Chapter 2: Winter's Cataclysm

Bucky was too cold to sleep. He curled in the corner, shivering. He should have risked stopping somewhere long enough to pick up a jacket, but he knew any delay would be risky. If just one of Hydra's agents spotted him, there'd be a chase and a firefight all over again. Eventually, his luck would run out.

He knew cold. Siberia. His brow furrowed as a memory sprang forward. He was running over frozen terrain as fast as he could. Choppers tracked him. He never made it. They re-captured him, shot him twice with bullets—one in his arm, the other in his right shoulder—and peppered him with tranquilizer darts.

The memory told him he'd tried to escape at least once before. How many times had he tried and failed?

The cold brought forth another memory. A street, snow, Large, colorful bulbs casting rainbow lights beneath rooftops and around trees. That face again. Steve. Rogers. Smaller. Younger. Barely a man. Two young guys pushing him down. He swung fists. They took his jacket. He got up. One of them punched him—a large guy with dark hair and a blue jacket. Steve's face was bloody. Red dotted the snow as he fell. He got up again.

Bucky was there. Suddenly, he was in the middle of a fight. He drove the two teenagers away. Steve was shivering, brushing snow off his pants.

"Here." Bucky shrugged out of his jacket. "You catch something in this weather and your ma'll kill me." He tossed the jacket to Steve.

"I'm fine, Buck." Steve tossed it back, using the back of his hand to rub blood from beneath his nose.

"Take it, punk. Your clothes are wet, mine're dry. It's three blocks to your apartment. I think I can manage that long."

Steve looked up at him, a soft smile on his face, and slipped into the jacket. "Thanks, Bucky."

The cold brought Bucky back to the present. He couldn't feel his fingers, but he found his pack and blindly reached inside. He pulled out a small flashlight. With no feeling in his fingers, it took him several tries to even find the button on the handle. Finally, he succeeded, and bright light filled the small space around him. He grabbed his journal and a pen, held the small flashlight between his chin and shoulder, and started writing on the next blank page.

His fingers felt like blocks of ice, but he managed well enough to hold the pen and force out something recognizable. He jotted down all the images in his head. Steve. The fight. Colored lights. Decorated trees.

He saw a younger version of himself rubbing his arms and taking off gloves as he stepped inside an apartment.

He remembered what the apartment looked like, at least some of it. A kitchen with a small stove. A small dining table with six chairs crowded around. A plate of cookies. He sketched the image the best he could with numb fingers and a cranked neck to hold the light.

Brooklyn. He remembered the name of the city now, and not just from reading a bio. He knew the image in his head was Brooklyn. He felt it. It meant something to him once. He remembered buildings with staircases. Alleyways.

And Steve Rogers' face was almost always there whenever he thought of that city. A smaller guy. Thick eyebrows. Serious eyes.

A noise from the alley behind the building made him freeze. Every muscle in him tensed. He grabbed the flashlight and killed the light, then folded the journal around the pen and quickly stuffed it back into his pack. He slid the gun from beneath his pantleg, flicked off the safety, and held it at ready.

His heart thudded heavily. The pulse of his blood roared in his ears. He held his breath, listening. He heard the crunch of footsteps. One set. Slightly unsteady.

He swallowed. The footsteps approached. The door jiggled, then swung open.

Bucky was on his feet in an instant, then rolling behind a large box. It made a pitiful cover. The pain in his side flared, stealing his breath, but he ignored it. He tracked the footsteps, gripped the gun, then rose silently and steadily and aimed at the intruder. His finger began to squeeze the trigger.

It was an older man with dirty clothes and worn eyes who froze when he saw the gun. His eyes went wide, and he raised his hands.

"Sajnálom. ne lőj," The man pled. Sorry. Don't shoot.

Bucky catalogued the stranger. Unkempt hair, slick from being unwashed. Worn clothes, old jeans frayed at the bottom, holes in the knee, a streak of black oil on the right pantleg. Thick gloves, slightly too big, both hands trembling. Sweat on the brow, despite the cold. Eyes wide, pupils dilated. A faint scent of alcohol and cannabis.

Civilian.

Bucky eased off the trigger but held the gun steady. "Lépj le." Leave now.

The man nodded shakily, his hands trembling, then spun and ran, almost tripping over his feet as he pushed through the open doorway.

