One

Steve shouldn't be angry at the tall boy with the brown hair.

He's aware that a bruise is probably forming from when one of the bullies' fists had collided with his cheek, and his bones still ache from being pushed to the ground. It is likely that, had the other boy not stepped in to chase his opponents away, he would only have gotten hurt further and he can only imagine how his mother would react to that. However, the jeering of the boys had gotten under his skin - their harsh reminders of how weak he was affecting him more than their blows - and the last thing he'd needed was a rescuer to make that point clearer.

The boy turns to Steve with concern etched on his face, and the sight only makes shame burn in his cheeks. He feels small, more so than usual, and as much as he knows he should thank the boy for his help, all he can manage is a timid, "I had 'em on the ropes."

That gets a small smile from his saviour, who Steve notices has a bruise of his own blossoming on his cheek. That doesn't distract from the fact that he'd been strong enough to single-handedly chase away three bullies on his own.

"I'm sure you did. Jus' thought you could use some help, was all." He seems shy now, despite being both taller and older than Steve, and he hesitantly holds out a hand. "The name's James, but my friends usually call me Bucky."

Steve shakes the hand, which is much stronger than his own, and tries to smile despite the fact that humiliation is still clouding his thoughts. He knows it's stupid to get caught up in that; Bucky seems kind and if he thinks of Steve as weak, he doesn't say as much. He just stepped in at a bad time on a bad day, it seems. "I'm Steve," he replies, because it only seems right, and he tries to ignore the twinge of disappointment he feels when Bucky finally lets go of his hand.

Bucky smiles at that, and rubs at his hair while he seems to ponder over what to say next. The action makes the already messy strands stick up in all directions, in a way that would have Steve's mother cringing. "It's nice to meet you Steve," he says, and it's hard to accept that the statement is as genuine as it sounds. Steve has more experience with being an easy target for bullies than a possible friend. "I was wonderin'... I mean, you can say no, but I was wondering if I could maybe walk you home? After, well-" Bucky shrugs, but their appearances are enough to indicate that the rest of that sentence was probably intended to go along the lines of "After we both got beaten up pretty good".

There's a moment where Steve considers saying yes. It would be nice to have someone to talk to on the way home, to learn more about this 'Bucky' who seems to have a genuine interest in him, and to present himself as something more than some dumb kid who got himself beaten up.

However, he can't help but think that saying yes will make him appear weaker, as if even the short walk home is beyond his abilities, and the jeers of the bullies as they beat him up have damaged his pride enough as it is today. He doesn't need anymore protection.

"I'm all right, really," Steve says, trying not to notice the way Bucky's smile drops a little. "I can go on my own. It's not that far anyway."

Bucky's furrowed eyebrows are enough to tell Steve that his lie didn't work, but he has the good grace not to bring it up. Instead he simply shrugs and looks down at his feet. "Well, if you're sure. Maybe we'll see each other some other time?"

There's a hopefulness there that Steve doesn't understand, although the idea of seeing Bucky again in better circumstances isn't a bad one. He lets himself smile, because wounded pride or not, Bucky was still kind to him and he's grateful. "Yeah, some other time. That'd be good."

With that, he awkwardly walks away, feeling Bucky's eyes on him until he turns a corner on the other end of the street. The quiet walk home is enough to make him wish he'd accepted the boy's offer, but the fact that he arrives at his door without incident reassures him that he wouldn't have needed Bucky anyway. Besides, there might be a next time to get to know him better.

There isn't a next time.

It's not so much that Steve chooses to forget the boy who helped him in the alley, only that he makes little effort to find him. They don't seem to go to the same school, or if they do Bucky is in a different class, and there are little opportunities to bump into each other elsewhere. Besides, they spoke to each other for all of ten minutes. Steve doesn't want to risk getting to know him further only to find that he might be just as bad, if not worse, than the other boys his age that look down on those younger or smaller than them. In terms of company, Steve has his Ma and she is more than enough.

Later on, after his mother is gone and the pain of losing her has faded enough to be somewhat bearable, there are other friends. Friends at his art classes who appreciate his drawings and are able to look beyond his weaknesses. Friends at his job at a small drug-store, who sometimes invite him out dancing despite the fact that he is terrible at it. Friends who, when the war hits and each of his efforts to join it is met with rejection, sympathise with him but, to his annoyance, point out that there's more he can do to help besides go out and fight.

