(A/N: So this one is very long and in Bucky's POV. I was nervous as hell writing it. Please let me know what you think and if I should ever try him again or just leave it out from now on. Thanks, ~Sithy)

He ran alone the next day. Even if you had been awake so early, he would not have let you join him. He'd watched you move around the night before, your face and posture giving away your pain at every step. You were paying for your recklessness with little complaint. He respected that. Still, he would have said no if you asked to come along, because you needed time to recover. And because... because now he could say "no."

The darkness of early morning concealed him well, made him more comfortable. And the woods had proven equally as inviting when you'd led him there. Though now he kept his own pace, eating up the distance between the tree line and creek in a quarter time it had taken the day before. There he paused a moment to survey the muddy bank he'd helped you from. When he had found you there yesterday, a sight had flashed through his head, both foreign and familiar. A lost memory.

Shelling, loud and terrible, shaking the ground and filling the air with smoke and screams muted by the ringing in his ears. Bodies tossed and strewn broken across his field of vision. The smell, the taste of dirt and blood and death. Then you moved. The present had returned to sharp focus for him. You'd pushed yourself and you'd fallen, but you were not dead. And he hadn't realized his heart was racing until it started to slow.

Leaving the edge of the creek, he continued through the woods, picking his way through branches and brush. A nearly straight line, taking mental notes of significant landmarks, and soon he was past another tree line, out of the woods and stopping at the paved road that led into town. A short cut, filed away for possible use later. There was a flash of headlights far down the road, heading in his direction, and he moved back into the cover of the trees. His stamina could have carried him much farther, but he decided to go back. Decided... it was still a strangely new concept.

When he got to the house, you were still asleep, your gentle snore audible to him through your bedroom door. He made himself eggs. Real eggs. He couldn't help wondering just how bad powdered eggs had been if he could still make the automatic comparison in his mind with no firm memory of them. And toast with butter. Such a simple pleasure you'd reintroduced to him. He ate, washed, dried, and put away the dishes. You still hadn't stirred in your room.

Physical training in the yard. Push-ups, sit-ups, sprints, shadow combat. Whether the imaginary opponents were wholly fictional or partly remembered, he could not say. Punch, pivot, twist, kick, duck, slice; he kept moving because movements were better than thinking sometimes. Pushing the senses could clear his mind. And push he did until he could feel a dull ache in his muscles and he had to wipe sweat from his brow before it dripped into his eyes. The grass was long and itchy on his skin as he laid back on the ground. You had not mown it in a week or more. He could probably do that for you. But you would smile at him, and he didn't deserve that smile.

Inside, showered, and the cat was waiting for him outside the bathroom door. She meowed and paced back and forth in front of him, expectant. After shower was time for treats. But he glanced down the hall to your door. Still closed, still asleep. He looked back down at the cat, who sat at his feet purring, and patted his thigh. She stretched up, digging her claws into the fabric of his pants. He stooped slightly and she pulled herself up the length of him swiftly until she was perched on his shoulder. The small weight of her was warm against his neck as he moved to the living room.

The armchair afforded the best view of the hallway and he sat there. The cat jumped to the coffee table, a flash of white with spots of yellow, and sat to stare at him a moment with patient green eyes. He remembered cats. He liked cats, sleek, agile, elusive. Cats pounced on rats and sauntered over dumpsters in back alleys like they were royalty. And Stevie snuck a saucer of milk for the kittens near the stoop one spring and his Ma was none too pleased with the loss of milk or the addition of cats. He blinked when your cat mewed at him from the table. Sharp reality replaced the hazy images.

She paced again, folding in on herself as she turned so her tail brushed across her whiskers. He opened the bag of treats and she sat gracefully. A few morsels in each palm and fisted his hands around them. When he pointed at her, she raised the corresponding paw and batted his finger and she got a treat. Other hand, other paw, treat. It was simple, easy training. No. Playing. He felt himself start to smile. Playful, cute, sweet, the cat flopped onto her side and grabbed at his dangling fingers, catching them in her paws and pulling them in to brush her cheeks against.

