Before everything went to hell, Bucky looked out for Steve. He'd help the scrawny kid through asthma attacks, help him work with his colour blindness, and help him fake paperwork for army applications that would never go further than the medical exam. He'd also Steve out in a fight. Too many times he had come home to see his best friend, battered and bruised, holding a slab of frozen meat to what would turn into a truly impressive black eye. Steve would sit on the table and tell him how some jerk was disrespecting the grocery girl, or yelling at the departing soldiers, and Bucky would shake his head as he dabbed ointment on Steve's wounds. It was ridiculous, and Steve wasn't letting up anytime soon, so Bucky began looking for him.
Not actively going out of his way or anything. But every time Bucky passed an alley or a back street, he'd glance down it, holding his breath against the putrid Brooklyn air. Sometimes it was empty. Sometimes a ragged cat hissed at him as he passed. And sometimes—more often than either of them liked to admit—Steve was there, picking a fight with a guy twice his size and three weight classes above him. So Bucky would swoop in, punch the guy in the face, and stroll home next to Steve, glaring at anyone who as much as looked at them funny.
The habit became ingrained in Bucky's behavior, sealed with bruises and scars he happily took in place of Steve's injuries. Every alley, every day, Bucky would search for a little guy with a big heart.
Then the war happened. And, worse, Hydra. Bucky didn't remember much after that.
Seeing the man on the bridge had done something to him. He, the Winter Soldier, ghostly assassin, was unsure of himself for the first time he could remember. The battle on the helicarrier only made his head hurt worse. The man. His mission. He knew him.
Memories came back in flashes like shards of glass through sunlight. Some were good. Most were bad. A hellish life in the muddy, bloody trenches of a war carved into history. And a name.
Bucky.
That was him, wasn't it? Once upon a time?
The memories hurt. With each one, he became more confused. And as his confusion increased, so did his anger. Information had never been an issue for him. He knew what his mission was and that was it. But this? This life he had supposedly once had? This came with emotions that hadn't surfaced in decades. Emotions he wasn't sure he was capable of.
So he escaped. He disappeared into the swirling melting pot of New York City, where 'Bucky' had once lived. It had been a long time since he had been in a city. Armored in jackets that were too big for him and gloves that made his grip frustratingly lax, he stalked the streets for hours. No one got in his way. New Yorkers are street smart like that.
He left the motel room he had gotten for a wad of cash and no questions asked, allowing the blisteringly cold wind to sweep away the memories. The emotions. The name.
Making eye contact with no one, he strode down the street, snow whispering across his shoes. And then he passed the entrance to an alley. Like reflex, his head turned slightly, his eyes flicked over the homeless people huddled in the dank stench.
Why had he done that?
Thinking nothing of it, he continued on. But when it happened again, he could not ignore it.
What am I looking for? he questioned himself furiously, ripping though the scraps of memories he had stored away. They all spat back one, unsatisfactory answer.
Who are you looking for?
The man with the metal arm could think of only one person. His mission.
'But I knew him.' Echoed in his mind. With that, he turned resolutely toward the Smithsonian. Perhaps one day the memories would all return. Until then, he would search them out, and, however painful, piece the shards together until they made a window into the past. A window to a man named Bucky.
A/N: Thanks for reading! Please favourite and let me know if you liked it by leaving a review. :) If you have time it would be amazing if you would check out my other work, which includes work from Supernatural, Doctor Who, and Sherlock. Thanks! 3