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James grows more and more talkative every day. Sometimes he becomes the dust-covered army man and speaks much less, but those episodes are rare. Bucky realizes they correspond to his mood; on bad days, James is usually older.

Bucky knows there is an event that James's behavior as the dusty army man is caused by, but James will not admit it and Bucky is hesitant to ask Steve about what he suspects.

He does not want to see the pain in Steve's eyes.

"You're too hard on him," says James.

Bucky begins reassembling his pistol. "I'm being logical. If the lack of memories causes Steve pain, then I will not bring it up."

"But Steve is going to notice that you're avoiding it," James presses. "Besides, are you sparing him, or yourself?"

Bucky slides the receiver into place.

He doesn't know. He hates seeing that look on Steve's face. He does not want to cause that look. He does not want to see it. Acknowledge the reasons behind it. Realize that Steve is putting way too much faith in hi—

"I don't know," Bucky says.

"Don't run from this."

"I'm not running."

"Don't walk from this, then. We want to protect Steve—from what? What are we protecting him from by not saying anything?"

"Me," Bucky says, because it is the only thing that he can force out. "Me, and my actions."

"Why?"

"Because he will feel guilty," Bucky says, "and I don't want his worry or his pity."

"Stevie doesn't pity us."

Bucky frowned. "You don't know that."

"For chrissakes, pal, Stevie is gonna be the last to delve into pity. After all the nights we sat with him, he knows what pity feels like. And he knows he doesn't like it."

A memory—

A bed, shades drawn, the haze of sickness hanging in the air—

"I'm fine, Buck, honest."

"You'll be fine when you're not throwing up everything you eat, pal. Here, I got some crackers. Think you can keep those down?"

But.

"I don't want to tell him."

"Why not?"

The reasons don't matter.

They do.

But.

"I don't."

James is frowning. Bucky finishes reassembling the pistol, not sure when he had paused. He waits for James to push the issue.

He doesn't.

Bucky is on top of the climbing wall. He had waited for the vertigo again, even with James telling him it was dumb, but there is something linked to that feeling. Every time he looks down and blinks, his vision goes white instead of black. Bucky knows this feeling, in a way; a memory hovering just out of reach, pulled away from his head by electricity.

"They did wipe you mid-op," James mutters. "You remembered a little. Recognized Steve."

"But I knew him."

Bucky swallows, his mouth tasting like metal. Later. He can write this all down later.

He turns his attention to watching Wilson loop through the air, dodging obstacles newly built into the ceiling with whoops of excitement.

"I think he likes the new wings," says James. "Also, I want those wings. Put Stark's flying car to shame."

Bucky had not known that Stark had built a flying car, but he nods anyway.

"Buck!"

He looks down and sees Steve waving. After a moment's consideration, Bucky jumps, using the metal arm to catch himself on the rock until he is close enough to the ground to simply drop down. He straightens to see Steve raising one eyebrow.

"Are you showing off?"

"Yes," says James.

Bucky shrugs.

"Well, it's time for lunch. Do you want to eat on our floor?"

Steve always asks even though Bucky always answers yes.

"You can't hide forever," James says. "You've been in the same rooms as everyone. Maybe it's time to try eating with them."

The motors in the metal arm whir in response to Bucky's agitation and Bucky clenches his left hand into a fist to make them stop. He does not want to go into the room filled with people; he does not want to talk, he does not want to interact.

"Try," James says, and he's older and looking right into Bucky's eyes. Bucky presses his lips together.

"No," he says. Steve's expression flickers but he is smiling before Bucky can interpret the emotion.

"You want to eat with the others," he says, making sure he heard right. Bucky nods, ignoring the grin on James's face.

"Yes."

Steve claps Bucky on the shoulder—telegraphing his movement to give Bucky time to pull away if he wants—and then starts walking towards the elevator.

"You didn't flinch that time," James says.

Bucky blinks. He hadn't.

He follows Steve.

