Barton arrived after their meal, which had been composed of forced conversation on Natasha's part and wary silence on Bucky's. Barton, however, was a whole new element in the mix. If Natasha's caution manifested in active attempts to mollify and Bucky's in passive watchfulness, it didn't seem that Barton had an approach. He was neither tactful nor quiet. Indeed, he appeared to have permanently thrown caution to the wind, and not like Stark who was all bravado and hidden insecurities. Barton genuinely did not appear to care, not even a lick.

He marched directly into the kitchen, where Natasha was showing Bucky how to use a microwave, and tossed his arm around both their shoulders. "Hey guys, what's going on? Catching up on the appliances? Good call."

Bucky stiffened, stilling down to just subtle breathing. Think, evaluate, then respond. Think, evaluate, then respond.

"Uh… Barton. Recent PTS victim under your left hand. Maybe try not approaching him from behind, and touching him."

Barton withdrew his hand and nodded. "Yeah. That was bad, wasn't it?"

"Yes. From now on, we regard all attempts to initiate physical contact as possible triggers and definite aggressive movements." She shook her head hard at him and then guided him away so she could take a look at Bucky.

He was breathing less subtly now, panting really. His mind was shrieking, riddled with high pitched noises like interference or nails on a chalkboard. Most of it reacting to the fact that he hadn't defended himself by killing this attacker-man.

He wasn't attacking. The gesture was empty of threat. He was initiating friendly interaction. Breathe.

But it was too late. He lost it. There were a few flashes, sensory memories. His arm being further amputated, then attached and around Steve's shoulder. The smell of pot roast, no, his own flesh being soldered. Popcorn and soda. Cold. Scorching heat. Steve again, taller, stronger, holding him up under that shoulder.

'You don't have one of those, do you?'

He came to screaming. His face was wet, which he realized as he reached up to cover his mouth.

"Shh. Shh. You're safe. It's 2014. You're Bucky Barnes, I'm Natasha and your safe." Red, white, and blue, blurred but taking up his entire field of vision. As he blinked over and over again, the colors defined into Natasha's face.

She looked perfectly calm, controlled. She knew what was happening to him.

"There. Are you back? It's okay, you're not bleeding."

He looked down at his fingers. Sure enough, the liquid was clear, not red.

"You were crying. It's fine. It's good." She nodded assuringly. "It's a very natural, welcome emotional reaction."

"Where am I?" The room was unfamiliar.

"You tried to bolt out the window in my room. We had to tackle you." She shifted to the side and Barton nodded down at him.

"It's cool, man. I remember that shit. Felt like someone was making scrambled eggs out of my brain."

He looked appreciatively up at Barton. For a second, he felt like he actually shared an experience with another human being. That was precisely what it felt like. Maybe this one did understand.

"Are you ready to get up?" Natasha was hovering but keeping her distance. This time she didn't offer him her hand.

"Yes. I think so." He moved off his side and propped himself up on his real elbow, slowly easing himself onto his feet from there. "At least I've stopped vomiting with them." He mentioned off-handedly.

"I'm glad for that too, man. My thing was hyperventilating until I lost consciousness."

"I've done that, too." He could speak easily with Barton, they shared this. It made him feel less like a caged animal.

"Mmm. What about randomly trying to claw your own face off? That was super."

Bucky hadn't done that, and that was a relief. With the unit, trying probably would have turned into succeeding. "No, can't say I have. I did put the unit through a trash can once."

Barton snorted. "Let me guess, you woke up with it and had no idea why."

"No, I thought it was a hostile."

"Fair enough." Barton stopped again in the kitchen and sat down. "So, where do you want to begin? What it feels like or how I came to grips with how it feels?"

Bucky considered that for a moment but was distracted. He looked around. They were alone. "Where's Natasha?"

"Oh, she's giving us some space. This is pretty personal, you know?" He leaned over the counter towards Bucky, but he still wasn't looking at him. He was looking for her. "Plus, better for you not to feel outnumbered."

"What if I attack you?"

"I'm pretty quick, man. And I've got this." He held up a small gun-like weapon. "Taser, dude. It'll knock you on your ass but not damage you. You ready?"

Bucky found himself wishing nonetheless that Natasha was there, but he sat down compliantly and nodded. "Yes."

"Okay, let's start with-"

"Tell me what happened to you-please."

Barton shrugged lightly and nodded. "Alright. Hopefully it doesn't trigger you." He leaned back against the opposing counter and looked up at the ceiling.

"It was Loki, you know, the slimy bastard with the scepter and the horns? Well, that time he brought the aliens to New York, part of his plan was to… enslave a group of humans to expedite his plan. I was one of them."

"With magic."

"Yeah, with magic. This staff he had… he just touched me with it and it was like he drained me out, bottled me in a tiny little section of my head, and then put something else in. Something else nasty. I did… my body did horrible things as I just… watched. It was a gruesome experience. I'll always feel… victimized by him and still guilty for what I did when I wasn't me."

"What did you do?"

Barton hesitated. "I killed a lot of people. Sometimes, at night I try to remember them all, to imagine their names and who they were, but all I have is their face as I killed them. I killed thirty-two people with my own hands. Many more… I'm responsible for their deaths indirectly. I secured materials for Loki that allowed him to bring the aliens into this dimension. Hundreds, possibly thousands died because of that. I tried to kill my partners, my friends. I tried to kill Natasha."

He took a deep breath and shook his head. The way he said her name made Bucky uneasy.

