Why isn't he awake yet?

Steve stopped his frantic pacing to throw another look in Bucky's direction. His shoulders were rolled forward as his body slumped heavily in the chair; water had drenched his hair and clothes; and his metal arm was held in place by an industrial vice – a precaution, Sam had reasoned, in case he wasn't himself when he came to. He had looked like this for almost an hour.

Steve resumed his pacing. He barely registered Sam's presence in the room, all thoughts were on Bucky. Who was that psychiatrist? What did he do to Bucky? Why isn't he moving? Why isn't he awake yet?

...

Bucky lurched out of oblivion. His eyes remained closed to calm his swirling stomach and swimming head. But then they squeezed tighter shut as Bucky braced himself against the onslaught of memories. Fragments from a few hours earlier sliced through him; the psychiatrist, attacking the guards, escaping, crashing a helicopter into Steve.

Steve.

Bucky's heart rate shot up in fear. Is Steve okay? The panic was short lived. Bucky could hear him. Heavy, persistent footsteps were echoing throughout, what Bucky guessed was, a warehouse. Steve was pacing back and forth. Bucky exhaled in pained relief; at least he's alive. Though the memory of how they were both alive eluded him. Bucky must have lost consciousness in the crash, and Steve must have pulled him from the wreckage.

A significant part of Bucky wished Steve hadn't saved him.

Bucky tentatively forced his eyes open, apprehensive about the feelings of the other two men in the room. Sam leant against the far wall of the warehouse. Tension knitted his eyebrows together as he watched something on his left. Bucky glanced over, and his stomach dropped.

Steve was not only pacing; he was fuming. He had never seen Steve angry before. His mouth was turned downwards, his hands were wringing together and, his spine was locked defensively.

Maybe a significant part of Steve wished he hadn't saved him too.

...

"He's awake," Sam stated cautiously.

Steve stilled his gait, whipping around to face Bucky's sitting figure. He examined Bucky's face for any signs of distress, for any signs of the Winter Soldier. Bucky's eyes wouldn't meet his own.

"Buck?" Steve probed.

...

Sam took his sweet time establishing that Bucky was indeed Bucky. Bucky wagered it was his idea to trap his arm in the vice, but it hurt knowing that Steve was the one who trapped him in it; the only one strong enough to move it.

Once cleared of all suspicion, Steve rushed towards him. However, the movement was too fast, the man was too impulsive. Bucky flinched inadvertently. Steve paused. Then, with more deliberation, he reached for the vice, freeing Bucky's arm.

Bucky pulled his arm in close, massaging the ghosts of the nerves that once lived there.

"Buck," Steve muttered, kneeling in front of the other man.

"Hey, punk," Bucky sighed as he dragged his eyes upwards; finally looking at Steve's face.

...

Bucky flinched; his pal, his buddy, his Bucky flinched when he came near him.

Steve was sitting on the roof of the warehouse, hidden under the cover of a water tank; on "first watch". In reality, Steve just needed to clear his head and rid himself of the gut churning feelings that were plaguing him.

All it took was a moment; a single moment with Steve away from Bucky's side, and Bucky was back in that dark place, when Bucky was no longer himself. Steve blamed Hydra for turning Bucky into the Winter Soldier; he blamed the psychiatrist for manipulating Bucky, for forcing him back into that desolate state; he blamed himself. He couldn't save Bucky during World War II. If he had, Bucky wouldn't have been captured.

The ricochet of metal on metal broke him out of his melancholy. Steve snapped into a crouch, preparing for any incoming attack.

"It's me," a low voice warned. Bucky's head dawned over the edge of the roof as he scaled the ladder.

"Bucky," Steve relaxed, "you're supposed to be getting rest."

Bucky remained silent as he continued to manoeuvre until he came to a point near Steve. He stood for a moment. Steve absorbed the details of his face; watery blue eyes, olive skin, a purplish bruise on his temple from the crash, chapped lips.

"I'm sorry," Bucky murmured, looking towards the night sky.

Steve suspended his wandering eyes, "what?"

Bucky hesitated for a heartbeat, "can I sit?" he asked quietly.

Steve sat motionless, staring at Bucky incredulously.

"I'm sorry," he started again. "For attacking those guards, for attacking you, and now you have to hide out." Bucky clenched his fists.

"Buck," Steve said slowly, "do you think I'm angry at you?"

"If you aren't angry at me, you're angry because of me. Again."

"Buck, sit," Steve commanded.

Bucky slid down the wall of the water tank and sat; elbows on knees, head resting heavily in his metal hand.

"I'm not mad at you," Steve growled under his breath, "I'm mad at myself. I shouldn't have let Tony take you, I should have fought harder, at the very least I should have been with you, at your side."

Bucky looked up, "Steve, this isn't your fault. None of this is your fault. If I-"

"That wasn't you!" Steve said forcefully. "None of that is you, that's the Winter Soldier."

"Steve-"

"Buck, it's never your fault, okay?" Steve pleaded with him.

Steve's voice dropped to a whisper, "I know you, the real you. You're my Bucky."

...

Bucky didn't speak, couldn't speak.

He knew he didn't deserve Steve, knew that nothing he could do would ever erase how badly he's hurt him. Even so Bucky longed to be selfish, to be in control, to have his way, just once. He looked again to the sky, and slipped his warm hand into Steve's own. He squeezed gently; a thank you.

...

Despite the heat scorching Steve's neck, cheeks, and ears, his heart finally ceased its erratic, angry beating; soothed by the comforting presence of the man next to him.

My Bucky.