When he first takes off, he doesn't think much. It sounds ridiculous but he can't remember who the soldier is, or who Bucky is, which means he doesn't know who he is. He doesn't feel like either. Captain Rogers had refused to fight him. He isn't sure who Captain Rogers is either, not one hundred per cent sure anyway, but something inside his brain, covered for years, told him he can't kill him or can't let him die.
He had vague recollections when the man on the bridge first called him Bucky. Enough so that he'd hesitated and compromised the mission. And when Captain Rogers had said "till the end of the line", he felt like he'd heard that before too. He can't place when or where, it's swarming around in his brain, all grey and blurry and buzzing.
Till the end of the line. And he thinks about Captain Rogers. The name Bucky made him hesitate on the bridge. He'd questioned it and been punished for it. Then on the helicarrier, Captain Rogers had said James Buchanan Barnes...you're my friend...I'm not gonna fight you... All these words pulling at the soldiers brain; fuzzy, out of focus, pain, like a tension headache and he'd began punching the Captain, hoping that he'd shut up. Stop talking and that would in turn, stop the pain in his head.
You're my mission, he'd repeated. Half to remind himself and the other half because he knows he recognises the Captain...somehow... He can remember the bad things that happen when he admits he knows the Captain. He thinks of the chair and the mouth bite and he wants the pain to stop. He punches the Captain again.
The Captain says I'm with you till the end of the line and the soldier pauses. In that spilt second, everything stops. He realises can't land the final blow, he...just..can't bring himself to do it.
Somewhere in his memories he can hear a voice saying the same nine words and before he can respond, the ground breaks and takes Captain Rogers with it.
He figures if Captain Rogers can break through years of programming with nine words, maybe he does know him. Maybe he was someone he cared about a long time ago
So he hauls him out of the water, checks on his breathing and leaves him there. He doesn't want to confront him. Or face the man with the jet pack wings or the red headed woman. They'll be looking for Captain Rogers. He takes one last glance over his shoulder and takes off.
He runs over and over the images in his mind but it seems to be useless. Still unfocused and foggy. He takes a shirt and a jacket from a back yard, of course checking there is no one home. There are signs to this. Invisible to the average person, but he can easily scope out the perimeter with just a cautionary glance.
Once the coast is clear, he also opens the garden shed, and helps himself to a pair of gloves to cover the metal arm and a hat. He wonders, as he pulls them on in the alleyway, if James Buchanan Barnes was a good man. Was he a "hero" like the Captain in blue, white and red?
He is, for the moment, free from Hydra handlers. As he walks down the sidewalk, he learns from a billboard that there is an exhibit on Captain America at the Smithsonian and toys with the idea of going. He figures it is a good place to start learning about Bucky. Himself. If he is Bucky, maybe, it'll help him remember.
The first time he goes he wears the cap over his growing hair and a hooded sweatshirt over the top as well. He's careful to keep the gloves on even when it's warm, it keeps the arm discreet. He enters the museum and moves quickly to Captain America section. He stares into the eyes of the before shots. A skinny kid, short, with a range of health problems, and the after shots. 6'2" of pure muscle. Quite a shocking difference. One that would have to be seen to be believed. Those eyes however are exactly the same. Vibrant, blue, and deep.
The museum tells his story. How Steve Rogers started, his battles in the war, his sacrifice in going down with the plane to save his country, frozen until years later. Living legend and symbol of courage, the exhibit calls him. As he reads about Captain Rogers ambitious mission to rescue the 107th, prisoners of war in a enemy base, he finds himself impressed. The mission was to rescue Bucky's unit.
"I thought you were dead"
A voice swam in his head. He jumps, startled. For a second, he thinks someone, a handler, or even the captain has found him. He scans the area. No one has come for him. He turns back to the exhibit, cautiously. The voice sounds oddly like Captain Rogers. He turns his attention back to the exhibit when he hears it again.
"I thought you were smaller"
A voice inside his own head spoke again. A different voice. A voice he felt was, or would have been his own, if he were to speak. He hasn't spoken in three days. He coughs to clear the dryness he'd only just became aware of. The words are familiar. He repeats them in his head over as he looks at the exhibit. They have clothes worn by Rogers and his Howling Commandos. There's a picture of a dark haired man, captioned as Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, next to the picture of Rogers and an outfit. A navy blue jacket, clearly a replica of what Barnes would have worn on missions. He wishes he could touch it to see what it feels like on his skin but it's on a podium and an elderly security guard is keeping a close watch on the costumes. Captain Rogers, mannequin is unclothed with a small sign reading "Due to unforeseen circumstances, Captain Americas uniform is currently unavailable for viewing" He raises his eyebrows and thinks of the Captain on the helicarrier.
