His mission. Steve. And the winged man. They caught up with him when he was in Moscow, taking down a HYDRA base he remembered being sent to a few times. He killed men and women he remembered being HYDRA and shot the legs and shoulders and arms of the other people that got in his way but he couldn't remember their faces.
There were more unrecognizable people than recognizable and a piece of him was grateful while another piece was vengeful because he couldn't remember.
I can't remember. I couldn't remember.
His head always hurts and his shoulder always aches.
I couldn't remember Steve. I hurt Steve. They made me hurt Steve.
And even with all the bloodshed; the recent on his hands and the vast amount that he's slowly remembering and the even more he doesn't remember, what hurts the most is remembering Steve's bloodied and bruised and pale and swollen face blinking up at him and almost smiling through all the pain.
Steve. You idiot. You beautiful idiot.
What hurts more than his head and his shoulder is his heart. Its feels shattered and broken beyond repair and he can't help but feel like he deserves it. He forgot Steve. He forgot about his only reason for living because he was brainwashed and turned into the most lethal human weapon in history.
He thinks- knows- his heart has been broken for over seventy years and he can't help but think- know- that he deserves it.
They caught up with him in Moscow and when he walked out of the burning down base, with all of the USB drives he could find and an external drive that took twenty minutes to download every file available, he sank to his knees.
He sank to his knees as the building was collapsing behind him and people were screaming and others were trying to shoot blind through the smoke.
He sank to his knees because he was tired of running and he was covered in blood that hasn't his.
He sank to his knees because Steve and the winged man that no longer wore wings were running towards him and he was just done with everything.
He sank to his knees and Steve kneeled down too, even though the winged man with no wings was urging him to be careful and there were dozens of people screaming and dying behind him.
He sank to his knees and Steve did the same and met his eyes with the same fierce determination and affection that Bucky remembered and didn't even blink or flinch or look up at the agonized cries coming from the building.
Bucky was on his knees and his only reason for living all those years ago was too.
"Please." Steve whispers, begs. "Come home."
Yes. Anything for you.
"Why?" He says instead of what he wants to say. "Home is gone. They took it from me."
They took you from me. They took everything from me. They took everything but when they took you, I became nothing.
Steve's eyes are sad, so sad that Bucky knows that he would be crying if he wasn't trying to stay strong for Bucky. Bucky hates it when Steve cries.
Please don't cry. Please.
"I know they did." Steve says and he reaches out towards him like the fool that he is and Bucky flinches back on instinct though he doesn't want too. He never wants to move away from Steve. Ever.
Steve's eyes are sadder now and he reaches again and Bucky holds himself completely still because he doesn't want to make Steve sad.
Steve grips his hand, the flesh one with life still flowing and bones still aching and covered in blood that's not his.
"But I'm here, I'm not gone." Steve pleads softly. "And I can be home for you, like I was before. Like you were for me, and always will be."
Bucky's dirty, ratty, bloody, dark hair obscures most of his face but he doesn't think it hides the tear that slides down his cheek; leaving a wet, smeared trail of liquid through the blood splatters on his skin.
"You don't want me." He whispers hoarsely. "I'm broken."
Steve shakes his head with that same fierce determination as his stare, but his eyes are glassy and a stray tear slips out. It breaks Bucky's heart all over again.
"Shut up." Steve grits out and his lips are close to trembling and his grip on Bucky's hand is an iron vice. "I'll always want you. No matter what."
Suddenly Bucky remembers something from before. And he knows that it's something from before because it hurts. It hurts and he squeezes Steve's hand as his eyes close from the pain.
It's of brief images of Steve when he's small and sickly and Bucky is by his side and telling him through the coughing fits and the fevers- 'I'll always want you, no matter what.'
More images come and Steve is bigger and they are in a tent alone and on a cot that's too small for one of them let alone both of them and he's telling Steve again- 'I'll always want you, no matter what.'
When he fights through the pain, like he has done so for the last six months; he opens his eyes and Steve is still there. His eyes are more worried than sad and he has moved closer so Bucky can see the clearest blue of his irises and the faint dash of freckles under his eyes and across his nose. He's beautiful, like he always has been, and a couple pieces of Bucky's heart find their way back together.
"Buck? Are you okay?" Steve's gaze flits all around Bucky's body, looking for a sign of injury but then reconnects with Bucky's eyes.
"You took my line." He says. Then he remembers what Steve said that made him pull him out of the Potomac. "Twice." He frowns. "You stole my line, twice."
Steve huffs out a laugh that's wet and relieved and he raises his free hand slowly. It shakes a little as it moves some of Bucky's hair out of his face before his thumb slides over Bucky's jaw almost cautiously.
"Yeah." Steve smiles a little. "Yeah I did Buck."
"Punk." He scoffs and he remembers saying that like a benediction before. Like the greatest term of endearment. Like it meant saying 'I love you' when they were in public and couldn't say those words to each other freely.
Steve cups his jaw fully with one hand softly now and his eyes are filled with the most care and softness and tearful joy he has ever seen or can ever remember seeing.
"Jerk." Steve whispers reverently and Bucky's heart aches.
Bucky sheds a few more tears that he doesn't think he deserves to shed and before he realizes what he's doing, his metal arm is coming up and his hand is carefully pulling Steve's head forward by the back of his neck.
Their lips meet in a fierce, desperate press at first that tastes like salt and copper. Then it softens and their mouths move against each other like familiar gears in a clock winding back into place over years spent frozen in time.