Operation Hindsight

by WintersSunrise

In 2024, Jack Rollins travels back in time to 2014 to make sure Project Insight succeeds, hoping to create a new timeline where Hydra rules the world. Bucky Barnes and Sam Wilson follow him. Thanks to Fictitious for beta reading!

7. Lethal Duckling

He woke to a smell. Pungent. Enticing. Coffee.

His right arm hurt—a deep ache that went all the way from his shoulder to his hand. He couldn't feel the left one. There was something hard and warm pressed against his back.

His heart pounded faster. The rhythm of his pulse was a distant echo in his ears.

His eyelids felt glued shut. It took a monumental effort to open them, and his surroundings came in and out of focus. He was in a room, more spacious and luxurious than it had any right to be. A rumbling sound was to his right, and he tilted his head, holding his breath until his eyes spotted his right arm, encased in something, but at least the limb was still attached to him. Sam was slouched in a plush chair with one leg draped over the arm and his head tilted back at an odd angle, snoring.

Where were the others? Was everyone all right? He probed his memory. It all came back to him. Fighting with Tony. Diving toward Natasha.

Was she okay? Where was Steve? If he wasn't in the room, maybe he was keeping his distance… Finally. It's not like he could complain. It's what he wanted, after all.

Bucky tilted his head to the left and saw the soldier sitting rigidly in an armchair. The kitten was curled up on his right shoulder, half hidden by the dark veil of hair. The Soldier's eyes were fixed on him, rimmed with red and slightly puffy. When was the last time anyone had told him to sleep?

It had taken him nearly a week to fall asleep after walking away from the riverbank. He'd dropped from exhaustion in an abandoned subway tunnel. Then the nightmares came. Nightmares of falling off the train, having his shoulder carved away by men in masks, of his metal fist caving in the right side of Steve's skull, pushing straight through the bone into the brain matter as the helicarrier plummeted toward the Potomac.

He went months without solid sleep, catching two or three hours every couple of days. If Hydra hadn't been in such tatters, they would've found him. He was running on fumes, sometimes blacking out and waking up in a strange place, with no recollection of how he got there.

"You should get some sleep," he whispered, but his voice was scratchy and it came out as a croak.

He needed to move. There was a persistent pressure in his bladder, and whatever he was wearing on his lower half was wedged in an uncomfortable place.

The Soldier tilted his head a fraction but remained in the chair. The response told Bucky that the control of the code words had faded. The kitten stirred, turning squinty eyes in his direction that went suddenly big and round. With a mew, she tumbled off the Soldier's lap and careened like a drunk cotton ball toward the bed, disappearing for a few seconds until her paws appeared at the edge, followed by her head.

"Your fangirl sure is happy you're awake."

Bucky looked over at Sam, who was now leaning forward in the chair and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. A cup of coffee sat discarded on the nightstand.

The kitten climbed him like a piece of furniture and settled at the top of his stump, near the crook of his neck. They really should start discouraging her from climbing people. Not everyone had his pain tolerance.

Bucky's mouth was dry. His throat felt like sandpaper, but he managed to push out something coherent. "How is everyone?" Where's Steve? "Natasha?"

Sam gave an easy smile that was reassuring. "Natasha is fine."

If Sam didn't look worried, Steve had to be fine.

"Stark?"

"He's okay, too." Sam glanced at something just over Bucky's head as he pushed himself out of the chair and stretched his back.

"Wanda?"

"She and Pietro are in the Cage on the Bus, together, being treated well, all things considered. I think she's seen the light thanks to you, and hopefully they can be integrated into the Avengers and she can lead a better life this time around…without having to lose her brother and Vision."

Knowing Wanda still had her brother in her life was a wonderful cherry on top of what had been days of misery.

Bucky exhaled from lungs that suddenly felt stretched too tight. "Steve?

"Just fine." The familiar voice came from above and behind his head.

He stopped breathing for a moment, then slowly tilted his head back to see Steve's face–upside down from his perspective–with a maddening smirk.

"What the hell are you doing?" Bucky tried for righteous indignation, but it came out as more of a half-hearted squawk.

"Don't start with that macho bullshit," Sam said, just as the door opened and Natasha and Clint walked in.

"Well, look at who joined the land of the living," Clint said, glancing happily at Natasha, whose only sign of injury was a bandage on her temple.

Sam pressed on with a trollish grin. "Every time he tried to slide away, you started mumbling, 'Steve, don't go, don't leave me.'"

Natasha and Clint both looked unbearably delighted. Bucky's cheeks flushed so hot he was sure his face was flaming red, which only compounded his embarrassment. "Shut your goddamned, lying mouth."

"Oh, I have evidence." Sam reached into his back pocket and pulled out his cell phone.

Steve huffed, jostling Bucky with the force of it and awakening fresh pains in the right arm. "Don't worry, Buck. I didn't let him take advantage of your delirium."

Bucky couldn't tell if they were messing with him or telling the truth, so he opted to change the subject as fast as he could. He looked down, taking stock of his condition. Christ, what happened to his arms? He was dangerously close to being a torso with legs, and if he thought too much about that, he'd crack up.

"Who stole my viibraaanium arm?" He drawled, trying to mimic the spooky fable about a corpse's Golden arm that his father used to delight in telling him and Steve. If he didn't joke about it, he was liable to start getting all weepy.

He remembered the Zola android disconnecting it, probably scanning its mechanics with sensors he had in those artificial eyes and figuring out the detachment mechanism. But why the hell hadn't they reattached it? And what had they done to his right arm? It was encased in a plastic lattice. He wiggled his fingers and breathed a sigh. That had to be a good sign, but how bad was it all around?

Something must've shown on its face, because Sam's smile faded and he dropped back into the chair, leaning forward to meet Bucky's gaze with eyes so full of compassion that Bucky bit the inside of his cheek to stop from tearing up as he waited for the news.

Just lay it on me, he pleaded silently, bracing himself.

"Stark's making some adjustments to your arm. He promises he'll be done before you need it. Your right arm is going to be just fine. It took some heavy damage, but that serum running through your veins helps quite a lot. They brought in Dr. Cho."

Bucky pulled the reference from his memory—the regeneration cradle that was used to fix Clint and create an artificial body that ended up becoming Vision. Bucky hadn't been around for any of that, but he got the gist of what happened. He took a second look at his right arm through what he could see of the flesh through the lattice of the brace. It ached, but he couldn't see any visible scarring. It did, in fact, look as good as new.

"The doctors want you to wear the immobilizer for a while to give everything a chance to settle in the healing process, then you're looking at some physical therapy so things don't start to stiffen up," Sam explained. "Doctors Cho and Banner say once you get everything moving again, you won't be able to tell that anything happened to that arm."

His sense of relief was so profound that his bladder almost gave way. He stiffened and shifted uncomfortably. "I hope Stark doesn't have my arm in pieces. I need it. Now."

"Jarvis, do you have any word on when Stark will be finished with Bucky's arm?"

There was a few seconds of silence, and then the AI responded, "Estimated time to completion is one hour and 10 minutes."

Bucky squirmed. An hour might as well be a day. "I have to take a piss, I have a wedgie, and my nose itches."

Sam raised a hand. "I can—"

"I will drop kick you so hard, you'll never fly straight again."

Bucky felt as much as he heard Steve chuckle. Natasha and Clint were doing a terrible job of hiding their smirks.

"Oh hell no." Sam rolled his eyes. "I was going to say, I can scratch your nose, but now you've made it weird."

This was so humiliating. "I need at least one arm, dammit." He leveled a glare at Sam. "Why'd you let him take it? It's not something for him to take apart and figure out how it works. It's my goddamned arm."

Sam raised his hands placating only. "I didn't let him take it, he just did. I can see you woke up extra spicy, so I'm gonna go talk to the docs and find out if you can use your right arm without doing too much damage. Hold your horses," he raised his eyebrows, "or, rather, your bladder, a little longer."

When Sam left, Natasha dropped into the vacated chair. He wasn't sure what kind of an image he presented, splayed out on the bed with one arm gone and the other mobilized, but he was pretty sure there was gunk at the edge of his right eye and his hair had to be all kinds of crazy, not that he could do anything about it

She gave him one of her understated smiles. "I owe you one. Thank you for saving my life."

"You're welcome, but you don't owe me anything. I owed you two, which leaves one left, technically." Three if he counted Vormir.

She raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I don't know. I'd say two survivable bullet wounds equal throwing yourself beneath a pile of rubble and messing up your only good arm." She got out of the chair and leaned over the bed until she was a few inches away from him.

He wasn't sure why she was invading his personal space, but there was a warm glint in her eyes, which crinkled at the edges.

She raised one hand and scratched his nose. "There, now you still owe me one."

He nodded and smiled at the gentle ribbing. Maybe she was finally starting to see him as something more than the Soldier who had shot her twice. "Since Sam and I will no doubt be leaving once I'm up and about," he jerked his head to his younger self, "he'll have to make good on it."

