He was choking, something rubber in his mouth and metal on his limbs - metal in his limbs - and he'd lashed out against the grabbing hands and harsh voices. When he comes back to himself, to whoever or whatever he is, he's surrounded by dead bodies and broken machinery. Sparks from trailing wires crackle in small puddles of blood, tainting the air with the smell of burnt copper, and his body hums with the need for more: more violence, more everything.
He catches a reflection of himself in what he knows must be two way glass and wonders if he isn't some frankenstein monster concocted out of dead bodies and broken machinery.
There is silence on the other side of the mirror that is not a mirror, silence that speaks of terror, and he is through it before he's had time to process his movements. His metal hand is wrapped around a throat and squeezing just soft enough to keep the woman conscious and able to talk.
He wants to ask who he is, but some voice in his head thinks that's pathetic so he settles for "Where are we?"
"New, New York," she chokes out, eyes wide and terrified and he sneers.
"Why?"
"We need you to kill-" the rest of her words are lost against the white-out in his head, flashing fragments of orders and a sniper scope and blood coating his metal arm until the whole thing matched the red star on the side.
He never does find out who they'd wanted him to kill. When the noise in his skull fades to something manageable, he realizes that he's squeezed too hard, torn out her throat, and drops her body with a grimace.
Made out of dead men and broken machines, sounds about right.
There's more information to be had in the machines, computers, in the room, but his skills do not extend to extracting it. Extracting screams, blood, information in wrung out, terrified voices: those are his skills. He doesn't need to know his name to know that.
He still wants to know why.
He prowls through the rest of the base, but finds no one else - if there were more, they've long since fled. When he crawls out of the basement and into a run-down house, the sunlight filtering in through dirt-streaked windows makes him flinch.
There is noise outside. Not like the noise in his head. Just, noise. Voices and laughter and shouts that aren't preludes to violence and-. He goes back down into the basement before he whites-out again and stays there until his internal clock tells him the sun has vanished and with it, hopefully, most of the people.
He hoped in vain. If anything, there are more people.
But the cover of darkness, even when filled to bursting with artificial lights and the noise of passing cars, feels less suffocating than the warm sunlight had and he leaves the house behind, taking only the least blood-stained coat and his fractured memories with him.
His ragged appearance and the visible parts of his metal arm draw no more than a few glances and he finds himself thinking fondly about the fact that New Yorkers never change. It stops him in the middle of the sidewalk, the mass of humanity flowing around him without pause. He knows New York. He's from New York.
He thinks. Maybe. Fuck.
A rise of red, red anger threatens to blind him and he shoves it down, turning sharply into a nearby alley and leaning against the dirty brick as he fights to breathe.
He can smell trash and urine and rain in the air and something else that is indefinably home and it hurts, as does the sudden aching awareness of the empty space beside him, as if there should be someone else there, leaning against the wall with him and struggling for breath.
The sensation fades, along with the need for violence, replaced with a coldness that sinks into his bones. It disturbs him that he finds it comforting.
Something urges him to continue down the alley and he follows that urge through more streets, up and across several buildings, until he has slid through the window into an empty loft. There is a rifle under the floorboards, several knives hidden in the walls, and a pistol taped into the tank of a toilet that hasn't been attached to the building's plumbing in years. You can't see them, but he also knows there are blood stains on the dingy paint, tortured groans still echoing off the bathroom tile.
There are so many voices in his head, most of them angry or in pain, that he can't sort out if any of them are actually his. When they quiet again, he is curled up on the floorboards over the rifle, hands shaking and blood in his mouth from where he'd bitten his cheek to keep from screaming. He focuses on controlling his breathing and drifts into a restless doze, too light for dreams but too heavy for peace.
The growl of his stomach wakes him more thoroughly and he slips back out the window into the grey of pre-dawn. He steals bread, apples, and carrots from an outdoor produce stand and feels another flicker of deja-vu. He thinks the last time he stole food, it was for whoever belongs in the empty space at his side.
He doesn't know if he wants to remember who it was, too afraid that it will be more blood on his hands.
He goes back to the empty loft and spends the rest of the day eating, dozing, and shaking his way through several more episodes of fragmented memories. Most are more of the same, endless death at his hands, but some, some are different. Some involve smiles, and friendships, and flashes of red hair, and a pair of blue eyes that make his heart seize in his chest for reasons other than fear and rage.
