Chapter 4: Luxuries

He couldn't remember the last time he felt like this. The computer lady FRIDAY had set the water to a temperature she suggested would be optimal. The pressure from the multiple shower heads was hard enough to matter, massaging muscles and ligaments that had been subjected to less-than-ideal conditions—firefights, combat, cold nights, hard surfaces, and an avalanche. The water came at him from three directions, and each shower head glowed with a soft, green light. Music played from overhead speakers, something soft and instrumental that he didn't recognize—a suggestion from FRIDAY.

Music. He could feel the gentle sounds in his muscles, his soul. He missed music. He'd heard variations of it only a handful of times in 70 years—instrumental, Russian, or German—but the last time he remembered hearing a song with lyrics in English had been in 1944.

He lost himself in the beauty of the sound for some time, until the song ended and another one began. He couldn't stay in the shower forever, though it was achingly tempting to try. What he felt, he couldn't name, but the sensation was familiar, like a ghost in his brain. It was a tingle that started in his chest and spread like a warm glow through the rest of his body.

He inspected the healing bullet wound in his side. The tissue was regenerating, and only a slightly raised red circle remained. It only hurt if he probed it too deeply.

There were bottles of shampoo and conditioner on a shelf set into the shower wall. He grabbed the shampoo bottle and squeezed a generous portion onto his palm. He took an experimental whiff of it, inhaling a floral, musky scent. Returning the bottle to the shelf, he rubbed the lather through his hair and felt along his scalp, his fingers probing the narrow strip along the upper back part of his skull where the bullet had grazed him.

He closed his eyes and tilted his head into the pounding spray, wishing he could scrub away that moment in the plane in Hungary. The memory brought him back to another time he'd raised a gun to his head…before Hydra had fully turned him into the Winter Soldier. He remembered the gun in his hand, the young woman strapped the chair. The sting of the amped up cattle prod they used—a size of a small baseball bat.

They commanded him to kill her. His refusal cost her dearly. He tried to put the gun they gave him to another use, but he failed at that, too. They'd predicted the attempt. He no doubt wasn't the first poor sap to try to that.

He pulled himself out of that dark memory and focused on the warm, hard spray against his face and the sensation of the water gliding down his back and chest. He tried to remember the last time he'd had a real shower. Being on the run for six months, he'd found himself in all variety of seedy hotels and slummy apartments.

The safehouses he'd hit had some luxuries, but he never stayed long enough to make use of them. They were strictly hit-and-runs, grabbing cash, ammo, and anything else useful. The few times he'd stayed overnight in one, he spent the night on alert, never able to relax enough to take a shower or make use of the bed.

This was the most luxurious shower he had ever been in—he was pretty sure, anyway. It was, in fact, the most luxurious prison he could imagine. He tried not to think too far into the future—about how long he'd be here or what would happen if they couldn't find a way to free him from the Hydra programming. He didn't know what kind of timetable they had planned, or what contingencies they'd put in place.

He couldn't do anything about that right now. The Hydra crap in his head made him dangerous.

'Howard.'

Her voice rang in his head. He squeezed his eyes harder, trying to block out the images. Remembering was rarely pleasant, but Howard had been someone he knew. Someone who knew him.

'Sergeant Barnes?' That plaintive inquiry, the confusion beneath the croaked voice. It almost brought him to his knees, and he reached out to place a steadying hand on the tile wall.

He didn't want to be that killer, anymore. His options were limited—trust Steve, live his life on the run, or end up back in Hydra's control.

Or die. That was an option, but one he'd tried and failed at more than once. Despite everything, he didn't want to die.

He'd forgotten what living was like, but he was getting a taste of it again, even if he wasn't free. He had something he hadn't felt in a very long time. Hope.

He finished showering, got out, and dried off, toweling through the dripping ends of his hair, then wrapping the towel around his neck.

He caught his reflection in the large mirror over the sink. His gaze went to the chrome arm and the red star. So many times over the past months, the arm and the star branded on it reminded him that the Russians claimed ownership over him. He wanted nothing more than to tear the arm from his body, but it would likely kill him to do so. Even if it didn't, he'd be no match for Hydra operatives without the arm. Even heavy and uncomfortable, it gave him an advantage…and it kept more than a few bullets from finding their marks.

