seem to care about respecting Bucky and his privacy, despite his staunch avoidance of them all, makes Steve feel warm with affection for his teammates. Even Tony, hiding behind jokes and this frankly terrible, invasive idea, seems a little worried about Bucky suddenly taking off. He’s not going about it the right way, and he has every reason to be bitter towards Bucky after learning of his parent's deaths and fighting him and Steve, but Tony is clearly trying. He opened up his home to Bucky, gave him everything he needed and provided an entire team of therapists to try and aid him in his recovery. He had Shuri send over the details of his arm so he could do any maintenance required, and Steve has no doubt he would have begrudgingly welcomed Bucky onto the team if he had passed his mandatory psychiatric test. He’s grateful for Tony’s clumsy steps towards reconciliation and forgiveness and appreciates everything he’s done for them both.

He’s still gonna tell him to fuck off, though.

Before he can, JARVIS cuts off the cacophony of protests.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir. Sergeant Barnes deletes each of his memories from the system after he watches them. Regardless, the access parameters of the B.A.R.F. project state that users may not view other users stored memories without explicit permission from the owner of the memory.”

Steve feels relieved, but Tony seems unperturbed by this development and carries on addressing JARVIS.

“Deleted files are kept on the system for 48 hours unless an administrator purges them, right?” Tony says, and doesn’t wait for JARVIS to answer the question. He swings round to face the team briefly before pressing the final few buttons to calibrate the B.A.R.F. rig, and explains, “In case a delete-happy intern gets rid of something irreplaceable.  It’s like when you throw stuff in the trash but the garbage collection hasn’t come yet; you can still get to it if you don’t mind getting your hands dirty.”

He steps away from the rig and addresses JARVIS once again.

 “And if I’m pulling them from the trash, and not from the B.A.R.F. storage system, the access parameters technically don’t apply, since I’m the system administrator, right?”

JARVIS pauses for a long second before responding in a world-weary voice: “That is technically correct, sir. Loading Memory File #32bh55-70d38s, Sergeant J. B. Barnes.”

“No,” Steve says firmly, “Turn this off. We’re not doing this.”

“Come on Capsicle! Do you have a better idea of how to find him? He’s in the wind. Give this a shot.”

As much as he wants to, Steve can’t argue with Tony’s logic, so he lets it go, feeling guilty before the memory even begins.

Light streams out of the apparatus positioned in the corner of the room and seems to become tangible as it fills in the empty space around them. White tiles appear and click together a line at a time, forming the unremarkable floor and walls in waves like dominoes. Silver metal tables rise up from the ground on one side of the room, and a row of shower heads push themselves out of the tiled wall on the other. In the corner of the room furthest from the showers, a green circle flashes on the floor as JARVIS helpfully points out where the team should stand for optimal viewing of the memory, in front of a row of lockers. They shuffle over, and from this better vantage point Steve is struck by how real it looks. If he reached out a hand to touch the table to his right, he is sure he would feel cold, unyielding metal. Steve had thought that the frequent mind wipes and subsequent amnesia would cause the memory to be blurry, fragmented or otherwise damaged, but so far it’s clear and solid.

When Bucky enters, he looks real, too.

It takes his breath away to see him like this, hair shorter but still far longer than his mother would ever let it get during their childhood, muzzle still attached like he’s a feral dog. This memory clearly takes place before they found each other, but the American accents he can hear laughing in the hallway indicate that this is a US base – maybe even in D.C. Just knowing that Bucky was alive and suffering while Steve was mere miles away makes his stomach lurch with regret and frustration. Looking around, Steve notes that this is a post-mission room, not dissimilar to the rooms he’s cleaned up in after missions with SHIELD. Of course they’re similar, he scolds himself mentally, it’s all HYDRA, in the end.

The voices in the hallway get a little louder, moving towards the room as Bucky heads to the tables and begins stripping himself of weapons - knives first, then guns, then grenades – and begins disassembling and cleaning each piece. As Steve watches him work, he wonders if it’s a coincidence that the Winter Soldier cleans his weapons in the same order that Bucky did, or if a little piece of him is still in there.

He can tell by the blood splattered across Bucky’s face and coating his knives that he has just completed a mission. If the amount of blood is anything to go by, it was highly successful. His hands move smoothly across the weapons, practiced, but he holds his upper body stiffly and bends slowly when he has to deposit something on the table like his ribs are bruised or broken. Steve somehow doubts he’s going to receive any medical attention.

The footsteps and voices are closer now, but JARVIS speaks again before they appear.

“Sir, please be aware that due to the stress placed upon the limbic system of Sergeant Barnes’ brain by frequent electrocution and so-called ‘memory wipes’, there may be significant damage to the structural integrity of his memories.”

That’s exactly what Steve suspected to be the case, but the memory looks clear and realistic. He could almost reach out and touch Bucky.

“Looks fine to me” Clint replies, evidently having reached the same conclusion.

“The fabric of the simulation may appear unaffected, Agent Barton, but there may be frequent disturbances including the abrupt insertion of other, related memories that are tied–“

JARVIS’s explanation obediently stops as Tony waves a hand in the air, allowing them to hear the conversation of the STRIKE agents who have just entered the room. Bucky, nearly finished cleaning and cataloguing his weapons, doesn’t react to their presence other than to straighten his back slightly when someone passes behind him, ever prepared for an attack.

“Soldier,” a familiar voice calls out, “Wash that blood off your face and hands, now.”

Despite being in the middle of disassembling his pistol, Bucky drops everything he is doing to carry out the order immediately, approaching the small sink next to Steve. He’s so close now that Steve can see every individual hair as it cascades over his face. He’s still as handsome as he was in the ’40s, but his face looks haggard and his eyes haunted. He wouldn’t be in his own memory from a third person perspective, Steve thinks. He wonders if Jarvis reconstructed this Bucky for the memory, or if this is just how Bucky sees himself. Dead-eyed and robotic. He’s so entranced in his friend’s closeness that he almost doesn’t look up to see who gave the order until a gasp from Wanda sends him searching for the origin of the familiar voice.

Rumlow. Of course.

Agents file in behind him. There is Rollins, always hot on Rumlow’s heels, and 4 other agents that Steve doesn’t recognise but could have met, could have fought alongside or against. They all blend into one faceless enemy after a while. One of the recruits is shockingly young, barely out of his teens, and his hands shake slightly as he sets up next to Bucky and begins to disassemble his guns. If Steve were a better man he might feel a pang of sympathy for this kid, radicalised and swept up in such destruction. But when it comes to Bucky, he can’t give them an inch.

Across the room, Rumlow and Rollins look and sound so real, laughing and joking about the target that tried to run from ‘the Asset’. Steve has to stop himself from reaching out to wring their throats, knowing that this is merely a simulation despite how realistic it feels. As he clenches his hands into fists at his sides, he repeats to himself like a mantra: Rumlow is dead. Rollins is in jail for the rest of his life.

The STRIKE agents take a few minutes to strip themselves of their weapons, heavy jackets, outer armour and holsters but make no move to use the showers or otherwise leave the room. It doesn’t feel like a post-mission clean-up, but the beginning of something else, and the concern on his teammate's faces tell him he’s not the only one who feels it.

When the STRIKE team have packed their outer gear into their lockers and are standing in t-shirts and cargo pants, Rumlow stands in the centre of the room and claps his hands together like a Kindergarten teacher. The STRIKE agents obediently turn towards him in anticipation, while Bucky finishes cleaning and packing his last gun, and shuts it away in a locker above him. When he’s done, he stands facing the lockers as if awaiting further instruction and doesn’t turn around even when Rumlow starts speaking.

“Right. Successful mission, good shooting, gold stars all round, blah blah blah. You did good out there for a first timer Williams.”

“Thank you, sir” the young team member that Steve had noticed earlier replies, a little less nervous now that this appears to just be a simple debrief. The young guy – Williams –is relatively built, as one would expect from someone who got onto STRIKE team, but his baby face, blue eyes and curly blonde locks make him seem almost innocent. Steve would say his appearance is reminiscent of a dumb jock in an 80s high school movie, but that might be a little hypocritical.

“How did you find working with the Asset?” Rollins asks from Rumlow’s side as if Bucky isn’t even there.

“Um, he’s- extremely effective, sir” Williams replies nervously, and the STRIKE agents laugh at how much of an understatement that is.

“It’s terrifying, you mean?” Rumlow says, and Williams actually blushes, embarrassed, but Rumlow doesn’t seem to be making fun of him. “Yeah, you and me both kid. But you dealt with it well despite everything. Maybe you could even make it to Handler one day. It’s got a thing for handlers with blonde hair and blue eyes, apparently, always been more docile for ‘em.”

The team all understand the implication and risk a sideways glance at Steve to attempt to subtly gauge his reaction, but in the memory, Williams just looks confused, and Rumlow realises he’s slipped a little. Steve doesn’t even want to think about the horrifying implications of the statement; that even when Bucky had lost himself he had held onto a little bit of Steve, and had thought that Steve was coming to save him. Or worse, that he could have thought that one of these evil men was Steve, in his confused state.

“Probably just left over Nazi programming,” Rollins steps in before Rumlow has to make something up, “Aryan race, ya know?”

Williams nods, appeased, and the tension in the memory eases a little back into the anticipation of a few moments ago.

“First lesson. You keep saying ‘he’ and you’re gonna confuse it. It’s not a man, it’s a weapon. Made in a lab. We call it ‘it’ only, you get me?” Rumlow says, and Williams looks like he’s going to protest but just nods along dumbly, observing Bucky out of the corner of his eye where he is still standing stock still facing the wall of lockers.

“Hey, Blair Witch!” Rumlow calls, and Steve and Bucky both seem to understand Rumlow is referring to him, even if they aren’t familiar with the reference. Bucky turns around to face the STRIKE team, awaiting further instructions.

“You’ve seen its combat programming, and dealt with it well” Rumlow says, and points to the floor at his feet. Bucky seems to understand this as a non-verbal order and stalks over to the team, sinking to his knees in front of his handler with disturbingly practiced ease. “Now you can get a load of its recreational function.”

The horrifying implication is clear for all to see. It shouldn’t be surprising, given the position Bucky is in and the hungry looks on the faces of the STRIKE team, but Steve still feels his heart stop in his chest. Beside him, Wanda sucks in a shuddering breathe in horror and Bruce looks up at the ceiling like that can stop this playing out in front of him. In the memory, Rumlow threads his hands through Bucky’s hair and pulls his head back, exposing his neck to the men.

“Ain’t it pretty?” Rumlow says when Williams only looks sceptical, grinning like a shark. “Come on, we’re celebrating a job well done! Everyone’s gotta blow of some steam once in a while.” One of the men laughs coldly in a way that implies they do this much more than once in a while, and Williams looks as sick as Steve feels.

“No” Steve manages to croak out through his uncooperative lungs, feeling as though he might faint. Steve had read the Winter Soldier files, everything released in Natasha’s leak while they searched for Bucky. The level of torture, experimentation and dehumanisation had left him shaking for hours after reading each page, and he had put his fist through Sam’s coffee table when he came across the ‘limit testing’ files, dedicated to how long ‘the Asset’ could go without sleep, food, water, air…

They had not shied away from describing some of the methods used to create and control the Winter Soldier – but it’s now abundantly clear that these were only some of the methods. There was nothing about this in the files.

“Alright!” Sam shouts over whatever Rollins has to contribute to the discussion. “We aren’t watching this. JARVIS, turn this off.”

Everyone seems to let out a sigh of relief at Sam’s ability to break that spell that left them all frozen in horror, unable to look away from this car crash. But the memory doesn’t fade out or cut to black as Steve expects. In fact, it doesn’t even pause.

“I’m sorry Agent Wilson, but Sergeant Barnes has edited the termination parameters of his memories. I am unable to terminate the memory at this time.”

“He- what? Why would he do that?” Tony asks, confused, “Well unlock the doors then, you can leave this thing running for as long as Barnes wants while we finish our Chinese food.”

“I apologise profusely sir, but I cannot open the doors at this time. Part of Sergeant Barnes parameters specify that the memory cannot be terminated until it has concluded and the viewer must remain inside the simulation throughout.”

“Why would he set those? Why would he want to be trapped in here?” Wanda asks in a small voice.

“When editing the parameters, Sergeant Barnes said, and I quote: ‘If you give me an out I’ll take it in the first five seconds. But I have to know everything they did, and everything I did’” Jarvis responds, and even through the British accent, Steve can almost hear Bucky saying exactly that, deciding it is necessary to put himself through this.

“He was forcing himself to watch them,” Bruce whispers, horrified, “He locked himself in here so he could be sure he remembered everything they…”

Tony looks equally disturbed. “Well, it’s my tower. My orders take precedence over parameters set by residents, don’t they? Stop this thing and unlock the doors, JARVIS.”

“I’m sorry sir, but that violates one of my prime privacy directives relating to B.A.R.F. – individuals can specify terms of engagement regarding their own memories, and I cannot override their wishes.”

“I wrote those directives! I can’t be held prisoner by my own extreme generosity in giving the freeloaders in my tower privacy!” Tony sputters, looking aghast at the situation they find themselves in.

“My sincerest apologies sir” is all JARVIS can say, in his most long-suffering voice.

Steve feels sick; he knows the doors in the tower are built to withstand a small hulk. They’re going to have to watch Rumlow-to watch Bucky-

They’re trapped in here, and the memory is still running.

“Wait- you mean you…he lets you…I mean it, you have sex with it?” Williams stutters, shell shocked. Rumlow laughs heartily at his discomfort and tugs on the Bucky’s hair so he rests his forehead against Rumlow’s thigh.

“It doesn’t have to ‘let you’ do anything. It doesn’t really have a choice. But if it did, it’d always choose yes, wouldn’t you baby?” Predictably, Bucky doesn’t respond, understanding the question as rhetorical. Rollins delivers a sharp kick to his already bruised ribs anyway. The violence and the full implication of what Rumlow is offering him make Williams turn a little green.

 “I’m not gay” Williams says, looking a little more sure of himself now. Rumlow merely snorts.

“Don’t have to be gay for this.”

“I mean- I’m not bi either. Like, I don’t have any problem with that or anything, but I’m straight” Williams clarifies, stumbling over his words a little. Rumlow just shakes his head.

“Don’t have to be bi either, kid. It ain’t a man, it’s a thing, remember? Besides, a mouth is a mouth and an ass is an ass. You got a girl waiting for you at home?” Williams shakes his head dumbly and Rumlow smirks a little.

“Then what you complaining for? Trust me; it’ll blow your mind when it gets going. I promise, the best you’ll ever have,” Rollins is saying “Besides, it serves a practical function, making it submit. You gotta remind it of its place, and who owns it, so it doesn’t get any lofty ideas.”

Williams must still look sceptical because Rumlow starts up again “Come on Williams, the mission went off without a hitch-“

 Slowly, and then all at once, the projection flickers and starts to reform itself, white rows of tiles sliding back to reveal dark metal flooring and glass walls. In the centre of the room, Bucky sits slumped forward in a large chair riddled with straps, ties and chains which he has not yet been strapped into, unnervingly silent but visibly trembling.

Steve recognises the scene as a standard HYDRA facility lab, like many they had taken down in the aftermath of SHIELD’s destruction – and shockingly reminiscent of the one he pulled Bucky out of in Azzano, 70 long years ago.  To the left of the chair, a woman in a lab coat, perhaps a technician, is addressing a commanding officer as another technician is led out of the room cradling a badly broken arm and glancing fearfully at Bucky.

“What the hell?” Sam asks, vocalising their collective confusion about the change in scene, but the woman is already speaking.

 “…completed its mission without issue, sir, but it lashed out when a colleague attempted to begin preparing the Asset for a reset. Sir.” She adds the additional honorific unnecessarily, the tension in the room clearly getting to her. The man, heavy set and sporting a Soviet red beret and army fatigues, steps into Bucky’s space despite the protests of the technicians. “Mission report, soldier,” a Russian accent demands, and the sound of his voice makes Bucky sit up, straight-backed, as though suddenly jolted back into his body. He settles his gaze into a facsimile of eye contact, staring at the space between his commanding officer's eyebrows.

Right where he would put a bullet, Steve thinks absently.

“The targets, Stark and an additional American female, eliminated successfully. The package was successfully retrieved and returned to base. The scene was staged to approximate a car accident to mislead investigators. No survivors, no witnesses. One camera was present but was destroyed. No evidence of the Asset or HYDRA’s involvement. No impairments to the Asset’s functionality” Bucky deadpans in a practiced, emotionless list that makes Steve’s skin crawl. He risks a glance under his eyelashes at Tony, who is attempting to appear nonchalant but has balled his fists up so tightly the knuckles have turned white. The mission report seemed satisfactory enough, but there is a tense silence in the simulated lab, for long enough that Steve wonders if Bucky’s hearing had been affected in this memory. But Bucky himself is looking confused, the tiniest of micro-expressions creasing his eyebrows on an otherwise emotionless face. His blue eyes flick down briefly to meet his handler’s steely gaze and clenched jaw, before returning to the space between his brows.

“Are there additional details you require, sir?” he asks, clearly not used to initiating conversation or asking questions, but needing confirmation that he has completed his orders successfully.

The handler sighs, and fixes Bucky with a look that reminds Steve suddenly of the look his mother would give him when she returned home from a shift to find him and Bucky sitting on the bathroom floor, attempting to wipe up the blood spilled from Steve’s lips after Buck had hauled him out of yet another fight and patched him up. Disappointment, tinged with concern about his wellbeing. Steve doesn’t think the concern in this man’s expression has anything to do with his friend’s wellbeing, but rather his ... how had Bucky phrased it? ‘Functionality’.

“The mission you were given was to eliminate a man and a woman; Americans, enemies of HYDRA, threats to the peace we are trying to create.”

“Yes, sir” Bucky replies, confused frown becoming more noticeable as the man goes on.

“You were given no further information on the targets, only their location, means of transport, and the way in which to stage the scene,” he grits out through his teeth, anger now clearly evident. He looms over Bucky, who despite the metal arm and serum enhanced muscles suddenly looks so unbearably small that Steve’s heart clenches. “So tell me this soldier: why have you identified the male target in your mission report as ‘Stark’?”

There is a collective intake of breath as stillness overtakes the lab around Bucky, and the simulation room the Avengers are watching from. Bucky hadn’t been told his name, Steve suddenly realises, he had remembered all by himself; recognised Howard even after years of aging and brainwashing and wiping. He feels a little pride well up in his chest at how strong Bucky’s mind is, to be able to recover this piece of his history, even if he didn’t know what it meant.

Bucky, however, just looks more confused, eyes flicking left to right in a panic as the handler takes a threatening step closer.

“I… I said that, sir?” he asks hesitantly, as if he was not even aware of speaking the name. Steve thinks he probably wasn’t.

“Yes soldier. How did you identify the target?”

“I…” Bucky visibly struggles for the words, genuinely not knowing the answer, let alone the answer the handler wants to hear,“I must have heard it on a previous mission, sir.”

This does not seem to please the handler, but instead makes him even angrier.

“You are thoroughly wiped between missions. No information can be retained. I will ask again: how did you identify the target?”

Bucky is radiating panic now, spine stock straight and both flesh and metal hands curling and uncurling, digging into the armrests of the chair. He searches again for a reason, an explanation, as much for himself as to appease the handler. “I… the STRIKE team … an agent must have said the name. I don’t know…”

The handler cuts off his nervous rambling with a vicious backhand that turns Bucky’s head to the side, sending strands of auburn hair tumbling from behind his ear, shielding his face from view for a few precious seconds. When he returns his head to the centre of the headrest, his face has been forced into a neutral expression, as though nothing had occurred.

“This was a solo mission, soldier. Orders were given directly by me. You were unaccompanied by STRIKE team agents,” he corrects, and the neutral mask slips immediately back off Bucky’s face as the panic returns. “You will not lie to me again, soldier. Do you recognise the name Howard Stark?”

Even in this feral, abused state Steve can still read Bucky better than anyone, and the lack of recognition in his eyes in genuine. “No, sir” he replies.

“James Buchanan Barnes?” The handler continues, and Steve is broken out of the shock of this man calmly giving Bucky his own name by the heart-breaking lack of recognition on his friends face as he replies “No, sir.”

“How about Gabriel Jones? Margaret Carter? Timothy Dugan?”

When Bucky replies negatively to all of the names, increasingly confused as to what kind of trap he is being led into, the handler brings out the big guns.

“Captain America?” He asks casually as if reading a shopping list or the weather. It shouldn’t have any effect; Steve knows that Bucky’s memory of him was wiped, saw the complete lack of recognition in his eyes as he launched his knife at Steve’s jugular in person, but his heart still breaks a little more as Bucky answers honestly: “No sir.”

The handler nods, content, and signals to the technicians standing nervously off to the side after their work had been paused by Bucky’s apparent outburst to continue. Bucky makes no move to defend himself as they begin strapping him into the chair, tightening belts around his wrists, ankles and midsection as electrodes are pressed to his temples. The handler turns to leave, apparently finished with the interrogation, but something makes him stop and look over his shoulder as he reaches the door.

“One more thing, soldier. Does the name Steven Rogers mean anything to you?”

There is a beat of silence, and then another. The technicians nervously glance between themselves and remove their hands from the soldier but the handler fixes them with a glare that sends them scrambling back to their work. Just as Steve thinks that Bucky hasn’t heard the question after all, he replies, with a resolute “No, sir.”

He’s lying.

It doesn’t even take Steve’s intimate knowledge of Bucky’s poker face to tell; the handler can clearly read the set of his jaw, the confusion in his eyes, the fear that holds his entire body rigid. He has triggered something; a memory, a hint of recognition, a feeling.

The technicians step away as the last of the straps are tightened and a young man nervously pries Bucky’s clenched jaw open to press a bite guard between his teeth, pulling his hand back quickly as if feeding a rabid dog.

“Wipe it, now. I want everything on the highest settings. Retain as much combat ability and espionage efficiency as possible but fry everything else,” the handler orders, somewhat frantically, dominant mask slipping for the first time since he entered the room. The technician who spoke when he first entered the room frowns and begins to protest.

“Colonel Karpov, the process is a delicate one. The current has been optimised over years of testing, to change it now could render the Asset completely inoperative-“

“I gave you an order” the handler barks, and Bucky flinches along with everyone else in the room as he sits carefully still, confused frown still in place. He looks lost, and afraid, and so young that Steve barely restrains himself from reaching into the simulation to comfort him, unable to handle the empty air that his hand would find as it passed through the hologram. “If you have to teach it to eat again like an infant, then that’s what you’ll do. Hell, the Germans had to practically start from scratch after that power surge in ’54. This level of malfunction, of information recall, is unacceptable. I want everything that isn’t mission critical fried and I will not ask again.”

The technician shares a look with her colleagues and the objections she obviously still has die away as she nods silently and begins flicking switches. Bucky is tensing every muscle, preparing for pain, for what’s about to happen. Steve has read the Winter Soldier file (he won’t say manual, objects have manuals, not people) and has a vague understanding of the process, but he cannot prepare himself in the way that Bucky is obviously doing.

When a bright light flashes in front of his eyes and his sensitive hearing picks up the sizzling of flesh and cracking of bone as Bucky grips the armrests too tightly, Steve is struck by the bizarre thought that at least he can’t smell the obvious burning of flesh through the simulation.

Bucky’s head jerks back against the chair and his muscles strain against the fire burning through his veins, and he screams, and screams, and screams.

Chapter Text

The sound is still ringing in Steve’s ears as they are thrust back into the white tiled room, Rumlow still looming over Bucky with one hand stroking his hair in a mockery of a lovers embrace. Steve looks over at Tony, surprised that he has been silent throughout an entire memory focussing on the murder of his own parents. He finds Tony staring at Bucky, at his lifeless eyes and where Rumlow’s fingers are running through his long hair. Steve expects to find the righteous anger that marred Tony’s face when he lunged for Bucky back in Siberia or the quiet resentment and distrust that has coloured his limited interactions with Buck since returning to the tower. The expression he finds is nothing like those; it is softer, strained, and tinged with guilt. Steve thinks it might be pity.

“Come on Williams, the mission went off without a hitch, now’s when we celebrate a little. I’m not gonna make you do anything but I can tell you wanna. Don’t be embarrassed, kid” Rumlow is saying.

Williams shakes his head in frantic denial, but Rumlow ignores him, and the team struggles to recover from what they just saw.

“What the hell was that?” Clint asks as the memory plays on, “That was like, a completely different decade just spliced into this memory.”

“I did attempt to warn you, Agent Barton. You have just experienced one of the disturbances the permeate Sergeant Barnes’ simulated memories. Memories that share common aspects or are tangentially related appear to be linked in the hippocampus, and cannot be entirely separated when extracted into B.A.R.F. This is likely a result of the serum’s healing capabilities attempting to heal the electrical damage to Sergeant Barnes’ synapses and temporal lobe; it has quite literally stitched his brain, and memories, back together.”

They are all silent after JARVIS’s explanation, and Steve suspects his team all have Bucky’s screams ringing in their ears as he does.

Around them, the original memory had carried on, and Steve thinks they may have missed some conversation while JARVIS explained the memory malfunctions. He can’t bring himself to care, though. He doesn’t want to hear any of this awful negotiation.

“Does he. I mean. Does it like that? Does it like, want it?” Williams is asking nervously, eyeing Bucky cautiously.

 “It’s a machine, Williams. It doesn’t want, it doesn’t feel–“

White tiles fold back like origami and the harsh light of the HYDRA facility darkens into soft moonlight breaking through the night sky. Around their feet, wild flowers push themselves up from beneath the thick mud, and and branches crawl out of the walls to hang over their heads like spiders legs. This time, when the new scene settles into place around them, Steve recognises it. Bucky is sitting on an overturned log in a dense forest, dressing in his army fatigues. While he is cradling a cigarette in one hand and appears relaxed, Steve can see the rifle placed carefully behind the log, always within reach, and the tell-tale bulge of a knife handle under the leather of Bucky’s standard issue boots. It’s Europe, during the War, and Steve wonders which of their quiet, late night conversations will take place when Steve himself wanders out into the woods to check on Bucky.

The leaves to his left rustle as a soldier enters the clearing and approaches Bucky, but it’s no one that Steve recognises. Bucky looks up, hyper-aware of his surroundings even in what appears to be downtime, but visibly relaxes and moves his hand away from the rifle behind him when he sees the new arrival. When Steve gets a look at Bucky’s face, he realises with a start that he isn’t going to be in this memory. Bucky’s eyes still hold some of the light, some of the fire that he left New York with. Of course, he is scared, tired, on edge, and likely traumatised already – but his face is not the gaunt, haunted, perpetually exhausted mask it had become by the time Steve had arrived in Europe.

This is before Azzano.

Bucky shoots the man a charming smile, the kind that used to have fathers glaring at him and pulling their swooning daughters in the opposite direction when he would deploy it in the streets of Brooklyn.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he drawls, taking a drag of his cigarette and exhaling, watching the smoke disappear into the night air.

“Small world, huh?” The other soldier agrees, settling on the log next to Bucky as though they are friends. He’s handsome, Steve thinks, and the wolf whistle Natasha lets out when the moonlight reveals his profile to them indicates that she agrees. He wonders why this friend, important enough to Bucky to be interrupting other memories, is entirely unfamiliar to him.

“Whatcha’ doing out here all alone? I was gettin’ a little worried,” the man asks, accepting the cigarette when Bucky offers it and taking a long drag like this is something they do all the time. Maybe it is.

“Gotta get as far away from Dum Dum as possible to have a smoke. If he knows I got extras he’ll never let up.”

“You’ll come back smelling like smoke, though” the man replies, passing the cigarette back. Bucky rolls his eyes, but it seems more affectionate than derisive, like when Steve was being particularly resistant to seeing a doctor in the middle of a bout of the flu.

“Everything smells like smoke, Dee. Didn’t anyone tell you there’s a war on?” Steve feels stupid, as though Bucky is speaking directly to him; of course he doesn’t recognise this man. Bucky’s unit was decimated in the HYDRA attack in Azzano, and even more men were killed in the factory they were kept in. This man was more than likely dead before Steve even got to Europe.

The soldier (Dee?) huffs good-naturedly and elbows Bucky in the side as he takes the last drag and drops the butt, grinding it into the forest floor with his boot. As soon as the light is out, Bucky manoeuvres his body to face the other soldier, shoots him another one of those patented Barnes smiles, and leans in to –

“Damn. They left that out of the history books, huh?” Sam says as they watch Bucky press his lips to the other soldiers. Steve is too shocked to respond, watching as the soldier presses back against Bucky, meeting the kiss with vigour and sliding a hand into Bucky’s already mussed hair. After a minute the other soldier pulls back slightly, looking tentatively over his shoulder, but not actually letting go of Bucky.

“The boys are pretty close by. Someone could see us,” he says nervously, but his hand is now playing with the soft hair at the base of Bucky’s neck.

“So what if they do?” Bucky replies, with all the easy confidence of a man who isn’t ashamed of what he’s doing, and leans in to kiss the taller man again. Steve feels a wave of guilt overcome him at his own response – he's shocked, yes, and confused. But he is also angry, though he can’t quite pinpoint why. It’s just – Bucky liked girls. Loved girls, even. Steve knows now, with all his newly acquired 21^st-century wisdom, that bisexuality is a thing. But Bucky had never, ever looked twice at a guy – surely Steve would have noticed if he had? He had always had a new girl and was chasing yet another after that. Sure, he never actually dated any of them, just took them out a few times and moved on, but he got bored easily, ya know? And sure, he never bought girls home after their dates when he and Steve lived together, but that was because they only had one bedroom, and Steve would have been embarrassed as hell to have to listen to them going at it a few feet from his bed. Bucky would go home with the girls sometimes after all, although now that he thinks about it Steve can’t remember Bucky ever staying out until the morning with a girl, although sometimes he would stumble in in the late afternoon after a night out with friends from the dockyard-

Steve might be an idiot.

The anger is still present as he watches the two men shuffle closer together, mouths still connected and eyes closed. It’s not that they’re two men – Steve never subscribed to the twisted moral compass of the time: people couldn’t help what type of people they loved, and he’d believed that even when being openly queer would get you a jail sentence or a beating, and worse besides. They lived on the edge of the Village, for god’s sake, and a lot of Steve’s art friends were queer – he wasn’t a homophobe. Perhaps it was that Bucky hadn’t told him, either before the war, or at least during if he had only just figured it out himself with this-this man. Steve thought they had told each other everything, had trusted each other implicitly – but here was evidence of something Bucky hadn’t trusted him with. Had he thought that Steve would yell? Kick him out? Rat to the cops, or the guys at the docks Bucky worked at? Had he really thought so lowly of Steve to think he had to keep this from him?

“So,” Bucky’s – his – the soldier was replying when Steve shook the thoughts out of his head and tuned back in, “We’ll both get a dishonourable discharge and be sent packin’.”

Bucky smiles at him, though it didn’t quite meet his eyes, and says in a small voice:

“Would that really be so bad? If we got to go home, together?” The other man softens at that, tilting Bucky’s head up to meet his eye when Buck looks down, clearly a little ashamed at wanting out. The soldier's thumb rubs against Bucky’s cheekbone where his hands are cradling the Sergeant’s face as he answers.

“Nah. Wouldn’t be so bad at all, although we could hardly go to Brooklyn, could we? Only takes one nosey neighbour and it sounds like you and Steve have plenty of those.” He’s right, although Steve is distracted from the thought by the sound of his own name coming out of the man’s mouth. Bucky has told the man about him, yet Steve has no idea who this man is. Bucky and the other Commando’s had lamented about fallen comrades once or twice, but no one with which Bucky had such a… close relationship.

“So we’ll go to the countryside! Get some land, a farm maybe. Sheep, the whole nine yards. You bring your brother, and I’ll get my sisters, and Stevie can come too – the country air’ll be good for his lungs.” The warmth that spreads through Steve at being included in Bucky’s plan of the future, in his family, makes him even more ashamed for thinking so negatively about Bucky and his – and the other man.

“And what exactly are you gonna do on a farm, huh city boy? Only animals they got in New York are rats, and ya can’t farm them.” Bucky punches the soldier in the shoulder, but lightly enough that the other man just laughs at him.

“I’m not gonna do shit. I’m gonna sit pretty in my farmhouse and let my country boy do all the work, keep the place ship shape. Maybe I’ll take up knitting. Or Stevie can teach me how to draw.” The other man huffs out a laugh at that and wraps a strong arm around Bucky’s waist, pulling them closer together until their chests are flush against each other.

“Sounds like a pretty raw deal for me,” he says in a gentle voice, looking into Bucky’s blue eyes, “good thing I’m so damn in love with you, isn’t it?”

Bucky freezes for a long few seconds before breaking out into an exquisite smile and diving in to kiss the other soldier. He practically launches himself in his excitement, and the two men end up rolling backward off the log they were perched on into the moss and mud. It doesn’t seem to faze them, as Bucky plants his knees on either side of the soldier's hips and brings their lips back together in a passionate kiss, suddenly frenzied and uncaring of the risks of being seen. The soldier grabs Bucky’s hips and rolls them over until Bucky is on his back beneath him and they're kissing again, taking pauses to pull twigs and leaves out of each other’s hair, and they’re laughing as if there’s no war at all.

Steve should be happy to stay in this memory – Bucky is the happiest Steve has seen him in 70 years (maybe the happiest he has seen him ever, even when he was with me, says a traitorous voice in the back of his head which he studiously ignores). He should want to stay here, where Bucky is safe and loved, not to return to the horrors of the white-tiled room and Rumlow’s cruel hands and crueller words. But when the memory and the ringing of laughter fade away and they find themselves back there, Steve can’t feel anything but relief.

“A tragic gay wartime love story, huh?” Tony says as the white tiles fit themselves into place and the memory starts up again, “Surprised they haven’t made a movie about them. Tumblr would be all over it.”

“Who was he?” Bruce asks gently, ignoring Tony and turning to Steve, kind eyes holding him in place.

“I – I don’t know,” Steve says honestly, “Buck never told me.” And I never met the guy remains unsaid, but the implication is obvious, and the temporary reprieve the sweet memory had given the team fades as they contemplate the soldier's fate. Steve wonders suddenly whether the other man was dead by the time Steve reached them. Perhaps he accepted a discharge, or was sick or injured and sent away, or was transferred – Steve didn’t get a good look at his patches, so it’s possible he wasn’t even 107^th. Perhaps his unit was moved on. He wonders if the man heard about Bucky; his imprisonment, the Howling Commandos, his death. The Commandos were famous, and Bucky’s kill count and skill with a rifle preceded them. He wonders guiltily how the man reacted to news of Bucky’s fall. If he was able to move on, if he wrote to Becca, if he looked for a body – Steve hadn’t been able to do any of those things.

Around them, the memory drags on, and Steve wishes he could block it out.

“It’s a machine, Williams. It doesn’t want, it doesn’t feel, it just follows programming and orders. Don’t go all soft on it,” Rollins laughs cruelly, and Williams blushes again as if embarrassed to be showing some human decency.

“Is it, I mean, is it meant to be used like that? Did they build him- it- for that too?” Williams asks, timid, and Steve is horrified to see that he looks like he might be coming round to the idea a little.

“It’s more like a happy side effect. Combat is obviously its primary purpose; they wouldn’t have given it an arm like that if it was just a fuck toy. It’s a killer-”

This time, the white tiles fold back to reveal uneven, shabby floorboards. The tables beside Steve and Sam stretch and lower then combine to become a small single bed with a threadbare mattress, as the post-mission room walls move forward to create a room substantially smaller than any they have been in so far. Torn, familiar wallpaper crawls up the walls, and small pieces of paper float into the room as if carried by a strong wind, shooting towards the walls where they stick like magnets. As the scene clicks together, Steve recognises Bucky’s childhood bedroom, small and sparsely furnished but with walls covered in memories of their childhood – pictures his sisters had drawn for him, movie theatre and Coney Island tickets, photo booth pictures of him and Steve. The irony of Bucky painstakingly collecting and preserving his memories of their time together only to lose it all anyway is not lost on him. The room is dark and so still that the team doesn’t see Bucky at first, instead drawn to examining the image covered walls and knick-knacks on the nightstand. But Steve has spent enough time with Bucky to know where he is; curled up on the window sill, hand clutching a cigarette and knees pressed against his chest, leaning out into the Brooklyn night precariously. As he exhales, the wisps of smoke draw Clint’s eyes away from the baseball cards he has been examining, and it takes him a second to identify the curled figure as the Winter Soldier.

“He looks so young,” Clint says, frowning as though he had not considered that Bucky had once been a child, or anything other than a soldier. The silence drags on as Bucky takes another drag, and Steve is lulled into a false sense of security – perhaps the memory is just this. Bucky, safe and at peace, at home with his family, before the war and pain and misery that followed.

A sharp knock at the door breaks the silence like glass and shocks the team and Bucky in equal measure. While the team simply snap their heads towards the noise, Bucky panics, throwing his still lit cigarette out of the window and diving into bed. He has just settled under the covers and pressed his face into the pillow in pretence of having been asleep all along when the door swings open. When Steve is met with Becca’s small, tear-streaked face and quiet whimper; he knows this is not going to be a peaceful memory after all. Bucky, however, visibly relaxes when his sister comes into view.

“Jesus, I thought you were dad, it’s the middle of the night Bec-“ he breaks off when he sees the expression of fear on her face and instead holds his arms out, ushering her inside. When the door opens wider, the team can see that she is bracketed by two much smaller girls who are clinging to the cotton of her nightgown and looking similarly terrified. Steve wonders how Bucky felt upon loading this memory up in B.A.R.F. Was it soothing to see his sisters for the first time since 1943, alive and safe? Or was it just painful, knowing he will never see them again?

Bucky opens his mouth to ask what is going on but is cut off by a crash and two voices yelling from downstairs, which appears to answer his unspoken question. The confused frown on Sam’s face when Bucky doesn’t jump up to investigate what is surely a break in only deepens when Buck simply sighs, resigned, and ushers his sisters further in once again. The door shuts behind them, separating them from the noise for now, and he shoves the duvet down so all three of the girls can crawl into his arms and cling to him. He leans back against the wall next to his bed as Becca presses her face into the crook of his neck, her own arm wrapped around Hope who settles in his lap and hugs his chest. The smallest girl, Daisy, ducks under his arm and tucks herself into his left side, and is almost hidden from view when Bucky pulls the blankets back up to tuck them all in. The expression on Natasha’s face as she watches the scene is soft, almost longing, and Steve muses on how little he knows about her early life and family. Did she have little sisters? Or a big brother?

“They wake you up, huh?” Bucky whispers once the girls are settled. When there is another crash from downstairs they whimper and cling to him tighter, and he tightens his arms around them protectively in turn.

“Hey, it’s alright. He’s not gonna come up here. I’m not gonna let him in here, okay?” He says soothingly, stroking Becca’s hair. Once the girls seem a little more relaxed, he begins to carefully extract himself from their embrace, carefully removing Hope from his lap and depositing her in Becca’s arms. She frowns at him and begins shaking her head.

“You don’t need to. He’ll hurt you,” she pleads, reaching for his arm and clinging to the sleeve of his sweater. He carefully pries her small fingers away and cradles her hand in both of his.

“But he’s gonna hurt mom worse, Becs. I gotta.” When she begins to cry, he hesitates on his way to the door and swings back around towards the bed. He presses a gentle kiss to the foreheads of each of his three sisters, saving Becca for last and looking into her tear-filled eyes as he says:

“Lock the door behind me, okay?”

When Bucky leaves the room, the simulation shifts out into the hall with him, and the click of the bedroom lock is deafening in the quiet of the night as he heads down the stairs. The sounds from the living room have faded now, and he hesitates in front of the closed door, steeling himself for what he will find behind it. Bucky is broken out of his stupor by a thud and a shatter, the sound of a whiskey glass being pitched at a wall, and the quiet crying of his mother.

“Get it together,” he grits out to himself when his hand closes around the door handle but he cannot make himself open it. After another deep breath, he finds his resolve and swings the door open. The others look at the scene in the living room in shock; the glass strewn across the room, the overturned coffee table, Winnifred slumped into the armchair by the fire, face bruised and wet but blank of all emotion. Steve can only look at Bucky – here, illuminated by the street lamps outside, Steve can see how young he truly was. He was tall for his age, and strong, but he can’t be older than 14. The memory is easy to place, then. It’s likely the summer of ’31, when Bucky had dropped out of school despite his excellent grades and first started working fulltime after a flare-up of an old war injury had left his father unable to work himself. Steve had worried about Bucky then, about how dropping out would affect his future and how the responsibility of caring for his whole family would weigh on him.

In hindsight, that shouldn’t have been Steve’s main concern.

He had known, of course, what George Barnes was like. He had seen the bruises on Winnifred’s face and wrists, had heard the quiet, pleading whispers between his own mother and Bucky’s, had heard Bucky spit and rave about his father being a bastard while wailing on a punching bag at Goldie’s gym. Even as a young child he was aware that George, while a polite and respected war veteran and family man during the day, was a different man at night after a few drinks. The war changed him, Winnifred would whisper to Sarah when they thought the boys were asleep, he was never like this before. The constant pain from his injuries and his intermittent ability to work left him frustrated and dangerous, and Steve knew he could become violent with Winnifred, and that he was awfully hard on Bucky.

Steve thought that he had understood what was happening in the Barnes household. But seeing the evidence laid out in front of him made him realise that he really, really hadn’t.

George was pouring himself another glass of whiskey, hands shaking and managing to pour more liquid onto the table than into the tumbler. While Winnifred’s head snaps up at the sound of the door, George doesn’t even seem to register it, focussed entirely on the task at hand. Bucky looks unsurprised as he surveys the scene, as though this is a nightly occurrence, and approaches his mother with a non-threatening hand outstretched as though approaching an injured dog.

“Go back upstairs James,” she demands, voice shaking but resolute, unable to quite meet her son's eye. He shakes his head as he gently places his hands on her elbows and guides her out of the armchair, fixing a hand to the small of her back to lead her towards the door.

“No, Ma. We need to get you to bed, okay? The girls woke up, they were scared.”

She nods at that, clearly dazed, and places one hand on the door frame to support herself while she says;

“I – the girls. I’ll read them a story, put them to bed, I-“

“No, Ma,” he reprimands gently, picking a sliver of glass from her hair “Not like this, alright? I don’t want them to see this.”

She nods again, this time clutching Bucky’s sleeve to pull him upstairs with her. As he gently pries her fingers away and holds her hand in his own, she looks exactly as small and lost as Becca did upstairs; begging him to stay with her, to be safe, but already knowing that he will not.

“Go upstairs, Ma” he tells her “I’ll be right behind you, okay?”

Winnifred glances briefly over his shoulder to where her husband is standing, pouring himself another glass. The fact that he has not acknowledged Bucky’s presence, or the scene playing out before him at all is somehow more intimidating than if he were shouting and swearing, trying to prevent his wife from fleeing. The reasons for his lack of response becomes clear when Winnifred finally leaves the room, and Bucky closes the door behind her but does not follow her out.

Bucky had not been taking away his father’s punching bag, but simply replacing her.

He stands with his forehead pressed against the living room door for a long moment until his father drains his latest drink and slams the glass down on the coffee table.

“Come here, boy.”

In the corner of his eye, Steve can see Tony visibly flinch at the dangerous tone of George’s voice, and he once again struggles to reconcile the man who raised Tony with the Howard Stark he and Bucky knew.

Bucky turns and approaches his father with the despondent air of someone who knows that resisting is futile in the long run. Steve’s traitorous brain thinks cruelly that perhaps HYDRA’s conditioning didn’t have that far to go – it had begun long before Bucky’s fall.

“You think you can tell your mother what to do?” George slurs, looming over Bucky who swallows but maintains eye contact, defiant as ever “This is my house, boy.”

“She’d had enough. And you woke up the girls, they were scared-“ Bucky is cut off with a vicious backhand, which he takes just as easily as he had from Karpov in the previous memory, barely stumbling from the force of it. It breaks Steve’s heart a little further to know that even at this young age, he was so used to violence.

“This. Is. My. House,” George shouts, fisting a hand in Bucky’s messy hair to force him to look up at his father. When rage overtakes Bucky’s expression and he shoves his father away from him, it surprises them all, even Bucky himself. George is shocked enough to let go of his son's hair and he stares, dumbfounded at this show of defiance.

“But I pay for it, don’t I?” Bucky is saying, resentment and frustration marring his features “I dropped out of school, threw away my future, work three jobs day and night to look after YOUR children, and to keep you in whiskey while you sit on your ass-“

This time, the punch knocks Bucky to his knees and he makes no effort to right himself, shocked at his own outburst.