That night, he breaks into the nearest public library and steals every news magazine he can carry.
The year feels like it should hit him harder than it does, and well over half the names and faces in the political, business, and celebrity sections mean nothing to him. The ones that do, he doesn't know why. But about a third of the magazines, the ones that date around a year old or less, the faces on those covers make his pulse quicken and his hands clench hard enough that three of the magazines get torn in half before he can control himself.
Red hair, and blue eyes, just as vivid as they are in the memories he can't quite grasp onto. The disgustingly patriotic uniform too. It stirs both anger, from the cold side that spits 'enemy', and a violent ache in his chest that feels like longing.
He rolls the name Stark around in his mouth and it tastes like arrogance, like a smirk.
"Who the hell am I?" he mutters, his voice a guttural rasp that hovers in the air around him like yet another ghost.
He breaks into a different library the next night and steals books, about Captain America and the Starks, hoping for a clue to who he was, who heis, that he remembers blue eyes and a blinding smile and an outstretched hand.
Weapons forged of flesh and machines aren't supposed to remember belonging.
If he is not a weapon, he does not know what he is, other than lost.
The books about Stark don't tell him much, although he realizes that the name Howard strikes a far more familiar chord than Tony. But Captain America, those books. Half leave him with a sense of ill-defined rage at how wrong they are, although he couldn't explain why he knows that if someone asked. And the others, the ones filled with interviews and sparse facts, make his head ache like there's someone inside, trying to break free.
There's a picture, in one of them, the Captain with a bunch of raggedy soldiers, the Howling Commandos. His face stares out of the picture, grinning crookedly as he leans into the Captain's, Steve's, side.
It hits him like a gut punch and this time, when he comes back into focus, the book is stuck to one of the walls with a knife.
He has a name now, to go with the face. Faces. James Barnes and Steve Rogers. He's not sure he believes the first person exists, but the second… the second he needs to find. Needs to see. Maybe things will make sense then.
It takes time, and patience. But tracking is another one of his skills, and Steve Rogers is a habitual creature. He has an apartment in Brooklyn, but he sleeps in the giant Tower that belongs to Stark. He goes on runs, morning and night, and lurks around local bookstores and art supply shops, hunching as if he can hide his height and strength with a baseball cap and sheer force of will.
It gives him the urge to say "Buck up," just to hear the other man's laughter. He knows what it would sound like, deep and joyful, and the echo of it haunts him as he breaks into Steve's apartment. It's empty, and not just of the Captain. The few furnishings are bare, and there are two lone shirts hanging in the closet. There are crackers in one cupboard, and a mouse on the window sill that disappears when a floorboard creaks beneath his feet.
He doesn't bother trying to break into the Tower. He's sure he could get in, but not sure he could get back out again. His white-outs are decreasing in frequency, but still occur often enough that he avoids being in public for very long. He doesn't need to wake up surrounded by any more bodies.
One day he's following Steve and sees him stop for lunch at an outdoor cafe. A moment's impulse drives him to leave his rooftop perch and join the other man on the sidewalk. There's a sharp intake of breath and those blue eyes stare at him like the Captain is drowning and he's a life preserver.
He steals half of Steve's sandwich, muscle memories just as strong as those that know how to slit throats, and feels the weight of the other man's gaze drop to his arm, glinting in the sunlight. He eats quickly, not making eye contact, and then stands to go.
"Bucky," Steve says, softer than a whisper, and he hesitates, finally looking into the Captain's face. The longing there makes his pulse quicken and he shakes his head, static in his mind, then flees.
Steve doesn't follow.
He doesn't look for him for a week. Can't bear to watch and not touch. He doesn't think he was ever good at that.
His face feels more real, and the name, Bucky, almost tastes familiar.
He thinks about running, disappearing. He knows he could. Knows where a dozen more safehouses are, some with money and ID's. He could vanish, leave the bodies, and Steve, behind.
But everytime he considers it, he finds himself walking toward the Tower instead, like a broken compass that only points in one direction.
At one person.
A week and a half after eating Steve's sandwich, he breaks into the Tower.
There is chaos, and red and gold armor, and a giant hammer, and Steve, staring at him with hopeful blue eyes. He manages a shaky smile. "I told you we were going to the future."
Steve laughs, deep and joyful and half sob, and pulls him into his arms. "Yeah, you did."