Steve studied the makeshift command center that filled Natasha's living room. The object of his focus at the moment, a poster board nailed to the wall. A near smile at the block lettering on the top, "Project Barnes Offensive." He admired her dedication if not her wording.

Sam bumped his shoulder, "Bringing him back to the real world is going to be one hell of a ride, Rogers."

"He'll walk it off the way we always did. I know Bucky, he'll shake this off."

"I'll give it to you, he made it this far."

"But?"

"But, he hasn't exactly been dealing with the aftermath of Hydra. He's been on the run, he's still on the run."

"We've got that covered, remember? The house is secure."

Sam pointed at the poster board list, "He still has the trigger words to contend with."

"We'll deal with that. It'll take time but there's a way out."

"Steve, you said it yourself. He remembers everything. That's going to be an issue."

"It wasn't his fault. He has to accept that. I do and so will others in time."

"Call me a skeptic but I'm not that sure he'll settle into domestic bliss with you once you get him home."

"Sam, come on, what would you have me do? Leave him in cryo? Forget about him?"

"No, not saying that. I'm just trying to give you a free session with your friendly mental health counselor. Read the flip-chart." He tapped on the oversized pad of post-it notes perched on an easel. "Page one: PTSD. Page two: POW for seventy years. Page three: Hydra's version of electroconvulsive therapy. Page four: He remembers everything. Page five: Did I mention PTSD?"

"We've been over this, I get it, I get every damn detail of it, Sam. I know he's damaged, he's not going to be the Bucky I remember from the 40's. We're both changed but we can do this, we will do this."

"What he's been through, his particular brand of severe complex PTSD isn't even in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual. If it was it would have his picture next to it. Just him. No one else."

"Not funny."

"Not joking. We – you need to be prepared for the worst."

"You won't mind if I hope for the best, right?"

Sam laughed, "I expect nothing less from you than your usual blind hope and devotion towards him."

"It's go-time boys." Natasha leaned in the doorway, "Your jet is all gassed up and ready to go."

Steve grabbed his jacket and headed for the door, "All right, you'll check the house, right? I think I left the lights on but I'm sure I turned the stove off - I think - no I'm sure."

Sam followed, "No worries, we'll check the place."

"Food. I forgot food. Fridge food anyway. There's nothing to eat."

Natasha smiled and winked at Sam, "Oysters, chili peppers, avocados, watermelon."

"What? No. Real food." He made it to the front door, "Coffee, hot chocolate, and milk."

She urged him forward, "Get going, you don't want him waking up to strangers."

He turned back, "And trash bags, I used them all."

And again, "Toothpaste, I forgot toothpaste."

Natasha smiled as she blocked the doorway, "We've got this end. You've texted me a list."

Back up the stairs, "You won't be there right? No offense, but he might not be comfortable."

Sam herded him towards the truck, "We know the plan, Steve. You get him home first, we follow in a few days when you call us."

"Great. We've got this." He climbed in the pickup, "Domestic bliss? Friends. He's my friend."

Sam and Natasha watched as he left a hint of rubber on the road in his drive off.

"Oysters and watermelon?" Sam grimaced.

"Aphrodisiacs."

"So, are we betting on when they become a couple?" Sam wondered. "He acts like they're a couple, don't you think?"

"A couple? They're already a couple. They just don't know it yet. Oh, and twenty bucks they're in bed together in three days."

Sam laughed, "You're on."

Bucky didn't dream when Hydra put him in cryostasis. It was always a deep and dark excursion into the comforting nothingness. He welcomed the reprieve.

The time in cryo in Wakanda was different. He was dreaming. It rolled on an endless loop through his consciousness never responding to his attempts to wake.

In this dream, there was darkness, the Soldier, and Tony Stark.

A battered red gauntlet hovered close around his throat, stifling his breath. He gasped in spasms of brittle, stale air. Cold fingers tightened their grip on his throat choking down his scream.

A familiar iron mask loomed nearby passing through his vision. It stalked him silently. He gasped again, struggling for air. His body convulsed and crashed into the solid immovable metal armor that was Iron Man.

"Do you even remember them?" The iron mask whispered. Bucky knew his answer "I remember all of them," but in the dream, his words slurred and fell unspoken.

He raised his hand to shove the growing weight off his chest. His right arm twitched as icy hot tingling shot down through his fingers. Waves of heat brought the familiar cramped nausea.