Bucky kept the gun raised for several seconds, his head tilted, listening to the man's frantic, retreating footsteps. The alleyway grew silent. The only sound remaining was the thundering sound of his own breath and the blood rushing through his veins.

He lowered the gun slowly, only then realizing that his right hand was shaking. He looked at it. His hands never shook. His metal one was incapable of that. His right hand was always steady. It's aim true.

He was malfunctioning.

He closed his eyes. Stop it. The soldier was there, hovering, the programming threatening to override in the face of the perceived threat.

He'd almost killed an innocent man. It would have been just one more in a string of so, so many.

He took a slow, deep breath, trying to steady himself, but more faces came. A mother. A little girl. The mother tried to shield her daughter. He'd killed them both.

The memory stole his breath. Two new faces he hadn't remembered before. He dropped the gun, fell to his knees.

Oh God Oh God Oh God.

The mother had prayed, too, begging God to save her. From him. God hadn't answered her prayer.

He killed them. He killed them both. A little girl. A mother. Hydra had given him the mission. A target. The woman was a threat. The child a witness. He was a monster. They'd turned him into a killing machine. He let them. He gave in. Surrendered. Submitted. This is what he was now. A monster. An assassin. He had no place in the world except as a killer, but he didn't want to be that, anymore. He couldn't let Hydra catch him. He'd die first.

He looked at the gun on the ground. There was one easy way out of this. One way to ensure Hydra never controlled him again. One way to make sure he'd never kill another innocent person.

He reached out, his hand still trembling, and picked up the gun. He studied the black metal. Took comfort in the weight of it in his hand. It had ended other lives. It could end his. This might be his only chance, while he still had something of himself left. Before Hydra found him and activated the soldier again.

He heard Steve's voice in his head. 'Then finish it…'

Steve had been willing to die to save others. Bucky knew there was a time when he had, too. The train. He had picked up that shield, the same one Steve had dropped on the helicarrier. A blast of electric energy sailed toward him. He raised the shield, protecting Steve.

Then he was outside, hanging above a dizzying drop, cold wind battering his face, stinging his eyes. Metal gave way. He was falling. Screaming. Steve's face was above him, calling his name.

Bucky gripped the gun tighter. He didn't want to die, but he couldn't live on the run, huddled in cold buildings, biding his time until Hydra found him and captured him again.

And made him kill again.

'…because I'm with you 'til the end of the line.'

The end of the line.

Was this the end of the line for him? It would be fast, efficient. Someone would find his body, and with the body, evidence that he was truly dead. Hydra would stop hunting him, and that meant no innocent people getting caught in the crossfire. Steve would find out…

Find out that he gave up. Put a bullet in his own head, like a coward, alone in a vacant building. Scared by a homeless old man.

He wasn't even really sure what Steve was to him besides a guy he knew. Someone he'd cared enough about to sacrifice his life for…once. So, he didn't know why it mattered to him what Steve thought or how he found out.

But it did.

Because James Barnes—he winced at that name, remembering a cackle of electricity and a string of numbers on a metal tag hanging around his neck—but that guy…James…somehow still mattered to the man who had dropped his shield and surrendered, willing to let Bucky pummel him to death rather than fight him.

He couldn't end it like this. Not yet. But if they got too close, or if they got him, he'd take the first chance he got, without hesitation. He wouldn't let them turn him into a killer again. He wouldn't let them send him after Steve, or another mother and child…or anyone else.

-0- -0- -0-

Steve, Wanda, Sam, and Natasha left the Quinjet in the middle of an icy field behind the tourist town. They hiked into town, their plan to scope out the area of the fight and question the locals. Natasha spoke the language and would be the main point of contact. If they ran into Hydra agents, they were prepared. Wanda was very green, and Steve almost left her back in New York, but she'd asked to come along, and if they found themselves battling Hydra agents and Bucky—since Steve had no idea what mental state Bucky was in right now—Wanda's talents could come in handy.

Natasha's phone dinged, and she withdrew it and glanced at the screen. Her face contorted. "Well, we're getting lucky, if you can call it that. This is the place. Shots fired two miles east."

"Let's go." Steve was dressed as Captain America, which earned him several looks as they took off in a run.

