Okay so last chapter I made it sound like the update slowdown was far off. I was wrong. From now on, it's one chapter every Saturday just so I can keep updating consistently. Otherwise this is gonna devolve into my other stories' updating patterns and that's...less than optimal.

8

The notebooks help. Bucky had tried to keep them organized at first but nothing about his mind has been or is organized and that bleeds onto the pages in writing that alternates between languages and writing styles. Sometimes Bucky doesn't even realize what language he's writing in until later.

He keeps the notebooks locked away except for the current one, which is hidden in his desk. Steve knows about the notebooks—knows how desperately Bucky writes every memory that sticks in his brain, knows that if Bucky ever loses his memory again he has to find the rest of them and if Steve thinks the reason behind Bucky writing is unhealthy he doesn't say anything.

He's writing the latest entry—a memory of something gritty, dirt under his nails—when Wilson knocks.

"Hey, Barnes. Can I come in?"

"One second."

Bucky finishes writing and closes the notebook.

"Okay."

"I'm coming in."

Wilson opens the door and steps inside. Bucky watches him from the desk, still save for his eyes. James is not around; ever since the robot attack, there have been times when he disappears. The room feels empty without him.

"Hey, man," Wilson says. "You doing okay?"

Bucky does a quick mental and physical assessment. Everything is normal, save for a slight lack of sleep and the need for nutrition. He nods.

"That's good, that's good." Wilson looks around. Bucky can see no judgment in his gaze. "Say, I'm leaving tonight for D.C., so I'm offering to make breakfast. Do you want some?"

Bucky blinks. "You're leaving?"

Wilson shifts. "Yeah. Gotta get back to my home, make sure everything's still running. I think I left shrimp in my refrigerator. And I gotta get back to my job."

The veterans. The ones like Bucky.

Bucky can't stand in the way of that, even though he finds the idea of Wilson leaving…disquieting. He is an easy presence in any room, one that Bucky has grown to rely on when his thoughts begin to run together. He will miss Wilson's ability to defuse a situation.

He doesn't say any of that. He just says, "Oh." And then, when his brain finally connects to his mouth, "I am hungry."

Wilson smiles. "Great. Hope you like skillets."

The kitchen is quiet except for the sounds of frying bacon and Wilson humming to himself as he cooks. It's—peaceful. Bucky picks up the newspaper but doesn't read it. Curiosity pokes at him.

"Where's Steve?"

"He's talking with Tony down in the labs," Wilson says.

Bucky knows why Steve didn't say anything to Bucky; Bucky can't go down there. He knows it would end badly. He still feels slighted by Steve's absence in a way he can't describe.

"He'll be back in a little bit," Wilson continues. He is quiet for a little bit, and Bucky turns to see him cracking eggs into a pan. "They'll be ready in a few minutes. Guess you're hungry, huh?"

Bucky nods.

Wilson is true to his word and soon Bucky has a skillet in front of him. It looks and smells delicious, and Bucky's stomach rumbles. He is hungrier than he had thought, so he eats quickly. Only after he's almost done does Wilson slide into place across from him with a skillet of his own.

Wilson takes a few bites, obviously savoring the meal. Then he swallows and his posture changes enough that alarms ring in Bucky's head.

"Steve told me about the Peggy situation," Wilson says, his tone casual and utterly calm.

Bucky sets down the fork in his right hand. It is now bent at an uncomfortable angle. The terrible desire to know Steve's reaction has the plates in the metal arm shifting. It takes focus to still them, and that distracts Bucky from the dread in his mind.

"What did he say." It's not a question, not really. Bucky already knows in the twisted parts of his brain; words laced with disappointment and regret because of what Bucky had done.

Sam takes a bite of his skillet just to draw out the agony and then sighs. "I think I can guess where your head is going, Barnes. And I feel obligated to say straight out that you're wrong."

Sure.

"Steve is stubborn, and when he sets his mind to something—whether that's punching an alien in the face or saving his friend—it's going to get done. He's not going to stop halfway."

A flash—

"You know I can't turn away from this fight, Buck."

Frustration and fear and anger wrapped up into a bundle so tight he can't even say anything and god dammit Steve I didn't want you here—

Bucky blinks and shakes his head. "Sounds like him."

He can't tell whether his voice comes out bitter.

He should really have more control over his tells.

