James Buchanan Barnes. That was who he was supposedly, though he had nothing to go on other than what he had seen recently. Everything he was remembering were rough and hazy, coming and going at what seemed to be random intervals.
Captain America. He remembered his mission, his face, but beyond that he wasn't sure. There was something, a strange twinge that spread in his chest when he tried to remember him. He had called him by name with such certainty, and let him almost kill him. No one had gave themselves away, and no one had ever said to know him. He had known him, and he wanted to find out more.
The rain pounded down matting his hair that stuck out of his baseball cap. It clung to his face and neck, providing slight discomfort, though he felt more exposed than anything. Walking by the side of a road he didn't know, with trees expanding sparsely around it didn't provide any decent cover. He knew no one was around, a few cars here and there, yet he still had a feeling people were searching, that hydra would find him. He kept his head down, watching the water slide in ethereal silvers down the top part of the cap. He knew that he would be looking too.
Bucky. That was what he had called him. That was his name. Their last fight on the crashing aircraft, he had experienced another memory. That man's face was bruised and bloody as he fell into the water, and his mission would have been finally over. But somehow, something made him go back, to pull him from the waters and save his life. He had loved him, he wasn't sure when or why or how, but Bucky knew that he had loved him. That feeling, he wasn't sure was capable in his heart any longer, but in another time, in another life it seemed, he had told that American hero that he loved him, and that he had said it back.
A black chevy pickup zoomed by, grazing a sheet of muddy water over him. The damp clammy spray, felt old, a field of nostalgia he couldn't place. All he had for last few decades was cold, from cryogenics to snow to darkness. But this wasn't it.
Up ahead, there was a gas station adjacent to a ratty motel, with only 'mot' actually lit with red letters. Past that, Bucky saw light s sparked around a city, somewhere big and important he supposed. He might've killed a person from a city like that, he thought with a grimace. Those days were behind him, even if he didn't know what that left. He had been a weapon, and what was a weapon without a wielder? Funny, he had finally had his mind to himself but only in pieces, an internal puzzle. Rather than question the nature of his existence more, he shuffled through his pockets, wondering what was kept in the jeans he found in a large metal bin labeled 'good will'. A few dollars and plenty of lint appeared, along with a stick of bubble gum. He shrugged, unwrapping it and taking a bite. A line of red overcame his sight.
Flashing lights with fresh carnival music, the world expanded upwards, seeming endless and wondrous. He was there, though young and small, much smaller than he thought he could be. Blonde hair combed back, baby blue eyes, and a gap between his teeth his smile was contagious, his giggle causing Bucky to do the same. The young Captain America blew a big pink bubble which popped and consumed his face, an odd action, but in reaction Bucky did the same having the pink sticky material plaster itself to his nose and parts of his cheek. They both paused for a moment, before heaving with laughter until his eyes streamed with tears and his ribs ached. It seemed to hang in the air, flowing with the blurring lights of the carnival and fading to the 'mot'.
Bucky's hands were clenched, gasping for breaths as the memory seemed to knock the air from his lungs. A car whisking by with a blaring horn brought him back to reality. He stumbled back, rubbing his eyes as the lights in his mind realigned, the line between this world and his world before blurry. Like a drum, a pounding went through his head, mixing the pleasure and pain of such a childish scene. So he had known his as a child, but the timing didn't seem right, everything was grittier.
He spat the gum out before going into the lobby, leaving a trail of puddles. An old dark man stood behind the counter, looking him up and down through squinted eyes.
"You lost, or looking for a room?" the elderly man asked, shifting slightly to his left.
Bucky tilted his body, not sure how to respond. After a bit of hesitation, "Yes, a room."
The man looked at him expectantly, to which Bucky tilted to the other direction, still vexed.
"The fee is forty bucks a night," he proclaimed, leaning to his right side on the counter.
Taking off his hat, Bucky walked up slowly, eying him. "I don't have forty bucks," he said lowly. He kept his left hand in the jacket pocket, placing his right on the counter as well.
"Then what do you have?" the man tensed but made eye contact. Bucky was impressed from his boldness.