"We'll let you do whatever you have to do," Clint said. "We just came to give you an update. The mind stone is out of play, but that's just one of the stones. Thor will talk to Odin about destroying the one in the Tesseract. The sorcerers refuse to destroy the time stone, but we'll keep trying to convince them. Tony's working with Coulson's team on studying the android body."

Bucky hadn't known Vision well, but he knew Steve cared enough about him not to trade his life for the stone. The Avengers in this timeline didn't know Vision, so there was no one to mourn him except maybe Sam, who'd known the android far longer.

"Pierce and the surviving Hydra agents are in custody. Pierce's daughter is being kept in a secure location. Since this isn't her timeline, the science geeks recommend you take her and future Rollins back to your timeline when you leave."

Bucky wondered how they'd explain the whole time travel heist thing to the authorities, and how much of any of this was technically illegal? At the very least, she'd go down for stolen weapons and equipment.

Clint patted Bucky's leg. "Heal up, man, and thanks." He and Natasha took their leave.

It was quiet for a few moments until Steve cleared his throat and slid one leg off the edge of the bed. "Do you, uh, want me to help you take care of business? Or would you rather I just leave you alone?"

There was a hushed sheepishness in the inquiry that reminded Bucky of sweltering summer nights when they had to sleep with the covers thrown off and the fan running but stayed up half the night and drifted into deep conversations. It was always easier to share their fears and vulnerabilities in the darkness.

He didn't want Steve to leave, but he wasn't going to admit that out loud. His plan of staying detached was crumbling. Day by day, it developed cracks, chinks in the armor to let Steve through. The longer he stayed here, the harder it was to think about saying goodbye…again.

Maybe back in 1944, he would've taken Steve up on the offer. Back then every day was a fight for survival. They'd relied on one another, each and every one of them.

Those days were gone, and now he only had himself, and maybe Sam, but he was damned determined not to become a burden on anyone. He had two good feet to stand on, and if Steve's leaving had taught him anything, it taught him that the only person he could truly count on for the rest of his life was himself.

If the bladder situation became an emergency, he might break down and entice the younger version of himself to help…. Give the guy a glimpse of what five years down the road would look like.

He was saved from answering when Sam walked back in, carrying a large bowl with a spoon.

"Tony said he'll bring the arm soon—maybe 20 minutes—if you can hold out. If not, he offered to send a drone to help you." Sam pushed the chair closer with his leg and took a seat.

The idea of a high-tech, military-grade robot with unforgiving limbs helping him with such a delicate operation sent a shiver down his spine.

"Dr. Banner says your metabolism needs about 12,000 calories a day to function optimally, and if you want that arm to heal fast, we better get some calories into you." Sam stirred the bowl. It smelled like oatmeal with cinnamon and bananas. He lifted a spoonful of the lumpy beige sludge. "I put bananas, walnuts, and protein powder in here—all the things a super soldier needs."

He could wait 20 minutes to preserve his dignity and feed himself. He threw a glare at Sam that he hoped conveyed the message, but Sam merely raised his eyebrows with a rakish grin and began to make airplane noises as he swirled the spoon around in the air.

Bucky doubled down on his glare, narrowing his eyes and clenching his jaw in a way that was usually enough to deter anyone. "What are you doing?"

Sam made static radio noises. "Captain Wilson coming in for a landing…request clearance to land."

It was so stupid and silly, he couldn't hold the glare, and despite his best efforts, a smile escaped. "You're an asshole."

Steve chuckled. "So we have a diverse group."

Sam gave Steve a look that was half warning and half curiosity. "Oh?"

"Yeah, a punk, a jerk, and an asshole….add us walking into a bar, and it's the beginning of a joke."

"Funny." Sam moved the spoon closer. "You gonna open up?"

Bucky opened his mouth to protest, but his stomach betrayed him, letting out a loud grumble he was sure everyone heard. The smell was driving his hunger into overdrive, and the smirk on Sam's face got even more gloating. Before he could shove the spoon into Bucky's mouth, the kitten batted at it.

"All right, you little twerp," Steve picked her up with one hand and held her to his chest. She meowed in protest.

With a reluctant grimace, Bucky took a greedy mouthful of the oatmeal. He was saved from further humiliation when Tony walked in, carrying the vibranium arm and looking somber, without his usual swagger. His gaze darted about the room, and it was obvious he was deliberately avoiding eye contact.

"Here." Tony's eyes slid over Bucky briefly as he held the arm out. "Fixed the design flaw. Now you're the only person who can take it off. We'll need to do some calibration once it's on."

Steve set the kitten on the floor and took the arm, laying it on the bed next to them. "Thank you, Tony."

The kitten gave a single meow in protest and scampered up the legs of Soldier-Bucky.

Bucky wasn't so sure a thank you was in order. He was trying to get a read on Tony. He'd taken the arm and made modifications without permission. Everyone else may be inclined to believe Tony had a change of heart and was really trying to help, but Bucky was the only one among them who had been in the bunker. He was the one Tony had almost killed.

He still remembered how it felt to lay helpless on the bunker floor. The internal remains of the severed arm sent shockwaves along his spinal column, into his brain. Steve had been down, and all Bucky had been able to do was lay there, mustering barely enough strength to grab Tony's ankle and getting kicked in the head for it.

He understood why Tony had reacted that way. If the situation was reversed, he might do the same thing. Fuck Zemo and that goddamned video. Still, he couldn't bring himself to hope that Tony might have forgiven him.

He looked down at the vibranium arm. It looked the same, and he sure as hell needed it. He bit his lower lip as he pondered whether or not to ask the obvious question. Maybe he'd see something in Tony's eyes that would give him an answer.

"If I put this on, is it going to kill me?"

Tony finally did look at him, the shock of surprise widening his eyes. He looked angry for a moment, but then his shoulders sagged and the indignation drained from his expression. "Fair question. No, but you won't know that until you put it on now, will you?"

Bucky didn't know Tony well, but he knew he wasn't the best liar. Too often, he wore his emotions as prominently as one of his band T-shirts. Everything about Tony—from the way he kept averting his gaze to how he stood sideways to the bed—screamed regret and shame.

"It wasn't your fault." Bucky felt the hitch in Steve's chest, pressed up against his back. "I know that doesn't make you feel any better. You'll never feel better about it, but you'll have to accept it if you want to move on."

Tony's gaze darted toward him again as his mouth opened, then quickly snapped shut. He turned without saying anything and headed toward the door. Before he left, he waved a hand in the air and looked over his shoulder at them. "I had time to go through the security footage from the bank. It's unpleasant stuff. The other you put up quite the fight. You really didn't have a choice. I understand that now, better than I ever wanted to." He pushed open the door. "When you're ready, we'll do the calibrations in my lab." Then he was gone.

"I think," Sam said, setting the bowl of oatmeal on the nightstand, "that was his way of apologizing."

Bucky didn't need an apology, but he'd take it in a heartbeat. Stark helping him was more than he could've hoped for. The man had gotten a bird's eye view of what happened when Bucky's alternate self went back to the bank after the Smithsonian. What other footage had he watched? He'd have to ask about that later.

He looked back down at the arm and took a breath. "Can one of you help me get this thing back on?"

Sam moved around the bed. "I've seen it done before. It looked pretty simple."

Bucky leaned forward, grunting against the pain, with Steve helping him into a seated position. He was shirtless, so that made the attachment easier. When Sam held it up to the shoulder socket, the gears clicked into place with a soft whirr and the base of his skull tingled. He rotated the limb gently to avoid jostling the other shoulder. It felt the same, and even though he believed Tony, he was still relieved it hadn't sent a jolt of electricity into his brain.

-000-

He stood in front of the gym's wall-length mirror, examining his right arm with awe. There wasn't a single scar to be seen. Dr. Cho's machine really was as incredible as he'd heard. His button-up shirt was draped over the bench press that he most certainly would not be using. Not even the sadistic physical therapist with an angelic smile, who looked 20 years old, and who he'd come to think of as the physical terrorist, could be that brutal.

Sam and Steve were taking turns working the long bag on the far side, but he knew they were really there for background moral support—in other words, they were lookie-loos.

When Jessica the physical therapist arrived, Sam and Steve became even more engrossed in their workout.

"Good morning, Bucky." She gestured to the massage table. "Lay on your back whenever you're ready."

He slid onto the table. This was his fourth session in a week. Dr. Cho estimated with his enhancement that it would take 2 to 3 weeks instead of the usual 6 to 9 months for his shoulder to fully heal. His range of motion was still limited, and he was in pain all the time, but he sure as hell wasn't going to complain. He was lucky to keep the arm.

He wasn't sure what he would've done if he lost it. He could get by with one arm, and although the vibranium one was an asset, he couldn't shake the feeling of it being a foreign object attached to him. It was a thing he was dependent on. The Wakandans could take it back, though he knew they wouldn't without good reason. It could malfunction. Hell, it could even be stolen.