The action came to them. They took fire from the roof and ducked against the sides of buildings. Wanda made short work of the visible gunmen. Sam took to the air. Natasha and Steve ran the ground. Steve's shield took out another man on a corner rooftop.

There were a lot of Hydra agents in the area. That had to mean Bucky was close. The fact that they'd sent so many men told him that Hydra really wanted their Winter Soldier back. He was damned if he'd let them get their hands on him again.

Natasha tussled with two men a block away, and Steve was just about to assist when he saw the man they were all after round a corner. Bucky ran straight into Natasha and the two men; he took one of the Hydra agents out instantly. His eyes flickered quickly on Natasha, confusion on his features. Wanda ran up, her hands in the air, glowing energy erupting as she focused on the remaining Hydra agent. Her attention shifted instantly as another man appeared behind Bucky, raising his gun. She directed her energy toward the gunman, in Bucky's direction.

Before she could take out the Hydra agent, Bucky gave Wanda a hard look, a flicker of fear crossing his features, then he raised his gun and fired at her. It was a distraction shot, forcing her to adjust her attention, and he spun around, taking the gunman behind him by surprise and knocking him out with a quick swipe of his metal arm. Then he ran with all the force of a supersoldier.

Steve took off after him. "Bucky!" He rounded the corner hard, careening into the street and almost losing his balance, but Bucky was gone.

A chopper in the air told him that Hydra—or the police—had a bead on Bucky.

-0- -0- -0-

Bucky ran. He'd screwed up. Hydra had been on to his location, and this time, they'd simply waited until he emerged, keeping their distance, but covering all angles of the building. He'd stepped outside, his backpack on his shoulders. He wasn't stashing it that time. His plan was to leave the country. His eyes had scanned the area as he'd emerged, and seconds later, they were all over him. He wasn't sure how they'd found him. He was almost certain they hadn't followed him there. Perhaps the old man had raised a bit of a scene. Hydra would be looking for anything out of the ordinary in their search for him. A homeless old man scared out of his mind by a guy with a gun would qualify as out of the ordinary.

They'd brought in the twins to apprehend him. He knew about them. One was fast, and the other could mess with his head. He would not let anyone mess with his head again. She could activate the Winter Soldier or render him helpless until Hydra stuck him back in that chair and wiped his brain again.

He wasn't sure how the Black Widow factored into this. He'd thought she was on Steve's side, but he knew Black Widows were not to be trusted, often playing double agent. It was obvious now that she was with Hydra and Maximoff.

If they were bringing in the twins, his options were getting limited. The brother was much faster than any supersoldier. He could be anywhere. Bucky took the chase away from the population, into the terrain. It was snowy, icy, and rough. His legs propelled him up a cliff, over a downed tree and into the snow. His side ached. His muscles were weak with fatigue. His brain was foggy from lack of sleep and hypervigilance.

But he couldn't let them catch him. He still had his firearm. He'd use it one last time if had had to, and it was looking like he might have to.

The chopper was overhead. Bullets careened around him, and he zig zagged in an unpredictable fashion. He felt one slice across his right arm. Another bounced off his metal one.

He was coming up on a precipice. It was 40 feet wide. He could clear it. He pushed himself harder, faster, and prepared to leap. The chopper continued to fire, and before he could jump, the ground gave way beneath him. He was suddenly in free fall, tumbling against the side of the mountain. Snow and rock fell with him, and when he landed, he landed soft.

In snow. The ice caved in around him. More tumbled from overhead, burying him, blocking out the light.

Sudden panic seized him. It was dark. The snow was suffocating, pressing in. He didn't know which way was up or down. He pushed his legs outward, trying to jump, but there was no ground beneath him, only snow, and he simply dug himself in deeper. He clawed, desperate, but his efforts only caused him to sink lower, deeper, and the snow was in his nose, his mouth, his ears, his throat. He couldn't breathe.

This was it. This was the end of the line for him. Even as his lungs screamed and his body went numb, he took solace in knowing that, at least, he went down fighting and Hydra would never be able to make him kill anyone again.

-0- -0- -0-

Steve couldn't believe what he was watching. Bucky disappeared over the cliff. Sam followed the chopper, giving and receiving fire in the air. Steve kept up with Bucky, pulling out his shield and sending it careening upward. The shield hit the tail of the chopper a second before Bucky disappeared down the side of the mountain, sending it into a spin until it crashed 100 yards away.

