He slowly realizes that he is human again.
For so long he had been an emotionless machine, only thinking of his next mission, his next objective. Emotions were foreign to him, as were feelings of hunger, thirst, and fatigue. The handlers took care of those.
Now he feels all of these things. He's tired and desperately hungry, and lonely. He thinks the lonely part might be the worst.
The abandoned warehouse he's decided to take shelter in feels damp and clammy. The rays of the moon barely make it through the boarded up windows. He lies on the mattress he'd managed to scavenge from a junk pile, wrapped tightly in his ratty, stolen jacket. He has a couple knives stashed away in his pockets, but otherwise nothing.
He'd saved his mission. He'd dragged him to shore despite every nerve screaming that it wasn't allowed. His mission had called him a name, Bucky. Maybe he was Bucky. That's what the museum had said, but he couldn't be sure, not with HYDRA feeding false info everywhere he goes. Maybe the museum was the same.
He's alone and confused. And he misses . . .something.
He remembers he hasn't been given nutrients since coming out of cryo. His stomach twists and rumbles, demanding food. His recent scavenging trip in the dumpsters outside the building turned up nothing. He could try stealing, he certainly could manage it, but that new voice in his head is screaming that it's wrong to steal and he doesn't think he could say no to that voice just yet.
The soldier turns on his dirty mattress, curls tighter in on himself, trying to ignore the desperate gnawing in his stomach along with so much damn confusion and fear it feels like his head's about to split open.
He knows he's supposed to be someone. He visited the museum, saw his name. Bucky. The captain-Steve had called him Bucky. Was he Bucky? They had wiped his mind so many times; he isn't sure what is true. But slowly, memories are coming back to him. Memories of a scrawny boy (Steve?) getting his teeth knocked out in alleys. Puking into a trashcan after being on some sort of ride. Lying emaciated on a bed, skin pale as milk.
He can feel his stomach growling constantly now. He sits up on the mattress and pulls out the water bottle he'd taken from that HYDRA facility. He takes a few long gulps, hoping that will tell his stomach to quiet down already, but it doesn't.
He should sleep. He isn't used to sleeping. It's a difficult ordeal, one that usually involves him waking up screaming from nightmares of unspeakable horrors. His eyes stay wide open.
Besides, there's something else on his mind, building in his chest, a hunger much different from the obvious one in his stomach. He remembers things about Steve. The way his lips felt, pressed against his in the light of the streetlamp. The way he could feel the bones through his skin as they lay together under the covers. How the body, the skin, the kiss, Steve had meant more to him than anything in the world . . .
The soldier moans a little as his dick hardens. It's a strange reaction, but he knows it's connected to the memories. And somehow he knows what to do, knows to stick his hand in his pants and rub soft, slow circles on his dick until the hardness subsides.
He does this for a while, groaning and panting, then falls back against the mattress. He wants Steve, wants to find him, he needs answers.
His stomach growls again, reminding him that he needs to eat before anything else. Harsh reality comes crashing down on him again. He's alone, no food, no money, no Steve. Pain explodes so hard in his chest he sucks in a labored breath. He fights hard against the tears that threaten. But underneath that, his resolve strengthens.
He wants to find Steve. He wants to think for himself. He wants to reclaim his old life. He wants Steve kiss again, the feel of his skin . . .
He burrows deep into the mattress, closing his eyes, ignoring his growling stomach. He loved Steve once, and he's going to find Steve.
He's going to find who he truly is.