Steve would be lying if he said he felt wholly complete with any of them though. He is grateful for their company, but he can also spend days stuck at home on his own and barely miss their presence. Sometimes he wonders about the boy he met in the alley when he was eight years old and imagines what might have become of that had he let something happen, but he never lets himself linger on it. He shouldn't miss something he never had, and he is content enough with his life as it has panned out.

And if there are times where he feels like an important part of himself is missing, well, he will simply have to move past that.

Two

Bucky thinks he should be sitting with the others, joining in with their laughter and songs and tales of daring escape, but all he can do is knock back another drink on his own and try to pretend the burn doesn't remind him of chemicals running through his veins. He can see his hand shaking against the glass and he takes a deep, shuddering breath; reminding himself to keep it together. Steve will need him to be whole. He can't afford to be anything less, not now that his friend no longer needs his protection.

It is difficult to hide his pain, however. Already he has woken Steve with his screams, as Zola's face looms over him in his nightmares. He can feel a phantom burning in his veins that never seems to go away and his head still aches from whatever those machines had done to it. He remembers their tight grip at his temples and a sharp pain and the sensation of his mind splintering into pieces and, though he still knows who he is, he sometimes feels like Zola stole fragments of his life away from him.

Steve is still here though. He is real and alive and stronger than he ever could be in his old, smaller body, and the sight of him walking over to Bucky's place at the bar has him smiling in spite of himself. For a long time Bucky had been sure he would never see his best friend again. At the very least, Zola hadn't been able to take that away.

The uproar and laughter from the table Steve had just left confirms what Bucky already knew. The others will join Steve in his fight, and the thought makes the weight in his chest feel heavier. "What'd I tell you? They're all idiots."

That gets Steve to smile and Bucky wants to feel pride at that but he can't. The world around him is too noisy and the drink doesn't do nearly enough to shut it out, and that small smile that Steve gives him is enough to make his guilt swallow him whole.

He wants to say he will fight at Steve's side. That he will be there as he always has been in the past, looking out for his friend and keeping him safe in an environment that will be trying to tear them apart constantly. He wants to say that he will be there 'til the end of the line, just as he'd promised all those years ago.

"I need to go home," is what he says instead.

He turns to Steve with shame burning inside his chest only to find not anger, but relief on the man's face. Somehow that just makes everything feel worse.

His injuries are not nearly severe enough to get him a discharge on their own, but Steve stubbornly fights for him even when Bucky has all but resigned himself to rejoining the war. Before long, he finds himself back at their tiny flat in Brooklyn, alone, and the sight is so surreal after all that's happened since he left that he can barely bring himself to sleep in his old bed anymore.

He goes back to work as soon as he can, if only to distract himself from the fact that he selfishly chose to be safe while Steve is in constant danger halfway around the world, and the work makes him exhausted enough that nightmares barely have time to plague him. He isn't happy per se, but he learns to be content, and seeing his little sister again after being ready to die in a lab in Austria has him hugging her for so long they both feel a little ridiculous by the time they break apart.

That sense of security is broken when a radio broadcast informs him that Captain America crashed a plane into the Arctic.

It is Becca who comes over when no-one else can, who cradles him in her arms as he spills his heart out and sobs, and who forces him to eat and sleep when all he wants to do is go back in time so he can stay with Steve and die with him. It is Becca who forces him to talk when he would rather do anything but, and when she learns of Zola and his experiments and the fact that Bucky still feels like there are chunks of his childhood that have been stolen from him, he sees a fury in her he'd never wanted his younger sister to experience.

However, admitting that those experiences were real helps more than he expected, and when the war ends and the woman named Peggy Carter gets in touch in the hopes of talking to him about Steve, he only hesitates for a moment before agreeing to meet her again. They meet in a small café, a year after the war's end, and he tells her of their childhood; of meeting a skinny kid who was too heroic for his own good and who could be so deathly ill some days but so brilliantly alive on others.

She tells him of Steve's final mission; of his wish to make the world a better place for those he loved and of his sacrifice to save millions of people from Hydra's bombs. It hurts them both to hear and tell these stories but he suspects they'll be better off for it, and when he gets up to leave, Peggy holds his hand softly and looks at him with a sincerity that almost reminds him of Steve. "He loved you, you know," she tells him, and his heart breaks all over again.

"I know," he replies, giving her a small smile that fools neither of them.

He never sees her again.

He eventually finds work fixing cars, which he enjoys more than he expects to, and never marries despite his workmates and sister all finding themselves paired up as the years go by. The thought of it doesn't suit him, and he can't see himself ever being truly comfortable with one single person in the same way he once was.