He turns to the exhibit on Sergeant Barnes. There's a video of a dark haired man, laughing along with Captain Rogers. Bucky. He stares trying to lip read what the sergeant is saying. He can't quite make it out. He mouths the words, "my best friend" mere seconds before the looped video of Barnes does and he freezes, before the voice in his head sounds again.
"Just Go, get out of here,"
The Captain at the back of his mind again. His hand is instantly drawn to his temple and he rubs. He remembers a building, a railing, a burning fire below, and a man with a entirely red face, sunken cheekbones and eye sockets and a maniacal grin, laughing loudly. He sighs. That can't be right. Can it? He remembers a bar. The Captain. A woman in a scarlet dress. He can't quite place her name. Then A face, one of many, leaning over him, a train, ice. cold. So cold. He rubs his arms and instinctively pulls his coat around him, even though he isn't actually remotely cold.
How long between the train and the faces standing over him? He rubs harder at his forehead. He sees the train carriages, weapons being fired at him, a shield like the Captains. The weapons he sees in his mind, the weapons the faces on the train had, were advanced. They don't match the weapons talked about during the war Sergeant Barnes fought in. Maybe he's been out of cryo too long. He remembers his handlers talking about that before.
Red faces and hi-tech weapons wouldn't have existed in the Second World War...couldn't be real. They belonged in dreams, or possibly nightmares. He tries to dismiss the thoughts.
"No! Not without you!" His own voice? To be sure, he repeats it to himself. Not too loudly but enough so he can hear himself.
That was the moment. The moment the blurry memories started forming. Still blurry, still out of focus, still all jumbled and not quite in order but not...the faceless, shapeless murmurs they were before. In his head, he can now see the Captain taking steps back, running and jumping over the burning void. He sees hands on the railing and feels his own hands, both flesh and bone at this time, pulling the Captain back over.
He breathes deeply and slowly as if fearful of scaring off the thoughts before they could form.
How silly to think red faces and super powered weapons weren't real just because they were the stuff of nightmares.
On the way out from the museum, he finds a corner shop and pockets two, three, four notebooks and a pack of pens. The shopkeeper, a young man, barely bats an eyelid. He goes to a old abandoned room in an almost deserted block, using an alley and a fire escape ladder to get there and he writes. He fills up two pages, scratchy penmanship, frantically writing, almost as if he's scared he'll forget.
The man on the bridge was Steve. He used to be little and now he's big. People call him Captain America. He remembers a blonde woman, tending to him. His mother? She died before the war. Bucky was a soldier. In the war. He lost an arm. He remembers the snow beneath the train, he remembers the ice after the train.
He was a Howling Commando. "The only one to give his life in service to his country." People thought he was dead. He isn't. Not quite. But being dead buys you some time.
He writes as if they'll come wipe it away. But they aren't coming. Not yet. They have a wreck in the middle of Washington and their secrets to cover up. For now, he can hide in the shadows.
He finds it easy to distract himself in the day time. He writes. Every chance he gets. The pages become muddled with memories from the years. The pages become dog eared as he folds them over. And certain memories, they become more real. On these days he calls himself Bucky. "My name is Bucky," he writes on the back pages and in the margins. And when he's written in all the margins he writes it on the cover. His handwriting is big, loopy and shaky.
Some nights he lays awake and re-reads them, sometimes it's in the hope they'll seep into his subconscious and bring on more memories. Other times it's from fear of the bad dreams. It only takes one. One bad dream, one night and he spends the rest of the next day and most of the day after trying to shake the screams out of his head. A man with light brown hair cornered, a woman with dark eyes and then bullets in their heads or his hand cracking their necks to unnatural angles. He stares at the high ceiling, kicks the drywall in the old room and then goes out into the night and walks for miles. On his bad days, he doesn't feel like anyone.