He hated it more and more every day.

-0- -0- -0-

Steve sat on the end of the couch, listening to the spray from the shower. He'd brought an offering of food that he hoped would ease Bucky into a sense of home—a couple of large Italian subs that vaguely reminded Steve of a little mom and pop deli back in their day a few blocks from where Bucky's parents lived. The bag was on the kitchen island, and even the smell reminded him of home.

He had to give it to Tony. Everything in the studio was top notch. The couch was brown leather, soft beneath his touch. It had multiple buttons and even USB and standard power outlets on the side. Back in the 40s, he couldn't have imagined something like this.

He knew the room hadn't been constructed for Bucky. They'd encountered enough enhanced that a room like this had been in the design phase for a while. Tony simply speeded up the time frame, and since the entire Avenger's complex was in the process of getting fully furnished, the room had been a blank canvas.

Pepper had good taste, and she rarely spared any of Tony's expenses when it came to this kind of thing. Steve smiled at that thought. Tony hit the jackpot with Potts.

He waited for thirty minutes, and the shower was still going. He was beginning to get worried, but he told himself FRIDAY would alert them if there was a problem with Bucky. Five minutes later, the roar of the shower stopped.

Bucky emerged, damp and bare-chested, wearing the sweats Steve had given him earlier. A towel was draped around his neck. He stopped in the doorway when he spotted Steve, a flicker of confusion and uncertainty on his face. Then he lifted his chin slightly, obviously catching the scent, and his eyes went to the kitchen counter.

"I thought I'd check in to see how you like the apartment, and I brought food." Steve pushed to his feet and gave his friend a critical once over. The shallow wound on Bucky's right arm appeared mostly healed. The bullet wound in his side was visible just above the towel, but it, too, appeared almost completely mended.

"The couch is comfortable," Steve continued, hoping to make conversation. "I figure you're hungry. I brought a couple of heroes."

Bucky grabbed the towel around his neck and rubbed quickly at his hair as he moved to the kitchen. He opened the bag and reached in, pulling out one of the paper-wrapped long subs.

"It smells…good." Bucky said, studying it for a moment, his eyes distant.

Steve moved up to the refrigerator, grabbed a couple of beers, then slid into one of the bar stools at the island. He twisted off the bottle caps and set one of the beers in front of Bucky, then grabbed the remaining sub from the bag, unwrapped it, and set it on the counter.

He almost opened his mouth to reminisce about the old Paddleworth's deli they used to favor whenever they had a few extra bucks, but he remembered Dr. Cho's recommendation about letting Bucky remember at his own pace. It was more difficult than he thought it would be having Bucky so close without being able to really talk to him in the way he so desperately wanted. So, instead, he took a big bite out his sandwich and a swig of the beer.

Bucky eyed Steve and the sandwich as if they were alien artifacts. Steve did his best to maintain an air of casualness, the way he always was with Bucky. After a moment, he observed the subtle shift in Bucky's expression—a hint of something almost playful behind those blue eyes. It was painfully familiar, and Steve wasn't entirely sure that flicker wasn't just his wishful imagination.

Almost tentatively, Bucky slid into the bar stool at the other end of the counter and took a sip of beer. His face scrunched a bit. "Not what I was expecting."

Steve raised his eyebrows, holding back the comment on the tip of his tongue. 'You used to like beer.' But, then again, if Bucky hadn't had it in 70 years, maybe it would just take a bit of getting used to again.

"What have you been living off of these past months?" Steve asked.

Bucky took another sip of the beer, glancing up at the ceiling as if deciding whether he liked it or not. He shrugged. "Whatever I could find, whatever was fast and didn't require that I linger too long. Burgers. Farmer's Markets. Leftovers from tables." He gave a tiny smile. "I did try ice cream shortly after…" he swallowed suddenly and something like regret flickered over his face as he stared at Steve uncertainly.

"After when?" Steve encouraged.

His held Steve's gaze, searching, apprehensive. "The helicarriers."

