SUMMERY

Bucky's been doing fine the past six months since he finally escaped HYDRA. He really has; but he just couldn't seem to remember who he was. No matter what he did. It didn't matter that he spent seventy years as a brainwashed assassin, getting his memories whipped and being put in cyro when he wasn't. He wanted to remember anyway; even though he knew that, at some point, they were going to drag him back to the Chair.

This song is called Eet by Regina Spektor. I didn't really like the song name so I didn't make that the chapter title. Also, most of these will likely almost entirely ignore Civil War. This story will be updated randomly and pretty much when ever I feel like it. Some will be in parts, others will not.

Bucky Barnes

PART ONE

Forgetting the Words

It's like forgetting the words

to your favorite song.

His feet dragged across the ground, his gaze downwards, counting the cracks and holes in the sidewalk. His hands- one soft, flesh, skin, veins with warm, flowing blood; the other hard, metal, with crisscrossing wires and turning gears- were stuffed into his worn, dirty, stolen jeans pockets. A blue baseball cap sat on top of brown, greasy, shoulder-length hair, a jacket hiding his mechanical arm. His trainers were worn, hand-me-downs, with holes in the bottom and faded black doodles on the sides.

He had no where to go; he had no food in his stomach; he kept on walking.

You can't believe it,

you were always singing along.

A small boy, bedridden, face flushed with fever. Another boy, healthier then the other one, sat on the bed next to him, snuggles against him, both wrapped in a patchwork blanket that smelled of cherries. The smaller boy had a book and, despite the coughing and sneezing, he was reading it out to the other boy, doing the voices as they two young children looked at the pictures of a little girl in a strange new world.

A radio sat next to them, on the bedside table, a song, by a women, playing. He couldn't remember what it was called, or who the singer was. Hell, he couldn't make out the words. But it was comforting, a lull in the background, something that you don't really paying attention to but would miss if it were gone.

He couldn't remember the words to the song, but he knew it had been one of his favorites. He couldn't remember how old he was. He couldn't remember the boy doing the voice's name.

He kept on walking.

It was so easy

and the words so sweet.

You can't remember;

you try to feel the beat.

A hotdog; steamy, juicy, with red and white sauce. A nicked bill, a pleasant smile, and he was making his way down the streets again, filling his stomach.

It was sunset, the sky slowly going dark. Less people were out now, but some were still around; Brooklyn wasn't that far from the City that Never Slept, after all. He should head back to his apartment; it wasn't much, mostly paid with pickpocket'd money, and the landlord was probably going to kick him out soon. But it was something.

He turned, into an alley, hotdog half done. A whine, gentle, soft, sounded from behind a metal bin. He froze, free hand automatically going to his concealed knife. The bin was tipped over and a dog, brown, white circles around the eyes, fur mangy and ribs visible, began nosing through the trash in search of dinner.

He blinked at the dog, before his eyes went back to his half eaten hotdog. Shrugging, he gave a soft whistle, gaining the dogs attention, and threw the food in its direction. The dog- a female, he realized- leaped forward immediately, gulping the hotdog down within seconds. She looked back at him, head cocking to the side hopefully, wanting more.

Biting his lip regretfully, he shook his head, knowing that the dog would not understand that he didn't have anything else to give her. Tucking his hands back into his pockets, he continued walking.

The dog watched him go, watching him curiously. She turned around, and continued nosing through the trash for scraps.

Eee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee

Eet eet eet

Ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee

Eet eet eet

The teenage girl had left her bag at the table. He swept in, casual, like a predator disguised as it's surroundings. His hand- robotic, dirt-laced metal- shot out, latched onto the strap. He was out in a matter of moments, black bag slung over his shoulder.

In the park, children playing, people jogging, parents chatting while watching their kids out of the corner of their eyes. He sat on a bench, bag in his lap, and unzipped it, looking at his findings.

It was filled with books; mostly notebooks, but a few about science, math and biology. There was also a pencil case filled with writing equipment, a yellow smiley face clipped onto one of the backpack straps, a white iPod with earbuds in a side pocket, a wallet with thirty-nine dollars and twenty-four cents and a mobile phone.

He threw out the school books, deciding to keep the notebooks just in case, and re-zipped the backpack, swinging over both shoulders this time. He realized it had buckles, hanging from both straps, used to strap the bag more securely.

Taking both buckles in hand, he clipped them together across his chest, feeling almost safer with them like that. Of course, this was an illusion, but it brought comfort.

With ten dollars in hand, he went off in search of food.

You spend half of your life

trying to fall behind.

You're using your headphones

to drown out your mind.

He quite liked the iPod, he decided.