Mostly Bucky remembers the war, and Steve. He feels a pull at his chest when he thinks of Steve. It's an emotion he doesnt recognise or if he can, he can't place it. Then again the Winter Soldier never had time for emotions. It was mission or in the cold. Bucky remembers Steve and writes about him. Sometimes he feels like he's writing fiction. A beautiful, shining blonde hero but The Winter Soldier had no time for fiction either and he's been the Solider for years.
The memories become more detailed and on another trip to the museum, he plucks up the courage to buy something from the Captains section of the gift shop after seeing the small sign "75% of proceeds from purchases made in the Captain America section of our gift shop, go towards helping wounded veterans". Bucky can't quite buy the book about himself. Although, perhaps, he thinks he should. "James Buchanan Barnes - A Soldiers story"- By Professor Thomas Hawkins. He doesn't know who Thomas Hawkins is, and he's had enough of other people telling him his story so instead he buys the postcard of a smaller Steve Rogers in his army uniform. He smiles awkwardly at the teenage boy at he check out briefly worrying his resemblance to the sergeant will alarm the cashier. The cashier doesn't look up and just scans it, hands it over and wishes him a nice day.
When Bucky arrives back to his makeshift home in a rundown Washington block, he slots the postcard in next to his most recent memory.
Bucky was mid conversation with a neighbour as he waited for Steve. He'd been relaying. None to the other man when a older woman with red painted lips approached him, a frantic look on her face. Bucky immediately recognised her as the wife of the grocer. She'd always been a kindly woman, often slipping an extra apple or so into his bag.
"James!" The use of his full name made his entire posture tighten. He turned to face the woman. She had a vice like grip on his arm. "It's Steven again, fighting in some alley," she sounded exasperated. "Started a fight with Donnie Cook, I knew you'd be around. You boys are never far apart,"
It took him only a couple of streets before he saw him. Steve had clearly made no impact on Donnie. Donnie wasn't a particularly tall or even strong guy. He was all noise. Steve on the other hand, was being held up by his coat, whilst Donnie threatened him.
"Hey!" Bucky called out "Back off him,"
Three heads turned around. One of Steve, nose bloody and clothes dusty from where he'd been thrown on the ground , one of Donnie Cook, holding Steve up by his coat lapels and and one of Donnie's gormless brother Jesse, who was standing beside them. Presumably to keep watch but he'd obviously was doing a pretty bad job of it.
"Shut up, Barnes, ain't nothing to do with you,"
"It damn well is if I say it is," Bucky pulled his shirt sleeves up to his elbows. "Put Rogers down or I'll come over there and make you"
Donnie let go of Steve's coat, dropping him to the ground, allowing the blonde boy to brush himself off.
"You gonna fight me instead?" He approached Bucky fast and before he'd even really processed what he was doing, Bucky had swung his fist at Donnie, a huge crack sounding as his knuckles collided with the other boys cheekbone.
Donnie staggered back, his brother caught him and shoved him towards Bucky.
"Get 'im, Don, you can take him,"
Donnie moved forward again only for Bucky to land a second blow, this time on Donnie's jaw. Donnie was much taller than Steve, Bucky on the other hand was even taller and much more of an even match strength wise.
"Aw, shit." He spat out blood. "Barnes you fucking freak,"
"Don't like being the smaller guy do you," Bucky readied his stance again "Get out of here or I'll break your fucking nose,"
The brothers stared at him and for a moment, he thought Donnie might take another crack at him. "Leave him Don, he's not worth shit," Jesse sneered.
"Him and his sissy pal," Don snorted.
Jesse let out a laugh "Don't need a woman to protect when you've got Rogers around, hell a woman would put up a better fight,"
They moved past Bucky, leaning in to push him with their shoulders as they did. Bucky resisted the urge to punch them.
"You didn't need to do that Buck, I almost had him,"
Bucky smiled fondly at his smaller friend "I know you did Steve," he handed Steve a tissue as they walked together.
He slowed down his pace as they began to walk towards the attractions by Rockaway Beach.
"So why are you fighting Donnie Cook anyway?"
"Dunno. I was walking to meet you and he just kept shouting after me, calling me all sorts, I'd had enough and took a swing at him,"
Bucky pinched the bridge of nose. "You gotta stop that Steve,"
Steve shrugged and attempted a response, the tissue muffling most of what he said.
