There is always light at the end of the tunnel.

James couldn't remember who had told him that. He figured, in hindsight, that it was probably his ma. That just seemed the most likely. But, as with most things, he couldn't remember. His life was just a mess. A whole load of confusion. He'd been working his way around the different parts of his life before- the Smithsonian and various webpages giving him information, but memories still came in flashes and were rarely pleasant. Staring through a scope and realizing for the first time that he was desensitized to what he was doing. It was almost easy. Bang. A man crumples to the ground. He moves on.

It was disconcerting, not remembering who he'd been. There was occasionally a tug at his mind, a pull that told him he knew something, but tracking down exactly what… that was an altogether different story. He pushed, and all he saw was darkness. Impenetrable, impossible to break past.

Fitting, really. That someone like him, a man – no, a monster –shrouded in darkness should find himself trapped by it. There was no solace in the darkness, but he wouldn't dare seek it anyway. He didn't deserve that.

He had achieved a sort of routine. It wasn't perfect; often his sleep patterns fluctuated, delaying the eventual awakening, where he ended up drenched in sweat and shivering. But it was enough so that he didn't feel too much had changed. He had a schedule, times for doing things, much like when he was on missions. It wasn't a comfort, but it was familiar.

As it was one morning, he was at the 'wash' part of his routine. As usual, he took a short shower before getting out, towelling himself dry. He glanced briefly to his left, and paused at what he saw. The mirror was misted over, but he could catch an outline. He stood, moving slowly and rubbing his arm across it, making his profile more defined. There it was, his hair tangled and overgrown, beard making him look older than he knew he was- physically, at least. He sighed, staring at every year that shone through his eyes and the lines on his face, telling a story of someone who had lived through far too much, lost far too much to be considered a person. He smiled bitterly, and even that simple action twisted his face unnaturally. He knew he wasn't a person; he was beginning to doubt he was even human. Anything but the fucked up mess HYDRA had made him. His eyes dragged down further. His torso was fine, if littered with scars in the area where metal met flesh. Everything else was… in order. He was healthy, physically. But his head was so fucked up that he knew he'd never be a person again.

Monster, he thought to himself.

Monster, the voice in his head hissed.

"Monster," he spoke plainly and simply to himself.

But he didn't have to be, he realized with a jolt. He didn't have to be a monster. He could try to push that part of himself away.

But before he let that thought overpower him, he trampled it down. He was always going to be a monster, whether he liked it or not. He wasn't a good man. He'd hurt people, good people, killed them even. He was not a good man, not in any way, and he wasn't going to let himself believe that he could be anything else.

There only seemed to be one other person that believed that. Rogers. Steve. A man who he couldn't quite remember, but who'd left an imprint on him that he'd never quite be able to erase. An imprint on his emotions, that sent a strange bout of affection through him whenever he thought about him. But every time he tried to figure it out, his head hurt and he had to sit down for a long time.

He continued to stare at himself in the mirror, and made a decision. He had to clean up.

It didn't take long to find a razor and a pair of scissors at a local supermarket, and the kid behind the desk looked so scared of him that he was pretty sure he was undercharged for them. No matter, however, because as soon as he got back, he cut off most of his hair until it was at a suitable length- not quite as short as his army days, but certainly much better- and shaved off all of his stubble. He still looked… wrong. Dark, twisted, monstrous. But more… human? Certainly not a mess, anyway. He stepped back with a groan as another spike of pain ran through his head.

"Bucky! Grab my hand!"

Falling. Pain. Zola. Pain. So. Much. Pain.

James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557241.

Barnes. Sergeant. 32557241.

Sergeant. 32557241.

32557241.

32…

Winter Soldier. Asset.

He didn't even notice where he was until he heard the smash of breaking glass; felt a slight stab in the knuckles of his right hand. He looked up, and pulled his hand away from the mirror, staring at his face in the mirror. For a crazy moment, he attempted to pull one of those self-confident smirks he'd seen Bucky wear so often, but it came across even more twisted and dark than he thought it would, reflected ten times over thanks to the shattered glass. He let out a sigh, and began getting to work on removing the glass. A good Asset always had to know when to fix itself, after all.

After wrapping his hand and turning his back to the mirror, he thought long and hard about his next move. He was lost, really. He knew he could look up more information about his life prior to the Soldier, but he almost didn't want to. He knew everything he figured he'd need to. There was another option, for the more intimate details.

Steve.

Part of him longed to see the punk, his best friend, the man who would accept him regardless of anything. The rest of him was too scared, too worried that he would taint Steve.

But Rogers was no innocent child, and… he needed someone. He needed to know who he was.

With his mind made up, he headed towards Rogers' apartment (far too easy to find it, really), and prepared himself for the meeting.

Standing in front of it, he almost left. He was frightened, apprehensive… excited. He raised his hand and knocked.

There's always light at the end of the tunnel.

Someone had told him that. He couldn't remember who; but then, did it really matter? He thought that he was living in a world of darkness, but perhaps Steve Rogers could be that light.