Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“What do you mean you had to tell Fury about this?” Steve shouted across the room. “Once! For once I share something that’s on my mind, thinking I could trust you with it!” He started pacing through the small apartment. “I thought I could trust you to keep this between the two of us. I know you were assigned to keep an eye on me for protective reasons, but that was in the past! Right?”

Steve’s voice turned soft, thinking about what he had just said.

“Right?” he asked again, looking down at Sharon.

She stood up from the chair she sat in and walked towards Steve, putting a hand on his shoulder, trying to calm him down a bit.

“Steve, you’re overreacting right now. You—”

Steve pulled away from her touch.

“Overreacting?” He started raising his voice again. “Sharon, we’ve been together for almost TWO years and now you’re saying... You’re saying that all this time, nothing has been safe between us?” He looked at her in disbelief and turned away from her.

"You know how it goes, Steve. You work for SHIELD as well and have been there long enough now. Fury wants as much information as possible…”

“How much?” Steve interrupted her—again.

“How much what?” Sharon looked at him, puzzled.

“How much did you tell Fury?”

Sharon got silent while Steve stared at her, an uncomfortable silence filling the entire room.

“Well?”

“All of it…” she ultimately admitted. “The nightmares you still have so often, that you never went to see that psychiatrist SHIELD made you see, your concern about Sergeant Barnes. That you feel like you can barely hold yourself together at times…”

Right in the face. That’s how Steve felt: like he had been hit in the face with a sack of bricks. Everything he had only ever told Sharon, and now Fury knew all of it as well. All of SHIELD knew about it, for sure. And this wasn’t something small—no. These were deep, personal issues that would make him unfit for duty as a SHIELD agent.

“For how long?” Steve looked at Sharon. His voice had turned close to silent.

“Since the beginning…” He could barely hear her, but he knew enough.

Disbelief had turned into fear, and he started pacing the room again while grabbing his head, pulling his hair.

He couldn’t believe this was really happening, but in a matter of seconds, his disbelief turned into fear. He thought about all that would happen if SHIELD took action with all this information. He would most likely need a psych evaluation, if not even be taken off the job. And then there was Bucky. What would happen to him? His panic grew by the minute and Steve struggled to keep himself collected, trying hard not to show Sharon how much this affected him.

“Home. I need—I need to go home,” Steve muttered out of nowhere, leaving Sharon’s apartment with a loud bang of the door.

It's the year 2017, and Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes has just been released from SHIELD after an extensive trial of psych evaluations and physical exams.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay in the Avengers Tower?” Tony Stark asks the two men. “You know it’s much safer in here.”

“Yes, Tony, we’re sure,” Steve replies politely. “We’re moving to my apartment in the city where we can focus on Bucky’s recovery. But thank you very much for your offer.”

Tony looks at the two men, thinking about the event that had happened between the three of them not even a year ago, and how much had changed during that period. Tony places his hand on Bucky’s shoulder.

“You’re a good man, Barnes.”

Bucky—who had been staring into nowhere the entire time—startles and quickly moves away from Tony’s touch.

“Uh, yeah... Thanks,” he softly speaks.

“All right, come on, Buck, let’s go. We’re going home.” Steve carefully and softly moves around his friend to make sure he won’t frighten him.

“Home...”

Steve had recently bought an apartment in Brooklyn, close to where he and Bucky had lived when they were kids, where they had grown up together and where they had shared so many memories. It's nothing big nor fancy and just big enough for the two of them, but it always feels like coming home for Steve. Even though the apartment had been remodeled recently, the low doorposts, the creaking wooden floor, and the ‘vintage’ kitchen gives away the age of it and reminds Steve a lot of his old tenement back in the ’40s.

Bucky’s psychiatrist had told Steve it was best that Bucky did not live alone during this crucial part of his rehabilitation, and of course, he would never be alone in the Avengers Tower, but Steve knew it could get pretty lonely in there, so he had asked Bucky to come and move in with him for the time being. They both understood each other in what they had been through and they could support each other in ways ‘normal’ people could never do.

Steve opens the door of the apartment and steps back to let Bucky go in first. Bucky had been declared stable enough to move out of the psychiatric hospital, but Steve knew he still struggled with panic attacks and flashbacks that could completely freak him out in only a matter of seconds, so he lets Bucky do this at his own pace.

“Buck, are you OK?” he softly asks after a couple of minutes.

“Y-Yeah, I’m good. This is a nice place.”

“No triggers to the past?”

“No. Not yet, at least,” Bucky grins, trying not to let Steve know how miserable he feels.

Just looking at Bucky makes Steve ache. When he had found Bucky he was in quite good physical shape, but after seven months of moving in and out of the psychiatric hospital there wasn’t much left of the well-muscled super soldier. Bucky looks pale, thin, and ironically enough like he hasn’t slept in weeks. He knows deep down inside he's still the same Bucky—his Bucky—but he wonders how long it will take to get a glimpse of that. If he ever will.

Steve shakes that awful idea off and walks into the apartment to show Bucky some of the rooms.

“So I was thinking you could take this bedroom. Bathroom’s over there,” he points, “not very big, but I think it will do—” Steve turns around, finding he had lost Bucky somewhere.

“Buck?” he asks.

“Hm-hm,” comes out of the small living room, where he's staring at a massive photograph of the Brooklyn skyline, and softly touches the canvas linen with his metal hand. “This is amazing.”

Steve can see in Bucky’s eyes that there's a lot of processing going on, so he lets him be.

“I love that,” he quietly says after a minute or so.

“I’m glad, me too.” Steve replies, smiling. “Come on, let’s go have some dinner.”

Chapter Text

The two men have moved into Steve’s apartment a little over a week ago, and they are getting into their new routines.

On one of the first days, they go out to buy a bunch of bare essentials for Bucky: clothes, toiletries, and a coffee mug. Sure, they could easily get multiple sets of activewear clothes and plain toiletries from the Avengers compound, but Steve had decided that it was a good idea for Bucky to go out and shop for his own things.

Bucky spent almost 30 minutes picking out a toothbrush, having a hard time deciding between a blue, green, or black one. He wasn’t used to being able to choose things just for the sake of choosing, and he was clearly struggling. Then, they went to the local sports store to pick out some comfortable clothes. This was easier—Bucky chose three pairs of loose jogging pants and a handful of short-sleeved T-shirts that were made of a soft fabric. He had been wearing Steve’s shirts at home; the ones that were tight on Steve were now loose on Bucky’s skinny body, so he chose only a few, so he would—hopefully—after gaining his strength back, buy his normal size again. After the sports store, they went into a small, local shop called Madison’s to buy pants, long-sleeved shirts, and Bucky even decided upon a leather jacket to wear for casual outings.

Usually, Steve wouldn't bother putting on any disguises, as he really likes meeting and talking to people; he feels it gives the American folk inspiration and a sense of safety. But today he wore a baseball cap and a pair of aviator shades, while Bucky was wearing a pair of leather gloves to disguise his newly installed vibranium arm. Steve thought it would be best for Bucky’s comfort if they wouldn't get stopped by people—there were still a lot of people that didn't believe that Bucky was innocent after the footage of Stark’s parents got leaked online, and that was the last thing that Bucky’s already fragile mind needed. Today was all about being comfortable and gaining confidence with the 21st century.

It’s almost 12 o’clock, and suddenly Steve’s stomach starts rumbling. Due to the super-soldier serum, he has an insane metabolism with an accompanying insane appetite, and he guesses that Bucky must also be starting to get hungry.

“Buck, have you ever had sushi?”

“Suw...shi? No, I don’t think so,” he looks puzzled at Steve. Despite having lived through the last couple of decades, he hasn’t really had a taste of living a real life.

“What is it?” he curiously asks.

“It’s a dish from Japan where rice, vegetables, and raw fish are made into a sort of roll. It has a very refreshing taste—I think you should try it!” Before Bucky can open his mouth, Steve quickly adds, “—and don’t worry, hygiene standards are much higher now, so eating raw fish is pretty safe nowadays.”

Bucky is not sure what to think, but if Steve thinks he will like it, it’s probably worth a try. Steve orders a couple of different types of sushi—some maki, some nigiri, and even some warm dishes in case Bucky isn’t fond of the taste of raw fish. The two men share between the different dishes, and within a few minutes, the table is filled with empty plates.

“I really liked that. You were right that the taste is very refreshing,” Bucky nods to Steve.

“The Coke tastes pretty shit though, compared to what we used to drink,” he adds. Steve can’t help but grin—his old pal seems to be slowly coming back to his usual wit.

“Alright, we got you some clothes and toiletries. I was thinking we can get you a coffee mug so my place can start to feel like it’s also a bit more of your place?” Steve asks. Despite that Bucky has been declared free, he still has a hard time making decisions for himself—which is not hard to imagine if you think that he’s been forced to follow orders for over 50 years.

“Yeah, that’s alright,” Bucky mumbles. He’s been fine drinking his morning coffee from the plain white mugs in Steve’s apartment, but if he thinks that he needs his own mug, he’s fine with that. He trusts Steve to make good decisions for him.

After paying for their lunch at the Japanese restaurant, they leisurely walk over to a kitchenware shop where they have an entire wall with different types of glasses, cups, and mugs. Bucky closely inspects all the different options, as if buying a mug is as important as passing an exam. Steve steps back to give him all the space he needs, and after a good 20 minutes, Bucky settles on one of those fancy double-walled cups.

“M’arm responds weird to hot surfaces sometimes,” Bucky tells Steve, as if he needs to explain his choice.

Steve pays for the mug—Tony hasn’t had time to set up a bank account for Bucky yet—and the two walk back to where they have parked their car. Halfway there, Bucky suddenly digs his heels into the ground, frozen in place. Steve quickly turns around to see Bucky, wild-eyed, looking frantically in all directions. He is breathing with full force, and he can hear his heart beating in his chest from a distance.