"You tried to keep him out and he found his own way in," James says. Bucky glances up, sees the soldier leaning against the kitchen counter, his eyes pinched at the corners and his frown heavy. "There were arguments, in the beginning. And then you kind of…resigned yourself to it. Figured that if he wasn't going to leave the war, you weren't either." James takes a deep breath. "Someone had to watch his back, make sure that Steve Rogers didn't get swallowed up by Captain America."

"Barnes?" Sam says. Bucky refocuses on him, wipes away whatever emotion is showing on his face.

"I tried to kill Carter," Bucky says. The words are ashes on his tongue. "Three times."

Sam purses his lips for a moment. "You didn't. Three times."

Oh that was a great point until Bucky recalls how goddamned frustrated he had been, how he had been punished by his handlers and had accepted that punishment because it was his mission and he was supposed to carry it out, he was always supposed to complete the mission the mission was everything and if he didn't carry out the mission then why the hell did he even exist. That was what the Winter Soldier did: he completed missions. He did everything in the most efficient way possible, boxing away the pieces that didn't make sense until the electricity could carry them away and he could be made right again—

Bucky Barnes was nothing in his head and he had failed that mission and had felt anger towards that woman had felt anger towards himself until the electricity had burned the feelings out and he was back to being the goddamned perfect weapon.

"Barnes," Sam says again. "You weren't yourself. And I know—and Steve knows—that if you had truly understood what you were doing, if you could have stopped yourself, you would have. That's something you need to know."

He does know that, in some abstract kind of way. But that knowledge doesn't erase the memories the nightmares or the guilt. Nothing can. Nothing will.

(He's still the Winter Soldier he's just evolving now, just adapting and figuring out that the Soldier came second and there is a broken man buried beneath him.)

"Sam's still talking," James says.

"—atter what happens, Barnes, we're going to be here for you. Steve is not going to abandon you. What happened to you for all those years—it won't happen again."

The cynical part of Bucky wants to laugh. It wasn't supposed to happen in the first place; he was supposed to die in that ravine, but he hadn't. He was supposed to die so many times before that, but he hadn't.

(He was supposed to die to make the Soldier, but he hadn't.)

But Wilson is trying. So is Steve. And Stark, in his own way. And everyone else in this tower. They're all trying to help, despite what Bucky has done and the trouble he has caused.

And the cynicism in him can't find fault with all of them. Not this early, and not with warm food in his stomach and sunshine pouring in from the windows.

"I know," Bucky says. And he tries to believe it.

Wilson's absence becomes apparent almost immediately, but Steve compensates by pulling Bucky down to the common floor more often. He never does it when Bucky is having a bad day or is uncomfortable, but he doesn't let Bucky isolate himself either.

It's nice. Bucky thinks so, at least when his mind stops buzzing with static. James helps, calming Bucky down sometimes. Like a second voice in Bucky's head using logic to puzzle out what is setting Bucky off and how he can reduce the stress. It doesn't always work, but it helps.

He reads most of the time. Watches when reading isn't stimulating enough. And Steve must have some kind of sixth sense, because whenever Bucky starts to drift he is there, or he has sent someone else there, and it's frankly ridiculous when Barton walks over with hot cocoa so filled with whipped cream that it leans like the Tower of Pisa. Bucky just stares at him.

"Please take it," Barton says, "before my arm falls off. I overloaded the cream and I will now admit it was a mistake."

Bucky sets down his book and reaches out with the metal hand, catching the falling cream on his right hand and favoring Barton with a raised eyebrow.

Barton sighs. "Okay, yeah, this is a lot, even for me. But Nat isn't here to share and I really didn't feel like leaving the rest of the can of cream when there was barely enough for another cup. So, here we are."

Bucky eyes the cream still tottering over the edge of the mug.

"He's lying," James says. "But we're not gonna refuse this, are we?"

Bucky can smell the chocolate and cinnamon mixed into the drink. The aroma is intoxicating.

No, he is not going to refuse this.

"Thank you," he says. Clint smiles.

"No, thank you. I'd feel guilty having two all by myself."

Barton walks away, though Bucky feels that the way he moves is closer to sauntering when he is in a good mood.

(He used to walk like that. He's pretty sure. Before that excess motion was stripped away and Bucky was left with silent steps and a ghost haunting his every move.)

Some cream drips onto his hand and Bucky licks it off, raising an eyebrow at the taste.

"He hid powdered sugar in there," James mutters. "Clever bastard."