Even with the advantages it gave him, he'd trade it in a second for the arm he lost—the one that had tugged his sister's pigtails, earned him rent money in the boxing ring, and hugged his mother goodbye.

"How's the pain today?" She placed a hand on his shoulder and another on his bicep and began a firm massage.

"Manageable." He caught Steve and Sam glancing his way in the mirror.

She took him through the flexibility exercises, with Sam occasionally heckling him with "old man" jokes from the other side of the gym. By the end of the hour session, he'd gained another five degrees of mobility. He still couldn't raise his arm above shoulder height, but she assured him that would come with time. The muscles and tendons were stiff, but at least his body didn't generate scar tissue the same way others' did—another advantage of the serum.

As he worked the shirt on and buttoned it up— he still couldn't easily get things on and off overhead—Sam left Steve at the long bag and walked up. "So, how's the arm feeling?"

"It's getting there. We might as well head back soon."

Sam pursed his lips thoughtfully. "You know, with the Pym Particles, we'll head back five seconds after we left no matter how long we stay here. There's no rush. Finish your physical therapy sessions. We can take some downtime. I'd say we've earned it." He lowered his voice and leaned closer. "With Hydra behind us, we can help the other you. We haven't had a whole lot of time to focus on his recovery, so let's hang out for a couple of weeks and get him started on the right path." Sam slapped the metal arm. "Whaddya say?"

Bucky looked at Steve, who was pummeling the bag and sending furtive glances his way. Delaying the inevitable would only make the inevitable that much more difficult. "I don't know…"

Sam gave him a long look, and when he answered, he dropped his voice even lower. "I know it'll be hard, but maybe this is your chance to tell him anything you didn't get to before. It might help you both. Just think about it."

Bucky was suspicious. Why was Sam so insistent on sticking around? "Did he say something to you?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "For someone who's over a century old, sometimes you act like a damn teenager. Steve has said a lot of things to me, but if you mean has he asked us to stay longer, no."

"Okay. I'll think about it."

-000-

Bucky hesitated at the entrance to the lab. Being alone with Stark made him nervous. He still remembered the look in the man's eyes when he watched the video of Bucky ending the lives of Maria and Howard Stark. The knot of helplessness he'd felt watching Tony and Steve go at it never fully went away.

He was probably dealing with PTSD over the experience. Hell, he was dealing with PTSD about most of the past 80 years.

Stark waved at him without looking up. "Are you going to stand there all day, or are you coming in?"

The room was massive, with machines on every available surface. Stark sat at the center workstation, his head down, focused on the red and gold helmet.

Bucky swallowed what felt like a glob of sand in his throat and walked in. "You said I should come here to go over the modifications you made to the arm?"

When Stark looked up, his eyes were bloodshot and there were dark circles beneath them. "I did say that." He got to his feet and closed the distance between them, slapping Bucky's vibranium shoulder. "How does it feel?"

"The same as it did before." He cleared his throat and pushed out a smile that he was sure looked pathetic. "It hasn't blown up or electrocuted me yet."

Tony flashed his eyebrows. "Yet." He sighed, dropped his head, and pinched the bridge of his nose before looking up again. "The whole thing with Mom and Dad, we're never going to talk about again."

Bucky nodded. Part of him wanted to talk about Howard, as if he owed it to the guy who had flown Steve over enemy lines and bought them several rounds of drinks. Another part of him wished he could bury the memory altogether. Forever.

"Dad talked about you," Tony muttered.

He did?

Stark moved over to the worktable and grabbed an instrument that looked like a fancy penlight. "He said he was always amazed how put together you looked on the front lines. Your jacket was clean and there was rarely a hair out of place, except for the days after Captain Knight-in-shining-armor pulled your ass out of Schmidt's factory."

For Bucky, those were fresh memories. It may have been 80 years for the world, but he'd spent those decades in and out of cryo. After making it back to base camp, he'd been a mess. The doctor had looked him over, taking his blood and asking him all sorts of questions, but then they left him alone for a few days. They let him skirt the uniform regulations, gave him and the others leave, and looked the other way when he stumbled out of the tent in the middle of the night with a scream in the back of his throat and tears on his cheeks.

He got his act together when the missions started. Keeping himself buttoned up and together on the outside was the only way he could keep himself together on the inside.

"Dad had a reputation for being a playboy when he was your age." Tony shook his head. "Sometimes I wonder how he lucked out and got Mom."

So much for not discussing Howard and Maria Stark. Bucky got the sense that Tony just wanted to talk, and he was more than happy to let him, because it meant he didn't have to speak. If he didn't speak, he couldn't put his foot in his mouth.

So he listened for the next 15 minutes while Tony reminisced, until he finally tapped the metal arm and said, "So I fixed the design flaw. No one can remove it except you. I just need to finalize some calibrations and test it out."

"Okay." The detachment feature wasn't a design flaw, it was a failsafe, and Stark was smart enough to have figured that out.

"It's activated by biometrics. I'll show you how it works, so, uh," Tony scratched at the back of his head and looked around his laboratory aimlessly, "nothing like what happened happens again."

As far as apologies went, it was a pretty good one…not that he needed an apology. Bucky had been a lot of things in his life, but he tried not to be a hypocrite.

-000-

"Here we are again." Coulson gestured to the door.

The twins were on the other side of it. Bucky knew Wanda, but not this version. Still, she helped him in Berlin, and he owed her one.

"If it's not too much trouble," Coulson began, clasping his hands behind his back, "I'd love to get your signature on my vintage trading cards."

Coulson was still on about that, huh? He and the Howlies had taken a few promotional photographs with Steve to sell war bonds. He never saw any of the cards or posters that resulted. He wasn't sure his signature was good for anything these days other than to sign legal documents promising he wouldn't kill anybody again, but scribbling his signature on a piece of paper wouldn't cost him anything, even if it was silly.

"Sure."

Coulson bounced on the balls of his feet, reached into his pocket, and withdrew two cards and a ballpoint pen that he handed over. "Thank you. This means a lot."

Bucky looked down at the cards in his hand. The top one was with him in his blue jacket — the one that got ruined when he fell from the train. He was standing with his legs wide, giving the camera a serious look. He remembered this photo shoot. He felt like an idiot. He tried to keep a straight face while Dugan and Morita heckled him behind the photographer and Steve grinned almost apologetically.

The one beneath that was a group shot of him and the Howlies in their prime. They were all dead now, even Dugan. He swallowed hard and scribbled his signature on both cards, then handed them back.

He was glad they all left this world thinking Hydra had been defeated.

Coulson opened the door, and Bucky followed him inside. When he closed the door, there was a subtle hum that indicated an energy field being disengaged. Coulson's team had all sorts of tricks up their sleeves to contain enhanced individuals.

Wanda and Pietro got to their feet, their expressions notably different. Pietro's held an air of arrogance and distrust, but Wanda looked remorseful and scared. He hoped he could change that.

He walked up to her. "When you peeked in my mind, you saw what happened in my timeline?"

She nodded, her gaze darting to Pietro, with a fresh shimmer in her eyes.

"Then you also know that you helped me." He took a step closer. "I'd like to help you now."

Pietro huffed and crossed his arms. "Tony Stark is the reason our parents are dead. Why do you think we would ever help the Avengers?"

"You sacrificed your life for an Avenger. The Avengers are Earth's only hope."

There was a flicker of doubt on the young man's face.

Wanda lowered her head. "We didn't know how evil Hydra was."

"I know." Hydra had mastered the art of manipulation a long time ago. "You can make amends. The Avengers are willing to take you in. It won't be easy. The government is going to impose conditions, and there'll be supervision, but you and your brother can start a new life and do a lot of good. You know what's coming. You've seen it in my head. You can help stop it from happening here."

When she looked up at him, there were tears on her cheeks. "We'll do whatever we can to help."

Pietro scowled. "But—"

"We will." She turned toward him, a sharpness to her words. "We have to."

-0 0 0-

"So, I've got a room set up, and I've called in the best psychiatrists and neurologists in the world." Tony swiveled on his stool. "We'll get Robocop the best help the world has to offer."

Bucky was in the lab with the other Avengers, but he looked at Sam. The best help was in Wakanda, but that wasn't a viable option in this timeline. Not yet, anyway.

"And, uh," Tony drummed anxiously on the worktable, "we finally cataloged the information copied from the Hydra computers in the bank vault." He looked up at Bucky, then Steve. "There are some not-so-nice home videos."

Steve looked ill.

"Not much to be learned from that, anyway," Tony said, "other than you have a set of pipes on you."

Steve sank into an empty chair and ran a hand across his face.

Bucky held back a sigh. Gee, buddy, you'd think it happened to you.