Oh. Steve took a breath and another slow sip of his beer as he imagined what that time had been like for Bucky. He realized Bucky was studying him, gauging his reaction.

He set the beer down and swiveled to face Bucky. "You pulled me from the river."

Bucky's gaze finally slid away. "Yeah."

"You keep saving my life."

Bucky looked surprised by the comment. "I shot you three times."

"That wasn't you."

A muscle in Bucky's jaw clenched. He studied the label on his beer. "It was."

The soft tremble in those two words felt like a fist around Steve's heart. "Not James Barnes. Hydra had control of your mind."

Bucky winced and bit his lower lip hard. "I know." Then something gut-wrenchingly sad clouded his eyes. "Still do."

"No. You're here. That proves they don't."

Bucky looked up at him. "All anyone needs to say are a few words."

"You're in the safest place you can be. We've got good people here to help get that Hydra crap out of your head."

"You really think that's possible?"

"I know it is. Trust me, Bucky."

"I do." He gave the tiniest hint of a smile. "I'm pretty sure I always have."

And look where it got you, Steve thought, but tried not to let the sudden guilt he felt show on his face.

He jerked his chin toward the sandwich. "I know you have to be hungry."

Bucky's eyebrows flashed upward. "Starving."

He unwrapped his sandwich, grabbed one of the cut halves, and took a large bite. A few globs of mayo and mustard dripped on the wrapping paper, and a tomato slid out. A dripple of mayo and oil ran down his chin.

Bucky set the sandwich back down as he chewed. A delighted expression graced his face. He rifled through the bag for napkins, then wiped at the mess on his chin and hands.

Steve chuckled.

Bucky took a swig of his beer. "How are you managing to eat that and not get it all over?"

"Practice." Steve grinned. "What do you think about it?"

"It's good." He seemed to study the sandwich for a moment, his fingers playing with the edge of the bread. "It's familiar, I think. Did I like these?"

Steve wasn't sure how he should answer given Dr. Cho's advice, but if Bucky was asking, he decided to follow that lead. "Yeah. We used to scrap together a few extra bucks once in a while and hit our favorite deli in Brooklyn."

"Paddleworth's." The name flew from Bucky's lips, and the shocked expression on his face told Steve Bucky had just remembered it.

"Yeah."

"We used to split one with a couple of Coca-Colas. You couldn't finish a whole one on your own, but you could sure pile down the hot dogs." Bucky smiled, a hint of mirth in his eyes.

It was the most beautiful sight Steve had seen in a long time.

"Theirs was better than this, I think," Bucky added, "but this one sure hits the spot. Thank you."

"Yeah. It's in the bread," Steve agreed, "and you're welcome."

Bucky got to his feet and retrieved the journal from the top of the refrigerator. He brought it with him to the counter, scribbled something, then slid back on his stool.

Steve wondered what was in Bucky's journals. Natasha had told him she'd spotted two in Bucky's pack when she'd searched it. She'd leafed through them quickly but hadn't read much. What she did see told her that Bucky was writing down things about himself and his past—memories, rough sketches, bits learned from outside sources.

"My parents were alive, weren't they, when Hydra captured me?" Bucky asked.

Steve took a breath. "Yeah."

"What were they like? I remember my mother's face. I have an image of a man, I think he's my father. Brown hair, light brown eyes, thick eyebrows."

"Yes, George. Your mother's name was Winnifred. Your mother was kind, opinionated, and she loved to bake. She shared recipes with everyone, my mom included. Your Dad was a bit gruff, but he had a big heart. He would often joke, but you couldn't always tell, especially if you didn't know him. He used to play practical jokes on your mom all the time."

"I was close to them?"

"Very," Steve answered.

Bucky's eyes shimmered suddenly with the threat of tears. "They thought I died in 1944?"

Steve nodded.

"I'm glad." Bucky muttered, then took a quick swallow of his beer.

Steve wished he could go back in time to pummel Zola and every other Hydra asshole that stole Bucky's life. "I'm sorry, Buck. You deserved a happy life. I hope you can still get one."

