"Hey, James!"

Someone patted his cheek.

Don't move.

Don't make a sound.

Don't move don't cry don't fight it will only bring pain...

"Hey, come on. You sick or something, James? You're scaring me, James. Come on, wake up."

Was that an order? It didn't sound like an order. Wasn't the proper protocol. Wasn't...

The patting continued, followed by a light shake of his left shoulder, then a mumbled, "Shit. What the hell…" Bucky didn't move as hands tugged at his shirttail and lifted. He felt cool air along his ribs and chest. "Holy shit… what the hell kinda prosthetic is that? It's like… part of you. Wow, I ain't never seen anything like that before." The shirt fell back over him and hands gently smoothed it down. "But hey, man, you gotta wake up. C'mon, buddy, open up those baby blues."

Something turned within the confused muddle of his thoughts. The voice was too soft, hands too gentle. Maybe he wasn't... maybe this wasn't...

Was it safe to hope?

Bucky pried one eye open and shuddered with relief. It wasn't HYDRA. He wasn't in the tank or coming out of the tank. He knew the face hovering over his. He hadn't been wiped. He hadn't been wiped. "Mis'er K'wals'i," he mumbled. It was Kowalski, and this was his room in his building in St. Louis, and he was safe.

"Oh, thank god, you're alive. Thank god."

"S'rry. 'm kinda… um…" He couldn't get his brain to engage his mouth.

"I come down 'cuz I got a clogged drain. The door was open, so I come on in and found you lying on the floor here. You drink too much or something? Maybe got a bad hit of whatever? I ain't judging you or nothing but, you know… I figure I better know in case I need to call 911."

Bucky shut his eyes. Frowned. Took a deep breath, then another. His mouth tasted like old bile. He grimaced. "No. Not drunk. Not drugs." He opened his eyes again. He was sitting on his bathroom floor, propped up against the wall by Kowalski's right hand pressed against his left shoulder. Kowalski had on a bright red t-shirt that said St. Louis Cardinals. There was a grease stain above the C. He was leaning close to Bucky. Really close. Too close. His left arm flexed, and Kowalski jumped back like he'd been shocked with a taser.

"Shit! It moved." He stared at Bucky like he was some kind of monster. Not an altogether wrong conclusion, given… everything.

"It's a prosthetic. Military prototype." Not a complete lie. As far as he knew, his was the only such prosthesis ever made. He shut his eyes. God, he was tired. Putting together even that one simple thought exhausted him as much as a day bustin' his back moving pallets of hundred-pound bags of flour down on the docks back in the day.

"Oh… oh… okay. I'm sorry. I shouldna jumped like that… sorry."

"'s alright." He licked his lips. His tongue felt like sandpaper. How long had he been out? Felt like someone had been beating on him for a week. Maybe a month. "Ge' me… water?"

"Oh, sure. Yeah. Sure."

He heard Kowalski's knees pop and suddenly there was space around him. Moving by feel because opening his eyes was too damn hard to think about, he rolled slowly to his knees, then to a seat on the closed lid of the toilet. He heard Kowalski fumbling around and then water running. He pinched the bridge of his nose, not moving until he felt the nudge of a cold glass against his hand. He straightened with effort and gave Kowalski a grateful nod. He downed the cold water in one long pull.

"Buddy, you might wanna take it slow—"

He handed him the empty glass. "It's all right. This happens… sometimes. I'll be okay. What time is it?"

"Little after ten."

He glanced at the window. Sunlight and the shadow of someone passing by flickered against the layers of plastic bags. Morning. Hopefully the same day, but he guessed it didn't matter if it wasn't.

Kowalski was eyeing him like he expected him to burst into flames or shatter into a million pieces. "You have a seizure or something?"

"Something like that, yeah."

"You want me to drive you to the ER?"

"No!" he said a little too sharply. He took a breath and lowered his voice. "I'll be fine."

Kowalski didn't exactly look convinced, but he didn't argue. "Well, do you want me to stay for a while then, just 'til you're really sure you're okay?"

Bucky's first instinct was to say no, but he glanced at the man and saw only uncomplicated concern behind the smeared lenses of his horn-rims. Not everybody is HYDRA. Some people are just...nice people. Gotta start opening up sometime, Barnes. "Yeah, thanks. That'd be…." God, why was it so hard to find words? Like driving through fog. Something started buzzing in his head.

Kowalski patted him on his shoulder, the right one this time. "You wanna get in bed?"

Bucky couldn't keep his eyes from widening in alarm.

"Not like that! Jeez, you take me for some kinda pervert? I mean, yeah, you're a good-lookin' guy and all, but you told me you wasn't interested, and I ain't one to be all obnoxious and keep pushing."

"Sorry... sorry... didn't... " The something in Bucky's head started buzzing louder. Words slid away from his grasp.

Kowalski kept on. "I mean, yeah. You just ain't wired like me, that's all. All I meant—"

Kowalski's kept talking, but his words broke up into a drone of meaningless sounds. Bucky blinked and squinted, as if reading the man's lips might help, but Kowalski's voice sounded like it was coming from the end of a long tunnel.

