Bucky stared at the darkened wall beside his bed. Lying on his right side was uncomfortable, but he didn't feel like rolling over. He listened to the small sounds Steve made as he settled into the chair. After a moment, he heard a page turn. Then another and another. Bucky knew Steve could read fast, but he couldn't read that fast.

After the sixth page turn, Bucky rolled over onto his back. He stared at the ceiling. "You're not really reading."

"Is it that obvious?"

He finally looked over. "I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for. All you did was tell me to close the curtains."

"And then I stared at the wall sulking instead of explaining myself."

Steve shrugged. "You don't have to explain anything you don't want to, Buck. You know that."

"Yeah. I do. Know that, I mean." He sat up and swung his legs over the bed. "I just… all this. I don't know. It's a lot to sort through."

Steve nodded without saying anything.

Bucky examined a hangnail on his thumb. "I was… well, I wouldn't say happy, living in Bucharest, but I had a routine. I mean, it wasn't really a routine, because sticking to a routine would get me captured." He stopped, then snorted. "Got captured anyway. But before that, I was...it almost felt like home. Or maybe it wasn't home as much as just...familiar." He rubbed his face. As usual, he couldn't find the words he wanted. I guess two years on the run after 70 years of not being allowed to speak of anything outside mission parameters will do that to a guy.

He needed a notebook.

Steve waited for a moment, then said, "You knew the city. Knew the hiding places, knew when it was safe to go out, when it was better to stay in."

Bucky nodded. "Yeah. That. I also knew where to find cheap clothes. Food." He smiled a little. "Even had a friend or two. One of the vendors in the market was a baker. Name was Bogdan. He made these pastries that I liked, gogoși. Like donuts, you know? Really good. I'd buy a gogoașă and then go over to where a lady sold this lace stuff that she had knitted or crocheted or whatever it is. Like, um, doilies? Is that what they're called? Those little round lacy mats?"

Steve nodded.

"Yeah. Doilies. She made other stuff, scarves and hats, but those doilies were so beautiful. She'd sit in the market each day and knit them, and some days I'd buy a gogoașă and stand in the shadows of a doorway off to the side. I could see her from there, but no one would notice me unless they were really looking hard. Nobody ever did because, you know, I just was some American bumming around Europe. Dime a dozen, kids backpacking all over Europe. It was a good cover. Anyway, I'd eat and watch her hands. God, they moved so fast, so sure. She used this sort of shuttle thing, in and out and over and under… made the most delicate patterns. Like snowflakes, you know? Or stars. I don't know. Beautiful, whatever they were. I never spoke to her, but she'd sometimes look over, see me there in the shadows, call out, 'Băiatul din umbră, intră în lumină!' 'Shadow boy, come into the light!' I'd just smile and shake my head, and she'd kinda wave her hand like she was disgusted with me, but she'd always laugh."

"She sounds nice."

"She was. Watching her fascinated me and relaxed me at the same time. I don't know why, really, but… yeah. It didn't make any sense—I mean, what do I want with lace doilies, for shit's sake. But watching her made me feel safe. I don't feel that way with too many people."

After a moment, Steve said, "You remember Mrs. Fong, lived on the third floor of our building on 53rd?"

Bucky frowned. "That the building where Mrs. Franklin lived?"

"Yeah. Only the third floor."

He tried to pull up a memory, but all he could think of were dim hallways full of doors and the smell of cabbage and onions and pine cleaner. "Don't think so."

"She made lace. Called it tatting—she used a needle instead of a shuttle, but it sounds about like what your Romanian friend makes. For a while, when you were about eight, you used to love going to her place on Sunday afternoons, just to watch her make things. She even let you try once, but you knotted up the string so badly that you figured out pretty quickly that tatting wasn't exactly in your wheelhouse. So she gave you these little Chinese donuts to eat instead. She called them tánggāo. If I happened to be tagging along, she'd give me some, too, but you were the apple of her eye, so she gave you more. She wasn't too concerned with the idea that you shouldn't play favorites." He smiled. "I don't know if it was those donuts or just that you found watching her so fascinating, but you sure did like to go over to her place."

"I may be brain damaged, but even I can kinda see the connection between then and now."

"You loved that old lady and she loved you, so yeah. You may not remember details, but you obviously remember the feeling of warmth and affection she gave you. And the donuts."

"Kinda wish I had one of Mrs. Fong's doilies, just to remember her by. Or pretend to remember her."

"Fake it 'til you make it?"

Bucky sighed. "Something like that."

"Well, if it's any help, you never wanted any of the doilies." Steve raised his voice to a cracking falsetto. "'Them's too girly for a man like me, Mrs. Fong.'"

"I did not."

"You did, my friend. You most certainly did. All of eight years old and already calling yourself a man."

Bucky felt his face warm. "Well… whatever."

Steve laughed. "Don't feel bad. We all say stupid stuff when we're kids. And you made her laugh so hard when you said that. I think it was the very next Christmas she made you a dragon out of a little bit of leftover red thread. Boy, were you proud of that thing."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Said that in Chinese folklore, dragons were guardians. Brought good luck. So she made you one because she knew you spent most of your time protecting me. She admired that about you."

