Author's Note: Hello, everyone! I'm back, once again, after a very long car trip yesterday (very, very long...). Hope this chapter was worth the wait.

As always, REVIEWS, FAVORITES, and FOLLOWS are very, very appreciated. Thanks so much to all those who reviewed on the last chapter! I never get tired of hearing what you all are thinking about each chapter.

There's a couple of curse words used, but nothing major (just a** and h***, I think).

Anyway, enjoy the chapter!

Chapter Eleven

The memories were coming back. Slowly, slowly, Bucky was beginning to piece together his life; childhood, teenage years, adulthood, the war…

And therein lay the problem. The process was slow. And therefore frustrating.

Memories were elusive things. Sometimes, he would remember a whole event at once. He always loved the look on Steve's face when that happened, like Christmas had come early.

More often, though, he would catch a fragment, a snippet. A blur of color, a snatch of conversation, an impression or emotion.

Those times would always turn into a guessing game with Steve, that either ended happily, or with both near frustrated tears.

Sam would just shake his head and say that he was moving too fast, expecting too much at once. That he should be grateful for what he did remember.

Bucky was grateful—beyond measure. He took nothing for granted anymore—especially not Steve.

But Sam wasn't the one who had to live with blank spaces in his head and the ache of what was missing in his heart.

One night, after a particularly frustrating game of 'guess that memory', Steve had an idea.

"What if we went down into Brooklyn, looked for our old neighborhood? I still remember the address of the last apartment we had. We could see if that would jog any memories."

Bucky nodded. "I…I'd like that." He smiled a bit. Voicing likes and dislikes had followed on the heels of being able to say 'I want.'

"Have you been down there since you woke up?" Sam asked.

Steve shook his head. "No…I just…I wanted to take Christy, show her where I lived, grew up and all that, but…I couldn't." He laughed, sadly.

"It's silly, isn't it? It wasn't like it was even a very nice neighborhood…and our old apartment was a wreck of a place! But I just…I couldn't."

"It wasn't the apartment." Sam said quietly. "It was the memories. They were too much."

Steve nodded. "Way too much." He looked over at Bucky and asked, "So, would you want to go this weekend?"

Bucky nodded again. "Okay." He still looked slightly upset. "It's annoying…" he mumbled under his breath.

Steve snorted. "Patience was never your strong suit. God knows how you became a sniper."

"Wanna watch something; take your mind off of it?" Sam offered.

Bucky ducked his head, the way he did when he really wanted something, but was nervous to ask. "A…A-Team?"

Sam grinned. "You got it, pal."

Steve just rolled his eyes. "You two and that show…"

"Aw, c'mon, man, it's a classic! That thing was my childhood!" Sam cried, as he grabbed his laptop from the table and started pulling up episodes.

"I like the team." Bucky said quietly. "They work together and fix bad situations, and…I like it."

"Like the Commandos. Like us." Steve said, gently. "You're starting to remember that."

Bucky nodded. At the word 'Commandos' the flickering image of men sitting around a campfire, exulting over the latest successful mission would come up in his mind. He remembered the bond, the comradeship.

It had been a memory that not even HYDRA could erase, for he'd always felt incomplete on solo missions. Even when he'd been with a STRIKE team, he'd never been a part of that team. He'd been alone.

Always alone.

He let out a moan as he felt himself mentally start to spiral.

"Bucky?" Steve's voice shot through his painful haze. "Bucky. Hey. Look at me."

Gentle hands cupped his chin, made him look up into Steve's wide, concerned eyes. He shuddered a bit.

"I didn't…have a team. Nothing. Nobody." he whispered brokenly.

Steve sighed, fighting the pain in his heart. "I know, pal. I know. But things are different, now. You've got me."

"And me." Sam chimed in. "And a whole host of very crazy, but awesome, people who would be honored to fight alongside you if the moment came."

"You're not alone anymore." Steve said, his hands moving off Bucky's chin and onto his friend's shoulders.