"Is there surveillance footage of what happened when the other me went back to the Bank after pulling Steve's perfect ass out of the river?" He hoped the ribbing would pull Steve's mind out of the horrors he was no doubt imagining and get him focused back on business.

Tony sighed. "There is."

"Well, maybe later," Bucky said, with a glance Steve's way before turning his attention back to Tony. "What's most pressing is getting a plan together for how to free the other me from those damn activation words."

-0 0 0-

"I appreciate you staying another couple of weeks," Steve said.

Bucky shrugged one shoulder. "Sam had the idea. I just went along with it."

He followed Steve and Soldier-Bucky into the suite Tony had made up for the Winter Soldier. The kitten gave a chirp as she meandered inside, exploring the room tentatively. As with everything in the Tower, it was more extravagant than it needed to be.

It had a king-sized bed, a seating area with two couches, a television, kitchenette, dresser, private bathroom, and a walk-in closet that he'd been told was filled with new clothes. The walls were decorated with photographs and artwork from the 1930s and 40s. The largest one—a black and white photograph of the Brooklyn Bridge—hung over the bed. There were no windows, but whatever lights Stark had installed in the ceiling made the room feel bathed in soft sunlight.

A collection of old photographs were spread on the coffee table in front of the sofas. Bucky knew it would take months before his younger self started to make sense of the chaotic collection of flashes in his brain — memories that had no context. He remembered the things that had triggered those bits and pieces of memories and hoped that offering a crash course would get Soldier-Bucky to the same place faster and gentler.

Bucky recognized the confusion in his counterpart's eyes as they surveyed the surrounding luxury. This was the room of a wealthy person held in high esteem. As the Winter Soldier, Bucky had only rarely been in such a room, and the few times he had, the circumstances were…something he'd rather not think about.

So he understood why the Soldier was standing stiffly with his back against the wall and apprehension in his eyes. His metal arm was operational again—it would be cruel to keep him dragging it around like a paperweight indefinitely, and he was finally seeing the Avengers, and Steve, as allies.

"What do you think?" Steve asked Soldier-Bucky, bouncing lightly on his feet as he moved further into the room.

Steve didn't understand the nature of the Soldier's hesitation, and that was just fine with Bucky. It saved him from seeing that look in Steve's eyes.

Bucky hovered in the doorway in case his younger self tried to bolt. "This is your room. It's a safe place. You are free to rearrange the furniture and do whatever you like in here, within reason of course." He gestured toward the seating area. "Those photos are yours, too. They're people that you know. They'll help you remember."

This Soldier unpeeled himself from the wall, but there was still an air of caution in the way his eyes lingered on Bucky as he glided toward the couch. When he finally looked down at the table, he stood there for several seconds, until his brow furrowed and he sank onto the cushions. There were images of the Howling Commandos, Peggy, Howard Stark, and Steve in his white shirt and dog tags before the serum. He reached out tentatively and touched the photo of Steve, sliding it closer.

He looked up at Steve, then back down at the photo. "You were smaller."

It wasn't stated as a question, but Steve gave a soft smile and answered, "Yes."

The Soldier tilted his head and looked up again. "I knew you then."

Bucky knew what was going on inside the younger man's head—memories, disjointed images, and snippets of conversations. The emotional memories were the first to resurface. Falling off the train. Comforting Steve after his mother's funeral. Saying goodbye to his folks when he shipped off to war.

When Bucky had gone through it—5 years ago for him— he'd been alone, on the run from Hydra and everybody else. The flashes of memories were like assaults—fist punches out of nowhere that brought him to his knees. He scribbled them down, trying to make sense out of the chaos. He had no one to explain what was happening to him.

It would be different this time around. There were people here who could explain things to Soldier-Bucky, provide context for the confusing images, and help him through the nightmares.

The kitten dug her claws into the couch and climbed her way to Soldier-Bucky. He gave her a glance before dropping his gaze to the photographs. This time his fingers brushed the edge of Peggy's photo. "Who is she?"

Bucky heard Steve's sharp inhale and saved his friend from answering. "That's Peggy Carter. She's the love of Steve's life."

The kitten settled on the Soldier's lap.

The hollow crater that had been carved out of his chest the moment Steve disappeared from the platform made itself known again. The only thing that filled it was pain—pain he'd finally managed to bury with everything else that would undo him if he let it.

Footsteps down the hall signaled that they'd have company soon. A few seconds later, Sam and Natasha walked in.

Sam gave a whistle. "This is a hell of a lot better than that apartment you had in Bucharest."

Steve gave a quizzical look. "Bucharest?"

"It's where I was hiding out when Zemo framed me for bombing the U.N."

That apartment had been the longest he lived anywhere since escaping Hydra, but he was always looking over his shoulder. He plastered the windows with newspaper to thwart surveillance and snipers. He had multiple escape routes planned and ran through scenarios in his head on a regular basis. He kept his arm hidden and a hat on his head.

The moment he walked into that apartment and saw Steve, he felt relief because, one way or another, it would all be over soon…he thought. That turned out to be just the beginning of another chaotic stretch of time.

Natasha smiled at the kitten curled up on the soldier's lap. "What about Coconut?"

"Nah." Bucky shook his head. "Two syllables, max."

"You know," Sam said, "that just made me realize something. It's kind of weird that your nickname is longer than your actual name, James."

Bucky rolled his eyes.

"What about Comet?" Steve suggested.

The Soldier looked down at the kitten and gently stroked her head with a beefy finger. She purred loudly and twisted onto her side. There was a desperate, faraway look in the Soldier's gaze. Bucky wondered whether he looked like that whenever he was trying to pin down a memory.

"Alpine," the Soldier said as he stroked the kitten's fur.

Sam's eyes went wide. "As in tall ass mountains covered with snow? The kind you fell from?"

Bucky shrugged.

Sam shook his head. "That's messed up."

Oddly, Steve was grinning like an idiot as he stared at Soldier-Bucky and the kitten. "Alpine it is, I guess."

"Hey." Tony peaked his head in. "What do you think of the new digs? Awesome, right?" He pointed to the bed. "That's an eiderdown comforter."

"It's very nice, Tony," Steve said. "Thank you."

Stark pointed to a doorway in the far wall. "Connecting door to your suite, at least until you find a new place without the ventilation and nosey neighbor."

It took Bucky a moment to process Tony's chatter and remember that Steve was currently homeless because his apartment was riddled with bullet holes.

"Food's here." Stark jabbed a thumb behind him. "Coulson's group is in the party lounge."

-000-

Bucky wasn't much for parties these days. His 20-year-old self would've loved hanging out at a billionaire's mansion, but social gatherings still made him uncomfortable. He felt like an outsider. Hell, he was an outsider. He didn't belong in this timeline. He didn't even belong in this time.

He did his best to fake it. The last thing he wanted to do was put a damper on the party by being the weird dude skulking in the corner. Besides, the party already had one of those—the Soldier, who was observing silently from an armchair near the piano.

So, when Thor offered Bucky Asgardian ale, he plastered on a smile and accepted. Maybe if it was strong enough for an Asgardian, it might let him work up enough of a buzz to take the edge off.

He hadn't had a proper buzz since 1943.

Steve was at the other end of the bar talking with Tripp and Coulson. Thor was mingling. Skye was playing with the kitten in the seating area next to Natasha, Bruce, and Clint. May was back on the Bus, keeping watch over the prisoners.

Apparently, she wasn't much for parties, either.

"So, your grandmother was French?" Steve asked Tripp with a grin, looking up at Bucky and waving him over.

A genuine smile curved Bucky's mouth. It would be nice to talk about Gabe with his grandson. Some of those memories were good ones, even in the middle of war.

He took a sip of the ale and made his way over. "Gabe always did have a thing for French women. He made no secret of the fact that was why he switched from studying German to French."

Tripp chuckled, glancing at Coulson, who looked as pleased as a toddler in a candy store. "Grandma always told the story of how grandpa walked up to her in a bar and told her, in French, how much he liked long baguettes. He meant legs. She told him she wished him luck finding a long baguette, and perhaps one of the gentlemen at a nearby table would be interested. He said he'd never been more grateful to have skin dark enough to cover up a blush, because he'd be red all the way to his scalp."

"I'm glad they worked it out," Coulson said, "for your sake, and ours."

Bucky took another swig from his glass and smiled. It was nice to know that Gabe got away from the war, had a life, and got to watch his children grow up and have kids of their own. "Gabe always was a flirt."

Sam and Falcon walked up, beer bottles in hand. It was Sam who spoke. "I think I read somewhere that you were, too."

"I was always a perfect gentleman."

Sam rolled his eyes, then looked at Steve. "Tell the truth. What was young Buck like?"

Steve grinned, throwing Bucky a glance full of mischief. "He never had a hard time getting a date, but he also had three sisters— soooo— he was a gentleman with the ladies, though sometimes he came on a bit strong."

