A/N: This may make no sense and I'm not sure of all my facts. Spoilers for the two Captain America films, which I don't own. Please review if you have time :)

Tangled Lines

From a fairy-tales and stereotypes point of view, they shouldn't be friends. Bucky was tall, strong, handsome, suave- the complete opposite of Steve's diminutive stature and frail immune system. But, Bucky had learnt (and thank God he did), appearances can be deceiving; an adage confirmed when, on that cold November night, the orphan had discovered a scrawny punk getting beaten up in an alley and yelling insults to his attacker's intelligence all the way. Naturally, Bucky had sent the brutes packing with their tails between their legs then heaved the blonde boy up. Well, heaved was pushing it…
"Thank you." The boy had said, a bright smile plastering his face despite the blood trickling down from a cut above his bright blue eye "Usually they only leave when they get bored."
"Or they're just fed up of your jabbering." Bucky had replied, allowing a faint glint of respect to show through his voice.
"Or that." The younger of the two had agreed, still smiling "Name's Steven Grant Rodgers, but you can call me Steve."
He took the proffered hand "James Buchannan Barnes, but I prefer Bucky."
And that was when the line started.

The table was hard, drilling discomfort in to his already wooden limbs. His brunette hair hung lank with sweat, head filled with delirious dreams. At least there wasn't anyone poking him. Crash! Bucky started, turning his head- as much as was possible- in the direction of the noise. Screams and gunfire. Nothing he wasn't used to, but why was it here? Hope began to swell inside his sunken chest, but Bucky squashed it hastily. He'd near resigned himself to death long ago. A door crashed open close by, his body tensed. Then…
"Bucky!"
What? It couldn't be Steve, he must be hallucinating because there is no way in hell that Steve would…Well, blow me!
"Steve?"
"Hey, Buck."
The Sergeant blinked at his old friend. No doubt about it, the man frantically untying his bonds was Steve Rodgers, just a hundred times more muscled and, he thought with annoyance, taller than him.
"What the hell happened to you?" he demands as Steve eases him off the operation table "And what are you wearing?"
Steve grins as they make their way along the corridor with as much haste as they can muster, Bucky leaning on his friend for the second time in his life.
"I joined the Army."

It was a cold night in the famous New York winter, frost coated every available surface in glittering dust and the abundant homeless population were as desperate as ever. Steve was just lucky he could get to Bucky's place in less than an hour, carrying his meagre possessions in a knapsack. He'd used a phone box to call ahead, informing his honorary brother that he'd been turfed out of his flat for failing to pay the rent. As Bucky had fiercely assured him, it wasn't his fault: the flu had prohibited him from working for a week and his boss had fired him. Steve rubbed his hands together in an attempt to force some warmth in to his worn mittens. Only a few more streets until he reached Bucky's block (which wasn't actually all that square). Gingerly, Steve turned in to an alley .To his relief it was devoid of other human life, prompting Steve to hunch in on himself to utilise his own body heat, an action which he had held back on for fear of appearing weak. A cruel laugh reverberated from the alley walls. Steve's head shot up. Approaching him was a gaunt man, perhaps in his late thirties, flanked by four sneering thugs. All five of them held guns, gleaming evilly in the moonlight.

"Where're you going, punk?" the leader demanded, his voice like gravel.
Steve held his head high "Through this alley."
The leader snorted, advancing on the twenty year old. He came to a stop directly in front of Steve, close enough for his rancid breath to wash down over him in waves. The lackeys surrounded them "Not on my watch." He snarled.
Next thing he knew, Steve was flat out on the floor, gasping for the breath that had been knocked clean out of him. His bag was nowhere to be seen. Finally regaining some sense, Steve struggled upwards, only to be beaten down by a hard punch to the face, nauseating pain crackling across his skull. He must have yelled, judging by the gag one of the thugs was shoving down his throat. At least this- and Steve's struggling- occupied them enough for him to manage to block the second punch. Unfortunately for him, this just enraged the muggers more, as a sharp blow to his gut proved. Steve was pretty sure he actually was going to be sick.
"Alright, kill him."

