"Thanks for meeting me here" Said a man in a brown hoodie. He glanced around nervously like a teenager smuggling things from a general store. The hood cast shadows on his facial features, but anyone could have recognized Steve Rogers by his stature or simply the way he walked.
The man across from Steve gave no reply. A twitch of his head was the only indication that he had heard the other man speak. This man wore both a hat and a hood along with eyeglasses to change his appearance. He had much more to run from than paparazzi and children wanting an autograph. This was his second escape, his first had also been in America. If his handlers found him, they would do a lot worse things than take a picture. He remembered the excruciating pain of punishment. It had happened many times after his first missions, but he had learned quickly. He was a soldier: easily broken, easily trained, even more easily controlled.
"Bucky." Steve put his hand on his old friend's. He instinctively flinched away, turning his head.
"Don't call me that." He said, his voice level and emotionless. He flexed his gloved metal hand around his glass.
"But that's your name, remember? James Buchanan-"
The metal hand crushed the glass effortlessly. Others in the bar turned suspiciously towards the two strange men in the shadowy corner table. Steve was slightly taken aback. The shining blue eyes were hostile beneath the hood and lenses of the glasses. This wasn't the same Bucky that had done everything with him, grown up with him, or promised him time and time again that he'd get a better apartment once he got a better job. It made him want to leave and never come back. But he was Captain America; he never gave up on anyone, especially his own.
"What would you rather I call you, then?" Bucky thought back to what he'd been called in the past; he found nothing but codenames and numbers, nothing personal. He bit his lip in thought. He had never had a name. He couldn't remember needing one. He was almost ashamed of the answer in his mind. Bucky Barnes. I like it.
"I don't know." He said quietly. He dabbed at the spilt liquor from the crushed glass.
"Leave that, I'll do it." Steve volunteered, placing cloths on the spill to absorb the fluid. He picked up the glass pieces and delicately placed them in a small pile. Bucky had returned to staring out the window. Why was he here? Captain America was still his mission. He was not finished. He thought back to the fight in the helicarrier. After dislocating his good arm and leaving him unconscious, Steve could have killed him with ease. He could have also left him to die, pinned down in a ticking time bomb. But then again, why hadn't he killed Captain Rogers when he was unarmed, urging him to finish it. Why hadn't he killed the man he'd been assigned to kill, just as he had done so many times before. I'm with you to the end of the line. Why had he said that? What did it mean?
Bucky looked at Steve and was hit with an assortment of conflicting thoughts. What should he feel? Respect, hatred, love, anger, resentment, gratitude... fear? He knew Rogers, but why couldn't he remember?
"How do I know you?" Bucky hadn't realized he'd spoken aloud. Steve was uncertain of whether or not he should answer. Bucky's usual reaction to the past had been rather aggresive.
"Well... we worked together for years, Buck: Captain America and Bucky Barnes! We rescued Americans from the Nazis and HYDRA and battled the Red Skull. Side by side, pal, you and I." Bucky scoffed and tried his hardest to conjure up a memory. "I don't think I need to tell you much about HYDRA unless that's what you want." Bucky shook his head slightly. HYDRA and Red Room academy were topics that he knew quite enough about. "We lived in Brooklyn together." He smiled as he remembered fond memories of he and Bucky's tiny apartment (which was never the right temperature, leading to frequent sickness) and the pub that Bucky so loved to drink at. Bucky was the one that had taught him that you don't need to go through life on your own when you have friends who are there for you. I'm with you to the end of the line, pal.
Steve snapped out of his thoughts. Bucky stared at him, his expression blank, but his eyes holding a tortured desperation. How little did he remember? How much was coming back in senseless, confusing fractions? He squeezed his friend's hand. Bucky felt a sickly feeling in his stomach seeing Rogers smile about the past. It felt almost like guilt, but with a different cause.
"I should..." He clenched his jaw and got up, forgetting to finish the sentence. He kept his gaze averted on his way out. He walked out onto the darkened streets. There was a numbing cold in the air. It didn't beg for a coat, but was too strong for his leather jacket.
How ironic that the Winter Soldier should dislike the cold. Dislike. That was a strange concept. It resembled want or desire. They were things no one had time for. Petty things that slowed you down. Bucky couldn't remember the last time he did something because he wanted to, or disobeyed an order because he disliked it. The Red Room had no patience for these things. They would perhaps poke some fun at his wants and desires, before scraping his brain to nothing and stomping out these thoughts for good. He didn't know what a desire was anymore. There had always been nothing but orders to be followed with punishment upon failure. He had forgotten what it was to protest, to want something different than what was given and stand for it. There was only others' will and what they would do if he didn't comply.