He pulled out the few dollars and placed them down with his right hand, gesturing.
"You have to be kidding me, this is it?" he gaped, as Bucky shrugged innocently.
"It's been a rough couple of nights," he replied flatly but truthfully. He hadn't slept since leaving the captain, feeling some primal need to get away. He had to flee, to hide. Any one place felt unsafe after a couple of minutes. He was running, and he wasn't sure from what. Everything he supposed, and everyone. Nothing was safe until he completed the puzzle.
A line of red caused him to withdraw, "Shit," he whispered as he tried to get out back into the rain, get out of sight, and go somewhere safe.
The sunlight danced on the snow, just creeping from it's horizon. Bucky walked forward, holding a wrapped box in one arm with a covered pan in the other. He shifted them awkwardly to one side, taking a deep breath as he knocked on the door. His knuckles left a loud thud with every strike of his hand, his breath leaving traces in the air from the cold. The door opened with a creak, revealing Captain Rogers, more than a half a foot shorter than before with little to no muscle or fat on his bones. His eyes brightened when he saw Bucky, quickly taking the covered pan from him, that looked like it would fall.
"Hey, Bucky, I wasn't expecting-" he shook his head before gesturing for him to come inside, "It's freezing out there, come inside already."
He smiled, stepping inside patting him on the shoulder. "Be careful with that roast now, it's still hot."
He nodded, with a look of concern at Bucky. "It's Christmas morning, you should be with your family."
Bucky set the present down by a small Christmas tree, somewhat surprised that he had put one up anyways. The place was empty, a bit dusty, and seemed untouched since his folks passed away. He had celebrated with his own on Christmas Eve, a twinge had pinched his lungs when he thought of Captain Rogers spending Christmas alone with nothing but memories.
He went and plopped himself comfortably on a couch, shrugging his shoulders. "I am." Captain Roger's gaze dropped to the pan, a smile spreading across his face. Bucky stretched his arms, "Let's not take all day, go open the present will you?"
He rolled his eyes and walked into the kitchen, placing down the roast, but taking a little too long. "Well, I'm glad you came," he projected, as he ruffled through a cabinet.
"What are you doing?" His own voice felt lighter in his throat. He was smiling, he could feel it on his face.
Popping out from the kitchen, with his hands behind his back, his blue eyes twinkled. "I actually got you something too." It was a plain box, with one red ribbon tying the lid down. He placed it front of Bucky, with a grin on his face. He went over and picked up the other one by the pitiful tree, and sat down on the couch next to him.
"Open at the same time, punk?" Bucky suggested, giving him a childish nudge.
"Sounds good to me, jerk," he replied nudging back.
Bucky flinched, a line of red returned, this time as a stream of fire. Across the fire, there was Captain America, his mission-version, tall and strong. He gripped the metal railing in front of him, the pain burning into his palms. "No! Not without you!" his voice filled the air with desperation, his eyes glued as he watched him. He went back, and ran forward, leaping into the flames, being licked and consumed as Bucky opened his eyes.
He was crouched on the floor of the motel, his hands wrapped around the sides of his head. Wide eyed, he looked up at the man behind the counter, who looked panicked himself.
"You've got a condition, son?" he asked.
Bucky just nodded, slowly rising. He was shaking, the pounding in his head went to the rhythm of gunfire. He hadn't experienced a memory so vivid, so detailed before. He rubbed his thumbs on the insides of his hands, positive they were burned.
"I don't want any trouble," the man spoke placing a key down in front of him. "So why don't you take a room for the night, and be gone before breakfast. No trouble, no cops, but I want you gone before the other guests wake up."
Walking unsteadily, he went and picked up the key, the engraving 11A on the center. "Understood."
"Go outside and it should be the door closest to the dumpsters," the man grumbled, sitting down with a sigh of relief.
He opened the door, the rain worse than before. Straightening his cap, he made his way to room 11A, heeding the man's advice and walking to the end of the first floor lot.
