AN: Had a lot of fun writing from Bucky's perspective in this one. I feel like we get a nice look into his head, setting the stage for what they're all going to be dealing with from now on. I hope you enjoy it! Please remember to leave a review, as always :)

Chapter 3

Mo knocked softly on the door, leaning against it, listening for sounds of life. When she got no response, she thought to call out to him, but was unsure of what to call him. Bucky seemed far too familiar. That was out of the question. James was another option, but, again, somehow seemed too familiar, to intimate. The only one she could see calling him James was Steve. Calling him soldier, as she might speak to someone else in the army seemed like it might be too triggering, given his past and the whole Winter Soldier thing. She had called him it once, but the situation had been different; they had been speaking like soldiers. Besides, calling him Soldier on a day-to-day basis seemed too… anonymous. It was an occupation, not a name. She didn't like that it seemed to reduce him down to an occupation or strip him of his identity.

"Barnes?" she called softly, leaning to press her mouth close to the crack in the door. Barnes seemed like the best option; that was how you talked to someone else in the army, anyway, and it didn't sap him completely of his identity.

"Go away." The voice on the other side of the door was husky, pained.

"Everything okay in there?"

"Go away, I said."

"I just want to talk to you, Barnes," she said, keeping her voice gentle.

"I can't," he said, and his voice sounded distant, like he was on the other side of the bathroom. "I thought I could but I can't."

"I'm not going to pick your brain," she said with a little laugh. "I really do just want to talk." He didn't respond. She sighed. "You're not going to let me in, are you?" The little scoff from the other side of the door confirmed her suspicions. "Alright," she said, and turned around, leaning her back against the door. She slid slowly down, her prosthetic jutting out awkwardly until her bottom hit the floor. She rearranged herself, then leaned her head against the door and closed her eyes for a moment, thinking. What did one ask when they wanted to get to know an ex-assassin who had been at his prime in the 40s and was struggling with his identity? It was absurd.

"Sorry I snapped at you earlier," she said, turning her face toward the door slightly. "I just really hate it when people get that attitude with me, you know? Just a girl. I got enough of that from the army, till I proved myself. Had to work twice as hard as any man there, but I did it." Her mouth quirked slightly. "Nice touch," she added, "trying to intimidate me with the arm." She'd seen the act for what it was; she wasn't oblivious.

It was silent for a long time after that. It was late. She picked at her fingernails aimlessly. She was patient, she could wait. But as time ticked on, she figured he had either fallen asleep, or that he really was absolutely not going to talk to her. She got to her feet, using the door for support, and then leaned her head against the crack again so that he could hear her.

"No one else is dealing with your demons, Barnes," she said. "But we all have to face our own. Maybe you can't defeat them on your own. I couldn't."

She heard movement on the other side of the door and she smiled a little, triumphant—until he slammed into the door, causing it to rattle violently, and she yelped.

"Go away!" he shouted, and his voice was ragged, livid, the voice of a desperate man. "LEAVE ME ALONE!" He punctuated the shout with another rattle, probably having slammed his fists into the door; enough to rattle the frame and to rattle her bones, but not enough to shock it off the hinges. The force had been calculated, or at least controlled.

Still, that was the Winter Soldier on the other side of the door, and Mo was more than a little alarmed. She was panicky, her heart fluttering, her throat tightening up. She wished she had a weapon. Her eyes were wide as she took a couple of steps back from the door. Steve and Sam came around the corner, looking alarmed, but Mo raised a hand, freezing them in place. She looked back at the door.

"Alright," she breathed. "Alright." She didn't want to push him. Not yet. Besides, her heart was still doing panicky little things in her chest; sweat dampened the nape of her neck and rolled down her spine. She was flighty. She turned away from the door, back toward Steve and Sam, hoping she didn't look as frightened as she felt.

"I'm sorry."

What have I become?

"I'm sorry," he breathed, his voice soft, hoarse. His forehead was pressed against the door, hard, his lips drawn back from his teeth, his eyes squeezed shut. His dark hair fell around and clung to his face, sticky with sweat. His entire body shook. His hand dropped down to the doorknob, and with trembling fingers, he unlocked it and twisted it slightly, opening the door just a little. He leaned out, only a bit, and saw Sergeant Moriah Fox still standing there. The look of fright on her face (she masked it quickly, he would give her that) only served to confirm what he knew. He was a monster.