Bucky sighed and leaned over into Steve's side, like deadweight.

Steve grinned softly. "You're not movin', are ya, pal?"

"No."

Sam rolled his eyes. "I'm gettin' the kid; she likes this show, too."

Steve wrapped his arm around Bucky's shoulders and pulled him over on the couch. It was almost comical that their positions were now reversed, from how they had been before the fall.

Before, Bucky had always been the one reassuring him; pulling him up when he fell down. Now, it was his turn to reciprocate.

If Steve were being honest with himself, he rather enjoyed the chance to return the care Bucky had always given him.

"You're not alone." he whispered again, running his hand through Bucky's hair—Bucky's hair that was now trimmed, since Steve was fine with Bucky's hair long but not with it looking like a glorified mop.

Bucky just leaned back and shut his eyes. He wanted to seal this in his mind forever, this feeling of not being alone.

Something like bittersweet relief ran through him.

At least no one can take these memories away.

After spending all of Friday night poring over internet maps of Brooklyn, locating their old neighborhood, Steve and Bucky were ready to go that next morning.

With one addition.

"Take the kid for sanity's sake." Sam had insisted, since neither Steve nor Bucky really wanted any of the other Avengers along with them.

Steve had agreed; he'd wanted to take Christy anyway.

Christy was over the moon with excitement, thrilled to finally be able to see the place her dad always told stories about.

Currently, she was sitting in her seat on the subway, her headphones jammed into her ears, humming along to music.

Steve looked at her and grinned. "Well, she's ready. You ready?" he asked softly.

Bucky gave him a leveled look back. "Are you?"

Steve sighed.

"Yeah…I think so." he said. "About time I faced things. I've put it off for too long."

Bucky gave him a friendly punch to the shoulder. "Punk."

Steve leaned back and finished the ritual. "Jerk."

He could do this.

It was just a tiny street in Gravesend, Brooklyn; not the biggest or the best—even now.

But for fifteen years, it had been home.

Steve sucked in a breath as he took in the familiar-yet-not-familiar streets. Because, of course, things had changed.

The apartment building they had lived in was replaced with a newer building; tiny shops had disappeared. But the broken concrete streets still looked the same.

Bucky was looking about, frowning, hoping something would spark a memory.

Christy, however, was gleefully taking everything in. "This is where you lived, Daddy?"

Steve couldn't help but smile. "Yeah, baby, this is the place. Sorta."

Bucky suddenly walked over to a small alleyway and peered down it. "Hey, Steve…didn't you get beat up in this alley over here?"

Steve was about to groan, when he actually looked at the alley and realized…

"Yeah…I did."

"And that one over there?" Bucky pointed up the street, his brow knit in concentration.

"Yes…I think so…"

"And didn't some jerk try and give you a wedgie back behind that…?"

"Okay!" Steve cried, spreading his hands. "That's enough, Buck!"

Bucky looked over in slight shock at Steve's tone…and realized that his friend's face was bright red. He started to feel nervous—maybe he'd gone too far—but then the overwhelming rightness of the whole situation swept over him.

He and Steve had always joked around, before.

"Hey, this is supposed to be about jogging my memories, ain't it?" he said, grinning.

Steve just rolled his eyes…though he couldn't quite contain his grin.

This was the Bucky he remembered—the teasing, joking big brother he'd missed like crazy. Someone who wasn't afraid to cut Captain America down to size.

"How many alleys did you get beat up in, Dad?" Christy asked, incredulous.

Steve looked up and down the street.

"Well, baby…if you see an alley, I probably got beat up in it."

Bucky nodded and chimed in, "And I would have to haul his skinny…"

"Language!" Steve interjected.

"His skinny butt—there, are ya happy, Rogers?—out of each and every one of them, because the daft punk didn't know how to keep his head down and stay out of a fight!"

Christy looked at her dad, and back at the street. It wasn't that she didn't believe her dad and uncle, but…

"You were really that small?" she asked.