Bucky hoped his face made his objection clear. "Look, Peggy shows up wearing a red dress in a bar full of men fresh out of a German work camp, come on… I had to take a shot, but she only had eyes for you." Bucky nudged his chin in Sam's direction. "What's your excuse? When's the last time you had a date?"

Sam glared at him. "I date."

"Spending the evening with Redwing doesn't count."

Natasha and Clint walked up, both going behind the bar to pour themselves some drinks. "Steve doesn't seem interested in dating," she said.

Steve's expression gave nothing away, but Bucky knew he was still thinking of Peggy and no doubt missing her just as much as Bucky missed the people he loved. He changed the subject to rib Sam some more. "Maybe it's your driving that scares the ladies away?"

"My driving is just fine, as long as I have a steering wheel."

The group laughed, except Falcon, who did not seem amused. "Do you have any idea how awkward it was explaining that to the insurance company?"

Sam slapped Falcon on the shoulder a little too hard and said, "It's just a car, man."

Bucky gave him a closer look. Sam's eyes were dilated. He'd had a few drinks already.

"The expression on your face was kind of funny…in hindsight," Natasha said as she took a sip and looked at him over the rim of her glass.

"You have a dark sense of humor," Falcon said with a hint of a smile as he set his drink on the bar.

"Yeah, and that crack you made back on the freeway about me hanging on to the steering wheel." Sam tilted his head. "I haven't forgotten about that."

Bucky bit down on a smile and took another sip of ale. "It was just a joke."

"Here's a joke," Sam said over the rim of his glass. "How much did the mission to capture Zola cost in 1945?"

"Let me guess. One buck?" Bucky rolled his eyes. "Come on, Sam. That's low-hanging fruit. I'm disappointed."

Steve obviously wasn't amused. He squared his shoulders and glared at Sam as though he were a back alley bully.

Bucky let out a long breath through his nose. There'd be entertainment value in having the two Captain Americas go at it, but this was supposed to be a celebration. "He's earned a few jabs." Bucky patted Steve's arm. "Cool that hot head of yours, Steve. You might have America's ass, but he is America's ass."

Clint let out a bark of laughter. Steve relaxed, letting out a breath that softened the hard lines of his face as he gave into a self-conscious smile.

Bucky waggled his eyebrows at Sam, who was glaring at him with a hint of mirth crinkling the corners of his eyes.

"At least come up with original material," Bucky chided. "I've been using that play on words since the Great Depression." He raised his eyebrows as he took another drink. "How much does it cost to give a beautiful dame the night of her life?" He grinned. His ears went hot, but it was probably the ale. "Just one Buck."

The first time he told that one to the Howlies, they made enough noise to live up to their name.

Natasha groaned and took a drink. Steve chuckled, grinning like a fool. Sam just rolled his eyes and took another drink. Bucky hoped there wasn't Asgardian ale in that glass because he didn't feel like carrying America's ass to bed.

"Okay, I can do better." Sam withdrew his phone and, after a few swipes, looked up with a devilish grin, then handed the phone to Steve.

Bucky couldn't see the screen as Natasha and the others crowded around Steve to peer over his shoulder, but he could hear the screaming. His screaming.

Sam glanced up at him. "I told you I caught the whole thing."

Bucky grimaced. That wasn't his most dignified moment. "I should have broken Red Wing when I had the chance."

"You jumped out of a plane without a parachute?" Clint shook his head as Steve handed the phone back to Sam.

"I'm impressed you don't have a fear of heights after…" Steve trailed off with a grimace and an apologetic tilt of his head.

"Shit." Sam pocketed the phone. "You know, I didn't even think about that." He looked at Bucky, his face suddenly somber. "You did that…just to follow me?"

Bucky huffed. The conversation was taking too serious of a turn. "Good thing, too, else you might have ended up roadkill."

"Hey!" Sam crossed his arms. "I'm not the one who ended up hanging on for dear life beneath a tractor-trailer.

Tripp leaned against the bar as his eyes surveyed the massive room. "It's surreal being here with you both." His gaze darted between Steve and Bucky. "Grandpa used to talk about you. He'd never believe me if I told him I was hanging out with you in Stark Tower, with the world's largest bathroom and the fanciest bidet I've seen."

"That thing has more controls than a Quinjet," Natasha added.

"You gonna tell us a story about how in your day you had to use newspaper?" Sam ribbed, his gaze darting between Bucky and Steve.

The grimace on Steve's face was full of embarrassment and disgust, and something about the expression jogged a memory. He'd forgotten about that. How the hell could he forget something like that?

He tried to hide his smile behind his glass, but Steve was watching him with an air of trepidation. It was just like the horror of realization that had drifted over Steve's face in 1944 after walking out of a bathroom in a battle-worn theater that operated a questionable boarding house in the back.

Bucky couldn't help himself. The laughter bubbled out of him.

"Come on, man." Steve leaned back against the bar. "You promised to take that to the grave." Steve's eyes went wide, then he blinked, apparently just realizing what he'd said, and that caused Bucky to lose it completely.

"I did. Twice!" Bucky managed to set his drink on the bar as he gave into the laughter and doubled over, bracing himself against a bar stool to keep from hitting the floor.

It was a damn shame that war-time story never made it to the walls of the Smithsonian. His chest went tight. He could barely breathe. It was embarrassing, but he couldn't stop.

"Are one of you going to clue us in to the joke?" Sam asked.

Bucky managed to get control of himself enough to wipe the tears from his eyes. He straightened but he couldn't quell the laughter completely as he forced words out. "There was nothing in that promise about keeping silent if I came back from the grave."

Sam's gaze darted between them. "You know I'm not letting this go until you tell us."

Steve sighed with the heaviness of a man resigned to his fate. "It was on a mission in Austria. We stopped to rest and clean up in this boarding house that had been bombed. I was covered in dirt and soot, went to the bathroom to wash up."

A fresh wave of laughter overtook Bucky, and he didn't even bother trying to hold it in. The memory sprang clear in his mind. He slid to the floor and leaned against the bar as he struggled for breath in between the laughter.

"Come on," Steve pleaded. "It wasn't that funny."

"You…" he took a few gulping breaths, "…didn't see the expression on your face."

Tears were streaming down his face. Everyone was looking at him as though he had finally cracked, except for Steve, whose cheeks were bright pink. God, he hadn't laughed like this since…he couldn't remember. Maybe that night.

"I did my business and poured some water from my canteen on a washrag to clean the grime from my face," Steve muttered. "I didn't notice how bad the thing smelled right away because all I could smell up until then was smoke."

"Oh no." Natasha grinned and bit her lower lip as she rolled the glass in her hands.

"He wiped his face with someone's butt rag!" Bucky doubled over. "In a brothel!"

Steve wiped his brow as though he could erase the memory. "It was hanging on a towel rack!"

The group exploded with laughter. Steve turned red from his neck to his ears.

"What's so funny?" Tony asked, sauntering up with Pepper as he took a sip from his glass and looking down at Bucky with a tilt of his head.

Natasha raised her eyebrows and, with a devilish smile, said, "Steve put his face in someone's ass."

Tony choked on his drink, causing another round of laughter to erupt. He cleared his throat and looked at Pepper. "And here I thought I knew everything, but as it turns out, you really do learn something new every day." He cocked his head at Steve. "Why Cap, I might've misjudged you. Is it possible you're way cooler than I thought?"

Thor approached with a curious smile. "Barnes, I am pleased to see you enjoying yourself. I trust you approve of the ale?"

Bucky got to his feet and rubbed a hand over his face. His ears were still warm and he was sure he looked like an idiot with glassy eyes and wet cheeks. "Yeah, thanks. I think I'm on the way to a nice buzz." In pursuit of that goal, he grabbed the glass and took another drink.

Sam and Bucky hadn't yet told the group what happened to Asgard. He didn't know for sure, just that after Odin passed away, Thor's angry, power-hungry aunt or sister was released from whatever prison held her and set about to rule the realms.

Or something.

He'd only heard the gist of it, and most of what he heard made little sense. Had he known he would end up traveling back in time, he'd have paid closer attention and asked more questions.

Thor was enjoying himself at the moment, and Bucky had no intention of ruining his good mood. He'd talked to Sam earlier and they both agreed—for once!—that it would be best to break the news to Thor after the party.

The night wore on, and Bucky lost the buzz from the ale. He and Steve traded more stories about Gabe with Tripp, and eventually the party wound down. It was only the Avengers left, with Sam, Bucky, and the Soldier, who was in the same chair with Alpine curled on his lap.

Bucky caught Sam's eye, then glanced at Thor. Sam gave a nod. Sam knew Thor better, so they decided he should give Thor the news. They were in the seating area, with full stomachs and tired eyes.

Sam cleared his throat and leaned forward in the armchair. "So, uh, there's something else we need to mention."

That got everyone's attention.

All eyes were suddenly on Sam, who looked directly at Thor. "It's about Asgard."