"I just—I can't do this. Not tonight."

"It's fine," she said slowly, her brows drawn, voice controlled, cool. "But this pity party stops tomorrow. It's time to put on your big boy pants, Barnes." She turned and limped away, and he closed and locked the door. He wasn't sure why he did it; the flimsy lock wasn't stopping anyone, except maybe Sergeant Fox, and she seemed like the type who could bust it down if she wanted. He sat on the edge of the bath tub, burying his fingers in his hair, trying to control the pain and the thoughts running rampant in his mind. He was in agony, drenched in sweat, his face pale and sunken. He dug his nails into his scalp and curled into a ball.

Why were they doing this? He wasn't worth saving.

All the things he had done. All the blood on his hands. He had been too weak to stop it. But what was it? He couldn't remember specifics. Just snippets, and they terrified him. He should have fought harder. Should have taken his own life, but he'd been too much of a coward to do so. He disgusted himself, especially when he was around Steve, who radiated goodness, morality. He couldn't stand it. How had they ever been friends to begin with? Why had someone like Steve ever befriended someone like him?

He didn't want to let Steve down. He couldn't stand to see the hope in his forgotten friend's blue eyes. He should be grateful, he knew; Steve had saved him. Steve had been the one to start bringing the memories back. He had known Bucky; he had started it all. And all Bucky could do was disappoint. He hated himself for even thinking these thoughts; it was a continuous spiral, a continuous struggle of knowing that he should be better, be stronger, be worth their time. But he wasn't.

Part of him knew it wasn't his fault. He had been brainwashed. Tortured. He couldn't get the memories out of his head; he knew this. But he also knew that he should have been stronger. None of this would be happening if he had been stronger.

He still couldn't remember much of his old life. He felt something for Steve, the bonds of friendship, but he couldn't remember that friendship. All he got anymore were the nightmares, the flashbacks, the blackouts. What had happened to him? What had made him this way? What had they done to him, to turn him into this empty husk? He knew he had done bad things, but there was a block in his mind—it didn't make sense. He couldn't understand who he had become, couldn't remember what he had done, but the thought of remembering terrified him. Fear ruled his life. He was always frightened. Frightened that he would break down, frightened that he would have another awful flashback—who would he be murdering this time?—frightened to know he was capable of such atrocities.

He wanted help. He needed help. He wanted it to go away. He wanted it to stop.

He couldn't let her see him like this. He couldn't let any of them see him like this. It was pathetic. Maybe Steve would lose that hopeful look, a thought that made him sick, but a thought that that provided him some relief as well. So far, Steve's faith had been unwavering. What would Bucky do if it was snuffed out? He didn't want to know. Steve was problematic. He frustrated Bucky, made him shockingly angry, made things worse, and yet he was a constant comfort; the knowledge that Steve knew everything Bucky had done, had seen his worst and still believed in him was more comforting than he cared to admit, even if Bucky didn't know what to do with it or how to show his appreciation. He felt familiar with Steve, most comfortable with him, and yet sometimes he couldn't stand to even be around him.

Sam was different. Sam was Steve's friend, so Bucky tolerated him but didn't care to get to know him any further. Even the thought was exhausting. But the fact that he was Steve's friend told Bucky enough. The fact that he was helping out in all of this was enough.

Sergeant Fox, on the other hand, he wasn't sure about at all. She was Sam's friend. She had no ties to Steve, who was Bucky's compass in all of this. But if Steve trusted her, then that said something, right? She wasn't threatening, not really. After all, she was damaged, a retired soldier, smaller than the rest of them. But when she had spoken out to him, snapped at him earlier, he had to admit that he felt startled, taken aback, but part of him had appreciated it. For just a moment, someone hadn't tiptoed around him.