Steve chuckled. "You've seen pictures, baby."

"He was definitely that small." Bucky said. "A scrawny little pipsqueak. A loveable scrawny little pipsqueak." he added, at Steve's glare.

Christy shrugged. "Well obviously he was loveable—that's why Dr. Erskine picked him for the serum!"

Bucky actually rolled his eyes at that. "Don't remind me." he muttered. "I'm barely shipped out and what does he do? He signs up to let a scientist experiment on 'im!"

"I was desperate." Steve said calmly. "And besides, it worked out, didn't it?"

Bucky's response was an inarticulate grumble.

Christy looked down and scuffed her shoes. "Sorry, Dad…I think you're in trouble."

"I've been in trouble since 1943, baby." Steve said, ruffling her hair. "This is old news. Wanna try and find our old apartment, Buck?" he added, in a not-so-subtle attempt at changing the subject.

Bucky sighed and let it slide. "Yeah…we can. It'll probably be gone." He looked up the street. "Wasn't…wasn't there a park? And we played baseball?"

Steve smiled. "Yeah, it was right up there. Gone now, but…" he sighed. "Those were the days. When I wasn't sick, things were pretty good. We weren't so well off, but then again, who was? 'Specially after the market crashed."

Christy's eyes got a little bit wide. They'd learned about Black Tuesday in school.

She knew her dad had been born in 1918, had lived during all those eras they talked about in books, like the Roaring Twenties and the Great Depression, but to hear him talk about it so casually…

Bucky frowned again. "We used to play in the park, all the kids, after school. Baseball, stickball, tag…"

Steve nodded. "I usually sat out; all that activity was terrible for my asthma."

Christy still couldn't picture her dad with asthma, no matter how hard she tried or how many pictures she saw.

"And there was that bratty kid…the one who wouldn't stop pulling the girls' hair. And you punched him and he punched you and I punched back…"

Steve couldn't help but smirk at that very succinct summary of his childhood.

"Wait, what?" Christy asked, eyes wide. "What happened?"

Steve laughed. "C'mon, baby, let's try and find the apartment…I'll explain it on the way."

"I can't believe it…" Steve muttered.

He'd been prepared to find the first apartment he'd ever lived in as an adult, the place he and Bucky had called home, gone or derelict at best. Or turned into a coffee shop.

He had not expected it to be a city monument.

A small crowd of people were peering at a plaque on the sidewalk.

"This spot marks the former apartment of Steven Rogers (AKA: Captain America), circa 1940-1942."

"They turned it into a landmark…" Bucky breathed.

Christy was frowning at the plaque. "Wasn't it Uncle Bucky's apartment first, Dad?" she whispered. "And then your mommy died, so you moved in with him? Why doesn't it say that?"

"'Cause he's the hero." Bucky said. "And everybody knows who Captain America is. Nobody would know who I was if it wasn't for him, anyway."

"Well that's not fair…" Christy put her hands on her hips. "You're a hero, too."

Steve frowned at the plaque as well. "She's right, it's not fair."

Christy, meanwhile, was down on her hands and knees, rifling through the travel backpack she always carried with her.

"What'cha doin', baby?" Steve asked.

Christy pulled out a pen and a crumpled-looking notebook. "Gonna write a note…"

Steve just shrugged. "See anything that looks familiar, Buck?" he asked quietly.

Bucky frowned. "The street…I can see myself walking. It was late, really late."

"Yeah, you always got home from work late. You were down at the docks, loading and unloading stuff…I was always scared you'd break your back."

"I can see it…" Bucky mumbled. "It was…rough. Hard. Not a lot of chances. No wonder we wanted to join the army."

Steve let out a mirthless chuckle. "Yeah, no wonder."

They stayed that way for a while, letting Bucky's memories percolate, staring up and down familiar streets, whispering half-forgotten tales of a life gone by.

"You ready to go?" Steve asked finally.

Bucky cocked his head. "Are you?"