Steve slid to his stomach at the edge. All he saw was white. Bucky was nowhere to be seen, nor were there any tracks. "Sam!" He yelled, hoping the Falcon had a better view.

"I saw it. He's buried under all that, Steve."

Steve got to his feet and flung himself over the side. Sam swooped down, caught him with a yell, brought him back up, and dropped him yards away from the cliff, landing a few feet away himself, breathing heavily.

"Are you crazy, Cap?" Sam said. "You're only gonna end up buried like him. There's nothing but snow down there. No telling how deep it is."

"He's gonna die." Steve gritted his teeth. This couldn't happen. Bucky was supposed to live. He was supposed to get his mind back and have a crappy apartment in Brooklyn and get to know Sam and his family in Louisiana. He wasn't supposed to die in an avalanche in Hungary.

"Hang on!" Sam said. "Don't do anything stupid. Give me a minute." Then he took off into the air. He came back several minutes later with Wanda, setting her down near Steve.

Wanda wasted no time. "Where is he?"

Steve moved carefully to the side and pointed down. "Under all that."

She raised her hands, and the crimson energy rose then flowed away from her, spiraling downward. It penetrated the snow, parting the ice, moving it, and then Bucky emerged, surrounded by a red glow. His limp body floated upward. His long hair was wet, in his face, and covered with ice. The backpack still hung over one shoulder. The other strap was busted.

Gunfire erupted. Steve reacted with the shield, spinning toward their attackers. Two men were coming from the direction of the downed chopper. He sent his shield slamming toward one. It hit the man square in the chest, taking him out instantly.

Sam dealt quickly with the other one, firing three shots. Two hit their mark.

The Quinjet appeared, setting down in the snow between Steve and the downed chopper. The rear ramp opened, and Natasha hurried out, her eyes immediately going to Wanda and then Bucky, who was surrounded by crimson energy and being maneuvered toward the craft.

"Hurry, Wanda." She set him down on the snow in front of the ramp. Natasha dropped to her knees next to him. Steve ran, then slid, falling next to Bucky. Sam landed a couple of feet away.

Natasha was feeling Bucky's neck for a pulse. His face was slack, ice crystals on his skin. His chest wasn't moving.

Natasha lifted his head, put her mouth to his and then immediately rocked back again. "His airway is blocked."

"He's been under for twelve minutes." Steve said, desperate. Bucky could survive that. Steve had survived 75 years, but Bucky wasn't frozen solid in suspension. Without the protection of a cryogenic freeze, his cells wouldn't be protected. His brain, even with the serum, still needed oxygen or the neurons would begin to die.

Natasha tilted Bucky's head back and stuck her fingers down his throat, trying to clear the airway, bringing up large chunks of brown-flecked ice—snow and dirt—packed tight. "He's so cold that it's not melting," she said. "Let's get him in the jet."

Steve reached down and yanked Bucky over his shoulders, running up the ramp and setting Bucky on the long bench against the wall. His friend's body was almost as cold as the ice outside.

Natasha set to work immediately, grabbing a case from the emergency supply cabinet and retrieving something from it that looked like a laryngoscope with a tube. She slid the tube into Bucky's throat. A suction sound rose, and she nodded with satisfaction, then discarded the tool and grabbed a pump mask. She placed the mask over his airway and manually squeezed it in a quick, steady rhythm. Steve breathed a sigh when he saw Buck's chest begin to rise and fall.

Steve felt along Buck's wrist. The pulse was still there, fast and thready, but present.

"Get him out of those clothes." Natasha instructed.

Steve nodded. Stupid. He should have been doing that already. He set to work quickly, tossing the backpack aside and stripping Bucky bare. Now was no time for modesty. The clothes were soaked, partly frozen, and they needed to get Bucky's body temperature up.

When he spotted the shoulder with the metal arm, he froze for a moment. His gaze drifted over the gruesome scar lines, the discolored edge where flesh met metal. It was painful to look at, seeing the sloppy job Hydra had done and how much flesh they'd carved into to meld machine to man.

He'd only seen the connecting shoulder piece of the future arm the other Bucky had—the vibranium one. The meeting of artificial to flesh had looked so much more elegant, though it had still been a surprise to see just how much of Bucky's chest and shoulder were missing. That attachment, however, was nothing like the butcher job he was seeing now.