"Hope she never heard about the whole helicarrier fight. She'd take her dragon back."

"She probably would have walked right up to you and boxed your ears and that would have been that. She was little, but she was fierce."

Bucky shook his head. What a picture, some tiny little old Chinese lady taking out the Winter Soldier with one firmly-worded reprimand and a good shake of his ear.

Steve went on. "You know she was big into the Chinese zodiac. Told us that because you were born in the year of the snake and I was born in the year of the horse, we were destined to be good friends."

"She wasn't wrong."

"No, she wasn't. It was uncanny, really. She said I was 'earth horse', told me that earth horses were men who are optimistic, kind-hearted, righteous, but irritable; with a strong sense of responsibility, and always ready to help others."

"'Righteous but irritable'? Oh my god, that's perfect. That's you. That's so you. In some ways I've only known you for about a week, but that's exactly how I'd describe you. I can just picture the propaganda poster: 'Captain America: Righteous But Irritable. Don't piss him off!'"

"Shut up. Anyway, she said you were a fire snake. Fire snakes like the limelight."

"Now there's irony for you."

"I don't know. When we were kids you were always clowning around, cracking jokes… then when we were older, you were always the one going out on the town, dancing with all the girls. The spotlight always found you, and you never seemed to mind."

"I don't think I'm much of a fire snake anymore," Bucky said, his mirth fading away like so much smoke. "More like just a pile of ashes."

Silence fell between them. In it, Bucky heard quiet voices in the hallway, nurses talking to one another. From behind the curtained window, he heard a bird singing. Heard the rhythmic pound of a hammer, the buzz of a saw. People building things, making the world better. Like Mrs. Fong had, in her own small way. And Bogdan and the lace lady in the market. Like he had always wanted to. "I always figured I'd make the world better." He blinked several times. "To think that I…" He ran his hand through his hair, grabbing a bunch in the back and hanging onto it.

"It's okay, Buck," Steve said very softly.

Anger flared. "No, Steve. It's not okay." He took a deep breath. This wasn't Steve's fault. None of this was. He didn't deserve to be a target of Bucky's rage. No one did, except HYDRA and Zola and Karpov… every handler and organization that used him against all that was good in the world. And he himself deserved everyone's rage. God, did he ever. He should have fought harder. Fought to his very last breath and very last drop of blood. Killed himself instead of blindly following their orders, all those goddamn orders...

I remember all of them…

Wasn't true. God knew how many more murders he'd done that he couldn't remember yet.

I did it…

The old Bucky… if he was as good and pure as everyone seemed to think, a dragon out to protect everyone... why the hell hadn't he fought? Why did he just give in?

They destroyed him. The old Bucky. The tortured him and wiped him and silenced him. He's gone.

But is he really gone? Steve still sees him. Sam still sees him. Scott and Wanda and Clint, maybe Natasha and now even T'Challa… they all still see Bucky.

Why the hell can't I see him? Why can't I see myself?

"What happened to him, Steve? The old Bucky. The good guy I used to be," he whispered.

"He's still there. You are still here."

He chewed on his lip. Stared at the wall. "I don't know how to find him." Even to his own ears, his voice sounded as far away as his lost soul.

"You've been finding him, little by little since you broke free from HYDRA. We'll figure it out the rest of the way, together."

Optimistic damn earth horse. Bucky blinked, then turned his gaze to the floor. "He'd hate this. I know that much about him."

Steve didn't say anything.

"I just… damn it, how did this happen to me, Steve?" His eyes filled with tears and he felt his face crumple, but he didn't care. "How did all this happen? I didn't… d-didn't want to do it, Steve. You gotta know that. Even though I did it all, there was always a part of me that… t-that hated it. But I couldn't stop. They d-didn't give me a choice. I had to do it. But I didn't want to do any of it."

"I know," Steve said. His voice sounded as clogged with tears as Bucky's eyes felt. "I know, buddy." He got up and put his hand on Bucky's good shoulder. Massaged it gently, as if he was trying to knead away all the sorrow and rage.

Bucky scrubbed the back of his hand across his eyes. He shook his head, words completely out of reach.

I didn't want to.

But I did it.

"I don't know what to do," he finally whispered. "I don't deserve to live, not when I've ruined so many lives. But dying seems too easy a way out."

Steve pulled him close. "It's okay, Bucky," he murmured. "Like I said, we'll figure it out."

Bucky stiffened for a moment, but Steve just held him tighter. He finally threw his arm around Steve's waist, buried his face in Steve's shirt, and silently cried.

tbc...

Author's Note: okay then. *hands tissues all around*

Used Google translate because I can't just text Sebastian and ask, "How do you say this in Romanian?" Darn it.

Tried to make meaning clear in context, but if you missed context clues, translations are:

Gogoși (plural), gogoașă (singular) - Romanian sweet pastries similar to filled doughnuts. (Wikipedia)

Tánggāo (糖糕), or "sugar cake", is a deep-fried sweet dough, eaten as a snack… similar to churros or beignets.

Google "tatting dragon" and you'll see the most amazing lace dragons.

For Chinese zodiac information, google "china highlights year of the horse" or "year of the snake" (1918 & 1917)