Explosions rattled the windows and echoed through the halls. Zola came running into the room and began shoving papers and bottles—anything he could grab—into his bag. In his frenzy, some beakers tipped off the table and shattered on the floor, leaving shards in a mess of multicolored liquids.

"Sir? What's going on?" one of the assistants asked.

"Save the data! Get out of here! The prisoners are fighting back!"

Bucky hardly registered there were other people in the room, but at the sound of Zola's voice he began reciting his designation in a slow, monotonous tone.

The explosions grew louder, and the lab assistants dropped everything and ran through the door. "Cowards!" screamed Zola. "I'll do everything myself!" But as the explosions drew even closer and grew even louder with less time between, Zola became anxious and fled the room himself. Still Bucky recited his designation, watching the bare lightbulb keeping time to the beat of bombs.

"23557…."

"Bucky?"

"…Barnes…"

"Bucky? Bucky, come on." The man's hands set to work undoing the leather buckles and straps.

The soft touch didn't register against Bucky's numbed nerves. The man's voice trickled into his consciousness, though, and pulled him from his catatonic state. Strong arms pulled him to a sitting position, and he swayed, dizzy from the now unfamiliar sensation. Bucky's vision was blurry and stared disbelieving at the face before him. "Steve?" A weak smile broke over his cracked lips.

"I thought you were dead," he said.

Bucky watched this man pull the wires from his temples, scattering them across the floor. Something was wrong. This man sounded like Steve, and he resembled Steve, but it was as though someone had plastered his face onto another man's body. This had to be a dream. Steve was his tiny best friend who was stuck in New York because the army refused to take him. The arms around him, dragging him to his feet, felt real enough. He clung tighter so he wouldn't fall, and a familiar smell sent his mind to the comfort of home. Memories of Steve smiling, of rescuing Steve, of countless hours at Steve's apartment flooded his mind. That was Steve's cologne. The same drug store cologne he'd always used. This man was real, and he was Steve.

"I thought you were smaller." They took one step, Bucky leaning heavily on Steve. "What happened?"

"I joined the army."

"You must have had one hell of a drill sergeant." Bucky winced, unused to standing on his feet. His legs shook with the weight of his body. "You really don't know," he grunted, "when to walk away from a fight."

Steve laughed. "Somehow this just seemed important."

Bucky laughed, but it came out as more of a wheeze. "You missed me that much?"

Steve smirked. "I've got more pressing matters at the moment. You're just lucky I came."

"Yeah. I'm glad you didn't listen to me when I told you to stop applying." Walking and breathing were slowly becoming easier. With each step, Bucky was able to support more of his own weight.

The more they walked, the more chaos they encountered. Hydra soldiers and escaped prisoners alike ran in all directions. Only a few were actively participating in battle, aiming for the enemy. Some fired shots sporadically over their shoulders. Others screeched with the bloodlust of battle.

"Get down!" someone called, and Steve shoved Bucky to the ground, covering both of them with a spangled shield. Debris crashed around them. When it was safe, Steve stood and pulled Bucky to his feet. "You okay?"

"Yeah." He took a step on his own and nearly fell forward. Steve leapt forward to catch him, but Bucky waived him away. "I'm good. I got this."

Concern creased Steve's forehead. "This could get dangerous."

Bucky heaved a dry laugh. "Yeah. I know." He tried standing as straight was possible. "I'm going with you."

. . .

The playground was littered with kids screaming in a huddle. Little Bucky Barnes, only seven at the time, went running to see what all the fuss was about. At the core of the huddle were two boys, both blonde. The smaller of the two looked as though he were made of wire and tissue paper, ready to fall apart at the slightest touch. Tears pooled in his eyes, threatening to fall, but he had his hands raised and ready to strike. The larger boy was laughing.

"You gonna cry because you know it's true! Your momma is unfaithful. She's gonna burn in Hell for her sins. My momma told me so."

"My momma loves my dad! She has no sins to burn for!"

"You're proof enough for her sins. Why else would a good person end up with a son like you?"