“Hey, hey Buck, it’s alright,” he softly walks towards his friend. “It’s okay, what’s up buddy?” Steve asks lightly.

Bucky tries to say something, but he is just gasping for air instead. His right hand is dripping with sweat, his left hand is buzzing. It’s so damn loud. He doesn’t understand what’s happening to him—he was just fine. Tired, but fine—and suddenly his mind snapped a weird picture in front of his eyes as if he were in an old movie theatre. He saw himself—or rather someone that looked like him—standing on one of the tall skyscrapers that they were walking next to, and his mind went to black with nothing but the sound of guns, screams, and loud car engines. He tries to say something, but his throat is raw for no reason. He falls to his knees and grabs his head, covering his ears from the non-existent sound of gunshots and screams.

Steve gently but firmly grabs him on the right shoulder. “It’s ok Buck, just breathe with me,” and he takes a deep breath in, and out.

“I got you, nothing is gonna happen to you.” He keeps talking to Bucky, hoping that no one recognises the former assassin and takes a picture of him to post online with some bullshit headline. Steve calmly forces Bucky into a slower breathing rhythm while they’re both on their knees on the concrete walkway, and somehow no one has noticed the two absurdly tall men. That’s the good thing about good ol’ New York, Steve thinks to himself, no one is surprised by anything anymore. They’ve seen it all. Even aliens. Steve can't help but chuckle to himself but quickly turns his attention back to his friend.

The touch to his shoulder makes Bucky’s mind to travel back to that alley, the night before he shipped out to Europe. He grabbed Steve by the shoulder. Steve was tiny, Bucky was.... Well, Bucky. Now, the tables have turned. Steve is tall and buffed up, and Bucky is nothing but the shell of the man he used to be. He’s still tall, but there’s not much left of him otherwise. Steve’s touch is bringing him back to reality and calming him down.

“Hey bud, you okay?” Steve asks gently as Bucky finally lowers his hands from his ears.

“Yeah,” Bucky says sheepishly. He really isn’t, but he doesn't know what else to say.

“C’mere.” Steve makes the both of them get up and leads Bucky to a nearby bench.

“Let’s catch your breath for a sec.”

Steve is not unknown to sudden panic attacks—as stoic and cool as he always seems to be—and he knows exactly how mentally and physically draining they are. He sits Bucky down, who is still trembling and buzzing, but his breathing is slowly evening out again.

“You wanna talk about it?” Steve asks.

“No.”

“Ok. That’s alright.” Steve knows not to press these issues. He has a vague idea what happened to Bucky, but he is nowhere near qualified to talk about these kinds of issues. Sam, maybe yes, but Steve absolutely not.

They spend some minutes sitting in silence next to each other on the bench. Bucky is looking at his shoes; finally, the buzzing in his left arm has stopped. Steve cannot hear his heartbeat any longer, which means it’s at least close to normal again.

“Steve?”

Steve looks up, surprised by the sudden mention of his name. Bucky sounds like they are back in the 1920s. Kids.

“Let’s go home.”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

Chapter Text

“Don’t forget you have an appointment with your physio later today, Buck,” Steve looks up from his newspaper.

“Huh?” Bucky heard him, but didn’t process what Steve had just said.

“You have a physio appointment in 45 minutes,” Steve says one more time.

Bucky often just sits and stares out of the window. Despite being clearly zoned out and mentally somewhere else, he cannot sit still. He is constantly moving, so much it sometimes drives Steve crazy. The vibranium arm is buzzing and whirring with every move Bucky makes. It’s inaudible to ‘normal’ people, but Bucky and Steve hear it due to their overly sensitive senses. Bucky keeps on moving and twitching whatever is left of his left shoulder. He looks clearly uncomfortable.

“Are you okay?” Steve asks with worry in his voice.

“Yeah.” Bucky is a man of few words. “Am alright.” He adjusts his posture and tries to act normal to not give away any signals of his discomfort. He doesn't want to get punished for being weak.

In reality, he is in misery. The weight of carrying a heavy metal arm on the left side of his body is starting to slowly take its toll. HYDRA never cared much about his wellbeing as long as he could fight, and years of training and being sent out to missions with little to no rest in between have been physically straining. They didn't bother to train him how to keep a healthy posture with the heavy metal arm, and so he developed a movement pattern that was functional but not really healthy in the long run. After 30 or so years, his entire body started hanging slightly off to the left. Then, just a year ago, his arm got blown off by none other than Mr. Stark Junior himself. He still remembers the pure agony—the electrical circuit in his arm firing a million pulses per second to his brain, the heat of the metal spreading like a wildfire, and then the smell of his own burnt flesh. He gets goosebumps the second he thinks about it.

Bucky got fitted with a new arm while recovering in Wakanda, made with the super-strong metal vibranium. Whilst the material itself is much lighter than the alloy his previous arm was made of, the advanced technology that runs through his arm makes it only a fraction lighter. The problem was that he didn't get fitted with a new arm immediately, but spent most of his days in the hospital with one arm. His left-hanging body suddenly got swung back straight, overdoing its own years-long manipulation, and he couldn't even walk straight for the first couple of months. After finally adjusting to a one-armed life, he was presented with his new vibranium arm, and his body is even more lopsided now.

“It’s just a prototype!” exclaimed Wakandan princess Shuri. “It’s not ready for any battles or missions yet, but at least it will do for any normal day-to-day tasks.” Whatever normal day-to-day tasks are for a former assassin.

The design is sleek, black with golden inlays. Bucky, the tech nerd that he is, looks at it in awe. “I don't know what to say, Shuri. Thank you.” He is genuine, he is left speechless. He doesn't deserve this grand gesture after everything the Wakandans have been through.

“We’ll start your training tomorrow. Get used to it today,” Shuri quickly brushes over the compliment.

Bucky tries to play it cool in front of Steve. He knows that he can hear every movement from his vibranium arm, so he tries to hold still for as long as he can. What Bucky doesn’t know is that Steve is already fully aware of his physical discomfort. He has heard his friend groan and suffer almost every night when Bucky thinks he cannot hear him. Every position in bed hurts Bucky. He obviously can’t lie on his left side. And if he lies on his right side, his arm is much heavier than the rest of his body, making it hard to breathe. When lying on his back or belly, his weight presses on the still-sensitive scars after his last surgery. He has to turn around every couple of minutes, which he cannot do without whimpering and puffing in pain. Is this what hell is like? No—he has lived through hell before. He can deal with this. He is not allowed to complain. Not after everyone has been going out of their way to rescue him.

“I can drive you to your physio, I’ll catch up with Sam while you’re there.” Steve jerks Bucky out of yet another daydream.

“Huh?” he asks. He heard what he said, but he didn’t register it. Again.

“I can drive us to town, and I’ll catch up with Sam while you’re at the physio,” Steve repeats politely.

“Thanks.”

“We can leave in 30 minutes. Is that enough time to get ready?”

Bucky is wearing his soft jogging pants, a white tank top, and his dog tags. His long hair hasn’t been brushed in many days.

“Yeah.” He’ll just throw on a hoodie and a jacket, as he will most likely have to strip for his physio anyway. There’s no reason to really dress up.

Steve is—as always—perfectly punctual, and exactly 30 minutes later, he and Bucky drive out from the parking garage under their building block to Bucky’s physio appointment. Bucky still instinctively wants to step into the back of the car, but Steve gestures to him to sit in the front on the passenger seat. They drive in silence for about 20 minutes. Well, not in silence, as Bucky’s left arm is loudly buzzing. He is tense as hell. Bucky is clenching his jaw so hard that Steve is worried his teeth might crack, and he is holding his hands in tight fists till both his vibranium and his flesh arm tremble. Bucky knows that going to the physio is good for him, and his handler... ehhh—therapist is nice, but it hurts so. damn. much. His body is so worn out after years of abuse, malnutrition, and mistreatment, and correcting his posture and relearning normal movements is mentally and physically exhausting. He usually needs multiple days to recover after each session.

When Steve turns into the car park, he turns to Bucky.

“You know you don’t have to do this, right? They’ve cleared you both physically and mentally.” Steve tries to be helpful.

“I know. But I have to.” Bucky glances over his left side. “I need to learn how to use...” he makes a vague gesture with his right arm, “...this. It just...” he takes a very, very deep breath, “it just hurts so fucking much. My body is killing me.”

Steve is almost a little shocked. Bucky always had a big mouth, but he never swore much in front of Steve. He has also not opened up like this to him before.

“Every movement hurts, y’know. M’arm. My back. My hips. I'm all lopsided. Nothing functions.” Shit. He shouldn't have said ‘functions’. That is weird as hell. It makes it sound as if he's a robot. Or is he? At some points, he doesn't even know himself. He for sure doesn't feel human most of the time.

Steve doesn't really know what to say. He can relate, sort of, as he was sick all the time as a kid, but he knows he hasn’t experienced pain the way Buck has. “C’mon then. Let’s get it over with and get you better,” he tries to motivate Bucky. Thankfully it works, as his 100-year-old friend undoes his seatbelt and, with a painful grimace, steps out of the car.

Bucky’s physio, Anna-Lynn, is nice. She is specialised in helping war veterans with their physical problems and is therefore also an expert on amputees and the mental traumas that usually come with these kinds of injuries. Bucky doesn't like to think of himself as an amputee, but somewhere deep inside he knows that’s what he is. His left arm got brutally ripped off when he fell off the train in ’45. Anna-Lynn is babbling about some random things while Bucky’s mind is stuck in 1945.

“How’s your week been, James?”

The mention of his first name snaps him out of it.

“’s been fine. Been shopping for clothes,” he said. As if his physio would really care about that.