They have sandwiches for lunch. But not any sandwiches Bucky recognizes off the bat; Stark takes one that must have at least seven different ingredients while Steve hands Bucky one that could, conceivably, be ham and Swiss.

"You don't have to glare at the sandwich, Buck," Steve says. He grabs another sandwich and takes a bite. "See? They're good."

"Your eyes are watering," Bucky points out, and he only starts a little when Barton laughs.

"Steve loses!" Barton declares.

"Oh thank god," Stark says, setting his sandwich down. Seeing the looks he is getting from the others, he frowns. "What? Sandwich spice roulette is stressful."

"You guys are jerks," Steve says, and Bucky hands him another sandwich and a glass of water. "At least you're on my side."

Debatable. Steve's face is a funny shade of red, and the others' reactions show that this is not anything unusual.

"I wonder what they would've done if you'd gotten the spiced one," James mused.

Steve would've flipped. Bucky doesn't know about the rest of them.

"So there's only one sandwich with dangerous amounts of spice in it?" Romanoff asks. She has not taken a bite out of hers. Neither has Barton; they are watching Stark. Bucky wonders how deep their habits of watching for poisons goes.

He takes a bite of his sandwich, making sure not to look at either Romanoff or Barton. Ten seconds later, they begin eating as well.

Banner is not at lunch.

He is not at dinner, either.

"Do you think he's okay?"

"It's not my business," Bucky says, switching to one-handed push-ups. It's awkward with the metal arm; he still has to train both sides of his body, but the metal arm pulls at his chest and makes his spine and ribs burn. But it's pain he's familiar with, and he finishes his push-ups with gritted teeth and sweat dripping into his eyes.

"He seems like a calm guy," James continues, sitting against the nearby wall with a toothpick hanging from between his lips. "More than the others, at least."

"It's not my business," Bucky repeats. He grabs some water, his heartbeat already returning to normal.

The climbing wall beckons, but his muscles itch for something different. He has already tried the shooting range, but getting the same results over and over got repetitive. The metal arm doesn't waver—

Pain from his shoulder dislocation head pounding too much going on target climbing can't let him climb have to stop have to shoot can't shoot can't focus can't aim stop the target don't make me do this stop the target complete the mission—

"Hey!"

Bucky blinks. James is staring at him, and Bucky realizes that his water bottle has spilled all over. Water drips from his forearm to the floor.

Bucky slowly unclenches his right hand. He puts the cap back on the bottle. Sets it down.

Heads for the climbing wall.

"Where is Banner?"

Steve looks up from his sketchbook. "Banner?"

Bucky nods. "He has not been down in two days. Where is he?"

"Uh." Steve shakes his head a little. Bucky wonders why the question takes so much time to answer. "He's—uh, probably in his room. He might be having a bad day. Days," he amends quickly.

Bucky knows about bad days. He wonders why Banner—the calmest of the lot—has to deal with them too. And then he thinks about what he has seen of the other man, and recalls the tea he drinks with religious regularity. He follows a routine every morning, one that pastry incidents and petty squabbles can't disturb. Every morning, newspaper and tea. And Bucky had noticed that routine immediately, and so he only asks for sections of the paper after Banner is done with them.

Because the one time he hadn't, Banner had shown the faintest signs of panic.

So Bucky says, "Oh," and he leaves it at that.

Banner is back at dinner, and no one says a word. Not even James. That does not mean the meal is silent; Stark is a nonstop stream of chatter and Banner seems to be the usual recipient. Barton and Romanoff talk in multiple languages, occasionally dragging Steve and the others into their conversation.

Bucky feels his lips twitch when Romanoff calls Stark an idiot in three different languages. But he keeps an eye on Banner. He can't stop.

Because now he recognizes the plain features, the dark hair and average stature, things he hadn't noticed during his first few encounters with Banner when he had been too caught up in trying not to crawl out of his own skin.

Bruce Banner. Genius scientist who experimented with gamma radiation. Rendered the Hulk through an accident.