Bucky gave a ghost of a grateful smile, then turned his attention back to his sandwich. They finished their sandwiches in silence. Steve grabbed two more beers and pointed to the bag. "There's dessert. The deli makes a really good chocolate cream cheese concoction. Given the circumstances, I thought some indulgence was in order."

Steve reached in and pulled out two shrink-wrapped brown lumps lightly dusted with powdered sugar and set one in front of Bucky. "I think you'll like it, if your taste buds haven't changed too drastically."

Bucky unwrapped the sugar-laden offering. "I haven't had anything like this in…a while."

He pulled off a piece of the fluffy, gooey chocolate thing and put it almost hesitantly in his mouth. His eyes widened, and his lips twitched upward. He gave an approving nod.

They both finished their desserts. Steve then cleaned up, grabbed the beers, and headed to the couch.

"If it's okay with you," Steve said, sinking into the far end of the couch, "I thought we could watch a movie, or something." He pointed to the dresser. "There are a few new clothes in there that should fit you."

Buck nodded and headed to the dresser. "Thanks."

He rifled through the drawers and pulled out a long-sleeved, navy-blue T-shirt, then slipped it over his head. It hung just below the waistband of his sweats, slightly loose in the shoulders.

He dropped onto the other end of the couch and flashed a hollow smile at Steve. "I haven't seen a movie since 1942. I think it was something to do with cats?"

Steve thought back. "Cat People. We saw it around Christmas." He handed Bucky's untouched bottle of beer to him.

A genuine smile graced Bucky's mouth. "Yeah, I remember it. There was a woman who turns into a black cat?"

"Yes." Steve grinned, grateful for every piece of Bucky he got back. "You'll be surprised at how far movies have come since the 40s."

Bucky shifted on the couch, pulling his legs up and resting his metal limb on the armrest. Steve reached along his side of the couch and pushed a button, lifting the leg recliner and tilting himself back.

"It moves?" Bucky looked over the side and apparently found the button, because his seat shifted backward, the leg rest coming up. He grinned and looked over at Steve. "This is nice."

Bucky tilted his seat all the way back until he was virtually laying down, looking at the ceiling. Then he brought it up again. He played with the various options, headrest up, back, legs up, down, full recline, half recline. The motor hummed and hawed with each maneuver.

Steve stared in amazement that the recliner seemed new to Bucky, but as he thought about it, it made sense. There were no motorized recliners in the 40s, and Bucky probably never saw one during the times he unfrozen for Hydra missions. How many other simple things of modern life had passed him by. Where had he been over the past several months, and how much had he learned about the world during that time?

"Do you know about cell phones?" Steve asked.

Bucky threw him an incredulous look. "Yes, of course. The basics, anyway."

Steve shrugged and raised his hands apologetically. "Okay, just checking." He smiled. "I mean, a lot's happened since the 40s. I'm not sure how much you're caught up on."

"Pretty much anything with a tactical use," Bucky explained. "Weapons, explosives, most communication and transportation machines."

Steve thought a bit more about things of the modern era that impressed him. "What about streaming services?"

"What's streaming?"

"Cloud-based services, you know for movies and TV."

Bucky's eyes narrowed skeptically. "Movies in the sky?"

Steve laughed from his gut. "I had a similar visual the first time I heard that term. No, it's Internet based."

"Well, I know what the Internet is, obviously…Sort of."

"We're going to watch a movie now, from the Internet. This is called streaming. You stream a movie from the Internet."

"Whatever you say, Pal."

Steve grinned and turned his head away when he felt a touch of warmth sting his eyes. It was these little things—expressions and phrases—that told him Bucky was there, climbing his way out of the dark hole in which Hydra had tried to bury him.

If Bucky noticed, he didn't give anything away. "So, what are we watching?"

"Well, you read the Hobbit, right?" Crap! Steve suddenly realized he might have let something slip that Bucky hadn't asked about or remembered.

"I did?"

Steve mentally kicked himself, but figured The Hobbit was harmless enough. "Yeah, you did. Well, wait 'til you see the first Lord of the Rings movie."

-0- -0- -0-

Three hours later, Bucky's mind was blown.