"There's a warming blanket in the emergency supply cabinet," Natasha said.

Steve sprang to his feet, setting the bundle of clothes and weapons he'd taken off Bucky in a bin in the corner. He gave Wanda and Sam barely a glance. Both were standing near the ramp. Wanda had her gaze turned away from Bucky's nude form, but Sam was eyeing Bucky with concern.

"Can we do anything?" Sam asked.

Natasha shook her head, continuing to pump on the mask. "Two of us are enough. Thanks. Just keep an eye out for bad guys."

"That I can do." Sam said, leaping out of the ramp and into the sky above.

Steve emerged with the warming blanket, a clear silicon blanket with what looked like fiber cables running horizontally. He draped it over Bucky.

"How do I activate this?"

She pressed a small, clear panel on the top corner and the blanket began to glow. "It'll sense his body temperature and adjust automatically," she told him. She lifted the mask from Bucky, eyeing his chest, and breathed a sigh when his chest continued to rise and fall.

"Thank God." Steve whispered. That had been too close.

"Steve, we have company!"

Steve got to his feet. "We need to get in the air soon. Prepare to get us out of here the moment Sam and I get back."

Natasha nodded as Steve left the jet.

"I'll keep an eye on him." Wanda stepped forward near Bucky.

"He doesn't recognize you," Natasha said. "We aren't sure what mental state he'll be in when he wakes up. He fired at you back there, and even though he's unarmed now, he's still a potential danger."

Wanda raised her hands. "I can take care of myself."

Natasha nodded and headed to the cockpit.

-0- -0- -0-

"I'll keep an eye on him." The voice barely registered. The words were English.

His body ached. Numbness was giving way to tingling spikes of pain in his arms and legs. Something warm covered him. He was laying on a hard surface. As the numbness faded, pain rose. His side ached. His right bicep stung. His lungs burned. His throat hurt.

He opened his eyes and saw her. Maximoff. The sting of defeat twisted in his chest. She was one of the enhanced, along with her brother—both Hydra assets.

"He's awake," she said.

Bucky's pulse quickened. Hydra had him. He'd failed. He looked down. He was naked, covered by a glowing blanket. The gun was out of reach.

They'd outmaneuvered him. He should have taken himself out when he had the chance. Romanoff appeared. She stood next to Maximoff, and both sets of eyes studied him.

"Are you able to move?"

His eyes scanned her, took stock of her weapons, the gun at her hip.

"Vy ponimayete menya?" She asked. Russian. Do you understand me? "My otvezem tebya domoy. Ne volnuysya." We're taking you home. Don't worry.

Hydra wasn't his home. He wouldn't let them take him.

Romanoff's head tilted. "Yeah, he's awake." She was talking to someone. Reinforcements.

He eyed the gun at her hip. He'd have this one chance before they said the words or put him in restraints. He remembered a collar. A large cattle prod. They had developed so many amped up tools to control super soldiers. He'd never let them control him again. He had no choice. A second of pain was better than a lifetime as a slave, as a killing machine.

He lunged upward. The blanket hampered his movements only a moment, but his right hand grabbed the firearm at her side as his left sent her careening into Maximoff, taking them both out long enough for him to get the job done.

He flicked the safety off as he raised the gun to his head.

"NOOOO!" The scream was brutal, intense, and something that felt like a truck slammed into him. A powerful hand wrapped around his wrist as Bucky's finger squeezed the trigger.

The bullet grazed his skull and embedded into the bulkhead. The gunshot rang in his right ear.

He'd failed. He was too late. He was slammed down into the hard bench, a heavy mass on top of him, colors of blue and red above him. His arms were restrained. The hand around his right wrist squeezed hard.

"Let go of the gun, Bucky."

Bucky?

He blinked at the face above him. Everything was blurry. His head ached. He blinked again, several times, his chest heaving, his wrist aching.

The face above him took form. Blue eyes, an intense brow, blonde hair.

Steve?

He felt a surge of emotions that his brain hadn't been capable of in decades. They stung like daggers in his head, chest, and gut—like a limb, numb for too long, that suddenly had sensation restored. He wasn't sure he even could identify them. Grief. Despair. Anger. Fear. Joy. They were all just neurons, firing in his broken brain, trying to coalesce into something human. He remembered knowing them once, a lifetime ago.