The little boy screamed as he lunged forward. The other stopped him with a fist to the cheek. But that wasn't enough. He advanced on the smaller boy, shoving him against the fence and kicking him in the shins. All the while, he was chanting, "cry baby." The kids in the crowd were either laughing or watching on in fear. The larger boy pulled his arm back for another strike, and Bucky lunged forward, tackling him. It was easier than shoving open the gym door.

"What's your problem?"

"What's my problem?" Bucky shouted. The boy was standing again and wiping dirt from his face. "What's your problem? What did he ever do to you?"

The kid shuffled his feet uncertainly. "He's weird. He looks like a kindergarten baby."

"Who cares what he looks like? I think you look like a pig, but I'm not gonna pound ya for it!" At this, the kid smirked. "But I will if I have to."

"I'm calling your bluff. I don't think you have the guts t—" Bucky silenced him with a fist to the mouth. The kid was stunned for a moment before he exploded into wails and tears. He turned and ran. The crowd of kids quickly dispersed.

Bucky turned to the small boy and was surprised to see he was glaring at him. "I could have taken him by myself."

Bucky nodded. "But you didn't have to."

The boy pursed his lips. "Thanks, I suppose." He seemed to deliberate over something before sticking out his hand. "I'm Steve."

"Bucky," he said as he shook his hand. "Hey, do you wanna play a game? Over the summer, I learned this really cool trick with marbles. I can show you if you like."

Steve grinned. "Sure! Wanna go to my house? My momma made cookies."

. . .

The pink and purple streaks of dawn lined the horizon, visible between the sparse trees on either side of the road. The adrenaline that fueled the uprising was beginning to wear off for most, but there was still the occasional whoop from the ranks. Each soldier had sweat, and grease, and dirt, and soot blended across their gaunt features. Those who could walk on their own shouldered guns, ready to fire at Nazi or Hydra scum alike, should there be a need. They kept time with their ragged breathing and trudging feet. The soldiers all followed Steve. Bucky recognized a few of the men who came up and thanked Captain America for leading the rescue mission, to which Steve smiled and shook their hand promising it was no problem.

"Captain America?" Bucky asked.

Steve smirked and watched his feet. "It's just a character."

"Not to these men. To them, you're a symbol—the embodiment of America. You're a hero."

"Aw c'mon, Buck. I'm no hero."

"Well…" Bucky grinned. When Steve looked away, Bucky's grin fell. He licked his lower lip, tasting the acrid tang of blood and soot. He watched yet another soldier come up to Steve. As Steve shook the man's hand, his smile filled his features, brightening the blue of his eyes. It was one of his rare, genuine smiles that Bucky usually had to coax from him. Bucky noticed how Steve still ducked his head as he nodded, a force of habit from a life of insecurities. Bucky regrouped his gun in his stiff hands and glared at the road ahead.

Finally they could see a camp on the horizon. Several of the men cheered. As they passed the first few tents, men crept out, buttoning their pants and slinging towels over their shoulders. Cries of, "It's them!" and "My God!" ran like static as more men gathered along the road to watch the procession. The crowd grew steadily louder. A new surge of energy pulsed through the ranks of survivors. Instinctively, Bucky repositioned his grip on the barrel of his rifle, eyes flitting over the crowd. Steve elbowed Bucky in the rib, making him flinch. Steve didn't notice. He was grinning at Bucky, at the crowd, and then again at Bucky. Everyone was cheering for him, talking about the great thing he'd done.

They were met at the camp's center by a gorgeous brunette with painted red lips. "You're late," she chided him with a soft English accent. Even though the soldiers had given her plenty of space, she was standing unnecessarily close to Steve. She was watching him as though she were afraid he'd disappear before her eyes.

Steve's grin was lopsided as he pulled out a radio that had been shot through. "I couldn't call my ride." They continued watching each other.

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Hey!" The crowd fell silent. "Let's hear it for Captain America!" The roar of the crowd was deafening. Steve looked around and Bucky forced a smile for his friend. It felt more like a grimace and fell flat almost immediately. After everything quieted down, Steve resumed talking with the brunette.

"The colonel will want to speak with you immediately," she said.

Steve nodded, but glanced at Bucky. "I'll be fine. I should report to the medic tent anyway."

