Ch. 1
James Buchanan Barnes was broken.
No, that wasn't right. Being broken meant that there was possibility of being fixed, of becoming whole again.
Bucky didn't believe that was true.
Instead, he was shattered, like when you drop a mirror and a million pieces scatter all over the floor. And no matter how hard you searched or how long you tried, there were still pieces missing.
Jagged fragments, sharp and deadly.
He was better than he was before, thanks to Steve. He remembered his name, his parents, his childhood apartment. He remembered saving Steve a hundred times in nearly every back alley in Brooklyn.
He also remembered trying to kill Steve.
But parts of him were still gone. He had forgotten the date of his father's birthday, the tune of his favorite song, the taste of sugar cookies cooling from the oven, the scent of the pork chops his mother would cook on special occasions. His brain would reach for the details and more often than not, they would skitter away leaving him with an undefined sense of loss.
Both Sam and Steve told him to have patience. They told him that he'd come farther than anyone had thought in only a few months.
But it was almost worse somehow. Remembering who he used to be. Knowing how far away he was from that person.
His days were haunted by flashbacks, triggered without warning. He'd be watching a movie or reading the paper and all of a sudden, he was back out on assignment, hunting his prey, eliminating a target for Hydra. His nights were ripped apart by nightmares, visions of being strapped to a chair, of pure pain arcing through his body. He'd wake up breathless and panic-stricken in a dark room, his sheets soaked in sweat.
00000000
Bucky looked down at the piece of paper in his hands, blowing out a long slow breath, trying to gather the courage to open the door in front of him. According to the scrap of paper in his hands, written in Steve's carefully printed script, it was the right door. It was the right time. He just needed to push the door open.
"Ummm . . . are you going in?"
Bucky looked up to see a dark haired woman, pursing her lips together.
"Yeah . . . sorry," he managed and opened the door for her, stepping aside so that she could go through first.
"Oh, thanks," she said as she walked through the door, obviously surprised by the act of chivalry.
"You're welcome, ma'am."
"Ma'am? Does this outfit make me look that old? I'm wearing mom jeans, aren't I?" She tugged at the waistband of her pants.
Bucky colored, sorry that he'd given offense. "I apologize. Miss."
"Darcy," she supplied.
"Bucky." He held out his right hand and she shook it.
"Bucky? Really? I only know of one of guy with that name but he's . . ." Her eyes widened as they settled on his left hand, half hidden as he had it shoved in his jacket pocket, a flash of metal gleaming against the dark fabric. "He's you," she said in a half-whisper.