The pressure on his wrist increased, then the hand lifted his and slammed it back hard into the metal. "Let go, Bucky, please, let it go."

Steve Rogers was on top him, holding him down, crushing his wrist. Bucky released the gun. Rogers released Bucky's wrist long enough to send the weapon crashing to the floor. From the periphery of his vision, Bucky saw Natasha grab it, one hand cradling her side.

Steve Rogers. Bucky blinked again. Steve Rogers was here. Looking at him. Seeing him for what he was. A monster. A killer. Broken.

He didn't understand what was happening. Why was Maximoff with Rogers, or…. Buck swallowed as the horrible thought crept into his brain.

Had Hydra gotten to Rogers, too?

Bucky's gaze shifted, searching. He saw the young Hydra agent crumpled near the ramp. She eyed him skeptically. He returned the gaze, hard. Searching.

Natasha stepped forward, slightly unsteady on her feet.

"You okay, Romanoff?" Rogers asked.

She nodded, her gaze never wavering from Bucky. "You recognize her?" Natasha asked him.

Bucky hesitated. He was trapped by Steve, helpless. He had no choices left but compliance. He nodded.

"She's not with Hydra, anymore."

Bucky wasn't sure what to believe. He was spent. Rogers was still on top of him, his hands on each arm, his legs straddling his abdomen, pressing against the still tender, healing wound. If Bucky had more in his fuel tank, he could probably get out of the hold. His metal arm was always more than up to the task.

But the flesh part of him had nothing left. He'd been ready to end it all, and he'd failed even at that. Whether Hydra, Shield, or some other entity, he was, once again someone's prisoner.

-0- -0- -0-

Bucky's head tilted toward the wall, and all the fight drained from his body. Steve's heart thudded in his chest, and it felt like it was about to leap into this throat. The moment he'd seen Bucky lift the gun toward his own head, the world went sideways, then everything fell away except for Bucky's face and the unforgiving metal in his right hand.

How had things gone so wrong so quickly? He had been a mere fraction of a second away from seeing his best friend blow his brains all over the inside of the Quinjet. He couldn't understand it at first—why Bucky would choose suicide when he was finally safe. Then Natasha's words brought it home.

He should have figured that out sooner, thought ahead. Bucky's head was full of Hydra's secrets. He'd been on the run when Maximoff joined the Avengers. He'd have no way of knowing she wasn't another Hydra agent sent to capture him.

Steve was no stranger to failure, but this one cut deep. His oversight had almost cost Bucky his life. He heard Sam drop onto the ramp. Bucky flinched with the sound of the thud.

Steve was completely out of his element. He hadn't thought much beyond getting Bucky safe. He knew that Bucky's mind had survived Hydra's abuse, so he figured if he just found Bucky and got him to safety, the rest would fall into place. He was foolish to think it would be easy.

This Bucky wasn't the same one he'd met from the future. He was on his own, still struggling to find himself and make sense of his memories. That recovery had been complicated by Hydra agents with knowledge of the future who kept hot on his heels.

Hydra had almost done the job, too. If Steve hadn't found him when he had….

He stared down at Bucky and realized he still had a strong grip on his friend's wrist. Bucky gave no sign of wanting to resist. He was subdued, limp, looking almost ashamed as he stared blankly at the wall.

Cautiously, Steve eased his grip on Bucky's flesh arm. "If I release you, are you going to put up a fight?"

A muscle in Bucky's jaw twitched. "No."

"No one here wants to hurt you. We're not Hydra. I'm your friend. Do you know me?"

"I saw you in the Smithsonian. You're Steve Rogers."

Steve released Bucky's arms. He wasn't sure if he was relieved or heartbroken that Bucky didn't move.

"You pulled me from the river. You know me. I know you do."

The fight suddenly returned to Bucky, and Steve found himself rocked sideways, toppling to the floor. Natasha instantly had a gun in her hand, and Wanda's hands were raised, sizzling with crimson energy as Steve rolled to his knees.

But Bucky didn't attack. He scrambled backward, falling off the bench and wedging himself into a dim corner against the back wall. He pulled his legs up, and Steve could see the tiny tremors in his friend's bare body. His gaze hovered over the crusted remnants of what looked like a bullet wound in his right side. Fresh blood dripped down Bucky's right arm from a slice near his shoulder.

