A/N: After watching CA: TWS for the first time, I had to do a story about Bucky. Surprisingly, special thanks goes to my mom for accidentally finding and reading this story while it was still a WIP.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

*Note* Minimal editing 2/8/15

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Chapter 1: Once

"It is never too late to be what you might have been." –George Eliot

Once… A word that is used to begin many classic stories, memorable tales that are told in childhood and remains for life. It is also a word that means that which isn't there anymore. Something that once was. Something that is now gone. A word that describes me.

Once, I was someone. Once, I was a friend. Once, I lived.

"People are gonna die…"

"I'm not gonna fight you…"

"Bucky, you've known me your entire life."

"You're my friend…"

"'Cause I'm with you till the end of the line."

"YOU ARE MY MISSION!"

"You know me!"

"No, I don't!"

"Bucky?"

"Who the hell is Bucky?"

"There was a man… I knew him…"

Nine months had passed since the day he'd visited the Smithsonian and seen the Captain America exhibit. Since the day he'd read the display on Bucky Barnes. That was the day he disappeared.

From conception to birth, it takes approximately nine months. In the same amount of time, Bucky Barnes had slowly been reborn, and the Winter Soldier diminished. Memories had gradually risen from the abyss of his mind, broken, fragmented, but greatly welcomed as each meant he was another step closer to figuring out who he was. During the early days of the journey, sleep had been an enemy, insomnia a companion, and the fear of losing it all (of having it all erased again and returning to nothing), had been the ever driving force that kept him going. Had kept him two steps ahead of everyone who searched for him.

Incognito was a hard state to maintain, but the Winter Soldier knew how to survive, moving with instinct-like abilities and never looking back. Those were the things that had kept him alive. A self-applied haircut, pedestrian clothes acquired from a thrift shop, and money that he'd stolen. It'd all been too easy for the Soldier, but necessity called for it and there was no room for moral qualms. He didn't have much moral sense left anyway. But it had all worked to bring him here, to this little town a scant thirty miles from where he'd grown up.

...oOo...

The rain pelted down, a grey, steady drizzle that brought steam rising from the baked asphalt of the street. Ducking his head, turning the collar of his jacket up against the drops, Bucky wryly considered it lucky that he didn't have his cybertechnic arm. The process of caring for it after it got wet was painful, to say the least. But it'd been too recognizable for him to be able to keep it and hope to remain inconspicuous.

The downside was how defenseless he felt without it.

At the edge of his peripheral vision, he was aware of the shopkeepers closing for the day, the town so small that they knew there wouldn't be any more business to be had. If he looked at the right moment, he could catch the flash of a hand flipping a sign, an unknown face peering at the weather, or barely discern the tinkle of a bell as the doors closed. The lights from the shop windows glowed invitingly through the rain, warm and welcoming, the only thing that couldn't be locked up, and creating a sharp contrast against the weather.

When had he experienced a rainy day from the comforts of home? Had he hated it when it when the skies were dark? Maybe he had played cards with Steve while the rain tapped chill fingers upon the window panes. Or had he been the type to run outside and let it fall on his face? Or maybe, he had sat on the porch, enjoying the tangent smells the rain brought, the cool brush of air, and the soft whisper of its sound.

To his mind, he could bring no recollecting memory, such a small moment like that being too inconsequential to stick. But of the possibilities he'd pondered, he liked the last one best. A young Bucky, perched on the porch railing, completely relaxed with his eyes trained on the rippling puddles, that was the image he wanted to believe had been true at one time.

"Lovely weather, isn't?" a voice commented, worn with age but still clear from constant use.

Glancing over his shoulder, warily half turning so that the empty left sleeve of his jacket wasn't as noticeable, he met the gaze of the old man who'd spoken to him. Sleeves rolled up to the elbow, a vest buttoned over his rotund middle, and half-circle reading glasses perched on the end of his nose with a swatch of pearled grey hair swept tidily across his forehead. He looked harmless enough, and Bucky could easily believe that he was a shopkeeper due to the slippers that covered his feet and the door to the book store left open behind him.