Most of the songs were soft, sweet, slow. Comforting, if not a bit sad. There was two or three that were some sort of boy band, but he decided to ignore those ones. The other ones, however, kept him calm. He didn't know what he'd do when the iPod ran out of battery; but, at the moment, it was semi-full and would last a couple more days.

He had a can of coca cola, a pink straw jutting out of it, in his flesh hand, the icy tin chilling his skin, and a burger in the other, metallic one. He took a bite out of it, savoring the taste, because he knew that as soon as he ran out of money it would be back to rummaging through the trash and nicking from unlucky passerby's.

The dog, tail wagging, lying in front of the old, rundown apartment complex as always, sat up at the sight of him, looking at him with excited eyes. He drank the last of his cola, took another bite out of his burger, before throwing the rest of it to the dog, who jumped on it instantly.

He threw the empty can into the waste bin and, patting the dogs head as he passed, he entered the apartment complex, beginning to make his way up dirty stairs- he dare not touch the railing with either flesh or metal- towards his two-roomed apartment. And the second room couldn't really even be considered a room; he preferred to call it the Pissing Closet in his head.

When the sun came back up, as always, he would make his way back outside again, to wander Brooklyn in hope that a memory would surface. And then he would buy one meal, as always, a day on the way back home and, as always, he'd give a bit of it to the dog outside. When he got back into his room, as always, he'd write in his notebooks about things that he'd remembered, so he wouldn't forget again.

But, as always, he knew that they were going to come back for him. And, as always, he would windup in the Chair.

Shaking his head, he detached himself from his thoughts and the world itself, preferring to listen to the music coming from the stolen headphones.

It was so easy

and the words so sweet.

You can't remember;

you try to move your feet.

He'd named the dog Betty. He didn't know why, or when he'd decided to name her, but he'd gotten sick of calling her 'the dog' in his head. So Betty it was.

The iPod was very low on battery, and he'd stopped listening to it, to save it until he really needed it or until he found someway to charge it. He'd hacked into the phone, discovering the password with the help of the smudges on the screen, and pretty much deleted almost everything on it, rebooting the entire thing. He'd wanted to make it his, because he'd never had anything when he'd been with HYDRA. Even his Handlers changed, over time.

So he skipped most of the things on it, like the 'Google Account,' and when it came to his name he starred at it for a long time, thinking. The Captain, who he'd connected to the sick boy (he had no idea what happened. How did he get so big?), had called him "Bucky." Then "James Buchanan Barnes." How he got Bucky out of that, he had no idea. But he didn't know whether or not he was Bucky anymore; he didn't know if he was James Barnes. Did he even deserve, after all he's done, to claim a name that might have, at one point in time, been his?

But the phone wanted a name; so he wrote James Barnes anyway. He could change it anytime, after all.

Eee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee

Eet eet eet

Ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee

Eet eet eet

He returned back to the apartment complex a little earlier then usual. He'd thought he'd seen someone from HYDRA, freaked out and left the Starbucks- which had, conveniently, free computers, which he'd used to charge the iPod. He wasn't sure if the man was really HYDRA or not; but he knew he was sleeping with an extra gun tonight.

Absentmindedly tossing the last of his fries to Betty, he made his way back to the rented room. It was on the second floor, but he didn't really mind. Second floors meant that it would take someone coming after him a tiny, itsy bitsy while longer to reach him. But, if he knew they were coming, it would be just enough time to grab his backpack- which he kept all of his personal, important stuff in (which wasn't much, but still)- and hop out the window. The fall might hurt his feet a little, but he's fallen from higher and suffered from far worse.

Pulling a bronze key out of his pocket, he put it in the lock, turning it. He froze, however, when he heard the door behind him open and someone exit, sitting something on the floor. Hand touching the hidden knife he always had on his person, he turned to face a young women, maybe nineteen, sitting an empty trashcan into the hall.

She glanced up, locking eyes with him, and smiled kindly. Her teeth were a bit crooked, and she had blond hair in a single braid. She was fairly pretty, someone the old him might have almost immediately asked on a date, and from the looks of it, she was kind too.

"Hey," she said. He smiled back at her, politely, the movement strange and foreign.

"Hello." he said back, voice hoarse from disuse.

The young women gestured to the still closed door behind him, "You live there? Funny, I haven't really seen you around before."

"I, er, prefer to be outside."

She chuckled, looking around the mangy hall. "Yeah, can't say I blame ya. I'm Lucy Brass." she stuck out her hand and, after a moment of hesitation, he reached out with his flesh hand and took it in a handshake.

"James Barnes."

"How long you been living here, James?"

He gave a small shrug, dropping his hand back to his side. "Not long. About two months."

"You see that dog outside?"

He nodded. "Yeah, I feed her every now and then. Named her Betty. She'd be a real beauty if she wasn't living in these conditions."