“You didn’t have a future, boy-”

“My grades were-“ Bucky tries to protest, incensed, but his father isn’t listening.

“-Lazy, entitled punk. Sometimes I wonder if you’re even mine-“ Bucky rolls his eyes at that, but the clear I wish I wasn’t remains unsaid.

“What kind of future would you have anyhow? Find a nice girl, get married, settle down?” George laughs, a cold, empty sound, and Steve feels as confused as Bucky looks. Why wouldn’t Bucky be able to have that future? Girls practically threw themselves at him, even in his awkward teen years. George knew that. Unless- unless he knew something else, too.

George moves back to the coffee table and pours himself another glass, the clink of the bottle against the rim of the tumbler breaking the tense silence as Bucky pulls himself back to his feet. When his father speaks again, his voice is quiet and calm, no trace of the slurred, enraged shouting from moments ago. He drains the final glass in one long sip, and Steve feels a shiver run down his spine as George looks back at his son.

“I’ve heard about you, boy.”

Bucky attempts to school his expression into one of simple confusion, but it’s too late. They have all seen the wave of panic overtake him.

“What are you talking about?” he asks in a small voice, unable to look at George, but it’s not really a question. He knows.

Without warning, George pitches the whiskey glass at Bucky’s head. The whole team ducks as the glass flies over their heads, so absorbed in the memory that they temporarily forget it is merely a simulation. Thankfully, he’s too drunk to make the shot, and the tumbler explodes against the wall next to his son, showering them both with shards of glass. Steve watches a small cut open across Bucky’s cheekbone and blood pool on his pale skin as his father begins again.

“People talk, you know. They say ‘your boy. He cares too much about his hair, never tries to seal the deal with them girls he takes out, spends all his time with that Rogers boy.’ I tell ‘em to fuck off. No boy of mine’s a queer. So he takes pride in his appearance, he treats dames like a gentleman, he’s nice to a charity case-“

Bucky makes a noise of incredulity at the slight to Steve, but it doesn’t bother Steve himself. He’s been called much worse.

“-but they were onto something, weren’t they? You were playing me. Playing everyone.”

Bucky begins to protest, taking a step towards his father, trembling hands outstretched in an attempt at placating him, but the quiet rage that has been burning through George’s veins is finally unleashed.

“YOU WERE SEEN,” he roars, rounding on Bucky, hands clenched into fists at his sides and trembling with anger. “Old Mrs. Rosencrantz saw you with her nephew. His hands on you-you kissing him. Like some- some fucking-“he breaks off, unable to fight through the rage to finish his sentence. Bucky is shaking his head, but it’s too late. It’s too late.

“No son of mine is gonna be a fucking queer,” George rants “You understand me? No son of mine. If I gotta beat it outta ya that that’s what I’ll do. It’s against the law – against nature-”

This time, when his father throws a punch, Bucky is expecting it, and ducks out the way quickly. George stumbles, not expecting the manoeuvre, and growls out a noise of disbelief.

“You little fucking- that why you’re always with the Rogers kid too, huh? Always had him down as a faggot, too.” Bucky freezes where he has been rounding the coffee table, desperately trying to put some distance between himself and his crazed father, suddenly terrified that his father will go after Steve.

“It’s not like that,” he replies frantically “He’s normal. Don’t you say shit about him.”

“He’s normal,” George mocks, voice still slurred from the whiskey, “But you’re not? You ain’t even gonna try and deny it?”

Bucky looks up then, making direct eye contact for the first time that evening, piercing blue eyes meeting George’s identical pair. He looks scared and resigned, but mostly he just looks sad. Like he pities his father for his closed mind.

“No. It’s true. You raised a fucking queer,” he admits, tensing his body for the blows that are about to rain down on him. “What are you gonna do about it?”

George lets out a howl of pure rage and lunges at Bucky, knocking him to the ground and dragging the contents of the bookshelf and mantelpiece down with them. Bucky fights valiantly, catching his father in the jaw with a strong left hook and attempting to wriggle out from underneath him. But Bucky’s still a child, and his father is too heavy, too strong. His fist meets his sons face once, twice, before he wraps he large hands around Bucky’s pale throat and begins to squeeze.

“Jesus” Sam breathes, horrified, while Bruce makes a choked little noise and looks away. Steve can’t bring himself to do the same, needing to see for himself. How did he not know how bad it was? How did Bucky explain away the bruises and cuts that must have marred him after this night and others like it?

Bucky’s hands claw at his father’s face weakly, thumbs trying to find purchase in his father’s eye sockets, desperate now. George twists his face away from the probing fingers but doesn’t let up, gritting his teeth and breathing so hard saliva is landing on his own hands around his son’s neck.

He’s going to kill him, Steve realises dimly. He looks around, waiting to see a neighbour burst in to drag George off of him, or for Winnifred to run back downstairs and save her son. Another few seconds pass, as Bucky’s shallow breathing turns to wheezes and croaks, and no one comes.

No one is coming.

This must be a false memory, Steve thinks, maybe implanted by HYDRA, or a creation of Bucky’s abused brain. He doesn’t die here, in 1931, with his sisters curled up in his bed upstairs. But he’s going to.

In the memory, Bucky seems to have realised the same thing and makes one last weak attempt to push his father away. One hand clutches at George’s greying hair, pulling weakly, before tightening minutely. With a sudden burst of adrenaline, he wretches his father’s head to the side, slamming his temple into the sharp pointed corner of the coffee table.

The effect is instant. George’s body sags, his hands loosening to fall limply at his side as his body drops onto Bucky’s like a sack of bricks. Bucky struggles to push him aside enough to wriggle out from underneath him, gasping for air. When he does, he flips onto his front and crawls a few paces away, collapsing onto his elbows with his forehead pressed against the carpet as his lungs heave desperately. George doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t get up, and the team watches in silence as the blood from the head wound soaks into the carpet under the coffee table. Bucky only lifts his head from the carpet when something wet meets his skin. His brows furrow in confusion and Steve can see the exact moment that his eyes adjust to the dark room and he sees the pool of blood spreading around where his fingers are clutching the strands of carpet fibre - and when he sees where his father lies on his side, eyes open but unseeing. The noise that he lets out as he realises what he has done is somewhere between a sob and a wail, but will haunt Steve forever.

The living room door flies open and Winnifred bursts into the room, likely drawn by the silence which has replaced the crashing and shouting of their fight. She drops to her knees beside Bucky and takes his bruised and bloody face in her hands.

“James!” she wails, sliding her fingers into his hair and pressing his face into her neck and she hugs him tightly to her chest “My boy, I thought he had killed you. I should never have left-“

She trails off as she seems to notice George’s body for the first time. Her reaction is so muted that at first Steve thinks she isn’t processing what she’s seeing, or can’t understand what she’s looking at, but then she takes a shaky breath in and says in a calm, emotionless voice:

“He fell.”

At that, Bucky wrenches his head out of her grip and looks up at her, face streaked with tears.

“No, Ma, I-I killed him, Ma, I-“

She takes his face into her hands again, grip firm but thumbs gentle where they wipe away his tears.

“No, James. He fell. Do you understand me? He fell.”

It takes a few seconds for him to understand her meaning, but when he does he lets out another pitiful noise and collapses against her chest as she looks back at her husband’s body.

“It’s okay baby,” she whispers while stroking his hair. Her expression is unreadable but Steve thinks it might be relief.

“He fell. It’s alright now. He fell.”

Chapter Text

“Jesus Christ,” Sam says, and Bruce hums in stunned agreement. Beside him, Tony is clenching his fists tightly and Wanda looks like she’s about to cry. Natasha looks at Steve, tilting her head to meet his eye, and he shakes his head in response to the silent question. No, he didn’t know about this, either. Maybe I don’t know him as well as I thought I did.

How could he have missed this? Bucky nearly died and was forced to- to kill his father in self-defence.

Steve remembers what came after. In the middle of the night, Bucky had appeared on the Rogers’ doorstep, two small girls clutching the bottom of his coat and holding Becca’s hand tightly.

They must have walked, it occurs to Steve, thinking back on it. Bucky had dragged himself halfway across Brooklyn in the dead of night after nearly having been choked to death, trying to calm his three terrified sisters, all still in their pyjamas.

His ma had beaten Steve to wakefulness and shuffled to the door despite being deep in the throes of the sickness that would eventually claim her life. She ushered the Barnes children in from the cold as soon as she saw the state they were in, and called out for Steve. When Steve had stumbled into the kitchen she had been fussing over the girls, whispering quietly with Bucky.

“-sorry about this, Ma didn’t want them in the house with the police, and the blood-“ She had shushed him gently, given him a concerned kiss on the forehead, and taken the girls into her bedroom to tuck them into her bed, leaving Bucky and Steve alone.

Bucky had washed his face and arms between the incident and arriving at the Rogers’ house, Steve notes – his shirt was slightly bloody but there was nowhere near the amount of blood there had been in the memory. At the time Steve had thought that he must have attempted to give his father some first aid, staining his shirt in the process.

When he had spoken, his voice had been a croaking, choked little thing. Steve had thought that it was grief, or fear- not a crushed windpipe.

“Dad died, Stevie. He…he was drinking, he fell. He fell-he hit his head on the table. He-“ Bucky had broken off, staring at his trembling hands like they held the answers he needed. As his legs had given out, Steve had managed to shove him towards the couch, and he wrapped his arms tightly around his best friend. Out of his depth and painfully young, Steve could do nothing but squeeze Bucky against his chest as he broke into quiet sobs until Sarah returned from the bedroom to take care of them both.

Winnifred had returned from the coroner’s office the next morning to collect her children, showering Sarah and Steve in gratitude and apologising for the night before. Even when her daughters wept into her skirts, she hadn’t cried. After that first night, Bucky hadn’t either. His bruises would have blended into the constant stream of bruises delivered to him at his boxing matches, or when finishing Steve’s fights for him. It disturbs Steve to think that violence was such an innate part of Bucky’s life, even at this tender age, that abuse like this could go unnoticed. It disturbs Steve even more to think that Steve had caused so much of the violence that Bucky was dragged into.

Bucky had begun to talk about moving out not long afterward, and when Steve’s mother had finally succumbed to illness, they had moved in together. He said he couldn’t stand to be in the house his father died in. Steve had thought he had understood at the time, eager to move out of the house his mother had just died in too. Waking up in the morning expecting to hear her quiet singing and laughter only to be faced with silence was freshly devastating every day. Though Steve had never said it aloud, he had found it strange that Bucky seemed to be having similar feelings – his relationship with his father had always been tense and distant. Now, it makes all too much sense.

He wonders why Bucky didn’t tell him that first night, or when he shook beside Steve at the funeral, or when his father’s birthday passed year after year and his family refused to acknowledge it. Steve never would have turned him in. Would have run away with him if the police had come calling. Did Bucky not trust him as much as Steve trusted Bucky? Or was he simply scared, ashamed, horrified at what had transpired?

Reluctantly, he turns his attention back to the scene playing out in the HYDRA facility. Steve wishes he could just close his eyes and cover his ears, but he can’t seem to make his hands move in the way he wants. He thinks he owes it to Bucky in a perverse way to see this through. If Bucky had to suffer all this because of the fight Steve led him into, let him die in, then the least Steve can do is watch it, and suffer with him.

“It’s more like a happy side effect. Combat is obviously its primary purpose; they wouldn’t have given it an arm like that if it was just a fuck toy. It’s a killer first and foremost. But everything after that is up to us,” Rumlow is explaining, slowly opening his belt buckle and making sure the metal drags along the side of Bucky’s face.

“But we’re far from the first ones to have this idea, so there’s programming for it now. It can do all sorts of things. You into some weird shit? Someone’s probably already taught it how to make you happy.” The men laugh, and Steve risks a glance at Bucky’s face to find it disturbingly blank, empty of the rage that Steve is feeling for him.

“The fist of HYDRA? More like the hole of HYDRA!” One of the men who has been watching jeers, and then laughs uproariously at his own ‘joke’. Steve wishes he could throttle him through the simulation.

“Assassin first,” Rumlow is saying with a sinister smile “Whore-“

The white tiles and smooth edges of the tables in the post-mission room vibrate and twist, snapping into different shapes all around them. On either side of the team, long metal shelves rise from the ground, stacked with small boxes and bottles. At the end of the aisle they now find themselves in, two men stand on either side of a slowly forming long wooden counter, a small panel of glass rising up to separate them. As the final details of the new simulation click into place and settle, Steve recognises this as the pharmacy on their block in Brooklyn, where himself, Bucky and Steve’s Ma spent far too much of their time and money.  Bucky is young here, but older than in the memory with his father, and he appears to be in the middle of pleading with the kindly old pharmacist.

“Please, Mr. Rubin. His Ma just died and he had to shell out for the funeral. We ain’t got nothin’ left, but he’s got commissions comin’ in, and I’ve got a paycheck due any day now. We’re good for it.”

Mr. Rubin sighs and takes off his thick, rounded glasses, wiping them on the edge of his shirt and looking at Bucky sympathetically.

“I’m sorry, James,” He begins, and from what Steve can remember of Mr. Rubin, it’s entirely genuine. He did everything he could to help them out, often at the detriment of his own business. “But you still have outstanding debts, the both of you. I’m behind on my own rent, and the heating’s busted at my daughter’s place…” he trails off, and Bucky doesn’t seem to have much more fight in him, merely shifting his gaze to the counter between them.

“Have you tried the church? The sisters often have extra funds for the needy in the congregation this time of year,” Mr. Rubin says kindly, clearly struggling with saying no to Bucky. Bucky merely nods; not lifting his eyes from the counter, and wraps his arms around his middle. There is awkward silence for a few moments, before the pharmacist caves a little.

“I- I suppose. If you could come tomorrow and put something down, a deposit of sorts, I could give you what Steven needs, and maybe at a slight discount-“ Bucky’s head snaps up and his grin is so bright and immediate that Steve wonders if maybe he was faking the whole sad puppy act.

“Really? You’re the best, Mr. Rubin, I’ll be back first thing and I’ll have money for you, I promise-“

“-slight, James, a slight discount-“ Mr. Rubin cuts in, trying to manage expectations in the face of Bucky’s boundless enthusiasm, but Bucky is already hightailing it out of the store and into the night, throwing a happy “See you tomorrow!” over his shoulder.

Mr. Rubin merely shakes his head, bemused, but seemingly unable to regret putting the spring in Bucky’s step. Sometimes, when they were growing up, it had felt like him and Bucky against the world, but looking back on it from an adult perspective there had been no shortage of kind people like Mr. Rubin who owed them nothing but helped anyway. In the aftermath of the Great Depression and in between two world wars, everyone was struggling – but it always seemed to Steve that how you treated others was worth more than what you had in your pocket.

The bell above the door chimes as Bucky exits, and the simulation shifts to follow him out onto the streets of Red Hook, plunging Mr. Rubin and his store into darkness. Curiously, as soon as Bucky steps out of view of the pharmacy, his joyful steps falter and he grinds to a halt, leaning back against the side of the building.

“Shit,” He grinds out through his teeth as he fumbles in his coat and can only produce one or two small coins. Steve doesn’t know what medicine he needed this time or what ailed him, but he knows that what Bucky has won’t be enough, even with whatever discount he can coax out of Mr. Rubin. Steve tracks Bucky’s gaze across the street to the pawn shop where too many of their prized possessions had ended up when things got rough, and he knows Bucky is considering seeing what he can get for his tattered old coat. But it’s too dark out, and Bucky’s billowing breathes too obvious under the streetlight, for it to be anything other than mid-winter. The voice of Sarah Rogers rings in Steve’s head as he watches Bucky consider it, sternly telling him you’ll catch your death out there without a proper winter coat, boys. Bucky starts towards the shop, but the owner, a stout Italian woman, is already pulling the doors closed and fixing the lock that signals they’re closed for the night. Instead, Bucky turns abruptly and heads through the back streets that Steve knows lead towards the docks. Steve can't figure out why, though; it’s already too late for there to be any work left down there, and he’s heading in the opposite direction than his and Steve’s apartment. He finally stops a stone’s throw from the water, huddled in the entrance to the alley. For reasons Steve can’t figure out, he shucks off his coat and hangs it over one arm, reaching into his coat pocket for his last cigarette and a lighter. His fingers are visibly shaking as he struggles against the cold to light his cigarette – put your coat back on, dumbass – but he manages it, and he tips his head back against the wall as he takes his first drag, exposing the long line of his neck and tilting his hips forward slightly.

“Jesus,” Natasha breathes, “How old is he here?”

Steve frowns, confused as to why she wants to know that now, and tries to puzzle it out from Bucky’s haircut and the number of holes that have formed in his long-suffering coat and boots.

“17, maybe. Why-“ He’s cut off from asking by the arrival of an older man, whose brisk walk slows to a crawl when he spots Bucky leaning against the alleyway. The man looks him up and down, not even attempting to hide his heated gaze, and-

Oh. Bucky wouldn’t- They were never that desperate-

Steve hears a noise reminiscent of a wounded animal, and it takes Bruce’s comforting hand on the back of his neck for Steve to realise that he’s making the noise himself. He squints against the darkness, but the man is unfamiliar. His predatory gaze is the same as the one on Rumlow and Rollins’ faces, though.

“It’s late out, kid,” the creep is saying, moving a little closer, out of the glow of the streetlights, “Anyone would think you were looking for trouble, being out here by yourself.”

“Maybe I am,” Bucky responds, voice shaking slightly but smirk as confident and alluring as ever, “What are you out here looking for?”

It sounds rehearsed, somehow, like there’s a script for these kinds of things that both parties need to follow for the transaction to go smoothly. To Steve’s horror, this is clearly not the first time Bucky has done this.

“Maybe I’m out here looking for a little trouble, too.” the older man drawls, stepping into Bucky’s space and placing one large hand on his skinny waist. Bucky lets him, taking the last drag from his cigarette and stamping out the butt under his boots. The stranger shuffles closer and moulds their bodies together, pressing his nose into the crook of Bucky’s neck.

A shout from somewhere in the distance startles them both back into the present and the man takes a hasty step back, severing contact between them to Steve’s great relief. They both look around nervously, knowing the consequences of getting caught in such a compromising position. It may be winter, but it’s still only early evening and they’re lucky that no one’s spotted them yet. With that in mind, Bucky beckons the man further into the alley.

“I can give you a little trouble, darlin’” Bucky answers, letting the man press against him once more after they retreat into the relative safety of the shadows, “But it costs. You got cash?”

The man chuckles and Steve catches the glint of an expensive watch around his wrist, and the shine of his leather shoes. This man certainly has cash.

“I got cash, babe, and a room,” He says, shoving Bucky harder into the wall and slotting a thigh between his legs, “Come spend the night with me, and I’ll make it worth your while. More than.”

Suddenly, Steve can place this night – or rather, the morning after. Bucky hadn’t come home from work one night, and Steve had tried to stay up as long as possible despite being in the middle of a bout of flu, worried sick about what could have happened. The next morning he had shown up bruised and sheepish, insisting that he had gotten into a fight down at the docks and had crashed at his Ma’s place since it was closer. He had plied Steve with the medicine he needed and a rare bag of candy, and Steve had been so relieved to have him back and in one piece that he hadn’t even thought to ask where the money came from.

Don’t! Steve pleads silently, knowing it won’t do any good, that this has all already happened. Don’t go with him!

 “Yeah,” Bucky says, a little breathless from the man’s ministrations between his thighs, and apparently impervious to Steve’s physic pleading, “Alright. Lead the way, pal.”

He sounds cocky as ever, but as the man steps away and turns his back on Bucky to lead him to his sordid hotel room, Steve can see the act fall away to reveal the truth underneath. Without the watchful eyes of his john, Bucky looks scared, and more like the kid that he is than Steve can take. Even the knowledge that the john must be long dead does nothing to comfort Steve. The memory begins to fade out at an almost merciful point – he wonders if perhaps Bucky simply can’t bear to remember or relive the real horrors of the night, and if that’s why they have been spared them in the B.A.R.F. simulation. But what they have already seen is horrifying enough, and in a way, Steve knows the things his mind will invent to fill in the gaps will torture him just as much as watching Bucky’s suffering would have.

“Assassin first,” Rumlow is saying with a sinister smile when the post-mission room reforms, “Whore a close second.”

Of all the memories, this one throws Steve off balance the most. The thing is, in the back of his mind he thinks he knew. He had questioned, before, how Bucky always seemed to have the right amount of money at the right time, always seemed to win at the races or collect on a bet or get a bonus at work exactly when Steve or his Ma or the girls needed medicine or a new winter coat. But Steve thought – Bucky had boxed, had become the three-time welterweight champion at the Brooklyn YMCA by the time they left for the war, and Steve had thought maybe Bucky had been picking up a little extra cash doing underground fights. He didn’t like it, of course, but it would have been hypocritical of him to yell at Buck for picking fights – especially because unlike Steve, he could actually win them. The theory had explained the mysterious cash, the bruises that would litter Bucky’s face and ribs afterward, the late nights and Buck’s sudden mood swings when Steve would bring up money.

(Steve, I work three jobs! I don’t keep track of which dollar came from which gig. Can’t you just be happy we can afford the heating this winter? Jesus, Stevie)

Underground boxing explained everything in a way that satisfied Steve. It posed relatively little risk to Bucky, it was illegal but Buck was sensible enough to stay out of trouble, and it didn’t feel like Bucky was keeping a huge part of his life from Steve. He invited him to all his legal matches, after all. Steve knew he was unable to pull his weight with bills and rent when he was constantly weak and sick, and if he were to harass Bucky about the money, there’s every chance he would just move out in frustration and leave Steve to fend for himself.

Except Steve knew Bucky would never do that to him. So why was he so hesitant to ask? Why did he come up with his half-baked boxing theory and cling onto it so tightly, looking the other way whenever any evidence would come up that contradicted it?

The alternative was too much to bear, too horrifying to even think about.

Steve doesn’t realise that he isn’t breathing properly until Sam has placed a comforting hand on his back, rubbing up and down and whispering soothingly.

“Deep breaths Steve, that’s it,” he says, as Steve leans forward slightly with his palms on his knees, desperately trying to calm his panicked breathing.

“He was...” Another shuddering breath “He was doing that. For me. For my – my medicine. And I didn’t even know…” Sam nods sympathetically, holding him up with a hand on his waist.  The memory hasn’t paused, and the STRIKE team are still giving Williams their sickening pitch.

“But it’s- there’s a lot of you. Us. Can it really take…?” Williams trails off, embarrassed. Steve lets out a broken noise close to a sob at this. Hasn’t he suffered enough?

“Oh come on! You’re not worried about it, are you?” Rollins asks, incredulous. Williams blushes an even deeper red.

“I just – it seems counterproductive, you know? Using your best weapon for…for that. What if he –it- gets hurt?” Steve can’t seem to get a read on Williams. He’s resisting, sure, but does he actually care? Is there a spark of humanity left in this one, not yet burnt out by HYDRA?

“It can’t get hurt, heals too quick. It can feel pain, sure–“

This time when the memory shifts they are thrust into darkness so quickly Steve things the simulation has finally ended, and this nightmare is over. But a flash of light illuminates the scene – a flash Steve recognises immediately as gunfire. The simulation slowly forms around them as the picture becomes clearer; curved earthen banks, silver coils of barbed wire, wooden planks as makeshift walkways, stockpiles of ammunition and the hunched forms of terrified boys. The war, again. It says something to Steve about the horrors of the Western Front that even after 70 years of torture under HYDRA; Bucky’s worst memories are still dominated by his time in Europe.

Steve doesn’t bother looking around for himself this time; it’s likely before he arrived on the front. The majority of Steve’s fighting had been in the form of infiltration, storming bases and taking out patrols – he can count on one hand the number of times he actually stepped into the trenches. It was partly political; why waste such a symbol (an Asset) like Steve on a place where no one could see him, where a stray bullet or grenade could take him out permanently? Mostly it just didn’t suit his skill set. He was a decent shot (never a marksman like Bucky) but the confines of the trench, half a mile away from the enemy, didn’t allow him to use his real weapons: his body, his fists, his shield. Looking at the men hunched into the trenches, covered in mud and shaking with the cold, fingers trembling around their rifles as explosions echo a little too close for comfort, Steve thinks maybe he was lucky. He is considered the quintessential soldier, but his experience of war was unlike any other soldier, on any side. Steve remembers Dernier casually mentioning the way the French would bury their dead right into the walls of the trench, skeletal hands sticking out into the walkways and catching on your uniform as you ran for more ammunition. The trench foot, gangrene and lice - not to mention the rats – were never something he had to deal with, privileged as he was in his officers’ quarters. Steve knows he was a piece in somebody else’s game during the war, a symbol, their dancing monkey even after he got out from the USO circuit – but he was never an expendable pawn, not like these men. Looking at them now, it takes a few moments of straining his super soldier vision through the darkness and smoke and mud to identify the three men crouched in front of him – Bucky, Gabe, and Dugan.

To his left, the others are squinting to see in the dark, and Steve sees Bruce flinch violently as Bucky raises his gun and lets out a rapid stream of gunfire. These days, Bruce is more in control of The Other Guy than ever, but right now Steve thinks he wouldn’t mind a Hulk Out. Let The Other Guy smash the projector that is subjecting them to these awful memories. Hell, he’d do it himself if he didn’t think there might be something in here that will lead them to Bucky – something to make this all worth it.

The trio of soldiers are shouting to each other and the men around them, but it’s lost in the wind and bursts of gunfire. Steve follows their gaze and the direction of their rifles to see a handful of men pouring over the top of a neighbouring Allied trench. For a second, he thinks some crazy Germans have gotten behind enemy lines and are moving from trench to trench, slaughtering the inhabitants – but Gabe, Dugan and Bucky are shooting to the left of the running men, not at them. Covering their escape, Steve realises, as an almighty explosion erupts from the trench the men had just thrown themselves out of. A well-placed grenade or two had forced them over the top and into No Man’s Land – and by the blue-tinged flames overtaking their former trench, it was a grenade of HYDRA origin.  

One poor soldier hasn’t managed to get far enough away – he had barely thrown himself over the top of the trench when the flames consumed him. The light from the explosion illuminates the faces off his friends for a moment, and Steve notices Sam’s squared shoulders, clenched jaw and watery eyes. He feels selfish all over again for not even considering how this display might be affecting his fellow Avengers – he’s not the only soldier here. Before he can reach out to Sam, Wanda’s arm has wormed its way around Sam’s waist, and they lean into each other infinitesimally, seeking comfort.

Turning back to the scene before him, Steve notices that two of the remaining men have made it to the relative safety of Bucky’s trench, the men and their sergeant dragging them down and out of the enemy’s line of fire. But there are still two men out in the open, totally exposed to the Germans. One appears to have gotten his leg caught in the barbed wire buried in the mud around him, and the other is valiantly attempting to free him. It’s too little too late, however, as a shot rings out and the trapped man’s body goes rigid and then limp, eyes staring unseeing at his would-be saviour. The bullet between his eyes makes the single remaining soldier take a horrified step back, dropping the body into the maze of barbed wire and mud he was trapped in. There’s no helping him now. Quickly, he grabs his rifle from the mud and slings it over his shoulder, turning on his heels and keeping as low to the ground as he can while still moving at maximum speed. His focus is entirely on the safe haven of the closest Allied trench, where Bucky, Dugan and Gabe are screaming out for him to hurry. He takes one, two steps forward, and for a second it really does look like he’s going to make it.

Steve can’t make out the man’s face from this distance behind the smoke and ash; but from the look of abject horror on Bucky’s face, he thinks he knows who it could be.

When the first bullet hits Bucky’s lover, the simulation seems to stutter and malfunction slightly. The sound of gunfire, screams and explosions abruptly cuts out, replaced with a noise that reminds Steve of the ringing in his ears that happened before he fainted when he was still scrawny and sick. The edges of the simulation blur, almost like a fisheye lens has been placed over the projector, so the only thing other than Bucky and his men that remains in focus is his lover. Alone on the battlefield and illuminated by moonlight and fire, the soldier is stopped in his tracks by the German bullets that rack his body. Over the ringing that has drowned out all of the noise of the trenches, Bucky’s anguished scream is audible.

“DANNY!” he sobs, throwing his rifle aside and scrambling to his feet, attempting to haul himself over the top of the trench to go after his lover – Danny. Before he can throw himself over, Dugan’s huge arms wrap around his waist and haul him back down into the trench roughly. Bucky doesn’t go down without a fight, aiming a sharp elbow to Dugan’s cheek and kicking at his shins. But Dugan doesn’t let go, just hunches down in the trench with Bucky pressed firmly to his chest, arms unyielding around his slim waist.

“Let me go!” He implores, torn between rage and despair, “I can- I need to- I can save him, please!” Gabe is there, too, crouching in front of Bucky and taking his sergeant’s face in his hands, mindless of the fists Bucky is beating against his chest in an effort to be freed. The war wages on around them but the simulation is still silent apart from Bucky’s ragged sobs and Dugan’s heavy breathing, as if Bucky wasn’t aware of anything happening around them when this memory occurred.

“Sarge, I’m sorry”, Dugan says gently, into his ear “He’s gone, Buck. You’ll die too if we let you go over there. I’m sorry but we can’t-“

The quiet words seem to have the opposite effect than what Dugan intended. Instead of calming their friend, he fights against the two larger men with renewed vigour, so much so that Gabe has to grab Bucky’s flailing fists and pin them to his sides.

“Then I’ll die too, it doesn’t matter!” He sobs desperate, “I can’t just leave him there, I-“ He strains against Dugan for a glimpse of where Danny’s body lays motionless on the battlefield, camouflaged into the mud and darkness, and Gabe again grabs his face to try and force Bucky to look at him, instead.

“Sarge, we know what he was to you. I’m so sorry,” Gabe whispers, holding Bucky’s head steady to try and force eye contact between them, “But you can’t help him. You have to let him go. I’m so fucking sorry, Sarge.”

All the fight goes out of Bucky at once, and he slumps backward into Dugan, whose tight restraining grip becomes something more akin to a hug. In front of him, Gabe cups Bucky’s cheek and presses their foreheads together, silently conveying we’re here for you. What little light remains in the scene reflects off the tears staining Bucky’s face and the hopeless, sorrowful gaze that passes between Gabe and Dugan when they meet each other’s eyes over their friend's head. As the simulation folds away the muddy embankments, night sky and overhanging trees, Steve has to remind himself that this is merely the projection of a memory, and reaching out to comfort Bucky will do no good.

“Jesus,” Clint says, reeling, “This kid really can’t catch a break.”

The memory confirms what Steve already suspected about why he had never met Danny, and why Bucky found it too painful to ever bring him up to Steve. At least he hadn’t had to deal with his loss alone; Steve is once again grateful for the strength and loyalty of Gabe and Dugan. Although Steve was nominally their commanding officer, they had always been Bucky’s boys. He had been their Sergeant, rising through the ranks at an unheard of pace but proving his capability every step of the way. Unlike Steve, he had earned his rank through blood and sweat and relentless grinding, and the respect it earned him amongst the men was one that Steve could never quite replicate with the symbolic rank that had been granted to him before he ever saw a real fight. Bucky had put himself on the frontlines alongside his men, never delegating anything he wouldn’t be willing to do himself, and protected them both in the trenches and out. The Commandos had regaled Steve with stories of Bucky’s reactions to other soldiers abusing Gabe for his race and Dugan for his Irish heritage, and Steve knew he had put himself on the line again and again to protect his men when they had ended up in Azzano, earning the respect of fellow prisoners including Morita, Dernier and Monty. Steve knew that they respected him as their Captain, followed and admired him without question, but they didn’t share the same history and battle-forged bond that the Commandos shared with Bucky.

He knew, had push come to shove, the Commandos would have chosen Bucky over him, but it never bothered him. Bucky would have chosen him every time, and having 5 good, loyal men view Bucky’s safety as a priority was absolutely fine with Steve. Suddenly, Steve misses them fiercely and wonders if Bucky does too when wartime memories come back to him. He loves the Avengers and considers them family, but they lack the easy camaraderie and companionship of the Howlies, too often wrapped up in politics and red tape and drama. Nostalgia for their humour and fraternal affection is what had drawn him to Sam so quickly, and Steve thinks not for the first time that if Bucky would ever interact with Sam for more than a few seconds, they would be firm friends. Sam seems to have recovered slightly from his initial emotional reaction to the memory, but the glint in his eyes makes him wonder: where Sam and Riley, who Sam so rarely discusses, more than friends? Partners in a different sense of the word? Steve is filled with sorrow once again for his lost friends, and for the pain that haunts his remaining friends, too.

The Howlies are gone, and so is Riley, but Bucky isn’t, Steve hopes. He forces himself to turn his attention back to the simulation, trying to pick up on anything that could indicate where Bucky has gone. Rumlow is dead. Rollins is in prison for the rest of his life. Perhaps Bucky went after one of the other STRIKE agents in the room?

“It can’t get hurt, heals too quick. It can feel pain, sure – but you can’t really hurt it. And trust me, we’ve tried.” The two silent STRIKE agents on either side of Bucky have the audacity to high five at that, while Rumlow only smiles “That’s why it’s so good for stress relief; you don’t even have to worry about breaking it and Pierce giving you hell.”

Williams lets out a shuddering breath and takes one last stab at an excuse Rumlow and Rollins might accept.

“I just – its rape though, right? I mean he – it – doesn’t want it. He – I know you said it’s just a weapon but it looks so human. That’s still gotta be fucked up, ethically, right?”

The STRIKE team and the Avengers alike stare at Williams, incredulous.

“Ethically fucked up?” Rumlow parrots, flabbergasted, “You’re working for HYDRA, kid.”

For once, Steve has to agree with Rumlow.

“I know, it’s dumb. It just. It feels different, I don’t know.” Williams scrambles for the words to explain, but the others just roll their eyes at him. How the hell did this kid end up here?

“Look at it, kid” Rumlow sighs, apparently finally tired of playing games. Obediently, Williams turns his gaze to Bucky, kneeling between Rumlow’s legs with his forehead still pressed again his handler’s thigh. Rumlow’s belt is undone and his fly is down, revealing a bulge in his boxers that he seems unashamed of.

“Do you think, if it wanted to, it could kill us all right now and walk out of here? Yes or no?”

“Yes” Williams replies with no hesitation, looking at Bucky’s arm with no small amount of fear.

“Am I holding it down, or stopping it moving in any way? Did I even say anything to it to make it come over here?”

“No” Williams answers, biting his lip. Considering.

“Has it tried to escape-“

When the new memory forms, it’s instantly recognisable as a cell. The legs of the tables in the post-mission room grow upwards and darken in colour until they become bars, and the white tiles fold themselves away to reveal cold, hard concrete, littered with thin blankets. Rumlow and Rollins fade out of the old memory to make room for a different set of guards – the uniforms, faces and language may be different, but the mocking smirk and predatory gaze are the same in all HYDRA guards, whether they’re dressed up like SHIELD or Nazis. As the memory finally settles into its new shape, the team see men in tattered army uniforms being herded into a cell by two heavy-set armed guards who slam the bars shut behind them and take their leave, chattering amongst themselves in German. Now alone in the middle of the cramped cell are the Howlies, plus a few other men Steve vaguely recognises from the march back to camp from Azzano.

“Alright boys,” Bucky drawls, grin looking wrong on his half-starved, sickly features, “Gather round, I’ve got a present for ya.”

Obediently, and with no small amount of curiosity, the men gather round Bucky in a tight circle. Standing on his tiptoes to see over their heads, Steve watches as Bucky produces a rusted metal key from the confines of his uniform and presents it to his men like a treasure.

“You crazy son of a bitch,” Denier breathes, accent heavier now than Steve ever remembers it being, “How did you get that?”

“That’s Brooklyn baby: we pop outta the womb with our hands in some other poor bastard’s pockets,” Bucky quips in return, pressing the key to his lips in an exaggerated kiss.

He sets the key down silently in the middle of their circle and looks around, avoiding making eye contact with anyone in particular, while he goes over the plan quickly: “You go tonight. We’ve been talking about this for months, the plans sound – getting the kitchen key just makes it a whole lot easier. Get past the stairs, through the kitchens and out the garbage shoot, and from there you can slip under the east fence. Head due West and keep your heads down as much as you can, and you’re home free.”

“You,” repeats Monty, ducking slightly to try and meet the Sergeant’s eyes but failing as Bucky keeps them fixed firmly on Monty’s breast pocket, “You said ‘you go tonight’ not ‘we go tonight’.”

Realisation dims the excited glow in Morita’s eyes, as he states, rather than asks;

“You’re not coming with us.”

Bucky sighs and finally drags his eyes up to make fleeting eye contact with each of his boys as he flicks between them, before returning his gaze to the middle distance. “The plan’s solid, but the number of guards at the factory floor entrance has doubled since we made it. The only time they aren’t stationed by the entrance is when they’re dragging someone to the labs.”

“So let them drag some poor fucker to the labs, and we’ll go while they’re distracted!” Morita says desperately, pleading with Bucky, “All of us. Together.”

But Bucky merely shakes his head, not willing to give an inch.

“It’s gonna be me anyway. Zola’s always lookin’ at me with his little fucking rat eyes, and the guards have been looking for an excuse to kick my head in for weeks. Besides, I’m the only NCO left here and the boys listen to me- you know Schmidt hates us having any morale or organisation. It was always gonna be me.” Bucky sighs, voice gentle but firm. “He was waiting until whatever the fuck he’s workin’ on was ready, and you heard him yesterday. It’s ready. They’re coming for me, before nightfall. And I’m not going quietly”

“Like hell you’re going anywhere-“ Gabe seethes, rising to his feet with barely concealed rage. Bucky drags him back down into a crouch while waving a hand to silence the protests of the others, lest they draw the guards back towards them.

“No, Gabe. I thought about this every which way. What the fuck else is there to do in this place than think about ways to not be in this place?” Steve recognises Bucky’s tone as his ‘Sergeant’ voice, which he only ever really had to use to get Dugan to stop snoring when they shared a tent, “There isn’t any other way.”

“So what?” Dugan spits angrily, the kind of rage that masks fear and concern, like how Bucky would get when he pulled Steve away from three guys who could have killed him in a Brooklyn back alley, “We just let them take you and do fuck all about it?”

“So,” Bucky says pointedly, “I’m going down swinging. If I make a big enough scene it’ll drag the guards beyond the stairs in, too, and you’ll have a clear run to the kitchens. And yeah, you’re gonna do fuck all about it. That’s a direct order, soldier.”

“People don’t come back from there, Sarge,” Morita says quietly, arms curled around himself.

“He’s right,” Monty agrees, frowning, “The nearest Allied base is miles away and in this terrain, it could take days to come back with reinforcements. By then-“ He trails off, but the silence that permeates the room speaks the unspoken words; by then you’ll be dead.

“There isn’t any other way,” Bucky repeats like he’s trying to convince himself as well as his fellow soldiers, “You boys get as far away from here as you can, come back as soon as possible with reinforcements to get the rest out. I’m tougher than I look, ya know. I’ll still be hanging in there when you get back.”

The others look sceptical, but it seems the time to discuss the plan is over as the stomp of Nazi boots echoes down the corridor, getting closer. Bucky shoves the key into Dugan’s hands and closes his own around then in a silent plea: let me do this. As the guards move into view beyond the bars of their cell, Bucky forces himself away from his men and towards the front of the room, where he’ll be prime pickings for Zola. Mercifully, the memory begins to dissipate before the guards can reach for Bucky. Steve doesn’t think he could watch Bucky being dragged away from him once again, doesn’t think he could watch the Howlies watching that and feeling as helpless as Steve does.

True to his word, Bucky had hung in there. He had been on that table at Zola’s mercy for nearly five days by the time Steve found him. But the Howlies had all still been there, too – clearly, their escape attempt hadn’t taken shape. Could they not bear to leave a man behind? Or had something gone wrong with their hastily thrown together plan? At the time, the Howlies (and Steve himself) had put Bucky’s survival down to his own stubbornness or perhaps some kind of miracle, as they had crushed Bucky in hugs and tried unsuccessfully to hide their tears upon being reunited with their sergeant. Now Steve knows what they didn’t then: it wasn’t a miracle, but Zola’s serum, successful for the first time. It had kept Bucky alive on the table, held him up for the long walk back to base from Azzano, and had kept him breathing, mutilated and bleeding out in the snow at the bottom of the Alps until HYDRA had found him once more. He wishes bitterly that Bucky had talked to him back then, instead of stubbornly refusing to discuss their time in captivity, and moreover, his time with Zola. Bucky must have known, Steve thinks, must have felt himself getting stronger, healing faster, tiring less quickly. He must have known that Zola had been trying to recreate Erskine’s serum. Steve fought bitterly for a search party to try and find Bucky’s body, but with resources severely limited and no idea where exactly he had fallen, Steve had to begrudgingly accept that nothing could be done until the war ended. But if he had thought there was even the slightest chance that Bucky had survived a fall like that (say, if he had known Bucky had the damn serum) then Steve would have stopped at nothing to find him. Hell, he would have jumped after him. It occurs to him for the first time, that perhaps someone had known Bucky could survive a fall like that. That perhaps the whole situation – a train in the middle of nowhere, heavily armed guards when they can’t have been expecting an attack, HYDRA finding Bucky so quickly even though he fell in the middle of the inhospitable mountains – could have been planned. Maybe HYDRA wanted Bucky, the beginnings of their only successful experiment, back so badly they had sprung a trap with Zola as bait. Maybe it had been set for Steve, too, if he had been only a little slower to react. It doesn’t matter now though, and Steve tries to shake off this line of thinking before the questioning - I should have known, what if, but if I had just – can consume him.

Looking at his team members as the post-mission room memory reforms, Steve is happy that they could see Bucky in a memory slightly less painful than the others they have endured, one in which he is everything Steve knows him to be at his best: brave, strong, kind. Returning his gaze to the Bucky kneeling at Rumlow’s feet, it pains Steve to see how all of those beautiful aspects of Bucky have been stripped away to leave the empty shell of the Winter Soldier behind.

“Has it tried to escape once, even though the doors wide open? Even when it was unaccompanied in the field for hours or on solo missions for days?” Rumlow finishes, tugging on Bucky’s hair but getting no reaction.

Williams shakes his head at that, looking contemplative. The idea that Rumlow is using Bucky’s complete lack of autonomy and the way he isn’t physically able to fight against his own subjugation against him is sickening. The fact that it seems to be bringing Williams around a little is even worse.

“Like I said, it doesn’t want anything,” Rumlow adds, “But if it wanted to leave, or kill us, it could. If you really think it’s capable of wanting, then I guess it wants us to fuck it!”

The other STRIKE team members led out a cheer at that, and Steve lets his head fall into his hands in abject despair at the way Bucky is being treated. Williams takes a hesitant step forward, the bastard, as if he’s decided that Rumlow’s right after all. Luckily, a loud electrical crack makes the agents look up in alarm before the situation can deteriorate even farther. 

“Secretary Pierce has entered the building and would like to debrief the Asset at your earliest convenience, Commander Rumlow,” a clipped female voice says over the intercom system. There is a collective groan from the STRIKE team which reminds Steve disturbingly of children being told they aren’t allowed dessert.

Williams looks nervously between the unlocked door and where Rumlow’s left hand is still buried in Bucky’s hair.

“What if he sees-“ he begins, but Rumlow cuts him off with a humourless laugh.

“Pierce? Pierce doesn’t care what we do to it as long as he gets it to himself when he wants it.” He gives Bucky’s hair a small tug, which predictably causes no reaction. Tilting his head to the side, Brock seems as though he is considering whether using Bucky’s mouth is worth getting reprimanded by Pierce. He apparently decides against it as he cruelly pulls Bucky sideways by his hair until he loses his balance and hits the ground. “He hates when we use it before him though, so I guess your initiation will have to wait until tomorrow, Williams.”

Williams, for his part, just looks relieved – maybe he was never going to hurt Bucky, after all. Steve wonders idly if he ever actually came back for a second day at work, or if he was smart enough to get the fuck out. Below them, Bucky slowly pulls himself back onto his knees, and settles his hands on his knees, frantically pulling them behind his back when Rumlow fixes him with a sharp look.

“Good. Stay right there, Soldier. Secretary Pierce will be here to debrief you soon,” Rumlow says as he fixes his belt, smiling cruelly at the euphemism and the way that Bucky actually flinches slightly, the only hint of emotion he’s shown throughout the entire scene.

Williams, Rumlow, Rollins and the other STRIKE agents begin to file out the room when mercifully, the memory freezes and fades to black, finally over before Pierce can enter. Steve isn’t sure he could have handled seeing what Pierce had in store for Bucky without throwing up or smashing the entire B.A.R.F. rig. In the silence that follows the end of the simulation, Steve takes a deep breath and reminds himself: Pierce is dead. Rumlow is dead. Rollins is in prison for the rest of his life. It’s not as comforting as he hoped it would be.