He learns to heal, to go out with friends and find enjoyment in life again though, and if someone ever comments that he seems as if he's far away, well, that's bound to happen from time to time.

The world outside is bright with sunshine and it's the time of year where blossom starts to form on the trees and flowers bloom from grasses recently beaten by winter. Bucky can do nothing more than watch at his age, but that's usually enough. The windows are open, letting warm air into the open lounge and he can hear children laughing in a nearby park, breaking through the low chatter of other residents in the home.

Sara, his nurse, comes over to him with a warm smile and her daily newspaper in her hand. She reminds him a little of Becca when she was in her 30s, with her round, pleasant face and endless patience, and he knows he must have slipped up and used his sister's name on occasion but the nurse doesn't seem to mind.

Sara takes a seat next to him, checks that he's comfortable enough in his armchair, and follows his gaze out the window. "It's a beautiful day, isn't it James?" She seems to mean it, unlike other nurses who he can tell make small-talk with him only as a formality. "They're thinking of letting everyone sit outside later, would you like that?"

He nods, yearning to feel a breeze on his face again, and Sara smiles before unrolling her paper and skimming through it to find articles she thinks they'll both find interesting. They both like science and sports, which usually has her flicking to the back pages, but today she's stuck on the front page, eyes wide with interest.

"Well, isn't that something? They're saying they found Captain America," she says finally, disbelieving, and the news has Bucky's chest aching with pain he hasn't let himself feel for many years. Sara doesn't seem to notice, to his relief, but the more she reads the more her awed expression fades away to a sad smile. "It's been such a long time as well."

She has no idea, he thinks.

Three

There is a brief moment where the falling feels more like flying. Where the wind whistles past his ears and bites at his skin, and no matter how far away the train becomes the ground is no closer to him. He stopped flailing moments before – likely seconds, but the frantic rush has robbed time from him as well – and can now only watch as gravity brings him crashing to earth. Bucky is too numb for terror by now, his screams dying in his throat, and he knows that it will not be long before he shatters into fragments on unforgiving ground.

An impact on his left side brings him back to reality and there is a sudden burning that has nausea rising in his gut. The sensation of his back slamming into rock and ice knocks the breath from his lungs and his vision blacks out to such an extent he knows he must surely be dead.

It is only when his eyes open a fraction to see swirls of blood staining fresh snow that the truth of his survival sinks in, but any relief he could glean from that fact vanishes at the stabbing pain of each inhale and a sickening lightness at his left side while the rest of him feels heavy and broken.

The pain will be worse soon. There is little else he can do but lie still and anticipate it, for any attempt at movement has his breaths coming out in high gasps and his legs remain still no matter how desperately he wishes them to move. He tries to sleep, to speed up a process that must now be inevitable, but there is always something to bring him back. A new pain, the bitter cold, his own fear and uncertainty of what will face him when he's gone. What Steve will do, left behind on a train which must now be miles away.

It is this that scares Bucky most. The thought of his friend left behind on his own, with no-one to stop him from doing anything reckless out of guilt. Perhaps Peggy can guide him. She seems capable enough.

He must drift at some point, his vision blurring enough for the pain to fade into background noise, for when he comes to he is surrounded by unfamiliar faces. For a split second he feels a spark of hope – the possibility of help distracting from the unlikelihood of having been found so soon by allies. It is only when voices join the fray that his hopes dissipate into dust.

They seem to be Russian, although he thinks he hears some German voices as well, and though he cannot understand much of the words, there is a formality in their tone he doesn't trust. A cold hand comes up to his neck and feels for a pulse before peeling back an eyelid, and Bucky groans and tries to shy away only for a pitiful gasp to emerge. His legs still don't work, and the company around him continue to talk quietly as if he is a mere curiosity to study and not a man.

The gruff voice of the man closest to him speaks once in Russian before turning to what Bucky assumes to be his partner and repeating himself in German. This, at least, Bucky understands, and he is surprised to feel nothing when he hears "He will not survive the trip," said so coldly and without concern. His approaching death no longer has the power to surprise him; what surprises him is that it hasn't already happened.

He closes his eyes again and wills the men to leave him be if he is so useless to them. A sharp pain at his right arm (he can no longer feel his left, only the wetness of snow and blood), has him dragging open an eyelid to see the German man pocketing a small vial of blood before getting to his feet and nodding over to the Russians in their group. There is barely time to turn before Bucky sees one of them reaching for a gun and aiming it straight for his forehead, muttering something in irritation, before pulling the trigger.