An open metal hand floated towards his face. The repulsor clicked and whined. The white-hot glow filled his vision. He knew what came next. Death by Tony Stark.

The dream cycled through his sleeping consciousness until he heard a voice.

"You deserve this, Soldat. It's about time."

It whispered close to his ear in an intimate embrace with his mind. He'd heard it countless times before, waxing and waning over his years with Hydra. It brought conviction, condemnation, and companionship in varying degrees dependent on his circumstances. It wasn't long before Bucky stopped questioning its existence.

The burning light of the repulsor came around again. The mask morphed into the face of Tony Stark. "You killed them, you son of a bitch. You killed both of them." The iron Stark face went on, "Rogers isn't going to save you this time."

An image of Steve hovered beyond the crushing metal suit of armor near enough to reach if Bucky could only raise his arm but his outstretched shoulder melted away into a tangled ball of circuitry. He searched for recognition in Steve's emotionless eyes as he watched Bucky struggle against what Stark rightfully brought to bear. His punishment.

King T'Challa stood next to Steve as the technicians worked to reverse the cryo process. "He's having some difficulty coming out of this. They'll get him through it."

Steve nodded. His fingers itched to rip the cover off the stasis pod. He kept his struggle internal as he took in Bucky's convulsing movements and gasping breaths. "Soon, right? I can help them." He muttered.

"Steve, they can get him through it. Trust them."

"He looks like he's having a seizure. He looks..." His voice trailed off. He didn't want what he was thinking to gain any energy by being stated out loud. Bucky looked afraid. That look of fear touched something deep in his core beyond the friendship he remembered. He wanted to protect him, save him, bring him back from the horror he'd been living. Those feelings stirred the one he hadn't felt since they were kids. That unspoken desire he'd fought with, wrestled and tucked safely away years earlier. Steve couldn't deny what he thought he'd buried as he watched Bucky fight through the cryo-sleep induced sickness and seizures. He wanted something more than their brotherhood. He wanted to be his lover.

"Steve?" Bucky sat with his feet dangling off the table, shivering through the cryo-sickness. His skeptical gaze ran up then down his body.

Steve nodded, "Yup. It's me. Not a nightmare. I think? Really me."

"Not a trick?"

"Nope. In the flesh." He offered a quick squeeze of his shoulder.

The Voice in his head whispered its narrative.

"You know Hydra would find it funny to trick you. Use your beloved Captain America to get you to comply. They'd watch you be fooled by their game. Laugh at you as they strap you in and take him away."

The words were always harsh.

Bucky learned a hard lesson with Hydra when the Voice first started to make an appearance. It was best to keep their conversations safely hidden from those around him.

A technician suggested, "We need to get him to the surgical suite."

Bucky shook his head at the offered wheelchair and the trip to surgery.

"I've got him." Steve's hand on his shoulder and encouragement led to an arm around his waist as his bare feet stumbled along from the post-cryo weakness and confusion.

"That's right, Soldat. Go to the chair. It will be cleared up soon. The sickness, the weakness, the guilt."

He hesitated, "Wait. I can't. I don't want to."

"Come on Buck. Let's keep moving." Steve's voice was distant. It fell in behind the louder one in his head.

"You know it is so much easier when you submit willingly. A few moments of pain is worth the freedom from your memories."

Bucky stopped short. His words rasped from a voice not used in nearly a year, "No. No more chair. No more wipes. I want my memory. I want him."

Steve held tighter, trying to control the spreading tremor he could feel running across Bucky's chest."What? No chair, no memory wipes. Is that what you think we're doing?" He ducked in close. Steve searched his eyes for a glimmer of recognition. His hand hesitated at first then he committed to what he thought he'd never do. He brushed the sweat-soaked hair from Bucky's face, brought his lips close to his ear and whispered, "There is no chair. I am very real. Anyone who wants to hurt you is gonna have to go through me."

He thought he felt a nearly imperceptible pressure against his side. He knew he felt the brush of his cheek against his lips. Bucky didn't pull away, he leaned into the touch.

Steve forged ahead, "You with me? Are we good to go? We need to trust T'Challa's doctors. They need to replace your arm."

A slow and hesitant nod was his answer.