Chapter Text

“Holy shit,” Sam says, breaking the horrified silence that has fallen over the team “Just… holy shit.”

Natasha and Clint are watching Steve, and both take a too-slow step forward when the rage that has been causing his whole body to shake dissipates and is replaced with an abject horror that makes his knees quake. He feels his shaky legs give out as they reach for him, and is surprised when Tony reaches him first, propping him up with one hand under each bicep.

“Alright big guy, let’s get you to a couch. You’re gonna make a dent if you hit the ground and these tiles are porcelain.”

Steve lets himself be led into an adjoining room through the (finally) unlocked door, where Tony deposits him onto the couch with surprising gentleness. Steve is only distantly aware of what is happening in the rest of the room as he recovers, as though he is looking at his team through a thick fog.

“Speaking of big guys…” Natasha is saying from very far away “You’re looking a little green there, Doc.”

“I’m…I’m okay,” Bruce replies, but his clenched fists and shaky voice betray him, “I need to lie down, maybe. In my room.”

He takes off down the corridor towards the stairs, avoiding the elevator, and just too fast to be casual. The team shares a look over Steve’s head, knowing that when Bruce says ‘my room’ he is referring to the reinforced Hulk-proof floor of the tower, not his bedroom. Still, Bruce’s control has been getting better and better and JARVIS will inform them if there’s an incident, so attention turns back to Steve.

“I think he’s in shock,” Clint says, but Steve feels too far away to hear him, staring at the tremor in his hands and feeling colder than he has since he was pulled from the Valkyrie. Maybe I’m in shock.

“I think I’m in shock,” he says aloud, and the others share an even more concerned look over his head at his repetition.

“I’ll, um, maybe tea? Hot cocoa? Or I can get Pepper. Maybe JARVIS-“ Tony rambles as he edges towards the elevator, uncomfortable with the number of emotions in the room and desperate to escape the awkward discussion of feelings he can sense coming.

“Oh no you don’t,” Natasha says, suddenly appearing in front of him and cutting off his escape route.

“Bruce got to escape! He doesn’t have to do feelings!” He whines, petulant. Natasha fixes him with a stern look but Sam jumps in before she can reprimand him.

“Bruce turns into a big green rage monster when he’s put in a distressing situation, dude. You know this.”

“And I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m feeling more than a little distressed right now,” Clint adds, shuddering a little as he replays parts of Bucky’s memories in his head.

“He kept so many secrets from me…” Steve laments, as Sam settles onto the couch next to him and swings an arm around Steve’s broad shoulders. Before Sam even opens his mouth, Steve knows he is in Counsellor Mode, but that might be exactly what they all need right now.

“Steve,” Sam begins, sure enough in Counsellor Voice, “A lot of those secrets would have hurt him, and you, if he had shared them. I’m not saying he was right not to tell you, or that it’s healthy to keep trauma bottled up like that, but you gotta know it wasn’t because he didn’t trust you, right?”

It makes sense, and as always with Sam, it’s solid advice. But Steve barely registers it, unable to think beyond the need to have Bucky safe, alive, unharmed and in front of him, right now. He shakes himself, hoping to kick his brain into gear, and repeats the mantra that got him through the memories aloud.

“Pierce is dead. Rumlow is dead. Rollins is in prison for the rest of his life,” He begins, addressing the room at large, “So he’s not going after them. Maybe he's heading for one of the other STRIKE agents in the memory. The new guy was Williams, but I didn’t get the other’s names…”

Steve starts to lose hope before they’ve even started. How are they going to find these guys, and find Bucky, with only one last name and some half-remembered faces from years ago? Assuming Bucky has even gone after these guys in the first place.

Tony is ahead of him, though, and asks:

“JARVIS, can you put these STRIKE assholes through facial recognition and see what pops up?”

At that, the screen in front of the couch lights up, and JARVIS pulls six faces up on the display. Reinvigorated, Steve sits up straight and studies the screen in front of him.

“Alright, are any of them still at large?” he asks. Channelling Tony’s flair for the dramatic, JARVIS places large red X’s across the faces of Rumlow and two of the other men and a set of black cell bars across the photos of Rollins and one other. 

“Agents Rollins and Hammond were both apprehended in the aftermath of the events in D.C., while Agents Rumlow, Reeves and Kilgariff have since been found dead. Only Agent Williams remains unaccounted for.” JARVIS answers. There is no need to guess what happened to Rumlow, but Reeves and Kilgariff are entirely unfamiliar to Steve – perhaps these were victims of Bucky’s post-D.C. revenge tour?

The others seem to be thinking something similar, although it shouldn’t really be a priority right now, as Clint asks:

“Has he been- have there been other memories that he’s watched, and the people that you’ve run through facial recognition for him have ended up dead or caught?”

“Indeed, Agent Barton,” JARVIS responds, filling the screen with photographs of men and women, “Sergeant Barnes has so far relived 38 HYDRA related memories in the B.A.R.F. system. From those memories, at Sergeant Barnes request, 168 individuals were able to be identified through facial recognition technology. Of those, 56 were already deceased, largely through the nature of their work with HYDRA, or old age, as the memories examined by the Sergeant range from the late 1940s to several years ago.” As he speaks, faces are crossed out on the screen in front of them, and Steve feels a spark of rage at the HYDRA employees who got to die peacefully in their old age while Bucky was still out there, suffering.

“An additional 31 were already in custody for a variety of crimes, although most were apprehended under terrorism charges after the exposure of HYDRA’s infiltration of SHIELD,” JARVIS continues, and the tiny bars come down to cover a range of other faces.

“And the rest?” Steve asks, not really knowing what he wants JARVIS to tell him.

“Of the remaining 81 individuals, 33 were apprehended by police, SHIELD or the FBI shortly after Sergeant Barnes identified them, largely through anonymous tips to their whereabouts or after damning evidence was deposited with the appropriate authorities. “

“20 individuals were found dead shortly after Sergeants Barnes identified them using B.A.R.F., though the causes of death vary from accidents to suicides, to unsolved homicides.” Clint and Tony both snort at that and even Steve has to smirk a little. The causes of death vary from Bucky to Bucky, to Bucky.

“A further 16 individuals have been reported missing since Sergeant Barnes viewing of memories involving them, and none of their credit cards, homes, cars or internet histories show any activity since that time.”

“So make that 36 dead,” Tony mutters under his breath, looking a little impressed although he is clearly trying to look judgemental.

“What about the rest?” Wanda asks, looking at the screen where 12 faces still stare back at her.

“They are neither missing, nor dead, nor in custody, Miss Maximoff, and have continued living civilian lives,” JARVIS replies, “From what I have been able to gather, these remaining individuals were low ranking scientists and technicians, who appeared unaware of the realities of HYDRA and removed themselves from the organisation  as soon as possible.”

“He spared them,” Natasha says in a tone so blank Steve can’t tell if it’s respect or disappointment.

“Wait,” Sam says suddenly, drawing the room’s eyes to him, “You could have just pulled the faces of the people in the memory, without us watching it? So we didn’t even fucking need to go in there?”

“I apologise Agent Wilson. I would have provided this information earlier had you asked.”

There is a horrified, furious silence for a few moments as that sinks in, before Tony apparently decides it isn’t worth dwelling on and surges ahead.

“But Williams – he’s not one of the 12 grunts Terminator let go. And he’s not dead or in jail, so. He’s still on Barnes hit list,” Tony sighs, “Best case scenario, this guy is out of the game and Buckaroo’s going to his house to give him a stern talking to. Worst case scenario, he’s still active somewhere and Barnes is going to take on a whole underground HYDRA cell by himself.”

“I’m not that worried, honestly,” Natasha replies, and Steve whips his head round to look at her in confusion. She shrugs, “He’s more than capable. Some of the attacks attributed to the Winter Soldier over the years would have taken a small army of regular soldiers. And what did you think he was doing between the helicarriers and Bucharest? He was taking out leftover HYDRA cells, Steve. You know he can handle himself.”

She’s right, but Steve won’t hear it.

“He’s not invincible. He still needs someone to watch his six. And with how triggering those places are likely to be, is he really going to be at his best?” She simply tilts her head in response to him, acquiescing but not quite backing down.

“Can you pull up everything you can find on this guy?” Clint asks JARVIS, flopping down on the sofa next to Steve and Sam, and JARVIS promptly complies.

“Frederick Williams, now 29, originally from Philadelphia. A STRIKE team agent for nearly 7 years, he left SHIELD shortly before the events of D.C. as the result of an injury in the field. As he was not active personnel, he managed to escape investigation once HYDRA’s involvement with SHIELD became known, and he returned to Philadelphia to live with his older brother, Arthur Williams. ”

 “Is there any way to tell if he’s still involved with HYDRA? Or anything else shady?” Sam asks, glaring at the picture of a slightly older Williams on the screen as if he has personally wronged him. JARVIS takes a moment to come up with an answer.

“I’m afraid not, Agent Wilson. Mr. Williams has no criminal record and has not been involved with any known branch of SHIELD since his departure from D.C. There is no record of his employment, however, so it is entirely possible that he remains involved in criminal activity.”

At the conclusion of JARVIS’s profile, Tony pushes himself up from where he has been leaning against the back of the couch.

“Alright then, Philadelphia it is,” He cries, clapping his hands dramatically, “Suit up! Let’s go wrangle us a cyborg.”

“The rest of us are still in our suits from the mission, Tony,” Wanda reminds him, but he chooses to ignore her. Steve is confused by Tony’s sudden enthusiasm for finding Bucky but hopes it is because he cares for Bucky’s safety and wants to see Williams bought to justice, and not because he doesn’t trust Bucky. The others seem equally ready to get to wherever Bucky is, though, and Steve thinks perhaps they have been more deeply affected by the things they saw in Bucky’s memories than he thought. Everyone is out for blood, and no one wants to let Bucky deal with all this by himself any longer.

“Put the coordinates of the brother’s address in the quinjet, JARVIS. And line me up another suit.” Tony demands, making his way to the elevator with the rest of the group in tow. He punches in the number of Steve and Bucky’s apartment so Steve can grab his shield, and the elevator heads upwards.

“That may not be necessary, Sir,” JARVIS responds, and before he can finish explaining, the elevator doors slide open to Steve’s floor.

There, sitting on the couch with his stupid British sketch shows running, hair pulled back in a messy bun and sweatpants low on his hips as if he’d been there the whole time, is Bucky.

Chapter Text

“Robocop! Where the hell-“ Steve stops Tony before he can even start by slamming the ‘close doors’ button on the elevator and quickly slipping out, leaving his team trapped and heading up to the quinjet pad. Tony lets out a noise of protest, but none of the others pay him any mind, and Natasha is already jamming the button for Bruce’s Hulk-proof floor now it’s obvious they don’t need to leave for a mission.

“They need to do this alone,” He hears Wanda say quietly to Tony before the doors shut behind him, and from the way Bucky’s shoulders tense uneasily, he hears it too.

The elevator carries on in its journey, and the two super soldiers are left alone once more.

“Okay, so,” Bucky starts, mentally preparing an excuse – clearly he had been hoping to get back from his mission before Steve got back from his, so he could pretend he had been in the tower the whole time. But Wanda’s words, the shield propped up next to Steve’s boots, and the looks of anguish on Steve’s face all indicate that he has been unsuccessful. “You may have noticed I wasn’t here, earlier, um-“

Whatever lie Bucky is about to tell is cut off by Steve suddenly snapping out of his reverie and marching purposefully across their floor to where Bucky is sat. Even as he moves, Steve can see the way that Bucky tenses minutely and checks the exits around him, likely a little spooked by the determined look on Steve’s face and his total silence. When Steve finally reaches the couch, Bucky gets up to meet him, holding himself in an almost defensive position as if Steve is going to hit him. Instead, Steve wraps him up in a bear hug, spreading his arms wide as he steps forward to telegraph his movements, giving Bucky ample opportunity to flee.

Bucky lets him have the contact, but seems shocked by it – did he really think Steve was going to hit him?

“Oh,” Bucky says, tentatively wrapping his arms around Steve in return.

“Oh, no, Steve,” He says again when he feels the way Steve is shaking in his arms, barely holding himself together, “I’m sorry, Stevie, I didn’t mean to worry you – I should have told you I was going out, I-“

Steve pulls back then, disentangling himself from Bucky and meeting his concerned gaze.

“No, it’s okay, I just. I’m really glad you’re here,” Steve says, trying to school his expression but quite obviously failing, “I missed you.”

Bucky just seems confused – it’s barely been two days, after all.

“Hey, I missed you too,” He says, puzzled by Steve’s reaction and distraught expression, “What’s going on, Steve? Did something happen on the mission?”

Steve takes a deep breath and considers. There are questions he needs answers to, but will it bring unnecessary pain to Bucky (and himself) if he brings them up? Will Bucky ever trust him again if he knows Steve not only went into his room, but went into the most private parts of his psyche, with the whole fucking team in tow? Would it be good for Bucky to talk about the things that the team saw, or will it set him back in his recovery? How can he reprimand Bucky for going after HYDRA agents alone without admitting his own sins of the day?

Bucky calling his name and lightly punching his shoulder with his flesh arm knocks him out of his head, and Steve realises it’s been a solid minute since Buck asked him a question. Bucky looks even more worried now, fixing him with the kind of look he used to give Steve when he thought he was getting sick in the winter, and Steve realises he owes it to Bucky to be honest. They invaded his privacy to the utmost degree, and now he has to face the consequences for it. Honesty is the best policy.

“We, um. I.” Great start, Steve. Eloquent as always. He draws another deep breath, thinks about what he wants to say, and meets Bucky’s eye as he starts again.

“We came back, and you weren’t here, and I was worried. I went into your room, to see if you were there,” He begins, and Bucky visibly relaxes, as if he thinks Steve was merely worried about how he would react to the infraction.

“Is that what you’re worried about?” He laughs, “That’s fine, Steve. It’s technically your room, you know. You’re just lucky you didn’t trigger any of the traps.”

There’s a lot to unpack there – are there really traps, it’s our apartment not mine, but seriously the traps? – but it’s not his priority right now.

“No, that’s not – I mean, I am sorry about that. But that’s not what I’m upset about. I- I was worried, so I went to tell the others you were gone. JARVIS told us,” He pauses, wondering if perhaps he should step back or get his shield – he wouldn’t blame Bucky for taking a swing at him right now. “He told us you had been in the Memory Suite. Using B.A.R.F.”

Bucky’s expression has gone entirely blank, a mask Steve recognises as belonging to the Winter Soldier. When he speaks, his voice is steady and neutral.

“Okay. Yeah, I went in. Jane, my psychiatrist – well, one of them – recommended it,” He says, “I’m allowed. You said I could use things in the tower, and Miss Potts-”

“Of course you’re allowed, Buck, you can use anything you want. That’s not- it’s not a problem. That’s not what’s wrong.”

“So what is?” Bucky says, and he sounds small. Steve kind of wants to kick his own ass for making Bucky feel like this, and for how much worse it’s going to get in just a few seconds.

“It’s nothing you did,” Steve reassures, deciding to just bite the bullet, “It’s something we did.”

Bucky’s smart. Steve knows that by now, he must have put together what the team has done, based on Steve’s reactions and his stuttered words. But his faith in Steve is so strong that he won’t believe it until Steve says it aloud, so he spits it out to put them both out of their misery.

“We thought something you had seen in B.A.R.F. might have triggered you into leaving. So we. We watched the most recent memories you accessed.”

The silence following his admission is oppressive, and Bucky’s face goes entirely blank once again, as if someone had just read those awful words to him from the little red book. Before Steve can begin to defend himself (can he, really?), Bucky turns on his heels and walks away down the corridor, ducking into his room and slamming the door so hard the light fittings shake.

Steve had been expecting confrontation – that had always been Bucky’s M.O., before – so it takes him a second to follow Bucky, situating himself outside Buck’s bedroom door and trying the handle.

“Buck, please, let me explain,” He pleads, leaning his forehead against the door and rattling the handle to no avail, “Open the door, please?”

The only response from behind the door is a few thuds, like something being knocked over or thrown to the ground. Steve thinks of Bucky’s failed psychiatric test and the trauma he’s been through, and panics – if he hurts himself because of how stupid Steve has been…

“It was Tony’s idea!” He tries, loyalty fading in his panic. “And once it started and we realised what it was, we couldn’t stop it – you set up those parameters to stop you stopping it or leaving, right?”

There is no response except more thuds, and Steve momentarily wishes they had someone with X-Ray vision on the team.

Or an AI that can see into the whole building. Idiot.

“JARVIS, is he okay?” Steve asks, not bothering to lower his voice – Bucky will hear him regardless. “What’s he doing?”

“Sergeant Barnes appears to be packing, Captain Rogers.”

It should relax him at least slightly that Bucky isn’t hurting himself in any way, but if anything this information makes him panic more. Bucky, of all people, could easily find a way out the window and down the side of the building, and can throw off a tail better than anyone Steve knows. If he leaves, there is a very real possibility that Steve will never see him again.

The doors of the tower were built to withstand bombs and Hulks, but Steve chooses to ignore that and delivers a sharp kick above the door handle. The door doesn’t budge and he promptly lands on his ass, so he scrambles to his feet and takes a few steps back, running at the door shoulder first instead. The manoeuvre does nothing except hurt, and sends Steve straight back to his ass with a possible dislocated shoulder, but the sound of packing in the other room does cease momentarily.

“Sergeant Barnes would like me to inform you that he has placed C4 on the other side of his bedroom door, Captain Rogers,” JARVIS says, voice inappropriately cheerful for the situation. That causes Steve to pause in his second run up to the door.

“Has he really?” Steve asks, not believing it but not quite putting it past Bucky, either. JARVIS is silent for much longer than it would actually take to check, before he replies:

“Sergeant Barnes would like me to inform you that he definitely has, Captain Rogers.”

Steve rolls his eyes and continues his run-up, choosing to continue destroying his left shoulder rather than damaging them both by switching it up. Again, the door doesn’t even creak under his weight, but the packing sounds pause once more.

“Captain Rogers, Sergeant Barnes would like me to inform you that you’re going to hurt yourself if you continue attempting to knock down a titanium door.”

Steve’s only response is a third, even harder full body slam into the door.

“Sergeant Barnes would like me to inform you that you are, and I can only apologise for the content of this message, a ‘stupid punk’, Captain Rogers.”

Steve laughs aloud at that, but it comes out a little more like a sob. On the other side of the door, Bucky doesn’t seem to be packing anymore. He hopes it’s because he’s decided to hear Steve out, and not because he’s already snuck out the window. Suddenly exhausted, he lets his back slide down the door until he’s sitting on the floor with his head leaning back against it. He imagines Bucky doing the same thing on the other side like they’re in one of the terrible 90s rom-coms that Clint is so fond of.

“JARVIS, can you tell Bucky that I’ll continue throwing myself at his titanium door all day if he doesn’t open it and that I know I don’t deserve it, but could he please let me explain and apologise?”

“Sergeant Barnes,” Steve hears, muffled through the thick door, “Captain Rogers would like me to inform you that he will continue-“

“Yeah, I heard him. Jackass.” He hears Bucky say, and it makes Steve chuckle despite himself. His heart soars as he hears shuffling on the other side of the door, and the tell-tale click of the lock mechanism being released. The door swings open behind him but he doesn’t bother to lean his weight forward, letting gravity take him instead. He falls back as the door opens wider until he’s lying flat on his back, his head coming to rest at Bucky’s feet. When Bucky looks down and meets his eye with a curious gaze, he shoots him a dopey smile that he hopes shows how grateful he is that Buck has given him a chance.

“Hi,” He says, and can see that Bucky is desperately trying to stay angry, “Thanks for opening up.”

Bucky delivers a gentle kick to the crown of his head, fighting back a smile.

“Get up, you idiot,” he says fondly, before remembering that he is meant to be mad, and for a good reason, “You have 10 minutes to explain what the fuck you were thinking.”

Chapter Text

Steve scrambles to his feet as quickly as his busted shoulder will allow, already feeling the bone knitting itself back together. Moving deeper into his room, Bucky settles himself on the edge of his bed, so Steve comes over and joins him, leaving enough distance between them for Bucky to feel comfortable. The open gym bag half-filled with Bucky’s books and journals indicates that Bucky really was packing to leave – but the fact that he appears to have packed one of Steve’s favourite hoodies and a framed photograph of the two of them from the '40s suggests that he probably wouldn’t have been able to go through with it.

Bucky is looking at him expectantly, and the anger on his face seems to be becoming more and more real the longer Steve hesitates in explaining himself, so he starts talking.

“That was true, what I said earlier – Tony started the memory before we could say no, and then we were trapped in there...”

Bucky doesn’t say anything or even look at him, but the message is loud and clear. Not good enough.

“I was so worried, Buck, I thought maybe you were in serious trouble, and we couldn’t think of another way to find out where you had gone. But there was no way to stop it once we’d started, once we realised what an awful and fucked up and invasive thing we’d done-“

“Then you shouldn’t have started it,” Bucky says, tone more disappointed than angry now. It’s a tone that has always cut Steve to the bone to listen to – he’d do anything to have Bucky yelling at him right now, would take any amount of anger over this defeated resignation. Steve starts to speak, but Bucky cuts him off, clenching the fabric of his sweatpants in his fists where they rest in his lap.

“No, Steve. Do you have any idea how that makes me feel? How violated I feel to know that a whole bunch of people have seen me at my absolute lowest, being – well.” Violated. “I still can’t – I can’t fully trust your team. I try; I know they’re good people. I know they’re your friends. But you’re the only person I trust, and you still-“ He trails off, and looks so lost that Steve has to sit on his hands to stop himself reaching across to Bucky. “I didn’t tell you that was something they did for a reason. It’s not in the files you’ve seen. I never, ever wanted you to see me like that. Doing that for them, not fighting back.”

“Buck, no,” Steve replies, horrified at Bucky’s thought process, “You were a prisoner, you were entirely under their control. You couldn’t have fought back. No one- we weren’t judging you. I never wanted to see you like that, either, because I never wanted that to happen to you, or anything else you’ve been through.”

They’re edging around the topic, not directly addressing what they both know happened to Bucky, but Steve doesn’t want to push and cause Bucky any more pain than they already have today. But Bucky surprises him by elaborating a little, in a painfully quiet voice.

“I mean, its- you have all these guys, mostly, who’re stressed and they’re away from their wives or whatever. And then you have this robot that does whatever you say and can’t talk back and you can’t really hurt however hard you try, you know? You do the math.”

“Buck, no,” Steve says gently, reaching out a tentative hand to rest on Bucky’s back, making sure he moves slowly enough that Bucky can move away if he wants to, “You were, and are, a person, Buck. Not a robot. Don’t say it like it makes sense, like they weren’t really doing anything wrong. They were monsters, pal, and rapists, and you didn’t deserve any of that.”

Bucky flinches at the r-word like he hadn’t been calling it what it was so plainly in his head. He’s already invaded Bucky’s privacy enough, but Steve thinks he’ll have to find out if one of Bucky’s therapists specialises in sexual trauma, or if he’s avoiding that part of his recovery. He’s clearly not processing it in an entirely healthy way. Bucky simply nods, seemingly accepting Steve’s position even if he doesn't quite agree that he didn't deserve it, and changes the subject gently.

“My brain's still kind of Swiss cheese,” He begins, looking at Steve from underneath his eyelashes, “For me, when I’m in the machine, the memories are all jumbled up, kind of cutting each other off… was it like that for you, too? When you watched it?”

Steve decides once again to just be honest with him.

“Yeah. Yeah, there were other memories, too. Spliced in.”

“So you saw…more,” Bucky says slowly, processing, and looks at Steve expectantly. For a brief second, Steve considers lying or at least leaving out some of the worst memories, but after a hundred years of secrets, it’s probably about time they get everything out in the open.

“There was a memory with- with your father. The night he died.”

It can’t be a great shock – Bucky had experienced the same jumble of memories himself less than two days ago, after all. But he still inhales sharply and tightens his grip on the bedspread with both hands. Under his metal fingers, there is the tell-tale sound of fabric tearing, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“So you know, then,” Bucky says, phrasing it like a question though they both know the answer.

“Yes, I know” Steve replies, and ducks down a little to try and meet Bucky’s elusive gaze. “Bucky, you know I would never think any differently about you, right? You have to know- is that why you didn’t tell me? Because you thought that I would judge you? Or, or hate you?”

Steve’s attempts at eye contact are fruitless as Bucky settles his gaze onto his half-packed gym bag in the middle of the floor, and he prays that Bucky trusts him enough to know that his sexuality won’t change anything between them.

“I didn’t… I couldn’t bring you into that, back then… you were so good, Stevie, and you always did the right thing, and I wanted you to think I was like you, too. I didn’t want you to know that I was capable of something like that.” He takes a deep breath and carries on “And afterwards, when I got out from HYDRA, you were acting like I was still that guy. This good person. That I had been him, and that I could carry on being him. I didn’t want you to know that I never was, that that was why it had been so easy for HYDRA to make me into their Asset.”

Steve furrows his brow in confusion at Bucky’s words. Has the homophobia of their upbringing been so ingrained in Bucky that he believes his sexuality makes him as evil as HYDRA?

It occurs to Steve suddenly that they might not be having the same conversation.

“They didn’t need to make me into a killer, because I already was one,” Bucky finishes, and not for the first time today Steve feels like an idiot. Why did he assume that Bucky was talking about his sexuality? Why does that seem to be all Steve can focus on, in a conversation about the death of his best friend’s father? He recovers from his confusion quickly and sets about pretending that they had been talking about the same thing all along.

“Buck, no. I saw, remember? It was an accident. And it was self-defence. He would have killed you-“

“Well, maybe he should have!” Bucky snaps, and then sucks in a breath when he realises what he’s said and sees Steve’s horrified expression. “I just- I mean- If he had, then, think about how many more people would still be alive. The things I’ve done, Steve. I…”

“Don’t say that, Bucky, please don’t ever say that. If you ever feel like that, like you’d be better off…please come to me. Or Sam, or Bruce, if you… if you can’t look at me after today. The things you did aren’t things you did, Buck, they’re things HYDRA did using you, against your will.”

“I didn’t have a will,” Bucky says in a voice so quiet that Steve probably wouldn’t have heard it if not for his enhanced hearing, as he tips his head forward to hide behind his long hair “Things weren’t ‘against my will’ because I didn’t…I just didn’t have one. I didn’t want anything. They carved it right out of me. But I still- it was still me who did it, Steve. I pulled the trigger, held the knife, snapped their…”

He trails off and Steve has no idea what to say in response, the horror of what had been done to Bucky while he lay asleep under the ocean shaking him to his core for the thousandth time. Instead of stumbling through an apology that Bucky doesn’t want, he reaches out a hand slowly, allowing Bucky to see it’s advance and decide whether he wants the contact or not. Bucky accepts the touch with a half aborted flinch but goes easily when Steve shuffles into his space and pulls him to his chest, fingers digging into the soft hair at the back of Bucky’s neck.

They’ve been through this before; Steve has tried time and time again to convince Bucky that he can’t hold himself accountable for the actions of HYDRA. But he always resists, still unwilling to unburden himself from the guilt and responsibility of the Winter Soldiers crimes. Steve thinks bitterly that this is HYDRA’s parting gift, their last bit of programming; if there is no one left to torture Bucky, he’ll find a way to torture himself.

Bucky seems to come to his senses slightly and pulls away from Steve, deciding to change the subject.

“So you… did you hear? What me and my old man were fighting about? Before I…”

Now they’ve come full circle back to what Steve had thought they were talking about in the first place. Bucky’s gaze flicks up briefly and he looks at Steve from under his eyelashes, crossing his arms across his chest. The look, or perhaps the subject matter, makes Steve blush a little, and Bucky chuckles quietly at Steve’s awkwardness.

“You really didn’t know?” He asks. Steve can only shake his head, and Bucky looks incredulous.

“I thought I was pretty obvious. All the girls, you know, trying way too hard to look straight. People talked,” he says, and Steve feels even more stupid since it appears everyone else saw what he couldn’t.

“You didn’t like any of them? You just…lead them on?” It comes out a little more judgemental than Steve had intended, but Bucky doesn’t take offence and smiles ruefully instead.

“I liked them just fine. I always liked woman, spending time with them, dancing… and they were all great dames, real firecrackers. I just wasn’t attracted to them, not like that,” Bucky explains “Besides, a lotta those girls were queer too. Sometimes they’d tell me about some straight girl they were sweet on, right? So we’d bring you and the girl along, call it a double date, and my girl could just pretend me and you weren’t there. They never could of gone dancing just themselves, together, but this way she could look at her friend and block everyone else out and pretend it was real, you know?”

Bucky can’t quite meet Steve’s eye, and he looks a little embarrassed as he hastily moves on;

“Anyway, a lotta them had girls of their own up in the Village, and people were always talking. We helped each other out, shut everyone up, ya know?”

That makes sense, and Steve nods, relieved that someone had been protecting Bucky even if Steve, in all his ignorance, couldn’t. But still.

“You never told me. And even if you thought I knew, we… we never talked about it.”

It’s not a question but Bucky answers anyway, sounding a little exasperated.

“Stevie. You had enough to worry about, with your ma and being sick and us tryin’ to scrape together the rent. You didn’t need my shit too. ‘Sides, you got the shit kicked outta you enough as it was, and people talked, what with us living in a one bedroom and you being an artist an’ all.  It just…it felt safer if you were in the dark, ya know?”

Steve isn’t sure that fully makes sense, but then Bucky’s thought process had always been a little chaotic when he was emotional, drawing connections that Steve could never hope to follow or predict and reaching conclusions that made sense to no one but himself. It makes him think of the soldier that had looked at Bucky with such devotion in his eyes. Did he understand you better than I do?

Shaking off the thought, Steve thinks he should probably tell Bucky what else they saw.

“There was- In another memory, there was a man. In Europe, in the war, before I got there. I think you called him Danny.” I think you screamed ‘Danny’ when his body hit the ground.

Bucky was clearly not expecting this change in topic and fiddles with the drawstrings of his sweatpants, looking a little lost. Steve clears his throat awkwardly beside him, already regretting putting that distant look on Bucky’s face.

“Yeah. Danny. Corporal with the 100th outta Kentucky. You woulda’ liked him. He was funny, and kind, had that same goddamn stubborn idealism that you’ve got. Thought we were gonna stop the war, save the world. He was only 27 when he…”

Steve doesn’t tell him that he already knows, that the team had seen Danny’s death and Bucky’s desperate, heartbroken panic. His honesty only goes so far.

“It’s weird because it’s been the best part of a century, but it’s still…raw. Like it was yesterday.”

Steve knows exactly what Bucky means, and thinks of the compass with Peggy’s picture inside on his bedside table. He thinks of bringing her up, showing that he understands where Bucky’s head is at, but it doesn’t feel like the best time. Steve loved Peggy, thinks they could have really been something if they’d had time – but they didn’t. He’d known her for a few months where they got no privacy or time to really get to know each other, the constant stress and fear of the war drawing them together even as it kept them from each other. Steve’s been awake since 2012 now, and has access to all the therapists (Tony’s) money can buy. While he misses her, he’s doing a pretty good job of moving on and recovering, but Bucky’s hasn’t had a chance – for him, this is still raw.

“Well, it’s not like you’ve had any peace and quiet to process it, Buck. If you take out all that time with HYDRA, when you were frozen or you weren’t yourself, it’s only been a few years,” Steve says gently. “I…I wish I could have met him. I think we would have gotten along, too.”

I’d get along with anyone who makes you smile like that, who protects you, who treats you right. Steve keeps that thought to himself. As Bucky lapses back into a despondent silence, picking at the seam of the bedspread with his metal fingertips, Steve considers how things may have been different if Danny had still been around when Captain America showed up. Would Bucky have still been willing to die in an exploding building with Steve (Not without you!) if he had someone waiting back at the barracks, someone who loved him? Would he have followed Captain America into the jaws of death, if he had something to lose? Would Danny have joined the Commandos, followed them to keep Bucky safe, something Steve could never do?

If someone had been there watching Bucky’s back, would he still have fallen?

That line of thinking isn’t healthy or productive, he knows. He’s been over the scene a thousand times, picked apart the things he could have done differently, the ways he could have planted his feet and stretched his hands out to haul Bucky back into the carriage. Dwelling on what if’s isn’t helping either of them move forward.

Abruptly, Steve stands up, unable to sit still any longer with Bucky looking so distraught, in the choking atmosphere of his room.

“I got food, on the way back from the mission. I’m pretty sure it’s been out of the fridge for hours now but I’m also pretty sure we can’t get sick, so. Couch?”

“Couch,” Bucky answers with a crooked smile, accepting the hand Steve offers to pull him up off the bed, although it’s hardly necessary. To Steve’s surprise, Bucky doesn’t let go once he’s up on his feet, and the feeling of their fingers intertwined makes his stomach twist curiously. He forces himself to let go once they reach the living room, and shoves Bucky towards the couch, cutting him off from the plates he was reaching for.

“Sit down. I’m gonna take care of you for once, okay?” Steve tells him, taking a few plates from the cabinet and beginning to unbox the now cold junk food he had picked up for them what feels like days ago. Bucky looks at him curiously but goes without complaint, flopping down on one edge of the couch and curling his knees up to his chest as he leans over the arm to look at Steve.

“For once? Feels like you’ve spent this whole century taking care of me, pal.”

Shoving the plates into the overly-complicated Stark-brand microwave and jamming buttons at random (he refuses to admit to Tony that he doesn’t quite understand how it works), Steve responds honestly without really thinking too hard about it.

“Yeah, well. You spent the last century taking care of me, I could see that even before I knew the stuff you’d been lying about, so I’ve got some catching up to do now.”

It takes 10 rotations of the plates in the microwave for Steve to realise what he’s said, and the beep that signals the food is ready coincides with the penny dropping.

“Sorry- I didn’t mean -“

“You saw that too, huh?” Bucky says dryly, cutting him off and turning away to face the blank television so he doesn’t have to look at Steve, “I wasn’t lying, I was just-“

“You told me the money came from a job-“

“That was a job-“

“Like hell it was. If I’d known we were that desperate, I could have gotten a real job, taken more commissions, sold-“

“No you couldn’t!” Bucky hisses, cold anger from before he let Steve into his room back full force. He still won’t turn to look at Steve, but the tension in his shoulders is evident. “You worked as much as you could – too much, sometimes, and you just made yourself sicker. There wasn’t any more work. We didn’t have anything left to sell.”

Steve takes the plates out of the microwave but makes no move to bring them, or himself, over to the couch, instead placing both his hands on the counter and hunching over it to try to calm himself down. Bucky’s hurting and starting a fight won’t help, but Steve is struggling to push down his own anger.

“That wasn’t your decision to make. We should have made it together. There were other ways-“

“No there weren’t!” Bucky explodes. Steve can hear Bucky rise to his feet and finally turn to face Steve, but now Steve can’t bring himself to turn round and meet his eye, so he stares resolutely at the cabinet in front of him instead. “There wasn’t another way. And what I did with my body is my choice- it might not have been a good one, but it was the only one, and it was mine.”

“That’s not what I meant, Buck,” Steve replies, softer now, “I just mean I wish you’d told me how desperate we were. Seen if we couldn’t have come up with something, together. I never wanted you to do that.”

“You think I wanted to?” He sighs, “It was either doing what I did, or robbing banks, or joining the mob.”

Steve opens his mouth but Bucky cuts him off almost instantly, knowing what he’s going to say without even being able to see Steve’s face.

“If you apologise for getting sick and needing medicine, I will smack you. The vicar came and read you last rites four times before we were 25, Stevie.”

Steve snorts out a small approximation of a laugh and feels the tension diffuse slightly. Wanting Bucky to know he isn’t angry or judgemental, he finally unclenches his fingers from the countertop and turns to face him.

“I know, I know. I won’t say I’m sorry – this time. But I just. I am. That you felt you had to do that, and that those things happened to you. I wish you had told me, that I could have been there for you.”

Bucky wraps his arms around his middle and looks up at Steve from behind his hair to give him a weak smile.

“You were always there, pal. Even if I was hiding shit from you –“ He breaks off, flopping down onto the couch and leaning his chin on his folded arms over its back, “If I had told you, you would have fought me tooth and nail to make sure I never went back out there. You would have worked yourself to death, and then you wouldn’t have been there for me.”

He’s right, as much as Steve is loath to admit it. He still doesn’t think it needed to be done – Steve would have found a way, any way, to stop Bucky being hurt, would have taken to the streets himself if necessary – but he feels a little less hurt at the secrecy.

“Now can I have my goddamn chicken?” Bucky asks, curling his knees up once again and pulling the fuzzy blanket they keep under the coffee table over his shoulders, “All this drama is making me hungry.”

Obediently, Steve takes the now lukewarm plates from the kitchenette and brings them over to the coffee table, sitting down in the middle of the couch rather than on the opposite end to Bucky. Bucky takes his plate into his lap and as expected, slots his frozen toes under Steve’s large thigh. As they eat their awful, greasy fried chicken in companionable silence, Steve gets a little choked up with gratitude. How fucking lucky is he that after 100 years of shit; freezing, dying, brainwashing and superpowers, he still has Bucky eating on the couch with him with his feet shoved under Steve’s thigh like it’s 1934?

Bucky looks up at him and must see the soft look on Steve’s face because he blushes a little and tucks a strand of long brown hair behind his ear. The thought god, I love you pops into his head unbidden, and  Steve is shocked by how shocked he is when it appears – of course they love each other, they’ve been best friends and brothers for nearly a century. But the urge to say just that to Bucky is new – normally they say punk, jerk, asshole, don’t do anything stupid and I’m with you ‘til the end of the line. Anything else sounds a little too romantic; but thinking about it now, all those other phrases sound strangely romantic, too. Before he can do something reckless like voice this new thought aloud, Bucky speaks up again.

“I’m still mad, you know. At all of you.”

“I know. And I’m still sorry. The others, too, everyone felt terrible about invading your privacy like that,” Steve tells him, desperately not wanting the almost non-existent relationship between Bucky and the others to be degraded any further. The one thing he and Bucky haven’t really talked about suddenly occurs to him – the thing that started off the entire nightmare this night has been. The two images he’d seen of Williams flash before his eyes; one young and hesitant with a little human decency still behind his eyes, and the other older and with that humanity firmly extinguished. JARVIS said he had worked for SHIELD (or HYDRA, but what’s the difference?) for nearly seven more years before he’d finally been forced to quit due to injury. How much worse had he become in that time? Had Bucky managed to find him in the last 48 hours, and what kind of revenge did he exact?

“The others will probably want to talk to you about what you’ve been doing – going after the HYDRA agents from your memories, I mean.”

Bucky looks a little shocked at that, and Steve realises he hadn’t actually told Bucky that they knew what he’d been doing when the Avengers were away on a mission. He explains, briefly, how JARVIS had helped them piece together what Bucky had done with the information from his memories, and that the team had been about to go after him, worried about him taking on more HYDRA agents alone. Bucky looks even more surprised to hear that the whole team had been about to come and get him, but schools his expression back into neutrality, and nods minutely.

“Can we at least do it in the morning?”

Steve looks pointedly at the clock in the corner which reads 7:00 am – between the memories, hunting for Bucky and fighting it out in their apartment, they’ve been up all night.

Bucky sighs, pushing himself up off the couch to go and get dressed with a gait that reminds Steve of the one he would adopt before heading into battle.

“Alright, then. No time like the present, I guess,”

Chapter Text

Finishing his (genuinely awful) chicken, Steve realises he is still in his suit, pulled down to the waist with a battered grey t-shirt underneath, and still covered in ash and what looks suspiciously like blood. Before they go meet the team he decides to take the world’s quickest shower and shoves on a fresh t-shirt and jeans, hoping Bucky doesn’t get annoyed by the delay. Luckily, Bucky takes much longer to get dressed than he normally does, and if Steve suspects he had to take some breaks to panic about facing everyone, he doesn’t say anything. Bucky’s not exactly dressed up, just in jeans and a hoodie with mismatched socks, but he suits 21^st-century fashion in a way that Steve has never felt he did. The hoodie is too big for him now he’s lost some of his Winter Soldier bulk and the long sleeves cover both his hands – but Steve recognises it as one of his, the same one he had noticed Bucky packing earlier. Steve’s stomach does that strange flipping thing it’s been doing lately as he thinks about how Bucky chose a piece of his clothing to wrap himself in at a time like this, when he's in need of comfort.  

“Let’s get this over with,” Bucky mumbles, radiating discomfort, but he doesn’t flinch when Steve places a supportive hand on the back of his neck as they head towards the elevator.

Steve had JARVIS check the others were awake and gather them in the conference room a few floors above theirs, so the team is expecting them when they step out of the elevator. Bucky pauses momentarily when he sees everyone sitting around the table, and flinches slightly when they all turn their gaze to him, but they politely ignore it and look away. All except for Wanda, who smiles at him kindly and pulls out the chair next to her for him to sit down. Bucky takes the opening gratefully, and  Steve follows close behind. He's glad to see that Bruce has returned to the group and seems to have regained some of the (non-green) colour in his cheeks, although he still looks a little worse for wear. Looking around, Steve notes that they all look haggard, and he wonders if anyone in the tower has actually managed to get any sleep besides Pepper.

Tony is standing at the head of the table in front of a dark screen, a mug in his hand that is so obscenely large Steve thinks he must have had to have it commissioned specially. Steve didn’t really want Tony leading this meeting or debrief, or whatever they’re calling it - Tony is an expert in many things but emotions and tact aren’t among them – but it doesn’t look like he has much of a choice.

“Ok, good morning-“

“Is it?” Clint mutters darkly from where he is hunched over, looking mostly asleep, but Tony chooses to ignore him and presses on.

“-thanks for taking time out of your busy schedule of revenge and bicep curls to join us, Capsicle 2.0.” Bucky looks decidedly unimpressed, but luckily not offended either. “First of all, someone should definitely apologise. Not me, but like. Someone.”

There are a few beats of silence before the team realises that Tony really does expect someone else to do this for him, so Sam steps up to the plate.

“Bucky – can I call you Bucky? Do you prefer James?” He asks, and Bucky shrugs, refusing to quite meet his eye.

“Bucky’s fine,” He says quietly, in a tone that really means it doesn’t matter, whatever you want, picking at the hem of his hoodie.

“Bucky,” Sam continues, “I take it Steve has explained to you what happened here last night?”

Bucky nods, and Sam takes a deep breath before continuing on.

“Watching your memories was an enormous, terrible invasion of privacy. It was done out of concern for your wellbeing, but that’s no excuse. You were told you were safe here, that you could trust us, that you could have the privacy and autonomy you’ve been denied while with HYDRA – and we really let you down today. I think I speak for all of us, even Tony, when I say that we’re sorry and we wish it had never happened, and we hope at some point in the future you can forgive us for this.”

Bucky merely nods again, not quite willing to say it’s okay when it so clearly isn’t, but he does look a little placated. Steve is once again grateful for Sam’s clear head and ability to always say the right thing, and reignites his hopes that Sam and Bucky can become friends one day. They’d be good for each other – good together, he thinks, and pushes down the strange pang of jealousy that the thought produces.

“Great!” Tony says, sounding relieved that he didn’t have to participate in the apology. He rounds on Bucky and says; “Now that’s out the way, let’s get down to business. Did you not think that your knowledge of active HYDRA cells and uncaptured HYDRA operatives was SHIELD business, or Avengers business? That perhaps you should tell somebody?!”

Steve opens his mouth to admonish Tony – this really isn’t the way he was expecting this to go – but Bucky is ready to defend himself.

“Well, seeing as what you call ‘SHIELD’ held me prisoner and tortured me for 70 years, and the Avengers only just stopped trying to kill each other or throw each other in an underwater prison without trial, no, I didn’t really feel like it was your business. I can more than handle this by myself. This is what I’m built for.”

He’s right, of course. Bucky has no reason to trust SHIELD, who either participated in, turned a blind eye to, or were ignorant of their own infiltration for the last century, or the Avengers, who are, as Sam would say, a ‘hot mess’. But he still wishes that Bucky didn’t feel he had to do this alone – that he at least felt he could come to Steve. And he hates when Bucky uses terms like ‘built’, like he’s some kind of HYDRA manufactured robot and not a person.

“You thought you’d just play judge, jury and executioner and go on a murder-spree by yourself?!” Tony continues, even as Natasha aims a less than subtle kick at him from her chair.