It is almost a relief when the cold gives way to blackness.

Four

His cheek still stings from where Pierce had violently slapped it, but the pain is a mere afterthought to the screaming in his head. Images flash through his mind like a recording; the man with the blonde hair and blue eyes present in more memories than he should be. His instincts tell him to listen to his handlers; to accept that he knows the man only from his past assignments and keep his mouth shut.

Something at the back of his mind keeps up the mantra of I knew him, I knew him, I knew him however, and no matter how much he tries to focus on Pierce, he cannot make such thoughts quieten.

He can see something akin to annoyance seep into Pierce's expression; can see those blue eyes grow colder, and his heart starts to race in his chest with half-forgotten knowledge and phantom sensations of having his mind wiped clean, and he tenses in anticipation for that punishment to be handed out once more.

They do not wipe him.

Pierce stands, makes a show of looking down on him with authority, and finally turns away while giving orders to his handlers to 'prep him and keep him in line' before leaving the vault in silence.

There is a moment of hesitation in the room that leaves him with a feeling of satisfaction he knows is inappropriate. He cannot do anything to these men, not if he wishes to avoid reprisals, but they are frightened of him nonetheless.

They recover from their stupors quickly enough and get to work while he remains still and pliant in his chair, watching as the repairs are finished on his arm and his gear is laid out before him, ready for him to don when the time to complete his mission comes. The collection of scientists talk constantly while they work, but never directly to him, so tuning them out to try to make sense of what is going on in his head is a simple enough task.

He had been given a name earlier. The man-on-the-bridge has given him a name that, despite him never hearing it before, seems to fit like a glove the more he thinks about it. That is wrong in itself. He is not supposed to have a name, has no experience of ever having one, and he knows his handlers would never give him one of their own. They forgot a long time ago that he was human; it would be best not to remind them.

Not only that though, he has been given a life beyond what he knows as the Soldier. In the hours following his failed mission on the causeway, he has remembered things that do not seem to fit his existence; thoughts and feelings and images that belong to another man. It is unnerving, knowing his head is not entirely his own anymore, and giving any indication that his programming is cracking will be dangerous. He has already aroused suspicion, he knows. He will have to remain compliant from now on.

Besides, once the mission is complete, his work will be over and perhaps they will set him free to find that old life. Surely, after all this time, he has earned that much.

As he watches the Captain slip from the side of the helicarrier and the man with the wings fall to earth soon after, the Asset (Bucky, he thinks, but the name does not seem comfortable yet) lingers for longer than he should, despite his orders. He can see the Captain still hanging onto the helicarrier and quickly recovering; he knows where he will be heading next and knows it is his mission to stop him.

He also knows that he doesn't want to.

He had hoped that following orders and being able to get work done would serve as a distraction from the noise in his head; from concepts such as identity and 'want' that he should not associate with himself - that the few hours of sleep his handlers had forced on him had only made worse.

The capability of killing cleanly and without remorse is still there. He could follow the Captain now and finish his mission easily enough. But he doesn't want to.

It is a strange feeling, and not one he can particularly understand while the world prepares for chaos around him. He indulges in it, however, turning away from the ledge and in the opposite direction of where he knows he is supposed to go, before climbing into an abandoned quinjet. The rebellion makes his heart race and his mind scream with orders and past lives, but he shuts out the noise and flies towards an empty launch-pad on the Triskelion instead. The Captain will almost certainly succeed now, and the thought thrills him more than it should. He knows he is not supposed to be thrilled, he is not supposed to feel much of anything, but he is also not supposed to disobey orders and that ship has sailed.

He could do anything now. The consequences are beyond mattering.

The floors of the SHIELD headquarters are almost deserted as he descends the stairs. In the distance he can hear gunfire, and he ensures his steps are light so as not to draw attention, but nobody comes his way.

He is suddenly very aware that he has no plan, no strategy, no orders to cover this. He is truly on his own for the first time he can remember and the realisation is such an unnerving one that he pauses on the steps.

He won't go back. He knows that. There is nothing for him in his handler's control besides the chair or execution, and that's if they're feeling kind.

The uncertainty of what's ahead of him is petrifying though, and based entirely on half-remembered moments from his past and an encounter with a man who probably knows him better than he knows himself. He could be entering into a life he barely understands but, at the very least, it will be a life.