The offhand command stilled Steve as much as the words that followed it, coming from behind the leader "I wouldn't if I were you."
Steve struggled, catching the right angle to confirm his fears. There was Bucky, probably on his way to meet Steve as he went and looking very angry.
The leader turned away from Steve, smirking cruelly "And what 'you gunna do about it, kid?"
Bucky paused. Apparently he hadn't planned that part yet.
The head thug spat on the cobblestones, aiming his gun directly at Bucky's head. With a burst of adrenalin, Steve kicked out at the man, knocking him off his feet just as the trigger was squeezed. Bucky let out a howl of pain as the bullet embedded itself in the wall, via his leg. At least he's alive Steve thought with relief. That relief was eclipsed by fear when the irate leader turned to where Steve lay, held down by the henchmen, and levelled the gun at his head. Then stood on his chest. Oh sh…
"Leave this one to me." His attacker ordered. The witnesses willingly scattered.
Steve gulped, the deadly muzzle of the handgun filling his vison. He couldn't move the man's weight too much for him. Click. The gun was prepared. He closed his eyes. And second now a small pellet of lead would enter his skull, freeing a flood of brain fluid and ending his miserable existence. Any second now…

The weight disappeared. Steve cracked his eyes open, then eased himself upwards when he saw Bucky knelt on the ground to his right, pummelling their tormentors face. The man looked unconscious. Steve pushed himself shakily to his feet, taking a moment to regain his balance before calling out to his friend "Bucky."
Instantly, Barnes ceased his assault on the leader and turned his head towards Steve, looking him over. His brows creased "You're too brave for your own good." He stated.
Steve shrugged before bending down to support his friend's left "I could say the same about you. Come on, you need a doctor."
"And a good few shots of whiskey."
Steve clapped him on the back as they struggled down the alley.

The attacker came out of nowhere, or so it seemed. Bucky never exactly thought about it, just grabbed the shield and shot. It wasn't like he was going to run in to the next carriage while Steve was incapacitated, even if he was Captain America now and telling him to go. Bucky couldn't quite discern the exact moment that the floor disappeared, but he can remember instinctively grabbing at any available handhold, flying along the train in terrifying freedom. Then, a few moments later, Steve appeared. Told him to grab his hand. Bucky tried, of course he did, but before he knew it he was falling, pin wheeling downwards; his hand was still extended upwards, grasping at any tantalising connection between it and his best friend's reaching fingers. Then, the hard rock loomed too close and the connection was severed.

The Winter Soldier sat, shell shocked. He felt as if he was a spinning top, knocked aside by some careless child with a voice that was so achingly, awfully familiar. People bustled around him, tried to get him to talk, but the only thing he could utter, like the bleating of a lost lamb, was one phrase.
"But I knew him."
That, he was sure of. But it didn't make sense…
"I knew him." And I loved him like a brother. The unspoken addition hung between him and the occupants of the room, an elephant pushing him down a helter-skelter.
He's pushed down on to the table and the pain overtakes him, washing away his faint recollections like a beach umbrella in a tsunami.

Dripping, the Winter Soldier dumped the man on to the shore. After checking to see if he was breathing or not, he stared at "Captain America's" face for a second. Could he actually know this man? Something he'd said, something about lines, had nudged an element of recognition in him. 'Should have left him to die anyway' a mutinous voice, which didn't actually sound that much like him, said. But, no. The man lying on the river shore was deserving of mercy whether he had any personal connection to….whoever he actually was or not; the man had lifted the bar from his legs and carried on through his grievous wounds, adhered strictly to whatever moral code he had…The Winter Soldier frowned. Maybe he should investigate this James Buchannan Barnes character after all.
As he turned away, he snorted. Buchannan- he'd definitely prefer Bucky.