“It’s not a murder-spree,” Bucky says bitterly, “I know Steve hates it when- I mean, I’m not setting out to kill anyone. But so many of them still have a cyanide capsule in their tooth or orders to terminate themselves before being captured, and some of them- some of them don’t give me any other choice.”

This seems to appease Tony slightly, but he still looks like he could go another round with Bucky, so Steve cuts in.

“No one’s blaming you for anything, Bucky. You’ve been taking dangerous people off the streets and into custody, and you’ve had to put yourself through a lot of pain and relive a lot of trauma to do it. All we’re saying is: that’s not how the Avengers do things. We’re a team, and we don’t let people head into fights alone.”

“In case you didn’t notice, I tanked my psych eval. I’m not actually an Avenger,” Bucky insists, “I can do this by myself, Steve.”

“The thing is, Buck," He tells him, "You don’t have to.”

The look Bucky gives him tells Steve that he remembers saying those exact words himself so many years ago, and it makes Steve feel warm inside, like they’re the only people in the room until Tony speaks again.

“For what it’s worth, if you’re gonna be going out and avenging regardless, we might as well say screw the psych evaluation and bring you on board.”

The sentiment surprises Bucky and Steve in equal measures, but the rest of the team nod their assent. Steve wonders if they had discussed it while they were waiting for the two of them to arrive.

“We saw the profile for the guy you were going after this time. Williams,” Clint says when Bucky appears speechless and just looks at Tony, open-mouthed, “Did you find him?”

Bucky pulls himself together and turns to Clint, frowning as he remembers;

“No. He had been living in the garage attached to his brother’s house in Philadelphia, but it didn’t look like anyone had actually been there in months.”

“His file said he left SHIELD after an injury – any idea what that was?” Natasha asks.

“Me,” Bucky answers honestly, smiling slightly, “It was just before everything went down in D.C. – I’d been… malfunctioning for a while, lashing out, getting confused. The mind wipes were becoming too frequent and I’d been out of the ice too long, my brain was struggling to heal. After a mission I had become really… erratic. And they sent him in. He’d calmed me down before.”

Steve remembers Rumlow’s voice telling Williams that Bucky was more docile with blonde haired, blue eyed handlers, and feels a new wave of hatred for everyone in HYDRA. They had managed to exploit Bucky’s trust in Steve when Bucky didn’t even remember himself, let alone Steve.

“But this time, I think I knew he wasn’t…” He trails off, “I mean, it didn’t work. They managed to get me in the chair and start the process, thinking if they could just wipe me they could get me under control. But they put me in so fast they didn’t secure the straps properly, and I- I grabbed him. With my metal arm.”

The others wince at the mental image; electrical current so strong a fast-healing super soldier could barely stand it coursing through the chair and through Bucky’s metal arm into the unenhanced HYDRA agent. All Steve can think is good.

“I don’t really remember much after that but I think maybe I threw him. Nobody would go near me when I wasn’t tied up or strapped down for weeks, so I must have fucked him up pretty bad.”

Steve doesn’t really want to think of the implications of Bucky being tied up or strapped down, so he focusses on enjoying the image of Bucky getting a little revenge on one of these bastards, and scaring the shit out of the rest. The others are clearly struggling with the same implications but Natasha presses on, ever the professional.

“Was there anything in his garage to suggest where he might have gone? Or the brother's house?”

Bucky shakes his head, but hesitates, before saying;

“Brother seemed clean – him and his wife are both school teachers, and I couldn’t find any connection to anything shady. The garage was mostly empty, except…” He swallows cautiously, “There were newspapers, articles, print outs – everything about me from after D.C. to now. Sightings while I was still on the run, stuff about me being granted refuge in Wakanda and then moving into the tower.”

The others take a moment to process that and what it could mean before Bucky continues.

“He had a bunch of HYDRA files on me, too, not just the stuff from the SHIELD leak, but stuff he should never have had access to, from as far back as Zola. He had my manuals, and the words – nearly gave me a heart attack before I remembered that Shuri got them all out.”

“So he’s been stalking you,” Bruce says, speaking up for the first time and looking a little ill at the prospect, “He must blame you for his injuries, or for losing his job, and be looking for… some kind of revenge.”

Bucky nods, agreeing with that assessment.

“He was up for a promotion, I think, before. He was gonna be my next handler. Pierce liked him a lot.”

Knowing this bastard had Pierce's approval makes Steve hate him even more, if that’s possible, and he’s grateful Williams never got a promotion that would give him even more access to Bucky.

“He didn’t seem- I mean, I don’t know how to say this…” Clint starts nervously, “He seemed like a dumb kid, in the memory? Like he didn’t really get what was going on.”

Bucky’s face darkens and his gaze shifts to stare blankly at the wall beside Clint’s head.

“He got worse. He learnt.” And then, quietly; “Order through pain.”

It’s decided that tracking down and capturing Williams will be their next mission, as a team. Alone, Bucky had access to JARVIS, and a pretty extensive network that Steve doesn’t quite understand but thinks might be comprised of former HYDRA allies, suppliers and informants. But the rest of the Avengers each have their own networks, and what remains of SHIELD has been hard at work tracking down the remnants of HYDRA while the Avengers were busy fighting amongst themselves. If Bucky couldn’t find this guy by himself, they should be able to do it together.

Privately, Steve is terrified of what Williams could be planning. This seems like more than just stalking. Bucky says he had managed to get a hold of files from as far back as Zola, files that neither SHIELD nor HYDRA themselves had when the leak occurred. What could be the point of collecting Bucky’s files – Steve still won’t say manuals – and the words, if he didn’t intend to capture Bucky and make him a slave again?

They wrap up the meeting with a promise to reconvene later in the day, each Avenger tracking down their own leads and sources to see what they can find on this Williams character. As Bucky and Steve head back to their floor to take a much-needed nap, Steve asks the question that has been on his mind since Bucky shared his findings.

“Were you going to tell me?” He asks gently, trying not to sound accusatory or start another fight after the stressful day Bucky’s already had, “You find out this guy is stalking you, possibly coming after you – were you going to tell me?”

Bucky opens his mouth to reply as the elevator reaches their floor, and smiles as Steve fixes him a look that says if you say ‘I can handle it’ I swear to god, Buck.

“Yeah, I. Probably,” He starts, and then decides to just be honest, “I’m not sure. I felt like, if I told you about going after them I would have to explain about everything. About B.A.R.F., and about what was going on in those memories. I was worried you might try and stop me doing it.”

They reach their floor and step out of the elevator, meandering towards the corridor that holds both of their bedrooms as Bucky struggles to find the words to explain.

“And Steve, I- I need this. I can’t sleep, I can’t breathe knowing that the people who wiped me, tortured me, twisted me into this killer – that they’re still out there, and they could come back, or they could hurt someone else. It’s more than just revenge – I’m not sure I can ever feel safe if there’s even one person still out there, even here with you.”

It breaks Steve’s heart to hear what he’s long suspected; that even in what is possibly the safest place on earth (besides maybe Wakanda), surrounded by some of the best security available and a group of superheroes who would literally kill to protect Bucky, he still doesn’t feel safe. Even with Steve by his side.

“I understand how it might not feel like it Buck, but I promise you: you’re safe now. I just got you back – I can’t lose you or see you hurt again, and you’re surrounded by people who would never, ever let that happen.”

Bucky smiles softly but it doesn’t reach his eyes, and despite Steve’s best efforts it’s obvious that Bucky doesn’t really believe him.

“Get some sleep Stevie, okay?” he says, squeezing Steve’s shoulder gently before ducking into his own bedroom and disappearing from view.

Chapter Text

Steve wakes up to screaming.

He’s on his feet instantly, stumbling into wakefulness and grasping blindly for his shield. He only remembers when his fingers meet empty air that he no longer keeps it by his bed, but in the living room, feeling safe enough in the tower now to be separated from it. The scream that awoke him sounds again, and Steve is out the door and across the corridor before he has time to grab anything else as a weapon, recognising the sound of Bucky’s terrified voice. As he reaches for Bucky’s door handle, he realises that JARVIS would have warned him by now if there was some kind of break-in. To be honest, Bucky wouldn’t be screaming if there had been – he would be more than capable of dealing with it himself, and Bucky has never really shown much fear in the face of a threat, much less screamed. It’s his past that scares him, not the present or whatever the future can throw at him.

A nightmare, then.

This requires a different approach. Steve is more than happy to throw himself, sometimes literally, at any threat that comes at him or Bucky. But when the threat is Bucky’s mind, bursting in and grabbing at him would likely end in Bucky lashing out and stabbing Steve. Staring at the door and wondering what he will find on the other side for the third time today, Steve takes a second to think things through.

In a horrible way, this dance is familiar. Nostalgic, even. Bucky had always had nightmares, from when they were kids and would sleep on the couch cushions on the living room floor, to when they finally got their own place and shared a bed to keep warm. Back then, when Steve awoke to Bucky muttering, kicking and shaking, he would reach over and curl his arm around Bucky’s middle, whispering gently to him as he came out of it.

“Hey, it’s just me. Just Steve. We’re at home. You’re safe. Nothing’s gonna hurt you here, Buck.”

Bucky would turn as he woke up, sobbing quietly and flinching away until he connected the invasive touch with Steve’s face and Steve’s voice. Then he’d shuffle closer, pressing his forehead against Steve’s prominent collar bones and whispering apologies, as if Steve could ever be angry about being woken up. In the morning, Bucky would be grateful for Steve’s intervention but refuse to talk about the dream, and Steve knew he would push himself harder and work later to make sure he was too exhausted to dream for the rest of the week. In their youth, Steve had always assumed the content of the nightmares was imagined horrors, like the ones Steve himself had as a child – monsters chasing him, Bucky dying, a killer on the loose, a tsunami sweeping the city away. Now, in light of what Steve knows, it’s painfully obvious that the monsters of Bucky’s dreams were real, and despite Steve’s promises, could hurt him.

Unsurprisingly, the dreams had followed him into the war, and had only gotten worse. This time, Steve didn’t have to guess at the content of the nightmares. From beside him in their shared tent, he would wake more often than not to Bucky reciting his serial number, sometimes still in the throes of sleep but sometimes awake and simply not knowing where he was in the dark and quiet of the night. Steve would gently shake him awake and whisper soothingly as Bucky would beg for the pain to stop or plead with an unseen enemy to take him, instead. It took longer for Bucky to connect the hands on him to Steve, in those days, as if he had to re-remind himself every day that Steve was big now, but as soon as he recognised his friend he would curl into him like he always had. In the morning, they didn’t talk about it. Bucky refused to talk about Azzano at all except for a clipped, mandatory debrief with Colonel Phillips, and he insisted that he was fine to anyone who would listen. Outside their tent, the Howlies would politely ignore any screaming or sobbing that may have woken them. After all, they were in a warzone, and even those who had been spared Zola’s table had seen immense death and destruction. Bucky was far from the only person to have nightmares.

But the difference between then and now was that Bucky would accept his touch, then. Actively wanted Steve to wake him, to pull him from his nightmare and hold him until he calmed down.

Now, Bucky was adamant that he could deal with them by himself. Steve had been awoken by several of Bucky’s nightmares since he had moved into the tower, his super-soldier hearing picking up Bucky’s distress even from down the corridor. But Bucky had always jerked himself awake by the time Steve got out of bed and came to investigate, so his intervention wasn’t necessary. After a nightmare, Steve would hover awkwardly in the hallway, too worried to go back to bed, until he heard Bucky’s shower kick on or he saw his friend shuffle tiredly into the kitchen to make himself some tea. Sometimes Bucky would accept his company in the kitchen or living room, and they would sit in companionable silence drinking their tea or watching one of the Disney movies that Steve wasn’t ashamed of loving. On the rare occasions he would acknowledge the nightmares, Bucky would insist that Steve stay as far from him as possible, and not try to wake him no matter how bad it might sound.

“I might not know you,” he had said, “And I don’t want to hurt you.”

But the terrible noises Bucky is letting out don’t seem to be stopping, and Steve never could sit idly by and watch while someone is suffering, least of all Bucky. Making up his mind, he steps into Bucky’s room once again, careful to move as slowly as possible so as not to spook him.

The lights are off, but Steve’s enhanced vision quickly adjusts. In the middle of the bed, Bucky is curled up in the foetal position, thin white shirt drenched in sweat and face streaked with tears. His flesh hand is curled into his hair and tugging in a way that must be painful, and his metal fingers are tearing the sheets with how tightly he is clutching them. His pale face is turned towards Steve, and even with his eyes squeezed shut his expression is obviously terrified. The noises he is making remind Steve painfully of a stray dog they once saw in Brooklyn that had been hit by a car and left to bleed out in the street, mangled and wheezing. Despite the added bulk, metal arm and long hair, he looks so much like the scared little kid Steve remembers from their childhood that he almost forgets himself and drags Bucky to his chest like he used to.

Steve takes a few more silent steps into the room until he is at the edge of the bed, and crouches down beside it so he won’t be looming over him when Bucky wakes up. He places one hand on the edge of the mattress and shakes it once, as gently as he can, while calling Bucky’s name in his most placating voice.

When he wakes, Bucky’s eyes snap open as if he has been electrocuted, and he moves too quickly for Steve to react. In an instant, Steve is flat on his back on the carpet with a deadly assassin straddling his thighs. Bucky’s metal hand pins his flailing wrists in a vice-like grip above his head, while the other presses a knife to Steve’s throat. Taking a deep breath, Steve tries to lie as still as possible, not wanting to spook Bucky anymore and risk getting his throat slashed, while he thinks about what he could say to get through the Bucky. But before he can come up with anything else to try and diffuse the situation, JARVIS’s concerned voice cuts in.

“Captain Rogers, should I inform-“

Steve understands that JARVIS is concerned for his safety - he knows what this scene must look like. But his intervention only makes things worse. Bucky looks around the room wildly for the source of the voice, looking for threats in every inch of the darkness and only seeming to panic more when he comes up empty.

“No, JARVIS! Shut up!” Steve hisses, and JARVIS complies. There is a beat of silence, before Bucky’s gaze falls vaguely in the direction of Steve’s face and his spits out something in Russian that Steve can’t understand.

“Bucky, I don’t know what that means. It’s Steve, Bucky, you’re at Avengers Tower, and you’re safe-“

His calm words have no effect, and Bucky’s only response is to press down harder on his wrists until Steve thinks they might snap, and repeat the Russian phrase once again. Steve decides to try a different tact, one that could backfire spectacularly if he’s reading this wrong.

“In English, Soldier,” he barks, holding his breath.

Bucky visibly jolts and tilts his head to the side like a dog considering its master. His eyes flick ceaselessly from Steve’s face to the knife in his hand, to the door in front of him. As though he has realised that Steve may not be the enemy after all, Bucky releases the vice like grip on his wrists and leans back.

“You are my handler,” Bucky replies, in English this time but with the strangest hint of a Russian accent, and somehow managing to be both a statement and a question, “What are my orders?”

“No, Buck, I’m not your handler," Steve tells him in his gentlest voice, rubbing his wrists to get the circulation flowing again, "I’m your Steve. Remember?”

“My Steve,” Bucky repeats, monotone and heartbreakingly devoid of recognition. He is staring at Steve but not making eye contact, so Steve tilts his head forward and gently asks Bucky to look at him. At last, Bucky meets his gaze head on and the sudden, horrified realisation that dawns in his eyes makes Steve think Bucky has finally come back to himself.

“I hurt you. I attacked you,” He gasps out, voice shaking with utter terror. Bucky scrambles up and off of Steve, pressing his back to the side of the bed behind him and throwing the knife away with such force that it sticks into the wall across from them. He holds himself unnaturally still for a second, before surprising Steve by surging forward up onto his knees and hanging his head.

“I’m sorry, sir. How should I prepare for my punishment?”

Steve can only gape at him, horrified. How has he fucked this up so badly?  He had thought that Bucky had recognised him - but with a painful twist of his stomach Steve realises that he was likely seeing Williams, or Pierce, or one of those other blonde-haired, blue-eyed handlers that they had used against him. His reaction had not been horror at hurting his best friend, but terror at having attacked his master - the one with the power to punish him.

“There won’t be any punishment,” he tries, and Bucky just looks confused, “I’m not your handler. You don’t have a handler.”

The little distressed noise Bucky lets out at that makes Steve feel nauseous.

“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. I call you Bucky. My name is Steve Rogers. I’m your friend. We grew up together, in Brooklyn,” he continues, sitting up so he’s kneeling opposite Bucky. “We’re in Avengers Tower. You’re safe. HYDRA is gone, and you’re free.”

Bucky shakes his head at that, looking at Steve like he’s completely insane, as if the idea of a world where HYDRA doesn’t own him is unimaginable. But he can tell he’s getting through to Bucky at least a little, so he presses on.

“Do you know where we are? Do you know your name? Do you recognise me, Bucky?”

A variety of different micro-expressions flit across Bucky’s face as he thinks each of those questions through, and he leans forward to study Steve’s face more closely. Steve thinks he can almost hear the cogs turning in Bucky’s brain as the Winter Soldier steps away to allow James Barnes to take back control.

“Stevie?” He says quietly after a moment’s contemplation, in the same tone he used when they were first reunited in Azzano, like he can’t believe Steve is really here.

“Yeah, Buck. I’m here. You’re safe. I’m right here.”

Bucky promptly bursts into tears.

“Oh, no, Bucky,” Steve says, the sight of Bucky crying like this causing a physical pain in his chest, “Bucky, can I touch you? Or do you want me to stay here?”

Bucky can’t seem to form words and instead answers by reaching a hand out for Steve and pulling him closer. Steve goes easily, folding his huge arms around Bucky and pulling him into his chest like he used to.

“I could have killed you. Oh god, Stevie, I could have killed you,” Bucky moans, shaking in Steve’s arms.

“Hey, it’s not your fault. You wouldn’t have. You didn’t know where you were, or who I was – and you did tell me not to come in here,” Steve replies fairly. Bucky sniffles and seems to get his crying under control a little, but makes no move to pull away from Steve’s embrace.

“They’re not normally this bad,” Bucky tells him honestly, “Today was just…a lot.”

“I know, baby, I’m so sorry,” Steve says, standing up and pulling a swaying Bucky up with him, “I’m gonna make you some tea, okay? And maybe we can put a movie on?”

Baby?! He’s not sure where the endearment came from, but Bucky either hasn’t noticed or doesn’t mind, so Steve doesn’t draw attention to it, and he lets Steve wrap a strong arm around his waist to lead him back into the living room and down onto the couch. As Steve busies himself brewing a pot of tea, he glances at the clock to see that it’s almost 4 pm – they had come back from the meeting with the Avengers at around 8 am after being up all night, and have somehow managed to sleep through the entire day. But Steve feels more exhausted than he did before their nap, and Bucky looks like he feels it, too.

Picking up the teapot in one hand and holding two mugs with the other, Steve moves back into the living area where Bucky is waiting. On the couch, Bucky is shifting nervously and biting his lip in a way that Steve recognises – he’s got something he wants to say, but he’s worried about how Steve will react.

“Everything okay?” Steve asks, feeling a little stupid – obviously nothing about the last few days, or the last 75 years of their lives, has been okay. But Bucky knows what he means, and looks at Steve cautiously from underneath his eyelashes.

“I, um. I think the nightmares. It’s.” He looks away and takes a deep breath, before giving the sentence another shot.

“When I was with HYDRA, I didn’t really sleep much. I was just frozen or drugged or knocked out,” He begins, not quite meeting Steve’s eye, “But before that, in Europe and in Brooklyn, we always slept together? In a tent or a bed or on the couch cushions.”

It’s spoken in that strange half-question, half-statement tone that Bucky often uses these days, memories so torn and fragmented that he sometimes isn’t sure what’s real and what’s not.

“I think they’re worse because I’m waking up and I know that if I’m not with HYDRA, you’d be there. But you’re not, so. I don’t know where I am.”

It makes sense, Steve thinks. In one of the rare times he had been willing to discuss the topic, Bucky had explained to him how everything in his mind was split into ‘HYDRA’ and ‘Before HYDRA’. There is no ‘After HYDRA’, not yet, the damage to his mind and body so deep and continuous that he doesn’t really feel like he has truly escaped from them. It makes sense that waking alone would be firmly in HYDRA territory, because waking Before HYDRA had always included Steve.

If Steve’s being honest with himself, he feels similarly. Everything about his first few nights in the 21^st century had been strange. The constant glow of light pollution that lit up his room even with the curtains drawn, the perpetual noise of traffic and people, the marshmallow soft mattresses and pillows. Slowly, he had gotten used to these things, but he had never, ever gotten used to sleeping without Bucky close by. When he had thought that Bucky was long since dead, he had forced himself to try and forget his quiet breaths and the warmth of his body pressed up against him. But now, with them both miraculously here in this century, and both of them struggling to sleep without each other, why continue sleeping apart?

He tells Bucky as much and is rewarded with a beaming smile and light blush from his friend before he sticks his cold toes under Steve’s thigh once again and begins scrolling through Netflix.

They manage to get through most of a series of Blue Planet before breaking for dinner and fit a few more episodes in afterwards, too. Despite having slept all day, by the time 11 pm rolls around they are both nearly unconscious on the couch, having missed what exactly is so remarkable about whatever the fuck fish is on screen now.

As they wash their remaining dishes, Bucky suggests they sleep in Steve’s room, since Bucky almost tore through his sheets during his nightmare. Steve feels bizarrely nervous as they go through the motions of preparing for bed, as though they haven’t spent most of their lives (most of Steve’s life, at least) sleeping together. Sleeping next to each other, Steve mentally corrects, not sleeping together.

If Bucky feels his nervousness, he doesn’t show it, flicking toothpaste over Steve in the bathroom and generally being a nuisance. When they are finally ready for bed, Bucky flops down and spreads out like a starfish, making Steve roll him to one side to be able to squeeze into his own bed. Bucky lets himself go limp, and even with Steve’s super-soldier strength, he struggles to shift him, so he resorts to more drastic tactics (tickling) until Bucky finally gives in, laughing and rolling over. Steve is worried about invading Bucky’s space or otherwise triggering him with his touch, but Bucky seems to have no such qualms and shuffles a little closer to Steve. There is none of the macho posturing that Steve observed among the Howlies when the others would share a tent; making sure their backs were to each other at all times, as far away as physically possible in the confines of their tent and never, ever touching. Bucky and Steve simply sleep how they are most comfortable; both curled up on their sides, facing each other. Bucky tucks his metal arm under his pillow so his head is resting against it, which Steve can’t imagine is comfortable, but he falls asleep almost instantly. It warms Steve’s heart to think that Bucky feels so safe and comfortable with him, and he crosses his fingers that Bucky will be able to get some good quality sleep without nightmares, drifting off into sleep himself.

In the early hours of the morning, Steve blinks into wakefulness for no apparent reason. Worried that Bucky was having a nightmare and had woken Steve in his distress, he squints into the darkness but finds his friend sleeping peacefully. They have gotten even closer in their sleep, and from here Steve can see Bucky’s face clearly; he appears far more relaxed than Steve has seen him since before the war, and he looks remarkably young in his slumber.

He’s beautiful, Steve thinks. It’s not the kind of word Steve would typically associate with a man, but it’s true. He’s always thought of Bucky as handsome, and he still is, the beard and muscle giving him a more rugged charm nowadays. But in the soft moonlight with his auburn hair splayed across the pillow, he looks pretty. As if he can feel Steve’s stare, Bucky’s pale blue eyes crack open slightly, and he shoots Steve a tired smile.

“Whatcha’ lookin’ at?” He mumbles, not quite awake and Brooklyn accent as thick as it was in the ‘30s.

“Your dumb face,” Steve replies honestly, “Go back to sleep.”

He obeys, and Steve goes back to looking, feeling a little less creepy now he seemingly has Bucky’s permission to stare. It’s not really a new thought, that Bucky is gorgeous. Bucky had always been his favourite subject to sketch, whether he could be bothered to sit for a portrait or Steve had to make do with trying to capture his image as he flitted about the kitchen. But sometimes, like today, it struck him so strongly it took his breath away a little. Almost everything had changed about Steve’s body after the serum, but the corrections to his vision were one of the things he treasured the most – who ever heard of a colour-blind artist? He felt overwhelmed and overjoyed looking at the coloured threads of his uniform, the sunset over the European forests, the wildflowers growing in the mountains around their tents. But nothing had quite gotten to him like seeing Bucky clearly for perhaps the first time when they stepped out of the dark of the Azzano factory and into the soft daylight. He had cupped the edge of Bucky’s jaw and tilted his head slightly to let the sunlight hit his irises, as he told him;

“You never told me your eyes were so blue.”

Bucky had looked at him then in the same way that girls always looked at Bucky; if Steve didn’t know better he’d say he swooned, but the moment had passed as quickly as it had come when the Howlies spotted them and ran over to sweep Bucky up in a thank god you’re alive hug. Smiling to himself at the memory, Steve shuffles ever closer and lets himself drift back under.

When he awakens again, it’s a much more reasonable hour of the morning, but Bucky is still peacefully asleep. The first thing he notices is that their positions have changed in the night. Now, Bucky is facing away from him, and Steve’s chest is pressed flush to his back. His arm is wrapped around Bucky’s waist and he can feel the hard planes of Bucky’s abs against his forearm. Long brown hair tickles his lips and nose and long legs intertwine with his own under the blankets.

The second thing he notices is that his hips are pressed tightly up against Bucky’s ass, and he’s painfully, desperately hard.

Blushing furiously, he untangles himself from Bucky, jerking back as if burnt. The movement brings Bucky out of his slumber, and he mutters something incoherent, still largely asleep. Not wanting Bucky to see his problem, Steve quickly rolls out of bed and promptly slams his toes into the bedside table, letting out a string of curses.

“Mph, Steve?” Bucky mumbles, bleary-eyed and unsure what all the commotion is about.

“Coffee – you want coffee? I’m making coffee!” Steve tells him frantically, not actually stopping to hear Bucky’s answer as he flees down the corridor to the kitchen.

In the kitchen, Steve flicks the kettle on and sets out a couple of mugs – Avengers brand, courtesy of Tony – and reviews his situation. The pain of stubbing his toe helped to calm his problem down slightly, so he grips the counter as the kettle boils and takes several deep breaths, thinking unsexy thoughts to try and will away the remainder of his morning wood.

It’s not like they’re never woken up hard near each other – they were teenage boys, after all, and it’s only natural – but he’s never woken up grinding on Bucky. It’s been less than 24 hours since he found out about Bucky’s intense and prolonged history of sexual trauma. Bucky has trusted him enough to invite Steve to bed, to see and be near him when he’s at his most vulnerable, and Steve has repaid him by being a creep.

He knows he’s overreacting slightly – he knows it’s not really his fault, and it’s a totally natural reaction to being pressed up against a warm body. But he can’t help punishing himself by imagining Bucky’s face if he had woken up to feel Steve wrapped around him and hard as a rock – the way he would twist away and look at Steve, betrayed and disgusted. If sleeping together helps Bucky (and Steve, if he’s being honest), then he isn’t willing to stop. He’ll just have to try and keep his distance, and keep his hands to himself.

“You okay?” Bucky asks when he returns, bemused at Steve’s sudden departure. Steve shoots him what he hopes is a Totally Normal and Not At All Panicked smile before passing him the Iron Man mug, just to be an asshole. He keeps the Hulk mug for himself and he climbs back into bed and props himself up against the pillows next to his friend. Bucky scowls at Steve when his eyes meet Tony's smug, cartoon face, but he accepts the coffee, tapping Steve’s mug gently when he sees its design.

“How do his pants stay on?” He asks, so suddenly and nonsensically that Steve chokes on his coffee a little until Bucky elaborates, brushing his sleep-mussed hair out of his face.

“When he, ya know, goes green. All his clothes rip off but his pants always stay on just enough to cover… little Hulk.”

“Little Hulk?!” Steve repeats, incredulous, but is saved from falling any further down this particular rabbit hole by sweet, merciful JARVIS.

“I apologise for the interruption, Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes, but Sir has requested your presence in the conference room at your earliest convenience. He has also requested that I inform you that 'your earliest convenience' means 'right now'.”

Bucky nods minutely, and looks thoughtful for a minute, before flicking his eyes up to address JARVIS with a mischievous smile.

“JARVIS, do you know how Bruce’s –“

Steve calmly takes Bucky’s coffee from him before shoving him off the bed, where he lands in a heap of blankets, laughing delightedly to himself.

“I am banning all discussion of ‘Little Hulk’ from our bed, effective immediately,” Steve tells him, shuddering in a way that sets Bucky off again. His unselfconscious laughter is a far cry from the heart-wrenching sobs of earlier in the day, and Steve is so enraptured he almost misses the light blush on Bucky’s cheeks in response to his words.

Our bed. It feels correct. Not just for ‘20s them sleeping on the couch cushions under Sarah Rogers watchful eye, or ‘30s them giggling beneath their ratty blankets, or ‘40s them huddling for warmth in a thin tent in Western Europe. But for 21^st century them, with all their new limbs and muscles and traumas. Neither of them is the same person anymore, not really. But as he hauls a still chuckling Bucky off the ground and they start getting dressed to meet the team, it really feels like nothing has changed between them at all.

Chapter Text

Despite it only being around 24 hours since they were last in the conference room, it feels like it’s been days since Steve has seen the team, even though literally all he and Bucky have done in the past day is sleep and watch TV. It seems the others have been busy, however. A paper-thin Stark tablet has been placed in front of each seat at the table, and Sam, Bruce, Clint and Wanda are already studying theirs. Bucky immediately begins flicking through the data within as he takes his seat – unlike Steve, he hadn’t had any problems adjusting to new technology when he had ‘woken up’ after D.C. It seems HYDRA had updated the Winter Soldier’s knowledge of technological advances whenever they had pulled him out of cryo, and the ability to use a computer was likely critical to espionage or infiltration missions where he would need to blend in, extract information or destroy compromising data. There are major gaps in his knowledge - HYDRA never taught him how to remove Clint’s terrible recommendations from Steve’s ‘What I Missed’ Spotify playlist, for instance - and a lot of the technology he faced in Wakanda or in the Tower is much more advanced than anything HYDRA needed him to understand. But between Steve’s 5 years out of the ice and SHIELD reintegration course, and Bucky’s HYDRA ingrained knowledge, they’re fairly competent at dealing with technology for 100-year-old men – that goddamn ridiculous Stark brand microwave in their kitchen still eludes both of them, though.

Taking a seat between Bucky and Sam, Steve opens his own tablet and begins studying what the others have found out while he and Bucky have been napping and Netflix-ing.

(Steve had heard the phrase ‘Netflix and chill’, and had once invited Sam over in the early days of their friendship to do just that. After giving Sam the Heimlich to stop him choking on his sandwich, Steve had learnt through his red-faced explanation that the phrase really didn’t mean what he thought it meant.) He blushes at the thought of him and Bucky doing that and then blushes even more furiously when his traitorous mind supplies: well, you have been in and out of bed with him for the last 24 hours straight. Bucky fixes him a bemused look from underneath his eyelashes when he notices Steve’s flushed state, so he shrugs off his jacket, mumbling something about it being too hot until Bucky looks back at his tablet, satisfied.

Looking back at his own tablet, Steve notes that the first page of information is the profile of Williams that JARVIS had already given them, with a few added details such as height and weight, education, and work history. There are similar profiles for his brother and sister-in-law, both of whom seem genuinely clean and uninvolved with HYDRA. Skipping past them, he finds a medical report dated to just before his reunion with Bucky in D.C. – this must be the injury that forced Williams into early retirement.  The details are bogged down in medical language that Steve doesn’t understand, even after 26 years of being in and out of doctors, pharmacists and hospitals himself, but the main points are clear enough. Severe facial scarring, permanent blindness in one eye, broken jaw, ribs, leg, arm, pelvis and shoulder. Enough damage to his spine and left leg that he would always walk with a limp if he regains the ability at all. Beside him, Bucky is reading the same page and tenses as if the team will be horrified by the evidence of his handiwork or what he’s capable of. But around him, the members of the team have already moved past the report without comment, much to Bucky’s confusion. Steve is unconcerned at the thought of the team reading these details. Between their uncontrollable powers and their sometimes poor decision-making abilities, they have all proved themselves capable of, and have done, awful things; some accidental, some deliberate. Between them - Bruce, whose alter ego has wreaked havoc on entire villages, Wanda, whose accident in Lagos still haunts her, Nat, who is still trying to get the red out of her ledger, and Tony, who sold weapons that fuelled a war and likely produced thousands of civilian casualties – they’re not really in a position to judge. Steve himself has killed, and there has been too much collateral damage in every major Avengers battles for them not to have blood on their hands. And through it all, they were in full control of their memories, identity and autonomy, not held prisoner or tortured to do someone else’s bidding. How could they possibly judge a brainwashed, scared man lashing out at his torturer in a moment of panic – or perhaps a moment of clarity?

It occurs to Steve as he watches Bucky watching the team that perhaps it’s not judgement he’s scared of – they all understand, even if Bucky himself doesn’t, that he wasn’t responsible for the actions of the Winter Soldier. Instead, he thinks maybe Bucky is looking for fear, now that they have the evidence before them; he is unstable, he is capable of extreme damage without even intending it, he has attacked teammates before. Slowly, Steve moves his hand down to squeeze Bucky’s knee, wanting to pull his head out of that dark place and let him feel Steve’s support – he won’t find fear or judgement here. Bucky looks up in surprise, but it isn’t the half-feral look that often accompanies unexpected touch, and he only smiles at Steve rather than flinching away. On his other side, Steve feels Sam’s eyes flick from his hand on Bucky’s knee, to Bucky’s smile, to the soft expression on Steve’s face, and he suddenly looks unbearably smug as he shoots them a beaming smile of his own. He opens his mouth to speak, but before he can comment, or Steve can ask why he’s looking at them like that, Tony finally stumbles in. He’s carrying a mug that is somehow even larger than the last one, and Steve grabs the little notebook they still keep on the table for the 100-year olds while everyone settles down and Tony sets up the briefing with JARVIS. He doodles a line of slowly shrinking mugs like Russian Matryoshka dolls, with a little Tony struggling to stay afloat in the biggest one. Bucky snickers under his breath when he sees it, and it feels so much like sitting at the back of class making fun of their old math teacher in the ‘20s that Steve almost misses it when Tony starts talking.

“The espionage gods have looked kindly upon us today,” Tony starts dramatically, “And we’ve got more information on this guy than we could possibly want, so listen up.”

Natasha has followed Tony in and takes a seat, but makes no move to start reading the information on their tablets – Steve suspects it all came from her and her sources, anyway. Tony skips the first few pages of notes since they've all had a chance to read them and have already heard the profile regardless.

“Neighbours of the brother described him as, and I quote, “creepy as hell”, even before he got the Harvey Dent treatment-”

“Batman,” Sam whispers, leaning in close to Steve and Bucky before they can even ask.

“-and said he was erratic and aggressive whenever they had the misfortune to bump into him afterwards. They thought he was having some sort of nervous breakdown after suffering some “gnarly injuries” at work.”

Steve and Bucky exchange a look – it’s not exactly surprising that Williams appears to be in the middle of a psychotic break, but it’s still concerning. It’ll be much harder to find and secure him if he’s erratic and not acting logically or predictably.

“They also said that Williams and his brother had a huge bust-up just before Christmas that ended in Williams being kicked out - the sister-in-law was pregnant and didn’t feel like her, the baby or the brother were safe in the house with him living there. They gave him a few weeks to get it together and find another place, but he disappeared that same night.”

“That’s why all his stuff was still there,” Bucky muses, “Why not file a missing person’s report, then?”

“Now we’re asking the right questions!” Tony says, gleeful, “Because, dear Terminator, they already knew where he was: he’s been staying with his mom in our very own New York City.”

At that, Bucky frowns, looking at Tony suspiciously.

“Neither of his parents are from New York – I would have found him if it had been as simple as him moving into his mother’s basement.”

“She’s not actually his mom,” Natasha cuts in, “His parents separated when he was around 15, and his father briefly dated this woman.” JARVIS obediently pulls up the woman’s profile on their tablets and the screen behind Tony.

“That relationship ended, too, but she seems to have had a good relationship with the kids, particularly our guy, and they stayed in touch. But we only found that out through the brother’s therapist’s notes. You would have had no reason to check her out.” She reassures, noticing that Bucky is concerned he hadn’t done due diligence. Bucky looks a little brighter, but something she said is tripping Sam up.

“You hacked a man’s therapy records?!” he asks, incensed, “Have we learnt nothing this week about invasions of privacy?”

Bucky isn’t paying attention, however, studying the woman’s file with an ever-deepening frown. She is plain looking, past middle age with silvery grey hair tied up in a tight bun and cold green eyes set into a pale, stony face.

“I know her, I think,” He says, looking a little ill, “But I can’t place her. Some of my memories are still....”

“JARVIS?” Tony calls when Bucky simply trails off, still frowning down at the image, and JARVIS obediently presents what they have on the almost-step-mom.

“Anastasia Tchernev, 59. Originally from Vladivostok, Russia.”

Without drawing the attention of the others, Bucky inclines his head slightly in Natasha’s direction in a silent question, but she shakes her head in response. Steve catches the movement and understands it as Bucky asking if Natasha recognises the woman from her own time in Russia. He wonders, not for the first time, about the history between these two – sometimes Natasha looks at Bucky like she knows him.

“Few details are available from her time in Russia as many of her files seem to have been permanently destroyed, although there is evidence she was once affiliated with the KGB as a medical technician,” JARVIS continues, “She immigrated to the United States in 1992 after the fall of the Soviet Union, and began working for a branch of SHIELD in upstate New York in 1993.”

“So she was HYDRA. She probably started recruiting Williams when they first met, when he was still a teenager,” Bruce suggests, “But why not the other brother?”

“I’m afraid I cannot answer that, Dr Banner. By all accounts, Arthur Williams was a better candidate; he excelled academically and athletically while Frederick Williams showed only mediocre abilities, and was frequently in trouble at school.”

"Miss Tchernev resigned her post as a SHIELD technician in 2014, almost immediately after William's accident. As she departed SHIELD prior to the fall of Project Insight, she also escaped investigation, which was limited to active operatives."

"Only investigating active personal is a huge oversight," Steve says, frustrated, "Was Fury aware the clean-up operation was happening this way?"

Tony can only shrug, and JARVIS doesn't have an answer for them, either - what Fury does and doesn't know is a bit of a mystery to them all.

He risks a glance at Bucky, who looks as frustrated as Steve feels - likely more so. SHIELD had been ignorant of their own infiltration, and now they seem to be unable to clean up the mess it has caused. Bucky has been doing his best to rectify their mistakes since pulling Steve out of the Potomac, but he shouldn't have to. He has already expressed his great mistrust in SHIELD - hearing how they have been mishandling their own clean-up operation isn't going to help matters. Steve looks to Natasha, who is probably Fury's closest ally in the room.

"He had to take a step back immediately after D.C. - the higher-ups couldn't believe that the deputy director was clean, and they didn't want his hands anywhere near this operation until they could be sure he wasn't HYDRA," She says, having the decency to look a little ashamed at how badly this has been fucked up, "He's aware now, though. It's being rectified." Too little, too late Steve thinks, but he lets it go for now, turning back to Tony and the images of Williams and Tchernev on the screen.

“Do we have an address for their New York place?” Clint asks, and Natasha rolls her eyes, looking amused. Like she couldn’t get an address?

“Tchernev currently lives in an apartment on 9th Avenue in Chelsea. Although there is no record beyond the brother’s testimony of Williams moving in with her, her credit card records do indicate that she began buying enough food for two people just before Christmas,” JARVIS tells them succinctly, “Tchernev also owns what appears to be a vacant warehouse lot in Bergen Beach.”

“Suit up!” Tony tells the team, swiping at the screen to remove the data JARVIS had been showing them. Bucky’s eyes track Anastasia’s cold ones as her picture flies off the edge of the screen, “I’m bored of this asshole. Let’s go get him.”

“I think I better sit this one out,” Bruce tells them nervously, “A tiny apartment block like that doesn’t really seem like a place for The Other Guy. Besides, there are only two of them, and one of them is nearly 60.”

“Me and Birdbrain will take the perimeter in case anyone tries to make a getaway, but the wings and the suit won’t do much good in their either,” Tony adds, pragmatic for once.

“Alright,” Steve agrees, pushing himself up from his chair, “Does anyone have any other questions before we start?”

“Oh, I do!” Tony says, raising his arm in the air like he’s still in school as he turns to Bucky, “Did you kill Kennedy?”

“Which one?” Bucky deadpans, and Tony looks genuinely impressed, while Steve can only sigh.

“Any questions that are relevant to the mission?” He clarifies before Tony can carry on with this line of questioning. 

“Doesn’t this feel too easy?” Wanda says, echoing Steve’s own thoughts and the ones he can read in the tense line of Bucky’s shoulders, “We found him instantly, living with his sort of mom, like half an hour away. Doesn’t it kind of feel like he wanted to be found?”

“Or he’s genuinely an idiot,” Clint suggests unhelpfully.

“It’s been over 3 years since HYDRA was exposed, and no one’s come looking for him. He probably thinks he’s gotten away with it,” Steve reassures her as they leave, “And he wasn’t exactly hiding before – he was only in his brother’s garage.”

She nods, slightly placated, but Steve can tell that Bucky isn’t, still holding himself too tightly as they skip the elevator and take the stairs back down to their apartment.

“You think Wanda’s on to something?” He asks, bumping his shoulder against Bucky’s to draw out a tentative smile.

“It does feel too easy. And all those files and manuals he had – he’s been keeping tabs on me, he probably knows I’ve been taking out rogue HYDRA operatives. If he was planning something, would he really let himself be so easily found when he knows he could be next?”

Steve wants to reassure him, but he’s right, and Steve feels it too. It’s never this easy for them – they really aren’t that lucky.

“Hold up a second, Steve!” They hear from above them, and Sam is pounding down the stairs after them before Steve can come up with anything to tell Bucky. Ducking into their apartment, Bucky excuses himself before Sam can reach them, still not quite comfortable spending one on one time with any of the team, especially after the last few days. Curiously, Sam doesn’t start talking when he reaches Steve, instead waiting until Bucky has moved further into the apartment and closed the door behind himself, leaving them alone in the corridor outside.

“He okay?” He asks once Bucky is sufficiently out of hearing range, and Steve can only shrug. Between the team seeing his memories in B.A.R.F., the nightmares, and learning an ex-abuser is out to get him, ‘okay’ is probably the best Bucky can hope for. Sam nods understandingly, not pressing the issue.

“Well, it probably helps that you guys finally slept together,” He says, looking proud of Steve and genuinely happy for him. Steve thinks his face must look as bemused as he feels because Sam laughs at his expression.

“How did you know?” Steve asks, feeling strangely self-conscious.

“You’ve got that spring in your step,” He tells Steve, “And Barnes looks more relaxed than I have literally ever seen him. He almost didn’t look like he wanted to kill everyone in the room.”

Steve smiles to himself, happy that he had made Bucky content enough to be noticeable.

“It was nice,” He tells Sam in a quiet voice, leaning in and feeling as though he is confessing a great secret, “It was our first time sleeping together since the war.”

That seems to surprise Sam, whose eyes widen in surprise.

“I didn’t know you two were like that before. You never thought to mention that when we were chasing after him for like two years?”

“Why would our sleeping arrangements matter?” Steve asks, genuinely confused, but Sam merely rolls his eyes and smiles good-naturedly.

“Guess it doesn’t matter now,” He adds, clapping Steve on the shoulder and shaking his head, “I can always tell, man! You can’t hide that Just Got Laid look from me.”

Steve chokes on nothing and looks up at Sam’s confused expression, expecting to see mirth in his eyes. But Sam isn’t joking, and looks a little concerned at Steve’s reaction.

“You okay man?” He asks, bemused, “You’re not that much of a prude that I can’t say “got laid”. Sex had been invented before the ‘30s, right?”

“No!” Steve cries, a little too loudly and urgently, only adding to Sam’s confusion, “I mean yes, obviously, but not – we’re not- I meant sleeping. Like literally sleeping! He gets nightmares, and before, we were poor so we shared a bed, and-“

Sam’s expression slowly twists from confusion to pure disappointment as he registered what Steve is trying to say through his nervous stuttering.

“God damn it, Steve. I’m gonna have to give Clint his $50 back,” He says, shaking his head in dismay, “I really thought you’d got it together, dude. I was so ready to be proud of you!” He takes Steve’s face in his hands and squeezes his cheeks in a way that reminds Steve of Bucky’s grandmother, then turns to walk away, still shaking his head. Steve watches him go for a second, trying to process what the hell is happening.

“Wait, what?” He calls, and Sam turns back, throwing his hands in the air in frustration.