A familiar voice in the distance breaks through his funk, and he looks down to realise that his metal arm has crushed the bannister. Following the voice as quietly as he can, he descends several more steps before emerging onto a dark corridor and carefully peeking into a vast office space. Bragging in a manner not unlike the one he usually adopts following completed missions, he recognises Rumlow facing his direction and instinctively reaches for his gun. There is a man with his back to him as well – the man with the wings – and before he can contemplate what he intends to do, he steps out in full view of the doorway and aims his gun at the man's back.

Rumlow seems both confused and elated to see him, his grin widening a fraction as his attention turns to the man between them. "It seems we'll be cutting this short, Wilson."

Either in confusion or fear, 'Wilson' turns hurriedly only to freeze as he sees the gun now pointed at his chest. He whispers "Bucky," seemingly without meaning to, and the mention of that old name, his name, makes him freeze. He notices that the man, the Captain's partner, has an earpiece in and a small idea plants itself in his head.

"Is he alive? Have you heard from the Captain?" His question, along with the absence of a gunshot, has both men in front of them frowning in confusion, and once upon a time Bucky may have laughed. Wilson seems smart enough to spot an opportunity when he sees it, however, and he nods once, carefully. It's all Bucky needs.

"Then get out of the way."

Wilson barely has time to obey the order before he fires, aiming at Rumlow's leg and feeling a stab of satisfaction at the man's pained cry as he falls to the floor. It would be better to kill him, he knows, but it seems there are instincts and programming buried too deeply in his mind to do that just yet. The thought of killing Rumlow, or any Hydra agent, brings a repulsion that he knows isn't down to his own free will, but he's satisfied enough by the man's incapacitation.

When he sees Wilson slowly getting to his feet, he lowers the gun and places it back in its holster. He must be trustworthy for this to work; Wilson may lead him to the Captain if he's lucky. Killing him would be of no advantage, and he finds that he has no wish to harm the man in any case.

"Bucky?" The name isn't as jarring anymore; not when Wilson says it. The thought of that is almost comforting. "Are you...this is going to sound stupid, but are you you?"

"I don't know," he replies honestly, but the fact that he replied at all seems to make the man relax a little. Before now, he supposes he must have been some silent monster in Wilson's eyes. "I think I want to be."

The man breaks out in a genuine smile, so unlike the cruel one that Rumlow had adorned that Bucky has no idea how to respond to it. "That's... that's great, really, that's...something we can discuss when we're far away from here."

His eyes are drawn to the helicarriers, which have started to open fire on each other with such ferocity that large chunks of metal are crashing into the river. Bucky finds himself inclined to follow when Wilson makes his way urgently to the door. "The name's Sam by the way. Didn't get much chance to say before now, for obvious reasons."

It's seems a risky joke, but Bucky's feels his face twisting in such a way that he thinks he smiles, and he mentally replaces 'Wilson' with 'Sam' in his head with far more ease than he replaced 'Asset' with 'Bucky'. He knows Sam is right, remaining in this building a moment longer is too much of a risk, and he almost turns to leave before he notices Rumlow dragging himself across the floor to a small device that had been thrown out of reach as he fell. Bucky has little time to react before he realises what it is.

"Pierce? We've got ourselves a defector," Rumlow spits into his communicator, looking up at Bucky with a twisted sneer marred by the pain of the gunshot. He cannot hear the reply, but Rumlow's response of "Who do you fucking think?" is enough to tell him what was said, and before he can even think, he fires a bullet into the Hydra agent's skull before he can say anything else. Out of the corner of his eye he can see his new ally tense, and he lowers the gun again out of courtesy. Scaring Sam is not the intention, nor is killing him. Convincing him of that much may be difficult though.

It is Bucky's turn to tense when a hand lands on his shoulder, but the touch is light and brings with it no indication of pain. That may take some getting used to.

"We should get out of here," Sam says, his voice steady and measured though he must be feeling anything but. "We'll probably have three helicarriers falling on us in a minute."

Bucky nods, and gestures for Sam to lead the way, not sure if he's ready to trust him at his back. If the other man minds, he doesn't show it, and he wanders over to the stairs. He looks back once to make sure Bucky follows, before they both start racing down the steps as quickly as their legs will carry them.

Something in his arm clicks as he runs, and he briefly registers a sudden whirring in the mechanics. That in itself isn't unusual, but the cold, trickling sensation under his skin followed by a heavy numbness spreading across his left side is.