"—me to help you get to your bed, so you can rest up? Oh, hey! You don't look so good...what's the matter—hey, you hear me, buddy? Hey, easy!"

Bucky realized he was swaying. He grabbed the edge of the laundry sink to keep himself from toppling to the floor. "S'rry. I… um…" He couldn't finish the thought. Couldn't focus...

...

...

...

Fingers snapped in front of his face. He blinked. Kowalski's nose was only about two inches from his as he peered worriedly into Bucky's eyes.

"Jeez, you're really out of it. You been staring into space for nearly five minutes, even with me snapping my fingers at you all this time. I really think you need to see a doctor."

Bucky vehemently shook his head.

Kowalski sighed. "Anybody ever tell you you're stubborn as an oak stump?"

"Damn it, Buck, stop lying. You're not fine! You were sick and God knows what Zola did to you. I found you strapped down to a table barely conscious, for God's sake and now you're staggering around like a drunk."

"Steve, I'm fine, really. I just... there was a rock and I tripped—"

"Sergeant Barnes, haul your stubborn, sorry carcass into that truck and ride for a while. That's an order!"

"C'mon. You're going to bed."

Bucky felt a hand lift his right arm. Some tired impulse in him urged him to fight, but he couldn't be bothered. He let Kowalski lead him, stumbling, to his cot. His feet tangled up at one point and Kowalski threw an arm around him to steady him. Just like that other time… long time ago… an arm around his shoulders, pulling him from a table… "Thought you were smaller," he mumbled.

"Nah, I'm six-two, buddy. Plenty big enough."

Bucky squinted. Steve vanished, and it was just Kowalski standing by him. They'd made it to the cot, so he collapsed face-down. Kowalski lifted his legs onto the mattress and then tugged a blanket over him. "That okay? You comfortable? Can you breathe okay laying on your face like that?"

Bucky's lips were smashed against the pillow. He should turn his head, but it was so heavy. "Mhmmphh." He wanted very badly to drift off, to escape the stupidity of his brain, but there was something he needed to do. He wasn't sure what, but it was important. He knew it was important. Something... what was it...

"I thought you were smaller."

"What happened to you?"

"I joined the Army…"

And just like that, the fog in his head cleared. His eyes flew open, and he rolled onto his side. "Notebook. I need my notebook."

"Huh? What notebook?"

"In my backpack. I got a notebook. Pen." He waved his hand toward the table and waggled his fingers. "Please."

"Sure, bud, no problem." Kowalski looked in the backpack. "Which one?"

"Blue one. Pen's in the front pocket. Hurry." Before I forget. Before the memory disappears.

Kowalski fished out both items and brought them over. Bucky pushed himself up so he was sitting crosslegged with his back leaning against the wall. As soon as his head stopped spinning, he flipped open the notebook and scribbled as fast as he could, putting to paper all that he could remember about that day back in Azzano. The day his best friend Steve Rogers showed up like a miracle from heaven and saved his sorry, stubborn ass from Zola's torture. He blinked away a little bit of stinging in his eyes.

"What, d'you suddenly get inspired to write the next number one pop song or something while you were out?"

He smiled grimly. "Nah. Just… I, um..." He made a twirling motion with his fingers by his temple. "Sometimes I can't remember stuff, so when I do remember something, I write it down."

"Oh yeah. I get you. My brother's kid, he got in a bad motorcycle wreck, damaged his brain. He's gotta write everything down or he loses it."

Bucky nodded. "Yeah. I don't want to lose any of this." So far he hadn't—he could remember to the letter every single thing, good and often very bad, that he'd ever put down on paper. Maybe that was a sign of hope that his damaged brain might actually recover someday.

"So, um, you don't mind my asking… what happened to you?"

"Afghanistan. IED." He probably shouldn't be grateful for a war, but it did at least give him an unassailable two-word cover story for the arm and the stupid, humiliating mental lapses and panic attacks. He kept his face down, but Kowalski must have seen his burning cheeks.

"Oh yeah. PTSD, I guess. I'm sorry."

He shrugged. "I'm getting better." He hoped. He kept scribbling.

"You want me to do anything for you? I mean, it looks like you're getting ready to fix breakfast or lunch or something, all that kitchen stuff on the table."

Bucky ran his hand through hair that had at some point escaped the hair tie as he stared at the scattered kitchen equipment. "Yeah, yeah... right. Actually I was, um, I was going to go to Aldi's, get stuff to make pancakes."

"Was that where you was headed when…" he waved vaguely at the bathroom.

It seemed simpler to just nod. He didn't like the thought of admitting that a cranky little ol' five-foot-nuthin' lady drove him to retch in the toilet, pass out and wake up with a scrambled brain. Besides, for all he knew, Kowalski was Mrs. Eichelberger's godson or something who might take offense if Bucky called her an old bat.

