Summary: It wasn't a feeling of want but a feeling of need. Bucky needed to remember what he did, those he killed, lives he destroyed. The process may have been slow, painful, and ugly, but in the end, he'd remember―and that was all that mattered.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters and storyline of Captain America. It belongs to Marvel and Disney.

I focus on the pain
The only thing that's real
The needle tears a hole
The old familiar sting
Try to kill it all away
But I remember everything.

Hurt, Johnny Cash

Memoirs of a Forgotten Soldier

"You know me."

With these three words, he falters, his fist remaining above the man's face.

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

He recalls distant memories of fun and laughter, of friendships and protectiveness, of alleyways and anger, of fighting and falling.

"Your name is James Buchanan Barnes."

This name triggers another and it belongs to the man below him, the man he is supposed to be fighting. At least, he thinks it belongs to him.

The name,

It's...Steve?

"I'm not gonna fight you. You're my friend."

This man is his mission. He is supposed to finish it, to finish him.

"You're my mission!" He roars out, punching the man.

"Then finish it, 'cause I'm with you 'til the end of the line."

It's chaos all around him. The Helicarrier they were fighting within continues to fall apart all around them and as the metal beam that supported them final collapses, flinging them into the air, the realization hits him. He can't finish his mission.

And secretly, he is glad that he can't.

They both fall into the river but the difference is that he is conscious, while the other is not. He doesn't know what comes over him as he pulls the man out of the river, but his mind is more preoccupied with what is to come.

He knows he can never return back to them, to HYDRA. They will erase his memories and he will forget ever fighting the man, he will forget hesitating for the first time in a fight, and he will forget the one name that ties everything together. Forgetting was something he just cannot let happen, not again, not when he knows that this name was one of great importance.

That man called him Bucky.

Just who the hell is Bucky?

The Winter Solider, no…is he Bucky? Wait, that doesn't sound right either…but whoever the hell he is, he knows that someone will come looking for their soldier, for their Captain. S.H.I.E.L.D. may have been exposed to the world as HYDRA but the government still needs their mascot, their so-called Captain America.

So he leaves without looking back.

.....

He stares.

Is this him?

Yes, the face belonging to the picture is identical to his own, yet he can find no recollection of it in the fragments he can barely call his own memories.

His eyes flicker to the paragraph of words right below the picture. The name belonging to the face was James Buchanan Barnes, someone who was more commonly known as Bucky. He was the only Howling Commando to give his life in service.

Bucky.

Bucky.

This is him, he is Bucky.

Yet at the same time, he isn't.

He will never be able to be the same man as the one that was portrayed in the dedication hall, the once carefree man who was Steve Roger's best friend.

His fingers itched to trace the words but one look at the security guard who had been watching him for the past few minutes, he knows that he has overstayed his welcome. Pulling his cap down even lower, he says excuse me to the family next to him and walks towards the exit.

His heart pounds. Are they watching him? Will they try to capture him? He bumps into a man but this time keeps on walking, not bothering to apologize. The exit is close, just one more room.

As he leaves the Smithsonian, his mind is once again at war with itself. Coming here had been a mistake, it makes him even more vulnerable. He can't get a handle on his emotions and that alone is too dangerous, too risky for everyone―including himself.

Shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his jacket, he starts to walk.

It doesn't take him long to return to the abandoned apartment he is using as his temporary safehouse. He quietly opens the door and closes it, letting the darkness of the room comfort him―but it doesn't.

.....

"You ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?"

"Hell, no. That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb to run away from a fight, I'm following him."

.....

Excruciating pain suddenly rushes through his head, causing him to collapse onto the ground. He clenches his teeth in pain as he tries to suffer through the memory that chooses this moment to reveal itself.

A few minutes passes before he manages to finally get himself off of the ground. He staggers over to the wall and leans on it. His thoughts are scattered all over the place and he can't grab onto a single one that can calm him down.

What was that?

Who was that?

Who is he?

He screams and punches the wall in frustration, breaking a hole into it. His breaths come out unevenly and his eyes are closed in a mixture of pain and hopelessness.

He can't stay here, that he knows. He is too close to the crime scene and police will start tracking him down soon―and this is only if they aren't already.

Taking a step away, he grabs the bag from the corner and starts to shovel in clothing and supplies. He stops though at the small table he uses as a desk because laying atop of it was a single gun. He reaches for it but when he gets within few inches away his hand freezes.

Killing.

Fighting.

Shooting.

Blood.

That is not him anymore. Even if he has a gun that doesn't mean he'll do all those horrifying things―

No, he can't. It's too much.

But for safety―

No, it could potentially trigger him again.

He roars in frustration and he slides his metal arm across the table, flinging all the papers, books, and the one single weapon around the room. His head pounds and he is too dizzy. He hasn't eaten in days and has barely been able to sleep for the fear of another nightmare plaguing his dreams.

He is a mess and he knows it, yet has no way to even try to fix himself.

He falls to his knees and feels his resolve crumble. He has nowhere to go, no one to turn too. His chin falls to his chest but this is when he sees the one thing that will save him.

An empty journal with a pen on top of it.

Suddenly a thought runs through his head. If he can write down the memories, no matter how scattered and out of place they are, he'll remember and he'll be able to try coping with everything around him. With a shaky hand, he picks up them up and without giving it a second thought, he starts to write.

.....

My name is Bucky.

I don't know who I am.

But I will remember, and I will not stop until I do.

.....

He is in New York.

He walks the streets of the city, hoping that anything, anything, will spark a random memory. Yet, nothing does. He can't remember his past and he sure as hell can't remember where he used to live, back when he was still James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes during the 1940s.

He is two people living in one body. How can he even try to comprehend this world when he can barely comprehend his own mind?

Writing everything helps, though―it helps him cope with the realization that he will never be the same.

.....

Once a soldier, always a soldier.

.....

He writes this down and sees the truth behind the words. The ink smears on the slightly damp paper but he can care less.

Bucky of the 107th infantry, former soldier, KIA.

The Winter Soldier, former assassin, MIA.

Just like his own words: once a soldier, always a soldier.