A/N: I haven't found an abundance of Bucky/Steve fics in companion with the new movie - or maybe I just live under a figurative internet rock - so I decided to write my own! What fun! It's a tad AU concerning that point at the end of the movie where Bucky rescues Steve from the water. I sort of felt they needed a little conversation after that, however tragically beautiful it was by itself. It's also in Bucky's POV – thus the reason why there is a lack of a name for him. Also, the title comes from the fabulous song "Suburban War" by Arcade Fire.

Okay...here we go.

All My Old Friends Wait

The endless minutes tick by, turning into hours as the greedy fingers frigid water endeavor to pull him down to his death with the ever-falling debris. Though his strength is unyielding, the killer struggles with the heavy, unconscious body in his grip, dragging it along behind him. All he hears above the roar of the explosions overhead are the words the man had said to him directly before he fell. He does not know what they mean - nor does he expect to - but they have struck him like a bullet, and bullet wounds are not so simply overlooked.

The shore is far - so far, and his limbs protest his every move; still time passes. Waves, churned up by the gargantuan pieces of metal, batter both men, maliciously hindering the conscious one's progress. Still he tries, god, he so madly tries. The killer is all at once grateful for the numb strength of his fabricated arm, the metal hand grasping the other soldier's uniform without dispute, save for a slight piercing of the fabric under his index finger.

He cannot begin to measure time, and just when he thinks that he can go no further, his foot strikes the ground. Land.

Hauling the body up out of the water onto dry ground, he releases it, attempts to stand up straight, and subsequently collapses to his knees, utterly fatigued. The killer breathes deeply, bracing himself on the surface below. His metal hand sinks marginally into the mud. There is not much time. Have to regroup...his mind blearily provides, they expect me to come back…

But then again…

Then again.

He turns his head to the left ever so slightly, looking upon the comatose man with a shadow of ambiguity - taking in the details of his face. There is a stray spot of water clinging to the soldier's eyelashes, the other droplets adorning the etched features a dismal parody of tears. He shifts closer and extends a graceless hand, accustomed to brutality, to brush away the offending drop.

Without warning, the other man's eyes shoot open and an intent breath is drawn. The blue irises travel around in a panic before landing on the black-clad killer off to the right, whose hand is still frozen in midair.

"Bucky…" the patriotic soldier croaks, "You're…you're alive…? I thought...The helicarrier?"

A bemused headshake is the only response given. The blond man props himself up on one arm and clutches at his abdomen with the other, speaking again once he has composed himself, "You saved me?" The tone is laced with apparent disbelief, and then the words are repeated as a statement, "You saved me…"

The killer withdraws his hand at long last, hesitating, "I don't know why. You're supposed to be dead right now."

A sigh, "Buck - it's me. It's Steve."

"I know who you are. Your name doesn't mean anything to me."

Steven Rogers takes the hand he has just pulled back, fixing him with an intense stare, "You're my friend. We were best buddies back in the war, remember?"

"No." The single-syllable word is detached, as is the expression of its speaker.

Steve's face falls like a wayward star; the hold tightens. "They took your memories," he mutters, seemingly to himself and the other man cants his head. "What have they done to you…?"

The killer pulls his hand away for a second time, his thoughts violently contending one another. Slowly, he stands. His legs still give an outcry of objection, but he is stricken with the overwhelming urge to separate himself from the other man. He finds Steve's purported familiarity deeply disturbing - why does he persist so? What's the use of striving to convince grievously disbelieving ears of such reiterated words' validity? The killer sighs lightly, his eyes roving over Steve's prone form once more.

I should not have saved him, he ruminates, and his claiming to know me is irrelevant…

"Not my business," he says at length. "I just follow orders."

Steve clambers to his feet then as well, standing a little taller than the other man would like. He wears the same, concentrated look on his face. "But don't you see? You and me, we're the same!" The killer raises an eyebrow, doubtful. Steve explains, "Just think about it, Buck" – a cringe – "we're both supposed to be old men! Best friends who hobble around and don't understand technology and sit in bars talking about the good old days! You and me!" Steve's voice has risen considerably, leaving an empty silence in its wake. The explosions overhead are no longer perceived.

"You sound so sure," says the killer, and he leans in close all but hissing in the blond man's face, "but I don't know who you are and I'm nothing like you."

Steve looks like a kicked dog, a look that he has probably spent time perfecting, and shakes his head. Successively he does something unexpected and abruptly the killer finds his body contained by Steve's arms. "Why can't you remember me?" is what is nearly sobbed into his ear through his mussed hair, "Why can't you just remember?"

For a brief moment, the killer cannot think, cannot process a single, godforsaken thought, alarmed by the contact. What makes the man think that it is alright to be so forthright? What makes him consider it in the first place?

…unless Steve is telling the truth.

The killer's eyes widen, their view over the broad, blue shoulder growing indistinct. No! his mind screams at him. No, no, NO!

His metal fingers curl into a fist and he pulls back just enough to allow room for movement. The fist collides first with the temple and then directly under the jaw – Steve barely has time to register what has happened before his body hits the ground with a muted thump, unconscious again.

The killer flexes his fingers and rolls his neck, burying all vestiges of compunction, and turns to leave without a single glance at the other man, completely detached. Remaining so is the only thing that has gotten him through the past seven decades, after all.

'Why can't you remember me?' he keeps hearing. Over and over like some sick mantra. 'Why can't you just remember?'

And he comes to the desolate conclusion as he departs that, if indeed there is truth in the Steve's words, then he has no idea why.

A/N: Thanks for reading, all! Drop me a line and let me know what you think! Goodnight dearies!