Steve nodded again and left, following the brunette. Bucky watched him duck into a tent then stood in place a moment longer. By now, the crowd had mostly dissipated, going back to their routines. Bucky wandered the familiar dirt paths to his old tent, unsure if his things would still be there. One quick look showed his cot had been stripped but there was his trunk beside it. A label had been slapped to the top, marking it as to be shipped back to the States. He knelt down and lifted the lid. Right below his wool blanket lay his second uniform, musty but still pressed and ready to wear.

He took his time dressing, fumbling with the buttons. His fingertips still felt numb. For several minutes, he wrestled the buttons into their coordinating buttonholes. They slipped from his grip, and resisted when he pushed. He gave up with a growl, leaving the top few buttons undone. He shoved the bottom of his shirt into his waistband. It was rumpled, definitely not army regulation, but he didn't care. He needed a drink.

Bucky pushed through the crowds that gathered in the bar in the nearest village. The atmosphere of the place remained unchanged from the night before he and the other members of the 107th set out for the battlefield. Ale slopped over mugs as the men drank and sang. Women smiled at the soldiers and listened to their stories. Bucky didn't notice if anyone was paying him any attention. On the other side of the room was his target—a doorway to a smaller room. It was much quieter, less smokey, and mostly vacant. He sunk onto a stool and ordered a double whiskey. The first sip was a welcome fire, but the more he drank, the more numb his tongue felt. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair. A poster on the wall caught his attention. It was Steve stuffed into his spangly Captain America costume. The words "tour cancelled" had been slapped over his chest. Who was this new Steve?

"Bucky?"

He downed the rest of his drink and signaled the bartender for a second. Steve sat down on the stool next to him. Bucky glanced at him, seeing he was now dressed in the perfectly pressed uniform according to regulations. Everything about him was clean, straight lines. The uniform fit him perfectly while hinting at the bulk of muscle lying beneath the fabric. Bucky took a drink. "Steve."

"I thought you were going to get looked at."

Bucky shook his head. "It didn't seem so important. Besides, I feel fine."

"Yeah, you look like it." Steve ordered a whiskey as well. They sat for a moment, not saying anything. Steve set his drink down with a dull thunk. "What happened, Bucky?"

He shook his head. "I don't know." He tossed back the rest of his second glass and ordered a third. He looked at Steve. "Shouldn't I be asking you that same question?"

"I already told you. I joined the army." Bucky just gave him a hard look. "I was chosen for an experiment, and I gladly accepted. It was my choice."

"I thought I told you to not do anything stupid. That was the very definition of stupid, Steve. What if something had happened to you? What if the experiment backfired?"

Steve furrowed his brow, a deep crease forming. "I'm fine, Bucky. Look at me. I've never been better."

He had the perfect physique. Muscles filling out the army-issued uniform, the strong squared jaw, broad shoulders…Bucky frowned into his glass. "I wasn't there to protect you."

"Protect me? From what? Everything about this was my choice, Bucky." Steve's tone was growing sharp.

Bucky jabbed a finger at the poster. "Including that? Dancing around on stage, performing like a chorus girl? That was your idea of joining the war?"

"It got me here, didn't it? Maybe it was a little unconventional. Maybe I didn't like the idea at first. But maybe I didn't have any other option! If I hadn't been doing that, I would have been stuck in a lab like you! And if I remember correctly, you weren't so upset when I pulled you off that table."

"I didn't think you were real!" He'd forgotten about his whiskey by now. "One month, Steve. For one month I'd been strapped to that table. For one month I'd been poked and prodded and beaten and electrocuted. I've been stuck with needles and injected with multicolored serums. I have no idea what Zola was doing to me or why. But I do know that during all that time, whenever I thought of home, you were what I thought of. My best friend."

Steve was stunned into silence. All he could do was stare at his broken friend. Usually so put together, so suave and charming, it seemed as though his nerves had become exposed. Everything that was essential to Bucky Barnes as he'd known him had become frayed. "I'm sorry, Buck," he finally said. His voice had gone rough. "I hope you can see that I'm still the same Steve you've always known."

Bucky licked his lower lip. "Yeah, well I hope so too." He slid his now empty glass back towards the bartender and walked away.