The smell near the room was only somewhat better than the smell of the actual room. It was small, with a bathroom he wouldn't dare get near, and a bed that had sheets he would need to take off before attempting to sleep. He went through the drawers, finding a few magazines and a bible. He threw the rest of the articles onto the floor, before discovered a pair of scissors. They were rusty, but the tips looked sharp still. Bucky walked over to the mirror and sink, slinging this hat and jacket to the counter. Turning the faucet, he splashed his face with cool water, wiping away the mud.
He met his own eyes in the mirror. This is all so wrong. I shouldn't be here. I should be dead. The thought made him wince, but he didn't know what to be. The Winter Soldier was a weapon, a tool, and put away he would rust. Bucky Barnes died as a hero, the friend of an American icon, and his own presence would dishonor his own name. Out dated and dirty, that was what he was, having no place in this world. Yet here he was, an enigma still to himself. Still a threat still a danger, but free. He laughed at himself, as he grabbed the scissors and began to cut his hair. Free from Hydra poking around in his head, but they wouldn't give up looking for him. He was a loose end, now a liability. He would never be able to rest, to truly be free. But this was good enough.
Dark hair fell into the sink, the scissors cutting better than he'd expected. He was Bucky Barnes. Taking back his identity was key to remembering, to recovering. Recovering. He smiled down sadly to himself. Was there such a thing for men like him? Even if he remembered, he still would have done all that he had. There was nothing that could change that, he could destroy all of Hydra and still he would have been their top attack dog for decades. He couldn't erase that, no matter how much he wished it.
Not short, but shorter he was satisfied, walking over to the nightstand and placing the scissors on top. He stripped the sheets off the bed, rolling them up and then tossing them to the side. He took off his shirt, which was somewhat dry and placed it over the pillow before laying down. He flexed his fingers on his left hand, watching the light dance of the water drops on the metal. It was a strange sensation, one that he had never stopped to think about before, the whole situation of having a metal arm. It was a part of him now, of the new Bucky Barnes. He had to accept that, move on. Nothing would be the same anymore, things didn't get that simple. He turned to his side, shutting his eyes. A few hours of sleep was all he asked for, just enough so he could keep going, keep running. Just enough til he figured it out.
No red lines, or heavy sweating, but a dream a sweet one. Bucky was in uniform, walking the pre-Captain Rogers back to his home, laughing about some joke he couldn't remember. He kept his hand on his shoulder, both smiling.
"I had him on the ropes," the smaller man explained, though one of his eyes were blackened.
"Sure you did," he playfully replied.
He gave him a pat on the back as they stopped in front of the door, as Rogers went to unlock the door. "I gave him a pretty good left hook," he babbled on.
"You should try to choose your fights a little better," Bucky grinned, tilting his head slightly.
"Well someone had to tell that man that was no way to speak to a lady," he proudly stated, "And if it had to be me, then so be it."
"I'm shipping out soon, and I don't want you to get yourself killed out here." He gave him an expression of admiration and worry.
"I should be the one worried for you, you're the one going off to war," his face darkened for a moment. "Just wait for me out there, will ya?"
A light chuckle came from Bucky's lips, "Just be careful out here, Brooklyn can be dangerous." The evening's wind played with his hair, sweeping his golden strands into his determined eyes. Bucky reached out, brushing his hair behind his ear. He looked up, his mouth gaped open as if he was to say something, but no words escaped. His hand went down to his chin, tilting it up, before Bucky leaned down to kiss him. After a moment, he withdrew, gazing at him to see a reaction.
"Uh, well, that was, well," he stammered, his overly pale face becoming a blaring red.
Bucky felt adrenaline as he went into panic mode. "Look, I'm sor-," he was cut off by a grab on his collar, and pulled down into another kiss.
"Don't apologize for it," he mumbled into his ear, before letting go.
With a rush of snow and wind, the Captain appeared again, reaching out towards him. Bucky felt his weight begin to give, his grip begin to slip. He saw his hand and lunged for it, but too late. First coldness, then darkness.
He awoke to a loud knocking on the door, alarming him immediately. He grabbed the scissors instinctively and quietly slipped out of bed. He crept up to the door, looking through the peek hole. The scissors clanged on the wooden floor as he opened the door.
The name he had forgotten, the name he would not say, escaped his mouth with clarity.
"Steve."