"Oh." Kowalski pulled the chair back from the table and sat down. The metal seat creaked under his not-inconsiderable weight. "Yeah, I got another nephew, was in the war. He had trouble when he first came back. Couldn't handle all the noise and shit. The unknown. Funny how it worked. He could shoot a towelhead—oops, sorry, guess I shouldn't use that term. Ain't 'politically correct.'" He put air quotes around the word. "Anyway, yeah, he could kill a terrorist but couldn't navigate the damn produce aisle at the grocery store. So I'd go with him. It helped. Hey, why don't I help you like that? Whenever you're up to it, I mean. I could go with you."

"Nope. Can't put you to that much trouble. I'll be all right in a little while." Gimme a week or three. Maybe four.

"You sure? I mean, it'd be no trouble, and it ain't like you ain't done nothing for me. I mean, watching my cat and finding my glasses that one time. Fixing stuff for everybody in the building… I'd be paying you back for all of us."

Bucky sighed. He didn't want to be a burden on anyone. He didn't deserve any payback, any help. HYDRA might have brainwashed him, but he was the one that pulled the trigger, ignited the bombs. Ended the lives. Had he been stronger, he would have refused to do any of it. Would have let them kill him. He deserved absolutely no help, ever.

But Kowalski...the idiot looked so damned eager, like some gigantic puppy. Bucky had to look away. He scowled at his notebook, chewing his lower lip as he considered Kowalski's offer. Maybe this time it wasn't just about Bucky repaying his debts, but letting other people repay theirs. Not that he felt anyone owed him so much as a single kind glance, but looking at it from their side? Maybe. He tapped the end of his pen on the paper a few times, then carefully wrote, Giving other people their own chance to be kind is a little like repaying my own debt. He stared at the words for a moment. It didn't really feel true—his own debt was so enormous—but… maybe.

Or maybe he was thinking too hard. Maybe it was simply that he had to relearn the sort of natural give and take of being a good neighbor. Feeling a little more assured, he finally looked back up. "I'll… um. I'll think about it. But I just wanna take a nap first."

"Oh sure, sure. Totally understand. My nephew... his attacks would wipe him out, make him sleep for a whole day sometimes, after. So yeah. You can just let me know what you decide. I'm home all the time. I'm on disability—you know that business trip I went on, when you watched my cat, Mambo? Yeah, I never told you, but I got rear-ended and now my back's all kinda messed up. But walking to the store and back, that's something I can do and the doc says I should do. So in some ways you'd be doing me a favor, keeping me moving, you know?"

Bucky dredged up a faint smile. "Okay. Maybe tomorrow morning."

"It's a date!" Then he blushed. "I mean… not a date date… just meant it's an appointment. Like the date on the calendar…"

"Hey, it's okay. Really. I didn't think anything of it."

He stood and wiped his palms up and down his pant legs. "Okay, good. Good. I'll, uh, just be letting you get on to sleep then. Come pound on my door when you're ready to go. I could even go with you this afternoon or evening. I got no plans."

Bucky felt a little pang of sympathy. Must be a lonely life. "You bet."

Kowalski nodded, then let himself out. Bucky groaned a little as he stood up and walked over to lock the door. He stifled a yawn as he shoved the deadbolt home, then staggered back to the bed. He threw himself down, rolled himself up in the blanket and stared up at the ceiling, feeling a little better already. Kowalski was a good neighbor.

"James, we must always be good neighbors, so I want you to take this basket of sandwiches to the new family downstairs in 3B. Moving into a new building is hard work and usually you don't have any food in the house because you're too busy unpacking to go to the market."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Be sure to stand straight and introduce yourself politely, and if she offers you a sandwich, say, 'No thank you, Mrs. Rogers, I ate at home.'"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Make sure you tell them, 'Welcome to our building.'"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Offer to help them unpack, though I expect they'll probably refuse."

"Why would they refuse?" That would be a disappointment. Bucky was a good unpacker. And he wanted to see what kind of stuff they owned. Maybe they were rich, like pirates, and had a secret stash of gold.

"Because you're still on the small side." She smiled down at him as his chin started to jut. He hated being called small. "They have a little boy about your age. Smaller than you, but that shouldn't matter."

Well now. A kid littler than him in the building could work out all right. "No, ma'am."

"Little boys grow at different rates. He'll probably end up taller and stronger than you in the end."

Now that was too far. "No he won't!" Bucky Barnes was going to grow up to be the biggest man ever, and no upstart new neighbor kid was gonna cheat him out of his life goal…

Bucky sat up and jotted down the memory in his notebook. He reread the words several times, smiling a little. The Rogers family had turned out to be the very best of neighbors, and Steve Rogers sure did grow up to be bigger and stronger than him. He curled up on his side, clutching the notebook to his chest, thinking about old neighbors and new neighbors. As his eyes drifted shut and sleep drew comfortingly around him, his last thought was how funny it was that his biggest fear at age seven turned out to be the very thing that saved his life.

tbc...