A/N: I'm so sorry this chapter has been delayed! I hope the one shot that I posted earlier this week was enough to tide everyone over in the meantime.

They move out of the common area and toward the floor of the tower where Steve sleeps. James isn't sure why; no one else was around the communal space and JARVIS and possibly Tony will be able to hear them wherever they go. Perhaps it provides the illusion of privacy. He thinks privacy is important to people, though he isn't sure why. HYDRA never allowed him to have it.

He ends up sitting on Steve's bed, which strikes him as a strange place for a punishment. If this is a punishment. James still isn't sure exactly what a lecture entails and decides that now would not be the best time to ask JARVIS to provide a definition. Steve stays standing, though he adjusts his position so that the exit is clear. James sits, silent, waiting for Steve to begin.

But Steve looks as lost as James feels. He begins to speak, breaking off as he shakes his head. His hands clench and he begins again. "Clint and Natasha told me what happened in DC. How you tried to go back to HYDRA."

James does not speak.

"They told me that you chose not to." Steve's weight shifts, as though he wants to pace or strike something but won't allow his body the movement. "That you decided on your own not to be a weapon again."

It's not entirely true—it's because of the things Rumlow said that James decided returning wouldn't help—but he is not going to contradict Steve. His friend is struggling to speak as it is without James adding complications.

"I—I'm proud of you, Bucky," Steve says, though he doesn't look it. James vaguely remembers the faces of his handlers on occasions when he had failed to fulfill an objective, and that is how Steve looks. In a way, that's exactly what has happened. His objective was to be Steve's best friend and like Barnes, he has failed. Unlike Barnes, this time Steve is aware of his shortcomings as well. "I'm really proud of you for that. I am."

He pauses, sighs. Their eyes meet and in that instant, James can see every year of Steve's true age reflected in his face, though his features remain young and smooth as always.

"But I won't say," Steve continues, "that I'm not angry."

There is pressure building throughout the room, stifling the air. James cannot tell if the force emanates from Steve or if it is forming at some point between them. Whatever the source, the strain is growing and James can only wait for it to burst free.

It isn't long before it does, and when the break occurs it comes from Steve.

"I was worried sick I never wanted to let you go in the first place I should never have allowed it unless I was with you but I trusted them to take care of you and not to lie to my face I trusted you to let us help you and to tell me or Sam or someone if you were unhappy instead of waiting until I was halfway across the country to run back to the people who kept you locked up and treated like an animal."

He pauses. His lung capacity is such that even a sentence that long should not wind him, but Steve still looks out of breath. His eyes are wet.

James thinks that the odds of becoming a decent enough person to overcome these transgressions are very low.

"Why?" Steve says.

James is not sure if that question is rhetorical, so he waits.

"Why would you ever go back to HYDRA? If I've—if I've done something wrong, something so terrible that you have to leave, you can't even talk to me to tell me what it is, okay, but HYDRA? They tortured you, Buck. They turned you into a mindless weapon and they used you to hurt innocent people. How could you go back to that? How could you ever choose to let yourself become their tool? Even if your own life doesn't matter to you, what about the people you would have killed?"

"I didn't want to hurt anyone," James whispers. He did not mean to interrupt and he has no right to try and defend his actions, but he cannot keep the words from spilling out.

"What did you think would happen if you went back? You're not stupid, Bucky. I don't know what you are, but you're not stupid. And I've never thought of you as selfish, but I can't see how you were thinking of anyone else in this but yourself and whatever gratification you thought they would give you."

James can feel himself crying, which is only proving Steve's point. He is selfish, he has always been selfish, and despite what Steve said about stupidity, James must be an idiot if he thought he could hope to change that. At least Steve sees him now for what he is. He won't protest when James tells him he has to leave. He will welcome his absence.

Or so he should. In actuality, Steve is now on the bed beside him, holding onto James's hand. "Bucky? What's wrong? Bucky, come on, talk to me."