“I can see that. This fits you better than Steve’s clothes,” she nods. He looks rather funny though — his vibranium arm, which was moulded after his real arm when he was in peak condition, is much larger than his current right arm and sticks out like a sore thumb. Anna-Lynn takes a mental note that one day, the Soldier’s body will be in balance again.

“Have you done your exercises?”

“Yes.” No. Bucky is an expert liar, but Anna-Lynn is used to stubborn vets with mushed-up brains.

“Okay, show me what you’ve been working on,” she smiles softly.

Bucky doesn't know what to do or say and just looks at her sheepishly. He has forgotten everything that she told him last week. Fuck. He’s been caught and his entire face turns red.

“It’s okay. A lot of my patients have a hard time remembering to do their exercises or which exercises I gave them. I can print them out for you so you can look up what you should do.” This is not her first rodeo.

“Sorry,” Bucky says, sounding like a child.

Anna-Lynn feels sorry for him. Even though her patient looks tired and worn out, his face is young and handsome, maybe as if he’s in his early 30s, but she shouldn't forget that he in fact is much older than that and has lived through many decades of hardships.

“Alright. We can start with a short physical exam, go through last week’s exercises, and then if we manage, I can set you up with two or three new exercises as well. It’s important to get your body moving properly again,” she says as she invites him to the softly padded bench.

“Are you comfortable taking off your top?” she asks the super soldier. She knows how to manage patients with severe anxiety and insecurities, but before she realises it, Bucky has already stripped down, nothing but his pants and dog tags left on his body. He has no insecurities about being dressed down in front of people; that has been stripped away from him decades ago. All the HYDRA scientists have seen everything of him. Every centimeter of his body has been looked at and documented, even his private areas. Every man at HYDRA was curious how the super soldier serum affected... it. There is no sense of personal space left.

He stands in front of her, a little lopsided to his left (her right), waiting for the next instruction. Even though this is not the first time she sees him shirtless, it still sends shivers down her spine. The Wakandans have done a good job of installing the new attachment plate, but his entire left side is covered in scars, almost halfway up to his chest. It’s gruesome.

“You can sit down, turn your back towards me.”

Bucky follows her command without question. He doesn't like to turn his back to strangers, but he would never dare to go against an order from a superior. Fuck, how is he thinking like this again. She’s not your superior, you dumb shit.

Bucky’s entire back is filled with scars. The scars surrounding his left arm continue over to his shoulder blade, and she spots several old bullet wounds. The rest of his back is filled with whiplashes. Hundreds of old whiplashes. This man has been through hell and back. She blinks heavily, forcing herself back to reality, to her patient in front of her. She is a professional, goddammit.

She softly moves her hand to whatever is left of his left shoulder blade, and when she is about to touch—

zzzzgrrrrhhh

Bucky turned around at the speed of light and firmly grabs her wrist with his flesh hand.  His vibranium arm is buzzing so loud even his therapist can hear it and his eyes are wide open. Anna-Lynn is shocked for a second — it’s only been her second session with Barnes after he had moved (back) to NYC, but last time he was extremely calm. Her patient suddenly realises what he has done, looks wildly around himself, releases her wrist, and rushes off the bench to try to get away as far as possible.

Anna-Lynn composes herself. She has seen this behavior before. PTSD after physical torture. Maybe she shouldn't have worked from behind him, him not knowing where she was going to touch.

“James, it’s alright. It’s me, Anna-Lynn, your physio. I've been treating you since last week,” she calmly says. This usually calms down most of her anxious patients, and it helps for the patient in front of her too.

“I’m so sorry,” his voice is barely audible. His body is shaking.

“No, it’s my fault. I should have announced what I was going to do. You haven't done anything wrong.”

“Did I hurt you?” Bucky asks, his voice small. His deepest fear is to hurt harmless people.

She looks down at her wrist. He only held her for a couple of seconds. “No, not at all. Come, let’s get you back up again,” she says as she stretches out her hand to motivate him to get up from the corner.

Even though he doesn't need it, he grabs her arm and rises to his feet. He gets himself led back up to the bench, like a flock of sheep follows their farmer. You're pathetic, Barnes, he thinks to himself.

“Alright James, can I touch you on your left shoulder?” Anna-Lynn asks, to establish boundaries.

Bucky nods.

Anna-Lynn carefully reaches out again towards his left shoulder, and for a millisecond, her patient twitches and tenses up with her touch, but allows it. She follows the muscle lines with her fingers, feeling where his muscles need work. He is so tense; his muscles are really tight and he has multiple muscle knots. He will need massages and thorough stretching at least once a week to loosen up this mess. The border between his skin and the metal plate is rough — the skin is still healing after his last surgery about two months ago. She carefully moves to her patient’s right side, where his muscles are less tight but still in need of work. A lot of his muscles on his shoulder have wasted away, and he needs to strengthen his right side more to get him in balance again.

“I’m moving down your back now, James,” Anna-Lynn warns her patient calmly.

Her fingers run down along his spine. His spine is completely misaligned and every vertebra is sticking in a different direction — just by some millimeters, but it must cause her patient a lot of discomfort.

“Have you had your back broken?” she asks.

“Yes,” Bucky is counting in his head, “at least 6 times, I think.” HYDRA never taught him to be careful, and sometimes in order to succeed a mission, he had to throw himself off buildings, bridges, moving vehicles, you name it. It hurt him like hell every time, but he was instructed to work through any ‘non life-threatening’ pains.

6 times. What the ..... Anna-Lynn is shocked. Yes, he’s absurdly old, but this is far from normal.

“Okay, at some point we need to get your back aligned again.”

Bucky starts trembling wildly, and Anna-Lynn quickly adds, “But we don't have to do it now. I think that with the right training methods, your back might correct itself for a large part. The rest can be done with massages and perhaps an osteo session or two.”

Okay, no surgery. Bucky visibly relaxes by lowering his shoulders. The left shoulder doesn’t move as much as the right shoulder.

Anna-Lynn notes down the work that needs to be done on his back and shoulders alone, putting this as a priority over the rest of his body — that can be worked on later. It’s important with patients with histories like James to take it one chunk at a time and not rush through the different body parts. His legs look to be in fine working function anyway.

She asks James to perform some simple exercises to check his movement pattern and his range of motion. She notes down the following:

• Lack of upward and downward motion of the shoulder (biomechanics or muscular?)
• Stretched-out laterals and traps on the right side (weight distribution)
• Underdeveloped right shoulder
• Spine alignment

This will already take several months to work through, and will be a good start for her patient. Together, the pair work through some exercises and stretches, and James follows her every instruction to the most detailed point. He is extremely obedient and punctual — almost to a point that it’s a little scary. She knows very well that he would've gotten extreme punishment if he was not obedient before.

Bucky follows every order of his therapist. His shoulder and neck are killing him, but he doesn't want to disappoint her. He needs to perform everything as she instructs, otherwise there will be consequences. No, no. I'm a free man now. But it’s better to be safe than sorry. He keeps his face as neutral as possible, not wanting to look weak. He doesn't know yet how observant she is. She tricked him before though, so she for sure has some good social skills.

After 30 minutes of stretching and doing range-of-motion exercises, he is worn out. His body is not cooperating with him as it should, and his shoulders are trembling vividly.

“I think that's enough for today. I will write these exercises down for you, and you can do at least two of them once a day. You’re welcome to do more, but you don't have to.”

Anna-Lynn had noted that James started to get tired — she saw the sweat on his forehead, the tightness in his face, and the slight tremor in his hands.

She does have good observing skills, Bucky thinks to himself.

“Thank you Doc.” Bucky picks up the paper where she wrote the instructions for ten different stretches and exercises in neat handwriting.

“Not a doctor,” Anna-Lynn winks at him.

Bucky’s face flushes red. What the hell does that mean?? He suddenly is feeling things he hasn’t felt since 1945. It feels familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.

Anna-Lynn didn't mean anything by her remark, but Bucky is clearly not used anymore to this indirect & free type of communication, after only receiving straight orders for the last 70 years. Bucky buries his head into the paper, trying to switch the conversation topic.

“Ehm, uh, do I do all of these every day?” His throat feels scratchy, and he is so flabbergasted he feels like he lost the ability to speak proper English.

“No, you don't have to. Do at least two of them every day. If you feel up for it, you can do more, but you don't have to. Make sure you do at least every exercise once or twice before we meet again next week,” Anna-Lynn politely tells him. She hasn’t really noticed the flush to Bucky’s face or how shocked he was with her comment.

Bucky is given free will with his training schedule. He must have behaved well for his therapist. He’s been good. What the hell Barnes, stop these thoughts.

He is glad that Anna-Lynn didn't go off the conversation topic and say more inappropriate things. She smiles politely to him, they say their goodbyes and Bucky picks up his leather jacket and gloves. He goes back to the waiting room where he will wait for Steve to pick him up again.

Chapter Text

In the same building as Bucky’s physio, Sam Wilson is holding counselling sessions for war veterans. Steve has arrived a little early and catches Sam closing off his session:

“…And remember, nobody can tell you what is normal or what you should be feeling. No one but you has lived through your experience; it’s yours and yours only. So don't ever feel bad for responding in a certain way. Alright folks, that’s it for today. I hope to see you again soon.”

Steve gives Sam a small wave, and Sam says goodbye to the attending veterans.

“Good stuff, man,” Steve says as he embraces Sam in a big, strong hug.

“Thanks, it’s the best I can do,” Sam replies with a smile on his lips.

“You’re a good man, Sam, to use your skillset like this. I would've never been able to deal with it all like you do.”

It’s true. Steve is physically unmatched, the perfect soldier, but he’s still suffering through his own mental traumas and can easily lose his patience.