As the credits rolled, he looked over at Steve and said, "I think that might have been the most amazing thing I've ever seen." Steve had said this was only the first movie. "How many more are there?"

Steve grinned over at him. "Two, I think. I've only ever seen this first one."

The cave Troll, Gollum…He'd never seen a movie like it. "How did they do all that?"

"I have no idea. Wait 'til you see special effects today those. These are over 10 years old."

"These are from books Tolkein wrote after the Hobbit?" Bucky asked.

He was remembering bits and pieces from the Hobbit, the memories rattled loose by the movie. An image sprung into his head—he was sitting on the steps of the apartment, sprawled against the railing. It was morning. Mild weather. Must have been late spring or summer, he thought. The book was in his lap.

"Yeah, they were released in the 50s," Steve told him.

"I'd like to read them."

Steve grinned. "All you have to do is ask. FRIDAY, order a complete set of Lord of the Rings books to be delivered here."

"Would you like to include related works?" FRIDAY inquired.

"Sure." Steve stretched in the recliner. "Bucky, if you ever need anything, all you have to do is ask."

Bucky wasn't sure he'd get used to that, and he also didn't know exactly how far that went. "Anything I want, I just have to ask FRIDAY?"

"Yep."

He squinted skeptically. "I can order anything?"

"Well, within reason."

"What would happen if I asked FRIDAY for, say, an M203PI grenade launcher?"

Steve's face flickered uncertainly.

"I would not comply," FRIDAY responded. "Also, order requests over $200 require authorization."

"So I could order a lot of stuff under $200 consecutively?" Bucky asked, enjoying testing the system to see how smart the computer lady was. "No authorization required?"

There was a brief pause. "Technically, yes," FRIDAY responded.

"Why would you want a rocket launcher?" Steve asked.

The serious tone in Steve's voice was familiar. Bucky had a sense that he used to enjoy niggling Steve's staidness until Steve realized he was joking and gave in with an exasperated, amused sigh. "Who wouldn't want a grenade launcher? You'd be surprised how often they come in handy. One saved your life, as I recall, thanks to Romanoff."

Bucky wasn't sure what the expression on Steve's face was, but it was far from amusement.

He sighed. He had a ways to go to figure out how to relate to people again. "Don't blow your wig, I'm only messing around. I guess I'm not very good at it, anymore."

That comment provoked a change in Steve's expression—surprise, then a smile. Bucky thought it looked genuine, and he relaxed again.

"Honestly, Buck, you were always much better at it than I was. Where'd you learn that phrase, by the way?"

"What phrase?"

"Blow your wig?"

Bucky thought about it. "I don't know. Isn't it just a thing people say?"

Steve chuckled. "Yeah, in the 30s and 40s."

"Oh." He wondered how he could know those kind of things—objects, words, phrases, but not the details of his life growing up.

"You used to needle me into doing things," Steve said, almost a whisper, as though he, too, were lost in a memory.

An image popped into Bucky's head. Standing over a large, snowy precipice with Steve and a group of other guys he often saw in his dreams.

'Remember when I made you ride the Cyclone at Coney Island?'

'Yeah, and I threw up?'

'This isn't payback, is it?'

'Now why would I do that?'

"I made you ride something called the Cyclone?" Bucky asked.

Steve grimaced. "Yeah, and I threw up."

"I remember us talking about it on a mission, but I don't remember the Cyclone. What was it like?"

"A mission, yeah." Steve looked suddenly uncomfortable, his gaze dark and distant. Then, he shook his head. "It was large, made of wood, and the track was high on one side, with 12 drops—nothing like some of the rollercoasters today, though."

Bucky tried to visualize it. He knew the memory had to be in his head, somewhere…he hoped. He hoped he'd eventually get back all his memories. He knew he had a whole life before Hydra, but he was only getting bits and pieces back. It was maddening to get glimpses but not the whole story. He had a family he only barely remembered—he knew he had a sister. He remembered that, but he had no idea if he'd had other siblings. Cousins? A wife? Steve had told him they'd known one another their entire lives. Bucky had no idea when they'd even met.