You still hadn't stirred. His eyes narrowed at the clock. It was hours past the time you were normally up and about. He suddenly registered the worry that had been eating at his gut all morning. Leaving the cat behind, he went to your door and listened. Your snoring had stopped, replaced by ragged breaths punctuated by a sudden, dry, rattling cough that almost startled him. Familiar… troubling.

He called your name and heard the concern in his own voice, knocking his knuckles against the wood of the door. "Are you alright in there?"

There was the sound of movement, bedsprings shifting under your weight, then a faint "Bucky?"

Bucky. Yes, that was his name. It was another thing he forgot sometimes when he was in his own head for too long. But Bucky heard the weakness of your voice, the hoarse whimper, and his hand fell to the doorknob to enter. The sight of you made something in his chest clench tight and not let go.

You were wrapped up in a heavy blanket, though you still shivered. When you raised your head from your pillow, he could see a flush to your cheeks, your eyelids trying to stay open and barely making it. Still, you smirked at him weakly. "Sorry, Buck. Not feeling too well today."

He was by your side in a few quick strides, something itching at the back of his brain, something familiar, telling him what to do but not why he knew it, a strange muscle memory carrying him. You turned your face from him to cough hard into your balled up fist and he could see the redness grow across your cheeks. When you looked up at him again, he reached out and brushed aside the hair that was sticking to your face. And you didn't flinch when he rested his palm on your forehead.

"Jeez, you're burnin' hot, kid," he grumbled, hand moving down to your cheek and under your chin on instinct.

"Not so bad yourself, old man," you chuckled airily before giving a soft sniffle.

Bucky grunted his annoyance at you. It was not the time for jokes when you were feverish and looked like death warmed over. He allowed his fingertips to linger across the scar on your cheek a few seconds more before he crouched down next to your bed. Mulling over his next thought carefully, he finally spoke "Should I take you to a doctor?"

"No, Bucky. I'm fine," you replied with a small shake of your head. His eyes narrowed when you flinched in pain at your own movement. You most certainly weren't fine. Still, you smiled at him, though it was pained and slightly miserable. It almost unnerved him. "It's just the flu."

"The flu." He rolled it around on his tongue a moment. Seventy years and they hadn't gotten rid of the flu? Then a memory struck him. Not an old, laggy one washing up from the depths of his mind, but a crisp new one. He stood and gingerly, awkwardly, touched your covered shoulder. When you looked up at him curiously, he assured you "I'll be right back."

If you had discovered the weapons Bucky had hidden about your house in the first days he arrived, you had never said anything to him. That offered him a sort of comfort. But when he was securing a knife on the underside of a shelf in your bathroom closet, out of sight, he remembered taking stock of the contents. He went there now and looked at the two bottles marked "Cold + Flu," one blue and one orange. Both had a fever reducer, pain reliever, and a decongestant, but the blue one mentioned it could cause drowsiness. Sleep. Yes, you needed rest. Rest helped with the flu.

He read the instructions as he walked back to your room. Nothing too difficult. Two tablespoons every six hours in a little marked dosing cup. He saw you grimace when you noticed what was in his hand. You made the most defeated expression, lower lip sliding out into a pout as you huffed. Bucky paused at the sight, halfway to your bedside, and blinked in surprise. The look on your face was childish, innocent… sweet. Clearing his throat and shaking the thought away, he moved to sit on the edge of your mattress as he uncapped the bottle.

"Could've at least brought the daytime stuff," you muttered, sounding thoroughly disgusted. "I have things to do around the house today."

"You need rest," he stated firmly, pouring the thick blue liquid and holding it out to you.

"We're having company this weekend." Your voice was hoarse and whiny as you moved to a sitting position and took the medicine from him. "I've gotta get this place together."

"You're not getting out of bed," he countered- an order, a warning.

But you just glared at him and scoffed. "You're not the boss of me, Bucky Barnes."

"Like hell I'm not," he said hotly. And maybe his exasperation carried him a little too far, because the next thing he knew he was blurting out words he somehow knew his mouth had shaped before. "Shivering under your covers looking like you're gonna keel over any minute. You're sick, feverish, coughing up a lung. Now shut up and take the god damned medicine, Stevie!"

