Unfortunately, the updates will be slowing down at some point. I can only write so quickly. I will try to provide warning when I switch to once-a-week chapters.

7

There are more flashes. A woman with a smile that cuts; Steve staring at her with something Bucky doesn't recognize in his eyes; a general with exhaustion lining his features; a genius with a knack for trouble; a group of soldiers who laugh and bleed in equal measure.

He wakes up.

He's on the floor. A glance at the clock shows that only thirteen minutes have passed. Steve's wallet is open in front of his face, the picture of James Barnes still grinning at him.

Bucky sits up. He shuts the wallet, puts it back on the counter. His hand is shaking. The metal one is steady but cold and when Bucky gets to his feet he has to brace himself against the counter to avoid falling from sudden dizziness.

There had been a picture behind the one of him. Bucky takes a few deep breaths. After a minute he checks the wallet again, sees the picture behind his own. The sharp woman's profile stares at him, a smile on her face as though she knows there is a gun pointed at Bucky's head that he can't see.

He can't remember her name, but she has to be important if she's in Steve's wallet.

He's in Steve's wallet.

Breathe.

"Are you quite all right, Sergeant?"

He jumps at the sound of JARVIS's voice. There are knives in his hands. When did he—

"Hey, you're okay," James says. "Just JARVIS. We're in the Tower. Steve just left."

Bucky blinks, shakes his head. Puts the knives away. "I'm fine."

"As you say."

He is alone again. Steve is—at the store. Or venting. Bucky doesn't know, and he can't bring himself to care.

Bucky goes to his room. He doesn't turn on the lights. He kicks the door closed and falls into bed only after he sweeps the room and god dammit he wishes his muscles didn't crawl at the thought of walking into a room without expecting an attack.

He closes his eyes.

Go the fuck to sleep, Barnes, he thinks.

Somehow, he does.

When Steve comes back five hours and thirty-two minutes later, Bucky can smell the sweat dried on his clothes and see the tiredness bunched under his eyes.

Bucky had woken an hour ago. He has moved back to the couch, a book in his hand that he is not reading. Time has passed in fits and starts since the picture and so when Steve enters Bucky nearly drops the book (he manages to set is down on the cushion before he really does drop it) and stands while doing a poor job of hiding his surprise and worry.

"Steve?"

The blond falls into one of the armchairs and releases a sigh befitting his super-soldier lungs.

"I'm sorry for bailing on you. And for not actually getting groceries." He looks genuinely guilty.

"Of course he's guilty," James says. "God forbid Steven Grant Rogers have emotions."

Pal.

"There's still food in the pantry," Bucky says.

"Yeah, I guess. Still. I shouldn't have left you."

Bucky doesn't have to look at James to know what expression he is making. Bucky instead frowns at Steve, even though it twists his stomach to do so. "I can handle myself, Steve. I think I can go a few hours on my own."

"I was gone for almost six."

"Only if you round up."

"Bucky—"

"Steve." Bucky glances to the side, unable to meet Steve's eyes anymore. He searches for a new topic; Steve is clearly tired, which means he won't have the energy to feel guilty. So Bucky goes with the question that has been hanging in the back of his mind for days now. "Why were you angry earlier?"

Steve shifts. "Tony and I—"

"Not that," Bucky interrupts. If he doesn't bring this up now, he never will, and it will bug him until he can't take it anymore. "The scans." He indicates his metal arm. "You were angry about the arm."

Steve shakes his head a little, his worry lines getting deeper. Bucky can see him juggling the words in his head, trying to decide the best way to phrase them. But then Bucky shifts and sees Steve give up on that. "The way that it's anchored to your body. All the metal. Replaced muscle. And the way they had to change your body to counterbalance—" He stops. Continues. "It's just. Awful." Another pause. "Inhumane."

They didn't do it so badly that Bucky can't function, Bucky feels inclined to point out. But he knows that is the wrong thing to say, so he searches for something else. Steve has answered the question and he's still looking awful; he needs to be distracted from whatever guilt is still eating at him.

"You left your wallet on the kitchen counter."

"What? Oh. Thanks. I'll—I'll get it in a sec."

"He's doing the thing," James says. "I don't know exactly what Stark said to him, but it hit Steve where it hurts. He's drawing into himself."

Bucky can't watch Steve do this. He clears his throat. "I remembered something, earlier." While you were gone goes unsaid.

Steve meets his eyes. There is a desperate need there for a split second and then it is shoved away and Bucky doesn't know what to make of the fact that his memory pulls Steve back to reality so readily other than that it sits in his stomach like a stone. "Can I ask what it was?"

Bucky nods, bracing himself. He can recount the episode in the tent, describe what happened. But that is a bad memory, one that Steve doesn't know about and shouldn't because clearly the old James Barnes hadn't wanted Steve to know about it even before this current clusterfuck.

So he goes with the memory that comes first to his tongue, one that he hopes will make Steve feel better.

"There was a woman. Sharp smile."

Steve's eyes narrow. "A woman? One of your girlfriends?"

Bucky shakes his head. "I—no. If anyone's, yours."

"Peg?" Steve says, and he speaks as though saying her name too loudly will chase Bucky's memories away. "You remember Peggy?"