Natasha moved behind Steve and handed him a folded, gray blanket. He took it from her with a grateful glance. The material felt thick, like a blend of cotton and wool.

Steve kept his movements slow as he shifted forward, unfolded the blanket, and gently draped it over Bucky's bent legs. Then, he moved back, giving his friend space.

"Nat, let's take off before we have anymore company," Steve said. He heard her move into the cockpit. "We're going to take you to the Avenger's complex in New York and get you the help you need. Do you understand?"

Bucky reached down and pulled the blanket up around his shoulders so that it covered his entire, curled body. His face was almost pressed into the wall, his eyes blank, but he nodded.

"Do you need anything?" Steve asked. "Food? Water? The bathroom?"

"No."

"Is your wrist okay?" Steve hoped he hadn't added another injury to the list of Bucky's ailments.

Bucky was enhanced by a similar serum, but Steve had felt the stress on tendon and muscle beneath his grip. He'd been so shocked by what had almost happened that he didn't realize just how hard he was holding onto Buck.

"It's fine," Bucky replied.

The ramp closed, and the engine of the Quinjet hummed. Steve felt the sudden shift as the craft rose into the air.

"If you're my friend," Bucky finally looked at Steve, "why are you taking me prisoner?"

Awww, Buck. Steve didn't like having to force this on his friend. He hadn't visualized it going down this way. He'd somehow thought Bucky would come willingly now that he'd been free of Hydra for several months. He had to have enough of his memories back to know who Steve was. He had to remember some of their friendship.

"You're not a prisoner, Buck. But, I left you once back on that train. I didn't know you survived. Do you really want me to let you go? Hydra's after you. They've got…inside information." He didn't think now was the time to try to explain time travel to his already confused friend. "They're tracking you, and sooner or later, they'll catch you. They'll make you hurt people. I know about the book, about the code words. We can get you the help you need to get the crap Hydra put into your head out once and for all. Don't you want that?"

Bucky held his gaze, and Steve saw uncertainty and even something that looked suspiciously like hope flicker across Bucky's face.

"You…" Bucky hesitated for a moment, his voice trembling. "You can do that?"

Steve almost sagged with relief. He wanted nothing more than to reach forward, grab Buck's shoulders, and tell him everything would be okay. He'd seen the future. He knew Bucky could break free and get his mind back.

He held back. He knew this Bucky was still freshly traumatized, confused, exhausted, and fragile.

"I know for a fact it can be done," Steve told him. "It won't be easy, but you have my word, if you trust us, we'll do everything in our power to get you there. No one will be able to control you again."

"They'll come for me."

"They'll come for you either way, and if they catch you, they'll make you kill again. Do you want that?"

"No." The reply was instant, pained.

Steve shifted his weight to sit on his butt in front of Bucky. "You're safest with us. Hydra can take you alone, but if they want to get to you now, they'll have to get through the Avengers. We can take them."

"It just takes one person who knows the words," Bucky said. "If they tell me to, I'll kill you." He shuddered and folded in on himself. "I'll kill anyone."

"It's not your fault. Nothing Hydra made you do was your fault."

"I know that." Bucky looked away again. "But I did it."

Steve recognized a glimmer of his friend in those tortured words. It broke his heart. Bucky was there, clawing his way through what Hydra had done to him. Steve could only imagine what fresh torture it was for Bucky to start remembering not only who he was but also the things he had done.

"That's all over now," Steve vowed, scooching a few inches closer to Bucky. "You're in the right place, with the right people. Everything you've been through over the past 70 years ends today. No more chair, memory wipes, no more being forced to kill. All you have to do, please, is let me help you."

Bucky's head hung low and his hair fell forward. He shivered beneath the blanket. "Steve…." he whispered.

There you are. It was the first time Bucky had called him by name—not as a reference, but actually called him Steve. The tone was there, just the same as it had been almost a century ago when he'd pulled him off that table in Azzano.

"Yeah." Steve slid forward, then shifted his weight so he was next to Bucky, not blocking him, just being there, beside him.

"Help me." It was both a concession and a plea.

Steve swayed sideways against his friend, relieved to hear those words, heartbroken to know the price with which they came. "Thank you."

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

My New Tumblr: dcangstfiction