Bucky flinched even as your eyes widened at him. That was what it all had been, what had felt so familiar. He'd had this argument with Stevie one time, hadn't he? Maybe more? Same sort of smartass remarks, not wanting to take it easy when he was sick, always something to prove. But you weren't Stevie. Hell, Stevie wasn't even Stevie any more.

The look you gave him was gentle, apologetic, as you downed the medicine in one gulp. He couldn't help the smile tugging at his lips at the grimace you made before handing the cup back with your tongue sticking out. "Gah, tastes like shit."

He snorted in amusement before setting the medicine on your nightstand and standing up to leave again. You needed fluids. Water. There was a jug in your icebox you kept cold. It could get the taste out of your mouth. He pulled it out and set it on the counter. You needed something in your stomach, settle the medicine and help it work better. A glance in the pantry revealed oatmeal. That could stick to your ribs and help your sore throat. The instructions were easy and he put the ingredients on the stove to cook. As he was returning the canister, he saw brown sugar on the shelf. He remembered your drink in the cafe, the one that almost rotted his teeth out. You liked things sweet. Too sweet. Like the drink and the way you smiled at him, even when you thought he wasn't looking. He tightened his jaw and grabbed the package, dropping a few clumps in as the oatmeal cooked.

The cat had joined you in the bed by the time Bucky returned. You were still upright, though you had pulled your cover up to tuck under your chin, and she was curled up on your lap, purring loud enough for him to hear from the door. Both of you looked up at him when he approached, pleasant surprise lighting your face. It was another reaction of yours he was having trouble getting used to.

"Thank you, Bucky," you sniffled and panted a bit after taking a long drink of water. You looked curiously into the bowl he offered before taking it. "Well, aren't you sweet?"

"No," he ground out with a shake of his head. But he found himself starting to smile back nonetheless. "But the oatmeal is. Figured you'd like it with brown sugar."

The delighted little laugh you gave him, despite how miserable you must have been feeling, was devastating to him, making that clenching in his chest tighten half a turn when you ended it with a somewhat pained groan. He ignored it, opting instead to pet the cat, who had stretched up on its toes across your thighs to greet him with a meow and a paw to smack at his palm. She pressed her cheeks against his fingers and head-butted his hand as best she could. Out of the corner of his eye, through strands of his hair that had fallen like a curtain between the two of you, Bucky caught you smiling at him again, spoon poised in your mouth. But when he turned his face toward yours, you were already looking back down at the bowl.

"The chores you wanted done today," Bucky asked gruffly as he stood straight. "I'll do them. What are they?"

You swallowed your spoonful of oatmeal, grimacing in pain as you shook your head. "Aw, Bucky, you don't-"

"What are they," he repeated, interrupting with an exasperated glare.

"Dusting, sweeping, cut the grass," you sighed with a shrug. "But, really, they can wait. You don't have to do them."

Bucky regarded you a moment, the flush of your cheeks, the red around your nose, the exhaustion in your eyes. "I know."

He left before you could argue with him any longer. Because he knew you would keep arguing if given half a chance. Stubborn… bull headed… complete disregard for personal well-being… maybe he was cursed. Bucky huffed to himself as he opened the hall closet. That's where you kept all the cleaning supplies. He'd observed your routine before. There was little else to do when he grew tired of staring at a TV or computer screen or the pages of a book, trying to catch up on decades of information. Train or observe. A body could only train so much before it needed time to recuperate, and he had discovered that you were not entirely unpleasant to observe.

Dusting was a delicate operation, there were books and movies and weathered knickknacks to lift and wipe under and set back. He mimicked the care you took with these things, unsure of their exact value to you, but if you treated them as precious and fragile then he would as well. Sweeping the floors was time-consuming, if only because he was thorough, leaving no corner untouched and moving most of the furniture easily. There seemed no point in doing the job if it wasn't done right.