Bucky drifted in and out of consciousness while they replaced the metal arm. His dreams were full of terror. The fight at the silo dominated and cycled through a dozen other battles that left him with his memory scarred with death and blood. The ever-present pain in his shoulder invited in the memory of the agonizing flight to Wakanda. He told Steve he wanted to be in stasis until someone could get the words out of his head. That was part of the truth. What he wanted was to sleep, to escape down into the dreamless cocoon of stasis and disappear from the truth of what he'd done.

"I killed Stark's parents." His whispered confession startled Steve from his fascination with the surgeon's work.

He turned to the find steel gray eyes staring intently at him.

"Let it go for now. We'll talk later." Steve's fingers twisted around the waistband of Bucky's hospital pants.

"I did it, he knows. He saw me do it. Can you imagine that? Watching someone kill your parents."

Steve's thumb ran a hint of a caress around his temple. "They're almost done. Hold on."

The physical pain from being the Hand of Hydra grew to be an accepted reality for Bucky. What hadn't been a reality was the guilt. Hydra's memory suppression machine, the trigger words, years in cryostasis pushed all that into a corner of his mind that he was never allowed to access. The price of his freedom was the guilt.

"He watched me strangle her with my bare hand." Bucky pushed at Steve's hand, trying to disengage his fingers.

Steve refused to let go, "You couldn't stop that from happening. That's all I'm gonna say right now. Let's get through this right here then we can talk."

Bucky whispered, "I killed Howard. How can you look at me like that."

"I know what happened. Hydra killed him. They used you. How am I looking at you?"

"Like you give a shit about me."

"I care about you. Of course, I give a shit about you."

"Then stop it. Stop looking at me like that and clinging to me. You're an idiot."

"No, you're the idiot. You were brainwashed."

Bucky struggled to get up but fell back to the table with a groan.

A voice from behind a surgical mask interjected, "Could you stop arguing with my patient long enough for us to finish this, please. Or do I need to ask you to leave."

"Fine. We're fine." Steve mumbled.

Bucky closed his eyes and listened to the Voice's play-by-play.

"This new arm is never going to be the glorious appendage that Hydra created. It's not threatening enough. The neural connections are too sensitive you'll feel everything now. A weapon doesn't feel a fine touch like a soft caress. You don't need that kind of sensitivity it will make you unstable. It did in the past, remember that time you ran away."

A long battery of tests later, Bucky stood on the tarmac in Wakanda with an impassive stare. He watched as King T'Challa handed a thumb drive to Steve. It contained the downloaded data that monitored the arm's technology.

"Soldat? Is this your new handler?"

Steve barely noticed he muttered, "Apparently so."

"Don't you want to know where we're going?" Steve opened the conversation again. They hadn't spoken since the argument during surgery.

"Sure."

"We're going to New York."

"Brooklyn?"

"No, not safe enough there. A place in Upstate New York. A good place. We're going home."

Wakanda to Hope, New York was a long trip even for a quinjet flying in a straight line. It was exhausting when Steve avoided major airports and flew low under the radar most of the way.

They kept up the awkward silence as they left the local airport. It was long past dark when Steve started them on the last leg of their trip home. The old GMC pickup truck groaned as it bounced along the winding dirt road lined with farmland, barns and a few distant houses. Bucky curled against the passenger door and drifted off into the waking sleep encouraged by a long ride in darkness.

Steve stole glances towards him when the street lights brightened the cab. His thoughts drifted back to two boys laughing and talking as they laid on the beach watching the stars, planning out their future, never considering it wouldn't be together. He could see Bucky sitting with feet dangling from the pier, swinging his legs and smirking at Steve's red face whenever his flirting drew giggles from the girls nearby. It made him think about the day Bucky went back into cryo sitting on the table swinging his leg. An echo of the boy he knew. He hoped some part of that boy was still there.

Now he laughed at Bucky's sighed protests as the truck pitched and moaned down the dirt road. An unfamiliar sense of satisfaction started to grow. Something that had been missing since waking in this Century. He had Bucky again. Maybe life could go on now. Even if Bucky's swagger and cockiness of the 40's were missing he hoped the sadness he'd seen so far would fade over time. If they were together.

He whispered, "Buck, Hey buddy, wake up. We're here."

Bucky opened eyes heavy with sleep and blinked into focus the large yellow and white farmhouse looming in the headlights. A welcoming porch with spindled white railings and white trimmed windows – too many windows. He wondered how anyone could feel safe there. He sat in silence followed by, "It's a house?"

"Yup. Observant. King T'Challa helped us find it and get it ready. Come on, I think you'll like it."

