I do not own anything. The backstory for Bucky in this fanfiction is to the best of my knowledge fictional and should not be considered actual Marvel facts.

I slip the phone out of the hidden inner pocket of my jeans. My worn fingers trace its smooth surface. My mind works over the possibilities, the conversations I will never have, the faces I might never see again. I flip the phone open. The small screen illuminates one name. Steve Rogers.

I glance back into the bedroom. Daisy's small form is shivering under the many blankets I piled on top of her. Since I fell off that train, my whole life has been about destroying things, hurting people, killing them. I don't know how to fix things, how to help people. Steve was always so good at helping people, at knowing what they needed. Maybe it was because he knew what it was like to be on the bottom.

I look back down at the phone. I'd spent a lot of time just staring at the screen since I moved into this apartment. It would be so easy to push the button, but something stopped me everytime. I don't know how to help Daisy, but Steve could. I decide to let it be.

The house is quiet. It always is. It's a really small place set about two miles from the quiet town of Byvale. There is the occasional adventurous car that will speed down the dirt road, but usually it is peaceful.

I stand frozen in the living room. The breeze tickles the trees outside the window to my left. The clock on the wall in the kitchen ticks and tocks. Everything is quiet except for the tick and tock of the clock and the creak of the window , and someone off in the distance.

"Bucky!" a merry female voice. "The pie is just out of the oven."

I look up. There is nothing but grass, roads, and the dust that is accumulating on the shelf.

"Bucky, before Steve comes over you should really clean your room," the voice teases me. I open my mouth but someone else speaks, and I recognize the voice. Its mine.

"Sure Mom, I spent all night getting it ready."

"I did," I whisper, the memory coming back to me. "I spent all night getting it ready."

The bed had been left unmade and wood shavings littered the floor. The day before had been my birthday, I'd been twelve. My father had given me a pocket knife. I remember how smooth it was in my hands, how sharp it was as it sliced the skin on my finger. I'd found a stick and stayed up all night carving it into a whistle. I was going to give it to Steve, and then I was going to make one for myself so we could call out to each other. I knew he would like that.

I blink, my house had been wood. The floor had been waxed every Saturday, and the door was sturdy. There had been a bookshelf in the back office room, and there was always bread rising on the counter. It was an apartment, two stories up, and Steve used to come over all the time. We'd sleep on the floor in the living room and eat popcorn and throw pillows at each other and laugh into the night.

My memory gurgled, the face was blurry in my mind. Light brown hair half up half down, blue eyes, and rosy lips. She smiled at me from far away.

"This is my son," she said, so proud of the boy in front of me. "Meet Steve."

Cold began to seep into my body I could hear Pierce's voice in the back of my head,

"Wipe him again."

I'd fought and screamed but eventually I'd stopped because no one could save me.

My surroundings come back into focus. Every muscle tense, every sense dialed to ten. I can hear the insect buzzing just outside the window, the shallow breathing from Daisy's sleeping form. I can feel the humidity in the air, smell the lingering scent of food from the kitchen.

Goosebumps rise on my skin. My eyes zero in on a scratch on the shelf across from me. The humid air begins to choke me and I leave the house. I run down the road away from the town, my mind a mess of thoughts, memories struggling to break the surface. I run and run, sweat pouring down my face, my feet pounding against the dirt road. I begin the reformation that I'd started in a Hydra cell.

My name is James Buchanan Barnes.

My friends call me Bucky. The words I haven't found for months, haven't spoken for years. They come now. I say them again and again.

I live in Brooklyn.

I have a sister and a mother and a father.

I have a best friend named Steve.

I believe in the best of people, and no matter what happens I am loyal to my country and to my family.

Nothing can change that.

I love plums, pie, and steak.

My favorite part of school is recess.

I'm the class clown.

I love jokes and pranks.

I love when people laugh.

And I love Rebecca's cookies, and that red coat she would wear to church, and when her hair was in two braids instead of one.

I love Steve, he's like my brother and I would do anything for him, anything so he could be happy.

And I-

I stop running. Tears have found their way down my face. I look up at the sky.

"And I miss it," the words fall out of my mouth. Angry words, because someone stole my life from me. "I miss Brooklyn, and my mom and dad, and Rebecca, and Steve. I miss plums and cookies and practical jokes. I miss, I miss-"

I pant, "I miss laughing, so much." I put my hands on my head and sink to my knees in the road. "I miss everything, and I hate not knowing everything."

I force myself to breathe. To try to unmuddle my mind. I could feel just below the surface emotion. I remember being happy and that makes me angry. So angry that Hydra had taken everything away from me.

I stand up and begin the walk home. Other memories push against the surface. Pieces of my puzzle trying to connect the empty parts in my mind. But for the first time I feel like I'm getting better. I am going to be okay. As I walk down the road another piece comes back to me. I can see Rebecca's smile.