He wants to ignore it, wants to focus on descending the twenty-odd floors that are left and getting out of a building that is likely to collapse on them in mere minutes, but he can't mistake the sensation of his legs growing heavier and clumsier and his breaths catching in his throat. Sam hasn't noticed, is as focused on escape as Bucky knows he should be. It would be best to hide it; if he appears weak Sam may judge him as useless and abandon him.

Hiding ceases to be a possibility when he feels his heart lurch uncomfortably in his chest and his legs finally collapse from underneath him. He tries to grasp the railing and keep himself upright, but his hands don't follow his orders and he crashes inelegantly to the floor. Sam halts and hesitates for the briefest of moments before kneeling at Bucky's side, making no effort to mask his confusion.

"Come on, we're nearly there," he says, trying to get a good grip on Bucky's arm to help him up, but his muscles refuse to respond and the numbness has spread to such an extent that he can barely feel his legs anymore, let alone walk.

It is a wonder Sam does not leave him there and then. The thought doesn't even seem to come as a possibility to the man, who concerns himself more with feeling for Bucky's pulse at his lack of response than his own safety. There's a familiarity in that that suddenly brings forth memories of the man on the bridge again, and not for the first time he wishes his mind could be clearer.

"I remember him," he says without meaning to, his voice so faint and raspy it's a wonder Sam even hears it. He seems to, though. Something changes in his expression but Bucky can't judge what - is too tired for that - and he's only faintly aware of Sam struggling with his weight again, as if he means to carry him. "I remember..."

"Hey," There's a light tapping on his face, and Bucky groans and opens eyes he hadn't realised were closing. "Save your breath and you can tell him yourself, all right? I'm getting you out of here."

He wants to believe that. Wants to believe there's something beyond this, that the mess in his head will make sense and that his handlers will cease to control him. He wants to tear the metal from his shoulder and be a person again, though he has forgotten how to be one. He wants a great many things for someone who only yesterday had no idea how to want anything for himself, but he mostly just wants to breathe and even that seems to be beyond him. His chest burns faintly and trying to inhale is more effort than it's worth and he's only faintly aware of strong arms around him, struggling with his weight, and an insistent voice breaking through the haze.

"Not long now, one more floor, Cap'll probably meet us outside, you can see him then.."

He doesn't last long enough to make it outside.

Five

Months pass them by and have them travelling constantly in the hopes of finding something new, but the leads they find only seem to be getting colder.

Sam must be exhausted by now, no matter how often he says otherwise, and even Steve is finding his hope wearing away with time. He had hoped that at some point Bucky would make himself known to them; that his mind would heal enough that he could trust Steve to look after him in a world where everyone else wants to use him for their own gain. However, trust is not an easy thing to come by these days, and though his friend's continued absence pains him, Steve cannot blame Bucky for hiding.

It doesn't help that other responsibilities always seem to drag him away when, had the choice been entirely his, he would have dedicated all of his time to finding Bucky. The Avengers call more frequently than he'd like, and while it is satisfying to see Hydra facilities be picked off one by one, there is still that sheer panic everytime his eyes glance over their victims, expecting to see Bucky's face somewhere among them. He likes the Avengers, likes the distraction of missions. However, in a choice between them and finding Bucky with Sam at his side, he knows what he'll always choose.

Then Ultron happens, a 'distraction' that almost tears the world apart at the seams, and all of a sudden every civilian he cannot save is another Bucky or another Erskine, and there's an added sense of responsibility in the aftermath of Ultron's demise that has sleep escaping him in the frantic weeks that follow. Moments of quiet don't come easily after that, and moments of freedom between training the new Avengers are even further apart. Sam does what he can but even he is constantly busy now, and the search for Bucky is all too soon reduced to the odd uncovered file and phone-call from sources he barely trusts.

Steve will never stop looking. Even when Sam eventually gives up, when Fury stops being able to find relevant files and Natasha tells him finally that Bucky might not want to be found, he knows he will never stop looking. He needs to know that his friend is alive. He needs a glimpse of him breathing and whole, and even if a glimpse is all he gets, he knows that will be enough.

Until then, all he has is crushing uncertainty and the knowledge that too many people besides him want Bucky too. People like Rumlow or any of his surviving handlers could find him first, and Steve often wakes from nightmares in which that occurs and there's nothing left of Bucky to save by the time he catches up. He trusts Bucky enough to protect himself, but the doubt is a constant he wishes would disappear.