Lucy smiled, nodding in agreement. "I wanted to take her in, give her a bath or something, but my boyfriends allergic to dogs and I can't have her leaving her scent about the apartment. Ever think about taking her in yourself?"

He cocked his head to the side. No, he hadn't really thought about it. Sure, the Pissing Closet had a small shower in it and he could probably fix her up in that, but he hadn't bothered using it for two reasons. One, it meant his water bills weren't too high. Two, it didn't matter what he looked or smelled like. As long as he was functional, he was fine.

But he remembered, from over seventy years ago, Bucky Barnes constantly polishing his shoes, pressing his shirts, combing his hair. He remembered that tiny sick kid rolling his eyes and asking jokingly if he was off to see the Queen of England or something, since he always seemed to dress to impress, despite their lacking in money.

"Yeah," he said, after a moment, returning to the present. "Maybe I will take her in."

Lucy smiled at him, before looking over her shoulder into her apartment. "I better get going; got the cooker on. It was nice meeting you, James."

"You too, Luce." he said, honestly, as the young women closed the door behind her. Smiling despite himself, he pulled his key out of the lock and jogged back down the stairs in search of Betty.

It's like forgetting the words

to your favorite song.

The dog, ever excited, eagerly followed him up the stairs. He was walking backwards, whistling and encouraging her, making sure she followed him instead of going off to spray on the wall or something. This place was already dirty enough.

Borrowing shampoo from Lucy Brass, he herded Betty into his rented room. It was about the size of an average living room, with a two-seated couch that smelled of cigarettes, a broken TV, a single bathroom sink, a rickety table, a single chair, a mattress on the floor. His Pissing Closet had a dirty toilet and a corner shower, a spider living in the corner above the lockless door.

He pushed Betty into the tiny shower, stripping down so he was completely nude, and turned on the spray. It was chilly, but it wouldn't turn up any higher, so he would have to make due.

Leaving the shower door open so he had more room, he got in the shower with Betty, on his knees, and began scrubbing into the dogs fur with the shampoo, dirt falling away with the water. Betty seemed to be enjoying herself, panting happily and licking his face in apparent thanks.

It was so easy

and the words so sweet.

The shampoo and water got on him. As Betty shook herself dry in the small area outside the shower, he stood, the water still spraying into his face. Almost unconsciously, he reached out and gripped the shampoo bottle, deciding it was about time he did himself.

It got in his eyes, which stung, but he ignored it in favor of scrubbing as hard as he could at his skin, washing away the dirt and watching it stain the water as it followed it down the drain. Washing away the blood only he could see.

When he turned the shower off and stepped out, he grabbed a dish towel, since he didn't have any proper towels, and dried himself, then did Betty. He pulled his clothes back on, his skin strangely, nicely soft. He felt good for the first time in seventy years. He felt clean. HYDRA did wash him, of course, but never properly. They more of just soaked him with freezing water while he was chained down, naked and disoriented. He remembered some of them, usually the American's, liked to lock the door- as if anyone would have tried to stop them- and do more then just soak him.

Shivering and feeling bile rise up in the back of his throat, he exited the Pissing Closet, Betty trotting over to the mattress and lying down for a rest, tail wagging happily. He let her, not minding her sleeping where he slept, and instead leaned over the sink, looking at himself in the cracked mirror. He'd been shocked when he'd first seen his reflection after escaping. He hadn't truly looked at his face since the fall.

It had brought back a memory, the first time, of the him from long ago, of Bucky. He'd looked exactly the same, but with shorter hair, no stubble on his chin and his eyes had been brighter. Alive. Happy.

A pair of scissors; small, silver, sharp, if a bit rusted. They sat on the edge of the sink, gleaming in the soft light coming from the single lightbolb dangling from the ceiling. His eyes were drawn to the scissors, just like they had been drawn to the shampoo bottle. He tore his gaze away, making eye contact with himself in the mirror. He ran a hand through his wet mop of hair.

There was a comb in the bathroom; he went to get it.

You can't remember;

you try to move your feet.

Bits of brown hair surrounded his feet, on the cold floor, lying limp. He ran the black comb through his newly shortened hair again, fixing it until it was just right. His hands fell back to his sides as he looked at his reflection again. The man in the cracked mirror looked so much more familiar. So much more like Bucky instead of the Asset.

He was burying the Asset. Burying him so deep down that maybe, just maybe, HYDRA won't be able to dig him back up when they found him. Not if.

When.

He used his knives and a dab of the borrowed shampoo to shave away the stubble. He looked so much younger without it and with the shorter hair.

Glancing at Betty, he sheathed his knives and picked the shampoo bottle up, making his way across the hall to return it to Lucy Brass. Apparently, she liked what he'd done with his hair. He smiled at her, a warm feeling bubbling in his chest, and he thanked her.