"Can you tell me about my life?" Bucky asked softly. There was a vulnerability in that question, and something inside him revolted at the feeling, but he wanted to know. He needed to know.

"Dr. Cho said…"

"I don't care what someone in a lab coat says. They've done me no good. I want to know. Was I a good guy?"

Steve tilted his head. "The best. You still are."

Bucky wasn't sure about that. He wasn't sure how much of the person he used to be survived Hydra. "Was I married? Did I have brothers and sisters? Did I have a job before the army? What did I want to do with my life? You're the only person on this planet who knows."

Steve hesitated, seemingly weighing the options. Bucky wanted to grab his shoulders and shake him. The man had all the answers. How could he let some crumb in a coat call the shots?

"Okay, how about a compromise? I'll tell you the basic facts, but Dr. Cho says we shouldn't influence your memories with details. You need to remember them on your own."

"Fine." It was a start.

"You had three sisters. You never married—you never got the chance. You dated a lot, but only had one serious girlfriend. You were into art and boxing. You read a lot."

"Art and boxing?" What an odd combination, Bucky thought. He tried to access a memory of him boxing—maybe inside a rink, in a gym—but there was nothing, just his imagination of what it might have been like.

"Yeah, you and I both liked to draw. It was one of the few things we had in common. Otherwise, we were kind of opposite on a lot of things. You made me do things I otherwise wouldn't have, and I got you in trouble in ways you probably never would have on your own."

Bucky somehow found that comforting. "Sounds fun."

Steve's smile looked genuine. "I didn't realize it at the time, but those were some of the best days of my life, even without the serum."

"You were sick a lot." He remembered that suddenly—sitting at Steve's bedside, bringing him soup, reading a book out loud.

"Yeah."

"Your mom was a nurse. She had to work. Sometimes, I'd hang out with you, bring you soup, read to you."

Steve's smile broadened. "Yes. Honestly, Buck, if it hadn't been for you, I might not have survived long enough to get the serum. You were always looking out for me. You saved my skin from bullies a few times, and you saw me through a bad bout of bronchitis once."

He remembered, and the realization brought a swell of warmth in his chest. He was in a small room. Steve was lying in bed, propped on pillows, coughing. Bucky rose from a chair nearby and retrieved cushions from the couch to prop Steve up higher. He looked so small that Bucky wasn't sure what timeframe it was—how old were they? Young teenagers, maybe?

"Neither of us got any sleep," Bucky said. "You were miserable." He remembered Steve toppling out of bed, wheezing, unable to get air into his lungs.

"Yeah, asthma and bronchitis don't mix. You saved my life that time. You were the one that scrounged up the money and helped my mom get me the nebulizer. You had to operate it by hand. You literally kept me alive with your bare hands. So, yeah, Buck, you were a really good guy, and I know you might not believe it right now, but that guy is still there. I see him in your eyes, in the tone of your voice, in the phrases you use."

Bucky felt his emotions slipping. His eyes stung. He looked away. "I hope so."

Steve was silent for a few moments. Bucky wondered what he was thinking. He glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was a little after 8 p.m. He wondered when Steve would be heading back to wherever he lived.

"Are you hungry again?" Steve asked. "We can order some pizza."

So, he wasn't planning on leaving anytime soon. "Are you planning to crash here?"

Steve looked cautiously at him. "I thought maybe I'd stay here tonight, put the cushions on the floor. I'll shine your shoes, or maybe take out the trash."

That was a reference Bucky got. One of the first memories that had slammed back into him at the helicarrier. He wasn't sure what had stopped his fist, even before Steve looked up at him with one eye and told him to finish it, that he would be with Bucky 'til the end of the line, something had caused him to hesitate.

He'd meant to deal a killing blow, but his fist stopped in the air. He'd come so close. A few seconds difference, and neither of them would be here.

He couldn't breathe. It was suddenly all so overwhelming.

"Bucky, are you okay?" Steve's brow was making that hard line across his face.

Bucky felt off kilter, shaky. His control threatened to slip. Control was all he had left, and he didn't have much of that. He couldn't control what Hydra did to him, or the Winter Soldier bomb in his head, or even what would happen to him from this point forward.