It was the mowing that caused the worst problem, and not because the task was difficult. There was a mindless precision to it, back and forth and back again, enough to get lost in. There was a cool breeze across his face. The smell of grass. The engine drowned out the world. And the thoughts came rolling in. Dozens killed. And those were just the names in the files... the targets. How many more people had tried to stop him, people just doing their job to protect, who didn't get to go home and be domestic? How many kids without parents? Overgrown yards? Knickknacks collecting dust in abandoned homes? The flash of an unsuspecting face through a sniper scope. Overturned car with a wheel free spinning as the snow underneath turned red. He had been at war once, but they made him a monster. There was blood on his hands, so much it soaked through to his very bones. And jumping into a river to save Captain America- to save Stevie - was not enough to wash him clean.

The aluminum handle of the lawn mower crumpled in his grip, metal and flesh alike. With a low growl, he bent the rods back into place as best he could. It wasn't perfect, but enough for him to finish the yard in a dark mood despite the sun on his face. Once done, he went stalking through the back door of the house, intent on taking another shower to rinse off the grass clippings that had stuck to him. But he stopped when he saw you on the couch, head sticking out from a mound of heavy blankets with the television on.

"I told you to stay in bed," he said, harsh, aggressive, as he approached you from behind.

When you twisted around to offer him a sheepish expression on your flushed face, some of the anger eased from his shoulders. You lifted a steaming mug into his field of vision, saying in a raspy and feeble voice "Tea."

Bucky resisted the sudden urge to roll his eyes as he turned from you to continue what he was doing. Hair up and out of the way, quick rinse under the shower head, special care in drying his left arm, from dull web of scars to the tips of metal fingers. Didn't want to have to worry about rust. He snorted at his own train of thought. "Lounge wear" Wilson had called the clothes Bucky picked out, dark cotton pants and shirt, somehow a magnet for little white and yellow cat hairs.

You were still in the living room when he was finished. Moving to the front of the couch, he found you cradling your mug of tea in your hands just under your face, shivering despite the steam and blanket. Bucky pressed his right hand to your forehead again and frowned. "Chills now, too?"

A simple nod was your only response for a moment as you took a sip of your tea. He took the opportunity to sink onto the couch to your right, folding his left leg under himself so he could face you better. Another heavy shiver rattled your frame, eliciting a sound of cold discomfort from you. Bucky reached out to tuck your cover tighter around you and decided in that moment that if your fever hadn't broken by the next day, he was taking you to a doctor whether you liked it or not. He didn't care if his presence raised questions he didn't want to answer.

"I like your hair bun," you said with a scratchy voice, drawing him from his thoughts. His eyes widened a little at your small smile. "Long hair can be comforting to hide behind, but I do like seeing that handsome face of yours."

You thought he was handsome? Fingers having absently reached up to touch his gathered hair, Bucky dropped his hand. "Finish your tea so you can go back to bed. You need rest."

There was something like quiet laughter in your eyes, but you didn't put voice to it as you turned your attention to the show on the television, taking another gentle slurp from your mug. Bucky watched your face a moment longer before following your gaze. It was a painting show, a man with a large amount of puffed out hair standing at an easel and canvas encouraging viewers to create their own worlds in a calm, even voice. The techniques seemed familiar, the colors, creating depth on a flat surface. It wasn't high art, but simple and sturdy, and Bucky seemed to know it.

From the corner of his eye, he saw your head start to droop forward, mug tilting in your hands. Before he could say anything, you caught yourself with a shiver, taking another sip. It pulled Bucky's attention from the show, watching you begin to drift off only to catch yourself with a start to pull from your tea again. He should have been summarily ushering you back to bed from the very beginning, but something about it kept him enthralled until finally you tipped toward him, blanket bunching and cushioning your head's impact with the metal of his left arm, handle of the now empty tea mug hanging loose in your fingers.

Bucky pulled the mug from your hand to set on the coffee table before using the remote to shut off the television. None of his movements seemed to wake you, only caused you to shiver and fold in tighter against him. Weighing his options a moment, Bucky determined the best way to avoid any further fuss and argument from you was to simply take you to bed himself. It was no difficult task to twist and get his arms hooked beneath your neck and knees, and he had strength enough and more to lift you from the couch and carry you to your room. Though he did pause in the hall when you shivered violently in his arms, head lolling into the crook of his neck to press your feverish and clammy forehead against his skin there.