“I thought you’d finally told him how you felt! I thought I was gonna get to go to a super-soldier wedding! I wanted Kate Upton to be my date!”

“How I felt,” Steve repeats, and then again as a question; “How I felt?”

“That you’re in love with him, Steven,” Sam tells him, speaking very slowly like he’s not quite sure if Steve understands English. Steve blinks at him, and Sam blinks back, trapped in a Mexican standoff until Steve breaks the tension.  

“I’m not in love with Bucky,” He says firmly, and Sam simply stares at him as if he has proclaimed the Earth is flat.

“I’m not in love with Bucky,” He tries again, as Sam sits heavily on the stairs behind him and drops his head into his hands, exasperated.

“Okay, man,” Sam acquiesces after a moment of awkward silence, “I’m not about to tell you how you feel. But just… It’s a new century now. And I know it takes some getting used to – but the two of you being together wouldn’t be a problem. Not for the Avengers, not for Captain America, not with the law, not with the public. You love who you love, Steve.”

“I know that. Bucky’s gay, it’s not a problem. If I was in- If I lov- If I liked him, like that, it wouldn’t be a problem. But it’s not like that.”

Sam stares at him like he’s trying to figure out a particularly resistant puzzle until it starts to make Steve uncomfortable, then sighs and stands up.

“Just think about it, okay? Try to examine your feelings,” He says, in his patented Counsellor Voice, “Because it’s pretty damn obvious to everyone who isn’t you, and I think you’ve left him waiting long enough.”

“We’re best friends,” Steve says, but Sam is already on his way down the stairs to his own floor.

“He’s like a brother to me!” He calls, but Sam is already gone.

Chapter Text

Steve is flustered when he lets himself into their apartment, and it only gets worse when he finds Bucky already dressed in his mission clothes. Steve hadn’t been quite sure what Bucky was going to ‘suit up’ in, given that he wasn’t yet an Avenger and Tony hadn’t made him any kind of suit – but Steve had forgotten Shuri.

Shortly before Bucky had left Wakanda to come live with Steve, Shuri had gifted him his new arm, and had pressed one last present into his hands before they boarded the jet back to the States: a mission uniform. Bucky had tried to refuse, already overwhelmed by the Wakandan’s extreme generosity and kindness, but Shuri had insisted – and had been adamant that her designs were better than anything Tony could come up with.

“The man may be clever but he has no taste. The red plating with the gold mask? A mess.”

The jacket appears to be leather, and fits Bucky’s form tightly, following the solid plane of his abs and curving snugly over his biceps. Bucky’s uniform as the Winter Soldier had him tightly wrapped in straps like a straitjacket – Steve’s not even sure whether he would have been able to take it on and off by himself, or whether that was just another way of making him entirely dependent on HYDRA. Over the top of the jacket had been a kind of harness that had horrified Steve when he first saw it – some of the loops and hooks of the harness were clearly meant to hold weapons, but other’s seemed to have no clear purpose other than making it easier for the technicians to strap Bucky down. The horizontal strapping and slight upturn of the collar on Shuri’s jacket would have been reminiscent of the Winter Soldier’s uniform, were it not for the colour. Coloured a deep cobalt blue, it’s so reminiscent of Bucky’s Howling Commandos uniform that Shuri must have used pictures of them during the war as inspiration. The colour suits him well and brings out the pale blue of his eyes – and with a bright blue jacket serving no practical purpose for a sniper, Steve can only assume Howard Stark and Shuri thought the same. But the jacket isn’t a simple remake of the old design – it looks modern and sleek with only one arm, and Steve suspects it is threaded with Vibranium like T’Challa’s own suit, instead of being padded for protection and warmth like his Howlies jacket. While he’s fine with two sleeves in their downtime, Bucky would rip the sleeve off anything he was expected to fight in, to prevent the arm overheating and allow for a full range of movement. Steve doubts any arm Shuri would give Bucky would suffer from such basic problems as overheating, but it makes Bucky more comfortable, and Steve has to admit he likes the asymmetrical shape. He has to admit he likes seeing the arm, too – it’s too often hidden behind hoodies and long-sleeved shirts in the tower. The artist in Steve admires the interplay of jet black metal and gold which appears almost like liquid honey in the light, and the way the swirls of colour curl around his wrists and fingers like spun gold – it truly is a beautiful design, and Steve is privately grateful that Shuri designed it and not Tony. Even Bucky, who seems to be able to pull off anything these days, wouldn’t have suited a gaudy red and gold plated arm.

To complete his mission uniform, he’s wearing tight, elasticated black pants to allow for freedom of movement, and sturdy black combat boots laced up tight. Around his waist is a utility belt, and he’s in the process of strapping knife and gun holsters to his thighs when he looks up. Bucky smirks at him when he catches Steve looking, and he realises he’s been frozen in the doorway staring for some time now. Shaking himself out of it, he rushes off to his own room to cram himself into his suit, storing his cowl in one of the deep pockets and reaching for his shield. Tony had returned it to him shortly after Bucky had taken refuge in Wakanda, and had even buffed out the scratch marks from T’Challa’s claws as a kind of peace offering. It still seems to make Bucky uneasy sometimes to look at it, likely remembering Howard and his fate, and Tony’s words in that bunker in Siberia – and it still seems to confuse him the Steve thought he was worth giving up the shield for.

They make a pit stop in the armoury on their way to the quinjet after JARVIS informs them that Bucky has been granted access. He already has his own weapons, liberated from HYDRA bases and safe houses over the years, but he’s not going to turn down the chance to grab more weapons, and more advanced ones at that. As JARVIS unlocks the cabinets for him, he looks like a kid in a candy store, and Steve can only laugh at him. Bucky takes his time running his hands over the shelves of the armoury and selects a spread of throwing knives to attach to his belt, a few sharp knifes to place alongside his own in his thigh holster, and a rifle to sling across his back. He tucks a pistol into the holster on his other thigh and takes several of the experimental grenades Tony is working on to slot into his utility belt as JARVIS politely explains what each one does. By the time they make it up to the helipad, Bucky is armed to the teeth. He doesn’t ever seem to walk around unarmed these days – much to his dismay, Bucky doesn’t even move around the tower without at least two knives on his person, and Steve has found guns taped beneath their coffee table or in the bathroom light fixtures on several occasions. It may be left over Winter Soldier programming – or it may just be that he doesn’t quite feel safe here yet, especially not with the remnants of HYDRA still out there. Before they had relocked the cabinets and headed up, Bucky had pulled out a medium-size knife and thrust it insistently at Steve despite his protests, hating that Steve runs into fights entirely unarmed.

“No, the shield doesn’t count. A shield isn’t an offensive weapon! And no, your biceps don’t count either, no matter how many times you call them your guns.”

Despite already knowing he wasn’t going to use it, Steve takes the knife anyway to appease Bucky – he doesn’t want him to be any more stressed about this mission than he already is. On the surface, he seems relaxed and raring to go, but Steve can see the subtle tension in his spine and jaw that gives away his true concern.

Bucky has a strange look on his face as they pile into the quinjet, and Steve thinks it looks vaguely nostalgic. Perhaps he’s thinking of piling into a battered truck with the Howlies, as Steve often does when the team assembles for a new mission. He suspicions are confirmed when Bucky turns to face him, smiling gently but eyes lost in the years that separate them from their friends.

“Do you miss them? The Howlies?” He asks, quietly enough that only Steve can hear him, “It was nice, back then, to have a team watching your back, of people that you love and trust. I was alone for so long, afterwards. It's not like the STRIKE teams really gave a shit about me, ya know?”

“You have a team now, Buck. I know it’s hard to trust them after everything you’ve been through, but they’ve got your back, now and always,” He tells him, putting a hand on the back of Bucky’s neck to rub a thumb over the soft hair there, “And so do I. You know that.”

Bucky leans into the touch and shuffles a little closer to Steve on the bench they're sharing, making Steve smile. He studiously ignores the this is what I’m talking about!!! look that Sam shoots him as the jet shudders to a stop.

The quinjet lands less than a minute after it had taken off, and the team look around in confusion.

“What’s going on? We blow an engine or something?” Sam asks, looking nervously out the side window at the engines beneath the wings.

“We’re here,” Tony replies simply as the others stare at him, “What? It was only around the corner.”

“Why didn’t we just walk?” Clint asks, bemused, as the quinjet’s cloaking device lowers and the doors open.

“Superheroes don’t walk to fights!” Tony tells him, incredulous, “Should we have gotten the subway? An Uber? Maybe we can all get bicycles and ride around like Stranger Things–“

The team ignore him as they make their way down the ramp. They appear to have landed in a school playground, in the middle of a baseball diamond. It’s mercifully empty, seeing as it’s the weekend, except for an entirely dumbfounded groundskeeper who has just witness a high tech ship appear from nowhere, and is now watching a band of superheroes traipsing through his grounds. He looks well past retirement age, with short white hair, a thick white moustache and round glasses, bony hands clutching a rake while his mouth hangs open in disbelief. The leaves he had been raking up have been turned up by the quinjet’s arrival, blown out of the neat piles he had been creating and instead covering the entire field in what is probably a much worse state than they were in originally. Slowly, he raises a hand to wave at Steve, who politely waves back, trying to convey sorry about your playground and please don’t call the police or paparazzi with his awkward smile. Clint takes a quick swing on the monkey bars before they hop over the gate – or dramatically fly, in Sam and Tony’s case – and onto 9^th Avenue.

In their earpieces, JARVIS points out the apartment they’re aiming for, and Sam and Tony take flight from a quiet alleyway, trying to stay as out of sight as possible in the middle of the city – the last thing they need is the target being tipped off by a media frenzy. They land on roofs on either side of the apartment block the team are heading into, spreading out enough that their sightlines cover both main exits. Clint heads for the fire escape behind the building, to cut off the targets' escape if they climb through the window and head into the alleyway that’s just out of Tony and Sam’s line of sight. As a sniper, perhaps Bucky should take a similar position, but no one says anything when he takes point – they all know this is personal. Besides, his hand to hand combat is possibly the best out of all of them, so he won’t exactly be wasted in the confines of the apartment. The door to the building clicks open with a little help from Wanda’s powers, and she and Natasha take up the rear as Steve and Bucky move into the building. They take the stairs two at a time up to the 5^th floor, moving as quickly as possible to avoid running into other, civilian residents and causing a panic. As they reach the desired floor, they hover in the hallway until Clint signals he’s in position on the fire escape.

“I don’t see any movement in the living room,” He tells them over their earpieces, “But nothing that makes this look like a trap, either.”

At that, a red glow slides the bolt and chain from their positions at Wanda’s behest, and this door creaks open too. Steve enters first, shielding them all and crouching so Bucky can take aim above his head, the way they fought in Siberia, and so many times in Europe during the war. It feels different, but pleasantly safe, to have Natasha with her gun drawn and Wanda with swirling red surrounding her hands at their backs, too.

The first thing that Steve notices is that there is no one here. The hearing bestowed upon him and Bucky by both their versions of the serum is strong enough that they would be able to hear any movement in the small apartment, or even the quiet breathing of someone hiding.

The second thing Steve notices is that this looks like the house of a maniac.

The kitchen is covered with papers, like a bomb has gone off in a library. They are taped to the windows, pasted onto the walls, covering the coffee table and are piling up on the floor. They appear to be a mixture of printed web pages, HYDRA files, photographs and pages torn from books and are arranged with strings and labels connecting them like a detective’s evidence board. The smell of chemicals is heavy in the air, and there are exposed wires and pieces of broken metal strewn across the kitchen counter.

“What the fuck?” Bucky says, and Steve can’t help but agree.

They relay what they are seeing to the team members outside, and then each carefully peel a few pages from the walls to begin examining them.

“Recipes – and do you smell that?” Natasha says, sniffing the ammonia in the air, “They’ve been making bombs.”

Sure enough, the cabinets under the sink reveal a disturbing number of empty, unlabelled chemical bottles. As they move further into the apartment, what originally seemed like a chaotic explosion of papers now seems a little more organised. The kitchen wall contains photographs and blueprints of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, including information about the security measures and sprinkler systems, the staff rota and visitor numbers. Each section of the room seems to hold information about a different site, all in New York; City Hall, several public libraries, major tourist attractions, banks and theatres.

“They’re targets,” Wanda says, looking nauseous, “There’s got to be 25 different buildings here…”

Tony is already instructing JARVIS to mobilise as many bomb disposal units as they can muster, while Natasha has pulled out her phone and is calling Fury to let him know – if they’re right about this, it could require mass evacuations all over the city. It’s more than they can handle alone. Natasha, Steve and Wanda flit around the apartment, picking papers off the walls to relay a full list of targets to JARVIS as Clint climbs in through the window and examines the chemicals to determine what kind of bombs they would be looking at. The small apartment is a flurry of movement and barely concealed panic, but Bucky is standing stock still in the middle of the room, simply watching the others move around him with a distant look on his face.

“I just don’t get it,” He laments, frowning at the papers on the coffee table, “What’s the point of this? What are they trying to achieve by bombing a random bunch of public buildings?”

“Maybe they just want chaos,” Tony suggests through the earpiece, “That was kind of HYDRA’s M.O., wasn’t it?”

Bucky shakes his head, disagreeing, and Steve remembers his quiet words from the other day; HYDRA’s motto.

Order through pain. That’s pretty much the opposite of chaos.

“They don’t do things just because,” Bucky insists, “If they want chaos, it’s because it furthers their goals. But we have no idea what their goals are.”

“This isn’t HYDRA, though,” Sam points out fairly, “This is just two disgruntled ex-employees. Maybe they want to make as many people suffer as possible.”

Bucky doesn’t look convinced, still feeling as though something is off, and Steve is inclined to trust his opinion. Not only does he know HYDRA better than any of them, but he’s the only one who knows these two agents, even if he can’t really remember Anastasia.

“I don’t like this, Steve,” Bucky says to him quietly, turning off his earpiece momentarily, “We walk into their empty apartment with no resistance and find their grand plan all laid out for us, with a list of targets? All those files about me and Zola’s process, only for them to attack random sites that have nothing to do with me? This feels like a distraction.”

“I know, Buck,” Steve tells him, having reached a similar conclusion himself, “But we can’t risk not checking out the targets. If this is real, and there’s a bomb in each, or any, of those buildings…”

He trails off, not needing to tell Bucky the scale of civilian casualties that will occur if they don’t investigate. Bucky nods and looks away, prepared to defer to Steve on this, but he knows something isn't right. Steve feels it too. Making up his mind, Steve speaks into his earpiece once again.

“JARVIS, send me the coordinates of the warehouse Tchernev owns in Bergen Beach. Me and Buck are going to check it out. Everyone else, start coordinating the evacuation of the targets, and keep us updated," He orders, "And guys - be careful."

Chapter Text

Steve lets Bucky take point once they leave the apartment, which means they steal a car almost immediately. Had Steve been alone, he probably would have squeezed onto the subway – but then he’s never been the best at stealth.

As they leave the others behind, Bucky takes the stairs two at a time into the parking garage in the basement of the building. It’s mercifully empty, so Bucky picks out one of the fancier cars, preferring to inconvenience a rich person who can afford to replace it, and hotwires it with practiced ease - yet another skillset that Steve didn’t know he had.

Even going far faster than they really should (who’s gonna pull over Captain America?) it takes nearly an hour to reach the lot on the outskirts of Bergen Beach. They ride in mostly companionable silence to begin with, feeling that inane small talk isn’t really appropriate in the middle of a bomb scare, with their earpieces occasionally kicking in as the others give updates on their end of things. The silence breaks as they drive further into Brooklyn, however, skirting along the edge of their old stomping ground in Red Hook. It’s largely unrecognisable, but sometimes they’ll pass a particular building or park that seems to trigger a memory for Bucky, and he gets adorably excited when they pass a still-running movie theatre and diner in Carroll Gardens that he recognises from the ‘30s. By the time they reach the southeast end of Brooklyn, Bucky’s smiling wide and seems to have lost some of the tension that Tchernev’s apartment had instilled in him.

For the first time since Bucky came back from Wakanda, it really feels like they’re both home. For maybe the first time ever, Steve doesn’t feel out of place in this new, vibrant Brooklyn of the future - perhaps it was never that he didn't fit here, but that he didn't fit anywhere without Bucky beside him. He briefly considers the possibility of moving out of the tower and getting their own place in Brooklyn once again, after this mission is done. Would Bucky even want that? Does he still feel like this place is their home? Is he sick of trying to recreate the past and is instead looking to move forward in a way that Steve hadn’t quite been able to before Bucky had returned to him?

Setting aside the idea of moving out for now, Steve resolves to at least convince Bucky to leave the tower more often to stroll around Brooklyn together, if being back makes Bucky happy. With sunglasses and baseball caps they could almost go unnoticed.

The relaxed set of Bucky’s shoulders and his gentle smile drop instantly upon reaching the warehouse. Steve recognises the clench of his jaw and shifting of the plates in his arm – Bucky’s drifting into the Winter Soldier’s headspace. He had told Steve once that he often lets himself take a mental step back and succumb to his programming when he’s fighting, letting his body make decisions for him, and choosing efficiency over autonomy. But Steve can’t stand to see the light behind his eyes fade out as he disassociates, so he puts a firm hand on the back of Bucky’s neck to bring him back to himself.

“Hey. I need you with me on this,” He tells him, blue eyes meeting blue eyes, “No going away, okay? Please.”

Bucky nods, looking a little embarrassed at having his coping mechanisms called out so plainly, and checks his various weapons once more before they leave the car and make their way towards the warehouse. It’s a nasty looking thing under Belt Parkway looking out onto Jamaica Bay, and it’s a far cry from the fancy, middle-class neighbourhood they drove through to get here. He follows Bucky’s lead as they slip through a gap in the outer fence and stick close to each other in the shadows approaching the back entrance. Despite the familiarity of infiltrating and fighting alongside Bucky, it feels strange to be taking directions from someone else – he’s become so used to leading the Avengers into battle on the ground while Tony co-ordinates in the skies.

But Bucky knows what he’s doing, and impresses Steve by crushing the padlock on the warehouse door with his metal hand - it must be far more powerful than his HYRDA arm, but then Shuri never does things by halves. He moves silently on his feet even with his reinforced boots and muscle mass, and Steve tries his best to mimic his gait, his own footsteps echoing too loudly on the concrete floor once they get inside. From the outside, the place had looked abandoned; two stories of ugly grey concrete with windows blotted out by dirt and metal fixtures rusting in place. To their dismay, the inside looks much the same – it’s dark inside, but as far as their eyes can see, it’s empty.

“You in yet?” Clint asks over their earpieces, and Bucky and Steve share a look of disappointment. This entire venture may have been a waste of time – and more worryingly, if the bomb threats weren’t just a distraction, they might be real.

“Looks empty, but we’ll make sure. Any news on your end?” Steve replies as he and Bucky move further into the warehouse. There are a few doors leading to side rooms along the east wall, so there’s still a possibility something or someone could be lurking there, and they still have the upper floor to check out although they can’t hear any sounds of movement. As he starts to move towards the closest door with his shield raised, Steve realises that Bucky isn’t following him anymore. He’s standing further into the main room, stock still with his fists clenched around his rifle like a lifeline.

“Buck?”  Steve says tentatively, stepping towards him. He could be disassociating – but as Steve gets closer and looks into Bucky’s eyes, he sees that they are painfully awake. He’s staring, terrified, at something at the far end of the warehouse, drenched in darkness. Steve tracks his gaze and squints in the direction he’s looking, trying to force his eyes to adjust to the dark. As the edges of the room get clearer, he can finally make out what’s rendered Bucky immobile. Past the stairs and close to the wall, there is a small table with a variety of implements Steve can’t quite see out on it. Nearby, there is some sort of podium with a raised television screen to its left and a large, overhanging lamp to its right.

In between the podium and the table is a large reclining chair, covered in chains and straps.

“We’ve checked out 10 of the targets so far, top to bottom – there was nothing there,” Natasha cuts in over comms before Steve can react to the sight, “They’ve all been evacuated anyway to be safe, and bomb disposal are going to sweep the remaining sites, but it looks like Barnes was right. It was a fake out.”

Steve barely has time to throw himself over Bucky and lift his shield above their heads before the ceiling collapses in on them.

Chapter Text

Steve comes to slowly. He feels terrible; he can sense his healing factor working overtime to try and knit back together the broken ribs he had suffered when the ceiling had collapsed in on him. He can feel cold air where there are tears in his suit and the slow drip of blood from the cuts that cover his back. It hurts, but he’s grateful that he heard the tell-tale hiss of a detonator and managed to get the shield over both of them in time – the debris falling directly onto their heads could have killed them, even with the added protection of the serum, and if Bucky-

Bucky. Steve’s eyes snap open as he searches out his friend. The warehouse is flooded with bright light now, and it takes a few seconds of furious blinking before he can see anything. The image in front of him is hazy through his concussion, but he can see Bucky, alive and breathing, and thankfully not strapped into that awful chair.

He’s positioned just in front of the pile of debris that marks the spot where the ceiling collapsed on them. Almost exactly where they stood to look at the chair, and facing the same direction. Which means –

It’s him, not Bucky, who has found themselves in the chair. Steve looks down at the straps wrapped tightly around his body and strains, attempting to snap them. But they’re reinforced, and his wrists are secured to the arms of the chair with similar cuffs, as are his ankles.

The panic induced adrenaline pushes away the remainder of his concussed confusion, and he takes in the details of their situation more clearly now. Across from him, Bucky is lying on his side on the ground, unconscious but clearly breathing. The blood and dust streaked across his face indicate that he too was hit with a substantial amount of debris despite Steve’s best efforts. His arms have been pulled in front of him and his ankles are pressed together – if their captors are smart, he’s tied up using reinforced mag cuffs, the only thing that can keep his arm in check. Steve can hear quiet voices coming from one of the rooms to their right, but he can’t quite make out what’s being said, ears still ringing from taking so much rubble to the head.

Why have they (Steve) been so stupid? He should have listened to Bucky. The clearly laid out list of targets in the apartment was an obvious distraction designed to separate the Avengers and scatter them across New York. Williams had clearly been tracking Bucky and researching Zola’s methods – Bucky had been the target all along, and he’d tried to tell Steve. Instead of listening, Steve has delivered Bucky right into his hands.

Steve doesn’t want to think about the implications of him being in the chair rather than Bucky, but he can only be grateful. He doesn’t want Bucky to have to go through that pain again, even if it means Steve has to. He doesn't think he could face watching the recognition fade out of Bucky's eyes - of losing him once again.

As if he can hear Steve thinking about him, Bucky jerks awake with a pained gasp, curling in on himself momentarily as if expecting another hit and then blinking when none comes. He strains his biceps as Steve had, trying to snap the cuffs open, but his ministrations have no effect. Slowly, he drags himself into a sitting position with his legs bent awkwardly beneath him, and blinks around the room, looking dazed and disorientated.

As soon as his eyes land on Steve, he snaps back to reality, instinctively trying to get up to move towards him but failing miserably. His eyes flit frantically between Steve’s face, the screen beside him and the straps binding him into the chair that Steve has been unable to break.

“Steve,” He gasps, cutting through the tense silence of the room, and looking hopelessly, utterly lost, “Oh god.”

Steve tries to shoot him a reassuring smile, but it must come out a little lopsided because Bucky’s lip wobbles like it would when he fell and scraped his knee as a child, trying to hold back the tears but barely managing it. It breaks Steve’s heart, and he feels sparks of pure rage at their captors, who choose that moment to step out of the side room and onto the main warehouse floor.

The woman approaches them first, walking past Bucky as if he isn’t even there. Steve recognises her as Anastasia Tchernev; a little older than she had been in the photos but with the same cold, dead-eyed expression on her face. Bucky flinches slightly as she passes, watching her go with something like realisation in his eyes; Steve things perhaps seeing her in person has unlocked whatever memory Bucky couldn’t quite grasp in their briefing.

When Williams steps into the light, Steve gets a good look at his face and the sickening damage it has suffered for the first time – there had been no photos to accompany the medical report. Burns litter the left side of his face in the distinct shape of a splayed hand. Where Bucky’s hand had touched him, the skin is red, blistered and sunken - remarkably similar to the burns suffered by Rumlow. Steve thinks that it’s poetic that they were both permanently marked, their twisted minds once hidden inside but now displayed across the surface for all to see. His left eyebrow is gone and the finger mark that stretches across the bridge of his crooked nose makes his face seem misshapen and monstrous. Bucky’s little finger had stretched out diagonally across his lips, and Steve imagines it must be intensely painful even now to eat or talk through the raw skin. Where the burn covers his left eye, the eyelid has been almost completely burnt away, and the pupil and pale blue iris have been so badly damaged that his eyeball appears entirely white, not unlike Fury’s eye under the patch.

It must have burnt like hell, Steve thinks, and it’s only a fraction of what he deserves.

Unlike Anastasia who has bypassed Bucky and is now busying herself with the console and screen next to Steve’s chair, Williams makes a beeline for his former Asset. Bucky doesn’t flinch this time, even in the face of Williams… well, his face, and Steve feels pride well up in his chest as Bucky stares down his former abuser with defiance.

“Did you miss me, Soldier?” Williams taunts, sounding a million miles from the nervous young man Steve had seen in Bucky’s memory, “I see you didn’t wait long to replace me. You always did like blondes.”

He fists a hand in Bucky’s long hair and drags him up until he’s on his knees, a feral glee marring his already scarred face. Steve growls as soon as his Williams hand lands on Bucky, and he strains against the chain with renewed vigour, but it doesn’t budge.

“Though I suppose he was there first, your Captain,” He mocks, smoothing Bucky’s hair back down in a parody of gentleness, “Did you learnt to suck dick like that on him?”

“Fuck you,” Bucky replies succinctly, and Williams delivers a sharp backhand to his face that nearly sends him flying backward.

“Now, now,” He laughs humourlessly, “We both know that isn’t how these things go.”

“Get your hands off him,” Steve barks, straining again and feeling the slightest bit of give in the straps over his chest. He clings onto the feeling and strains harder, rocking back and forth to try to dislodge the arms of the chair. Williams only laughs and drags Bucky by the hair to face him when his gaze drifts to meets Steve’s in silent solidarity.

“Look at me, Soldier,” Williams orders, holding Bucky’s head still and leaning towards him until all Bucky can see is his scarred face, “Look at what you’ve done.”

If Anastasia has noticed Steve’s frantic writhing in the chair, she makes no attempt to stop him, likely thinking that his efforts are futile. They feel it for him too as he watches her idly press buttons on the console, ignoring Williams taunting of Bucky for the most part.

“Maybe I could forgive you, in time. After all, you can’t blame a machine for malfunctioning, can you?” He shakes Bucky violently by the hair before as he speaks, “But you forgot yourself, Soldier. You’ve been living a lie. You’ve convinced all these people that you’re a person, too. It’s high time you were reminded of who you belong to.”

“You took everything from me. My career, my health, my life. My own brother can’t even look at me,” He continues, letting go of Bucky’s hair only to deliver a cruel kick to the side of his jaw that sends him falling face down across the concrete and makes Steve cry out, “And you? You get a new life, a new arm, a new fancy apartment, a new boyfriend, even! You get away with 70 years of murders!”

He drives another hard kick into Bucky’s ribs while Bucky is completely unable to fight back, tied up as he is. Williams sounds more and more manic the longer he rants, and Steve’s optimism is struggling to hold.

He doesn’t see how they’re getting out of this one alive, with them both tied up and the team scattered across New York, not even knowing that the warehouse wasn’t empty, after all.

“You get everything. You get away with everything,” Williams grits out through his teeth, looming over Bucky who is still trying his best not to show any fear, “But I know what you really are.”

Anastasia seems to have finished her work at the podium and moves further forward into the warehouse so she is in between Bucky and Steve, eyes flicking between both of them. She smiles slightly as she approaches Bucky, the first hint of emotion she has shown since she arrived, but there is no kindness or joy in it. Williams’ whole demeanour changes when she gets close, stepping slightly away from Bucky and lowering his head like a submissive dog. It’s clear who’s in charge here, despite Williams posturing. He pulls Bucky back up onto his knees in time for her arrival, so she can address him properly.

“Do you remember me, Soldat?” Anastasia begins, Russian accent still thick despite having spent over 20 years in the States, and Bucky resolutely refuses to answer or meet her eye.

“No? Let me refresh your memory, then.” At that, Bucky and Steve share a look that almost sends Steve into hysterical giggles despite their dire situation. Why do the bad guys always monologue? Do they just love the sound of their own voice? Do they have to make sure everyone understands how clever they are? While Steve doesn’t want to spend time listening to these people talk, and he doesn’t want to subject Bucky to their taunting, whatever time they spend monologuing is time the team can use to find them.

“We met in the Soviet Union, in the early ‘90s. I was a scientist, once. An asset of HYDRA, although not in the same way you were,” Bucky shivers, and Steve wonders how much of his memory of her is flooding back to him, “I was remarkable, if I do say so myself. My work was pioneering – I was going to revolutionise HYDRA’s operations. The commanders called me the new Zola.”

She paces in front of him, and Bucky and Williams’ eyes track her progress. But where Williams’ eyes are full of reverence, Bucky’s only show hatred.

“You were HYDRA’s greatest weapon, but you were alone. With Zola and the rest of your creators dead or scattered, there was no way to recreate you – and eventually, all weapons must be replaced with a new model.”

“Thus begun my work,” She tells them with dramatic flair, “I was to create a new legion of Winter Soldiers.”

This, Steve knows. Bucky had been sent to kill Howard Stark to retrieve his experimental attempt at recreating the Super Soldier serum. It had been given to HYDRA’s most elite death squad – the same soldiers that Zemo had killed where they lay frozen in their cryo-chambers in Siberia. But he’s never heard of this woman or her role in their fates.

“I experimented on you for months, but my attempts to recreate the serum myself all ended in the deaths of my volunteers – or the creation of monstrosities like your ‘Hulk’, that had to be put down.” Steve is filled with righteous indignation not just for Bruce, but for all the ‘volunteers’ who suffered under Anastasia – the chances that they were actually willing volunteers are slim to none.

“Howard Stark,” She spits out the name like it’s a slur, “Was mildly more successful. His version of the serum created a small army of soldiers. Your brothers and sisters, hmm?”

“It made them strong, but strength is not what makes a Winter Soldier. It is obedience, such that cannot be taught – it must be carved into the brain,” Steve renews his writhing, pressing his muscles against each strap in turn to feel for any give. He’s going to kill this woman.

“But the programming process that was used to create you was lost – Zola and his lackeys were so paranoid about other’s getting their hands on it that they let it die with them. I was commissioned to recreate it.” She freezes in her pacing and whips around to face Bucky, looming over him where he kneels beneath her.

“It was perfect. Memories and identity were decimated while retaining basic survival skills and combat proficiency. I could make them experts in mere minutes where it would have taken a regular person years to become a novice. I made them into gods,” She seethes, balling her fists like she is about to take her rage out on Bucky. All of a sudden, the rage seems to deflate out of her and she relaxes her shoulders, looking resigned.

“But the programming process, the electricity, broke their minds. Stark’s inferior version of the serum could not heal them, not as yours could,” She says, dejected, “You were the golden weapon of HYDRA, and my creations could not measure up. They were locked away, and I was demoted to a lowly medic, never to see the inner workings of HYDRA again.”

She turns on her heels and walks over to Steve, tapping a manicured nail against his chest as she grins manically.

“But we won’t have that problem with your Steve, will we? He already has the serum, and the prime version of it at that!” She tells them delightedly, “My process can work as it was intended, and his mind will hold.”

She strokes a hand over Steve’s cheek as she meets his eye, almost like one would a child.

“You will not malfunction as my other creations did, my dear. You will be loyal.”

“Never,” Steve tells her resolutely, but she merely laughs at his naivety.

Bucky had likely known where this was going as soon as he awoke to see Steve in the chair, and had certainly understood by the time his memories of Anastasia had returned. But knowing and hearing it spoken out loud are two very different things.

“No,” Bucky says, voice cracking and looking small and scared, “Please, not him. I already have the programming. It would only take one wipe to get me back. And then I can be your Asset again. Just please, not him.”

Anastasia simply ignores him, returning to her console as data flicks around on the screen that is just out of Steve’s line of sight, strapped down as he is.

“Please,” Bucky sobs as Steve hears a whirring above his head and a ring of metal comes down to encircle his head, “He’s not like me – he’s not a killer. He wouldn’t make a good Winter Soldier. But you know I did. I can do it again. “

“It’s okay, Buck,” Steve tells him gently, willing to say anything to sooth the look of utter terror on his face, “It’s not gonna work, okay? I’m not gonna forget you. I could never forget you.”

It only seems to make Bucky panic more, and Steve knows even as he says it that it’s a lie. If HYDRA could find a way to take Steve from Bucky, then they can find a way to take Bucky from Steve, no matter how much he resists.

“You will,” Anastasia tells him in an amused tone, not even bothering to look up from her console, “We will take your oldest memories first. Your mother, your childhood, your friends. Him.”

Williams has approached and is placing stickers attached to wires onto both his temples as the metal circle hovers around his forehead. He wanders back over to Bucky when he’s finished, petting his hair gently and shushing his panicked sobs with feigned gentleness – but the predatory glint in his eyes betrays him.

“Still pretty when you cry,” Williams mutters as Bucky tries to jerk away but is stopped short by the grip on his hair, “Do you remember the fun we used to have? I bet only Cap gets to fuck you now, right?”

He crouches down beside Bucky and presses his face into his neck, taking a deep inhale of the scent of his sweat and shampoo. Bucky looks about ready to tear his throat out with his teeth, but Williams’ pulls back before he can try.

“Maybe that’s the first thing I’ll have him do when he’s reprogrammed. It would be a shame for him not to remember how good you are for him, hmm?” Steve curses at Williams and shakes in his bonds, but the give he felt earlier doesn’t reappear, “I never could do much damage with your healing factor, but I bet he could. Maybe we’ll share you. It would be a shame to kill you straight away, and let you go to waste.”

He’s going to kill Williams first, he decides, and then Anastasia. Seeing the man who raped and tortured Bucky for so many years pet his hair and taunt him is making his blood boil. Hearing him imply that Steve will do the same, that Steve could ever hurt Bucky, has unlocked a primal rage in him that has him growling like an animal, out for blood.

Williams simply chuckles at Steve’s rage and Bucky’s silent defiance, and bends down again to lick the tears from Bucky’s cheek obscenely, before standing up and moving back over to Steve. Reluctantly, Steve takes the bite guard into his mouth when it is offered to him – biting off his tongue or shattering his teeth out of spite isn’t going to help either of them right now, and there doesn’t seem to be any way out of what is about to happen.

“You never did seem to learn your lesson, no matter how many times we teach you – so how about we let someone else teach you, this time?” Williams adds, speaking to Bucky but smirking cruelly at Steve to make sure he knows exactly who Williams is talking about.

He takes several steps backward with his eyes still burning into Steve’s until he reaches Bucky. Burying his hand in Bucky’s hair once again, he wrenches his head back and holds him firmly in place, so he will be forced to watch Steve.

“If you close your eyes,” Williams tells him grimly, “We’ll cut his arm off, too.”

Bucky lets out one last, increasingly desperate string of pleas and promises, but they fall on deaf ears.

The metal circle that had been orbiting the top of his head suddenly contracts, squeezing tightly into his forehead. Anastasia presses the last few buttons on the control panel, briefly checks the screen, then comes to stand alongside Williams and Bucky to watch.

“Very good,” She says approvingly as she checks the screens one last time, and then it begins.

The pain is unimaginable. It is worse than getting the serum, or being shot, or falling into the Potomac. It feels like he is being burnt from the inside out, like fire is being pumped directly into his veins and is flowing into his heart. His brain feels like something is clawing away at his skull from the inside, desperate to get out, and his scalp feels as though it has obediently cracked open to set the creature free. Smells like burning, Steve notes from where his consciousness feels like it is floating outside his body, skin, and leather. His muscles have tensed more than he could have achieved voluntarily as the electricity courses through them, and he can feel them strain against the lightly burning leather straps which have been weakened from the heat.

For Bucky to have experienced this unbearable pain, over and over for 70 years is unthinkable. As black starts to creep in around the edges of his vision, he focuses his eyes onto Bucky’s face, streaked with tears and screaming Steve’s name, trying desperately to release himself from his cuffs to get to him. It hurts even more than the electricity to see Bucky so close to breaking down completely, but Steve forces himself to look, to remember every eyelash and auburn hair and freckle. If he forgets Bucky, if he loses Bucky again, he loses everything.

Bucky. Remember him. Bucky.

Chapter Text

When Steve wakes up, he’s falling. More accurately, he’s throwing himself forward. He’s not sure what he’s throwing himself away from, other than that it hurts like nothing he’s ever felt before. He’s wrenching himself free from the straps across his chest and arms which appear to have broken, but his ankles are still tied to the legs of a strange dentist-style chair, leaving him lying face down on the ground, propped up on his elbows and struggling to free himself. He looks up sharply when he hears someone yelling, and notices through the haze of pain that he isn’t alone in the room.

He appears to be in some kind of warehouse or empty factory site. To his right is an older woman who is frantically pressing buttons on a console, looking panicked. Across from them are two men; one bound and kneeling, calling out to Steve in distress, and the other standing with his fist clutching the first man’s hair and his sidearm drawn. Steve classifies them quickly as he tries to understand what the hell is happening here; enemy, ally, enemy. As his brain seems to come back online, he can finally process what the long-haired man (ally) is shouting to him – a warning. The woman (enemy) has also drawn her sidearm and is cautiously moving towards him. He doesn’t move, too disorientated and muscles still shaking like he’s in the aftermath of an electrical shock (is he?), and he tries to review his situation as quickly as possible. His shield is nowhere to be found, his only potential ally is tied down, he himself is still bound to the chair by his ankles, and he isn’t sure he could stand up even if he could free himself, weak as he feels. The woman seems placated by his lack of movement, though, and feels confident enough to approach him. She wraps a hand around one bicep and tries to haul him back up into the chair, gun still raised. While she’s surprisingly strong for such a slight, older women, she can’t quite manage it without his help, so he pushes himself up on shaking arms and lets himself be shoved back into the chair. His cooperation seems to relax her even further, but renews the struggles and shouts of the bound man across from him, who looks distraught at Steve’s lack of fight.

The chair is obviously not a good place to be – the man’s desperate pleading and the fading pain that still lingers in his body tell him that – but he’s not sure what else he can do, with two guns trained on him and the bound man to worry about. Dropping his hands to his lap, he tries to look as vacant as possible – the two he has deemed enemies are clearly expecting him to be cooperative, for some reason. As he lowers his hands, his fingers brush against something cold and solid in the pocket of his suit, and he wraps his fingers around it, hoping deliriously. There is no reason for him to be carrying a knife – he fights with a shield, or his fists, or not at all – but that is what he pulls from his pocket.

When the woman leans forward to refasten the straps across his chest, he drives the knife up into her throat in one swift movement. Time seems to slow down as she falls backward, choking on blood in a gruesome display and gaping at Steve in shock as if she hadn’t expected him to fight back.

“Ana,” the man across from him cries desperately as he cocks his gun, flicking the safety off with shaking hands. Steve cuts frantically at the straps around his ankles with the knife, but he’s a sitting target tied up as he is, and he is unlikely to free himself before the man chooses to fire.

So quickly that Steve barely registers it, his ally on the ground launches himself upwards, heading butting the man and knocking his gun out of his hand all at once. Unable to stay on his feet with his ankles bound together, both men tumble to the ground, but his ally is quicker to react. He raises his bound arms over the head of their assailant until his hands are on either side of the slower man’s neck. Steve hears a sickening snap, and their assailant’s body goes limp.

“Holy shit,” The man says, and Steve has to agree.

Freeing himself from the ankle straps and stumbling over to his new ally, he rummages around in the dead man’s pockets for the cuff keys and sets about releasing the stranger.  He realises he may have made a mistake a moment too late, when the stranger immediately launches himself at Steve.

Steve brings up his hands defensively, but he needn’t have worried: the stranger appears to be hugging him.

“I thought-“ the man chokes, unable to continue, and Steve can feel wetness on the cheek pressed against his own, “I thought you were gone, and they were going to- oh god, Steve, I thought I’d lost you.”

He’s saved some grateful people in his time, but no one has ever quite reacted like this. And the stranger is calling him by his name – that in and of itself isn’t strange; it’s not like he has a secret identity anymore. But members of the public almost always call him Captain – anything else feels a bit over-familiar. Steve gently untangles himself from the man, not wanting to be rude but feeling a little uncomfortable getting this close to a stranger, and gets a good look at him for the first time.

The first thing he notices is that this man is beautiful. He has lightly tanned skin with prominent cheekbones and a chiselled jawline. Behind his long locks of auburn hair, pale blue eyes like cloudless skies are staring back at him with a concerned look. 

But his attractiveness isn’t really relevant to the situation at hand, so Steve mentally moves on to the second thing he notices: this man is clearly not a civilian or a random person off the streets. He’s wearing a tight, asymmetrical jacket which looks more like body armour than streetwear, and has a  holster around each thigh and a utility belt where Steve suspects the weapons spread across the table were once held. He holds himself like a soldier, still tensing for possible threats even as he cries into Steve’s shoulder, and even with the only two hostiles in the room lying dead at their feet. Most notably, he has what at first appears to be a well-built plastic prosthetic arm. But when the light hits it just right, Steve can see that it’s actually metal, made up of individual jet black plates intertwined with some kind of gold patterning. It’s remarkably high tech – as the man rubs each of his newly unbound wrists, even the metal one, to get the circulation flowing, Steve can see the fingers move and the plates shift minutely, mimicking the movement of a real arm in every way. It’s a level of technology and engineering that Steve has only ever seen from Stark Industries – but something makes him doubt that this is Tony’s handiwork. It’s tastefully designed, after all.

“Steve?” The man says tentatively when he doesn’t respond, “Are you alright? Do you feel okay?”

He sounds far more concerned than a stranger should be, and there is still barely concealed panic in his big blue eyes, so Steve nods, not wanting to worry the man anymore.

“Yeah, I-“ He breaks off and coughs a little, throat hoarse. Had he been screaming? “I think I’m okay. You?”

The other man nods, relieved and visibly relaxing, as he moves over to the table and re-equips his weapons.

“Can you see our earpieces?” He is saying as Steve watches him arm himself with practiced ease, “We should let Stark know we’re not dead.”

“You know Tony?” Steve asks, surprised, but he misses the frown that sets itself across his ally’s face when a large bang sounds from the entrance of the warehouse.

“Cap! Barnes?” Someone shouts as the shutters of the warehouse fly off their hinges, letting light flood into the building. To Steve’s relief, its Sam, who flies over the pile of rubble separating them from the entrance. He takes in the man (Barnes?) tear-streaked face, the strange chair Steve had pulled himself out of and the bodies on the floor, and lets out a shaky breath, maintaining eye contact with the stranger.

“Barnes?” He says, approaching slowly with his eyes flicking nervously to the knife Barnes is holding, in the process of placing it back into his thigh holster, “Bucky, you with us, man?"

Barnes (Bucky? What kind of name is Bucky?) rolls his eyes good-naturedly and shoots Sam a disarming smile that makes Steve’s stomach twist a little.

“I’m fine Sam. In full control of my faculties, I promise.” 

Could this be one of Sam’s army friends? Or someone from the VA?

“You two know each other?” Steve asks, curiosity getting the better of him. He isn’t prepared for the way both men’s heads whip round, or the alarm written plainly across both their faces.

“What? Of course we – what?” Sam asks, flummoxed, while the stranger simply mutters “Oh god. Oh god.”

Sam looks between Steve and the strange dentist’s chair behind him, and seems to come to some sort of realisation that Steve can’t follow. Sam and… Bucky Barnes? What kind of name- Him and the stranger share a look that seems to confirm Sam’s suspicions, because he too devolves into a chorus of “Oh god.”

“Stevie,” The stranger says urgently, and it irritates Steve – who is this stranger to think he can give him a nickname, and such a juvenile one at that? The only person who can call him Stevie is –

Who? No one’s ever called him that. Where did that thought come from?

“What’s your Ma’s name, Steve?” The stranger finishes, looking frantic. Two thoughts hit Steve in quick succession. The first is that no one ever says ‘Ma’ anymore, only mom or occasionally mother. This guy is much more old fashioned that the hair and arm would make him appear. The second is the realisation that he doesn’t know. He has a mother - everyone has a mother. And even if his had died or disappeared, someone must have raised him. But he’s coming up blank as he tries to remember any parental figure. He forces himself to try not to panic as he thinks about the dried blood he can feel on his temple – he’s had a head injury. Some confusion isn’t uncommon. Instead, he feels himself getting pissed off. Who is this guy, who throws himself at a perfect stranger, gives him nicknames like they’re lifelong friends, and demands information about his family? Who does he think he is?