Her name stirs something more in Bucky's head but he shakes it off. "That's her name?"

Steve nods. "I—we—Peggy, yeah. Margaret Carter. She hated it when someone she was close to used her full name."

Bucky's memory convulses so hard that his metal arm jerks in protest but Bucky isn't in the room anymore.

"They sent me after her," Bucky says, and his voice is far away and he can see his hands but not really, because in them is a rifle and he is on a rooftop staring down the sights at a woman with hair like muted fire and lips that bleed when she smiles.

He sees her stop, turn, her back now facing him and he tightens his finger on the trigger because from here it will be a clean shot through her heart.

The blood will spray down her shirt, a red stream—

A red dress—

"I couldn't do it," Bucky says, blinking. He closes his hands into fists. This isn't right, stop talking. This isn't what he wanted, Steve—

He remembers frustration, confusion. Flashes of images he did not understand because they were not important for the mission. "Three times. Three failures. The second time—she…" She what? She did something. He can't remember fuck stop talking—"Fired back. She shot me."

From a distance, facing the sun. He had picked his location because anyone looking would be blinded, but she had noticed and fired back. Hit him in the arm. Shoulder. Metal on metal, but enough to distract. He had fled to avoid detection.

He had been punished. But where the Winter Soldier failed, no one else would succeed.

Margaret Carter had slipped through HYDRA's grasp.

Bucky says as much before he finally gets control over his voice again, and Steve gets a look on his face that is at once proud and devastated and sad.

"Buck," he starts, and Bucky realizes what's coming and he's standing somehow and when Steve gets up he backs up a step, he's searching for a way out and his heart is pounding. He can't talk about this anymore. He hadn't meant to talk about it in the first place. It was supposed to be happy. To help. To comfort.

Steve freezes and the small amount of pride is swallowed up in an instant. Bucky feels cold but knows he can't stay, knows that staying will make things worse and he has to go, now.

"I'm sorry," he says, stepping back again. Steve reaches out and Bucky tenses.

Steve drops his hand.

Bucky flees.

Later that night, when moonlight is seeping through Bucky's curtains, Steve knocks.

"Buck? Can I come in?"

In theory, Bucky should be asleep. Of course he isn't, but the idea that he should be is what keeps him awake. So he turns his head to watch the door.

"Yeah."

The door opens and light from the hallway spills in around Steve's silhouette. Bucky sits up, propping himself against a pillow and ignoring the way his heart rate picks up.

"Can I sit?" Steve asks, gesturing to the bed. Bucky bites his lip.

"Let's give him a chance," James says. "It's Steve. He's not gonna hurt us."

Right. But Bucky might hurt him with more memories that cut like broken glass.

He takes a deep breath. Nods.

"Can I turn on the lights?"

Bucky knows what he looks like. The dark circles under his eyes, hair that should have been washed days ago. Clothes rumpled beyond repair thanks to hours spent lying in them. His appearance would just make Steve feel worse.

"No."

They can both see well enough in the dark, anyway. Bucky knows that Steve's serum enhanced his vision, possibly more than Bucky's. But the lack of light is just enough of a barrier to make Bucky feel less nervous.

When Steve sits, the entire bed dips and Bucky watches the soft light from the hallway paint grooves into his face. For a while, Steve doesn't say anything. He fiddles with the hem of his shirt and stares at the opposite wall.

Then he squares his shoulders and glances at Bucky, and his expression is pained but his tone is gentle.

"Today was a bad day. And I—I really appreciate that you tried to help, Bucky. You didn't have to. And I'm—I'm sorry that I couldn't keep it together, and I made you think there was something wrong. You didn't deserve anything like that. So…I am so sorry. Can we agree that today was shitty, and tomorrow is another chance?"

Bucky doesn't need to look at James. He carefully shifts to sit next to Steve. The gesture is awkward; Steve's height is wrong and sitting makes the angle strange but he grabs Steve by the shoulder, close to his neck, and squeezes a little. It's awkward with the metal arm, hard to judge how much pressure is enough. He goes by Steve's expression and then stops after a few seconds.

"Yeah. I'd like that."

Steve's eyes water and he returns the gesture, but when he pauses in response to Bucky stiffening Bucky shakes his head.

"It's okay."

Steve looks like he desperately wants to say something, do something, but he pushes it down.

"I'm gonna go to bed," Steve says, standing. Bucky's shoulder feels cold. "Let me know if you need anything, okay?"

"Okay."

Bucky visits Steve two hours later. Steve is sleeping, limbs tossed among the covers and his chest rising and falling with a smooth, steady rhythm. He has a beanbag chair in one corner of his room. It's big, soft, and obnoxiously Steve. Getting into it without disturbing Steve is a challenge, but Bucky manages. He falls asleep in that chair, somehow. Not for long; he wakes up before Steve. But his lungs are taking in more air now and when he rises, his body feels lighter.

"Might be time to get to your own bed, pal," James says from the doorway. Bucky waves acknowledgement.

He is tired. The metal arm drags on his left side, even though Bucky knows in his bones that it is perfectly balanced.

The weapon cannot function if it is not calibrated—

He manages a few more snatches of sleep. Sweating and shaking upon waking up aside.

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