“How’re you holding up?” Sam asks as he softly grabs Steve by his bicep as a sign of comfort.

“Hmmm. Not sure,” Steve shrugs. “I guess Bucky is keeping me with both feet on the ground. I'm keeping my focus on him to not think about…” He makes a gesture in the air, “all of this crap.”

Steve is talking about his break-up with Sharon and the aftermath of learning that all the officials at SHIELD know about his ‘issues’. It happened only a month ago, and he is not only having to get over his heart getting broken, but also his trust—and the insane amount of embarrassment of it all. Suddenly, everyone knows that the amazing Captain America has nightmares about being stuck under the ice.

“Have you been talking about it with someone? Someone more qualified than me?” Sam says, quickly adding the last line. He knows he's good, but not ‘super soldier with SHIELD secrets’ good.

“I think you're plenty qualified,” he jokes. “What more do I need?” He laughs, but in reality, Steve’s mind has been a big black hole filled with question marks the last couple of weeks. He’s fallen so far down this hole that he has no clue how to get out of it anymore. The only thing keeping him from getting sucked into a black hole and never being able to climb out is Bucky standing on the edge. He needs to be here for Bucky; he cannot be left one more time on his own. It’s the only thing keeping him grounded. Bucky is his mission.

Sam sees clearly through Steve’s fake facade, but doesn't want to press on it. Steve’s not ready for it yet. He can be tough with him if he has to, but he decides against it and makes a lighthearted joke. “I know I'm pretty damn good, but this ain't my normal wheelhouse, man. I can get you in contact with someone that helped me earlier,” he finishes with a serious note, before changing the subject so it doesn't get tense. “How much longer is Barnes’ session taking? I'm thinking to take you two fossils out for lunch.”

“He should be done any moment, but I'm not sure if Buck’s up to it. His physio sessions can be really exhausting for him.”

Sam and Steve take the stairs one floor up, where the physical care offices are at the veteran’s hospital. Steve takes the lead to Anna-Lynn’s waiting room, where he was supposed to meet up with Bucky again. The door is open, and he finds Bucky, arms on his knees, slumped over. He looks like he hasn’t slept for five months, which might as well just be true.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve knocks on the door as he slowly walks in.

“Barnes,” Sam walks in behind Steve, greeting Bucky with a nod.

Bucky’s and Sam’s first meeting was... an interesting one, being in the middle of a fight in D.C., where Bucky ripped out the steering wheel of the car that Sam was driving to then shoot at him multiple times. Talk about first impressions. Since then, the two men have been getting along better, and Sam really tries to be a good, stable friend to Bucky. There’s no need for resentment when the poor guy can barely remember what happened between them in the first handful of times they met.

“You up for grabbing lunch in the city?” Sam directly turns to Bucky.

Bucky straightens himself up, his piercing blue eyes looking straight into Sam’s soul. His eyes are empty and tired. He flicks his eyes to Steve, as if looking for approval to make a decision of his own. Steve gives him a small nod to reassure him. “Yeah, okay,” he eventually says.

The three leave the veteran hospital and walk a few blocks to a lunch bar that Sam recommends. It’s a bar that blends authentic American foods with a modern touch. “Just up your alley, I figured,” Sam winks at the two 100-year-old super soldiers.

They sit down and study the menu while Sam and Steve chat away about nothing and everything. Nothing important at least, just chit-chatting. Bucky is surprised to see Steve talking so openly and happily; at home he is mostly silent or laying on the sofa, which seemed out of character for Steve, but he didn't really question it either, as he spent most of his days looking out of the window. Bucky silently watches the two and keeps an eye on their surroundings at the same time. He already thoroughly checked out the waitress when they arrived and noted where the nearest exits are. He feels incredibly naked without a single weapon on him, but the two super soldiers and Sam can easily take down a threat if needed, he thinks to himself.

“How’s New York treating you so far, Barnes?” Sam shakes Bucky out of his train of thought.

“’s been fine,” Bucky replies blankly. “Much more bright than before,” he adds after giving Sam’s question a more thorough thought.

“Our apartment’s a mess right now, but you should definitely come for dinner someday,” Steve says to Sam.

Sam laughs loudly. “I can imagine that. Is it even big enough for you two giants?” Sam doesn't ever miss an opportunity to joke about their superhuman sizes.

Steve smartly defends himself. “You should've seen how we lived through the Great Depression—we shared a two-bedroom apartment with two families,” he says with a big grin, bantering back. Sam blushes up to his ears at Steve’s quick remark about their poor past. “I guess you’ll be just fine then,” he adds with a wink.

The food gets served. Steve and Bucky had chosen the largest meal on the menu: a steak with sweet potato fries, while Sam ordered a more ‘normal’ lunch item. “I ain’t no super soldier, I gotta keep an eye on my figure!” he jokes to the waitress when she gives him the chicken salad he ordered.

Steve and Sam continue to chat whilst eating their meals. Bucky keeps himself in the backseat and just lets it all come over him. He wouldn't know what to add to the conversation anyway. He doesn't understand half the stuff they’re talking about. Bucky eats his meal within minutes. Don’t give anyone a chance to take away your meal. He’s on high surveillance mode, scanning their area constantly for any threats.

“So Steve, the gym around my corner is starting a new program. Some sort of challenge, and at the end there will be a get-together with all the participants to showcase our progress. I think you should join—and perhaps even Mr. Robot over there,” Sam says while pointing at Bucky.

Steve doesn't really need to go to the gym. They have a gym at the Compound, and he definitely doesn't need help setting up a training program, but he thinks it might be good for Bucky to do ‘normal’ human things and get out more.

Sam knows damn well that Steve doesn't need to work out and will only intimidate the fellow participants, but he needs to get Steve out of that little apartment of theirs and have something on his calendar.

“That sounds fun actually. What d’you think, Buck? Shall we join Sam so we can embarrass him in front of his entire class? When does it start?”

Bucky looks up but doesn't really respond, so Sam does. “It starts in two weeks. So you,” he turns to Bucky, “can get on with your physio work and check with Anna-Lynn if it fits her plans for you.” Sam has worked with Anna-Lynn before and even recommended her to Steve and Bucky. He already knows that she’ll be fine adjusting her training.

Bucky nods. He doesn’t really want to go out to Sam’s gym program, but if Steve wants to go, he can follow him. Steve knows what’s best for him right now.

After Steve and Sam have finished their meals and a cup of coffee each, Steve suggests that it’s time to go home for him and Bucky. He’s been keeping a close eye on Buck, whose mind had left the conversation well over 15 minutes ago. If you didn't know any better, you’d think he had gone full Winter Soldier mode again—sitting completely still with a straight back, but his eyes wildly darting over his surroundings, ready to either escape or break out in a fight if necessary.

“I think it’s been enough for today,” he says to Sam as he points his gaze to Bucky.

“I think so too. But it was great to see you again, Steve. We should do this more often,” he nods to Bucky, “Barnes.”

Bucky flickers his wild gaze to Sam, focuses on him, and nods back.

Sam and Steve bicker over who pays for lunch—Sam saying that he invited them, but Steve arguing that he and Bucky had much more to eat. In the end, Sam wins. The three say their goodbyes and go their own ways back to their respective homes.

Back home at their apartment that looks over Brooklyn’s Prospect Park, Bucky sits himself in the windowsill to breathe out his accumulated tension from the heavy day.

“Sam Wilson,” he breathes out after a couple of minutes of silence, catching Steve’s attention, who is sitting on the sofa and finishing today’s newspaper, “he's a good man. After everything I've done to him, he still wants to go out with me.”

“Yeah, he really is. And he doesn't blame you for the things that happened between the two of you earlier. He knows you had no control.”

Bucky thinks about the fight on the bridge, and then later on throwing him off a flying helicarrier. He cringes. “Will I ever be able to do normal stuff again?”

Steve’s heart breaks a little. Even without Bucky explaining himself, he knows exactly what he’s talking about. He realised early on during their lunch date that Bucky wasn’t really (really wasn’t?) coping with the situation. He gets up from the couch and walks toward Bucky, grabbing him softly by the shoulder. “You’ll be fine, Buck. We both will.”

Steve wants to give him a hug, but he’s not sure if he’ll tolerate it, so he just squeezes his shoulder in a comforting way.

“I understand if you don't want to, but I think it will be good for us to join Sam’s gym program. Knowing him, it’ll probably be a group of cool people who won’t care about meeting ‘Captain America’ and his friend. I think it’ll be a safe step for us to get out the door every now and then.” Steve puts a funny emphasis on his own title, which makes Bucky grin.

“You trust Sam?”

“Yes, I do.” Steve thinks about the contact Sam gave him earlier that day—the phone number of a mental health worker. “He cares a lot, and he truly wants the best for you.” And for Steve, but Steve cared very little about his own needs at the moment. The only thing he wants is to stop Bucky from falling into the same black hole he is falling into. “Discuss it with your physio next time you see her, but if she gives you trouble, you tell me.”

There’s something warming about Steve being so protective of Bucky.

“How was your session, by the way?”

“Not great.” There was no point in not being honest with Steve. “She touched m’arm and I almost broke her wrist. She didn’t do anything wrong. HYDRA just fucked me up so hard.” He swallowed hard. “I also forgot all the exercises from last week. ’M such a mess…” He sighs heavily, then takes the paper with the printed exercises out of his pocket, handing it to Steve on autopilot, as if Steve is his handler, and he cringes a little more of his own thoughts. Steve’s your friend, goddammit.

Steve wants to hug Bucky even more now. He wants to comfort him, but he doesn't know how in an adequate way. His heart breaks with the thought that his life-long friend is so far gone. The jokester, the ladies’ man, the dancer that he used to be seem light-years away from the pale, tired soldier in front of him who is clearly barely holding himself together—haunted by decades of torture. He grabs the paper Bucky gives him, quickly studying the exercises. “We can hang it on the fridge, so we both remember.” He grabs Bucky’s shoulder a little harder. “Hey, it’s okay. You’ve taken enormous steps the last couple of weeks. We’ll get there, bud,” he tries to comfort him as best he can.