"Anyway… I did so, so many things that I regret, that I can't take back, that I can't be forgiven for because there's no one left to forgive me. So… I… had to forgive myself. Ask Natasha… she saved me and forgave me. She understands, but those hundreds others, those thirty-two others, they can't forgive me. I'm responsible for their deaths, and I'll carry that the rest of my life. But, what I have to remember is that it wasn't really me. If I believed in a higher power, I'd say that their lives weren't sins I'd take to the pearly gates. You understand? There's no intention there. No true fault. No sin."

He said it with such conviction, such force Bucky was sure it was something he'd said many times, a mantra. Something to scare the ghosts away at night.

"It wasn't you."

"Right. And whatever you did, that wasn't you either. Think of it as being a glove on a hand, right? The glove gets dirty and looks like it was the one doing all these things, but it's just the puppet, has no volition. It's the hand inside, that doesn't get anything on it or directly touch anything, the hand that does everything because it invades the glove. We're gloves. Loki and HYDRA, they're the hands."

Bucky nodded. Barton had a way of describing things that came across so clearly. He was dead on again.

"Gloves."

"Hey, I'm sorry about your loss, man."

Bucky felt foggy, like his body was enclosed in a mist. He looked down at the unit, saw a drop fall onto its reflective surface. He was crying again.

"It works well enough. Stark has offered to get me something more realistic. I think I'll take him up on it."

"No, not that. Actually, I think the arm is cool: super strong, super quick. It would make my bow arm absolutely infallible. I mean, I never miss anyway, but still. No, I meant the time. I ache for the weeks I missed. I'm really sorry for your decades."

Bucky was still silently crying. He couldn't stop it, just like the flood of memories. The tears just streamed down his face.

"I didn't have anyone to miss, family was gone, no gal, just…just bunker mates. And Steve. As it seems, I don't have to miss him, so I may just be alright. He… he was my family and maybe he still can be."

The room fell silent, utterly silent. He could hear clocks ticking and three sets of lungs breathing. Turning around he found Natasha leaning against the door jamb of her spare room. She had a far-off look on her face, a lot like the one that had befuddled him on Rogers' face.

Then he realized what he'd said. He almost didn't make it to the bathroom in time.

"I don't like Chinese food," he grumbled as he stalked back out to his seat.

"I don't like any food the second time around, man. Maybe wait until you can keep a meal of it down before you make that decision."

Natasha stepped up, but still stayed over an arm's length away. "You found something deep just then, you can't expect to discover so big a chunk of your mind without your other half reacting. That was just the conditioning punishing you for all the Bucky you just revived."

"Absolutely. Don't let it put you off." Barton slid a glass of water towards him.

"You want to try some crackers or something? To settle your stomach?" Natasha was in her cabinets, sifting through some boxes.

"Please. Just not Ritz. I basically lived off those and tuna for two years…" He trailed off, staring wide-eyed.

"It's okay, Bucky, that's you, your memory you're tapping into it. Don't push against it."

"…After my dad lost his job." He exhaled deeply. His father. He remembered his father losing his job. He had a father.

Bucky stumbled out of his chair and backwards into the living room until he fell onto the couch. He had a father. He looked a little like his father.

"George. My dad's name was George. He worked in a factory, then went to war. He lost his job so many times I had to get one. I had a paper route and my mom had her washing, that's how we survived. Tuna and Ritz crackers 'cause they were the cheapest."

He looked to Natasha for help but she just nodded. Barton was grinning.

"Yeah, anything else?" He asked, but Bucky wasn't listening.

"My mother. She was always very tired. Her name was Winifred. She died after I finished school. Dad said he'd broken her heart too many times. That ring, that ring in my box. It was hers. Her wedding ring. When my dad shipped out, I… I took it from his bureau and put it on a necklace. In the war, I wore it with my dog tags. The day I fell, I gave it to Steve to look after. It's like I knew. I told him…"

He squeezed his eyes tight and pictured the moment, they were on a flight deck. Steve was in uniform and Bucky was fretting over the zip line idea. He reached under his uniform and pulled it out over his head.

'Hey, Steve. I want you to take care of this for me. If you kill me today on that damn zip line, take care of my mother's ring. She'd kill me twice over if I lost it. Hell, maybe you can win that Peggy Carter with it.'

He found himself reciting the memory to them, the same jaunt in his tone, the joke at the end delivered with the same half-chuckle.

"Apple sauce." He felt like a man possessed. It was terrifying and invigorating, suddenly having parents but they still didn't completely feel like his. This was just another person speaking from him.

"I'm still a glove."

Barton sat forward quickly, with the most urgency he'd exhibited. "No. No. This isn't the glove talking, there's no hand in there. Those are yours. No one can make you remember something that didn't happen, only take away what did. Those are yours."

Natasha slipped around the door jamb and then quickly reappeared. She had the ring in her hand.

"Here. Something physical to latch all that onto." She dropped it onto his palm and stepped away again.

It felt real. Solid and cool and familiar. He could feel an echo of it brushing against his chest, clattering against dog tags. It was real.

"Thank you."

"Dude, you did that yourself." Barton nodded quickly and tapped the counter in front of him a few times. "That was awesome."

"No, you both… you both triggered that. Thank you."

He had something. He finally felt like he had something anchoring him to this earth, among the rest of humanity. He had a past, even if just the barest beginning, there's nothing like building from the bottom up.

He wiped his face with both hands and stood up.

"I think I'd like to try Chinese food again."