Bucky grits his teeth; he had been briefed about Banner. About the Hulk. Advised to immediately retreat upon sighting the green monster. Advised to sedate Banner if he encountered him on a mission. Banner was not a threat to HYDRA, not when he was on the run. But the Hulk is a threat to everyone—

"Buck?"

Steve is staring, his eyes pinched with concern. Bucky blinks. He does not know what prompted Steve to say his name, but it is enough to drag Bucky from the unpleasant memories of the briefing.

"I'm fine," Bucky says. He can feel the others' gazes, discreet though they may be. He needs to change their focus, and his eyes find Steve's plate.

A plate that still has a suspicious amount of food on it. He is speaking without realizing what he is saying.

"Stevie, are you seriously not finishing your food?"

Steve drops his fork. Bucky's mind goes to static.

Stark's voice interrupts the roaring in Bucky's ears.

"What do you mean, there's no dessert? JARVIS, get me the chocolate cake from that bakery down the street. The good one. And double the frosting. I want sprinkles."

Bucky focuses on him instead of the look on Steve's face, and Stark is just glaring at the ceiling as though he hadn't heard Bucky at all. Romanoff looks at Stark.

"Tony, you know I prefer marble."

"I'm pretty sure your preference is whatever I don't get," Stark retorts. "JARVIS, make it two cakes."

"Noted, sir."

"I don't understand," Bucky says, crossing his legs and watching the way the sheets on his bed rumple as a result. "Why would he do that?"

"He's a nice guy once you get past the parental issues, anxiety, and PTSD," James replies dryly. "I don't know, pal. I don't have all the answers, I just pretend to."

Bucky frowns, but he can't argue with that. James is supposedly him, after all. Anything Bucky doesn't know, James doesn't know.

"Except for all the stuff before Insight," James said.

Bucky's eye throbs. "Yeah. Except that."

"Technically."

"Why did he treat me like he did, then?" Bucky says. "Not introducing me to Hill even after I left the room. Left Steve's floor."

"Think about it," James says. "If you had met the head of security right away, what would you have thought?"

That I was threat. That they knew I was a threat.

And that is headache territory. The motors in the metal arm hum and Bucky knows he has to calm down, so he adjusts his position and tries to meditate as Sam had described.

Bucky takes a deep breath, focusing his mind and pushing thoughts of James and security and threats to one side. Static hums in every crevice of his mind, a terrible cold emptiness yawning in all the spaces Steve has not filled with his presence.

He drifts around the holes patched with shattered fragments of memories and finds a quiet space. Not silent, not oppressive, but quiet.

He stays there, gradually expanding his awareness to encompass his entire body, and then the room beyond. After an indeterminate amount of time, he pushes beyond the walls and listens to the occupants around the building with what his enhanced senses can glean.

Steve is the kitchen, his shifting hands causing the faint rustling of newspaper.

Potts is in the elevator with a small entourage, their voices echoing through the vents. Bucky cannot hear Stark with her.

More familiar voices and sounds bounce around, sources unclear. None are threatening, though Bucky archives them for comparison later, just in case something new appears.

A person Bucky cannot identify is at the opening of a vent several floors down. Her presence is an uneasy note in the scheme of recognizable voices and Bucky tracks her movement until she drifts out of his awareness.

One second to draw back into himself, one more to get to the wall.

Three knocks.

"AI. Who is the woman three floors down."

"She is an employee, Sergeant. Eliza Manuel. I am sending her background and other relevant data to your device."

Bucky checks the phone. It is Stark's. Modified, but Bucky believes—if not in Stark—then in the AI. He has not found any bugs in the device, and JARVIS has not led him astray yet.

"And it's sassy," James says.

JARVIS has made good on his—its?—word, and sent the data. Bucky spends several minutes paging through it, and the exercise is as calming as the meditation. He finds no issue with the woman's background, though he will be keeping an eye on the hallways. A short patrol will be in order that night.

"Thank you."

"You're quite welcome."