Bucky has been looking down into his lap the whole conversation, then looks up into Steve’s familiar eyes.

“I trust you.”

This is the edge for Steve. He breaks and pulls Bucky into a big hug.

Bucky accepts.

Chapter Text

“No. No! Grab my hand!”

Bucky wakes up with a shock. He looks around, puzzled. He hadn’t been having a nightmare, so why was he up?

“No... No... NO! Bucky!”

It wasn’t Bucky who was dreaming—it was Steve, at the other end of the apartment. Bucky quietly gets up from the bed and carefully walks over to Steve’s bedroom. He hadn’t been in Steve’s room yet, but he knew that Steve would've done exactly the same for him in this situation.

Bucky opens the door to find Steve twisting, turning, and visibly shaking, covered in sweat.

“Steve...” Bucky softly calls his name. No response. He feels a little awkward being in Steve’s private room, but he walks over to the bed to softly shake his arm, hoping to wake him up.

It takes a couple of shakes to his upper body, but then Steve jolts awake, his eyes wildly darting across the room. Bucky grabs him with both arms by his shoulders.

“Hey, Steve, it’s okay. I'm here.” A couple of deep breaths. “We’re in Brooklyn,” he shushes Steve.

“Brooklyn... Bucky... Buck! My God, you're here. I...” He presses his palms to his eyes and pushes out a heavy breath, on the edge of tears.

Bucky doesn't even realise it, but instinctively pulls Steve into a strong hug, holding him tightly and patting him on the back. He’s definitely done this before, but when? It doesn't matter. The pair sit for some minutes while Steve’s breathing slowly calms down again and he stops shaking. When his heart rate is back to normal, Bucky lets go of Steve, pushing him away a little so he can look him in the eye.

“This happen often?”

Steve’s eyes flicker away from Bucky’s piercing gaze. “No. Well, sometimes. It depends.” Steve seems embarrassed, so Bucky cocks an eyebrow as a sign that he needs to keep talking. “Ever since I’ve... come out of the ice, y’know, I’ve been having nightmares about going back under, my lungs filling with ice and not being able to breathe. But tonight was different... I... I was not going under the ice. I was losing you, again, from the train. I had you in my hand, but my glove slipped, and you went... I tried...” Steve tries to keep speaking, but his voice is thick with tears.

Bucky swallows hard. He remembers this day clearly. Very, very clearly. The fear during the fall, and then the pain when he crashed onto the side of the ravine, not to mention the frozen cold of hitting the surface of the river at the bottom. Bucky shakes his head. This is not the time to get a bone-chilling flashback. Steve needs me.

“How often you get dreams like this?” Despite the trauma-inducing thoughts, Bucky’s mind is more clear than it’s been in years. Steve needs me.

“It depends. Maybe once a week. Sometimes more.”

“Steve! This is not good!” Bucky speaks up loudly, almost making Steve flinch. “Who knows about this? You need help with this, bud. It’s been what, six years since you’ve come out of the ice?”

“You remember Sharon? We were together for two years, so of course she knew. And Sam figured it out, the psychic he is, but not to what extent. I thought it was just Sharon knowing, but...” Steve takes a deep breath, “...apparently she ratted me out and told SHIELD everything that I did or told her. My nightmares, my breakdowns...” Another deep breath, “you...” This was just the tip of the iceberg of what was running through Steve’s mind every single day.

This is a whole lot of new information to take in for Bucky, who doesn't know what to say. His Steve, in front of him, held in his arms, suddenly as small as he was when he left him in 1943. “What the hell, Steve,” is the first thing coming out of his mouth, and he pulls him in for another hug. “We’re two fucked up dudes,” he then says, “but we’ll be fine. It’s always been you 'nd me, we’ve always figured it out together and we’ll do it again. I'm with you ’til the end of the line, pal.”

Bucky’s words and gestures make Steve collapse with tears. His friend that seemed so far gone some days ago was here, back with him. After all their misfortune, the two had found each other again.

They sit in thick silence for a while, when Bucky breaks it. “Is this why you’ve just been laying on the sofa with your lazy ass?” he says sharply.

“What the...” Steve is almost insulted. “I’ve taken some time off to take care of you,” Steve lies with an angry tone, his cheeks turning bright red.

“Don't lie to me, Rogers, you suck at it. Now that you’re healthy and fit, you wouldn't throw that away by laying on the sofa the whole damn day. Don't forget,” he points from his own eyes to Steve’s, “I have been trained to notice everything.” He opens his eyes wide open on the last sentence to give it a comedic touch.

Steve gives out an enormous sigh. “I just don't know, man. I just... don't know. I don't even know where to start.” If I ever start talking, I will never be able to shut up 'til I'm dead.

“You haven't been to SHIELD HQ since then? I think we should start there, so they can hear your side of the story, and so we can get our ducks in a row on things that needs to be done,” Bucky looks straight into Steve’s eyes with a serious note, “because you can't keep going like this.” But then his eyes start to twinkle, “You're gonna get fat if you just keep laying on that damn sofa!” while he softly slaps Steve on the back with an enormous grin on his face.

“Jerk! But you're right,” Steve agrees with Bucky.

“C’mere.” Bucky pulls Steve into yet another hug. He’s given more hugs in the last 30 minutes than he's done in the last 30 years. It’s nice.

After some minutes, Bucky turns around and sees the clock is 5:30 in the morning. “I don't think I'm gonna get any more sleep. You up for breakfast?”

“Yeah, let’s just start the day,” Steve agrees, and they both get up from Steve’s bed.

Bucky cooks up a traditional American breakfast of eggs, bacon, and toast, while Steve brews a strong black coffee and picks up this morning’s newspaper. For a moment, it feels like they’re back in the 1940s, before the war, and everything’s at peace. No modern technologies, no rush, just the two of them enjoying a good breakfast.

“Usually I run before you get up”—Bucky is not a morning person and usually lays in until at least 9:30—“now that you're up for once, you wanna join me?”

Bucky grumbles, but gives in after seeing Steve’s hopeful puppy eyes. “Fine. But nothing fast!” He has been pushed for decades to test out his max physical capabilities for the good of the Russian Empire and has sworn to never exert himself like that ever again. “Nothing more than a jog.”

“I can compromise,” says Steve with a wink.

The two men lace up their running shoes—Bucky wearing a pair of Steve’s shorts, a long sleeve, and one glove (just to be sure); Steve dressed the other way around with long jogging pants and an overly tight short sleeve. They set off, and Bucky soon realises that this is actually not going to be an easy jog—Steve continuously challenges him to pick up the pace a little.

After a little over 15 km, they reach the door of their building again. “Not bad for two hundred-years-old,” Steve jokes while looking at his watch, “just a little under an hour.”

“That was not a jog, Rogers!” Bucky puffs, pretending to be out of breath, but in reality they both have barely broken a sweat, and still have plenty of energy to run up the three flights of stairs to their apartment door.

Steve heads straight to the shower, and from around the corner he shouts to Bucky, “Don't forget to do your exercises! I know you’ve been putting them off!”

“Yes, mom!” Bucky mocks him, but he knows he’s right. He walks over to the fridge and picks three exercises to do for today, hoping they will be easier now that his body is warmed up after their run.

Unfortunately, the exercises are not any easier at all, and he struggles through the two different stretching exercises and closes off with trying to plank while only being allowed to hold himself on his flesh right arm. His heavy left arm is hanging like a block of concrete on him, and his weak muscles are trembling and screaming at him in pain, almost impossible to keep his back level. He pushes through five minutes in agony, but gives up once he starts seeing stars and can't hold up his own body weight anymore.

He struggles to reach the sofa, and for the first time in his life, voluntarily takes off his left arm. His previous metal arm was permanently attached to him, but his new Wakandan arm can be taken off to be more easily exchanged with different models. He remembered a little how Shuri taught him how to detach it, and after making the wrong motion on the first attempt, on the second attempt the arm comes off, and Bucky gives out a deep sigh, tension leaking out of his body as the heavy weight is removed from him, putting his arm aside on the coffee table. He usually doesn't feel safe enough to take it off, not giving anyone a chance to attack him without his weapon at his literal side, but he’s in a good state of mind and nothing can harm him here and now in this moment.

Steve is shaving and showering in the bathroom, listening to ‘40s music, and Bucky closes his eyes for a moment while laying limp on the sofa, a grin of relief on his face. Is this what peace is?

His peace is quickly disturbed once Steve comes out of the shower, glancing at Bucky who is lying seemingly half-dead on the sofa with a vibranium arm on the coffee table.  “Bucky!” he shouts, while sprinting to his friend. “Are you ok??”

Bucky slowly opens his eyes, his entire face a question mark, after being so rudely awakened after his short nap. “Huh?” is the only thing that he manages to get out of his mouth.

“Your arm?” Steve asks wildly, pointing at it lying on the coffee table.

“Huh?” once more, before he realises what the situation is about. “Oh, ah, yeah. This one detaches, look.” He leans over, grabs his vibranium arm with his right hand and pushes the vibranium against the attachment plate. He spins his arm in a loop, flexes his fingers and wrist and watches how the plates align themselves again. “Pretty cool, right?”

“Why?” is the only thing that Steve manages to get out of him, his expression still utterly shocked.

Bucky takes off his arm again and hands it to Steve. “This is why.” Bucky’s arm weighs at least 20 kilos, almost twice as heavy as a normal human arm.

Steve grabs his arm in surprise and suddenly understands.