"You've been standing there for several moments," the man explained, everything about his manner free from any sign of being the type to pass swift judgment.

"Lost track of time, I guess," Bucky answered ruefully, allowing a faint smile to touch his face, though it only lasted a second.

"Time has a funny way of doing that," he remarked, holding a hand out from underneath his shop awning to catch the raindrops on his palm.

More than you know, Bucky thought silently, images of a partially lived life stirring at the back of his mind. Water dripped down his collar, cold against the warm flesh, where the hairs tickled the back of his neck. It had grown long again, since he'd cut it, the ends ragged and uneven from the hasty job he'd done, but it served its purpose well in making him less familiar to those who searched for him.

"Seen battle?" was the next question, followed by a nod toward Bucky's left side.

"Yeah," Bucky replied, voice going hollow as he distanced himself from the conversation, wariness returning to full force. Information of himself wasn't something he could afford to give out. His identity was too easy to trace once one knew enough about him. And who knew how many agents SHIELD or HYDRA had around.

Each second of freedom had been dearly paid for, and he was willing to err on the side of paranoia to keep it.

"What's your name son?" the old man asked, looking at him with a friendly eye, unaware of the unease Bucky felt.

"James Winter," Bucky lied, wiping the damp strands of hair back, a bitter taste rising in the back of his throat to refer to his history by combining the two names. But it was the alias he had decided to use. Similar, yet different, enough to not be easily associated with him. A dangerous gamble though, if anyone looking for him caught scent of it.

"Well, you just come on in and dry yourself. I dare say this spell of rain will dally for a bit, and you're like to need somewhere to wait out," he invited, leading the way into the gently lit interior of the book store. Casting a keen eye over his shoulder, he added, "Unless, you have some place else you're a aiming to be."

"Thanks," Bucky murmured, following cautiously, not answering the subtly phrased question. Shoving the soaked baseball cap into his pocket, the faded and frayed fabric giving testament to its use, he rubbed his hand abruptly through his hair to straighten it somewhat. Eyes automatically scanning the room, making note of every possible exit, and where an enemy could hide, he committed it to memory, a precaution. It was the same wherever he went; he needed to know the lay of a place to ensure that he could escape if something happened.

The smell of paper filled the air, the warm, comforting, quiet that books provided, encompassing the shop in a feeling similar to that of a library except cozier. Shelves divided the space, carrying row upon row of books on their wooden fixtures, small alcoves tucked snuggly into the corners for reading, and each fully furnished with mish-mash of couches and reading lamps.

Much too concealed for his taste, yet reassuring, in the quiet of the shop, it'd be too easy to pick up any sound that was out of place.

Chatting away conversationally, the shopkeeper commented, "I would've fought in World War II, I wanted too, but I was too young," the bell above the door giving a sharp jingle as he closed it against the damp. Returning to his guest, adjusting his glasses, he added with a small smile, "And if you'd believe it, I was too old by the time the next war came around."

"You should be grateful," Bucky replied gravely, shifting his shoulders uncomfortably under his wet coat. How many of his friends had died in the war? Faces that he didn't remember. And those who had survived? Would death have claimed them by now, or would they be well into old age, like the man standing before him?

The man nodded ruefully in agreement, casting a glance at Bucky's left sleeve again, as if to make note to be more careful with his words. "I didn't mean anything by it son, I'm sorry if I caused offense. It's just with all the media on Captain America, it makes me morose." Shaking his head and snapping his fingers, he suddenly changed the course of conversation. "Forgive me, ah, Winter, you said? I'm Eli Gibson."

Accepting the proffered hand, a polite, if lackluster, smile made an appearance. "It's fine," he mumbled.

Giving a genuine smile in return, Eli pushed his glasses up again, looking once more to the rain, and went back to the register, retrieving the book he had evidently set aside when he had stepped outside. "A book is the best way to enjoy a dreary day," he mused aloud. "If you need any help finding a certain genre, just let me know."

"Thanks," Bucky replied. Shoving his hand into his pocket, he moved slowly through the quaint shop, scanning the book titles carefully. He barely acknowledged them though. Head down, using only his eyes to scan the room and double check the exits, he noted that he was the only customer there.