Thor straightened and leaned forward, the casualness he'd displayed slouched in his seat suddenly gone. "Speak."

Sam glanced at Bucky and took a deep breath. "I don't exactly know how it happens, but in a little over three years, in our timeline, Asgard is destroyed, or will be destroyed."

Thor was on his feet suddenly, and in two strides, towering over Sam. "That is impossible."

Bucky pushed to his feet and stood next to the armchair where Sam was still seated. If Thor's emotions got the better of him, Bucky would make a more resilient rag doll than Sam.

"It's true," Bucky said.

The Asgardian's stern gaze bounced between them. "Explain."

Sam got to his feet and looked up at Thor. "I'm sorry. We weren't sure that we should tell you because we're not sure that anything can be done to prevent it. I don't know the full details. All I know is that when your father died, a relative of yours was released from a weird, cosmic prison. It was something called Ragnarök. After Asgard was destroyed, Thanos captures you and Loki and gets his hands on the Tesseract."

"That's why it has to be destroyed," Bucky said. There was no way of ensuring Thanos wouldn't get the stones without destroying them, or at least as many of them as they could.

"I must return to Asgard immediately."

Steve shot to his feet. "If there's anything we can do, Thor, we're here."

Thor gave a nod all around, grabbed Mjölnir, and marched out of the room.

Silence hovered for a moment, then Tony clapped his hands and leaned back on the sofa. "Well, thank you both for closing out the party with a whopper of a downer." He turned to Falcon. "Before you leave, why don't you swing by my lab? I made some modifications to your wings."

"Absolutely!" Falcon pushed to his feet.

They started saying their goodbyes when a haunting melody filled the room, sending a chill down Bucky's spine. He turned to see Soldier-Bucky at the piano, with Alpine on his shoulder, fingers dancing over the keyboard. The metal fingers were less adept with the movements, leading to a few clumsy chords, but Bucky recognized the song.

It was Russian. Orientale by César Cui.

How did he know that?

"When did you learn to play piano?" Steve asked.

He didn't know that he could. There was a piano left in his apartment when he moved in. Staring at it had made him feel…odd. Not quite sad, but with a heaviness in his gut and a tickle in the base of his skull that made him curious. So he kept it, wondering if that feeling in the back of his brain would take shape, but he never once played it.

As he listened to the song, a memory surfaced. An old man, high in Hydra. The Winter Soldier had been his bodyguard for a short time. He couldn't be sure how long. He couldn't even remember the man's name. It was so long ago. Everyone called the man Uchitel, a word that translated roughly to master or teacher.

In the memory, the man was sitting naked at a piano, his thin, wrinkled body curved forward as he played the same melody. "We're coming to it, Oлень," the old man said in Russian. "Now, it becomes a duet."

The body of a woman lay on the floor, her eyes staring blankly upward. A young boy with wet brown eyes was kneeling next to the corpse.

The concoction of food and alcohol suddenly sat uncomfortably in Bucky's stomach. "I don't remember."

Oh, God. He thought he remembered them all, but she was new.

Sam walked up to him and leaned in, his voice low. "You look like you've seen a ghost. You okay?"

He had no idea, so he didn't answer. He walked up to the piano and watched the fingers of his younger self playing over the keys. Soldier-Bucky was studying the keys, but there was a blank distance in his gaze.

Bucky didn't know whether his younger self was remembering the same gruesome images. He sure as hell hoped not. Was it only that one beautiful, god-awful composition that either of them could play? Had he just learned it from watching the old man?

Bucky reached out and placed his palm gently on his counterpart's shoulder. Soldier-Bucky stopped playing immediately, but he didn't look up. His eyes were fixed on the keyboard. "Let's go. I think it's time we both turned in for the night."

The Soldier stood up, prompting Alpine to mew and dig her nails into his shirt as she nestled against his neck. Bucky walked past Sam and Steve and was heading toward the door when Natasha stepped up to him and placed a hand on his elbow.

"I know that melody," she whispered. "I'm sorry. He was a real bastard."

The room felt unbearably hot all of a sudden. "Weren't they all?"

He left the room with the Soldier close behind, along with others—two more sets of footsteps. Sam and Steve, no doubt. When he got to the room, as soon as the Soldier was in, he turned and closed the door, catching a glimpse of Steve's bewildered, pained face and Sam's unbearably sympathetic one.

The room felt unbearably hot. That damn melody was in his head, along with the face of the little boy. Who was he? If he was still alive, how old was he now?

It was coming back to him. The dead woman was the boy's mother, and the old man had ordered the Winter Soldier to kill her. He had, without using a gun or a knife. Just his hands. Her neck crunched and her body went limp.

The old man sat there and got off as he played near her corpse.

He dropped to the edge of the bed. The Soldier sat next to him. The silence was maddening, making the melody in his head deafening. The room felt like a sauna.

"Do you remember what happened…that song?"

"There was an old man. Who was he?"

"I'm not sure." Bucky took a breath and scratched at the back of his head. The images wouldn't leave him alone. "There are going to be things you remember that'll hit hard. They won't leave you alone, especially now that the drugs are out of your system. You'll have a hard time sleeping, but when you do, you'll dream about them. That dark hole of rage and grief inside you will only get bigger. Sometimes, you'll think there's only one way you'll ever know peace, but you have to push through that."

When it got too bad, he'd tell himself everything was temporary. Family. Friends. Enemies. Even the universe. He wouldn't be around forever. So, he pushed through, biding his time, but some days were hard to get through. Some days were almost too much. At least the Bucky of this timeline had a chance for a different future—one filled with people who cared about him.

"Time doesn't eradicate it. It might soften it but it's never going to leave you. Not for one second. Every time you draw breath it will be hovering like a drone, but you have to be stronger than it. You can have a life here. Remember that, because as your memories return, you'll remember the times you tried to escape. You'll remember how relentless Hydra is, and you'll get scared that you'll end up back with them…that someone will use the words on you and everything you've gained will be lost. When that happens, remember what I'm telling you. We took down the heads of Hydra. I've given the Avengers information on every Hydra agent I know. This Tower is the safest place for you. You've got people here who can protect you. Do you understand?"

The blue eyes staring back at him were unwavering, shimmering, the brow furrowed slightly. He understood…all too well.

Bucky patted the bed. "You should lay down and get some sleep. I'm gonna take a quick shower." He stood and stumbled into the bathroom, slipping out of his clothes. He turned the water on cold and stepped in. The shock of iciness helped, for a moment. It drove away the sweat and gave his brain something to focus on besides the faces and that damn melody.

-0 0 0-

He was no longer the Asset, but he was still a soldier, one without a mission. He had been a soldier for a long time.

'Sergeant James Barnes, shipping out for England first thing tomorrow.'

He and the other man were the same, with the same face, and they shared memories. The song was the thing he just remembered. A wrinkled man sitting at a piano.

It was merely a glimpse. He did not recall the man's name or the mission, just that the man sat at the piano, his fingers cascading over the keys, drawing a song into the air. When he'd sat at the piano in the common room, his hands took over and the song came out.

He listened to the roar of the shower for several minutes. When it stopped, he focused on the sounds of footsteps and rustling. Those stopped, too. The room was silent for too long.

He set Alpine on the bed. She meowed once, then bounced to the pillow, stretching out before scurrying beneath it. When he walked into the bathroom, the handler was sitting on the edge of the tub, dripping wet. He was unclothed, except for a thin white pair of boxers, twisted and clinging to his wet hips. He stared at the floor, trembling, and didn't acknowledge the intrusion.

A white towel hung on the rack and several more were rolled on a shelf. The handler had helped bathe him, and now it appeared the handler needed assistance. He grabbed three towels and brought them over, draping one over the handler's shoulders and the other over his head. The handler's skin was cold.

He knew he had done something like this before, but he could not remember it clearly. Someone needed him, and he knew what to do.

The handler needed him. He draped the remaining towel around the front of the handler, wrapping it around the man's shoulders and around his back to ward off the cold. The sound of the door opening and footsteps preceded the arrival of Steve Rogers. Steve stood in the center of the bathroom and stared at the handler for several seconds, then placed his hand on the Soldier's arm and nudged him toward the doorway.

He allowed himself to be guided and directed back to the bed where he sat on the edge and awaited further orders. An order would give him direction and relieve him of this uncertainty.

"I'm sorry, Bucky." Steve sank to his knees and leaned forward until his head was nearly in the Soldier's lap. He covered his face with his hands.

Steve was apparently malfunctioning, too.

There was a time when he had known what to do, when Steve was small. He remembered a woman in white with an Irish accent. He called her Mrs. Rogers. She showed him how to prepare medicines, make repairs, and the steps required for the maintenance and restoration of small Steve.

The Soldier placed his flesh hand on the back of Steve's head. The strands of hair were soft. Steve looked up at him. His blue eyes were wet and wider than usual.