Bucky stared and remained firmly planted in the truck.

Steve opened the passenger door. "Come in, and check things out for yourself. I know, hard to believe a house like this but it's a great place. And we've got some high tech security in there." Steve jogged towards the porch, jumped up the three stairs, and landed at an antique wood and beveled glass front door.

Bucky cautiously left the truck and followed Steve. He stood in guarded silence, near enough to rescue him from whatever insane danger lurked inside this damn bad idea.

"What the hell are you thinking?" He mumbled.

"The Winter Soldier doesn't live in a house."

Bucky couldn't agree more. His past was nothing more than a faded picture. Being kids in Brooklyn, the war, art classes, it was all a meaningless memory. His time as the Soldier was his reality now, raw and current. Cryostasis wasn't punishment. It was an all-encompassing comfort. It was his escape from the torture of mind wipes and handlers. The filth of cells and seedy safe houses, the smell of death and blood.

The asset's life was one of pain. His own and his victims. That darkness was his world now. Destruction, violence, emptiness, and death. It was hard to recall much of anything else. The one true feeling that was taking over now was the shame. It flirted with his psyche in Bucharest, drove down its insidious roots at the silo in Siberia and was now growing with each minute out of his protected sleep to become a consuming presence in his life.

"You don't deserve this. You're a monster, losers like you don't get this." The Voice hissed quietly.

The head shake trying to dislodge the Voice was real if imperceptible to Steve.

The Voice's words had rattled around in his head for years. A faint whisper, in the beginning, it was hard to understand. But as memories came and went so did the power of the Voice. The ebb and flow of an internal critic that matched the clarity of the memory. Shame was the one certainty, and the power of his shame fed the Voice. When he walked away from Hydra and left Captain America lying next to the Potomac, the Voice had become a near constant companion.

He had been of singular purpose on his missions for so long he never heard anything else but the clear directions of his handlers. As his memories returned more fully, rolling in like ocean waves on the breakers, this Voice that cut like a thousand razors exacted its toll.

His feet refused to step across the threshold. A wave of nausea came over him and he had to bite his lip to keep from puking right there on the doorstep. "He'll be pissed if I ruin this before I even get in here."

Steve laughed as if he heard his thoughts. "Come on Buck, I gotta take a leak and I want you in here so I can set the alarms." He reached out and grabbed the jacket sleeve, dragging him in the way they would have coaxed one another into any number of stunts as kids. Steve smiled. "Welcome home pal."

Bucky stood wide-eyed and dutiful outside the closed bathroom door. Steve startled at finding him a foot away when he opened it. "Come on I'll give you a quick tour." His voice fell into the background of Bucky's hearing as he conducted his own tour in his head.

Front door keypad entry 0310, three tempered glass windows in the living room, locked and wired to the alarms. Security cameras times three, one on the front door, one covering the living room, one with a view of the staircase. Kitchen double doors to the outside, all secured, back door wired alarm, security cameras, one covering the length of the kitchen, the second one on the back door. Bucky methodically cataloged each exit and potential exit, security measures, sight lines, strategic points for defense, squeaky floorboards and all.

This was standard procedure, ingrained and comforting. He was good at this. He survived because of this.

The upstairs bedrooms were spacious and comfortable. "Pick a room, any one of them, whatever you want." Steve encouraged.

Bucky nodded slightly, staring at the rooms then at Steve. The words took time to register, being given a choice fell into a world he didn't live in anymore.

"You don't deserve this. The asset doesn't live like this."

Bucky's internal assessment continued. Bedrooms, one window each, two-story drop, security cameras in each room and one in the hall. A camera in each bathroom. He never even questioned that odd fact since any expectation of privacy was stripped away long ago.

He could see that one room had clothes and a sketchbook on the bed. The room directly across the hall appeared unoccupied. It had a window over the back porch, easy access to the stairs. He settled on that room. "Acceptable escape route, back of the house, near Steve."

They ate hot dogs and drank beer. Bucky smiled softly.

"We loved hot dogs, remember?" Steve chatted as he presented the plates of food to Bucky sitting at the kitchen island, hands buried deep in the pockets of his jacket.

Steve enjoyed this domestic moment. He launched the great condiment debate about ketchup versus relish versus mustard even if he carried out the debate with Bucky only contributing an agreeing nod and smirk. His bliss was almost contagious. It started to wear down Bucky's discomfort as his shoulders relaxed and he allowed the warmth to get closer.