Clever indeed. Bucky focuses on getting the cream before it works its way between the metal plates of the metal hand. It's challenging, but he manages. The hot chocolate itself is worth the effort of getting through the cream, and Bucky has finished it before he realizes he is halfway done.

And then Barton is there, easy grin on his face. "You done?"

Bucky nods. Holds out the mug, and he's being efficient and only stops and realizes that when he sees Barton staring at him with something strange in his expression because there is a difference between moving with purpose and moving with efficiency because one always disturbs someone's sixth sense and Bucky hates that he has to focus on it to make himself stop. He injects humanity he copied from watching other people into his muscles and finishes the motion. Barton takes the mug as though he hadn't hesitated at all.

"You want seconds?"

"You said you were out of cream."

"On this floor. I'm sure Steve won't mind if I take some."

"Pretty sure Steve doesn't have any," James says. "Stark probably does."

Bucky repeats James's words.

"You're probably right. Say, JARVIS, does Tony have any whipped cream?"

"He does, but his refrigerator and pantry are armed with tamper-proof locks and I cannot open them without his permission."

Barton merely blinks. "Ah. Is there anywhere in this tower with cream? It's urgent."

"One moment."

Barton whistles a tune Bucky doesn't recognize, somehow making the pause while JARVIS scans less awkward.

"I have detected a can of the cream you desire on the floor you share with Agent Romanoff."

The way Barton freezes is almost comical. "She hid one from me?"

"It would appear that way," JARVIS says.

"I will be right back," Barton says. Bucky watches as he drops the mugs off in the kitchen, his mock-angry steps carrying all the way to the elevator until the doors ding shut.

"That guy," James says, and that's all he says. That's all he has to say.

For some reason, Barton's behavior is—not familiar, but. It strikes a chord within Bucky, some sensation or memory or something that eases muscles and loosens thoughts. His banter and tone are similar to Stark's yet grounded in a different world. One that Bucky suspects he knows more about than most.

Six other guys and Steve sitting around the fire, late-night firelight reflecting in their eyes and off their teeth when they flash smiles, needling each other and cracking jokes as though they aren't in the middle of a war.

Time slips by without Bucky noticing and he only gains the presence of mind to reach for his book mere seconds before the elevator doors slide open and Barton emerges with three unopened cans of whipped cream. Bucky had been half-expecting Steve to come through; he had gone to visit Carter, and it had taken more effort than Bucky cared to admit to get him to go alone. Steve is supposed to be back within the hour.

(Seeing Carter would be too much too fast and he couldn't handle that, couldn't go with Steve even though his refusal made pain flash in Steve's eyes.)

"I'm not a great judge," James mutters, watching as Barton walks with determined strides to the kitchen, "but that seems like too much."

Bucky is more focused on the strange substance coating half of Barton's body. It isn't dust; more like chalk.

"Before you ask," Barton called from the kitchen, "Nat set up traps. She probably had cameras put up." His voice drops lower, but Bucky's enhanced hearing still picks up his muttering. "If you think I'm gonna let you win the prank war with this, Nat, you've got another thing coming."

Bucky doesn't have a response for that.

Several minutes later, Barton offers Bucky his mug back, now refilled and steaming. Bucky takes it and Barton finds a seat nearby. When Barton drinks, he gains a white mustache across his upper lip—and, when he does it intentionally, a strong beard of cream on his face.

Bucky, seeing how strange Barton looks with his features smeared in whisked milk, is far more careful in how he handles his drink.

"Steve thinks we should talk," Barton says without preamble once they have finished their second round of hot chocolate and Barton has somehow cleared his face of cream.

"Of course he does," James says. "He always wants us to talk."

"Why," Bucky says, and it's not quite a question. Barton shrugs anyway.

"I went through a brainwashing stint," he says. He says it offhandedly, casting the words aside as though the ease with which he speaks them can hide the pain of a wound still healing.

Even James says nothing. Bucky tilts his head as he thinks, his mind running through what could have happened to Barton.

He is not enhanced; no serum running through his veins. It's therefore unlikely that Barton went through...reconditioning like Bucky did.

"Torture," James corrects. "Brainwashing. Awful, twisted, fucking sick mind games."

Therefore, unlikely that Barton worked with either HYDRA or the Soviets. Bucky tilts his head, finally coming up short of any real answers, which bothers him. So he meets Barton's eyes.

"Who?"

"A deranged god with a lowercase g," Barton says. "Believe it or not."