"Bucky?"

The inquiry confused him. He didn't know whether Steve was asking about the handler still in the bathroom or speaking to him directly. They called him Bucky, too, sometimes.

They told him his name was James Buchanan Barnes, and sometimes that felt right, but other times, it made his head hurt.

"Do you remember who I am—really?" Steve asked.

Once again, the question confused him. "You're Steve Rogers. Your mother's name was Sarah. She was a…nurse." He remembered the sound of church bells. The image of a casket. "She got sick. She died."

Tears spilled onto Steve's cheeks, but he smiled. That, too, was confusing.

"I need to go check on him." Steve tilted his head toward the bathroom. "Will you stay right here?"

He nodded.

-000-

Steve looked up into the face he'd known all his life, but there was very little familiar in the expression. The eyes sometimes gave a glimpse of something, but it was always fleeting. God, he wished he could go back to that moment on the train and do it all differently.

There was a tap at the door. Steve got to his feet and wiped his face quickly on the sleeve of his arm. The door cracked inward, and Sam Wilson with the beard stuck his head inside. His eyes scanned the room, settling briefly on the Soldier. "Everything okay? Where's, uh….?"

"In there." Steve gestured toward the bathroom.

Sam's eyes went to the doorway. He grimaced, then sighed. "He need some space?"

Steve nodded. "I was just about to check on him."

"I don't think he needs a crowd. I'll check back in a bit."

"Thanks, Sam."

As the door closed, he gave a final look at the Soldier version of his friend sitting on the bed staring quizzically at him, then headed into the bathroom. Bucky was still in the same spot, swathed in towels, staring forlornly at a point on the floor.

He had to work harder to read Bucky than he used to, but he was getting better at it. Bucky was less transparent, more guarded, and he'd developed a whole set of defenses that were difficult to penetrate. Beyond the perimeter of those defenses, Steve could see the wounded man who needed help but couldn't let himself be vulnerable enough to seek it out.

Maybe Bucky had just given up on help altogether. It's not like there was a pill that could cure what ailed him. All Steve could do was be there.

"How bad was it?"

Bucky didn't look up, but his tongue worked the inside of his cheek and two watery drops slid from his cheeks and plopped onto the towel. Steve gave it a few seconds, but when no answer was forthcoming, he leaned against the wall and slid down to sit on the floor.

"That bad, huh?" Steve took a breath to collect his thoughts. "You mentioned that you found people who helped you. Was there a therapist?"

Bucky looked up, eyes red and puffy. His expression shifted instantly. He laughed, but it was hollow and angry, and a fresh sheen of tears glistened in his eyes.

So no. "It might not help, but it couldn't hurt."

"I did. It was a condition of my pardon."

Sam had mentioned a pardon. It relieved Steve to know a pardon was possible, but it also made something twist angrily in his gut because a pardon was for those who committed crimes. Bucky committed no crime. He was defending his country and the world, got captured, and paid the heaviest price of anyone in history for doing his duty.

And still his freedom apparently came with conditions. What were the other ones? Now wasn't the time to ask. Maybe there would never be a good time. There was nothing Steve could do about it. His other self had made sure of that.

"So it didn't help?" Steve prodded, hoping he could keep Bucky talking.

"What got messed up here," Bucky tapped his temple, "isn't in any psych book." He pulled the towel off his hair and scrubbed his face with it, then dropped it to his lap and stared blankly at it. "I'm sick and tired of what's in my head."

"The song made you remember something new?"

Bucky nodded. Steve gave him a few minutes. When the silence lingered, he knew to respect that particular boundary, but he wanted to keep Bucky talking. His friend would be leaving back to his own timeline soon, and this might be the last opportunity they had to talk candidly in private.

"There were some things you said when you were…." Delirious? "…recovering."

"I don't remember what I said, but I wouldn't take it too seriously. I wasn't exactly coherent."

Steve pondered his next words. This wasn't about him. "Whatever happens, I won't leave him." He tilted his head toward the bedroom. "You've made a difference here."

Bucky's smile was tender and familiar. "I'm glad, but, uh, you deserve to be happy, too, Steve. Do what's right for you, just don't lie to him."

Steve was about to say he doesn't lie, but this was Bucky he was talking to—one of the only people alive who knew that would be bullshit. He didn't lie maliciously. He'd lie if it served the greater good, like trying to get into the army, or saving his best friend's life.

He understood what Bucky wasn't saying. "When I told you I would be there for you 'til the end of the line, I wasn't lying."

"I know you meant it at the time, and if it wasn't for you, I'd be dead, locked up, or back under someone's control, so don't think I'm not grateful…but I believed you."

"I know." All the implications of that statement ripped his insides to shred.

Bucky rubbed at his eyes. "You didn't know that time travel was possible when you made it. Things changed." He swallowed hard. "You were all I have in this world, and I had to let you go." Fresh tears sprang to Bucky's eyes, and he looked away quickly as he took a breath. "I didn't have anything else to lose after that, but I didn't know what to do, so I just went through the motions. It was a dark time, but I was getting my head on straight, I think, and then this happens." He sniffled and scrubbed the towel over his face again. "I'm so goddamned tired of it all."

"Sam explained a lot of what happened, but one thing he didn't explain is why you didn't go back in time with me?"

Bucky's tongue worked the inside of his bottom lip for a few moments, then he looked at his metal arm. "I couldn't exactly go back to 1940-whatever with this advanced piece of technology. Even if I detached the arm, the modifications go all into my chest and my spine. There's no way to remove them without killing me. If anybody got a hold of that technology back then, they could do a lot of damage. So there's that. The other reason is this." He tapped his temple. "What was I going to do? Show up as this broken mess on my parents' doorstep? Be a third wheel to you and Peggy? I'd just end up doing what I did in Wa…in the place that offered me sanctuary. Live alone. And…" His voice trailed off.

"And what?"

"I'm not sure I could have gone back and not stopped the other me a hell of a lot earlier. I know when and where he would be. Could I just sit back and do nothing? Could you? And that's the thing. I don't think you could. I think you would do what you did here… Try to save me. That would leave one Bucky Barnes too many in the world."

The conversation was tying knots in Steve's brain that he kept trying to pick at to unravel. "I don't understand exactly how time travel works, or why you can go back in time and change things but still not change things."

Bucky rubbed his eyes and sighed. "From the moment you change things in a timeline, as I understand it, you create a new timeline. When you traveled back home and chose to stay, you had to have made a new timeline. That means you made a different James Barnes. A second Winter Soldier, in a way, and whatever happened to that Bucky Barnes would not affect me. Knowing that, tell me the truth, Steve." Bucky fixed a sharp gaze on him. "Could you do nothing? Could you know what they did to me, where they kept me, and leave me there?"

"No." Steve didn't hesitate to answer. No matter what the circumstances, he couldn't leave Bucky in Hydra's clutches.

The saddest of smiles touched Bucky's face. "And if I was back there, can you imagine how that would've played out? One of us would have to live in secret, so which one would it be? Which one would never get to see his family again? Which one would be denied a real life?"

Steve thought about it and realized there were no good options, and Bucky had made the logical decision. The right decision. Because that is what Bucky did. Over and over again. He put what was right over his own interests—taking in Steve when Steve had no one, joining the army after Pearl Harbor, following Steve into the jaws of death after enduring weeks of torture, and picking up the shield on that train to save Steve's life.

"You don't deserve the hand you're dealt. You are as much a hero as history made me out to be, and in 1944 you helped save the world without super strength or a shield. Whatever happens in this timeline that you helped create, I'll make sure the world knows that." It was too little, too late, but from the day they walked back into camp, and Bucky said "Let's hear it for Captain America" Bucky had been content to take second fiddle.

"I appreciate the sentiment, but I don't need accolades."

"I know, and that's part of what makes you a good man."

Bucky huffed. "After everything that's happened, I frankly wouldn't mind if the world forgot all about me."

"What's life like for you in 2024?" Steve had gotten the gist from Sam, who kept light on details but said just enough to paint a bleak picture in Steve's mind, and Bucky's own admission that he'd gone through a dark time after escaping Hydra only cemented that picture.

"It's fine." Bucky said.

"You're lying." It gave him a bittersweet sense of accomplishment that he could still tell when Bucky was hiding something.

"No, I'm not." Bucky gave him an irritated look. "It is fine. I got a pardon, an apartment, my mind back. It's all fine."

The way Bucky said fine told Steve it was anything but.

"Come on, man."

Bucky tilted his head and grimaced as he stared at Steve. "What do you want from me? Why do you even want to know? You're not a part of my life. Not anymore."

That hurt. It was the truth, and Steve couldn't deny it, but it still mattered to him. "You're my friend."

Bucky shook his head and his mouth twisted into something awful. "No, I'm not." He jerked his head to the room. "That guy in there is, even if he doesn't know it yet, but I'm not. I'm just a different guy with the same face."