The cold air and the darkness pressed around him, along with the isolation. Part of him longed for the airtight hiss of the metal container; the one that froze his lungs and ripped at his throat. He longed for something familiar in this strange new existence. Part of him was disappointed when the seal and the binding walls never came.
Steve felt an overwhelming sadness come over him. His closest friend was broken and there was nothing he could do about it. What HYDRA and the Russians had done to him made him sick to the stomach. All the noises within the bar suddenly seemed loud, too loud. The chattering of happy people without a care in the world, a laugh at a joke made to tease a girl into coming home with a stranger, a welcome to a missed relative, and the music. The music seemed to blare from the speakers. It was a band Steve vaguely recognized as one of Tony Stark's favourites. Black Sabbath? Was that it? He flipped open his notebook and went to write it down on his list of things to do to catch up to the decade.
"Wait a minute..." Steve thought aloud. Excitement suddenly mounted inside him. He shoved the notebook back into the pocket from which it came, threw back his drink and slipped into his coat while running through the bar door.
"Sorry, S'cuse me, ma'am, sorry, I am so sorry, please excuse me." He pushed people out of his way as he raced down the street. Under the dim streetlights, everybody looked the same. "Sorry, Excuse me."
"Watch it!"
"My apologies, ma'am." He flew by pedestrians and parked cars, the world becoming a blur of lights and unrecognizable figures.
"Bucky!" He stopped, combing the streets for a man in a leather jacket and hood. He spun slowly, murmuring subconscious apologies to the people bumping by. His heart sunk. "Bucky!" He called in desperation.
Steve broke into a run again, searching his surroundings like a hawk. A bus pulled up in front of him, bathing him in bright headlights. He got back on the sidewalk.
"I'm...sorry." He said breathlessly. Steve Rogers wasn't breathless from running, but searching for a man who had obviously forgotten and did not want to remember him had exhausted him. He'd lost him. He'd lost Bucky. He put his head in his hands and started thinking towards the walk home. He would try to find him again tomorrow.
"Do you have a ticket, sir?"
"No, sir, I don't."
"Credit card?"
"What the hell is that?"
Steve lifted his head. The man holding up the bus line wore a black leather jacket and a hood over a hat.
"Bucky!" He shouted, running onto the bus and pulling his friend into an embrace. "I'm not giving up on you, buddy." Bucky stood quite still before hesitantly returning the gesture.
XxXxXxX
"What is this?" Bucky held a black box in his hands, examining it thoroughly.
"It's a DVD player." Steve said, taking a seat on the couch with a bowl of popcorn on his lap. Bucky sat on the floor, objects scattered around him like toys for a child.
"What does this do?" He held up a small, thin object.
"That's an Ipod, Buck. But I can't help you with that one, myslef. I still have no idea how it works." He laughed softly to himself and turned on the VCR. He gestured to the couch and Bucky reluctantly took a seat next to him. He looked around nervously, as if someone were waiting there for him and would jump out any second.
"I borrowed this film from a museum." Steve said, offering Bucky some popcorn. He took it caustiously. The screen changed to a vivid blue.
"Why is it so... colourful?" He asked slowly.
"Televisions do that now!"
"Wow"
"Wow is right, buddy."
The cassette started with a song to which Steve could mouth all the words. It was a particularly lively rendition of "Star-Spangled Man with a Plan". Bucky looked unimpressed. Then came to story of Captain America and his trusty sidekick Bucky Barnes. He remembered seeing the same photos and footage in the museum he'd gone to. There he was, smiling next to Captain America, gun in hand. He almost enjoyed knowing that at least that still remained. The film went on to show the Howling Commandos and their heroic endeavours, as well as the freezing and thawing of Captain America. It even included a tribute to all the dead (or presumed dead, in Bucky's case) in the end credits.
"You were a hero, Buck." Said Steve, clapping him on the back. Steve fondly remembered all the battles fought by his side. How far they had come; the scrawny, sickly kid who couldn't walk away from a fight and the angry one who drank and fought and picked up women to distract himself from his pain. They had gone all over the world together, saved lives together! Steve felt heartbroken that his old friend was seeing the same things he was, yet he couldn't remember the good times and the bad times that had gone along with them.
Bucky glanced at the metal arm, then back at the grainy 40's image paused on the screen. He closed his eyes and played the film over again in his mind. He knew it was him, but he didn't feel it was him. He saw himself standing beside Captain Rogers, shiny rank and shinier gun, but couldn't remember it. He clenched his fists in frustration. Why was this so difficult! This wasn't meant to be the hard part. The hard part was meant to be the training, the electrocution, the mind control, and all the agony that had gone along with being HYDRA's asset.