Aside from the front door, there was another door in the back (probably led to the back room, and then outside), and a narrow flight of stairs that wasn't discernible at first sight due to being in a corner. Judging by the how the boards had been worn down, they led to the living quarters. A few windows, along with the shop front window, allowed natural light to filter in, which on a day like this wasn't much.

Satisfied, Bucky selected a book at random, grabbing the first thing that his hand touched, which turned out to be a book on great American achievements during the last fifty years. A book that by coincidence would be useful for him to read. Claiming the reading nook opposite of the front door, habitually sitting with his back to the wall, angled so that he could view the entirety of the shop and the street through the front window without moving.

Propping the book open on his lap, his gaze never strayed to the page. Brows furrowing slightly, staring unseeing at a fixed point, no thoughts came to mind, body unconsciously falling into standby mode. He could wait out the rain; let the clouds give up their burdens before continuing on his way. For the two weeks before he came here, he'd been wandering aimlessly; having visited the destinations he'd needed to, but now wasn't sure where he could go. He had decided that the next step was to gather information about his past, concrete facts that he hadn't otherwise encountered and might trigger memories that had hitherto been hidden. Steve was the ideal source, but he'd been on the run for too long, was still too messed up, to consciously seek human help.

Disengaging, forcefully pulling out of the Winter Soldier's mindset and returning his body to mobility, his eyes found the page, slowly processing the words there. Rolling the muscles in his shoulders, the metal plate on his left side was an uncomfortable reminder of what he was missing. To make up for the weakness, his right arm had ample room to maneuver should the need arise.

Letting the book absorb his attention, feeding his mind with input that HYDRA had neglected to, it whiled the hours away, regaling him with tales of the advances of technology and the superiority of the modern age. Funnily enough, the author had made a point of ignoring the effects SHIELD, HYRDA, the Avengers, basically anything that was remotely superhuman, had had in the world's advancement, giving Bucky the impression that the author had been of an older generation and was ridiculously prejudiced. To the point where not even the miraculously ahead-of-its-time technology of the Starks' was mentioned. But he could read through the disregard of the author, having learned enough from his travels, to decipher where those pieces fit in.

Sighing, closing his eyes, hands tightening on the book, different words swam to the forefront of his mind. Words that had given him a glimpse into the person he'd once been, given him somewhere to start, and left him feeling sick from the uncontested confirmation within them.

...

[A FALLEN COMRADE

James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes

"Born in 1916, Barnes grew up the oldest child of four. An excellent athlete who also excelled in the classroom, Barnes enlisted…"

"…and the rest of the 107th shipped out to the Italian front."

"…his will was strong. In an ironic twist of fate, his prison camp was liberated by none other than childhood friend, Steve Rodgers, now Captain America."

Reunited, Barnes and Rodgers led Captain America's newly formed unit, The Howling Commandos. Barnes' marksmanship was invaluable..."

Bucky Barnes

1916-1944]

...

Fragments from the museum profile on him surfaced sporadically, telling a broken tale, though he had memorized the entirety of the two paragraphs. He had been twenty-eight when he'd fallen. He had had three siblings. And Captain America had been telling him the truth when he said that they were friends. It was the realization that HYDRA had had the perfect base to begin with that sickened him.

…Marksmanship was invaluable… An excellent athlete… Will was strong…

All it'd taken was HYDRA's experimentation to enhance those features, make him a super soldier, and outfit him with a bionic arm that was impervious to most weapons.

Memories running rampant, still concentrated on the information from the Smithsonian, there was another statement that stood out before the others.

["When Bucky Barnes first met Steve Rodgers on the playgrounds of Brooklyn, little did he know that he was forging a bond that would take him to the battlefields of Europe and beyond."]

Beyond. How much farther would that take him? What paths lay in store for him and Steve? And where would it leave them? Whoever had written the statement had no idea how truly they had spoken.

Already the tie between them had taken them beyond their natural lifespans, given their bodies abilities that few could hope to match, and somehow their friendship had survived even when HYDRA had done everything in its power to turn him into their weapon. Through unseen designs, which no one could've guessed at, he had always been one step behind Steve.