There was more to the question than just asking if he was ready to leave, physically.

Steve had long since come to terms with the fact that he would not be getting back what he had lost. The past would remain the past, and the life he would make for himself in this new century would be starkly different than anything he had ever dreamed.

It didn't mean that he wasn't allowed to mourn what was gone.

Bucky could feel something like grief in his heart as he looked up at the apartment that had once been his (and his first, too, no matter what the plaque said).

It was helpful to have a place that connected to his past. But it also served as a reminder of all the memories he still didn't have.

But he had some, now.

The rest would return, he was sure of it. And until then, well, Brooklyn wasn't going anywhere.

And neither was he.

He raised his arm and slung it around Steve's shoulders. (Like he used to, long ago and not so far away…). "C'mon, punk. You need food."

Steve snorted, and nodded.

"Yeah. Where we goin'?" he whispered, remembering.

Bucky caught on quick. "To the future." he whispered back. "Or that pizza place three blocks back." he added, grinning.

Steve laughed. "You ready, Christy?"

Christy came over from where she'd been standing by the plaque. "Ready."

"Did you take a picture?" Steve asked.

Christy nodded. "Uh-huh. And left my note."

"Note? What note?"

Christy pointed to a small scrap of notebook paper that lay propped up beside the plaque.

Both men leaned over casually…and almost lost it.

James Buchanan Barnes lived here too, circa 1940-1942 and it was his apartment first. So take that.

Steve laughed quietly. Bucky looked almost like he was blushing.

"Ya didn't haveta do that…" he muttered. "It's better if people don't remember me…"

Steve frowned. "Oh, I beg to differ, my friend. You are as much a hero as me. You deserve to be remembered."

"But for what?" Bucky whispered, the stats he knew from his file rattling in the back of his mind like a judge's gavel.

Over two dozen confirmed kills…and who knows what else…

Steve bumped his shoulder and whispered in his ear, "For hauling my skinny ass out of every alley in the neighborhood, if nothing else. For breaking your back, so I could eat. For being my first hero, my brother."

Bucky let the words sink in, sweep over him like water that washed away all the condemning voices in his head.

He sighed. "Let's get outta here, huh? Bet the kid's starvin'."

Christy nodded eagerly. "Can we get pizza?"

"For the last time, Tony, we are not watching those tapes!"

Steve's raised voice sounded through the Common Floor several days later.

"Aw, c'mon!" Tony sounded annoyingly persuasive. "It'll be fun!"

"You did promise I could see them, Daddy." Christy added.

Steve groaned. "That was two years ago, how do you even remember that?"

Christy shrugged. "I remember everything…"

"What's this about?" Sam asked, coming off of the elevator with Bucky, after another session.

Steve just looked severely put out, so Clint helpfully chimed in. "Tony has some tapes of Steve's old USO shows, courtesy of SHIELD. Steve doesn't wanna watch because they're embarrassing."

"It's not that! They're just…stupid."

Clint sighed. In all honesty, he was severely curious to see these tapes. "Look, Steve, most of us here have had to do something ridiculous because we were under orders…"

Natasha smirked. "Yeah…remember Cairo, Barton?"

Clint spun around, eyes wide with horror. "You swore we'd never mention Cairo!"

"What happened in Cairo?" Bruce asked, predictably.

"Never mind." Clint muttered, glowering.

"All you need to know is that it involved a slinky dress and a wig. And several guns." Natasha replied.

"Isn't that like half your missions, anyway, Romanoff?" Tony asked.

"Yes, but I wasn't the one wearing the slinky dress…"

There was awkward silence for a few minutes.

"Anyway!" Tony cried. "This isn't about what you two get up to on weird SHIELD missions. This is about Cap's USO tapes. Which, by the way, I watched as a kid, so I won't even make fun because they're nostalgic, and…"

Steve threw up his hands. "Alright, alright! We can watch 'em!"

Tony grinned. "Yay!"