"It's okay. SHIELD and HYDRA have collapsed. You'll be okay." Steve laid a hand on the metal shoulder, surprised by its warmth compared to the iciness he'd expected. Bucky's silence disappointed him. He longed for that old smile to break across his face and some of his former humour to fill Steve's head as it once had. I'm just kidding around, Steve! You're always so serious about things! He half-expected Bucky to say that, laughing at Steve for being so gullible and quick to believe that such a change had come over him. But he didn't. He said nothing.
Steve put in a news coverage DVD about the destruction of New York and the Avengers Initiative. The more it went on, the more uneasy Bucky became. Steve flicked the television off again. He imagined that it was painful to see that he had continued being Captain America without him there with him. In Steve's mind, that would be excruciating. But the thought hadn't crossed Bucky's mind. He thought back to his time in HYDRA's captivity. He hadn't behaved like a captive, he'd behaved like a slave. How many times could he have killed them? He was strong enough. How many times could he have simply run off and never returned? He was stealthy enough. But he hadn't seen it that way. HYDRA men hadn't been his captors but his masters. He'd followed their orders without question and when he didn't, he accepted the rubber bit they gave him without the slightest whisper of refusal. Now as he felt the work they had done slowly ebbing away, he started to recognize his weakness. It was pathetic. He was pathetic.
"Get up, Bucky." Said Steve, pulling him off the couch. Bucky stood off to the side, watching in confusion as Steve pulled the cushions off the couch and laid them on the floor. He then ran to his bedroom, coming back arms laden with pillows and blankets.
"What the Hell?"
Steve beamed at Bucky, who's blank eyes were wide with confusion. The small piece of floor between the television and the now-naked-looking couch was a heap of cushions, pillows and blankets.
"Just get inside. It's okay."
Bucky slid carefully into the nest of bed coverings. Steve smiled at the memories it brought back from past similar situations. When they were children going through something difficult, when they were older and had lost loved ones, and now when they were resuscitated soldiers who'd lost almost everything.
"How do you feel?" Bucky didn't answer, but his eyes shone. "Do you want to get out?" He thought for a moment and then shook his head, burying himself deeper. Steve slid in next to him, like all those years ago. They lay in silence for a while, both staring at the ceiling of the apartment, both thinking about having done this before.
"You know, Buck, you don't need to remember now. But you will. I promise you will." Steve's voice was barely audible amidst all the blankets. There was another long pause in which Steve wondered whether or not Bucky had heard him, or whether or not the words had meant anything at all.
"Thank you." Bucky whispered in return. It was so quiet Bucky wasn't even sure it had made it out of his mind and onto his lips. The cool wind outside the window whistled shrilly between the cracks in the seal. The noise reminded them both of Brooklyn. For Bucky, it was the quickest of flashes into a past life. His friend sick with a fever, Bucky sitting next to him after working extra shifts, the wind whistling through the cheap windows, smoothing the sweaty blond hair off Steve's forehead. Then it was gone. There was nothing left behind but a stale aftertaste not unlike what you get after having metal in your mouth.
Steve's grappling hand found Bucky under the blankets. He rubbed his shoulder gently. Bucky tensed at first and then relaxed, allowing Steve to wrap his arms around him. It felt strange, yet familiar, unnatural, yet right. The hot breath on his ear was alien yet not unwelcome. Bucky felt an odd sense of peace come over him.
To Steve, it almost felt like they'd never gone to war. It felt like they were both back in Brooklyn. He ran his fingers along the scarred skin outlining Bucky's metal shoulder. For the upteenth time that day, Steve recalled Bucky's laugh, his cynical humour and the terrible vision of his friend falling off that train. The fearless Bucky Barnes that would take any man behind the bar for a fight, eyes wide and terrified. That was when he realized that Bucky was afraid of death. How fate had twisted that. He looked over at the peaceful, nearly-asleep Bucky. He almost looked like himself again. Oh, what the world had done to him. He stroked the hair off his forehead.
"It's not fair." Steve whispered, barely realizing he'd spoken aloud.
"Life isn't fair." Mumbled Bucky through a haze of sleep. "Fair is where you ride Ferris wheels and get cotton candy. That's not life, buddy."
Steve needed to keep himself from shouting aloud with happiness. It sounded so much like... Bucky. He wanted to shake him, get him to talk to him again to make sure it wasn't only his imagination. Part of him wanted to believe it was real, yet his gut told him that there was no way Bucky had removed years of forceful programming in one night. But it was a start. He was sure now of how he could help: He could be there like Bucky had always been for him, he would show him that he didn't need to do everything on his own, remind him that we was more than a weapon, and show him he was capable of things so much better that destruction. I'm with you to the end of the line, pal.