The two walked in silence for a few moments, Bucky noticed Steves glances fell on the couples along the stretch, guys and girls holding hands, sharing ice creams and laughing together. Steve's longing gaze drifted from the couples to Bucky who smiled reassuringly. Bucky felt a pull in his stomach and he wondered if it was jealousy...the need for Steve to look at him like that, or anger, because damn everyone of these people who didn't see Steve as he did. He resigned himself to it being both not so long go. Steve was funny, intelligent, kind and thoughtful. He was artistic and his eyes were the bluest of blue. He was more than a skinny kid with a smart mouth and a knack for getting in trouble. Anyone would be lucky to have him.
He'd attempted from time to time to introduce Steve to girls because goddamn, the kid was terrible at it himself. Yet for some reason, they would more often than not seem to act like Steve was invisible instead talking to one of the strong, well built men from the docks. Occasionally they'd flirt with Bucky and sure he'd flash them a charming smile. He was a gentleman after all, he wasn't going to be rude, but he wasn't interested. Girls who looked at Steve like he wasn't even there weren't the kind of people Bucky wanted to know. They came as a pair.
"Hows your nose,"
"It's fine," he muttered. The tissue was stained red but he'd stopped bleeding. "Take a look at this guy," Steve nodded towards the games stands. "Those things are rigged,"
Bucky rose an eyebrow and felt the corners of his mouth twitch up, as he watched the guy try yet again to secure a prize and scowl when the ball flew past its target. The guys friends laughed and the girl, presumably his date pouted.
"You fancy a go," Bucky took a coin out of his pocket and rolled it over his fingers casually.
"You know those things are rigged, Buck"
"Are not, bet I can win one,"
"It's a waste of money," Steve insisted.
"Not if you win,"
Steve rolled his eyes. "And what exactly would you do with a stuffed bear?"
Bucky shrugged "Give it to Becca, or my mom, or I'll find you a date and you can give it to her," he winked "A gal would melt if you gave her one,"
Steve rolled his eyes again. "Fine. If you win. Hotdogs are on me. If not, you're buying them,"
Bucky put on a look of mock outrage "Is punching Donnie Cook not enough to earn me a hotdog. I thought I was your best friend,"
"Course you are. Not that there's much competition, you're my only friend Buck," Steve grinned and Bucky returned his smile. He was just grateful to see Steve smile again. He pulled Steve towards the games booths. He took a position in front of a ring toss game and handed the vendor his coins.
Bucky readied his stance and threw the first ring, hooking it around the target. He threw the second, missing by a fraction.
"Thought it was easy," Steve grinned at Bucky, laughing showing off his teeth.
"Shut up," Bucky muttered and readied himself to throw again. The third hitting the target. Bucky turned and grinned back at Steve. "You were saying?" He wiggled the stuffed bear at Steve. "you owe me a hotdog,"
Steve shakes his head laughing and holds up his hands. "Okay okay, next time I'll know better than to underestimate your aim,"
The hotdog vendor greeted them with a smile and in exchange for Steve's change he handed them over two hotdogs and two sodas. The sodas acting as refreshment under the baking heat. Steve handed Bucky his hotdog and drink and drank his own quickly.
"You alright Steve? Think we should eat these and then head for the train?" Bucky asked, only for Steve to raise an eyebrow.
"Um, about that," he stuck his hands in his pockets to attempt to find more change. Nothing."I think I just blew the last of the money on a couple of hotdogs," he looked sheepishly at Bucky, who shook his head and laughed and threw an arm around Steves shoulders.
"Alright, now how do we get home." He glanced around, "Safely." he looked at Steve then down side streets as they carried on their walk. Just down the road, he noticed a truck, driver leaning out of the window, talking to a passer by and he had an idea.
"Shhh," he motioned to Steve as he approached the truck, checked quickly the man wasn't looking and opened the back, jumped on before hauling Steve up and on. "There we go," he pulled the doors shut.
Steve tucked his knees up under his chin "Better hope it's going to Brooklyn or we're really screwed," his mouth twitched into a smile at the corners.
"It's an adventure, Steve" Bucky winked back at him, before staring at the bear. "Here" he handed it to Steve, who looked slightly taken aback.
"You sure Buck? Your sister would really love this,"
Bucky nodded "course I'm sure. I want you to have it. I wouldn't have it any other way," he paused before grinning "consider it a reminder, never to underestimate my aim,"
And in the dim light, he could have sworn he saw Steve blush.