If the chatter Bucky has overheard in the couple of weeks since he emerged from Steve's floor, a god is not the strangest foe Steve and his friends have encountered.

And now a briefing comes forward in Bucky's head: Loki Odinson, brother of Thor and wielder of unidentifiable powers. Tried to bring an alien army through a portal in New York to conquer the world, but was stopped by the Avengers. There are more details, but Bucky's can't bring them into focus.

"He got in my head," Barton elaborates after a short pause. "Scepter. Glowy space rock. Touched me here—" he taps the center of his chest—"and I. Well." His smile is painfully tight. "I wasn't me anymore."

Something in Bucky's head prickles and James shifts uncomfortably.

"How long?" Bucky asks.

Barton huffs out a laugh that isn't a laugh. "Three days."

Bucky sees that he is telling the truth and waits for his mind to process the information and actually do something with it instead of leaving this blank slate. He finally manages to string three thoughts together and meets Barton's eyes.

"Do you remember?"

"Enough," he says with finality. "He pried my mind open and dumped something twisted inside that was never meant to be there. I've been—I've been working it out ever since."

Three days. Not long, relatively. But Bucky knows how much damage can be done in so little time. And they—Steve, whoever—probably thought that Barton would help. That someone with a similar experience could provide...comfort.

Bucky muses over Barton's words.

Something twisted dumped inside where it had no right to be. Awful, yes. But Bucky—Bucky knows that whatever the original Bucky Barnes was, the HYDRA scientists had just pulled out something in him that was already there and molded it as they desired. That anger, that cold rage and awful desire to be the best (firing shot after shot into the center of the target can't miss promoted I don't want—but I have to for Steve and I can't—no stopping have to be stronger have to be better can't be with him if I can't keep up—) had always been there and fuck what they did because it was beyond monstrous but it had a source.

The Winter Soldier isn't something new or strange or alien jammed into Bucky's brain; the Winter Soldier is Bucky, pulled past his limits, beyond his own mind, far past the point of humanity. And he's still in Bucky's head, a relapse waiting to happen (again) because Bucky's too fucking broken to piece himself back together again without walling off whatever's wrong so no one will notice, so Steve won't notice and think he's weak.

Can't even face the goddamned Winter Soldier in his own mind. Can't even face Steve. Can't do anything.

Barton takes a deep breath. "I know that what I went through can't compare to your experiences. They're not on the same scale. But...Nat and everyone else told me it wasn't my fault. Every single day they told me that, and at first I didn't believe them. I couldn't."

Bucky knows that not-quite-denial. He ignores the strange feeling of James's gaze on his back. Different scales, different sources, but Barton's experiences are the closest Bucky has got to his own.

"But they said it anyway even though I didn't believe them and guilt kept me up at night. And after a long-ass period of time I spent feeling like shit and acting like shit, I got help."

Barton pauses. Bucky can't figure out what his expression means.

"Did it help?" Bucky finally asks when he can't take the silence anymore.

"Yeah. But—" and Barton's mouth twists again—"that doesn't mean it went away. I still feel guilty and some things—a lot of things. Just. But my head got better."

Bucky considers his words. "You're here to tell me that it gets better."

"Yeah. Pretty much."

James snorts in the background. Bucky ignores him.

"I kicked a man into the moving rotors of a quinjet," Bucky eventually says. "I stood there and watched as he was shredded. I heard his scream get cut short and I heard the sounds of the rotors tearing him apart. I know what I did was wrong now, but then it was just a necessary action for the mission. Everything was for the completion of the mission." It's as close as he can get to saying what he actually means because he knows that if he gets into the truth of things he'll never get out.

So Bucky leans forward, weighing words in his head and ignoring the discomfort of parts of him rebelling against every sound he makes. "I…appreciate, what you're trying to do. I—if I need help. More help," he amends, "then I will ask. But until then, I can work on it myself. It's...safer that way. For everyone."

Bucky leans back. He glances at James, who nods, his lips pressed into a thin line.

"I know it will get better," Bucky continues when he finds his voice. "Because I'm here, now. And I know that every word I speak is progress. But it is really fucking hard to think I'm doing better sometimes."

"When your mind slips," Barton says. Bucky nods, seeing the pained understanding reflected in Barton's eyes. "I get it. But there's always something that brings you back. Say, you want a third cup? I left most of the ingredients out."

It's a clear way out of the heavier side of their conversation and Bucky gladly takes it.

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