And even if he grows old without ever finding his friend again, his ghost will always be following him. Steve knows that anything he sees at the corner of his eye will automatically be assumed to be Bucky; that any stranger he comes across with brown hair and blue eyes will remind him of Bucky and make his heart stop in his chest for an agonising second. He's not sure if he'll ever learn how to live with that, but until he finds his friend it is a future he will have to accept.

He can only hope for now. As the leads vanish, and endless trailing through European cities continue to amount to nothing, all he can do is hope that Bucky is still out there somewhere.

Steve hopes that he's safe, wherever he is, and that somehow he is happy.

+ One

In terms of heartfelt reunions, Bucky doesn't think this is the ideal.

He's starving and exhausted, the last few days having passed him by in a daze while his arm is trapped uselessly in a vice. Escape had proven to be a fruitless endeavour shortly after he'd woken and the prospect of ripping his arm free was one he imagined would kill him before he was able to stumble upon medical help. All he had left to do was sit tight and hope that the Hydra fucks who brought him here will show their faces again.

When voices break through the haze of exhaustion, he cringes away on instinct. He's come to expect pain from the hands of faceless men, and it's only when he looks up to see the familiar form of the man from the helicarrier (Steve, he knows now) that the panic seeps away to hope he doesn't dare surrender himself to. It could be one of Hydra's tricks, he tells himself, but there's a solemness in old blue eyes that seems genuine and the promises of help are more than he deserves.

It is a few hours before the help he needs has a chance to arrive. A few hours should be nothing compared to the days he knows he must have spent here, but the promise of escape makes his stomach feel emptier and his eyes burn with exhaustion, and the ache at his shoulder becomes a persistent throb. Steve stays by his side the entire time, content with silence when Bucky can't bring himself to talk and a patient listener when memories spill from his lips without him meaning them to.

There's a look on Steve's face when it becomes clear that, somewhere deep down, Bucky remembers who he is. He looks like Bucky has handed him the world and sun and stars, when all he's given are words. The sight makes him feel better though, less hopeless, and when help arrives in the form of a man named Scott he doesn't protest when Steve offers to stay by his side until he's free.

Escape is a more complicated process than he understands, made worse by Scott's strange ability to shrink (no-one in the room chooses to question this and so Bucky doesn't either). Freeing his arm is a matter of applying a small metal ring to the vice which somehow increases it's size slightly, widening the gap enough to let his arm slip free. Then there is damage to the mechanics in the prosthetic to deal with, and before any of them can really discuss it, Scott vanishes from sight – the only indicator of where he is given by the sounds of tinkering in the metal wrist. It's an uncomfortable feeling that has Bucky's already exhausted mind spinning, and he unconsciously rests his head on Steve's shoulder until Scott reappears before them; a quick test of the arm indicating that he can move it properly again.

"Well that was one of the weirdest favours I've ever done," Scott says with a grin that suggests he's happier about that than he should be. "Also, I found this." He flicks a small, blinking red device to Steve, who catches it with ease. "Tracking device. I think. Probably best it doesn't come with us."

Steve nods and crushes the device in his fist before throwing it aside. Hydra's actions make far more sense now, and the thought makes anger flare in Bucky's chest. He'd gone from asset to bait in their eyes, never a person. There is a steeliness in Steve's expression that suggests he feels similarly.

Not that that matters anymore. He is free and, he hopes, in safe hands. Steve helps him up with more care than he'd ever received from his old handlers, and doesn't seem to mind when Bucky stumbles as they walk over to their car; his legs feeling like liquid after being curled up and trapped for so long. He won't pretend he likes the feeling of uselessness - of needing help with the simple task of walking, like a pathetic child - but he has no energy to protest and when Sam drives them away from the abandoned warehouse, he finds he is content enough to drift off as fields and cottages pass by the windows.

When they arrive at a quiet safehouse after hours of driving, they leave him with a bed of his own to get some rest as soon as he's finally gotten some food in his belly. He finds that he's grateful; he's bone weary whether he admits it or not and he thinks he trusts Sam and Steve enough to drop his guard and snatch a few hours of sleep.

This turns out to be more difficult in practice, when he's trapped under the covers on a bed that feels entirely too soft after resting his head against cool metal for the past few days. No matter how tightly he wraps the sheets around himself, he can never quite escape a chill that reminds him too vividly of the ice, and after two hours of tossing and turning he groans in frustration and kicks the covers aside.

