AN: A special, special thank you to user Melman Rose for being my 100th review on this story! The reviews they left me as they read this story after it had been "abandoned" were a huge part of what motivated me to come back, so if you're excited this story is back, know that they were a huge part of it!
I decided to skip the "group session" for this idea instead. I like this better :)
Bucky couldn't put into words how grateful he was that Mo was so forgiving. He was disgusted with himself for what he'd done—made a complete ass of himself—but God, he didn't deserve the forgiveness she offered him so easily. And it wasn't only her, but Sam, too (Bucky knew that he was very protective of her) and Steve, though Bucky was fairly sure that there wasn't much Steve wouldn't forgive him for.
He was standing in his bathroom, his dress uniform folded on the sink. This had been Mo's most recent idea, and it had taken about a week to dig up everything they needed, his old uniform being the most difficult part of the ordeal, but they'd managed without revealing to Bucky just how they'd done it, though he suspected there had been some theft involved.
Mo took a breath beside him, her big green eyes looking up into his face. She looked at him differently lately, her eyes more confident, more encouraging than ever before. She told him more and more often that he was making progress, and he believed her. She'd been the one to decide he was mentally fit for this little idea she'd had.
"Whenever you're ready," she said. "I'll step out."
"Wait," he said, suddenly frightened at the idea. "I don't want to be alone. Just in case." Just in case it went badly.
"Okay," she said gently. "Do you want Steve?"
Bucky shook his head. "Can you just—stay?"
"Sure," she said, limping around him. "Remember, you don't have to show anyone if you don't want to." He nodded and she sat on the edge of his tub. Bucky took a deep, steadying breath through his nose. "Take your time," she urged.
"It'll help?" he asked, his voice wary.
"I don't know for certain," she said, meeting his eyes in the mirror. "But, yeah, I think it will. It's worth a shot."
He nodded determinedly. He didn't particularly like looking at himself anymore; it was a strange thing to look in the mirror and not recognize the face looking back at you.
"Well," he muttered. "Here goes nothing." He caught her smile a little in the mirror, crossing her legs so that the prosthetic was on top. He closed and locked the door, watching her face intently to see if she noticed and was alarmed, but her expression didn't change. Instead, she just gave him one of those smiles, and he felt himself relax. He nodded to himself, then stepped back and removed his shirt. Mo immediately looked away politely, but he didn't mind. Somehow, after everything, the thought of being embarrassed by something as simple as nakedness (or half nakedness, in his case) seemed absurd. Mo scratched her nose awkwardly, and he grunted, an amused sound. She looked up at him, perplexed, as he lifted the uniform, the undershirt. He noticed that she was being very good about not looking at his arm.
"It's okay to look," he told her after a moment of consideration, then repeated her words from weeks ago back to her. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."
This earned a laugh from her. "That so?" she asked, squinting playfully at him, and he shrugged one shoulder. Her phone buzzed, and the roll of her eyes let him know it was Sam checking in. She always rolled her eyes when Sam checked in. She replied and set the phone down, looking up at him expectantly. He took a step closer to her and sat down across from her on the toilet. She extended her leg toward him and he gingerly grasped the prosthetic ankle joint in his metal hand, tracing the fingers over it. He looked up at her.
"I could crush this," he said after a silence. She shrugged. He suddenly felt a flare of interest, which he hadn't felt in a while. And, although he'd shoved it back in her face when she'd originally said it, she was right: they had this in common. "How far up does it go?" She tapped her mid thigh. "I—I'm sorry." He looked back down at it, and the sudden contrast between them struck him, and he grinned wryly.
"What?" she asked.
"It's just—look at it," he said, and she raised an eyebrow. "You're a hero, you served your country and you're rewarded with this toy. And me…" he trailed off.
"Can I see it?" Her voice was sharp, her face a mask, but a glimmer in her eyes. He hesitated. "Barnes," she murmured gently, "it's okay. You know you don't have to do anything you don't want to do."
"No," he said, flexing the fingers. "You're right. I need to—to accept it."
The bathroom was very small; they didn't have to move much. She drew her leg back from where he'd positioned it on his lap and he leaned forward, balancing with his flesh arm on his knees, scooting forward closer to her. She leaned in as well and he watched her face carefully; her brow furrowed and her lips parted and she reached forward but caught herself, her hand faltering.
"It's alright," he said, offering a heavy, pained smile. "I touched yours; it's only fair."
"Are you sure? I know you don't like to be touched."