He turned back around; locked the door behind him.

It was so easy

and the words so sweet.

A month since he'd taken Betty in. He'd gotten her a collar- simple, brown, simply so she wouldn't get carted off to the pound (Lucy Brass had warned him about that). He didn't get her a leash; he didn't like leashes. Besides, Betty wasn't his pet. She was simply an acquaintance, a friend. She could come and go as much as she pleased. But she seemed to want to stick with him, most of the time; this fact made his chest warm.

He remembered the Captain. That his favorite color was green, that he hated hospitals, that he was a stupid little punk from the very beginning, that his favorite food was cherry pie, that he used to put newspapers in his shoes. He also remembered the Captains- Steve's- mother, Sarah. He remembered Bucky's mother, Winifred. His father. His little sisters.

He'd promised to protect them all; he failed.

Screaming; people running; a child crying; blasts from repulsers; a monsters roar.

His head snapped up and his feet were moving before he even realized it, Betty running beside him. But not in the direction the other people were fleeing. He was heading towards the sounds of fighting, his hand going up over his shoulder to grip the handle of his hidden rifle.

He turned the corner and skidded to a halt, taking in the scene before him. HYDRA agents- it was so plainly obvious with their skull-octopus logo on their armor for everyone to see. There was at least two-hundred of them, all armed to the teeth, against seven Avengers. This was probably the very last of HYDRA, the soldiers anyway, since the Widow had dumped all of HYDRA and SHIELD's information out onto the internet.

They had planted bombs, he realized. With the two-hundred of HYDRA soldiers and bombs together, the Avengers seemed to be struggling. They wanted to take out the threat and disarm the bombs as fast as possible, but there was still a lot of civilians in the area and they didn't want any of them to get hurt. HYDRA, however, had never cared for such things.

The Captain, Steve, was taking on five at the same time. One of them was horribly scarred, his face twisted into hate. He realized it was Brock Rumlow. He must have survived the building collapsing.

He took out his rifle, half hidden behind a parked car, and took aim. He didn't have a clear shot of Rumlow, but that didn't mean he couldn't shoot anyone else. Another HYDRA agent came up from behind Steve, pointing a gun at his head, and he didn't hesitate. He fired the rifle, the bullet going right through the HYDRA agents ear and out the other. He was dead within moments.

Steve, surprised, glanced behind him, still mostly focused on the fight. Shrugging it off, he took down two agents and continued to fight the remaining three.

He climbed up a fire escape, looking for a better place to shoot, helping Betty up the ladder so a stray bullet didn't hit her. He didn't want to leave her alone down there. He halfway up the fire escape before he settled, setting the barrel of his rifle on the railing and peering down the scope. HYDRA soldiers fell to the ground within moments, dead or dying.

The Avengers began to realize that some of the agents were being killed by bullets; not arrows, like their sniper preferred. They began to glance around, but no one spotted him on the fire escape. He reloaded.

Steve was being herded, ever so slowly, away from the rest of the group. He seemed to realize this, but there wasn't much he could do about it besides punch, kick, duck, block, swing and throw. It wasn't working.

You try to remember.

He shouldered the riffle and ran back down the fire escape, jumping to the ground and rolling, giving chase as he saw the HYDRA agents and Steve vanish from sight. Betty was hot on his heels, growling and snarling, not truly knowing what was going on but sensing that this was a fight; one she mustn't lose. She was a street dog, after all.

He dashed around the corner. Steve was down, his shield out of reach, the HYDRA agents shocking him with enough electricity to kill a normal man. He recognized these sticks; they've used it on him countless times.

Shaking his head, willing his thoughts away, he raised his riffle and fired, taking down half the HYDRA soldiers within seconds. Betty leaped forward, snagging her razor sharp teeth around the forearm of a rather large soldier, clawing and biting and ripping and snarling. The HYDRA soldier was screaming; blood matted Betty's fur.

Spring forward, he did a round-house kick, hitting an agent right in the chin and causing his head to snap up, teeth biting into his tongue hard enough to draw blood. He drew a knife with his stronger, metal arm; plunged it into the soldiers heart, with enough force for it to go all the way through, and ripped it back out again.

"Asset!" Rumlow hissed, his eyes narrowing. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Steve begin to inch towards his shield. Good. He wasn't unconscious.

He sprang forward again, knife raising above his head, preparing to plunge it into this man's- this monsters- skull.

"Sputnik!"

You try to feel the beat.

His muscles tensed; the knife and riffle fell from his hands, clattering against the ground; his eyes rolled into the back of his head. A flash of red, white and blue. A neck snapping. A terrified shout. A dog barking.

"BUCKY!"

Blackness.