Two knocks on the door, and Bucky had heard Steve approaching so he doesn't jump.

"Buck? I made breakfast. Scrambled eggs and bacon. There's sausage, but I wasn't sure if you would want any. Oh, and Banner dropped off some of your…smoothies."

"Smoothies? That's being generous," James mutters. "They're disgusting. Like expired beans covered in shoe leather and grass."

Bucky remembers worse things forced upon him. Testing his digestive limits, his resistance to poisons and other toxins. But Steve is waiting, so Bucky stands and slides the phone into his pocket.

"Coming."

Steve has moved back to the kitchen in the time it takes Bucky to get there, his back to Bucky while he stirs the eggs in the pan. Bucky suspects he has been waiting to see whether Bucky was really coming, but Bucky doesn't say anything.

"Are they better than last time, Steve?" Bucky asks when the silence becomes awkward.

Steve's ears go red. "Shut up. That was an accident."

Bucky's lips quirk. He and James speak in unison, saying, "Burning something like that is never an accident."

"Jerk. Serve yourself, then."

But hesitation jumps into place before his words, and Bucky hasn't missed the slight jolt that passes through Steve's posture in the microsecond before he stifles it.

"Hold on, don't withdraw," James says quickly. "Maybe it's fine. You just startled him. I'm sure it's okay."

Bucky thins his lips and Steve glances over, his own plate already full. He has an easy smile on his face, but his eyes betray him. "I think we drank the last of the orange juice the other day. I haven't been out to get more yet."

"Pardon me, Captain," JARVIS says, "but I can request some for you."

"Uh, no thanks. I like going to the market."

A person can live their entire lives indoors these days.

"Yeah, it used to be way different," James says. He's sitting on the counter. He leans and looks at the eggs. "To be fair, lotsa stuff is better now. And when it gets really cold, not having to go outside all the time will be nice."

It's only autumn. The real cold is still a month away.

Bucky notes that he will have to stock up on warmer clothes and blankets. He does not want to deal with freezing temperatures without proper protection. And the idea of exposing his skin to that—any part of him—sends shudders down his spine. Snow holds bad memories. Low temperatures, too.

Anything at all.

Fuck.

"Thanks, JARVIS. I'll keep your recommendations in mind."

"You're welcome, Captain."

Steve hands Bucky a plate and Bucky puts as much food as he feels comfortable eating on it. He then snags one of Banner's smoothies from the fridge, his mind flinching away from the color. The man had given him a list of ingredients, even allowed Bucky to watch him prepare the drinks, but Bucky will never be used to them.

"Say, Buck," Steve says after he finishes. Bucky glances up, a piece of bacon still hanging from between his lips. "You can finish chewing, you dope."

Bucky chews and swallows before raising an eyebrow in a silent bid for Steve to continue.

"I know you've got a thing for Tony's climbing wall, but—if you want—I'd be happy to spar with you. Nothing serious, but I wouldn't mind a warm-up buddy."

James snorts. "He needs a warm-up buddy like you need a stand for your sniper rifles. Convenient, but unnecessary."

Bucky ignores James. The last time he had considered changing his routine, he hadn't managed to implement any of the available alterations. But now Steve is offering, and in a way that Bucky can refuse if he feels it is necessary.

He can try. In any case, he does not want his skills to become too rusty. Part of that comes from the pieces in his mind that Bucky avoids, but he reminds himself that if he lets his skills degrade, he will become a hindrance to Steve. He does not want to be a hindrance to Steve.

(Something about that feeling is familiar, but the sensation slips away before he can focus on it.)

"I'll help you warm up," Bucky says. "I just have to change."

"Of course," Steve replies. "Meet in the gym in…ten minutes?"

Bucky nods. They finish their breakfasts quickly, and Bucky actually manages to chug the smoothie and not have any of it come back up.

He does not know exactly what the buzzing in the pit of his stomach is. It could be anxiety or anticipation.

Perhaps it is both.

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