“What’s it to you?” He snaps, annoyance getting the better of him, “I don’t even know you.”

To his surprise and horror, the stranger’s knees buckle and he lets out a heart-wrenching sob. Sam is on him in an instant, catching him before he can fall to the ground and keeping him upright, whispering gently into his ear. This must be one of Sam’s friends, then, or possibly something more? The thought makes Steve burn with something not unlike jealousy, but he can’t really understand why – he’s not interested in Sam that way. He feels awful as he watches the man break down, sobbing into Sam’s chest and mumbling too quietly and incoherently for even Steve with his enhanced hearing to catch.

“I’m sorry,” He tells the man, “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You know me, Steve? What’s my name?” Sam asks, hesitantly as if he doesn’t really want to hear the answer. It makes Steve’s frown deepen even more.

“Of course I know you, Sam. Why wouldn’t I?” He asked, genuinely lost – they haven’t known each other for very long, less than a month in total, but they know each other. That only makes the man sob harder, and Steve’s not sure what he’s said wrong but he wishes he could take it back. Hearing the man cry is kind of making Steve want to cry, too.

From outside, he hears the whining of the quinjet engines and the soft sputter of Tony’s thrusters, and the stranger seems to pull himself together slightly. He scurries out of the warehouse towards the noise, likely to fill the team in on the events of the day that Steve himself can’t quite recall. Really, an unenhanced human shouldn’t have been able to hear the quinjet’s landing from here – Sam looks up at the man in surprise and concern as he bolts out, having heard nothing himself. Is this guy enhanced, too?

“It’s alright,” Sam reassures when he sees Steve’s lost expression, ”You look like you’ve had a hell of a knock to the head. Everything’s bound to be a little confusing right now, but it’ll straighten out.”

Steve would be more reassured if it looked like Sam actually believed what he was saying.

He hears the quiet murmuring that is just too far away for him to eavesdrop on come to a stop, before a woman appears in the warehouse entrance, beckoning them closer. Steve looks for a way around the mountain of rubble in the centre of the room (did that fall on him? Is that why it feels like he’s been hit by a bus?) and debates just clamouring over it, but Sam surprises him by grabbing him under both armpits and extending him wings to fly them both over it, dipping slightly into the second floor through the gap in the ceiling. He sets Steve down in front of the woman with surprising ease, as if they do this all the time, although he can’t remember Sam ever having picked him up quite like that.

Up close, he can see that the woman is Natasha – with her new short, blonde locks and the look of genuine fear on her face, Steve had barely recognised her. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen her look scared. She’s looking straight at Steve, but she doesn’t look like she’s scared of him – more like she's scared for him. She shoots him a confident smile anyway, trying to disguise her concern.

“Come on. SHIELD’s going to send a team to clear up this mess – let’s get you to the medical bay.”

If it weren’t for how weak and shaky he feels, Steve would protest. He heals far too fast for that to be necessary, and he doesn’t want to be a burden like he was-

Like he was when? The serum makes him impervious to sickness. When would he have been a burden?

He lets Sam and Natasha herd him towards the quinjet where Tony and Clint are standing on the entrance ramp, talking quietly to the metal-armed stranger.

“He looked right through me like he didn’t know me at all. And he doesn’t even know his Ma’s name. But he knew Sam – it’s like everything before he woke up is gone,” The stranger is saying miserably, while Tony and Clint look on in alarm.

When Steve approaches, the man tenses up and retreats into the dark stillness of the quinjet, out of his line of sight. Looking out across the warehouse parking lot and through the chain link fence, Steve notes that they appear to be on the edge of a body of water. He recognises the skyline as distinctly New York – although it’s not the fancy party of Manhattan the tower is located in. Perhaps Brooklyn, although he doesn’t know that part of New York very well. It’s strange that they seem to have found themselves in New York – Steve distinctly remembers falling asleep in his D.C. apartment what feels like hours ago, after moving there permanently a few months prior.

“Capsicle!” Tony cries when he sees him, aiming for nonchalance but failing to keep all of the relief out of his tone, “I hear you’ve taken half a building and 1000 volts to the head.”

“Can’t get rid of me that easily,” He tells Tony with a lopsided smile as Clint gives him a fraternal clap on the shoulder. His eyes feel drawn to the stranger, though, and he squints past Tony’s suit into the body of the jet behind him, feeling the need to track his movements.

Suddenly exhausted from the events of a day he doesn’t quite remember, he lets himself be loaded into the quinjet, sinking down onto one of the benches with Natasha besides him. The man (Bucky, Sam called him Bucky) sits as far from him as possible, wedging himself into the opposite corner to Steve, but he can feel Bucky’s eyes studying him incessantly. Everyone else’s eyes are on him too, looking at him like he’s about to collapse or combust.

“What year is it? What month?” Tony asks him without preamble once they take off, leaning in and poking at his face like he’s some kind of science experiment. Steve has to think about it for a moment too long, which should probably be concerning, but he comes up with an answer as he slaps Tony's finger away.

“2014. April.”

The look the rest of the team gives him tells him that it is decidedly not  April 2014.

“It’s October 2017, Steve,” says a young girl with long straight hair and a wealth of eyeliner who he hadn’t noticed at first. Steve doesn’t recognise her, either, and she looks far too young to be out on a mission with them. Could she be a new Avenger?

“You don’t know me either, do you?” She asks him, sounding upset but resigned, and he shakes his head almost apologetically.

“Wanda,” she tells him with a sad smile, and his manners tell him to introduce himself in return, but he stops short when he realises that she already knows who he is.

Looking at the team now, it’s obvious that they are all a little bit older, hair a little longer with updated mission suits. Steve catches sight of his own thick beard and longer hair in the quinjet window and blames the head injury for not noticing it sooner. With all that in mind, it isn’t hard to let himself believe them, thought it only furthers the internal panic he can feel building.

“So we, um, we met recently then?” He tries asking the stranger from the warehouse - Bucky. They must have met in the last 3 years, if Steve is supposed to know him but can’t remember. Bucky merely shakes his head and averts his eyes, curling his arms around his torso while the others look vaguely uncomfortable, so Steve drops the subject despite that response raising more questions than it answers as another thought occurs to him.

“Oh god,” Steve says, suddenly frantic, “Is Bruce dead?” There have been several missions that Thor hasn’t accompanied them on, but Bruce is almost always there with them, and he isn’t there now. What could have happened to him in the 3 years that have passed Steve by?

Tony snorts and shakes his head.

“The big guy is just sitting this one out. There wasn’t really much need for smashing today.”

Steve is inclined to disagree – he really would have liked to smash that chair, whatever it was, but he only nods his relief.

“You remember Bruce,” Clint says with faux calmness, “And the rest of us?”

Steve nods, still confused as to how  exactly he's managed to lose 3 years of his life. And it's not just the last 3 years - when he tries to push back further than meeting the Avengers, he hits a wall. He hadn't been able to produce his mothers name, and he's struggling to come up with any details of his childhood, but if he follows that train of thought he's going to have a panic attack so he tries to ignore it.

“I know you all. It’s just…” He gestures lamely to Bucky and Wanda, who share a look of anguish between themselves. It’s not like he can help not remembering them, but it makes him feel terrible none the less.

"And when did we meet?" Clint continues, shooting Bucky and Wanda an apologetic look.

"2012, after I woke up," Steve replies instantly, not thinking too hard about it.

Woke up?

"Woke up from what?" Tony says, leaning forward towards Steve like they're on the edge of some kind of breakthrough. Steve tries desperately to think of an answer, but he can only stutter as he comes upon a mental road block. Why did he say that? Where was he before?

"Woke up from what, Steve?" Tony presses, and they're all leaning forward now, looking unfairly hopeful, especially Bucky. Steve doesn't want to let them down, but he doesn't have the answer they're looking for. He doesn't know why he said that.

"I don't- I'm not sure-" He stammers, feeling his lungs constrict like he's about to fall into a panic attack, and Natasha shoots Tony a withering look until he leans back.

"Give him a minute, Tony. You're stressing him out."

From her seat beside him, Natasha gives him an outline of the mission they just completed – the Avengers, now all living in Stark Tower in New York, had been scattered by a fake bomb scare, while the HYDRA agents had taken Steve and Bucky prisoner and attempted to wipe Steve’s mind to reprogramme him as a HYDRA weapon. She speaks to him in a quiet voice as if he’s a wild animal she is trying to tame, and it makes him unreasonably angry again, even though he knows she is only trying to help.

He only nods in response to her summary, not wanting to risk speaking and snapping at her until Clint addresses him directly.

“April 2014,” He muses, “What’s the last thing you remember clearly?”

“We were tracking an assassin,” Steve tells them, fighting through the fog that seems to be clouding his memories, “Known as the Winter Soldier. He had a-“

Metal arm.

“Oh,” Steve says as everyone in the quinjet shifts uncomfortably. Bucky is curled in on himself in the corner of the jet, eyes squeezed tightly shut with his forehead pressed against the metal. Nobody seems to be treating him as a threat, even unrestrained and heavily armed as he is. In fact, when Steve tenses infinitesimally upon realising who he is, Sam shifts his body on the bench next to Bucky until he is a physical barrier between them, and Natasha does the same from beside Steve. He thinks they’re preparing for a fight, and flanking Steve, but their eyes are fixed warily on him, not Bucky. They’re setting themselves up to protect Bucky from Steve.

If this is their target, why is he here, seemingly as a member of the team? Why was he sent on a mission with Steve, when he is supposed to be Steve’s mission? Didn’t this guy just kill Nick Fury?

“What is going on here?” Steve asks desperately, feeling more panicked than he did when he woke up strapped to that chair. Natasha puts a hand on his bicep soothingly, and tells him in a gentle voice;

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out, Steve. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay – I wake up missing three years, in a different city, on a plane with a murderer –“

Bucky seems to curl in on himself tighter, and Sam places a supportive hand on his shoulder while he shoots Steve a sharp look that says don’t make this any worse.

“I understand losing 1917 to 1945,” Clint says, looking thoughtful and counting something on his fingers, and what? How would Steve have memories of the early 20^th century to lose? He’s barely 30 - isn’t he?

“But why would he retain 2012 to 2014, then lose April of that year until now?” Clint continues before Steve can ask anything, “That doesn’t make any sense. What happened in April to make those memories worth removing?”

“He saw my face,” Bucky answers miserably, not raising his head from where his forehead is pressed into the wall, “They said they were going to get rid of the earliest memories first, and they’ve removed me. Our life before, and all the time since we saw each other again in D.C.”

Our life? Before what? Steve has so many questions he isn’t sure where to start, but Clint’s previous statement is so strange that he decides that’s as good a place as any to begin.

“Why would I have memories of 1917 to 1945?” He queries, and Bucky drops his head into his hands in despair.

“When were you born, Steve?” Tony asks plainly, squinting at Steve like he’s a difficult puzzle. Steve wracks his brain and scares himself as he comes up entirely blank.

“I don’t- I’m not sure.” He admits, defeated.

“Where did you get your shield?” Tony carries on, not perturbed by Steve’s lack of knowledge. Steve eyes the shield in the corner of the quinjet, covered in ash and dust, for the first time since waking up – he hadn’t seen it in the warehouse and had been too disorientated to think about finding it, but Bucky must have pulled it from the rubble and stowed it away when he wasn’t looking. Tony’s responsible for making their weapons, like Clint’s latest bow or Rhodey’s suit, so it must have been him, right? But ‘Tony made the shield’ feels wrong, somehow. Bizarrely, ‘Stark made the shield’ feels reasonable. Why is that?

“Uh. You?” He tries, and Tony’s exasperated sigh tells him he’s wrong, again.

“Where did you grow up?” Tony steamrolls on. He lives in D.C. Before that, he was in the tower. Before that-

“I don’t-“ Tony doesn’t even let him finish this time before he bombards him with more questions.

“Where did you go to school?”

“I don’t-“

“When you woke up in New York, what were you waking up from?”

“Tony-“

“When did you join the army? When did you become a captain? Where did you-“

“STOP,” Steve snaps, and it comes out much louder than he intended, shocking Tony into tense silence and putting the rest of the team on edge. “Just- I’m sorry. Just stop, please? I don’t. I don’t know.”

He knows he sounds distressed and a little pathetic, and it looks like the whole team would reach out to comfort him if they didn’t think he might take a swing at them. To his surprise, Bucky looks most upset by his distress – that isn’t what Steve would have expected from a contract killer.

“It’s all gone, huh?” Bucky says gently, looking on the verge of tears once again. Somehow, that puts Steve closer to a nervous breakdown than the fact that he seems unable to remember the majority of his life. He can only shrug helplessly as he feels the quinjet engines shudder to a stop.

“JARVIS, tell Banner to get up to the medical wing, and prepare a CAT scan and an MRI for the good Captain,” Tony says, voice lacking humour for the first time Steve can remember. Exhausted and wanting this strange day to be over, he lets Sam and Clint drag him to his feet and support him for the trip to the medical wing once the quinjet settles on the roof of Stark Tower. As the elevator doors close behind them, he catches one last glimpse of Bucky, being comforted by a distressed Wanda, and thinks:

What were we?

Chapter Text

The inside of the tower is familiar, but has obviously been refurbished since Steve was last here. Even if he ignores the 3 years he supposedly missed, it’s still been around 6 months since Steve moved out of the tower to D.C, looking for a new start and somewhere he wasn’t so horrendously, bone-achingly lonely.  Still, he knows his way down to the medical bay – he can manage by himself, but he doesn’t protest as Sam places a firm hand on the small of his back to lead him there and Clint flanks them, looking like he is waiting for Steve to drop or try to bolt.

Bruce is waiting for them when they arrive, studying model brains projecting from a Stark tablet in his hands, and Sam and Clint quietly disappear when Steve insists that he is fine alone.

“Steve! Come in, sit down. How do you feel?” He says when they walk in, as if his own enhanced senses hadn’t heard them coming from several floors away. He looks pleased to see Steve, though, and leads him gently to a bed sticking out from a large, enclosed tube-like machine. Bruce has clearly already been briefed on Steve's situation, and Steve is absurdly grateful that he isn't being bombarded with more questions that he can't answer, like he had been in the quinjet.

Steve lets his mind retreat as Bruce pokes and prods him and pushes him into various machines, too exhausted to be truly present. He lies back on the white hospital bed Bruce offers to him when he has finished running tests on Steve, and tries his best to stay awake, helped by Tony's constant chattering when he arrives to 'supervise'. Steve can feel his injuries slowly healing, but it’s at the cost of his energy. He doesn’t remember the last time he ate, which can’t be helping matters, but then again he doesn’t appear to remember the majority of his life, and some of his own team members, so.

As if reading his mind, Bucky appears with a handful of protein bars which Steve gratefully accepts, suddenly ravenous. He wonders again if Bucky is enhanced or just jacked with good hearing. If he is, he might have the same kind of healing mechanisms that Steve does, and that’s how he had realised Steve needed calories right now.

Or maybe it’s a trap. This guy is the Winter Soldier, after all, even if he looks remarkably less scary now he’s changed into an oversized hoodie and gotten rid of the war paint he’d had on the roof of Steve’s D.C. apartment.

Steve visibly hesitates to take a bite of the protein bar, and Bucky looks offended, frowning as he snatches it out of Steve’s hand and takes a bite first, before handing it back to prove it isn’t poison. Feeling a little foolish, Steve sets about eating it, ripping open the other bars and shoving them down too once he gets a taste for it. When he’s done, Bucky looks a little more relaxed and glances over to where Tony and Bruce are leaning over Steve’s brain scans and murmuring at lightening speed amongst themselves. Sam has come back, now without his wings and dressed in civilian clothes like Bucky, and leans against the door frame trying to look casual – but the worry in his eyes gives him away.

“Is it gonna melt and pour out of his ears, Doc?” He asks once Tony and Bruce seem to have concluded their assessment.

Bruce gives him a nervous smile and shakes his head, swiping the hologram so it increases in size and floats into the middle of the room over Steve’s hospital bed.

“In simple terms, when you want to retrieve a memory, your brain repeats the same neutral pattern that occurred when the memory was first formed and encoded in the brain," He begins, as parts of the brain scan light up to illustrate the process, "The electricity has severed the networks the neurons would fire along, meaning the patterns can’t be replicated and the targeted memories - in this case your earliest memories - can’t be recalled. I’ve compared your brain scans to some of the early ones taken by Wakandan medics from Bucky-“

What’s a Wakandan medic? And more importantly – Bruce compared his brain scans to Bucky’s? Does that mean Bucky has been in that chair before – and had lost his memories, too? Steve thinks about what Natasha had told him of the mission they had just come back from – how the rogue HYDRA agents had been trying to wipe Steve's memories in order to install programming that would make him their weapon – essentially their slave. Everything clicks into place all at once in Steve’s head – that’s why a man who was once their enemy is giving him protein bars and being comforted by Sam.

He was never HYDRA – he was being used. Wiped and reprogrammed. Turned into a weapon.

The thought turns his stomach, and Bucky’s eyes flit up to meet his in concern when a full body shiver runs through him. He got out, that much is obvious – he seems safe and secure here, even if he doesn’t seem particularly happy – but the thought that Steve could have killed him when he was just a helpless pawn in HYDRA’s game doesn’t sit right with him. Did he ever get his memories back once HYDRA were finished with him?

Will Steve?

He tunes back in as Bruce finishes up, nodding like he’d been listening the whole time.

“-The memories haven’t been destroyed, and they will return eventually, just like Bucky’s. There’s just been a temporary severance of the neural pathways needed for direct retrieval. Essentially, they’re still in there, you just don’t have access to them right now.”

Everyone in the room seems to relax a little at that, especially Steve, who panics every time his mind tries to look behind the thick black curtain cutting off most of his life history. But Bucky is still frowning.

“How long is ‘eventually’? It took nearly two years for me to get a decent grasp on who I was, and there’s still huge gaps in my memory.”

“The voltage used was exceptionally high, and the damage is certainly worse than in your early Wakandan brain scans, although you had been recovering for over 2 years by that point. The severed pathways will fully heal in time thanks to the serum. But it could still be-“ Bruce softens his voice from a clinical one to a more gentle, sympathetic tone as he looks at Bucky with something like pity, “-it could still be years. I’m sorry.”

It bothers him that Bruce seems to be expressing sympathy for Bucky, and not Steve, whose memories are actually going to be missing for the next few years.  But something else about Bucky is bothering him.

“Is that my hoodie?” He asks, finally placing it. It's a pale lavender colour that Steve always thought washed him out - but it suits Bucky. Steve had bought it in 2012, when Natasha had taken him shopping on SHIELD’s dime after he’d first woken up from-

From? No one’s quite explained that part to him yet.

Bucky blushes suddenly, and Sam looks bizarrely smug. Tony and Bruce just look bemused at the sudden shift to a far less important topic.

“Yeah, you- we share things,” Bucky finishes lamely, tugging at the sleeves like he isn’t sure whether Steve wants him to take it off and give it back to him, “We live together, too.”

Together.  Steve’s overtired brain can’t do anything but repeat the word over and over again, as if it will make more sense on the 5^th, 7^th, or 11^th repetition.

Are they-  Could they be-  When he says together, does he mean-

They’re not dating, are they? It would explain Bucky’s reaction to seeing Steve tied to that chair, and to hearing Steve say he doesn’t remember him.  It would explain their sharing of clothes, their living situation, how Bucky seems to know exactly what he needs and is still lingering, looking at Steve with concern. And it’s not like Steve can’t imagine himself falling for Bucky; this guy is unbelievably gorgeous. He can’t remember ever having thought that about a man, or really having thought about men much at all, but it’s true. Anyway, who knows what went on in the 3, or 31, or 98 years he is apparently missing? The only person he can ever remember feeling drawn too is his blonde neighbour turned SHIELD agent, Sharon, and that was only a fleeting attraction.

Bucky clearly cares deeply about Steve, looking freshly heartbroken every time Steve proves he doesn’t remember him. But how do you ask someone if you’re dating them? Will Bucky be able to sense his disappointment if he says no? Will everyone else? If they are together, will it just break Bucky’s heart all over again to hear Steve admit he doesn’t even know if they're a couple?

Before he can do something stupid like ask, Tony is striding over and is pressing a Stark-brand tablet into his hands. It’s thinner and lighter than the ones he remembers using when he lived in the tower, clearly a more advanced model, and for some reason this insignificant detail makes the 3 years he has missed seem all the more real.

“JARVIS has put together a little This Is Your Life biography for you,” Tony tells him, as if he didn’t tell JARVIS to do it and probably picked out most of the sources himself. Even 3 years later, Tony is still loath to admit that he cares, or that he can be nice. “Everything you’re missing. More or less, anyway.”

Bruce gives him some medical advice – Get some rest, don’t walk around if you don’t have to, don’t put unnecessarily stress or strain on yourself – that they both know he’ll ignore. Sam claps him on the shoulder and tells him they’ll be just down the hall, before the three of them wander out, leaving Steve to his reading and a nap. Only Bucky remains, opening and closing his mouth like he’s got something to say but doesn’t dare, and hesitating in the doorway. Just as Steve is about to tell him to spit it out, he shakes his head and gives Steve a sad little smile.

“Get some sleep, Stevie, you know you won’t get better without some proper rest,” He tells him, and the whole scene feels unbearably familiar, like déjà vu, “Tell JARVIS if you need me- I mean, if you need anything, okay?”

He disappears out the doorway and moves silently down the hall before Steve can say anything, or do anything foolish like ask him to stay. Now alone, Steve turns to the tablet in front of him. He’s getting better with modern technology, and luckily this tablet works just like the ones from 2014, so he’s able to scroll through the information Tony and JARVIS have compiled for him.

Steven Grant Rogers. Born July 5^th, 1917 (how is he 100 years old?), but his birthday was changed posthumously on official records to July 4^th for propaganda reasons. Grew up in Brooklyn, New York, with his mother Sarah. His father Joseph died just before he was born in the First World War, and his mother never remarried, choosing to raise him alone. His mother died in 1934, just before his 17^th birthday, and later that year he moved into a cheap apartment in Red Hook with his childhood best friend, James Buchanan Barnes.

Bucky. It must be. Scrolling down, he sees a picture of the two of them which confirms his identification.

1933. A young Sergeant Barnes and Captain Rogers enjoy a summer visit to Coney Island in Brooklyn, New York.

Bucky is clean shaven with much shorter hair, and he looks both smaller and younger, but it’s clearly him. Beside him, Steve looks tiny, like someone left him in the laundry for too long, but he recognises his own face, gaunt and sickly as it is. The photograph is black and white and shows them smiling wide, crammed into a tiny photo booth at some kind of fair or amusement park, each holding hotdogs the size of their heads. They look so young and happy and full of life it makes Steve’s head spin. He wants so badly to remember this.

Best friend, he rereads, and tries to clamp down on the twinge of disappointment that sparks.

Continuing on, he gets to the part that explains how he came to be here, with the Avengers, looking like an entirely different person than the scrawny man in these photographs.

He took an experimental serum in order to join the army in 1943, and travelled to Europe in a USO show as ‘Captain America’. There, he proved his worth as a real soldier, not just a symbol, by rescuing Bucky’s unit from deep behind enemy lines where they were being held captive by HYDRA. Together with Bucky and some of the other prisoners, they formed an elite unit: the Howling Commandos. There’s another photograph here, of 7 men standing in front of a chain linked fence, looking dead on their feet but proud.

1944. The Howling Commandos (left to right: Gabriel Jones, James Morita, James Montgomery Falsworth, James Buchanan Barnes, Steven Grant Rogers (Captain America), Jacques Dernier and Timothy Dugan) pose after the successful rescue of 421 Allied prisoners in Vilnius, Lithuania.

It doesn’t trigger anything. No memories come flooding back. Everything sounds ever so slightly familiar, but it doesn’t feel personal. It feels like reading about someone else’s life. Steve’s only concrete thought is that it really is excessive to have that many James’ on one team.

There’s more – information about his close relationship with Agent Margaret Carter and Howard Stark (Stark? Could this be Tony’s father?) and their work for the Strategic Scientific Reserve. But it’s the next paragraph that captures Steve’s attention.

On March 1^st 1945, Sergeant Barnes fell from a train travelling through the Alps during an SSR mission to intercept the HYDRA scientist Dr Arnim Zola. Though he was presumed dead and officially designated as Killed in Action, Sergeant Barnes survived the fall due to the strain of Super Soldier Serum he had received from Dr Zola during torture in an Austrian HYDRA weapons facility.  He was found and captured by HYDRA agents within days, having lost his left arm in the fall.

Jesus. His suspicions about Bucky seem to have been correct – he wasn’t HYDRA, after all, and never had been. He’s been Steve’s best friend until he’d literally fallen into HYDRA’s hands, and they’d used whatever process they tried to use on Steve earlier today. The date gives him even greater pause. If he fell in 1945, and he didn’t reunite with Steve and escape HYDRA’s control until 2014 -  69 years as a prisoner of war, as a weapon for HYDRA…

On March 4^th 1945, Captain Rogers flew the HYDRA bomber known as ‘the Valkyrie’ into the North Atlantic Ocean in a final act of heroism, in order to prevent it from destroying the city of New York. Presumed dead, Captain Rogers had in fact survived, cryogenically frozen in ice. He was discovered by fisherman in 2012 off the coast of Greenland, and carefully defrosted, upon which-

Both of them? Both of them fell, and both of them survived, and they somehow managed to find each other in a whole new century? If Steve believed in that sort of thing, he’d almost have to say it was fate.

He suddenly feels like the hospital room is choking him, and he stands up so quickly he gets a little light headed, dropping the tablet on the white duvet.

“JARVIS, what floor do I live on?” with Bucky? he barely manages to resist adding.

“The 74^th floor, Captain Rogers, but I must insist that you return to your-“ Steve tunes him out and drags himself to the elevator. He’s in that stage of healing now where his entire body feels stiff and sore, like waking up the morning after a day of intense exercise when you’re normally a couch potato. But he’s sure he’s been in much worse states than this, even if he doesn’t remember them, so he punches in 7 and 4 and heads up to his - their - apartment.

When the elevator dings and opens onto their floor, it's unfamiliar, a completely different layout to the floor he briefly lived on in 2013. The apartment opens up into a small entryway with no door separating him from the large open plan kitchen-living room directly ahead, and before he has even stepped out of the elevator his eyes find Bucky, curled up on the couch. He’s eating a bowl of some luminous coloured cereal despite it being nearly 10 o’clock at night, and he’s curled up in a fluffy blanket with his toes tucked into the space between the couch cushions. On the screen is some British show, a comedy by the sounds of the canned laughter than plays over the speakers, that looks like it was filmed in the '70s. Like this, Bucky doesn’t look much like a deadly assassin at all.

He seems genuinely startled by Steve’s arrival, and immediately jumps to his feet to start fussing over him like a mother hen.

“Did Bruce say you could leave the medical bay?” Bucky tuts, checking the bandages on the side of his head and lifting his shirt slightly to look at the wrapping around his ribs, “You should be asleep, Steve.”

Steve looks for an excuse, not truly understanding why he has come up here, but can’t come up with anything better than;

“I- I wanted to sleep here. In my own bed, ya know?” Bucky nods like he understands, and doesn’t call Steve out on what they both know: he’s never seen his ‘own bed’, and he certainly doesn’t remember it. Bucky throws his empty cereal bowl into the dishwasher and leads Steve down the hallway, awkwardly standing on the threshold of one of the bedrooms like he doesn’t want to violate Steve’s space.

“Um, here you go. My room’s just down the hall, if you need anything,” He says before stepping away to allow Steve to enter. The room isn’t that dissimilar to his old one. There’s an easel in one corner, next to a bookshelf filled with important novels from the 1945-2012 period, paints and sketchbooks. There’s a colourful rug in the centre of the floor, and a large bed with-

Two glasses of water, one on each bedside table. A history book that Steve would never choose on the side that he doesn’t sleep on. Disturbed covers, and an Avengers-brand mug on either side of the bed.

Oh. That’s. That confirms his suspicions, then.

“Oh! Wait – “ He hears, and Bucky comes rushing into the room after him as if he has just remembered the evidence of how they spend the previous night. He freezes when he sees that Steve has already seen the two mugs and disturbed covers, then blushes adorably.

“Sorry. Maybe I should have said…” He trails off, and Steve wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. Should have said what? What ARE we? Instead, he opens his mouth and starts speaking before he can talk himself out of it.

“Do you,” He starts, nervous as if he’s asking someone on a date for the first time. Seeing as he doesn’t ever remember doing that, he supposes that is what he’s doing, “Do you want to sleep here tonight?”

Bucky stares at him dumbfounded and open mouthed for long enough that Steve thinks he might have made a mistake. Maybe he’s seeing someone else, who these things belong to, and Bucky is merely a roommate?

“Is that what you want?” Bucky asks him quietly, eyes filled to the brim with hope. Steve doesn’t want to shatter that hope – but more than that, Steve thinks this is what he wants. It’s strange to want to sleep beside a man he literally just met, and one who used to be a deadly assassin at that, but he does. He feels comforted by Bucky’s presence and his kind eyes, and after the emotional rollercoaster that today has been, he can’t really see himself sleeping without a little comfort.

"If- if that's okay with you," He tells Bucky awkwardly, and is rewarded with a shy smile that makes Steve's stomach flutter like a middle schooler with a crush. They run through a nightly routine of changing into pajamas and brushing their teeth together that feels painfully familiar, like a long forgotten dream, then settle into bed.

It's awkward - the bed is large but so are they, and no matter how close to the edge of the bed he sleeps, he can feel the heat radiating from Bucky's body and smell the lingering strawberry notes of his shampoo and the mint of his toothpaste. Steve doesn't know whether to lie on his side facing Bucky, where he would be more comfortable, or turn around so their set up is less intimate. Bucky also seems to be trying to put as much distance between them as possible, likely for Steve's comfort - he is a complete stranger to Steve, after all. In the end, they sleep facing each other in a way that seems natural -is this how they normally sleep? - but each clinging to the edges of the bed with an ocean of empty mattress between them.

In the morning, he wakes with Bucky wrapped up in his arms, his face pressed into Steve’s neck. Steve feels truly at peace for the first time since he threw himself out of that chair yesterday, and possibly for the first time since he woke up in the 21st century. Bucky looks smaller like this, even with a muscle mass that rivals Steve's own, and Steve feels the strangest urge to protect. Bucky blinks awake not long after Steve does, and smiles contently for a moment before he seems to remember that Steve doesn't remember him. Then he just looks embarrassed, blushing and mumbling apologies in a voice hoarse from under-use and rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“It’s okay,” Steve tells him honestly, reaching a hand up instinctively to push a strand of long auburn hair behind his ear when it falls in front of those big blue eyes, “It’s alright.”

It not really, though. In this moment, Steve feels bizarrely content, but there’s an edge to it like he’s trespassing. It feels almost like cheating, like the Steve he was yesterday with all his memories intact is a completely different man – and now this Steve is in bed with his boyfriend. Bucky has a strange look on his face that makes Steve feel like he’s probably thinking the same thing. The tranquil moment is broken as he pushes himself up and away from Steve, hesitating by the edge of the bed for a moment as if he’s going to say something before simply shaking his head and leaving the room. Steve has always been an idealist, but never really a romantic – he’s far too cynical about human nature for that. But as he watches Bucky go, his sweatpants hung low on his hips and strands of brown hair falling from the bun he has put in place, Steve thinks;

I could fall in love with you.

Chapter Text

Steve dresses quickly, rummaging through the wardrobe in the corner of the room for clothes that he recognises. He knows the new clothes will fit him regardless, and he knows, objectively, that they’re his, but it feels like putting on anything he doesn’t remember buying would be stealing. Even rummaging through 2017 Steve’s wardrobe feels like invading someone else’s privacy, just like laying with Bucky had felt like sleeping with someone else’s boyfriend. He selects a light blue button-down shirt and a pair of beige slacks that he recognises, and slips them on. When he looks in the mirror, he truly does look like a man out of time – he looks like the photos of himself from the biography JARVIS gave him, albeit with substantially more muscle mass. It’s obvious now that these clothes are old fashioned, especially compared to some of the more modern t-shirts, jeans and bomber jackets he can see in the wardrobe that must have been purchased more recently, but he feels comfortable, so he keeps them on. He’s about to close the wardrobe and head out of his room when he notices something shiny and black peeking out from underneath a pile of clothes. Pulling it out carefully, and still feeling like he is going through someone else’s stuff, he sees that it’s a sketchbook, the same size and shape as the ones he’s been doodling in for as long as he can remember - even if that's only two years. 

Opening up the book, he immediately recognises the pencil strokes and style as his own work, but he doesn’t remember drawing any of these sketches, or recognise the people he has drawn. Flicking through a few pages of strangers, he reaches a portrait of a woman who is shockingly familiar.  This sketch is in colour, and the woman has thin blonde hair and kind, tired blue eyes. Her face bears a striking resemblance to his own, and he thinks she must be his mother. It sends another pang of hurt through him to realise that he doesn’t even recognise her. His own mother.

Strangely, these sketches are dated '2012'. Seeing as he has retained his memories of 2012-2014, he should really remember drawing this - but he doesn't. It seems that although the HYDRA agents targeted his earliest memories, his past has been so thoroughly destroyed by the chair that even his more recent memories have been obliterated if they were related to his life before crashing the Valkyrie . It’s why his memories drop off again in 2014, when Bucky came back into his life.

On the next page, there are multiple sketches of three little girls, each smaller than the last, smiling and laughing in pretty summer dresses. His biography didn’t mention that he has sisters – could they be his cousins? Looking closer, he sees that above the date, he has written a small note: Becca, Hope, and Daisy Barnes. They must be Bucky’s sisters, then. Could any of them still be alive?

Turning over, he sees a number of sketches of a beautiful woman with dark, curly hair and a sharp gaze, and others of a slight man with wide eyes and a thick moustache – he thinks this may be Margaret Carter and Howard Stark, if the man’s resemblance to Tony is anything to go by. Over the next few pages are sketches of men he recognises from the biography JARVIS put together for him; the Howling Commandos. These pictures are drawn in colour, too, and he gets the detail that he didn’t in the black and white photograph JARVIS had shown him; Dugan’s shock of ginger hair and bushy moustache, the deep crimson of Falsworth’s beret, and the cobalt blue of Bucky’s uniform. Steve digs his fingers into the leather of the sketchbook, desperately wishing for the pictures to trigger an avalanche of memories, but nothing occurs once again.

In between these pictures are sketches of Bucky; Bucky looking handsome in his dress uniform, Bucky setting up a tent in a forest, Bucky as a teenager hunched over a comic book. The pages are filled with Bucky’s likeness, like Steve was a man obsessed.

Not obsessed, Steve realises, grieving. These sketches are dated 2012, too – after Steve woke up, but two years before he even heard the name ‘Winter Soldier’, much less reunited with a very much alive Bucky. The Steve who drew these sketches thought Bucky was as dead as everyone else in the book and was desperately trying to preserve his memories of the man.

Were we a couple before? Steve thinks, Have we been together since we were teenagers?  

He must have been in so much pain, waking up alone mere days after losing Bucky to find every instance of the world they shared dead and gone – for a moment Steve is almost glad to have lost those memories.

Suddenly feeling more like he’s trespassing than ever, Steve flicks past pages of Bucky until he begins to recognise some of the images – he remembers drawing these. There are sketches of the New York skyline and Stark tower, and portraits of the Avengers, Fury, and Pepper. He remembers deciding to start documenting the new world he was living in, thinking it might help him adjust – although he’s not sure it was particularly successful. There are still sketches of Bucky interspersed between images he remembers drawing, after all. Sketches he recognises as D.C. start appearing as he carries on flicking through the book, and there are a few sketches of Sam and Natasha – and yet more Bucky. These are dated to 2014, although he would have been able to date them anyway, surrounded as they are by sketches of the D.C. skyline. Even 2 years after waking up in a new century, this Steve still couldn’t let Bucky go. How could he have forgotten him?

On the next page, almost directly in the middle of the book, is an image he recognises. It’s a quick, artless thing, more like a police sketch than anything else, designed to record a memory quickly lest it be forgotten. He remembers sketching this down hastily in the dim lights of the hospital waiting room while Fury underwent surgery, just before he died. In fact, it’s the last thing he remembers drawing – for him it was sketched less than 2 days ago.

It’s a man, bulky and wrapped in an asymmetrical leather uniform with long hair falling over his face. There’s a mask across the lower half of his face that looks like a dog’s muzzle, and his cold, lifeless eyes are visible behind the thick black war paint that surrounds them. Though the sketch is in pencil, there is a burst of colour where the star on his metal arm has been hastily scribbled a vibrant red.

The page directly preceding this one holds yet another sketch of Bucky, this time holding the hand of a tiny girl and smiling delightedly. Holding the book further from his face to juxtapose the two images, Steve can’t see any resemblance between a young Bucky and the Winter Soldier - no wonder he hadn't realised it until he had seen the soldier's face clearly. Thinking about the Bucky he saw yesterday, all sad eyes and oversized hoody, he can barely believe they are all the same man. Shaking off the bone-deep sadness seeing Bucky like that has instilled in him, he carries on to drawings he doesn’t remember, clearly drawn after he had recognised Bucky. There are more sketches of the Winter Soldier – in fact, that is all there is for several pages. But these have been drawn with more care, and perhaps more sympathy. Steve can see Bucky, now, where he couldn’t in the previous Winter Soldier sketch. He can recognise the rise of his cheekbones and the square of his jaw, and see how his eyes show pain and a cry for help where they had only shown hatred in his previous drawing. He can see how everything had changed for the Steve that had drawn these when he had finally recognised Bucky: he was no longer able to see the Winter Soldier as a villain, or a monster, or a killer, even without truly knowing what had happened to him. In these drawings, he sees hope. There are still pictures of Bucky as he was before, however, with his Sergeant’s chevrons on display or cleaning a rifle in a European woodland. But there are also pictures that combine the two Bucky’s: Bucky in his dress uniform but with shoulder-length hair falling into his eyes, or Bucky in his blue Howling Commandos jacket with one arm cut off to expose a metal arm. The pictures of all three types of Bucky – before the fall, the Winter Soldier, and the amalgamation of the two – carry on for years, dated 2014, 2015 and 2016. In amongst them are sketches of Sam and Natasha, of new cities that Steve doesn’t recall, and there are more pictures of the Avengers – even several that he recognises as Wanda, sometimes with a young man that looks similar to her by her side. In many, he has drawn strange orbs of red light in both her hands, much to his confusion.

There are several pages of sketches of Bucky, looking more like he had yesterday than like the Winter Soldier or Bucky from the ‘40s. The drawings are from different angles, with different levels of light indicating different times and days, but the content is the same: Bucky, sleeping peacefully. He appears to be in some strange tube-like contraption with his eyes tightly shut and his metal arm missing. A few of the pictures have the outlines of doctors and medical equipment behind him, but Steve hasn’t bothered to fill in the background detail.

After that, the content and even the tone of the sketches, which had seemed drab and miserable, change dramatically. Everything from that point on is in colour; beautiful tropical landscapes, a huge stone cat overlooking a futuristic city, architecture the likes of which he’s never seen and dark-skinned men and women in vibrant clothes and jewellery. Steve wonders what his inspiration for these scenes was: he normally draws from life, rather than from fantasy, but there is no way sights like these could be real.  The drawings of Bucky look different now, too. He looks a little less muscular than he was as the Winter Soldier, and he seems to be back down to one, flesh arm, but he looks healthy and happy. His hair is longer now, almost as long as it is in real life, and he’s lightly tanned and wrapped in strange garments made of colourful fabric, like the people in Steve's other sketches were wearing. He looks beautiful in all the sketches, bathed in golden light as he sits on the edge of a lake or walks through a vibrant market or … pets some goats? Abruptly, the sketches change back to the New York skyline, coming full circle back to the first drawings in the book. But this time the drawings of Bucky aren’t the product of a grieving man trying to hold on to memories – they’re real. Bucky in that hoodie he has stolen from Steve, walking through Manhattan or curled up on the couch Steve recognises from the living room of this very apartment. Back in Steve’s life again – the both of them back in their home of New York, together.

Snapping the sketchbook closed and shoving it back under a pile of t-shirts, Steve finally leaves his room and heads to the kitchen, where he can hear Bucky moving around.

Bucky’s face does something strange when he sees Steve wearing an outfit not dissimilar to what he would have worn in the ‘30s, but it quickly returns to a neutral state. He’s wearing Steve’s hoodie again, and it makes Steve smile wide. His smile only increases when the smell of eggs, bacon and waffles hits him from across the room. Bucky seems pleased to see Steve so pleased, and beams back at him, flipping the bacon high in the air and catching it in the pan just to show off.

“Good morning,” Bucky says pleasantly, “Do you want-“

“How long have we been together?”

He doesn’t mean to say it – much less to cut Bucky off in the middle of a sentence. But the words are out before he can really think about it, or clap a hand over his stupid mouth. Bucky looks bemused, but not annoyed at being interrupted, and flips the bacon once more as he answers.

“How long since we saw each other in D.C.? Or how long since I came back from Wakanda?” At his confused look, Bucky elaborates, “I went off on my own after D.C. I still wasn’t fully… there, mentally. But you found me about 2 years later, then I lived in Wakanda for a year to heal up. Then we moved here, about 8 months ago.”

Steve thinks absently that he’ll have to ask JARVIS about Wakanda – he’s got a pretty decent grasp on geography but he’s never heard of it. He wants to hear more about their reunion and their lives since 2014, especially after looking through what he’s privately called the Other Steve’s Sketchbook, but that’s not quite what he meant.

“No, I meant… how long have we been dating?”

Bucky was in the middle of taking a sip of coffee and chokes in response to Steve’s question, leaning forward with his hands on his knees and pounding a hand against his oesophagus as he coughs.

“We aren’t- I mean we, I-“ Bucky stutters when he regains control of his breathing, “We’re not together – you don’t feel that way.”

They’re both blushing furiously, and Steve wants the floor to open up and swallow him whole. How has he read this so wrong? He runs back what Bucky just said in his mind, and gets tripped up by ‘you don’t feel that way’. Does that mean Bucky does feel that way?

“But I thought – the bed …” He starts, thinking and the hoodie, and the sketchbook, and you crying over me forgetting you, but Bucky shakes his head, looking despondent.

“We used to sleep together – in the same bed, I mean, that’s all – when we were younger. We only had one bedroom,” He explains, unable to meet Steve’s eye, “I thought it might help with the nightmares I have now if we slept together again, here. You were just being nice. It isn’t anything…more.”

He sounds as disappointed as Steve feels, but Steve can only nod his understanding as they lapse into an awkward silence and Bucky plates up their food.

“So I had an idea,” Bucky begins after a few moments of eating in silence, looking a little nervous, “Tony has this machine – you won’t know it, I don’t think he’d invented it before your memories stop. It’s called B.A.R.F.”

“Barf?” Steve repeats incredulously, and Bucky shoots him a sympathetic look, tension passing.

“I know. But are we surprised, coming from the creative genius behind such names as ‘Iron Man’ and ‘War Machine’?” Steve snorts at that, and it makes Bucky absolutely beam, so Steve resolves to laugh at his jokes more often. “It stands for, um…”

“Binarily Augmented Retro-Framing, Sergeant Barnes,” JARVIS cuts in when Bucky blanks on the name.

“That.” Bucky concurs. “My therapist – well, one of them – recommend I use it for my residual amnesia. For normal people, it extracts a memory and plays it back to you like a movie, except you can change the parts that went wrong and watch a happier version – to help you deal with shitty stuff that’s happened to you.”

Steve nods and gratefully accepts the basket of condiments Bucky hands him as he continues.

“But for me – my brain is Swiss cheese, basically. HYDRA put me in that chair you were in yesterday hundreds of times, wiped me clean again and again. I’ve got a lot back, and I’m getting more back every day, but there’s still some stuff I can’t seem to access – feels like it’s just on the other side but I keep running into an invisible wall trying to reach it, ya know?”

Steve does know. He has come up across the wall, and the tantalizing, frustrating closeness of the memories beyond it whenever he tries to think back to his childhood since yesterday.

“I can’t watch them like regular memories in my head. But B.A.R.F. can extract them straight from the hippo, uh, thingy.”

“Hippocampus, Sergeant Barnes.”

“Right. Thanks, JARVIS,” Bucky says, tucking into his own plate of food and looking at Steve nervously as if he’s going to reject his proposition.