Whatever control he had, he couldn't lose.

Rogers was looking at him, an expression like worry on his face.

"I'm fine," he said.

"Is it okay with you if I stay here tonight?"

A choice again. "Yes."

-0- -0- -0-

Steve tried not to look like he was looking at Bucky as they sat on the couch, the open box of pizza on the coffee table in front of them. It was a few minutes to 10, and they'd devoured an x-large pizza and a double helping of breadsticks between them.

Bucky was different again—distant, stoic. Steve felt he'd screwed up by bringing up the past—especially that line Bucky had given him so long ago. Dr. Cho had been right. He needed to take it slower. But it was so hard to say no to Bucky's request about information, especially knowing everything he'd been through and how little choice he'd had about anything that happened to him over the past 70-plus years.

Bucky asked for almost nothing, had barely managed to ask for help. How the hell could Steve say no to such a simple request, especially since, as Bucky pointed out, Steve was the only person who could help him that way.

Studying Bucky out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the tension in the shoulders, the stiffness of the back. Bucky was sitting straight, only the footrest tilted out to lift his legs off the ground. His eyes were on the television. They were saving the second movie in the trilogy for tomorrow.

Now, Bucky was watching one of the items from Steve's list—an I Love Lucy episode. It was safe, funny, and nothing truly serious happened. It wasn't that far off from their time, either.

Bucky got off the couch, whether because he noticed Steve's scrutiny or for some other reason, Steve couldn't tell, but he grabbed the empty pizza box and beer bottles from the table and carried them to the kitchen.

"How does the trash situation work here?" Bucky asked.

"There are compost, recycling and refuse containers in the cabinet to the right of the sink," FRIDAY answered. "They empty automatically when full. This room is almost completely self-sufficient."

Bucky eyed the ceiling uncertainly. "Thanks."

"You ready to turn in?" Steve turned off the television and got off the couch.

"Sure," Bucky said, but Steve wasn't sure if Bucky was actually tired or just going along with the suggestion.

Steve also wasn't certain if Bucky wanted him around, but he wanted to stay close. He didn't think Bucky would try anything again. The situation back at the airplane was unique. Bucky knew Steve wasn't Hydra. He seemed to realize this was his best option for help.

But Steve wanted to stay close nevertheless, just to hear his friend breathing and be there in case Bucky's demons got the better of him during the night.

They dressed down to their boxers and turned off the lights. Bucky opted to sleep on top of the covers on the bed. Steve took the recliner. The leather was hot next to his skin, so he put his T-shirt back on and reclined to a comfortable position. Sleep didn't come easily.

His mind refused to shut down, insisting on reviewing the whirlwind of events over the past couple of days. From the bed, the only sound was Bucky's steady breathing. He wondered what Bucky had been doing the past six months—on the run from Hydra agents who knew his moves before he did, barely catching his breath, surviving on whatever he could find while trying to stay under the radar—alone, no backup, no support, and no documents needed for legitimate travel. It was a miracle he'd gotten as far as he had.

The only thing he had in his favor was his training—that was a grim thought—and Hydra's chaos in the wake of Natasha's release of secrets to the Internet. In the wake of that chaos, Hydra was disorganized, regrouping and no doubt working on ways to restore their lost assets.

The Winter Soldier was one of their greatest assets. Steve knew they would go to extreme measures to get him back. He'd be damned if he let them. Not this time.

-0- -0- -0-

As sleep claimed Bucky, so did one of his many nightmares. He was hanging naked in a small, dark room. Thick metal cuffs held his hands above him, shackled to a chain attached to the ceiling. His ribs and back ached from the last beating.

His feet could touch the mesh floor, but spikes had been driven up beneath the mesh. A collar was around his neck. It brought electricity if he got out of line. A monotone voice speaking Russian words blared from speakers, so loud the speakers crackled with distortion.

He understood only a few words. 'Hail Hydra. Obedience brings peace.'

He held himself up with his arms, until his flesh one could take no more. The metal one supported his entire weight, and his left shoulder and back screamed with the strain. He hung there for an eternity, until the sound was like a jackhammer in his skull, and he could no longer feel his body.