It was something he'd never said aloud, and he was startled that she noticed. He nodded. She bit her bottom lip and reached forward, touching the shoulder joint, her fingers skimming over the metal plates, tracing the star. He closed his eyes a little. It was strange; he couldn't feel the way he could with his flesh-and-bone arm, but he could feel pressure, vague sensation. But it was odd; the arm had never been touched without there being pain involved in some way or another, but her fingers were endlessly gentle. They skimmed down the bicep, to the wrist, where she gently lifted the hand and touched the fingers.
"Can you feel this?"
"Pressure and sensation," he explained.
She blew out a breath and he blinked a couple of times, watching her intently. "It's incredible—I mean, it's not, because of what they did to you, but in comparison…" She trailed off, her fingers skimming over the rough, angry scar tissue, and her jerked away at the skin-on-skin contact. She gasped. "Shit, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
"It's okay," he said, clearing his throat. Her eyes were still on the scar and he rotated the shoulder.
"Do you—do you remember?"
He laughed without humor. "One of the things I do remember," he said. "They didn't get it right on the first try. I actually had a lot more arm to begin with. But they hacked away a little more of me every time they tried out a new model… It's one of the things I dream about."
"I'm so sorry," she breathed. He'd been avoiding her gaze as he spoke, but he looked at her now, giving her a sad, crooked, vacant smile. He flexed the fingers again, shifting the uniform in his hands. He took a deep breath and slipped it over his head, reaching for the jacket, then the pants. Mo looked away as he put the pants on, and cleared his throat when he was dressed. He didn't want to face the mirror, not yet, not alone. His heart pounded.
He watched her eyes scan him as he stood over her, and a small smile took over her face. "You forgot the hat," she pointed out. He reached for it, avoiding the mirror, and held it between his hands.
"What?" he asked, noting that look on her face. She nodded at the mirror.
"See for yourself," she replied.
"I…" he paused. He was scared. What if nothing happened? What if something happened? Which would be worse?
"Take your time," she soothed, "we've got nothing but time."
He nodded, tossing the cap back and forth. It took him a couple minutes before he squared his shoulders and turned around, catching his reflection and freezing up. He looked—different. He couldn't explain it. Slowly he put on the cap, but it looked odd, felt odd. He wasn't sure what it was, but he adjusted it so that it sat a little crooked and he felt better. Right.
Mo came to stand beside him. She didn't press.
"I…" he stopped, squinting at himself. They were his eyes, but they weren't; his mouth, but it wasn't; his face, but not. "It's just an impression. Of—myself."
"Alright," she said slowly. "How does it feel?"
"I don't know," he said.
"Good? Bad?"
"Not bad," he said. "Just different."
She smiled at him, meeting his eyes in the mirror again. "Sgt. James Buchannan Barnes," she murmured, and he noticed she had a dimple in one cheek when she smiled, on the scarred side. "You look very handsome."
"I was," he said. "At least, I think I was. I don't know." He saw the hesitation on her face. "What?"
"It's just—you could ask Steve," she suggested. "He knows more about you than you do. If there's anything you want to know…"
He was silent for a moment. Then: "I think I want to try it myself, first," he said slowly. The idea of talking to Steve intimidated him, a little. His feelings towards him had changed, slightly, the murderous tendencies having faded a little. "I can feel something, almost like I want to remember, like I should remember, and that's more than I've felt in a while."
"That's good," she said.
"It feels close," he said, his hand clenching in frustration. She soothed him.
"Just relax," she said, "you can't force it."
He sighed. He wanted so badly to remember. He stared at his reflection for what felt like hours, and Mo never shifted or gave any indication of impatience, and he was grateful for that. He hated feeling so helpless, so childlike, and appreciated that her faith never seemed to waiver. Finally, he nodded, and she looked up at him. His heart thudded in his chest and he felt flighty, but he set his jaw.
"I think I should talk to Steve," he said hesitantly, looking at her for any signs of disapproval.
"Alright," she said. "We can do that."
"…now," he said, and she nodded. He could feel the memories, close, so close, and looking at the uniform, the tilted hat—
"It suits you, you know," she said, tugging on the jacket. "It just looks right." He felt the same way. He offered her a slightly-less-forced smile. "Do you want to keep the uniform on?"
At this, he hesitated. It felt right, and he could feel that it was helping, somehow—perhaps he had a lot of memories in it?—but he was sure he would feel foolish in it in front of Steve.