Once in your room, he propped a knee on the mattress and gently lowered your legs first. But as he leaned to lay your head back against the pile of pillows, you twisted into him, shouldering him in the chest while an arm that had worked free of your blanket cocoon wrapped around his ribs. Bucky froze with a sharp inhale and heard, felt you sleepily murmur something about "warm" against his collarbone. Your fingers curled achingly frail into the fabric at his back and you turned your face into his shirt, the shuddering of your frame subsiding. He slowly laid himself out on the bed, barely breathing, not wanting to wake you. The combined body heat could help sweat out your flu, Bucky reasoned. And he told himself as soon as you rolled away from him, he would make an escape.

"Wipe him."

Terror flooded cold in his veins, but he could not disobey. Heart raced. Faces in lab coats blurred through his vision in an agonizingly slow tilt, filled with horrific anticipation. Mouth full of hard plastic. Smell of electricity like lightning in the air. The excruciating pain of being unmade...

He sat straight up with a furious cry, the nightmare, the memory lingering on his senses, not quite knowing where he was in that first instant. There was movement beside him. Bedsprings? He started to twist, to instinctively swing his heavy left arm out to neutralize whatever might oppose him. But a voice, thick with worry- with sleep? - rocketed through the rush of blood in his ears, through the wild beating of his heart.

"Bucky, it's okay. You're here with me. You're safe."

The world returned to him finally. Even though he still fought to regain control of his breathing, he recognized your room, your bed, you kneeling, straddling his left leg with a soft, concerned expression and your fingers reaching to cup his face. Bucky let out a ragged sob as the adrenaline began to ebb from his muscles.

"The machine," he tried to explain. But how could he? It was meant to make him forget, but his body always remembered the pain of getting ripped away. His voice was gravel in his throat when he looked at you. "I don't want to lose myself again."

"Oh, Bucky," you breathed softly and he saw understanding light across your face. Sympathy flashed there for a moment, still more than he deserved for the things he'd done, then you leaned forward to hug him. There was a beat for his mind to register the gesture, to accept it, but his arms snaked around you, hauling you against his chest as he buried his nose into the crook of your neck, sagging into you. It was selfish and vicious and terrible how much he wanted your warm comfort in that moment.

There was a twisting in Bucky's gut when you pulled away after a minute, resting a hand on his chest to turn and cough hoarsely into your arm. How had he forgot how sick you were? He reached up to press his right palm to your forehead yet again, but he couldn't resist the urge to brush the hair from your face or the small smile of relief that tugged at his lips.

"I think your fever broke," Bucky informed. "Are you feeling any better?"

"Headache, throat still hurts," you shrugged feebly, leaning back to sit on his thigh for support. "What about you?"

"I'm fine," he nodded curtly after licking his lips, mouth having gone dry with the sudden realization of how very close you were to him, how his hands had found their way to your waist like they belonged there, like back in the alley just two days before when he thought the two of you were being chased and his original thought to protect you melted into just how soft your body was pressed against his, softer than anything he could pull from his cratered memory.

He nudged you a little, urging you gently from his lap and onto the bed. A quick glance at your bedside clock told him it was early evening. "You should probably take another dose of medicine. I'll fix you a can of soup for dinner."

"Hey, Buck," you said quietly as he went to stand. Out of reflex, he turned his face towards you and that aching clench of his chest returned yet again when your fingertips slid soft as sin over the skin of his cheek. The gratitude in your eyes tore at him and he almost begged you not to speak, but the corners of your lips quirked up and all he could do was stare. "Thanks for taking care of me today. And the chores and... Just, thanks. But are you sure you're okay?"

Slow and measured, the metal fingers of Bucky's left hand reached up to cover yours at his face, applying the smallest amount of pressure, wanting the feel of your skin on his to last just a split second longer, before he pulled your hand away to place back on the bed. Bucky straightened and with a duck of his head, retreated toward the kitchen.