"Bucky? You want a beer?"

He shook his head slightly. Not as an answer but to shake away the coldness in his brain.

"No?"

Bucky blinked slowly as his eyes focused on Steve's worried expression.

"A beer? Would you like one?"

He couldn't recall the last time he had a beer. He sure the hell didn't drink it while with Hydra, even when he finally walked away from them. He didn't recall eating real food when he was with Hydra never mind a beer.

"Um, yeah, sure." He stuttered out. He took a sip. He wasn't sure if it was good or tasted like piss. A slight shake of his head to dislodge that disgusting memory. "It's better than piss." He muttered.

He drank his beer and ate hot dogs with Steve in the kitchen of their - no - Steve's home. He even smiled a couple of small smiles as Steve talked about the finer points of New York Coney dogs vs anything remotely on the market today.

"You can't do this, you piece of shit. He'll realize soon what a soulless bastard you are and then he'll dump you like so much trash."

The whispered Voice drifted through his mind vying for his attention.

He pushed it aside like clearing a space on a crowded table. The Voice went still for now but was never truly gone, always the promise of more. He worked to allow the warmth of the scene wash over him because he was with Steve and he wanted to cling to the comfort of these rituals. Familiar in a way that he hoped was real.

They finally settled in the living room. Steve sprawled at one end of the sofa, Bucky at the other. Two beers and 4 hot dogs later he had at least shed the jacket. He fought the urge to run out of the room. Not because of Steve. He was the only constant in his darkened world. But that inner razor Voice demanding its due was hovering close in his mind. It was hard to listen to both of them. The Voice and Steve. Hydra didn't talk this much.

"Loser. The Captain's too good for you, too perfect. He'll never forgive you when he finds out everything you did."

He pushed down the Voice and the memories.

They kicked their shoes off and propped their feet on the coffee table, side-by-side talking about baseball and Brooklyn, hockey, movies, and food. Everything safe and bland. No talk of family, the war, and no talk of Hydra or Shield. No mention of Stark or the Widow and Sam. Steve was kind he thought, not asking about what he did for the last 70 years or what he remembered, or didn't remember. No talk of how he was feeling, or what intel they could get from him to continue their hunt for Hydra. At least not yet.

At one point Steve launched into a monologue about the big screen TV and watching baseball - like you're really there - so he turned it on to demonstrate.

Bucky vowed silently. "Never gonna tell him how that thing is kinda scary, too frenetic." The onslaught of information was like his staccato memories of death, it seared his nerves. The TV anxiety was nothing compared to the underlying thrill of palpitations and tightness that overtook his body and mind when Steve sat near him. He started to sweat for reasons he wasn't quite clear on at the moment.

"File that under new data, Soldat. Might come in handy later when you need to kill him."

Bucky shook his head and slipped a few inches between himself and Steve.

Hot dogs, beer, and exhaustion led Bucky to an uncharacteristic sleep curled on the sofa. His breathing was slow and steady, his head propped on a pillow.

Steve settled in a chair that gave him a good vantage point to watch over him. He studied his face, surprisingly youthful for the truth of his age but the scattered lines of stress told a different story. "Ancient," He thought, "as ancient as I feel."

His sleep was fitful even now. A twitch of a hand, a faint barely-there whimper, he thought he saw a tremor shake his hair. He wondered if he had nightmares. His eye was drawn to the new metal arm. It was dark with a faint golden hue along the seams. Lighter, clean lines, lethal still. The refinements were noticeable with finer fingers, more subtle movements, and quieter mechanics. He laughed to himself when he thought about sneaking closer to touch it the way they would have been as kids sharing all those intimate things that fascinate. "Show me your boner, Stevie, come on." He could hear Bucky's rasped whisper under the sheets, across the long years. His out loud laughter made Bucky stir with a moan which only made him laugh harder.

Steve sat tired and full of a contentment that he hadn't felt since waking in this Century. He had Bucky again with his memories and all the qualities that endeared him to Steve. Argumentative, loyal, incorrigible, smart, snarky not to mention the long hair. Steve muttered, "Who knew?"

Bucky stirred and curled in on himself. His stretch made Steve think of a cat he once knew. He found a quilt and tucked it carefully around him. His hand hesitated before he reached to brush the loose hair back behind his ear. The comforting sound of deep and steady breathing in the darkness released him from his watch and he headed to his own bed.