“And then I can watch them in B.A.R.F., like watching a movie about my life,” He continues, as Steve sips his coffee, feeling a little lost even though Bucky is making an effort to explain the process as simply as possible, “And I figured it would be the same for you, right? So maybe if you jump into B.A.R.F., you’ll be able to watch some of your memories, and it might make the rest come back. Trigger the healing process or whatever.”

‘Jumping into B.A.R.F.’ doesn’t exactly sound appealing, but it’s a good idea – the black hole in Steve’s memories scares him more and more every time he pushes against it, clawing at the mental curtain like he can break through if he just tries hard enough. Although at least he’s retained some of his life, even if it’s only two years. He wonders idly how much of Steve was taken from Bucky when he was subjected to the chair.

“When they took your memories – how much did they let you keep?” He asks Bucky, curiosity getting the better of him. It was the wrong thing to say, and Steve scolds himself for his thoughtlessness as Bucky’s face shuts down into an emotionless mask.

“Nothing,” He says darkly, and looks away from Steve, clutching his fork so tightly in his metal hand that Steve can hear it snap, “My ability to kill, I suppose. I didn’t even know my name. Or that I was a person.”

Steve struggles to process that, trying to keep the horror off his face but failing miserably. How could they make a man forget his own humanity? He is again struck by the fact that he could have killed Bucky in D.C., had he caught him, without ever knowing that he wasn’t fighting voluntarily.

He’s unsure how to respond to such a frank and terrifying admission, so he sits in awkward silence while Bucky busies himself stacking the dishwasher with their breakfast plates. The tension his question had put in Bucky’s shoulders hasn’t faded, and while he desperately wants to reach out to comfort Bucky, he doesn’t allow himself too.

You don’t even know him. You’re not allowed to touch.

JARVIS cuts through the quiet to tell them that he has finished configuring B.A.R.F., and that it will be available for use at their earliest convenience. He doesn’t want to get his hopes up (or Bucky’s) only to have B.A.R.F. fail to trigger any memories, but Steve wants this to work more than he can express.

Steve feels a connection with Bruce, Natasha, Clint, Thor, and Tony. Sam, too, could easily become one of his close friends although in Steve’s amnesiac mind they’ve only known each other for around a month. While he considers these people his friends, he has never felt like they really knew or understood him past the shield – it doesn’t feel like anyone in this century does. His move to D.C. was driven more by the desire to outrun his clawing loneliness that a real desire to be there, after all.

To know that there is a person in the world who has known Steve his whole life, who knows him inside out, who has seen Steve when he was weak and sick and still stuck by his side – it makes him burn with want. To know that he has forgotten exactly what he has been looking for since he woke up in this century – someone who knows and wants Steve Rogers, not Captain America – hurts like a physical blow. He wants those memories back – of him and Bucky smiling in an amusement park photo booth, of fighting back to back in World War II – Steve still hasn’t quite processed that one. World War II, seriously? – of growing up together and reuniting in a new century in D.C.

When Bucky finishes tidying up and suggests they head over to B.A.R.F., Steve is in the elevator before Bucky has even finished the question.

Chapter Text

JARVIS graciously holds the doors open until Bucky joins him in the elevator a minute later. He’s clutching a notebook that looks battered and well used, not unlike the sketchbook Steve had pulled from his wardrobe that very morning. The elevator sends them down past the common room, gym and armoury to a floor Steve has never been to before – or at least not one he remembers having gone too. In front of them, a ridiculously ornate plaque that only Tony could have commissioned above the entrance proclaims it to be ‘The Memory Suite – Home of B.A.R.F.’.

Bucky leads him out of the elevator and down the corridor, clearly knowing his way around this part of the tower even if Steve doesn’t, and into a white-tiled room with a strange sort of rigging in the corner. After pressing a few buttons on it, Bucky cracks often the leather-bound notebook and rattles off a series of dates, locations and events to JARVIS.

“I’m trying to piece my life back together – there are still gaps,” Bucky tells him honestly when he sees Steve looking curiously at his notebook, “And writing everything I remember down helps. I, um, picked a few memories that I think might kick start your memory, if this works and B.A.R.F. can pull them up.”

Steve nods, vaguely understanding but still not quite at ease with the whole B.A.R.F. process yet.

“But if it doesn’t work – if B.A.R.F. can’t retrieve them – can’t we just watch them from your memory? If you’re in them, I mean?” He asks, already concerned that this isn’t going to work. Bucky looks embarrassed and busies himself fiddling with something near the projector so he doesn’t have to meet Steve’s eye.

“Not really,” He begins nervously, “Like I said, my brains a mess – I can’t really get my memories out cleanly, even with B.A.R.F. Other memories cut in when you try to watch one. If we try and look at some memories of our childhood from my brain, there’s no way to prevent you seeing a bunch of awful shit along with it. And I don’t want you to have to go through that again.”

Again, Steve nods as if he understands, but he’s not really sure how any of this works. Was Steve present when the awful memories occurred, or is he suggesting that they have tried to watch Bucky’s memories together before, and got more than they bargained for?

Bucky hands him a pair of what look like sunglasses with various wires attached, and shakes his head when Steve looks around for another pair for him.

“I don’t need any to watch, they’re just to extract the memory,” He tells Steve, and then more nervously, “I can, um, I can go if you want? If you want some privacy, or…”

“No!” Steve says so urgently that it makes Bucky jump, “I mean, no, it’s fine. I’d like for you to stay. If you want to, obviously.”

Bucky smiles shyly as Steve slips the glasses on, seemingly pleased that Steve wants him to stay and looking more than a little relieved.

“Welcome to B.A.R.F., Captain Rogers,” JARVIS greets, and it seems Bucky never kicked the habit Steve himself developed when he first moved into the tower, of flinching and looking around for a source when JARVIS speaks to them unexpectedly, “I will shortly be extracting the memories indicated by Sergeant Barnes and projecting them for your viewing pleasure. I have taken the liberty of disabling the feature with allows users to edit their memories and playback altered versions, as Sergeant Barnes indicated this would not be useful. If you wish to stop at any point, please remove your glasses.”

“Wait – before you show the memories I told you about, can you find anything with Steve’s Ma? A happy memory?” Bucky asks suddenly.

He imagines that this must be what it feels like when children adopted at birth meet their biological parents for the first time later in life. He’s about to see the woman who created him, raised him and cared for him, his own flesh and blood; but he doesn’t know her. His own mother is a complete stranger to him. Steve feels strangely nervous, his heart beating rapidly in his chest, and Bucky reaches over to squeeze his hand when his pulse becomes loud enough for their enhanced hearing to pick up. To Steve’s delight, he doesn’t let go as the machine starts.

It feels like the glasses tighten around his head momentarily, and then a light so bright it whites out his vision and makes him feel dizzy appears behind his eyeballs. There is a sudden, stabbing pain in his head like a sharp knife has cut straight through his brain, but it is gone before he can do more than hiss through his teeth and squeeze Bucky’s hand tighter. The white behind his eyes fades away as quickly as it had come, and as his vision returns to him, he sees that the Memory Suite is still empty – no memories are being played.

Steve begins to panic almost immediately. Why hasn’t it work? Was Bruce wrong, and the memories are gone forever? He wants so desperately to see his mother, Bucky, the Howling Commandos, and all the things that have made him into the man he is today. Just as he is about to rip the glasses off in frustration, a beam of light flickers on and pours out of the rigging in the corner, flooding the room. Steve watches in fascination as a scene begins to grow as if from nothing before their eyes, building shapes and structures around them that appear tangible and real.

A worn red carpet rolls out from where Bucky and Steve stand, unfurling to the other side of the room. On either side of it, long thin wooden benches spread horizontally until Steve and Bucky are standing in an aisle, enclosed by pews. At the far end of the red carpet, a large golden cross rises from the ground to stand behind a small shrine. The white light from the projector scatters throughout the church, swirling upwards and dissipating until people dressed in their Sunday best are left in its wake.

He spots his mother instantly – she looks a little younger than in his sketch, but otherwise exactly the same. She has deep bags under her eyes that tell of sleepless nights, working too hard, and struggling to pay rent, but her blonde locks are tied up in a neat bun and she’s wearing a long-sleeved, powder blue dress with a matching hat. Steve thinks she looks beautiful.

“Oh my god,” Bucky coos when Steve toddles into view. He’s probably around 4 or 5 years old, but he looks tiny, with floppy blonde hair and big blue eyes that seem to take up half his face, “You were so cute!”

“I’m not cute now?” Steve asks just to pretend he isn’t a nervous wreck, but Bucky sees right through him and squeezes his hand in silent support.

“Your Ma took you here every Sunday,” Bucky tells him, looking up at the high ceilings of the small, unassuming church somewhere in their poor neighbourhood in Brooklyn.

“I know,” Steve replies, and as Bucky looks at him sharply he realises that it’s true – he remembers that. She was adamant about it – even when he was almost at death’s door, they wouldn’t miss Sunday Mass. Oh god, Steve thinks, is it working?

The noise of chattering, which had started off as a low murmur when the first people had appeared in the memory, now kicks up into a crescendo, echoing around the church hall. One of his tiny hands is wrapped tightly in his mother’s as they move through the crowd, while the other holds an equally tiny handkerchief to his nose as he sneezes, whole body shaking. Steve shifts to move out their way, since he and Bucky are standing in the middle of the aisle. blocking it, but stops short when Bucky gives him an amused look. This is just a hologram, no matter how real it looks. They aren’t actually there.

“Sick again,” An old woman mutters from behind Steve and Bucky, not far from where little Steve and Sarah have perched on one of the pews, “Third time this year, and it’s barely spring.”

 Bucky and Steve turn abruptly to look at her, not liking her disparaging tone.

“I hate to say it but she might have been better off if she had lost the baby – now she’s stuck with this,” Says an equally old woman next to her, gesturing to little Steve, “Sick all the time, broken lungs, scrawny little thing with a crippled spine and a club foot. He’s never going to be a soldier like his father.”

Bucky inhales tightly and tightens his grip on Steve’s hand.

“Christ, JARVIS, I said a happy memory!” Bucky snaps, but there is no response from JARVIS as the memory plays on.

“He’s only going to be a burden on her, and society,” The first woman tells her friend conspiratorially, “That’s if he lasts through this winter. Father O'Donnell had to read him last rites this past January.”

“God’s clearly punishing the mother,” The second replies, “I’ve heard rumours about her and the mailman, when dear Joseph was away in the War…”

“Mary!” The first woman admonishes as if her friend has suddenly gone too far. She looks around to check that no one has heard, but the woman – Mary – merely laughs at her paranoia.

“It’s alright, Eliza. He’s half deaf too, apparently,” Mary snickers cruelly.

Sarah Rogers stands up so quickly that the entire pew shakes and rattles.

“My son is hard of hearing in his right ear,” She snaps, “But I can hear perfectly clearly.”

Steve and Bucky watch smugly as the colour visibly drains from Mary and Eliza's faces at his mother's outburst.

“I hear two heartless witches mocking a sick child,” Sarah rages, voice becoming loud enough that it seems the whole church abandons any pretence of finding seats and turns to watch the show.

“He is my son,” She seethes, “He may be sick, he may be different – he may need more care and attention than other children – but I will gladly give it to him, because he is my son. He is my gift from God – having to deal with bitter hags like you is my punishment.”

Mary opens her mouth as if to protest, blushing furiously, but Eliza shushes her, knowing they have already said too much.

“He is not, and will never be, a burden. He’s going to grow up and do great things, because he has a good heart, and a kind soul – not that you would know anything about that.”

She picks little Steve up with ease despite her slight frame and tucks him against her chest as she slings her handbag over her other shoulder and shuffles out of the pew.

“In the house of the Lord, no less,” she spits, turning her nose up at the women in disgust and shaking her head. Little Stevie grabs onto her dress with his tiny hands, tucking his face into her neck, a little scared by the shouting and a little sad – why do these women hate him? Because he’s sick? He doesn’t even know them. And Ma says it’s not his fault he’s sick all the time. His mother strides to the door without stopping or looking back, leaving two humiliated old women to soak up their shame in the quiet of the church.

“That’s- that's my mom,” Steve chokes out, suddenly overwhelmed with memories of this beautiful, ferocious woman who loved him more than anything, who fed him, clothed him, defended him, and taught him to always, always be kind, “That’s my Ma.”

Steve lets out a shuddering sob, pressing the hand that isn’t holding Bucky's to his mouth as he remembers – remembering her, alive and well, then remembering she’s no longer with him feels like losing her all over again.

“Oh, Stevie,” Bucky says softly, raising his metal hand to wipe gently at the tears on Steve’s cheeks, underneath the glasses, “She was a hell of a woman. And stubborn as anything, just like you. Never could back down from a fight.”

It’s working, Steve thinks deliriously, how could I have possibly forgotten my Ma?

JARVIS had paused the memory while Steve had his small breakdown, and he nods when JARVIS asks if he would like to see another memory. Straining his mind as far back as it will go, he thinks that watching this memory of his mother has triggered at least a few of his earliest years to return to him. He remembers his Ma taking him to school for the first time, making him chicken soup and wiping his brow when he was sick, crying by his bedside and praying when she thought he was asleep. But his memories shutter to a stop when he gets to around 6 or 7 years old – and he still can’t remember Bucky. There’s still more work to be done in B.A.R.F.

“Can you fetch something from the list Bucky gave you?” Steve asks JARVIS when he gets himself back under control, who answers affirmatively and resumes the simulation.

The pews seem to melt down into the ground and the red carpet rolls back up, leaving hard, gravel-covered ground in its wake. The golden cross behind the church altar darkens in colour and thickens, rising up and then looping back down the sink in the ground, forming a large brick archway with iron gates on either side. On the ground, the light of the simulation swirls like fireflies and paints chalk lines for hopscotch and tic-tac-toe beneath their feet as it passes over the gravel. The walls push back and further away from them until they form the outline of an old, red brick building on the other side of a playground, separated from where Steve and Bucky watch by an incredibly dangerous looking jungle gym.

The Steve in this memory must be around 7 years old, but he’s barely bigger than the toddler he had been in the previous memory. He’s pale and skinny, hunched over due to his scoliosis and walking with a slight limp, coughing intermittently as he passes through the gates. Beside him, Bucky’s eyes are soft as they watch Steve's younger self, but they grow cold as the simulation forms the figures of three older, much larger boys.

“Rogers!” A stocky brunette boy calls to him almost pleasantly, but Steve can see the way his younger self hunches in on himself defensively. He stops walking as they saunter over to him, blocking his path home.

“What do you want, James?” his younger self asks tiredly, cutting himself off with a cough that shakes his whole frame. It makes the other boys laugh, like Steve being ill is amusing to them.

“Rogers the Runt!” James says in a sing-song voice, “Scrawny Steve! Where do you think you’re going?”

“Home.” Steve spits out, trying to sidestep the larger boys but failing as they spread out to cut off his escape route, surrounding him.

“Sure you can make it, Rogers?” James asks, pushing lightly at Steve’s shoulder and looming over him, “You’re not gonna collapse on the way there?”

All three of the boys break into exaggerated coughing fits, clutching their necks or clawing at their throats, imitating Steve’s asthma attacks. Steve tries not to react, not wanting to rise to the bait, and waits them out until they dissolve into laughter.

“My dog had puppies, you know,” Another boy starts, smirking at Steve, “And she killed the runt. Even dogs know that you have to get rid of the weak ones.”

“Get out of my way,” Steve grits out through his teeth, trying to sidestep around them once again. One of the other boys –Jimmy, maybe? – shoves at his shoulders, forcing him back.

“What are you gonna do, tell you Pa on us?” James asks, smirking cruelly, “You can’t, can you? Because he’s-“

Steve’s fist meets the side of the boy’s face with a sickening crack. It undoubtedly hurt Steve more than it hurt his bully, but he doesn’t show it. Watching the scene now, Steve thinks if he tries hard enough he can almost feel the pain in his knuckles and his thumb, bent into the wrong position – this was before Bucky taught him how to throw a proper punch, after all.

Oh my god, Steve thinks, I remember that.

He doesn’t last long. His first punch had taken them by surprise, causing James to stumble back a little, but they are all expecting his second swing. One of the other boys – Walter, Steve thinks, was that his name? – shoves Steve hard, sending him sprawling onto his back in the gravel. James holds his hand against his freshly bruised eye for a second, looking like he can’t believe Steve really had the audacity to hit him, then throws himself at Steve, suddenly furious.

“You little-“ He balls up a fist and hits Steve square in the jaw, hard, easily able to overpower the much smaller boy. Steve puts up a decent fight for someone his size, though, landing at least one decent hit to James’ nose and trying to shove his weight off of him. The other two boys jeer and laugh as James’ pummels little Steve, landing a blow to his temple that disorientates him. There are other children, and even teachers, in the background of the scene, but no one seems the least bit bothered by the scene – no one seems to care that Steve is being beaten by a much bigger boy.

That is, until another boy runs onto the scene. He’s naturally bigger than Steve, but still smaller than the other boys who are likely a few years older, and he looks half feral with dirt on his face and his clothes full of holes. His brown hair is unruly like he hasn’t seen a hairbrush in months, and his big blue eyes are full of rage as he strides purposefully over to where Steve is sprawled underneath his assailant.

Little Steve blinks in confusion when the weight of his attacker is suddenly shoved off of him, as the new boy runs over and throws his own weight at James. The two boys go flying across the playground, rolling in the gravel and dust as Steve coughs helplessly, trying to get his lungs back under control.

“Pick on someone your own size!” The new boy growls, kneeing James in the balls and making him howl out in pain.

Above Steve, Jimmy and Walter seem unsure of how to react to this whirlwind of mussed brunette hair and pointy elbows, but regain their senses when Steve tries to push himself to his feet. Walter shoves him back down, delivering a sharp kick to Steve’s ribs for good measure that has Steve’s lungs contracting desperately as he gasps for breath. Neither of them seems to notice that the new boy has pulled himself off of James and is now standing right behind Walter and Jimmy. He swings his battered old satchel round with violent force, catching Walter directly in the back of the head and shocking him so badly he lands directly on his face in the gravel beside Steve. The new boy laughs delightedly, swinging his now even more battered satchel back over his shoulder and grinning at Steve.

“You’re crazy!” Jimmy stutters, shaking his head as the boy rounds on him next.

“You’ve got no idea, pal,” He says, shooting Jimmy a feral grin that makes the bully step back nervously. Jimmy hauls a dazed Walter up from the gravel, and together with a shaky looking James, they run from the playground, looking back anxiously over their shoulders to check the boy isn’t following them.

“Thanks,” Steve says when he gets his breath back once again, “But I had ‘em on the ropes.”

“Sure you did,” the boy says good-naturedly, giving Steve a lopsided smile, but for once Steve doesn’t feel like he’s being mocked.

“I’m Steve,” His younger self tells his saviour, accepting the hand which hauls him up off the ground and brushing down the worn pants of his school uniform.

“I know,” The boy says happily, “Scrawny Steve.”

The boy’s smile immediately drops and he blushes as he realises what he’s said.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean- it ain’t right that they call you names.”

Steve shrugs it off, knowing there was no malice behind his words, and sticks a small hand out as the other boy introduces himself.

“I’m James,” he says, and Steve sees his younger self frown slightly, fixing his gaze on the retreating forms of Walter, James, and Jimmy – also called James, most likely – across the playground. This James follows his gaze and winces.

“Yeah, I know. Don’t hold it against me.” The two share a conspiratorial smile and begin making their way out of the playground, both heading in the same direction.

“I’ll give you a nickname,” Steve declares as they reach the end of the street, “Do you have a middle name?”

James looks a little embarrassed and hesitates before saying;

“Buchanan. James Buchanan Barnes.”

“James Buchanan,” Steve repeats incredulously, “Like the president?”

James merely shrugs, kicking at the dirt with the toes of his school shoes.

“I’m not calling you Buchanan,” Steve muses, and James looks relieved, “I’ll call you Bucky.”

Little Bucky beams wide, and next to him, adult Bucky is smiling just as happily. The memory slows to a stop, but Steve remembers what happened next – finding out they both lived down the street from each other in Red Hook and deciding to race each other home. Steve had to stop every few streets, his tired lungs unable to keep up, but Bucky had slowed each time and waited for him, without mocking him or making a big deal about it. In turn, he’d picked Bucky up and let him lean on him all the way home when Bucky had tripped and badly skinned his knee, pretending not to see the tears in his new friend's eyes so as not to embarrass him.

Steve remembers, vividly, realising that his mother had been right when she had held him at night and told him this state – of being laughed at, bullied, of not having any friends – wouldn’t last forever. That there was someone out there who would see him; his big heart, his kind soul, his humour and intelligence, and not just a sickly, skinny child. Steve remembers, clearly now, thinking: Ma, I’ve found my person. It chokes him up, but he lets JARVIS load up the next memory anyway, not wanting to stop now they’ve gotten started.

It’s really working, Steve thinks joyously, squeezing Bucky’s hand tightly in his own as memories of their early childhood flood back to him, foggy but undeniably present, It’s all coming back.

Chapter Text

As the new scene forms, the hard planes of the playground floor dissolve into the soft strands of a well-worn beige carpet, littered with small wood-carved children’s toys. The archway which formed the school's entrance contracts into the bright bay window of the Barnes' home, and the iron bars of the school fence bend like origami to become the lines separating the window panes. Slowly, the chalk outline of hopscotch rises up from the ground and forms the shape of a soft, overused couch in the centre of it all. Steve recognises Bucky’s living room, but the people within – Steve and his mother, Bucky and his sisters Becca and Daisy, Bucky’s parents and grandparents, and a few other’s Steve doesn’t recognise – seem to be dolled up in their Sunday best, looking out of place in the shabby room.

“This was just after Hope’s christening,” Bucky explains from beside him, and then adds, “My youngest sister.”

He should probably tell Bucky that he already knew his sisters name – that his memories have slowly started to trickle back to him from behind that dark mental curtain – but for now he is just content to watch. He doesn’t remember this, after all.

It’s difficult to judge their ages by looking at his younger self, since Steve always looked far younger and smaller than his real age before the serum, but Bucky looks to be roughly 12. Looking at Becca –around 7 or 8 and drowning in one of her mother’s cardigans - and tiny Daisy – barely 2 and toddling happily behind her sister – seems to corroborate this estimate. Steve’s Ma is helping Bucky’s lay out a selection of homemade snacks as they giggle to each other like schoolgirls, although Steve can’t pick up what they’re talking about. They look happy, though, and Steve feels warm as he thinks about how both of their mothers found lifelong best friends in each other, just as Bucky and Steve had, all put into motion by that fateful meeting in the playground.

Steve feels cold as he looks at Bucky’s father, though he isn’t sure why – the memories he can grasp onto show him to be a distant but polite man, and a decent father – though perhaps there is something in the wealth of memories Steve has not managed to claw back yet that explains his feeling. Looking at Bucky from the corner of his eye, he sees a similar hard look in his gaze, and his jaw is clenched tightly as he bites the inside of his cheek. Clearly there was more to George Barnes than Steve can recall right now.

The adults are gathered in the small dining room area, and Becca is playing with Daisy in the kitchen, sparring with wooden spoons like swords until George snaps at them to stop. But Bucky and Steve have separated themselves from the rest, sitting side by side on the couch and ignoring the world around them. In Bucky’s lithe arms is a small bundle of yellow fabric that the both of them are cooing at gently as Steve leans over it, forehead almost resting on Bucky’s with how close they're sitting. Suddenly, a tiny, chubby pink hand darts up from the bundle and grasps Steve’s crooked nose tightly. He lets out a noise of shock as Bucky throws his head back and laughs, the action shaking Hope's tiny body and making her grip harder onto Steve’s nose. When she lets go, Bucky shifts her in his arms so he’s holding her out slightly towards Steve.

“Do you want to hold her?” He asks, smiling warmly at his friend, who flails his hands around the baby for a few seconds, looking anxious.

“I’ll drop her,” Steve says nervously, but reaches out for the girl nonetheless, trusting that Bucky would never put Hope in harm’s way if he really thought that Steve was too clumsy.

“My Ma dropped me on the head all the time as a baby, and it never did me any harm,” young Bucky tells him confidently, and young Steve fixes him a look that says are you sure about that? as he shifts his grip on Hope, making sure to support her head.

“She’s got eyes like yours,” Young Steve gasps, awed as those big baby blues gaze up at him curiously, and then says to her in a sing-song voice; “Aren’t you the prettiest thing with your pretty blue eyes?”

The Bucky in the Memory Suite and the Bucky in the memory both blush adorably, a habit not even HYDRA could break.

There’s a large bang and laughter from the kitchen as someone knocks something off the table, and Hope’s eyes scrunch up as a frown sets over her chubby face. Steve sets about shushing her, rocking her gently before she can start to cry.

“Hey, don’t be scared,” He says to her in a quiet, lilting voice, “You’ve got the best big brother in the world, and he’s always gonna protect you.”

“Two big brothers,” Bucky’s younger self interjects quietly, and young Steve positively beams at him, looking down at little Hope with awe.

“Two big brothers,” He repeats, and rocks her a little more slowly, “And we’re gonna make sure nothing ever happens to you, and that you’re always safe and happy and loved.”

Young Steve’s eyes remain fixed on her face, but young Bucky only has eyes for him, staring at the side of Steve’s slim face with a soft expression as the grown-up Bucky and Steve watch silently. Steve feels a little choked up as he watches himself and Bucky play with Hope, while a hyperactive Becca and Daisy run around behind them and their mothers laugh together in the kitchen. I always wanted a big family, Steve thinks, turns out I already had one. He's lost in his thoughts until present day Bucky speaks suddenly.

“I think this was when I first realised I was in love with you,” Bucky says matter-of-factly, like he’s relaying information about the weather or something equally banal. Steve snaps his head round to stare at him in shock, but Bucky keeps his eyes forward, staring at their younger selves with a small, sad smile.

“You-“ Steve starts, but around them, the scene is already shifting to the next memory.

Little Bucky, Steve and Hope and the couch they were sitting on all dissolve into bright white light that hovers for a moment before forming a long, rectangular shape – a bed. The walls of the Barnes’ living room close in on Steve and Bucky, forming a much smaller, shabbier looking bedroom with newspaper on the windows where curtains should be and peeling paint on the walls. The carpet dissipates to reveal splintering hard wood floorboards, and Steve can almost feel the cold seeping in, the simulation is so realistic. The light of the projection swirls and murmurs like a flock of starlings until two shapes become solid; one lying prone in the bed, and the other kneeling beside it.

The Steve in the bed looks half dead, but he must have been awake, considering the fact that JARVIS was able to pull this memory from his head. Bucky is kneeling on the floor beside him, one hand clutching Steve’s sweaty palm while the other holds Steve’s Ma’s rosary beads.

Seeing Bucky in the middle of praying the rosary almost shocks Steve more than seeing how close his younger self looks to death. Bucky’s father had lost his faith upon returning home from the Great War injured and shell-shocked; having seen his brothers in arms, and his literal brother, die in agony. The family still went through the motions necessary to keep them from being social pariahs in their Irish Catholic neighbourhood, like christening their children, but George refused to let Winnifred or the children regularly visit church, despite Winnifred’s fear for their souls. Bucky had little knowledge of god or the bible aside from what they were forced to recite at school, and was regularly told by classmates that he was going to hell. In all honesty, a young Steve had feared for his friend’s soul too, and had said an extra prayer for Bucky every night before his mother’s death and the beginnings of his own creeping doubts about god. But it had never seemed to bother Bucky. If anything he was happy not to have to sit through the tedious Church services that Steve described to him, though he did like when Steve did dramatic retellings of the most gory bible stories for him. Bucky must have picked up the words to pray the rosary from years of watching Sarah pray over Steve, or even watching Steve pray over Sarah towards the end. He gets a few lines wrong in the Apostles’ Creed and miscounts how many Hail Mary’s are necessary, but he does a remarkable job for an atheist.

They’re in their own apartment, so it must be at least 1934. They – or Bucky, at least – look a little older than 17, though, so Steve would place the memory at around 1936 – and judging by the number of blankets covering him and the fact that Bucky is sitting indoors in his thickest coat, it’s winter. Steve thinks he might remember this particular illness, now, though he doesn’t remember this scene or Bucky praying over him – he was completely out of it during this period of sickness, feverish and hallucinating, but the cogent part of his brain must have been watching Bucky while the rest of him couldn’t. It lets Steve know how close to death he really was, though – he’d been in some rough spots before but never once has Bucky prayed for him, even as he sat beside Sarah who would pray for hours on end until her throat was hoarse. For him to turn to a force he didn’t even believe in – it really must have been his last hope. Outside their tiny apartment the sun is rising, and as the light floods in through the newspaper covered windows to illuminate the simulation, Steve can see the tears streaking Bucky’s young face.

“B-Buck…”

His own, hoarse voice shakes Steve and the praying Bucky out of their reverie, so much so that Bucky drops the rosary beads as his head snaps up. He doesn’t seem to notice, though, scrambling to his feet and helping Steve sit up as he coughs painfully.

“Hey, hey, you’re alright,” Bucky soothes, and reaches for the glass of water by Steve’s bedside once he’s finished adjusting his pillows.

“Did you s-sleep on the couch?” Steve rasps after a few desperate sips, blinking back into full consciousness, “I-I’ll go sleep there, you need to get some rest in a p-proper bed…”

He trails off as Bucky tuts and shakes his head, manhandling Steve back into a horizontal position.

“No, Stevie, you need to get some rest. Don’t you worry about me.”

He fusses over Steve some more, adjusting the pillows and blankets around him, as Steve wheezes through the pain in his chest and tries to stay awake. Steve wonders if Bucky even realised all the ways in which he was mimicking Sarah’s mannerisms and habits after years of watching her care for Steve. Although Bucky tried to stay strong for Steve, her death hit both of them hard – ever since the two boys met, Bucky and Steve’s families had intertwined, and Steve knows that she thought of Bucky as her second son. A lot of the pain of her loss fell on Bucky, as did the responsibility of caring for Steve throughout his many illnesses and injuries. They fought bitterly over it – Steve wanted to be independent and felt he was strong enough to care for himself, and didn’t want to be a burden on Bucky who already had three little sisters to help care for. But Bucky was resolute and never backed down. He never made Steve feel like a burden or a leech; though he couldn’t convince Steve he wasn’t one of those things either. He never cared for Steve out of a sense of pity, or even obligation to his departed mother – he just wanted Steve to be well, happy and strong, and would do whatever it took to get him there. 

Steve thinks back to Bucky's confession at the end of the last memory, and looks at the fire in young Bucky's eyes which burns not with fraternal affection but with utter and total devotion, and thinks: I'm a fucking idiot. How did I never notice? 

“One more night Stevie, just keep breathing for me for one more night,” Bucky begs him gently as he wipes at Steve’s sweaty brow with a damp cloth, “And then I’m getting you some of that new Prontosil stuff and you’ll be back on your feet in no time.”

Beneath the blankets, Steve coughs and frowns, blinking a few times as he processes Bucky’s promise.

“N-no, Buck, that’s too expensive, w-we don’t h-have-“

“I already ordered it, pal. Mr. Rubin’s getting it in tomorrow. I took care of it,” Bucky shushes him, abandoning the wet cloth and running his fingers through Steve’s hair soothingly instead. Beside him in B.A.R.F., Bucky looks strangely uncomfortable, but Steve can’t figure out exactly why. In the simulation there is a moment of silence where Steve relaxes into Bucky’s ministrations, but something still seems to be gnawing at him.

“W-were you praying?” his younger self asks, gesturing lazily to where the rosary is still on the floor. Bucky snatches it up quickly, either not wanting to appear disrespectful or simply embarrassed at being caught out.

“Figured I might as well give it a go,” Bucky tells him in a shaky voice that is failing at appearing nonchalant, “Not sure if you’ve noticed, but you’re not looking so hot, pal.”

“What, am I g-gonna die?” Steve says, aiming for a joke to lighten the mood. It fails spectacularly. There is a moment of terrible, awful silence, before Bucky starts crying again. He’s clearly trying to hide it from Steve, and is able to keep mostly silent as he turns his face away, trying to stop tears dripping down his cheeks.

“Father O’Donnell wanted to read you last rites after the doctor came and diagnosed pneumonia,” Bucky tells him honestly, choking out the words through the lump in his throat, “But I’ve seen you kick worse than this.”

It’s a lie. Steve hadn’t known at the time – every new illness felt like the worst he had ever felt, or the sickest he had ever been, although this had felt particularly brutal. But looking at himself now, frail and wheezing out pained breathes under a stack of blankets that outnumbered what they owned and must have been donated by the neighbours and Winnifred, he looks to be on the very edge of death. To see Bucky cry openly in front of him, and even pray, should have tipped him off.

“Y-yeah,” His younger self agrees, oblivious to the fragility of his own mortality in this moment, “I’m gonna k-kick this things ass. I’ll show Father O’D-donnell…”

He trails off, eye fluttering closed as he drifts back into unconsciousness, unable to cling to the edges of the waking world. Bucky snorts out an affectionate laugh at his stubbornness, and folds his arms across the bed by Steve’s body. He lays his face down over his arms so his forehead is pressed into Steve’s torso, rising and falling with each of Steve’s strained, painful breaths.

“You’re tough as nails, Rogers,” Bucky mumbles reverently, turning his head so he can look at Steve from beneath his eyelashes, “You don’t need me.”

Steve wills his younger self to protest, bursting to tell Bucky how much he has always, always needed him, even in perfect health, but he has already fallen asleep, and the memory draws to a close.

Chapter Text

As the scene begins to shift, the younger versions of Bucky and Steve dissipate into white light where they are lying on the bed, and the entire bed follows shortly afterward, sinking into the ground. This time, the walls don’t expand or contract to form another room, but separate out into long, thin planks that surround where Bucky and Steve stand in the Memory Suite. Slowly, the planks grow upwards, and increasingly delicate branches push themselves outwards, forming a forest scene. The soft morning light of their bedroom darkens into a starry night sky, lit by the moon but still so black that he can barely see where Bucky stands next to him in B.A.R.F. He can barely see where Bucky is standing in the memory, too, the dark green of his tattered uniform blending into the forest scene that is forming around him. The dark wood floorboards of their Brooklyn apartment splinter into bark and logs, interspersed in a thick mud that seeps up through the ground. There is a small barn and an even smaller farmhouse in the distance, and Steve is suddenly able to locate this memory in space and time:

This is the first night after he rescued the prisoners from Azzano.

Once he has identified that, other details from the beginnings of his time in Europe come flooding back to him. He remembers his excitement on the boat there, thinking about how he was going to find Bucky and surprise him with his new body. He remembers his disappointment when it became obvious that despite Erskine’s intentions, he wasn’t actually going to be a soldier – just a dancing monkey selling war bonds. He remembers the gut-wrenching agony of Colonel Phillips saying “I’m sorry, son” when he asked whether Bucky was on the casualty list after the Battle of Azzano, and the tiny twinge of hope that sparked in his soul when he learnt that they had never discovered a body. In all honesty, Steve probably would never have broken free of his USO circuit had Bucky not been taken – there is little else in the world that could have made him defy orders and throw himself out of a plane over enemy territory. But the slightest chance that Bucky was alive was worth investigating. He wonders absently what would have happened if he had never rescued the 107^th from Azzano – would Bucky have died on the table? Or had the serum already successfully taken hold – would he have become the Winter Soldier anyway, just a few years earlier and with both arms intact?

Did Steve just delay the inevitable?

Steve remembers, now, the first few moments after their escape, clinging desperately to each other – half to prop a weak and injured Bucky up, and half to get physical confirmation that they were both alive after how close they had come to losing each other. He had been staring at Bucky as they had stepped out into the night, illuminated by the glow of the moon and the fire that still burned in the factory they had just escaped from, awed by how blue his eyes appeared to Steve now his colour blindness had been cured. Bucky had been staring right back, unsure how to process Steve’s transformation, drinking in every inch of Steve’s new body with an indecipherable expression on his face. He had pressed his hand against Steve’s chest and quickly pulled back just as Peggy had, as if they both had to check whether their palm would meet flesh or whether it would pass through Steve like a mirage.

The moment had been broken when Bucky’s cellmates - the men who would later become the Howlies – had spotted them and come running with such speed that Steve had squared up and prepared to put himself between Bucky and another possible threat. But Bucky had broken into a beaming smile when he’d seen them coming, so Steve had eased up and let them pass. Dugan had thrown himself at Bucky so forcefully that he would have knocked them both into the dirt had Steve not put his hands out to prop the two men up. Dugan had bundled Bucky up in his huge arms and hadn’t let go when the others had reached them, forcing Gabe, and then the rest, to just pile on until Steve could barely see the top of Bucky’s head in the middle of the bear hug.

“We thought you were dead, asshole,” Gabe had gritted out, and if tears were shed between the men, everyone pretended not to notice.

“Guys, this is my buddy Steve from Brooklyn,” Bucky had said proudly when they had finally let him go, “Steve, these are my boys Gabe and Dugan from the 107^th. And the poor fucks that have been cooped up with us in a cage for the last few months; Monty, 3rd Parachute Brigade of the British Army, Dernier, French Resistance, and Morita, US Nisei Squadron.”

“That’s Steve?” Gabe had asked incredulously, taking in Steve’s size and stature, evidently not matching up with the tiny, sickly boy their Sergeant would never shut up about. It had made Steve feel warm to know that Bucky had told his boys all about Steve, in the same way men would tell their fellow soldiers about the girl waiting for them back home.

“Sarge, that’s Captain America,” Morita had said gently, looking at Bucky concernedly as if he’d left his brain on Zola’s table. And Bucky had done a double take at the words like he was noticing Steve’s outfit for the first time – perhaps he was, as out of it as he had been since being strapped down in the lab.

“Huh,” Bucky had said simply, shooting Steve that lopsided smile that he had missed so much in the months they had been apart, “I guess it is.”

It was a long march back from the Austrian HYDRA weapons facility the prisoners had been kept in to Colonel Phillips Italian camp, where the remainder of the 107^th were recovering. Almost all of the men were half-starved and wounded, and had they not come across a small farmhouse owned by an Austrian Jewish family, they likely wouldn’t have made it. The kindly old couple and their children had managed to evade the attention of the Nazis, deep in the forest and hidden from view as they were, but they wouldn’t be able to for much longer. They took pity on the soldiers and fed them from their own limited resources, treating what wounds they could and opening up their home and barn for the soldiers to get some rest. In return, the soldiers allowed them to join the march into Italy and take refuge in Phillips camp behind enemy lines until they could secure passage to Britain or America. Shortly after reuniting the two halves of the 107^th, Steve and the prisoners had travelled to London where he was given permission to form the Howling Commandos, and the family had joined them on the boat, eventually settling in the south of England. All except their eldest son, who was stubbornly adamant that he was going to remain in mainland Europe and fight the Nazi’s who had driven them from their home at all costs. They never learnt what became of him. 

Steve had shut down Bucky's insistence that he was fine and could take a shift on watch, and had sent him to the barn to finally get some sleep - out of all the men, Bucky was one of the most badly injured and starved, and he needed to rest and heal despite his protests. But Bucky had slipped out into the forest behind the barn almost immediately, after making sure the rest of his men had been cared for and put to bed. From where he was posted on watch with some of the other men who weren't quite as badly injured, Steve had seen him trying to sneak away, and had shared a look with Monty across the campfire.

“Go,” Monty had told him, promising he was capable of taking over Steve’s role on watch, “I think he needs a friend right now. No one ever came back from that table before.”

Steve hadn’t needed telling twice, heading for the tree line as quickly as possible.

That was where this memory begins, Steve realises, watching as his younger self cautiously approaches Bucky, who is lighting a cigarette stolen from a HYDRA guard’s body on their way out of the factory.

“I just need a minute,” Bucky mumbles when he hears Steve's footsteps, turning so his back is to Steve and he doesn’t have to meet his eye. He holds his cigarette as far away from Steve as possible, and blows the smoke out in the direction of the prevailing wind that will carry it away from Steve’s lungs, ever conscious of his asthma.

“You don’t really need to do that anymore,” Steve tells him proudly when he notices the old habit, “My lungs are all clear now.”

Rather than looking happy for him, Bucky looks distraught and doesn’t respond, continuing to avoid Steve’s eye as he takes another drag.

“Buck, are you okay?” Steve asks as gently as possible, meaning how badly did they hurt you but also why are you wandering into enemy territory alone in the middle of the night when you should be resting and why won’t you look at me?

Bucky finally turns to face him, observing him silently for a moment before repeating the question in a bland voice with absolutely no emotion on his face.

“Am I okay.”

“Um,” Steve starts eloquently, not quite sure what he’s doing wrong here - perhaps it was a stupid question, given the fact that they're in a war zone and he has just pulled Bucky out of a torture chamber, but he feels like there's more going on in Bucky's head than just that. Finally, it feels like the tension that has been building in Bucky since they left the factory finally breaks, and he explodes in a fit of rage.

“I asked you not to do anything stupid, Rogers!” He snaps, “When I was going off to die. That was my fucking… last request. My last will and testament, or something. Just don’t do anything stupid.”

Steve opens his mouth to defend himself, but Bucky cuts him off sharply, not tolerating any backchat today as he drops his cigarette butt and stamps it into the dirt.

“No. While you’ve been dancing in your shows and starring in your god damn comic books pretending to be a soldier, we’ve been at war. I’ve lost men, young boys, that I was responsible for. I’ve found the bodies of children in the streets. I’ve seen men get their limbs blown off and bleed out, begging me to help them but I can’t. I lost my-“

He cuts himself off, suddenly too choked up to carry on. Neither the Steve in the Memory Suite nor the Steve in the memory can bring themselves to get angry over Bucky’s description of his shows and comic books – it’s accurate, after all, and his wasted potential had eaten away at Steve. Bucky takes a few deep breaths and wills away tears until he can speak again.

“The only thing that got me through this hell was the knowledge that you were safe and sound in Brooklyn. You were gonna watch my sisters grow up when I couldn’t. You were gonna take care of my Ma in her old age. You were gonna be happy, and be a famous artist, and marry a beautiful woman who really saw you for who you were and have cute little kids and name one of them James,” Bucky tells him, anger building with each word.

“I didn’t ever think I was coming back from here, Steve. I never wanted to fight. I’m not a soldier. But I was content knowing that even if I died, you were gonna live a good, long life - that you had fucking listened to me for once in your goddamn life,” He draws in a long, shuddering breath, and Steve can see it linger in the cold Austrian night air when he blows it out, “And you immediately. IMMEDIATELY. Let a scientist do experiments on you-“

“Bucky,” Steve is saying pleadingly, trying to get him to lower his voice – they’re still in enemy territory, after all, but Bucky isn’t having any of it.

“-experiments that could have killed you, and then you throw yourself into a war that you haven’t been trained for, that you’ve got no business being in-“

“Bucky, please-“

“- go behind enemy lines like you think you’re indestructible, like goddamn Superman, and how did you even get that far into enemy territory-“

“I jumped out of a plane,” Steve tells him honestly, and that stops Bucky mid-rant for a few precious seconds.

“Well, how didn’t the guards see the parachute?” Bucky demands angrily, and as per usual, Steve doesn’t think before he speaks.

“Because I didn’t use one.”

Bucky simply stares at him for a long moment, like Steve is the stupidest person he has ever encountered, and then he swings.

It’s a powerful left hook for someone who has been starved, tortured and tied to a table for 5 days, but even at his full strength, Bucky couldn’t hurt Steve now. And deep down, Steve knows he doesn’t really want to. The blow hits him in the cheek, barely even making Steve stumble, and undoubtedly hurting Bucky more than it hurts Steve, although Bucky doesn't make a sound.

“You fucking-“ Bucky starts, then promptly bursts into tears - Steve visibly panics, eyes going wide and hands flailing for a second with shock and dismay. He regains his wits just as Bucky sinks to his knees on the forest floor. Steve sinks right down next to him, uncaring of the thick mud they’re sitting in, and hesitantly wraps his arms around Bucky’s shoulders, expecting to be hit again. To his surprise, Bucky not only lets him, but actively leans into Steve, seeking out his touch.

“I’m so sorry, Buck,” Steve says gently, still not entirely sure what is going on with Bucky right now.

“You can’t do that,” Bucky whines miserably, sounding so young and lost that Steve wants to kick his own ass for scaring him, “I don’t- I can’t lose you. I can’t watch you die out here, please.”

“And I can? You expect me to hear that you’ve been captured and just sit on my ass and let them kill you?” Steve snaps, some of the anger that he’s been trying to hide due to Bucky’s fragile state slipping through.

“Yes,” Bucky cries resolutely, throwing his arms up in the air in frustration, “That’s exactly what you should have done! You’re more important, Stevie.”