…I'm with you till the end of the line…

A cacophony of noise coming down the stairs jarred his attention. Straightening up, spine going stiff, the book slipping closed from the motion, his right hand had already securing his concealed weapon before he was consciously aware of it. Releasing it, the muscles taking a moment to relax against their training as reasoning washed through his limbs with cool logic.

"Grandpa, I can take over on register now. Why don't you go and sit down?" the teen called, her tone announcing her boredom at the very idea as she finished tying her hair up into a ponytail.

Obediently stepping aside, Eli didn't voice opposition as he picked up his book and joined Bucky in his nook. "It'll be closing time soon," he mentioned, giving Bucky a head's up, taking the chair across from him.

Quick to gauge subtle gestures, Bucky noted that the shopkeeper's fingers moved restlessly over the spine of his book, indicating that there was something on his mind, though he'd opted to not talk about it right now. But it was only a matter of time, and he warily braced himself for it, fist reflexively clenching as if he could ward off the inevitable.

"Thanks for telling me," Bucky answered lowly, his gaze moving to the window, noticing for the first time how much darker it'd become outside. Among all the other things he'd subconsciously been keeping track of, the premature dusk was only another detail brought on by the rain, but hadn't immediately registered.

"You like it?" the old man asked, mildly curious, nodding at the closed book in Bucky's lap, another vein of small talk.

He gazed at the cover blankly, trying to switch gears in his brain and remember the portion he had read. "It's interesting," he replied dubiously, recalling only that the author had avoided several major points.

"Most people tend to disagree with it," Eli offered, unconcerned, mistaking the tone of Bucky's response. "Wouldn't bother to carry it if the school district didn't insist on using it. Something about giving a realistic view."

"Realism contains many disagreeable things, and the facts not given in here are some of those things," Bucky returned quietly. "It's better to accept the truth." Cold determination coiled in his stomach, a response to the under lying tension under their words. They couldn't continue to dance around the subject; it would have to come up eventually.

There hadn't been any signs to alert him to the possibility of a trap, nothing to trigger his senses. But there was a saying that he should've remembered: Never look a gift horse in the mouth. What motive did this old man have for inviting him in to begin with? Harmless as it had been, it could've have been a pretense, a way to draw him in while an accomplice, maybe the teenager, maybe someone else in the back, contacted the others.

"My opinion is near the same as yours, but it's not my place to question schooling. I left the system years ago," Eli replied absently. Rifling the pages with a thumb, the gesture tender, his tone was blunt for his next question, finally voicing the thought that'd been on his mind. "Son, do you have a place to stay?"

"I was planning to reach the next town before stopping for the night," Bucky answered evasively, taken aback but not letting his guard down. It hadn't been what he'd been expecting, but it offered a tentative hope that the circumstances were still as innocent as they appeared, though he was loath to be pacified so easily.

A stubborn rigidity settled upon Eli's features, demanding sensibility. "It's not my place, Lord knows I know that, but if you're traveling by foot, you won't reach Laws Town before dark. As for lodging, I don't know what you were thinking to do, but they're in the same boat as us. You'd be just like every other tramp having to face the elements. The least I can do is offer to let you stay."

"No, it's kind of you, really, but- No thanks," Bucky replied swiftly, insistently, masking his alarm. The old man had no way of knowing what a dangerous offer that was. While Eli might not pose a threat to Bucky, the Winter Soldier was unpredictable. And he couldn't risk bringing that upon them, or causing the shopkeeper and his family to get caught in the crossfire if HYDRA or SHIELD found him here.

"I'm inviting you as a guest," Eli cut in, all patience gone as he argued his point. Puzzlement resting on his face, not understanding Bucky's reasons, he added, "If nothing else, at least join us for supper."

Rubbing the back of his neck, muscles taunt, instinct told him to refuse, to get out of there, but the honesty in the old man's eyes stopped him. It'd been a slow process becoming human again, he was a far cry from the man he'd been before, but it would be callus of him to decline even though he already owed him his gratitude once already.

Hesitantly, he agreed, desperately hoping that he hadn't gotten in over his head.