“It’s so goddamn heavy, it was just killing me after my exercises,” Bucky adds.

Steve nods, holding out the arm again towards Bucky. “Why you never took it off before? I know you sleep with it.”

Bucky is surprised to hear that Steve knows that he sleeps with his arm, but doesn't have the energy to question it. “I feel it’s my only safety out here,” he says while attaching the arm back, giving it yet another spin and a flex of the hand, a grimace of pain on his face. He doesn't dare to tell Steve he sleeps with at least one knife under his pillow. “You never know what’s gonna happen.”

It’s true, with their line of work and Bucky’s shady history, threats are always around the corner. “I understand,” Steve replies, the conversation turning dark around the edges.

Steve suddenly remembered that he had just gotten out of the shower, and naturally Bucky would also shower soon, the dried-up sweat after his double workout still on his forehead. “Can you shower with it?” This sends a big laugh to Bucky, to which Steve also followed.

After catching his breath, Bucky says with a big smile, “Yes you dummy, the latest tech is waterproof. How old are you, man? Imagine going on a mission, and you have to cancel because it’s raining!” Bucky barely realises what he says and gives Steve a rather hard slap with his metal arm on his bicep, but it suddenly got to him. Going on a mission. Would he ever do that again? Would Steve ever go back in again? The two men turned quiet, looking each other in the eyes, fully understanding their unsure futures. What a mess we’re in.

He takes a sharp breath in, changing the topic. “Anyways. It’s my turn in the bathroom now. WITH my arm,” he says to lighten the mood, but not being able to shake the serious look from his eyes.

Bucky flew back with a loud bang, hanging onto the railing with all the power in his body, whilst the ice-cold wind was rushing past him at 70 miles an hour. He reaches out, stretching as far as he could to his best friend’s hand. He couldn't, their arms just missing each other’s reaches. He shifts his weight, trying to climb up a little and reaches again, but suddenly a jolt, and before he realised it, he falls. He hadn’t lost his grip, but the entire side of the speeding train had come off.

“STEVE!”

“BUCKY, NO!”

“Steeeeeeeve.....!”

He was falling. Falling and falling.

He shuts his eyes, but abruptly opens them again as a sharp pain rings through his upper back, he had crashed into the side of the cliff. Instinctively, he tries to get a grip, stretching his left arm out towards the icy rocks. He grabs something, but the sheer speed of his fall is too fast. He feels a loud pull on his arm, a tremendous pain, tearing off all the muscles and tendons from the power of his fall. His arm cannot hold him. Time is rushing by, but every second feels like an hour. He is still plummeting down through the ravine, his instincts on extremely high alert—grabbing at every chance of survival. His hand hits something, he tries to curl his fingers but he doesn't have the power.

Come on, Barnes.

He crashes into another group of rocks, reaching again, desperately trying to cling to something, anything. He can’t see—everything is a blur—but he keeps trying.

Come on, Barnes.

He feels another sharp pain in his back, stretching out his arms once more to grab onto a group of rocks, but little does he know that his arm is barely intact, held together only by skin and bone, and the speed of his fall is too fast for his broken limb to support his weight. He latches onto a rock that sticks out, travelling downwards so fast, and then his vision turns black.

He wakes up with a shock of ice-cold water. He tries to scream, but he’s underwater and his lungs fill immediately with ice-cold water. What the FUCK is happening? His instincts tell him to go up. GO UP. He is stuck under the ice and his panic is growing with every second, he cannot breathe and what is this pain?? Somehow, magically, as if guided by God himself, he finds a hole in the ice, bursts through it and gasps for air, just on the edge of drowning. He tries to climb out, but he cannot get his left arm to move. He looks down and sees there isn't anything of his arm left. It’s nothing but bright red blood and a mess of mangled flesh and muscle. A bone sticks out. Ffffuuuuuuuu. Bucky’s vision goes black as he passes out from the sight and the pain.

The shock of the ice-cold water in his lungs brings him around again. I need to get out of here. I need to survive. His heart is racing in his chest and he can barely keep on breathing from the intense pain and cold. As he flows down the river, he spots a dead tree sticking out of the water and catapults his body onto it, crushing the edge of his torn left arm and stars explode in his vision.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

He groans loudly and holds himself onto the tree with all the power he has in his legs and his right arm, his life depending on it. He takes a couple of minutes to catch his breath, he’s still submerged in the frozen river, but at least he’s not drowning anymore. He looks down one more time, his entire uniform is soaked with his blood and he bites himself on his tongue to stop himself from blacking out one more time.

This is not good. This is very far from good.

Once he has regained an ounce of strength, he climbs up the tree, out of the water, and sits himself down at the edge of the wild river. How in the hell did I survive this? he thinks to himself, as he looks up at the ravine that is at least a couple of hundred meters deep.

I need to get out of here.

Bucky tries to scramble himself up to his feet, but the severe amount of blood loss and the intense pain in his back make him collapse immediately, and as he falls down—out of balance from missing a limb—he slams his head against the tree, and all is black again.

Bucky is shifting in and out of flashbacks as he stands under the shower. A knock on the door makes him come back around.

“Bucky?” It’s Steve. “All ok, you’ve been in there for a while.” Bucky has been standing under the running water for an hour now, which had turned ice-cold at this point. As cold as the river.

“Yeah.” His voice is raspy and small, almost unrecognisable. He turns around, sitting down in the corner of the shower and presses his palms onto his face until white spots appear in his vision. He had been so clear in his mind the whole morning, but now this shitshow is back on the schedule.

Steve, stubborn as he is, opens the door and sees his friend, small as a toddler, sitting in the corner of the shower. Bucky’s having goosebumps all over his body from the ice-cold water, visibly shaking. Steve hurries to turn off the shower and huddles Bucky in two pre-heated towels, to then sit next to him in the puddle of cold water.

“You wanna talk about it?” he asks.

Bucky says nothing, staring blankly into space, and so the two sit in silence for a while. After some minutes, Bucky takes a sharp breath.

“The nightmares you’re having. I have them too.” Steve is not surprised. “But I don't even have to be asleep to have the pleasure,” Bucky says, his voice flat and empty.

Steve turns to look at Bucky, his gaze a thousand miles long and completely empty. He has gone far, far back into the depth of his memories.

Eventually, Bucky blinks hard and comes back to reality. He looks down his left side and flexes his vibranium arm. His fingers, his wrist, aligning and de-aligning the plates, like he's in some sort of trance.

“I still remember it.” He takes a deep breath. “The pain. I tried to catch myself onto some rocks, Steve, I really did, but... I was going too fast.”

“I know you did, bud, it wasn’t your fault. I should’ve... I should've tried harder.”

They sit quietly for a while, the two of them reliving the same memory, but from opposite sides, until Steve breaks the silence. “We really are two fucked up dudes, aren’t we,” echoing Bucky’s words from earlier that day.

Chapter Text

“What do you think about this?” Bucky steps out of his room in full Winter Soldier uniform.

Steve jerks upright, slightly shocked by what’s in front of him. “Jesus, Buck!” Steve exclaims, but can't help but laugh a little at the same time. “A little inappropriate, perhaps?”

“I bet walking through the door like this will turn some eyes,” Bucky adds with a wink.

Two days after learning about Steve’s nightmares and his leave from SHIELD, Bucky booked a meeting with Nick Fury at the headquarters. It was time that they heard Steve’s side of the story, whether Steve liked it or not.

“Don't worry, pal. I'm planning to go there on goodwill, not to cause a stir. Something casual will do, right?” he continues, double-checking what vibe of dress Steve was going for, so he wouldn't stand out too much.

Steve nods to him, he’s visibly nervous, his jaw clenched, his lips tense. Their meeting is due in a little less than an hour.

“I booked us a driver,” Bucky remarks—seemingly out of nowhere. “Figured it was better for you to not drive,” he continues, “and my license... well, that one lost its validity in 1945.” Despite the sad reality, he can't help but see the humour of it all and chuckles, mostly to himself.

The next 45 minutes are tense in the Rogers-Barnes household. Steve is nervously packing various items into a small shoulder bag, and then deciding that he actually doesn't need to bring anything at all, while Bucky is more busy with looking decent for their meeting so he doesn't scare the poor employees at SHIELD at the sight of the Winter Soldier. He looks in the mirror, barely recognising who or what he’s looking at. His hair is long, his face covered with a three-day-old stubble. He pulls his locks out of his face, seeing if it makes a difference, seeing if he remembers his face when he had short hair in his younger years, but instead he finds himself staring at the multiple scars on his forehead from the machine that was used to put his brain through the blender over and over again. He looks at his own, unfamiliar face, his breath shallow with shock. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Forcing himself to snap back, he lets go of his hair and splashes cold water in his face, trying to clear the brain fog and memories. He needs to be clear today; he needs to be there for Steve. His mind fills with a purpose he hasn’t felt for the past 70 years: getting Steve back on track, protecting him like he’s always done.

He tries to tame his unbrushed hair into a low, messy bun, but decides at the last minute to just have his hair loose. Whatever. Steve is looking perfectly casual, Bucky knowing that he put a lot of thought into how he wants to present himself while looking as if he didn’t.

As usual, he is ready five minutes before leaving, and he's waiting impatiently by their apartment door until it’s socially acceptable to step out and wait for their driver outside. Bucky, a little less punctual but still ready in time, walks up to Steve, who is nervously tapping his foot on the floor, and grabs him firmly by the shoulder.

“You’ll be fine, pal. After fighting Nazis, aliens, hell, even me—you can manage this too.”

Bucky knows well that this is a whole different battle than just a physical one, and Steve wants to open his mouth and say something stubborn, but Bucky knows his friend well, and before he gets a chance to speak, interrupts him.

“Let’s get going,” he says, squeezing his shoulder a little more as a sign of comfort.

