Hi guys! This is the first chapter in what will be a multi-chapter story. I don't know yet how many chapters there will be, and I don't want to give an estimate, since it will probably change. The first part of this story (the first five chapters) will be Bucky-centric, focusing on his struggles. After that, the rest will be from Steve's point of view. I'm really excited to write this, and I hope you enjoy it too. :)

Disclaimer: Any characters you recognize in this story are owned by Marvel, not me. I'm just borrowing them for a bit. Story title not mine- from Flaws by Bastille. Chapter Title is from "Untitled" by Simple Plan. Art isn't mine, either- it's by littleulvar on DeviantArt.

Warnings for angst and dealing with memory loss.

Enjoy!

Chapter One: The Night Goes On (As I'm Fading Away)

The sun sank slowly beneath the horizon, plunging the world around him into darkness. The Soldier could feel himself growing tense at the thought of night. Everything was worse at night. Threats could be lurking behind every corner, ready to take him back. He knew that if They did, he would be punished for his disobedience. Still, it had been two months. Two months since his last order. Two months since he saw Them. It was both exhilarating and terrifying. Every time he made a choice, every time he thought up something himself, it felt like a swift punch to the gut after years of numbness. He savored the sharp pain it brought, because pain was something, and so it was better than the complete nothingness he had experienced for decades. Still, the freedom could be suffocating. It left him feeling raw and vulnerable. Maybe that was why he had pulled off the highway after driving three days straight. He could stop, take stock, finally address the hunger that had been nagging at him for days.

The diner was quaint and cozy, with music playing that felt out of place in the current time, but he couldn't place where it did belong. It was a bit like him in that way, he supposed as he sank into the booth in the very back corner, placed right next to the window he had parked his (stolen) motorcycle outside of. He had a good view of the entire restaurant from there, and if it turned out They were there, he could simply break the window next to him and immediately drive away on his bike.

After completing a full visual sweep of the diner, The Soldier reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a bundle of paper. He carefully separated and unfolded each one. Some were crammed full of shaky writing. Others had only a few words or phrases jotted down. A few were completely blank. He spread them out on the table and sighed. This was all he had on his latest mission. If this was a regular mission, he would have more. Lack of information was a sign of incompetence. A sign of failure.

He couldn't fail this mission.

"Good evening, sir," a cheerful but strained voice said. He jumped into an automatic defensive position, before seeing it was only the waitress. He unclenched his fists. "Sorry if I startled you. Welcome to Stacy's Diner. My name is Nadia and I will be serving you tonight. Are you ready to order?" The Soldier wanted to laugh at the irony of her words, but was confronted with a bigger issue. He quickly scanned the menu in front of him. There were too many choices. After so long of never having a say, of simply being told what to do, all the options were overwhelming. His hand was trembling and he gripped the table as hard as he could to keep it steady. He desperately looked around the room until his eyes fell on a blackboard near the door proclaiming the daily specials.

"Do you need more time?" Nadia asked. "I can come back in a few minutes."

The Soldier shook his head. "Just get me a pot of fully-caffeinated coffee and two of today's specials. And four slices of whatever pie tastes best, a la mode." He handed her the menu with his gloved Other Hand and turned back to the mess of papers in front of him. He knew she was just doing her job, but having her standing so closely made him uncomfortable. He still couldn't figure out the winding labyrinth that was human interaction, and found it easier to simply ignore everyone.

The scents around him were bringing his aching hunger into a sharper clarity, as well as a mess of memories all tangled together. Hot food on cold nights. A sleepy, satisfied feeling in his stomach. A blonde woman poking her head out of a kitchen to announce supper. The last one was followed by another, more painful scene: his hand wrapped tightly around a smaller one and a trembling body leaning on his as a coffin was lowered into the ground. It made him think of Steve. The name alone was enough to invoke a sense of longing in his chest. Whenever he tried to focus on Steve, he was brought back to the burn of cheap alcohol and a mouth pressed against his; cold, fumbling fingers on his skin; the loud creaking of a rickety bed; moans drowned out by a fierce storm. The Soldier didn't know what to do with these memories in particular. They were some of the first things he had added to the papers in front of him. He knew Steve would have answers, but getting them would mean seeking the man out. Steve, who had called him Bucky and looked at him like he was worth something. Steve, whose eyes stayed wide and desperate, even as The Soldier tried to smash his skull in. Steve, who had caused heart-stopping panic when they both fell and he was the one to sink.

Steve, who he had saved, even though his brain was too muddled to understand why.

But The Soldier wasn't Bucky. He'd visited the Captain America exhibit in DC and stared at the face of James Buchanan Barnes. He'd wanted to sob, because they looked like the same person and yet they weren't. Bucky was Steve's best friend. He was a hero who had died a brave death. The Soldier was a killer, a weapon, who was still very much breathing and had a head full of memories of things best friends wouldn't do to each other. Couldn't, if his limited research into homophobia in the early 1900's could be trusted. And if Steve found out the man he was looking for was the one who had died, not the one he was currently chasing, The Soldier knew Steve would be heartbroken. The Soldier didn't understand emotions very well, but he knew deep down in his gut this was true. So he continued to run.

He found an empty space on the page labeled "Childhood?" (which was easy, since most of the paper was empty) and scribbled down what he had remembered, as well as a badly-drawn sketch of the woman he'd seen. For some reason he knew Steve would've been able to do better. That was added in a messy scrawl to the much fuller paper entitled "Steve".

His food was brought out rather quickly (probably due to the lack of customers at such a late hour) and he stared at the array before him. Two large stacks of pancakes with bacon, sausage, and eggs, an entire pot of steaming coffee, and four massive slices of cherry pie drowning in vanilla ice cream. He poured himself a mug of coffee and downed it all before devouring the first plate, and then drank another cup before the second. By the time he reached the pie, he was a quarter way through the pot. The Soldier attacked the pie with all the speed and precision as he would any target, and was rewarded with a brain freeze. He tried to stay calm as his head ached from the cold, but all he could think about was how small the chamber was, and how cold, and how no matter how loud he screamed, no one seemed to hear him, until he finally stopped screaming because his vision was growing hazy and his limbs were numb and all he wanted was to-

He was snapped back to the present by a loud crack. The Soldier looked down and was surprised to see his Other Hand had been gripping the fork so hard, the utensil had broken. He ducked his head and let his long hair and cap block his face to deter prying eyes. Attention was bad. It meant more targets and more death and more pain. He shook away those thoughts and returned to the pie (his pie, he reminded himself; it had been three months and yet he still struggled to think of things as his own), this time at a slower pace. Once he finished all four slices, he finished the coffee without any cream or sugar. It was bitter and strong and cut through the haze that was forming now that he was full and reminded of his exhaustion.

He read through the entire Steve page until the waitress (Nadia, with the worn-out cheerfulness and tired eyes) noticed he was done and gave him his check while trying not to stare. He knew the serum inside of him made him require more food than most, and so he could understand her shock, but she didn't comment on it, which The Soldier appreciated. He pulled a thick wad of cash out of his other pocket and set it down on top of the bill. Two hundred American dollars. All stolen from an ATM 80 miles back. It was a sum over four times the amount called for. Nadia needed (deserved) it more than him. He hoped the extra-large tip would make her eyes a little less tired.

Then he left the diner and climbed back onto his motorcycle, and drove until the sun rose once more.

I hope you enjoyed it! Please leave me feedback- not only does it help me as a writer, but it makes me super happy! Have a wonderful day!