How is it that Steve is capable of listing all the flaws James possesses in one breath before comforting him in the next? Why would he want to? James cannot make sense of it, but he thinks that evil cannot really comprehend good.

"Please, Buck. I can't help if I don't know what's wrong. Please talk to me?"

Steve phrases it as a request. As though James does not owe him answers even after all James has done wrong. It makes him choke and sputter and it's all he can do to force out, "Selfish. I…selfish. Had…go back."

"What do you mean?" Steve is brushing the hair from his eyes and James cannot help but lean into the touch as if it's something he deserves.

"Selfish." His mind is a mess of emotions and sparks and, as is frequently—infuriatingly—the case, the words disappear beneath a haze of smoke. "Barnes was…after serum. Was mad you were better. Didn't need him. Selfish. And now…me…I'm bad too. And." He shakes his head, points to Steve. "Deserve better. Deserve real friend."

He stops the rambling, ugly mess that passes as language and waits. Waits for Steve's face to fall, waits to be struck. But Steve isn't going to strike him. He's too good to do that, even when he should. No, he'll step away and dismiss him and maybe even look into James's eyes when he does, and then he'll go and scrub at his skin until he's no longer soiled by their contact.

But he doesn't. He grabs onto James and pulls him so close that it hurts. "For God's sake, Buck." His voice is breaking. "That's normal. That's human. You aren't bad."

James tries to pull away—he has to make Steve understand—but he can't. Each time he tries the hold is tighter, the hand rubbing at his back firmer. "I am bad—"

"Shh." It sounds like both consolation and an order. Steve is hugging too tight for James to see his face and determine the intent of the sound. "It's okay. You're confused. We'll help you. You're my best friend, Bucky. Whatever you think you did, it's okay."

"I'm self—"

"I asked you to come back into the war with me after you were tortured and used as a lab rat." Steve's pulled him so close he's going numb and James isn't sure if he should struggle or press into the feeling. "I could have had you sent home, but I wanted you with me. I knew you were traumatized but I let the battles distract me and just hoped it would work out okay. I worried more about Peggy's wellbeing than yours. You fell off that train trying to protect me. If you're bad and selfish then I'm a hundred times worse, you jerk. So just shut up and let me take care of you like I should have back then, all right?"

"I—" Steve never lies. But Steve is good. It has to be different; there must be a distinction that James is lacking. "Not understand."

"You're my best friend." He loosens his grip just enough so that their eyes meet. Steve's gaze is as steady and honest as ever. "You always have been and you always will be. When I realized you hadn't died—that was the first time since I woke up that I was doing anything more than just surviving. That I was actually living again. And whatever uncharitable thoughts you had after your world had been torn apart, or whatever you think while you're breaking through decades of brainwashing, could never make me think less of you."

James feels himself go limp in Steve's arms. He is experiencing an overload of thoughts and emotions, most of which he can't identify, and his body collapses under the strain. His head rests on Steve's shoulder, mouth working silently as he struggles to form coherent thoughts. "But—"

"Listen to me, Bucky, okay? This is important. I want you to repeat this. I am not bad. Say it."

He bites his lips; he is programmed to be honest.

"C'mon, Bucky. I know you can say it. I am not bad."

"I am…I am not bad?"

"Good." Steve's hand strokes through his hair before that arm loosens from around him. He locates James's own hand and intertwines their fingers, holding tight. "I know you don't understand it. But I want you to keep saying it, all right? Every time you think you're unworthy or that you've done something wrong. Just say it. We're going to help you through this, all of us, but you have to believe it too."

"I am not bad." Believe it? How can he? James shuts his eyes and tries to think of anything he has done that could be considered good. Dum-E had liked the stars. He turned the IVs back on so Rumlow would not feel pain. Lucky had seemed to enjoy being petted. Were those good?

"Perfect, Bucky. That's perfect."

Perfect. In spite of himself, James feels a fluttering in his chest at that. "I am not bad." If Steve thinks he is perfect, James can almost believe he could be good.