"You are such a child…" Natasha said, shaking her head.

"Who's strong and brave, here to save the American Way…?"

"Are you reading lines off the back of your shield?" Natasha asked.

"Probably…" Steve muttered, head firmly behind his hands.

Clint peered at the grainy footage on the TV. "Ah…yup, he's definitely cheating. You should've had those memorized, Cap!"

"This was like one of my first shows, Barton. Trust me, I had them memorized later…trust me."

"Who vows to fight, like a man, for what's right…"

"Oh, so girls can't fight?" Christy hissed. Steve stopped cringing long enough to pat her shoulder.

"Of course girls can fight, baby."

Natasha smiled proudly.

"Defense bonds! Each one you buy is a bullet in the barrel of your best guy's gun!"

"How long did it take you memorize that one without failing epically?" Tony asked.

Steve moaned. "I don't know. A long time…"

Sam shook his head. "Who's writing this dialogue, anyway? A nine year old could do better!" he jabbed his thumb in Christy's direction. "'Specially this nine year old!"

Most of the footage was faintly nauseating, cheesy, and full of the typical patriotic fervor. But one scene made Christy pay extra attention.

"Now, we all know this is about trying to win the war. And we can't do that without bullets and bandages, tanks and tents. And that's where you come in—every bond you buy can help protect someone you love…"

"He's right behind you!" A voice from the audience called out. Sure enough, a costumed Hitler poked his way out from behind the line of chorus girls. Steve in the video neatly laid him out with one punch to the jaw.

"Daddy punched Hitler!" Christy cried. "Go Dad!"

Steve smiled. That reaction from his daughter almost made this whole ordeal worth it.

Almost.

"That punch was so fake." Bucky muttered. He'd been keeping quiet, both to spare Steve from too much embarrassment, and also educate himself on what his friend had been up to all those months he'd been in Europe.

Steve rolled his eyes. "Of course it was fake. That guy was actually pretty nice, too, off the clock."

"Still, you did punch Hitler in the jaw. Theoretically." Tony said.

"Yeah…theoretically."

"But you would've punched the real Hitler…right Dad?" Christy asked, her eyes shining. She was staring at Steve, her gaze full of hero-worship.

"If I'd've had the chance, yes, I would have punched the real Hitler, baby."

Christy nodded, satisfied.

The footage ended and Steve gave Tony a careful glance.

"There wasn't any more…?"

Tony grinned. "No, no more Captain Chorus Girl. Just this."

Steve ignored the jab in favor of a sigh of relief. "They didn't film the one in Italy. Thank God."

Natasha frowned. "What was so bad about Italy?"

"I was performing for a crowd of soldiers who'd all seen combat, recently; lost men. Suffice to say…these sort of antics didn't go over so well."

Sam winced. "What happened?"

"I…kinda got booed off the stage. And heckled. And had stuff thrown at me."

Everybody winced.

"It was pretty soon after that, I got the news about Bucky's unit being captured. I went looking for him; you guys know the rest."

Steve's head was hanging low. Bucky frowned.

"Yeah, we know the rest." he said firmly. "You busted down the door of that lab like…like an Avenger. The very first. Saved me, saved a whole slew of guys. Fought Schmidt. Forget the stage shows. That day…that day, you were Captain America."

Sam gave Steve a friendly shoulder punch. "You earned those captain's bars, my friend. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

Steve cracked a half-smile. "Thanks…"

It was late that night. Christy was asleep, Sam was in his room.

Steve was sitting on the couch, staring into space.

And Bucky was done.

Something was clearly bugging Steve. It was more than just the antics shown in those stupid tapes. Something about them had stirred up a memory.

So he sat down next to Steve and shoved him slightly. "Are you going to talk?"

"About what?" Steve mumbled. "M'fine. Just tired."

Bucky snorted. "No. You're upset. You look like me, having a flashback. And flashbacks aren't nice. So what's going on in that head of yours, punk?"