"What do you think?"
"I think," she said gently, "that if it helps, you should keep it on. You never know. Besides, it sounds like Steve went through a lot of trouble to hunt it down for you, and you don't need to be embarrassed in front of him."
He didn't realize it had been the answer he'd been hoping for until she said it. He nodded then, feeling a little more confident. She smiled.
"I'll go get him," she told him. "Stay put. You're going so well, James. I'm so proud of you. We all are." He looked away awkwardly. She never really called him James—only when she was being sincere or serious. But all the names—Bucky, James, Barnes—it didn't make the memory loss any easier.
"Hey—Moriah," he said, and she turned, hand on the door.
"Yeah?"
"Can you—do you think you could call me Bucky? It kind of helps, having everyone call me by the same name…"
"Only if you stop calling me Moriah," she said, wrinkling her nose in distaste. "Mo works just fine."
"Deal," he said, and she nodded and headed out, closing the door behind her. He took a steadying breath, squared his shoulders. He pushed his hair out of his face and adjusted the hat, squinting at himself. An impression, he thought. He looked the part, but he didn't quite feel it, and he hoped that he'd be able to handle talking to Steve well enough to unearth some of these memories.
He was so close.
Steve was bickering with Sam, teasing him, when he heard the familiar sound of Mo's limping gait. The pace was much quicker than normal and she was whisper-shouting his name. He twisted around in his seat as she rounded the corner, and the look on her face caused a surge of hope to flood him.
She was smiling – bigger than she'd smiled before, her green eyes huge and bright, her voice breathless with joy when she spoke.
"Steve!" she whisper-shouted. "You'll never believe it!"
He stood abruptly. He didn't want to believe it, he didn't know what to believe, he didn't want to get his hopes up, but—
"What?" he demanded. "What happened?"
Sam came to stand just behind him, and Mo was positively beside herself. She was practically shaking.
"He asked me to call him Bucky," she nearly squealed, and Steve felt his face fall. He had to be missing something. "Oh, don't look so excited," she drawled, rolling her eyes. "Don't you understand?"
"Apparently not," he said slowly, eyebrows drawing down.
She puffed out her cheeks. "He asked me to call him by one name because all the names were confusing him. And he chose Bucky. Don't you see?" Maybe, but he still wasn't certain. "It means he identifies with that name," she concluded, looking proud, and Steve smiled. A little step, but it was a step in the right direction, and it was something.
"Oh," she added offhandedly. "He wants to talk to you."
Steve nearly choked. "He—wants—to talk to me?"
"Don't look so surprised," she chided. "I told you it was only a matter of time."
"The uniform worked?" Sam asked.
"A little," she said, "but he said, basically, that Steve might help a little more." Her eyes cut to Steve. He felt more nervous than he had expected. "Relax, Captain," she said. "You've got this. Get those pictures and go talk to him."
"I'll be damned," Sam said, ruffling her hair. "You done it, kid."
"Not yet," she warned, squirming away from him as he laughed. "Steve, please be gentle, and be patient."
"Of course," he replied, mildly offended.
"And he kept the uniform on," she said, lowering her voice. "I think he's embarrassed, but I could tell he needed to, so I told him he should wear it. Don't make it weird." Steve gave her a look and she held her hands up. "Just saying," she said. She limped into the living room and grabbed the shoebox full of old pictures, newspaper clippings, an other ancient things. She handed it to Steve, whose mind was still buzzing.
Bucky wanted to talk to him.
He swallowed.
"Go get him, champ," Sam urged, slapping his shoulder, and Steve gave him a dirty look.
"Go on," Mo urged, her eyes hopeful, encouraging. "We'll be out here if you need us."
Steve nodded and squared his shoulders, leaving them behind and heading to the bathroom. He knocked three times and waited for a few moments before the door slowly opened, which in itself was amazing. Bucky never allowed anyone, least of all Steve, into his bathroom.
Bucky stood there, looking entirely lost, and Steve's heart went out to him. But seeing him there, dressed as he was the day he had shipped out, the last time Steve had seen him before the serum, back when they were both ordinary people… it was like a punch in the gut.
"Hey, Buck."
AN: Hope you enjoyed this! I sure did! We're going to be having a lot more chapters with positivity and moving forward. How do you guys feel about maybe seeing a flashback from Mo, about her accident? Let me know!
Also, just a little hint: I've always had it in mind that her accident tied into the Marvel movie canon in a way. ;)
Review, please!