“Captain Rogers! I thought we’d never see you again,” Nick Fury exclaims sarcastically, opening the door of his office for the two super soldiers. “Sergeant Barnes,” he nods respectfully while shaking Bucky’s hand, “good to see you without you pointing a rifle at my face,” with still a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

“I agree,” Bucky replies with a half-smile on his lips, but remains professional.

Fury gestures for the two to come in and take a seat. “D’you want a drink?”

“No, thank you,” Steve replies before Bucky even gets the chance to think, his stern Captain America voice in action makes him turn his gaze to him. It was 70 years since he’d seen Steve putting on his role like that - and it still looks damn good on him.

“I wanted to discuss your partnership with Agent Carter regarding my personal matters,” Steve starts the conversation straight to the point, not leaving any time for informalities.

“Alright. Agent Carter was in a long-term relationship with you, by her own choice, which you know is not allowed under SHIELD rules. However, due to the... interesting point of view it gave us, we allowed her to continue your relationship on the one agreement that she provided us with information that she deemed necessary for us to have. We gave her this option and she accepted it.”

Bucky looks at Steve, who grips the arms of his chair so hard his knuckles start turning white.

“Are you sure you asked her this afterwards, or before getting together with me?”

“A fair question, Cap. We asked her to keep an eye on you beforehand, which you know, but getting into a relationship with you was 100% her own choice.” Fury, as calm and calculated as he always is—Steve, on the other hand, not.

“Did you really think this was gonna work out?” Steve gets up from his chair with force, his voice roaring with anger. “That she didn’t get forced by you to do this? For how long has this been going on then?”

“Almost two years ago.” Just some weeks after they got together. “We noticed that your phones were very often tracked at the same location. The math was simple,” Fury answers calmly, skipping over the accusation.

“I don't believe this,” Steve starts pacing the room. “How could I ever fall for this again? We are all just your puppets! What did she tell you?”

“I want to repeat myself, Cap, that we gave her a choice. We didn't force her to do anything she didn't want to do.”

Steve gives Fury a look with nothing but fire in his eyes, trembling with anger.

Bucky realises this will get out of hand, his short-tempered friend not being able to deal with this reality. He gets up, turns to Fury. “Excuse us for a minute,” and paces across the room to Steve in three quick strides.

“Steve, buddy, you gotta breathe, man,” he tries to ground Steve by grabbing him tightly at his shoulder with his vibranium arm, pinching him just a little so Steve is forced to focus on him. “You don't know the reasons why Sharon did that. It’s awful, but you can't change anything about it—it’s not gonna make a difference. The past is the past, I'm your living proof of that.” He grabs him even tighter, almost to the point of leaving a bruise, his vibranium arm buzzing, wanting to make himself very clear in what he means without using words.

“Buck, you were forced to do those things...”

Bucky thinks about the chair. The electricity surging through his body. The code words. The scars on his forehead. He snaps himself out of it before his thoughts make a run for it.

“And maybe so was she, in some sort of way. We will probably never know, but it doesn't matter anymore. The past isn’t going anywhere, Steve. Let’s stop looking back, and look at the future ahead instead.”

Steve knows Bucky’s right. Bucky has always been the calm and logical one of the two. Steve, the hot-headed, emotional fighter; and Bucky, his stability, his backbone. Steve exhales through his nose, shoulders dropping half an inch—barely visible by anyone but Bucky—tension leaving his tight body.

“Please, Captain, sit down,” Fury interrupts the two, as he sees the scene has calmed down.

Steve flickers his gaze to Bucky, who nods to him that it’s okay. Steve gives out a deep sigh, his tension lowering further as he picks up the back of the chair to sit himself down again.

“I don't really care how this happened—it has happened now—and from our side, nothing’s changed. We’ve known about your... issues for almost two years. You’re functional during missions, you're reliable, and the work gets done. That’s what’s important for us,” Nick Fury continues the conversation, keeping his voice low and calm to not set off Steve again, “and I can assure you that everyone still respects you, Captain. No one is surprised to hear that you are disturbed by the happenings of your odd life. You’re also not the only one here carrying around some weird-ass trauma,” Fury says with his typical sarcastic undertone, tapping his eyepatch.

Steve’s cheeks turn red, embarrassed by the compliments and how he has made such a big deal of something that SHIELD doesn't even care about.

“If it’s fine by you, we can reinstate you back under active duty and we’ll just pretend this has never happened. I will however strongly advise you to get your shit sorted out.” Fury gives Steve a stern look. “I won't let you get tested to see if you’re fit for duty—I trust your own instincts—but you need to get this worked out if you wanna enjoy your absurdly long life.”

“Thank you, sir,” Steve replies, putting on his Captain America voice, all business again. “I will consider your offer.”

“Good. Then all is settled,” Fury says with a twinkle in his eye. “That wasn’t so bad, was it now?” That damn smug smile tells that he knew how nervous Steve was for this conversation.

“No, sir. We’ll be out now,” Steve says professionally as he gets up from his chair, his gaze reaching Bucky’s on his way.

The three shake hands and nod to each other politely before heading toward the door.

“Barnes, a word,” Fury says as they are just on their way out.

Bucky lifts an eyebrow in surprise and nods to Steve that it’s okay as he turns himself around to Fury.

“Barnes, you know him better than anyone else. I think you and I both know that he is unfit for duty right now. I didn't want to demotivate Rogers, but by what we’ve heard from Agent Carter, he has some pretty serious issues, and he needs all the help he can get. I see how he responds and listens to you, so keep an eye on him, will ya? You and him have a very unique skill set—it would be a waste to not have the both of you on the team. Keep an eye on your inbox, and we’ll be in touch.”

“Yessir,” Bucky replies professionally, almost about to salute by force of nature, but recovers himself in the last second. You were doing so well, Barnes. Almost lost yourself there.

“What did Fury want?” Steve asks suspiciously, not trusting anything in this world anymore.

“He wants me to keep an eye on you,” Bucky knows it’s pointless to hide the truth from Steve, “and he wants the both of us on the team.”

Steve’s eyes turn wide with shock. “Buck—”

“Don't worry. I won't tell him anything.”

Steve visibly relaxes at this statement, his thoughts running at a thousand miles an hour. After a short silence, he breaks the tension. “Do you... do you want to go back on the team?” His cheeks are flaming red with just the embarrassing thought of not wanting to serve.

“Do you?”

Steve lets out a deep sigh, avoiding Bucky’s gaze. “Honestly, I don't know right now.”

“Then we don’t. For now. We can always change our minds.”

Steve looks up into Bucky’s calm, steady gaze, radiating nothing but kindness and stability. We. Not me, not him. We. Us. His emotions overwhelm him, and he grabs Bucky into a tight embrace. “Thanks, Buck. I don't know what I would've done without you by my side today,” his voice cracks.

Bucky pushes him back, just enough to meet his eyes. “I know. You would've punched Fury into a mulch. You need to learn to control your temper, pal.”

“You know I've never been able to hold back a fight,” Steve says with a soft smile, the tension slowly seeping out of him.

“I know, punk,” Bucky says as he slaps Steve on the shoulder. “Let’s get outta here. I'm starving.”

“Jerk,” Steve says, playfully, as the two exit SHIELD HQ.

Chapter Text

Bucky jolts up, his eyes darting around his dark room. He’s not sure if he was screaming in real life or only in his sleep, but the rest of the apartment is still quiet, so at least he hadn’t woken up Steve. By the time he finally catches his breath, he’s shivering from the cold sweat all over his body. He rolls himself tight into his blanket, but every time he closes his eyes to try to get back to sleep, his memories start dancing in front of his eyes again.

---

A gun is pressed into the soldier’s right hand. The soldier’s left arm is absent.

“Zhelaniye,” a man says. (Longing)

A prisoner is standing in front of the soldier. He isn't told any assignment, but he knows what is expected of him. “No.”

The soldier gets slapped in the face, but doesn't respond to it, his gaze staring blankly ahead, eyes dull.

“Zhelaniye.”

The soldier holds his breath, unwilling to execute the assignment.

His handler is starting to lose his patience. “Zhelaniye. Shoot this pig.”

The soldier flicks his eyes sharply towards the handler, Commander Petrov, his gaze cold but filled with anger. “No.” He clenches his jaw tightly.

Petrov gestures to one of his assistants to hand him a small device. He pushes it with full force against the soldier’s abdomen.

A bolt of electricity runs through the soldier’s body. He tries to stay upright, be strong, show no pain, but he cannot stop the tears from forming in his eyes—an automatic response of the body to the immense and acute pain. He growls to the commander.

“Zhelaniye.” Petrov has now raised his voice, spit flying into the soldier’s face. He moves the device against the soldier’s chest.

The soldier convulses, knees buckling beneath him. Tears are pooling in his eyes and as he forces his eyes shut in pain, they stream down his face.

“Sotrudnichay — i poluchish nagradu.” (Cooperate — and you will be rewarded.)

“I am not your pet,” the soldier growls back.

Petrov places the device against his chest again, sending an even larger pulse of electricity through his body. “Zhelaniye! Ispolnyat'!” (Longing! Comply!)

The soldier’s vision is blurring around the edges, he’s breathing hard out of his nose to control the pain, but he still manages to hold the gun tightly in his right hand, refusing to give in to the pain. I won't give up that easily.

Petrov walks around him, and as the soldier is weakened, kicks him on the backside of his knees, forcing him to the ground.

A sting in his neck, some liquid flowing into his veins. What the hell? He tries to grab his handler’s hand while he’s in reach, but he is so weak and dizzy from the electricity pulsing through his body that the world is spinning in front of his eyes. He attempts to turn around, tries to get a grip with his left arm, but his arm is not there and instead he loses his balance and falls onto his side.