“You’re the most important thing in the world to me, Buck,” He says, wiping softly at the tears on Bucky’s cheeks, still unsure of his own strength, “So I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree on that.”

Bucky wraps his arms tightly around himself and sniffles, trying to slow the flood of tears as they sit in the cold mud of the Austrian forest. Steve strokes his back soothingly and gives him a minute to breathe before he tries to make Bucky see the good side of his transformation.

“But hey, I’m healthy now. I can hear properly, I can see colour. My lungs feel clear, my spine’s straight. I can walk and run and all the things I never could do before,” He tells Bucky proudly, desperately wanting to put the smile he hasn’t seen in months back on his friend’s face, “Stark says it’s literally impossible for me to get sick now, too.”

“Stark? Howard Stark, like Stark Expo Stark?” Bucky asks him, sniffling a little more and looking thoroughly miserable, and Steve nods, remembering their last night before Bucky had gone to war.

“That’s great, Stevie,” Bucky adds, but looks like he doesn’t believe a word he’s saying. Steve can only frown, knowing that something is still wrong but not really sure what to say to get through to Bucky. Buck lets him pull them both off the ground and doesn’t protest as Steve slings an arm around his shoulders and leads them back to camp, dropping the physical contact just before they get in range of their fellow soldiers.

In the Memory Suite, Steve is frowning too. He remembers that Bucky had been testy about his transformation for weeks, until well into Howling Commando operations, when he finally seemed to reach a level of acceptance – or at least stopped being so obvious about his displeasure. At the time, Steve had thought that Bucky was (quite rightly) still angry that he had let a stranger do dangerous experiments on him. But watching Bucky’s face in the memory with 70 years of separation between him and the events being played, Steve thinks maybe there was something more going on.

As the memory begins to break down, Steve turns to Bucky who seems to be able to tell what he is thinking, as he explains without prompting.

“It’s dumb,” Bucky starts, finally dropping their clasped hands and rubbing his metal hand against the back of his neck, embarrassed.

“You were always… there were so many reasons why I wanted to be your friend. You were smart and funny and kind and you had a good soul, like your Ma always said, and you always, always did the right thing, no matter what, even if you got the shit kicked out of you for it,” He says with a nostalgic little smile on his face, “But I wasn’t any of those things. I wasn’t good or smart. I could be an asshole, I never finished school, and I didn’t have any prospects before the war. I- I’ve done terrible things, Steve. Before HYDRA ever got to me.”

“The only thing I had to offer you was that you were sick a lot, and after your Ma passed someone needed to take care of you – no don’t say it, you couldn’t have done it by yourself – and pay some bills until you got back on your feet,” He continues, and Steve wants to reach out and shake him for thinking like that, “And if you couldn’t get sick anymore – well why would you need me?”

“Why would I-“ Steve begins, flummoxed by how very wrong Bucky is, “Buck, I needed you – need you – more than anything. You’re my best friend. You’re my family. I didn’t need something from you, I needed you. Tell me you know that.”

“I knew – I knew you cared about me, but… I thought you only really stuck with me because I was the only person who could see past all the sickness and see what was really on the inside – but then you got the serum and the outside matched the inside. And everyone could see that you were strong, and good, and a hero,” Bucky says, kicking his foot through the simulation of bark and leaves beneath their feet and meeting the white tile floor it masks, “You were gonna get better offers than me.”

“You’re right,” Steve says, suddenly furious, and Bucky looks up at him in shock, “That is fucking dumb.”

“There are no better offers than you, Buck. I didn’t jump out of a plane behind enemy lines for Howard, or Peggy, or Dugan, or Gabe. I did that for you. For the tiniest, most minuscule chance that you were still alive. You’re everything to me.” Steve tells him, getting a little choked up and raging silently at everyone who has ever made Bucky feel anything less than perfect.

“You’re good, and kind, and funny, and smart. You were the best big brother in the world to those girls, and the best son to your Ma. My Ma loved you like another son and you know Sarah Rogers didn’t suffer fools. I don’t give a shit what you’ve done, because I know you never would have done anything wrong unless there was no other choice, and you can’t blame yourself for that,” Steve continues, rage subsiding into sadness. Bucky looks at him with something like hope in his eyes – he doesn’t quite look like he believes Steve, but he might be getting there.

“I’m always gonna need you,” Steve repeats, “You’re everything to me.”

Bucky blushes slightly as Steve cups his face in one large hand and brushes his thumb gently against his cheek. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but closes it again when he notices the scene around them shifting.

“I-I want you to watch one last one.”

As if JARVIS was waiting for Bucky's confirmation, the simulation reforms once again. The mud of the forest floor hardens and levels out until it is a polished grey steel beneath their feet, and the trees that surrounded them in the Austrian forest seem to turn to liquid, flowing into each other then rising up and over their heads, forming a canopy of smooth wood that blots out the moon. Just as they are plunged into darkness, surrounded on all sides by the smooth, continuous surface that the trees have become, a white fluorescent light comes on. As Steve blinks against the sudden brightness, he sees that they are now standing in the back of the quinjet. Five comfortable seats rise up from the floor of the jet, and the white light swirls around them, leaving five figures in its wake; Clint, Sam, Natasha, Wanda, and Steve.

Natasha’s blonde hair and Steve and Sam’s beards tell him that this is after the disaster of the Accords. The bright smile and barely concealed excitement on Steve’s face tells him that they are not on the way to a mission, but are coming back from a mission – and heading to Wakanda to see Bucky again.

“You look like my 5-year-old nephew on Christmas morning, man,” Sam tells him, shaking his head but smiling affectionately at Steve from his own seat, “If you ask me if we’re nearly there yet you’re gonna get smacked.”

Steve can only grin at him, humming a tune he’d heard on the radio under his breath and leaning excitedly against the window like a puppy as they near Wakandan airspace.

“This level of happiness is a little nauseating, if I’m being honest,” Clint says as he rolls his eyes, but Steve can hear the affection in his voice and he knows he is as happy as Steve is.

The quinjet briefly lands in a clearing and drops Steve off as the other’s head straight for where T’Challa and Shuri are waiting to greet them in the capital. Steve might be able to convince Bucky to join them all for dinner at the palace, but he’s not up for strangers in his personal space yet, and he doesn’t actually know Steve’s teammates.

All that’s about to change though – hopefully. Steve remembers the long walk from the field up to Bucky’s hut – deceptively small on the outside but full to the brim of high-tech Wakandan devices, colourful fabrics and furniture donated from his kindly neighbours. He remembers what he’d been feeling – excitement, joy, anxiousness, fear – and how his heart had soared when he had seen Bucky in the distance, standing by the edge of the goat pen, petting his favourite girl through the fence in his favourite red and blue shuka. Steve watches as his past self spots Bucky across the field, and how he actually comes to a complete stop, just drinking in the sight of him. He looks healthy – had looked healthier every month that Steve had come to visit, regaining the colour in his cheeks and getting a tan under the Wakandan sun – and happy, chatting animatedly to his goats as if they can understand him. He’s lost a little of his Winter Soldier muscle mass but he looks strong, especially with the new arm Shuri had gifted him this past Christmas despite the Wakandans not celebrating the holiday themselves. Steve had already seen the arm, as he’d spent Christmas right here with Bucky, but it strikes him once again how beautifully designed and crafted it is as he watched his friend care for his animals. His hair is longer now and half tied up, while the rest tumbles down his bare shoulders, the auburn tint appearing almost red under the African sun.

Both Steve’s can see the exact moment Bucky hears his footsteps, from far further away than any regular human would have. His head whips up so fast it scares the goats, and he immediately abandons his task to come meet Steve beside his hut, grinning at him the whole time.

“Hey Buck,” Steve says softly, immediately pulling a willing Bucky into his arms and tucking him against his chest. The new arm is a welcome cooling sensation in the intense heat, and Bucky’s hair smells like coconut and honey. Bucky hugs him back tightly, pressing his face into Steve’s neck so closely that Steve almost misses the muffled “Missed you”.

“Everything go okay with your mission?” Bucky asks as he pulls back, scanning Steve over for injuries in a habit formed in the mid-‘20s, “Everyone alright?”

“Yeah, it went well for once, actually,” Steve laughs, and fidgets nervously with the zipper of his jacket until Bucky slaps his hand away from it affectionately, “Better than well, actually. I, um. I have something to ask you.”

They haven’t even made it inside the hut yet, and Steve is roasting in the heat in the same clothes he had left Ukraine in, but he can’t bring himself to care, too excited to wait any longer.

“Will you…” He takes one last deep breath and spits the words out all at once, “Wouldyoumoveinwithme?”

Bucky looks bemused for a second as he tries to separate the noise Steve made into individual words.

“You- you wanna live here?” Bucky asks, looking confused but happy, “I mean, I love it here, but I thought you were hoping to get these charges overturned and move back to New York…”

Steve stares at him expectantly, smiling wider than he had since the ‘40s until Bucky gets it.

“What- wait, what? Really? You’re a free man?” He throws his flesh arm and his brand new Vibranium arm around Steve’s shoulders, pulling him into a warm hug, “That’s great, Stevie.”

“Not just me,” Steve tells him, practically vibrating with excitement, “Everyone. Tony, Bruce, Natasha and SHIELD kicked ass and got full amnesty for all of us.”

Releasing him from the hug, Bucky shoots him a charming smile, and despite the hair, arm and colourful Wakandan garments, he looks the spitting image of his pre-war self.

“That’s amazing – Clint can see his kids again, Sam can get back to the VA…” He says, seeming genuinely happy for them, but he doesn’t seem to be quite getting what Steve is telling him.

“No, Buck – they granted amnesty for all of us. Us.”

Bucky stares at him in silence for a minute, unsure how to process the news, and then says in a very small voice:

“Me?”

Steve can only nod, tears threatening to break free. He hasn’t felt this happy in as long as he can remember – maybe not since Bucky got drafted.

“But I- they really found me not- I thought-“ Bucky stutters, looking so lost Steve wants to reach through the simulation and hug him, “And you want me to come- to come with you?”

The Steve in the simulation is crying a little bit, and Bucky reaches a hand out reverently to wipe away the stray tear.

“Bucky Barnes,” he says, more confidently now, voice warm and full of joy, “Will you come home to New York with me?”

Bucky’s lost expression breaks into a splitting grin, and he throws himself at Steve, laughing delightedly. Steve catches him with ease, wrapping his arms securely around Bucky’s slim waist as Bucky throws his arms around Steve’s neck once again. Steve spins him around as they laugh together, whooping and drawing the attention of Bucky’s Wakandan neighbours, but the two of them don’t seem to care.

If present-day Steve hadn’t been within hearing range, he probably would have thought that he had just witnessed a proposal –all that was missing was a ring and Steve going down on one knee. In the memory, they’re spinning, and crying a little, and clinging to each other, like two people in -

Like they are -

Like -

“Oh,” Steve says to Bucky as the memory ends and he rips off the glasses, and then they're kissing.

There are a thousand clichés that Steve could use to describe the kiss; he sees fireworks, he feels sparks, it feels like coming home. They’re all true, but at the same time, none of them do the kiss justice. More than anything, it feels like what it is: 100 years in the making. It feels like the dam that Steve had built between them without even realising it - crafted from fear and loss and repression and denial and sheer stupidity – has finally broken, and the wealth of his true feelings for Bucky is washing over him for the first time. Bucky doesn’t hesitate for a second, leaning into Steve and meeting his lips as if he’s been waiting for this for years – he probably has. Steve threads one hand into Bucky’s long hair in a way that he’s always wanted to but never allowed himself to think about, and his other hand holds onto Bucky’s waist, pressed against the warm skin under his t-shirt. Bucky grabs the collar of Steve’s shirt with his flesh hand and lays the metal hand delicately against Steve’s jaw as if he’s scared of hurting him. Steve can feel tears against his cheek, but he isn’t sure if they belong to Bucky, himself, or both of them.

And Steve remembers.  Meeting and learning to love this ferocious, feral child that would follow Steve into whatever kind of trouble he had gotten himself into his time – even when schoolyard fights turned into a war on distant shores. His genuine feelings for Peggy and the chance for a semi-normal, nuclear family life that she represented, but how he could never, ever imagine a future where Bucky was not by his side. The utter, soul-shattering pain of watching Bucky fall and being unable to catch him, and the way it had hollowed Steve out and left him an empty shell for the days leading up to his own fall, and for the years after he woke up until Bucky returned to him. How the sheer impossibility of seeing Bucky, young, alive and whole in front of him nearly 70 years after his death had made Steve think that he was still slowly sinking into the North Atlantic, and the past two years had been a hallucination of his oxygen-deprived mind. How he would have let Bucky kill him, all of them, before he could ever kill Bucky, no matter what he was being accused of.

And then finding him again in Romania, with nothing in his sad apartment except a notebook with desperately scribbled memories and a picture of Steve. Wanting so badly to take Bucky into his arms but knowing (or thinking he knew) how much he’d been hurt before, and not wanting to scare him off. Being prepared to fight and possibly kill his best friends in this century before he’d let them lay a finger on Bucky or take him away from Steve again. Losing him again as he voluntary went back into cryo, but knowing the Bucky that came out would be stronger and more in control of himself, finally able to begin getting his life back – a life that included Steve. Steve had visited Bucky in Wakanda every month without fail, no matter where the fugitive’s missions took them in the world, and was freshly awed by how well he looked and the progress he had made every time.

Bucky moving back into the tower with him had felt like a new beginning. With Bucky close to him and safe, Steve had felt genuinely at ease in this new century for the first time. The crippling loneliness that had haunted him since he rose from the ice had finally dissipated and he could begin to truly live in the 21^st century, not just exist. They are both fundamentally different people now – especially Bucky, after everything he went through and being entirely rewritten – but Steve cherishes the opportunity to relearn Bucky and all the habits and quirks that even HYDRA couldn’t take from him. Coming home to Bucky on the couch wearing his too big stolen hoodie and watching his stupid British sketch shows, knowing that without fail Bucky would beam at Steve when he sat down beside him and tuck his toes under Steve’s warm thigh – this simple joy was everything Steve had been missing, and everything he’d ever wanted, even if he hadn’t realised it in their youth.

He remembers the last few days, too – watching the horrors Bucky had gone through and kept from him in B.A.R.F., and the chilling fear that he was about to lose Bucky again when he slammed the door between them. Being captured by Williams and Tchernev and, oh god, losing Bucky once again as his memories of their life were cruelly ripped away from him. But they’re both here now, with their memories of each other mostly intact, safe and sound and together.

The relief almost brings him to his knees

They melt further into each other, moulding their bodies together until there is no space left between them, and kiss like the world is about to end.

“You’re so fucking dumb,” Bucky tells him when they finally pull back for air, and it’s so unromantic and so very Bucky that Steve laughs hysterically, now certain that the tears belonged to him.

“Well, why didn’t you ever say anything?” Steve asks him incredulously, briefly removing his hand from the back of Bucky’s neck to wipe at his eyes, “I would have…”

“You would have what?” Bucky asks knowingly when Steve trails off, “You would have gotten freaked out, and god, you probably would have felt sorry for me. You would have apologised for not feeling the same. And I don’t think I could have taken that.”

He shakes his head and brings his other hand up from Steve’s collar to rest against his cheek, so he’s cupping Steve’s face gently. He kisses him once more, a subtle press of their lips together without the urgency of their previous kiss, and looks into Steve’s eyes.

“You had to realise for yourself, even if it took 100 years. You had to look past all that ‘we’re like brothers’ crap and see what we could be,” Bucky tells him softly, “To realise that you didn’t have to put our love in the box that everyone else had put it in – no one ever understood us and what we were to each other, not really.”

Steve leans forward and presses their foreheads together as Bucky’s arms wrap around his waist until they stand with their eyes closed, just holding each other.

“I was beginning to think I was wrong, though,” Bucky tells him ruefully, “That maybe it was all in my head and you really didn’t feel the same way.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve tells him honestly, feeling the weight of all the years they could have been together pressing down on his shoulders, “I hope it’s not too late.”

Bucky laughs, a happy, quiet little thing, and there are tears in his eyes now, too.

“I would have waited forever, for you.”

They kiss again and Steve feels like every meeting of his lips with Bucky’s is better than the last. He wants to bare his soul to Bucky, to scream from the rooftops about every little thing he does that makes Steve’s heart soar and threaten to burst with his affection for him – but he settles for saying the words he knows Bucky wants to hear, that he’s tiptoed around for so long.

“I love you, Buck. God, I love you.”

Bucky lets out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob and his smile gets impossibly wider, as though he can barely contain his happiness.

“I love you too, punk,” He replies, looking up to let his sky blue eyes pierce into Steve’s, “I loved you when I didn’t even know myself. Jesus, I missed you.”

Steve isn’t sure if Bucky is referring to the 69 years HYDRA and the Atlantic Ocean kept them apart or the last 24 hours where he had been little more than a stranger to Steve, but it doesn’t really matter now. They’ve found each other, impossibly, fought through aliens and brainwashing and torture and death itself to be right here, crying and clinging to each other in a brand new century.

“Yeah well, you’re stuck with me now,” Steve tells him sincerely, pushing a stray strand of auburn hair behind Bucky’s ear once more, “Because I’m never leaving your side again.”

Chapter Text

By the following January, they have settled into an easy rhythm. Every morning they go to the gym and spar until they’re tired, or until they end up tangled on the mats and have to ask JARVIS to lock the door and pull the blinds. Every evening, they cook something healthy – or at least say they are going to, before ordering take out – and eat in front of the TV, or listening to one of the albums that Sam has insisted will change their lives. The promise Steve had made to himself as they had driven through Brooklyn in search of Tchernev and Williams has come to fruition; they will regularly take strolls through their old home with baseball caps pulled low and sunglasses on, recognising what they can and marvelling at the few businesses that are still running from their childhood. And they’ve been thinking about expanding their little family, too – not kids, neither of them are well adjusted enough to take care of a tiny human, but a pet, maybe. Bucky wants a cat. Steve wants a dog. They will probably end up getting both, despite living in central New York on the 74^th floor of an apartment building.

Bucky still sees his therapists, even stepping up the number of appointments after the trauma of facing Williams and Tchernev and nearly losing Steve. He has added another therapist to his schedule, though: Nadia, who specialises in sexual trauma, a part of his ordeal that he has neglected to mention to any of his other therapists, choosing to ignore the issue rather than face it. He has even convinced Steve to see a therapist, despite Steve’s protests.

“I’m fine,” Steve had told him adamantly, “I haven’t been through anything close to what you’ve been through. I don’t need to see someone.”

That had pissed Bucky off beyond belief.

“Haven’t been through-“ Bucky had stuttered, glaring at Steve, “You nearly died like 50 times before we were 25, and then we went to war. War, Steven. And then I died, and then you died, and we lost everything and everyone we’d ever known. And you woke up in a new world, totally alone, and had to fight aliens, and then I tried to kill you, and disappeared again, and you had to see some truly awful things happen to me and watch me completely break down…”

Bucky had trailed off, but waved his hand for Steve to shut up when he had tried to interject.

“I’m not going to force you to see someone if you don’t want to,” He had said more gently, “But please don’t act like your problems don’t matter just because you weren’t taken by HYDRA. You’ve been through hell and back, Stevie.”

He’d been right, as per usual. Steve should be used to Bucky knowing what he needed even when Steve didn’t by now. So Steve had become the second Avenger to take advantage of the ‘Therapy Floor’, a floor full of comfortable offices and informal spaces that ensured privacy with no cameras, no bugs, and not even JARVIS to listen in. Tony claims he had built it for the use of struggling Stark Industries employees, but Steve knows that construction started the second it was confirmed Bucky would be moving from Wakanda to the tower. Tony will never be able to convince Steve that he’s truly cold-hearted when Steve has seen the softness underneath the metal shell.

With the help of Steve, his therapists, and B.A.R.F., Bucky is slowly but surely filling in the gaps in his memory – although he will likely never regain everything.  Bucky can often be found sprawled on the couch with his 20^th-century history books and notebooks surrounding him, a Vietnam war documentary or something similar playing in the background as he tries to create a timeline, and hit list, for the Winter Soldier. But his intentions feel different, now. Several months ago, Bucky’s obsession with recreating his timeline had been fuelled by a need to remember every bomb he primed, ever bullet he shot, and every life he extinguished, in order to shame himself accurately and drown himself in the appropriate amount of guilt. Now, it feels less self-flagellating. Bucky’s intention is simply to place himself in time and space and retrieve what HYDRA took from him: his knowledge of himself.

Bucky’s frosty, almost non-existent relationships with the rest of the Avengers have thawed, much to Steve’s delight – he had worried that Bucky would trust them even less once he discovered how they had violated his privacy in B.A.R.F., but Bucky had been able to let that go. His friendships had blossomed with almost the whole group, particularly Clint, a fellow sniper whose humour is so reminiscent of Bucky’s own, and Sam, whose willingness to mess with and rib Bucky instead of tiptoeing around him like he was as fragile as glass had delighted Buck. Bucky and Natasha have a strange familiarity with each other than Steve has still not quite figured out – he’s not sure if Bucky even knows why that is, and Natasha has never been forthcoming with information about her past.

Last month, Thor had visited Earth for the first time since Bucky had moved into the tower, and the two had gotten along famously. A little too well, if Steve’s being honest. There’s only room for one muscular bearded blonde in Bucky’s life, and despite being happy to see his friend, he had been secretly relieved when Thor had returned to Asgard.

The biggest surprise had been Bruce. Steve could have counted their interactions on one hand just a few months ago, but they seem to have found a solace in each other that had confused Steve, at first. The Bucky of the 1940s was loud and vivacious and feisty, nothing like the quiet, mild-mannered doctor. But the quiet, traumatised Bucky that exists now is more like Bruce than Steve had realised before he saw them together. They have a surprising amount in common; both experiments born from the serum, both harbouring a second personality inside of them that they constantly fear will take over and cause untold destruction, both so often subdued and lost in memories of the things they have seen and the things they have done. Sometimes Steve finds Bucky curled up in a corner of Bruce’s lab, just watching him,  revelling in the way that Bruce doesn’t feel the need to talk incessantly to fill the comfortable silence, and how he will always answer Bucky’s curious questions about his work without judgement or irritation. Bucky feels confident around Bruce in a way that he doesn’t with almost everyone else – he knows that it would difficult if not impossible for him to seriously hurt Bruce should the Soldier regain control. Similarly, Bruce feels at ease around Bucky – out of all the superhumans in the tower, the ever-efficient Winter Soldier would likely be the most effective at sensing the beginnings of a transformation and getting himself to a safe distance, or at least at weathering the storm. Bucky is the only person that Bruce has divulged the Hulk-proof floor password to – on his absolute worst nights, Bucky can’t calm himself or the Soldier inside of him until he is locked in what is probably the most impervious set of rooms in the world. 

Tony and Bucky’s relationship remains a little cold, but true to his word, Tony had cleared Bucky for combat despite the failed psychiatric test. Bucky now accompanies them on missions as an official Avenger, and Tony acts like he isn’t offended that Bucky still chooses Shuri’s mission uniform over anything he can design. There are stacks of Stark-brand high-tech jackets and suits piling up in the armoury in Bucky’s size, but Bucky has steadfastly rejected them all – Steve thinks it’s probably just to annoy Tony at this point.

Sometimes, Steve will come home from the local VA where he volunteers with Sam or a park bench where he will sit and sketch the new New York, admiring it as it is rather than noting and despising the changes that have occurred since their childhood, and Bucky will not be in the apartment. Now, he doesn’t panic.

He may be at the shooting range with Clint, or subjecting himself to Sam’s music recommendation in the apartment below theirs, or at a coffee shop with Wanda, people watching and chatting in her native Sokovian, lest she get rusty. Bucky had even gone out alone for the first time since coming back to New York, with the exception of his missions – he had only visited the farmers market down the street, but he’d returned with a paper bag full of plums and a smile so wide and proud of himself that Steve had had to immediately drag him to bed.

But theirs is not a fairy story where true love's kiss saves the day and their life is perfect from thereon out.

Bucky still can’t go anywhere without being heavily armed, although he does seem to have reduced the number of knives on his person at any given time, which is a small step in the right direction. Even in their own apartment, Steve is pretty sure he is always within arm’s reach of something to fend off the hypothetical attack Bucky cannot accept is not coming. Steve doesn’t say anything about the guns under their bed or the knife under Bucky’s pillow, even when he wakes up looking down the barrel of a gun or with a blade pressed against his throat.

Although Bucky had slept like a log the first time they had slept in the same bed this century, the peace doesn’t last, and not even Steve’s presence can keep the more intense nightmares at bay. He knows, deep down, that even in the throes of a nightmare and having submitted to the Winter Soldier’s programming, Bucky could never actually hurt him – although it frustrates Bucky to no end that he believes that when Bucky himself is adamant that he could kill Steve accidentally if they’re not careful. Steve’s room has become ‘their’ bedroom, though Bucky still keeps fresh linens on the bed in his old room for particularly bad days when he doesn’t trust himself to sleep next to Steve without the Soldier coming between them. He still wakes up screaming more often than not, but his nightmares are getting fewer in number and lesser in intensity as time goes on. 

His relationships with the others aren't perfect either. There are days when he locks himself away for everyone, even Steve, or simply can't get out of bed, let alone accept the team's company. Although Tony has largely come around to Bucky, and Steve suspects they secretly like each other’s company, he knows Bucky can’t look at Tony without seeing Howard – both alive and laughing with them in a Paris bar, and choking on the end of Bucky’s silver arm. And Bucky still flat out refuses to interact with Fury and take orders from SHIELD in any way, going as far as to sit out any missions done on behalf of the organisation and only accepting missions suggested by the Avengers or Wakandans.

The gaps in Bucky’s memory that he simply cannot fill no matter how hard he tries still bring him to tears sometimes, and he is still prone to those terrifying fits of dissociation where he disappears inside his head completely and Steve is scared he will never return.

And, of course, nothing Steve could say could stop Bucky returning to B.A.R.F. – every other Monday, they find themselves there, like clockwork.

Steve remembers the first time they had gone back into B.A.R.F. after Steve had regained his memories. Bucky had fiddled nervously with the glasses that would extract his memories and addressed JARVIS in a way that showed he had already been spending too much time with Sam.

“We good to go, J-Man?”

“Certainly, Sergeant Barnes,” JARVIS replied pleasantly, “As per your request, your previous use parameters have been removed. You may stop the memory projection at any time, and you are free to leave the Memory Suite at will. Once watched, memories will be deleted permanently from the system, and not even Sir can access them before they are removed.”

Bucky had nodded, finally stopping his fidgeting and slipping the glasses on, then reaching down to interlace his fingers with Steve’s.

“I know I said that it’s fine, but – if I don’t lock myself in and make myself watch it… what if I have to turn it off straight away, and I can’t finish it?” Bucky had asked nervously, wrapping his metal arm around himself and turning his face down to gaze at the floor.

“Then you don’t finish it. You’re more important to me than they are. I’m not having you torturing yourself again, not for anything,” Steve had told him resolutely, squeezing his hand tightly.

“But I can’t- we can’t – leave these people out there, walking free-“

“Then we’ll try watching it again. We’ll give it as many shots as it takes. And if we can’t watch it, then we’ll find some other way of finding them,” Steve told him, cupping Bucky’s cheek in his hand and lifting his face up so they were looking at each other, “Hell, we’ll wait for them to die of old age if we have to. We still look 25 and we’re over 100, so we’re probably gonna live a hell of a lot longer than them.”

“You think you look 25?” Bucky had asked cheekily, and Steve had smacked him lightly on the arm in retaliation.

This time is no different. They're a little more at ease with the process now, having visited B.A.R.F. and captured or killed the HYDRA agents revealed from Bucky's memories several times in the last few months. But it's never going to be easy for Bucky - for either of them, really. 

“I think I’m ready,” Bucky says after a few more deep breaths, and signals for JARVIS to start the process. Steve threads their fingers together, and the memory starts.

As the space around them in the Memory Suite seems to twist and shift, solid grey concrete slabs rise up on all sides, plunging them into darkness until a bare industrial bulb flickers and turns on above their heads. The room that has formed is empty other than a small bench screwed into the concrete wall, a toilet, and a dirty looking sink with an even dirtier glass perched on its edge. If the dim light and lack of windows is anything to go by, they are deep underground.  

It’s a prison cell, Steve realises as the firefly-like lights swirl into the shape of Bucky, perched on the bench, silent and stock still as if waiting for further instructions. Looking at the squalid conditions makes Steve utterly furious – he wouldn’t even keep a dog in a room like this. There isn’t even a bed.

It doesn’t look like a regular HYDRA base, but Bucky seems to recognise it anyway.

“Cuba. Early sixties, probably,” He tells Steve in a trembling voice, eyes fixed resolutely on his own face, “I wasn’t there long. They didn’t really have the facilities for something like me, so they put me in the cells.”

“Someone,” Steve corrects gently, hating when Bucky reverts to describing himself with such dehumanising language.

He can tell from the tremor in Bucky’s hands that it’s going to be a bad one. Even his new Vibranium arm shakes when he gets far enough into his panic. But Steve’s right here with him, holding his hand tightly, and his presence soothes the tremors a little as the memory plays on.

Several sets of footsteps can be heard in the corridor outside and they hear the tail end of a conversation as the men reach the doorway of Bucky's small cell.

“… hará lo que le digas,” One man is saying, striding ahead of the others but looking back over his shoulder to speak to them.

“He’s saying, um,” Bucky starts, looking a little ashamed, “He’s saying that I’ll do whatever they tell me.”

Steve swallows down his anger at that and looks at the men gathered before them. They are a mix of ages – some look barely out of their teens, while others are clearly nearing retirement age. The man who walks ahead of them is only in his mid-‘20s, however - surprisingly young for a soldier who seems to be in a leadership position.

“He was my handler on the ground,” Bucky tells him, glaring daggers at the oldest man, “The rest were just Cuban revolutionaries – they had no loyalty to HYDRA. They needed support from the USSR which came packaged with HYDRA, and HYDRA would take any opportunity to interfere during the Cold War. But this guy – he was a true believer.”

The man enters the room and walks up to Bucky with no hesitation, while the others wait nervously in the doorway, unwilling to go near Bucky just yet. They’re scared of him, Steve realises – perhaps they had already seen Bucky on the battlefield. Or perhaps they had heard tales of his malfunctions; those fleeting moments of lucidity where the real Bucky emerged for precious seconds and fought for his life.

“Soldado,” The man says in a heavily accented voice, “Strip.”

Bucky follows the order immediately, without hesitation. Beside him in the Memory Suite, Steve feels Bucky flinch in the way he still does whenever anyone phrases anything too much like an order – like his body reaches automatically to follow the order until he can wrangle it into submission, and remind himself that he doesn’t have to, not anymore.

Not all of the memories they watch in B.A.R.F. are sexual in nature. Some of them are reasonably innocuous – or at least as innocuous as the memories of a brain-washed, tortured slave can be; Bucky being sprayed down with a hose like an animal instead of being allowed to shower, being fed through a tube, or having routine maintenance done on his arm. Sometimes Bucky will allow the people in those memories to go free, having deemed them ignorant or reluctant, instead of being true believers or threats. Other memories are worse – Bucky being beaten with a severity that would have killed an ordinary man for no apparent reason, Bucky malfunctioning and being savagely put down until the Soldier’s obedience returns, Bucky being forced into the chair and wiped or experimented on with no anaesthetic to test the boundaries of his threshold for pain and healing. But many of them are like this – if Steve tries to calculate the number of men and women around the world who raped and abused Bucky over his lifetime in captivity, he will weep.

“¿Lo ves?” The man says smugly as he turns to his surprised comrades, and Steve doesn’t need Bucky to translate that – the I told you so smirk is clear enough.

There’s none of the taunting and monologuing that Rumlow and Williams had subjected Bucky too, this time, only silence as Bucky sets about efficiently following the order. Some of the men look curious, wanting to see how far the Soldier will allow them to go, while others just look frustrated, fiddling with their own belt buckles like they can’t wait for their turn.

Steve is deadly serious about not allowing Bucky to torture himself anymore, and his use of B.A.R.F. has changed accordingly. He still feels the need to watch these memories in order to hunt down the people who wronged him, but he no longer has to do it in the unhealthy way he was – and most importantly, he no longer has to do it alone. For one, Bucky is no longer trapped in the memories, meaning Steve isn’t either when he enters the Memory Suite with him. They can pause and resume the memories at any point, and the door is always unlocked if they want to abandon the whole thing entirely. They watch as little of the memories as possible, too, and JARVIS identifies the perpetrators as they go until there is no one left that they can’t find.

Somewhere deep in the bowels of Stark Towers system, JARVIS is working tirelessly to provide them with the information they need, and the memory stutters and pauses as he gets a hit. The men around them freeze, and a thin red square appears around the profile of one of the younger men.

“Jésus Diaz Rodríguez, born 1940 in Havana, Cuba. Status: Deceased – murdered via gunshot wound to the chest. The case remains unsolved.”

Steve shoots a look at present-day Bucky, but he shakes his head in response. Not one of his, then.

The memory resumes momentarily, and they watch as Bucky efficiently unbuckles the straps of his Winter Soldier uniform, before it shudders to a stop once more. Another red box appears, this time around one of the older men.

“Eduardo Suárez García, born 1917 in Santa Clara, Cuba. Status: Deceased, natural causes – died of old age in 2003.”

The cause of death gives Steve pause – old age. This man was born in the same year as him and Bucky – and he died of old age, years ago. And here they stand, fitter than ever, at age 100. It triggers a bout of the strange feeling that often hits him, that has Bucky holding his hands and whispering soothingly until it has passed: this isn’t our world. We shouldn’t be here. This isn’t real.

He swallows it down and really looks at the man before them. He should only be in his mid-40s, if Steve’s math is correct, but he looks haggard and worn down. It’s startling to see him next to this version of Bucky, who should be the same age but is frozen in the mask of a 30-year old. He feels angry, suddenly, not just at what these men are doing to Bucky but at what has been taken from them, both of them. The life they should have had: growing old together, watching the world recover from the Depression and the War and carving out their own space, Steve as an artist and Bucky as whatever he wanted to be, but always, always by Steve’s side.

There’s still time for all that, though, now they’ve found each other again. They’re going to have their life, and grow old together like they should have – that is, if they can grow old. If you ignore the hair and beard and new arm, the Bucky standing next to him in the Memory Suite doesn’t look any older than the one in the memory, and he was out of the ice and ageing for a lot of the 70 year period that Steve was frozen. Will we age at all? Steve thinks, will we have another 100 years together?

In the memory, the men have shuffled forward to form a semi-circle around Bucky, clearly no longer afraid now Bucky has shown himself to be obedient. JARVIS rattles off a few more profiles as Bucky removes his jacket and the shirt beneath, then starts working on his tightly laced combat boots and thigh holsters. So far, they are all deceased or incarcerated – it seems working with HYDRA isn’t great for life expectancy. By the time Bucky is down to just his cargo pants and working on his belt buckle, JARVIS has identified the ringleader, who looks positively hungry as he watches Bucky strip.

“Osvaldo Álvarez Famosa, born 1941 in Matanzas, Cuba. Status: Alive. Last known address in Arcadia, Los Angeles County, California.”

Normally, this is where they would stop. They have seen enough of the memory to identify the STRIKE agents and determine that they weren’t innocent technicians or forced to work for HYDRA in the same way that Bucky was. They have everything they need to start going after these scumbags, and there’s no need for Bucky to continue subjecting himself to the memory the way he used to. But sometimes, Bucky feels like using B.A.R.F. the way Tony intended it to be used, and judging by the mischievous look on his face, today is one of those days.

The memory stutters and pauses briefly as Bucky squeezes his eyes shut, thinking about how he would have liked this memory to end. When Bucky opens his eyes, smiling wide, it carries on.

Suddenly, there is the sound of an explosion from outside the room, and rapid gunfire quickly follows it. The soldiers surrounding Bucky look up in alarm, reaching for their sidearms, and only look more alarmed when the gunfire abruptly ends and silence falls over the base. They stare in the direction the noise had come from, glancing anxiously between themselves as they slowly edge towards the door, guns raised.

None of them notice when the door on the opposite side of the room swings open and a large red, white and blue shield comes hurtling through it. It knocks them down like bowling pins, and Bucky uses the distraction to pull himself to his feet, reaching out for the nearest soldier and throwing him against the wall. The man bounces off the concrete and lands like a sack of potatoes, unmoving, and Bucky turns to the next target.

Steve appears in the doorway just as the shield bounces off the back wall and returns to him, landing perfectly in his hands, and there is a tense moment where his eyes meet Bucky's. They grow wide, and he opens his mouth as if to call out to him, but the rest of the soldiers are back on their feet.

This scenario never happened, of course, but god how Steve wishes it had. The Steve that Bucky has dreamt up is an amalgamation of different aspects of Steve’s look over the years. He’s got the thick, dark beard he has started growing out when Bucky had arrived in Wakanda, but he’s wearing the uniform Coulson had designed for him in 2012, with his WWII brown leather jacket over the top. Steve aspires to memorise the details of the outfit and commission Tony to recreate it – and to avoid shaving his beard. Clearly, this is how Bucky likes him.

“I really liked that uniform,” He mumbles, blushing deeply when he sees Steve’s curious look.

In the simulation, Steve and Bucky fight seamlessly back to back, taking down the soldiers who dared to lay a finger on Bucky with ease. As they finish off the last HYDRA agent, they stand panting for a second, before Steve turns on his heels and walks over to Bucky slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal.

Bucky is tense, eyes flicking between Steve’s face and his shield with something between fear and recognition in his eyes – and maybe even a little hope. But he lets Steve touch him when he reaches out a cautious hand.

“Do you know me?” Steve asks softly, titling Bucky’s head up slightly with a finger under his chin so their eyes can finally meet.

“How could I forget you, Stevie?” Bucky replies, pulling Steve into a heated kiss that has them both moaning and makes Steve blush from where he’s watching the simulation. Steve shrugs off his vintage leather jacket and places it gently over Bucky’s shoulders where he is still bare-chested, and Bucky tugs it tighter around him and breathes in the long forgotten scent of Steve.

“Let’s go home, baby,” Steve says in a gravelly voice that he doesn’t think he’s ever used, sliding his hands behind Bucky’s thighs and picking him up like he weighs nothing at all. He kisses Bucky once more and carries him to the door as the simulation begins to stutter and fade out. From next to him, Bucky takes the glasses off and untangles himself from the wires, blushing deeply just as Steve is but looking pleased with himself.

“I mean, I know it was a little cliché, but…” Bucky trails off, smiling shyly at Steve.

In response, Steve sidles up to him and slides his hands under his thighs just like Bucky had imagined, picking him up as Bucky lets out a squawk of surprise. It’s a little messier than it had been in the simulation and it almost certainly doesn’t look as effortless, but he manages it, and Bucky rewards him with a gentle kiss on the lips.

“You like that, huh?” He asks, trying his best to imitate the gravelly, dominant tone that Bucky had given him in the simulation. He feels a little stupid, and he’s sure he isn’t even close to nailing it, but Bucky doesn’t mind and gives a full body shiver

“Let’s go upstairs, baby,” Steve growls in the same tone, and Bucky lets out an adorable giggle, securing his arms around Steve’s neck and kissing him deeply to hide his own blush.

Steve kicks the door of the Memory Suite open without looking and carries Bucky down the corridor to the elevator, reluctant to break the kiss and look where he’s going, and JARVIS graciously opens the elevator doors for them when Steve’s flailing hands can’t find the button. There’s no time for all the things he wants to do to Bucky, though – the team are waiting for them in the conference room upstairs, having already received the names and locations of the targets pulled from the memory by JARVIS. Ruefully, he sets Bucky down in the elevator and gives him one last, lingering kiss as the doors slide closed.

When they enter the conference room, Natasha lets out a low wolf whistle under her breath and Bruce honest to god blushes when he catches sight of their mussed hair and slightly dishevelled clothes. Normally, Bucky and Steve come out of B.A.R.F. looking a little worse for wear, the emotional toll of reliving Bucky’s experiences in HYDRA draining them even after only watching a few minutes of the memory. Today they are grinning from ear to ear, and it must be obvious that they have taken B.A.R.F.s memory alteration features for a ride, if the look on Tony’s face is anything to go by.

“Right, well, now you’ve finished using my multi-million dollar therapeutic technology to project porn-“

“We weren’t-“ Steve tries to interject, the tips of his ears turning red, while Bucky simply throws his head back and laughs as Tony ploughs on regardless.

“- let’s talk about the mission.”

“Only one target this time,” Bruce notes, looking at the information JARVIS has sent to their tablets, “Living alone in an LA neighbourhood.”

“He’s gotta be in his late ‘70s,” Natasha adds, frowning down at the image and birth date in front of her, “He must be retired from HYDRA, by now.”

“They doesn’t mean he gets to get away with it,” Wanda snaps, eyes glowing a little red in her frustration, and Steve agrees – it doesn’t matter to him if the guy is 110 and living in an assisted living facility. There is no time limit or statute of limitations when it comes to avenging the suffering these people have put Bucky and so many others through.

“Of course not,” Natasha soothes, laying a hand on Wanda’s shoulder, “That’s not what I meant. We’re going to get this guy.”

Wanda deflates instantly, and she and Bucky share a private look. They’ve gotten close in the last few months, bonding over their experiences as HYDRA experiments and weapons, their sense of not quite being in control of their own powers, and their lost siblings. Wanda is almost quicker to jump to Bucky’s defence than Steve, now, and the way their friendship has bloomed makes Steve immeasurably happy.

“We’ve got to subdue him quickly so we can pull out the cyanide tooth. He probably still has it, even if he’s too old to be active with HYDRA now,” Clint adds. Their movements against HYDRA have become more and more efficient since Bucky shared his insight and intel with the rest of them – or at least what he could bear to disclose. They understand HYDRA and its former operatives in a way they never have before now they have a (former, involuntary) inside man within their ranks.

As he listens to Clint speak, Steve remembers their target’s predatory gaze and the way Bucky’s hands had trembled before the memory had even started.

“I don’t really mind if we bring him in alive,” He says. The others have long since stopped looking surprised when Steve shows a wiliness to kill – they know by now that Steve knows no rules when it comes to protecting or avenging Bucky.

“We could make it look like an accident,” Bucky suggests, only half joking, “It worked with Princess Diana.”

Sam can only stare, dumbfounded, and gasps out:

“Are you saying you killed-“

“We should aim to take him alive,” Bucky says, ignoring Sam’s gaping and reaching a decision, and even Steve can’t tell if he was messing with Sam or not, “I don’t need any more blood on my hands.”

The others clearly approve of his choice, even if Steve is privately a little disappointed that he isn’t going to be able to get his hands on this guy, mid-70s or not. The details are ironed out – Natasha will slip into the apartment block to scope out any traps or guards, and Sam will cover her from the air with Clint stationed a safe distance away. Tony, Bruce, and Wanda will likely stay in the jet, if they come at all – they don’t really need that amount of firepower for one, 77-year-old man, but it’s always nice to have backup available. Bucky and Steve will take point when the time is right – they always let Bucky make the arrest, or the kill, where necessary. They’re his targets in the end.

Tonight, they will have a pre-mission dinner as a team in the common room – and Bucky will join them, although he likely won’t stay for long, still getting used to the overwhelming nature of being surrounded by people that he isn’t meant to obey or kill. Tomorrow, they’ll suit up – Steve might even surprise Bucky by wearing the old suit that he likes, if Tony can stop laughing and source it for him in time. Steve will move heaven and earth to make sure the people who hurt Bucky are dealt with, whether killed or captured. It will be hard for Bucky to see yet another person who damaged him so badly, and to see the evidence of the happy and eventful lives that these scumbags got to lead while Bucky was suffering and sleeping and killing. But by the time the quinjet lands on the top of Stark tower, Bucky’s hands will have slowed their shaking and his fragile sense of peace and safety will have increased, just a little. They’ll reject the offer to join the others in the common room and retreat to their apartment to devour the mountain of fast food they made Natasha pull the quinjet over for somewhere in Indiana, and Bucky will scroll through Netflix with his toes tucked under Steve’s thigh until he finds something that will make them both laugh.

It’s going to be hell for Bucky over the next few months as he continues the quest to clean up the remnants of HYDRA.

It’s going to be hell for the next few years as he claws back those last elusive memories and pieces of his identity.

It’s going to be hell for perhaps his entire life, as the memories of a lifetime of pain and rape and torture and mind control fester and break out through panic attacks and nightmares.

But he won’t be alone, not anymore. He will grow and progress and deal with his demons as the slow process of recovery continues.

But this time, they’ll do it together.

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