He needed her help, that much he could admit. He just hoped he hadn't frightened her off, even though that had been his exact intention. Just how crazy was he? But she was distant from him, someone who wasn't invested in him, someone who had no expectations, no reason to care. It would be easier, he knew, to give her the gory details than it would be to tell Steve about all the demons that ran rampant in his mind. He didn't want to see the light fade from Steve's eyes, but this girl… she had his respect, as a fellow soldier, but aside from that, she was a complete stranger. And sometimes it was easier to lay yourself bare before someone who had no idea who you were supposed to be.

She was right. Tomorrow, things would change. Tomorrow he would face the demons. He would try to be better, even though he wasn't sure he would ever be better. But he could improve, right? He could stop the pain a little, right?

But another thought still lingered, always at the back of his mind. It had surfaced, again, when he had rushed the door, intending to scare Sergeant Fox away: what if he lost control? What if, heaven forbid, he hurt one of them like he hurt those other people? He had such violent thoughts sometimes, such violent impulses. He didn't know where they came from, but they only served to deepen his fear. He knew what he was capable of.

He sat up, trailing his hands over his face, putting pressure on his eyes with his palms. Tomorrow, he would try.

"I don't know if I can do this," Mo confessed, sitting on the edge of her bed. They had all moved upstairs to talk where Barnes couldn't hear. She had detached her leg, and noticed that every so often Steve's eyes would drift down to where her leg should have been. Sam had been around her enough in the past to be used to it by now. Mo lifted her face from her hands and looked from one man to the other. "But I want to try."

"That's my girl," Sam said with a smile. "I knew he wouldn't scare you off." He stepped forward and ruffled her hair, pushing her head to the side.

"That's all I ask," Steve said, standing near the door.

"I'm going to need help," she said.

"Anything," Steve agreed quickly. Mo stood and Steve watched her, looking alarmed as she tried to get around with only one leg. Sam took her spot on the bed, looking relaxed as she hobbled over to the small chair and dragged it away from the desk, balancing precariously. Steve had finally had enough. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them in in two long strides, and gently gripped her upper arm.

"Allow me," he said, gently helping her back to the bed and sitting her down before pulling the chair closer and sitting across from her and Sam.

"Captain Rogers," she started, avoiding eye contact and hoping her skin was dark enough to hide her blush. She tried to make her voice chastising, but failed miserably. How could she when she was looking into that sincere face?

"Steve," he said, smiling.

"Steve," she said. "You really don't need to look at me like that. I'm not gong to tip over. Relax a little; I'm perfectly capable." She offered a gentle smile and brushed her hand through her hair, looking away from his face. What was wrong with her? She was acting like she was in middle school, struck by a cute boy. Captain America, she thought, wanting nothing more than to hide her face.

"I apologize," Steve said, ducking his head. "I didn't mean to imply—"

"You didn't. It's okay." Mo blew out a breath and Sam leaned on her shoulder. "Just treat me like anyone else, please."

"It's just in his nature," Sam said. "I don't have that problem."

"I know," Mo said, knocking her shoulder into his. "You'd push me right over. At least there's one gentleman in the room."

Sam's eyes widened and he looked insulted. Mo glared at him, then rubbed her palms together, looking between the two.

"So what's your plan?" Steve asked, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "Do you think he can be helped?"

"He's in a bad place," Mo said. "But so was I." She looked at Sam, who nodded somberly. "But we can bring him back, I think." I hope. "He just has to want it. You can't force someone to accept your help."

"Just… don't be too hard on him," Steve said. "I can only imagine what he's been through." A dark expression crossed his face. "He was—is —a good man."

"Tell me about him."

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything. Start at the beginning."

AN: And that's that! Please, don't just assume Mo is in love with Steve already. This is supposed to be realistic; of course she's blushing around him, she's still totally star struck! I still haven't decided on any romances, but feel free to leave input in your reviews! I'm loving the feedback, and I make a point to reply to all of you, especially new reviewers. I love getting into Bucky's head more, and I can't wait to get further into it. Much more interaction with Bucky next chapter, so you'll be able to see how he acts around everyone, from multiple points of view. And a possibly glimpse of the Winter Soldier, if I don't change it. We shall see! But we will see Bucky in Winter Soldier mode a few times—just gotta get that first time right. Stay tuned!

Also, there's tons of history and backstory with Sam and Mo, and I cannot wait to get into that and reveal it to you guys!