The lounge is quiet when he creeps through it. He thinks Sam is supposed to be standing guard but he's spread out on the couch with an abandoned cup of coffee on the floor beside him, the TV playing news footage silently in front of them. Bucky lets him sleep and takes care to keep his footsteps light until he reaches the slightly ajar door of Steve's room.

The man seems to be asleep himself, half-buried under sheets that have been partly kicked away. Bucky hesitates for only a moment before moving towards him, placing a hand lightly on Steve's shoulder so as not to startle him. There doesn't seem to have been a need; Steve is still as light a sleeper as ever apparently, as he turns to Bucky with an awareness that suggests he hadn't quite managed to drift off himself. "Buck? You okay?"

He doesn't answer, doesn't know how to, but Steve doesn't need one. He scoots over on the bed as far as he can without falling off the edge, leaving room for Bucky to climb in should he wish to. He does, pulling warm sheets over him and feeling more comfortable than he expected to with the heat of Steve's body so close to him. Any remaining traces of ice snaking through his bones melts away and he lets himself relax for the first time he can remember in weeks.

"Couldn't sleep," he offers as a feeble explanation, and Steve seems to understand. Bucky can see his old friend looking at him in the dim light.

"Is it okay if I hug you?" Steve asks finally, hesitant in a way he'd never been able to hide even when they were children. Bucky nods, and feels warm arms wrap around his torso protectively.

The embrace isn't particularly confining. Steve's being too careful, making it clear that he can escape if he wants, but it's warm and safe and that's all that Bucky really needs right now. He draws closer to Steve, lets his head rest against the man's chest and hears a strong heartbeat under the fabric of his t-shirt. It would be enough to lull him to sleep if it didn't bring more memories flooding back.

"We used to do this when we were kids," he mumbles, trying to make sense of his mind before the memory fades all over again. "We'd put the couch cushions on the floor and sleep on 'em. Used to say it was to keep you warm."

Steve tenses for a split second, and Bucky feels a slight rise of panic that he's said something wrong, before he looks up to see a small smile on the man's face.

"Yeah, we did," he says, and there's a choked quality to his voice that almost makes Bucky wish he hadn't brought up the memory. "You used to sleep at ours more than your own Ma's. Said you didn't want me getting cold and sick, even if it was in the middle of summer." Steve's fingers start tracing lazy circles on Bucky's back as he speaks, and if he closes his eyes he can almost pretend they are back in that small apartment in Brooklyn; ten years old and with barely a care in the world. "You really remember that?"

Bucky nods, and is relieved to find it's the truth. The memory doesn't flare and fade like so many others have; saying it aloud has painted it vividly and suddenly the past doesn't seem quite so untouchable anymore. His days as the Soldier – as a nameless Asset – have melted away for the moment and there's a lightness in his chest he hasn't felt since long before his programming cracked on a falling helicarrier.

He can feel himself starting to drift when he feels a light kiss on the top of his head, and a part of him identifies that action as an old relic from the past as well. There seems to be a moment of hesitation on Steve's part, but Bucky gives no indication that he minds and simply presses himself closer to Steve in encouragement. Strong arms tighten around him in response and it's more comforting than he expects it to be.

"I really missed you Buck," Steve whispers into the dark.

Bucky can't bring himself to say the same back, can't tell Steve about the sensation of knowing something is missing but going through decades having no idea of what, and instead he settles for saying nothing at all.

He must get some hours of sleep, for when his eyes open again the room is slightly brighter and Steve is looking down at him with a sleepy smile on his face. "You still snore, you know," he says, and he earns a lazy kick in response.

"Yeah, well, you're still a punk," Bucky replies, the nickname coming back without him realising it, and it only makes Steve laugh. He finds it strange how that affects him after all this time; how the mere sight of Steve smiling can make him feel warm and safe. His mind may not be whole, not yet, and he knows that his recovery still has a long way to go before he and the man that Steve once knew are one and the same. But he thinks that those hardships will be worth it if it means he gets more moments like this.

He rests his head against Steve's chest again and lets himself be boneless, and doesn't flinch when Steve starts lazily tracing patterns on his back again. He thinks he mutters something like "M'still tired, let me sleep," but he doesn't need to. He won't be disturbed here.

Bucky starts to think that everything might have been worth it. That he would be prepared to endure seventy years of hell and pain all over again, so long as it buys him this moment of peace.

A/N - Thank you for reading this! I hope you enjoyed it. Any feedback is appreciated :)