Steve let out a long, long sigh. "Something I'd forgotten about."

Bucky just sat there waiting, patiently. Sooner or later, Steve would blurt it out. He'd always done that…

Yeah…he did... Bucky couldn't help but grin as that remembered fact sunk deep into his mind.

"'I asked for an army, and all I got was you.'" Steve said finally, quoting someone. "'And you are not enough.'"

Blind, red rage slid through Bucky for the briefest of seconds, before he got a hold of himself.

"And just who the hell said that?" he hissed.

"Colonel Phillips." Steve muttered.

The name rolled around in Bucky's brain for a while, before latching on to an image of a gruff, jowly, bulldog of a man.

"He said what!?"

"He was frustrated!" Steve cried. "So was I, frankly! Dr. Erskine was killed, and it was either send me to a lab to try and replicate the formula, or do War Bond tours! So I became a dancing monkey to avoid being a lab rat! I'd finally gotten all the muscle and health I'd never had. Finally though I'd be useful for something! And then…" he trailed off. "Not enough. One more time, not enough. Never enough."

Some strange (and yet familiar) emotion shot through Bucky like a pressure hose. And a memory struck.

"Just tell me one thing, one thing, punk! Why you gotta be gettin' in scraps all the time?" Bucky cried, as he hauled Steve away from yet another playground battle.

"He pulled that girl's hair and called her names!"

"Then yell for me and I'll come punch him in the nose, while you tell the girl she's pretty."

Steve let out a huff and frowned.

"I'm…I'm not good enough, Bucky! I'm never gonna be strong enough to do anything!"

"Who says it's all about muscles, Stevie?"

"Everybody!"

Bucky sighed. Why doesn't he get this…? Still! It's been so long…

"But you are enough." he said firmly.

Steve sighed. "I keep tellin' myself that. It doesn't work."

"Look." Bucky pointed his finger at Steve's chest. "You were enough long before you ever got that serum. You were Steve Rogers, the only kid brave enough to stand up for whoever needed help. And don't you dare let some jumped-up Colonel's opinion from seventy years ago tell you who you are!"

Bucky's eyes burned like fire and if it wasn't for his long hair and the arm, they could have been sitting in that apartment in Brooklyn, all those years ago, for how familiar he sounded.

You are enough…

"You don't have to prove yourself. Who you are, muscles or no muscles…it's enough." Bucky whispered.

An open wound that Steve wasn't even aware he still had slowly began to close. He hadn't realized how much those words still stung.

"Thanks, pal…" he whispered.

Bucky let out a short breath through his nose, like an angry bull.

"The nerve of that man…" he muttered. "Just who did he think he was, try'na tell my friend he wasn't good enough! I wish I'd've known…I'd'a punched him; court martial or no court martial!"

The words, the tone…everything was familiar. And Steve knew that even if it took a while for Bucky to remember everything, at least it seemed he'd gotten the most important bits right.

"Thanks." he whispered again.

Bucky stopped ranting for a moment, long enough to wrap his arm around Steve's shoulders.

"Any time."

Okay, I will confess, I haven't watched CA:TFA in its entirety for awhile. But I head that quote from Colonel Phillips in a clip/music video and couldn't get it out of my head. I assumed he was addressing Steve in-movie, and it seemed like a terrible thing to say, especially to someone who's finally in a position to "do something" for once without keeling over. And I knew right then and there that I needed to write something in my story about it.

I picked Gravesend (a neighborhood in Brooklyn close to Coney Island and known for having a lot of Irish, Italian and Jewish immigrants in the early 1900's) for Steve and Bucky's old neighborhood, because I'm pretty sure the movie doesn't actually say where in Brooklyn they live...

I did re-watch the "Star Spangled Man With A Plan" scene while writing this chapter. And my reaction was basically Steve's in this chapter. I didn't realize you could feel such strong embarrassment for a fictional character...poor Steve!

Hope you enjoyed. Reviews are wonderful things...