The muscles attached to the metal arm succumbed. Spikes drove into his feet, bringing fresh agony. He pulled his knees up, hanging taught from his arms. His head hung forward, strings of oily hair in his face. The room reeked of his own urine and feces.

More hours passed. He couldn't feel his legs. They went limp, and the bottom flesh of his feet impaled onto the spikes. He grunted from the jolt of pain. The collar beeped, followed by electricity that scorched his neck and set fire to his head and chest. He couldn't catch enough breath to scream. The sound from the monotone Russian words grew louder until he could feel them in his bones.

A brutal blast of water assaulted him briefly. The electricity of the collar died, and the spikes retracted. Hands unshackled his wrists. He crashed to the metal mesh floor.

The clang of metal told him they'd closed the cell door. His body was a mass of fatigue and pain. The Russian voice continued its unrelenting chant.

-0- -0- -0-

Steve hadn't realized he'd fallen asleep when something woke him. He opened his eyes to darkness, but his sight adjusted quickly. Dim objects took shape. The room was quiet, except for breathing.

Fast, heavy breathing.

He rolled off the recliner, pushing to his feet. His gaze went to the bed. Even in the dark room, he could make out the crumpled covers and the pillow on the floor, but there was no sign of Bucky. He scanned the room and spotted a shadowy figure wedged between the dresser and the wall, legs bent, head on his knees, with his right hand wrapped around the back of his neck.

Bucky was silent except for the quick, panicked breaths that filled the room.

Steve didn't want to startle Bucky, so he moved to the wall several feet away and slid down to sit on the floor. He only knew Bucky tracked his movements because of the subtle hitch in his breathing. Steve let the silence linger for several minutes.

Finally, Bucky's breathing steadied, and he raised his head. "Where am I?"

Steve's stomach sank. He wasn't sure if Bucky was just disoriented by a nightmare or flashback and the new surroundings, of if he'd lost some of the ground he'd gained in getting his memories back.

"You're in the Avenger's complex in New York." Steve shifted. "This is a safe place."

"Steve?" It was a shaky exhale.

Steve found himself releasing a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "Yeah, Bucky."

"Sorry if I woke you."

"Don't be. Are you okay?"

"Yes." Bucky uncurled and got to his feet. "It's okay. You don't need to babysit me." He walked to the bathroom and disappeared inside the dark room.

Steve heard the faucet run for a minute, then shut off.

When Bucky re-emerged, he went silently to the bed and laid flatly on his back, staring at the ceiling.

"Bucky, do you want to talk about it?" Steve waited for an answer, but when none was forthcoming, he sighed and returned to the recliner. "Okay. Get some sleep, if you can." Then, he closed his eyes and tried to take his own advice.

-0- -0- -0-

The next time Steve woke up, he looked at the clock and realized it was getting close to dawn. With no windows, the only passage of time was from the lighting FRIDAY supplied. He looked over to the bed and once again found it empty, but he spotted Bucky immediately on the floor at the end of the bed. He was on his side, his back to the bed, with a pillow under his head and the sheet over him. The comforter was in a pile at his feet.

Bucky's eyes opened abruptly, as if he sensed being watched, and looked at Steve, then got to his feet and tossed the pile of bedding on the mattress.

"Good morning." Steve lowered the recliner and got to his feet. "Did you manage some sleep?"

"Enough." Bucky scrubbed his right hand through his hair.

"What do you feel like for breakfast?"

"Whatever's fine."

Steve suppressed a sigh. Whatever headway he'd made with Bucky last night seemed to be gone. In many ways, they had to get to know each another all over again, which felt so strange since they'd known one another their entire lives.

Steve cooked up eggs and bacon with a side of toast, and they ate at the kitchen counter again. The apartment didn't have a dining table yet, but one was on its way. The studio was small but quite comfortable. He hoped it felt like a safe space to Bucky.

They ate in relative silence. Steve left to shower and change clothes. He wanted to beat the doctors back to the room since this would be Bucky's first meeting with them.