As the soldier hits his head on the hard, concrete floor, he starts seizing uncontrollably, his vision blurring until he only sees shades of grey.

“Zhelaniye,” (Longing) Petrov starts calmly again, knowing the soldier is incapable of hurting him in this state.

“Zhelaniye.”

“Hail HYDRA.”

Petrov kicks the soldier in his ribcage.

“Hail HYDRA!”

The soldier has finally stopped seizing, but is still lying weakly on the ground, all the strength seeped out of his body. Petrov kicks him one more time. “Vstan'.” (Get up.)

“Fuck you!” the soldier shouts at him with all the force he has left within him, and spits at the commander’s boots. His body might not function as he desires, but his mind is filled with fire.

“Why” kick. “won’t” kick. “you” kick. “just” kick. “listen!” kick. Petrov has lost all his patience at this point, and he kicks the soldier a final time at the side of his head. The soldier’s vision turns to black as his body goes limp.

“Segodnya on ostanetsya bez uzhina. I zavtra tozhe,” (He will go without a meal tonight. And tomorrow too.) he says to his assistant as he walks out of the room, the soldier lying still on the floor.

---

Bucky fades in and out of memories and flashbacks for a while, before he can finally muster the mental strength to pull himself out of it and get out of the bed. It’s 5 a.m., too early even for Steve to be up. He tiptoes around the apartment, makes himself a cup of jet-black coffee and sits down in the windowsill that looks out over Prospect Park. It’s late spring, the sun just about to rise and wake the city. Without meaning to, the vibranium arm is twitching and buzzing loudly. His stomach rumbles.

--

His stomach rumbles. The soldier hasn’t had food since his last act of rebellion, two days ago. He is used to not being fed regularly, but usually gets at least one meal a day. Now, his stomach feels like a gaping black hole—the intense hunger has taken over his entire body and mind, the only thing he can feel and think about. He has been fed the exact amount to just survive and keep up with his training, but nothing more. His handlers are afraid of him becoming too strong to control. Not as if they can really control him at this point either. They have tried almost everything by now. Beating. Whipping. Forcing him to exercise to exhaustion. Cold water hose-overs. Now even electricity. But the soldier will not give up. He will not turn into their pet.

His whole body aches from the frequent beatings, his mind just holding on to his pride and the hope that Steve will come and rescue him—just like last time. Steve. The soldier tries to imagine Steve, but his thoughts are nothing but blurry, a faint outline of a face with blonde hair, but the details are missing. Steve. He will come for me, right? How long has he been here? Weeks? Months? Years? The lack of natural light screws with his internal clock, having lost all sense of time.

---

“This isn't working. We have been trying for months now to break him, but he won't give up. He is stronger than we expected. We need a different strategy,” says a man wearing a white lab coat, speaking in Russian.

“He needs to be ruled with an iron hand! He is too useful to just let go,” Commander Petrov says to the man in the lab coat.

“I didn't say we should let him go. As you say, he is too valuable. He can become the best thing we’ve ever had, once we find out how to control him.”

“Then what do you suggest, doctor?”

“New research on animals has shown that they respond best to training when rewarded. I have come up with some ideas to take those findings a step further. Take away everything he has now, make him desperate. And when he complies, give him a simple reward. Food. Clothes. Make him believe that he’s in charge of his own decisions. Make him believe that we’re providing him with good things—but only once he complies,” the doctor explains to the officer.

“That sounds interesting. He hasn’t been fed in two days now. I will ask the staff to remove his belongings. How about the code words? The other subjects gave in quickly, but he doesn't respond to them at all.”

“Make him weak first. He will be more malleable. I'm working on some drugs that can help as well. He is much stronger than our other subjects, but we will break him,” the doctor gives a reassuring nod, a creepy smile on his lips.

“Thank you, doctor. We will be in touch,” Petrov says as he shakes the doctor’s hand and the two part ways.

---

The door opens with a loud bang, waking the soldier in shock.

“Vstan'!” (Get up!) an unknown handler shouts at him.

It’s been three days since the soldier was last fed, and he has barely any control over his own actions, stiff from the lack of movement, his injuries, and the hunger. His handler kicks him in the abdomen. “Vstan', amerikanets!” (Get up, American!) The soldier involuntarily hunches over and dry heaves as a response, but there’s nothing but stomach acid burning in his throat. Before the handler can beat him one more time, he slowly rises to his feet, moving as if his muscles are made of stone.

“Ostansya tam. Ne dvigaysya,” (Stay there. Don't move.) his handler barks at him, the electrocution device threatening in his hand. The soldier glares with a deadly stare but stands quietly.

The soldier looks around. Several staff members are taking away the bed and the chair, leaving nothing but a thin blanket on the floor. “This is what you get for misbehaving, amerikanets. Let’s see for how long you will be strong now,” the handler teases him, speaking in a thick Russian accent. “You good, you get reward. Food. You bad,” the handler moves the device and sends a shock through his body, making the soldier fall to his knees, “you get punishment. Easy peasy.” The handler looks so proud of himself. “Come here.”

The soldier gets up and steps toward the handler.

“That’s a good boy, soldat,” and he gives him a dry piece of bread. “That wasn’t so hard, da? You have training later today. You good, you get dinner.” The handler turns on his heels, leaving the soldier all by himself in his empty room with the piece of bread in his hand. Like a fucking animal.

---

A click of an opening door. A man steps out from a room.

The soldier reaches for his knife, more of a trained automation than something he really has to think about, and within seconds it flies through the room toward the man. The soldier’s vision is blurred, black around the edges, but his aim is still perfect.

The man kneels down as the blade spins his way, his reflexes fast as lightning. He rolls smoothly, evading the knife that jams into the wall with immense force, and crouches down behind the sofa.

“Bucky?” the man says, worry and question in his voice, keeping a distance.

The soldier’s heart rings through his ears, but it’s slow and stable. His eyes are hard and cold.

“Bucky, it’s me. There’s nothing to worry about,” the man continues, his voice calm and soothing.

The soldier blinks hard. The voice sounds familiar, but he cannot place the face through his blurred vision. Better be cautious. “Nazvat’sya!” (Identify yourself!) the soldier yells, a mix of aggression and insecurity in his tone, his body tense and ready to attack.

The man comes out from behind the couch, hands up in the air as a sign not to startle the soldier. “Buck, it’s me. Steve.”

The man’s movement startles him anyways. He draws another knife — god only knows where he keeps them while wearing pyjamas — and rushes toward the subject, placing the knife sharply at his throat. “You’re my mission,” the words roll out of the soldier’s mouth without any thought behind them, his gaze sharp, devoid of any emotion or recognition. Vision tunnelled.

The man is not threatened by the soldier’s action. On the contrary, he moves fast but smooth and grabs the soldier’s right arm, squeezing it softly without intent of harm. The soldier’s gaze flickers toward the man’s arm, and then to his face. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. He opens his eyes wide, starting to see what’s happening in front of him. Steve. Steve.

Bucky gasps, pulls himself quickly back and drops the knife in shock. He looks at his hands as if they’re not his own. His senses are coming back to him, the fog in his vision clearing. He just stands there, eyes wild, darting between his shaking hands and Steve, breathing laboured, until he collapses onto his knees, hands pressed to his face.

Steve quickly moves toward him, putting his hands back on Bucky’s right shoulder, unsure if he’d be accepting of a hug in his current state. “Hey, it’s okay. We’re home.”

“Steve, Jesus,” Bucky lets out a sob, realising what could’ve happened. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, Buck, I'm fine,” he reassures his friend. “What happened?”

Bucky lets out a deep breath and turns so he leans with his back against the backside of the sofa, pulling his knees up. He stares at his hands, the right hand still shivering slightly while the left is stable. He flexes the fingers of his left hand, readjusting the vibranium plates. Steve notices he’s done this before in stressful events—perhaps it relaxes him. Bucky lets out another deep breath. He tries to say something, but he doesn't even know where to start. He settles for something easy: “Nightmares. Memories.”

“Rough night?”

Bucky nods. He can't make himself look at Steve, guilt rising in his chest. The two sit in silence for a while—Bucky breathing hard, his thoughts running a thousand miles an hour, Steve gently stroking his right arm to calm his nerves.

Bucky breaks the silence by clearing his throat. “I shouldn't live here with you anymore. I'm dangerous to be around.” He turns to look sharply at Steve, his eyes clear with purpose and hurt.

“Buck—”

“I'm serious. I could've easily killed you just now; your quick reflexes saved your life. Any other person would’ve had their brains smudged all over your wall,” the words are heavy, but in his voice lingers a hint of sarcasm.

Even after decades of brainwashing, he hasn’t lost his sharp tongue, Steve thinks to himself. He can't help but chuckle at the thought. “Good thing I'm not any other person, then?” He squeezes Bucky’s shoulder hard. “I've seen you do worse things, Buck. I think I’ll survive.”

Bucky’s gaze softens with Steve’s words.

“And where else would you live? You and I both know what would happen if you lived at the hospital. People get too curious.”

A second of thought.

“Perhaps you're right. I just... I can't trust my own mind. They’ve erased the code words, but the rest of the Winter Soldier is still there. The training, the reflexes,” a deep sigh, “the memories.”

Steve puts on his stern but powerful Captain America voice, forcing Bucky to really listen to him. “No one expects you to forget about your past, Buck, and no one expects you to be fine all the time—especially not me.” He softens his voice. “We will work through this,” as he pulls Bucky into a soft hug, “but perhaps, you can get rid of the knives? Where the hell do you get them from anyway?”

Bucky snorts at the weirdness of Steve’s language. “Swearing doesn't suit you, punk.” He doesn’t really answer Steve’s question—the guilt of his actions still too fresh to tell him that he has an entire suitcase filled with all kinds of weapons. Just in case.