It was the way Bucky looked away and clenched his jaw that told Steve, yet again, Bucky was lying. "Bullshit. I don't care what timeline or universe you're from. You're my friend. Every version of you, in every universe, because it's you."

The fresh shimmer in Bucky's eyes was an answer all its own. Bucky still cared. A lot. Way more than he let on.

Steve scooted closer to Bucky and leaned forward over his knees to look up into the face he'd longed to see for over two years. "I've missed you."

Bucky took a breath as his mouth quirked into a half-hearted smile. "Shut up."

"When has telling me to shut up ever worked?"

Bucky's smile took on fresh life as he exhaled in a quick puff. "Not once."

Steve gave a nod and a satisfied tilt of his head. "Exactly, and I'm not about to start. I didn't get the chance to say what I've wanted to since the moment I found out you were alive, but I'm glad you're here. I know that's selfish given how and why you're here, but I've been missing home ever since I woke up in this strange, chaotic time, and you're a big part of home. We've been family since we were kids, man. Nothing will change that on my end."

Bucky glanced away almost shyly. "You getting all mushy in your old age?"

"Something like that." Steve grinned but tried his best to temper it. He was chipping away at the walls Bucky had constructed, but if Bucky thought he was gloating, he'd slam them back up again.

Bucky dropped his head and sighed. "I don't understand what you want from me here, Steve?"

"The truth, no matter what it is."

Bucky looked up. "About what?"

"Why you've been pushing me away? Are you angry with me for leaving? Or for the train? What's your life like now? Are you finding a way to be happy? Is there anything I can do for you here, now…anything at all?"

Bucky closed his eyes and rubbed a palm across his forehead. "Is that all?" He gave a laugh that reeked of frustration. "I'm not angry with you. At least, I don't think so. It's not that. I was for a bit, right after you left, and the government came for me. I didn't have a reason to fight, you shoved me and the shield onto Sam, and that wasn't fair to him or to me. But then I got a pardon, even though it had conditions. I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do with myself, so I just went through the motions. I did the things a person is supposed to do. I woke up, brushed my teeth, took out the trash, checked the mail, went to the grocery store, paid the bills, took out the trash, brushed my teeth, went to the grocery store, took out the trash… You get the picture. It was greaaat. Sometimes, I even showered, usually on the mornings I needed to go to my mandatory therapy sessions. Wouldn't want her writing that on her little pad with her little pen. So, I didn't lie to you when I said it was fine. That's what it was, what it is. It's fine."

Steve felt each word. He'd lived through most of that in his own way, and the sentiment was achingly familiar. He could have spoken those same words after he woke up from the ice and realized everyone he loved was dead, the world was a strange place, and he was a relic that didn't belong. He went through the motions, just like Bucky described, and he did it with a hollowness, feeling like nothing mattered, but he did what he was supposed to do, anyway, just like he always did.

"I grieved you for months," Bucky continued, "but I was just beginning to see a hint of light at the end of the tunnel. I thought maybe I could figure out how to be a real person and move on, find out who I am now. Then this happened, and here you are." Bucky paused for a moment, took a breath, then cleared his throat. "Just looking at you hurts. I'll have to leave, and when I do, I'll lose you all over again, and I…" His breathing was coming heavier, and he clenched both fists in his lap, "…I…"

Steve got to his knees and reached for Bucky. He knew. He understood. He felt like a jerk. "I'm sorry."

Bucky dropped his head and leaned into Steve's shoulder. "He needs you. That guy in there needs you."

"I know. I need him, too."

"Then stay." Bucky's words came between lungfuls of air. "I know it's a shit thing for me to ask, and you sure as hell don't deserve it, but you wanted to know the truth, so here it is."

"I have no intention of leaving, Buck. Things aren't going to play out the same way here." They had a heads up on Thanos' arrival, so there'd be no need for time travel, but even if that were an option, he couldn't leave knowing what he knew now.

Bucky pulled back, meeting him with an unwavering gaze. "You shouldn't make any more promises you can't keep."

The firm set of Bucky's jaw told Steve his friend was reconstructing that wall between them. Steve gave a solid look back that he hoped conveyed enough conviction to weaken that wall. "I'm not going to break that promise."

"You don't know who you'll even be in five or ten years, Steve. I shouldn't have asked you to stay. I had a moment of weakness. Forget about it. Do what you want. Just don't lie to him. He'll believe in you, and when you break that promise, he won't trust anyone like he trusted you. Never. Not even Sam. You get what I'm saying?"

All too well, Buck. Faith, once shattered, was hard to restore.

"Listen to me." He grabbed Bucky's arm. "I'm sorry that other version of me left. I know you let me go. Didn't say a word, because you wouldn't, but he knew. He had to. So, you're right. I don't know what happened to make him want to leave. I don't know who I became between the moment you pulled me from the river and ten years from now, after Ultron, the Accords, and Thanos. It's a lot to take in, and I haven't lived it. But I'm not going to make the same decisions. No matter what, Bucky, I will make good on the promise I made to you—and him—" he jerked his head toward the bedroom, "—on the helicarrier, and not because I have to. Because I choose to." He could tell by the softening of Bucky's gaze that his friend was starting to believe, but that victory wasn't complete, because there was nothing he could do to change Bucky's past. He wasn't sure there was anything he could do to change Bucky's future, either. "But that's about him. What about you?" Steve eased his grip on Bucky's arm. "Can't you stay?"

Bucky's shoulders sagged, and he shook his head. "Thanks for asking, but no. I belong here even less than I do in the timeline I came from. Two of me in one timeline is one too many. I'm not even sure what the implications of that would be, but it can't be good."

"I did it, right?"

"The other you was in ice, and that's a far cry from walking around in the flesh. Plus, I pushed the shield at Sam when he didn't want it, and I kind of need to be there while he settles into the role. He probably won't need me, I know, but I gotta see it through, at least for a little while."

Steve sighed in defeat. He hadn't expected any other answer, but the failure was still a hard pill to swallow. He hated feeling helpless, useless. There had to be something he could do. "Is there anything I can do for you, while you're here? Anything at all?"

Bucky bit the inside of his lower lip, and after a moment, nodded slowly. "Maybe one thing. I could use a plane for a couple of days before I leave."

-000-

Bucky wasn't sure whether it was the light filtering into the room or something else, but when he woke, he knew something was wrong. He sat up and glanced at the clock. It was barely 6:30 a.m., so he hadn't been asleep long. He'd laid awake for most of the night, his thoughts restless.

The room was quiet. He glanced at the couch where Steve had fallen asleep, even though he had a perfectly comfortable bed in the connecting room. Steve was gone. He snapped his gaze to the space on the bed where the Soldier should be, but it was empty.

They had both gone to sleep on top of the covers. The king-sized bed gave them ample room. Now there was a blanket draped over his legs—thanks to Steve, no doubt. Hmmn. He must have been out when he finally succumbed. An insistent meow came from Steve's room, and he rolled out of bed to investigate, a heavy feeling in his gut telling him something wasn't right.

As he stepped through the open doorway, he spotted the Soldier huddled in the far corner. Tremors coursed through the Soldier's frame, as if the room was ice cold even though it was a comfortable 70 degrees. Despite the distant and unfocused look in the Soldier's eyes, they shimmered with an undercurrent of horror. Alpine was digging her claws into the Soldier's right forearm and meowing, but the second she spotted Bucky, she hurried in her uncoordinated and chaotic way toward him.

Steve was nowhere to be seen. Bucky eased himself into the room and picked up the kitten, letting her perch on his shoulder. A furrow formed on the Soldier's brow as he curled into himself. Bucky was uncertain whether the withdrawal was a reaction to his presence or the haunting images that seemed to invade the Soldier's mind.

Bucky thought this might happen. It's why he insisted on sleeping in the room instead of heading to his own. The code words put the Soldier into a REM-like state that made him comply with orders. As a result, the memories often returned to him most vividly when he was in a similar mental state—asleep and dreaming.

Soldier-Bucky had remembered the tune last night but not all the circumstances surrounding how he knew the song. It must've come to him during the night, in his dreams. When Bucky had gone through these episodes himself during the first two years on the run, he always came out of them disoriented and exhausted.

He sat down on the bed and looked at his younger self. "Your name is Bucky. You're safe here. Take all the time you need. I'm not going anywhere. I'll keep watch."

He wasn't sure whether the words were getting through. He didn't remember being aware of much other than the horrors playing inside his head when this happened to him. The only thing he was sure about was not to touch the other man and to try to ground him in the present.

"So when I got help," he continued in as much of a conversational tone as he could muster, "I learned a few things that sometimes help. The first is breathing if you can focus enough to take in slow deep breaths and exhale slowly." Footsteps with a familiar gait outside the room told him that Steve was approaching. "The second is to catalog things around you. Sounds. Smells. Sights." The door to the room opened. He held his hand up and, without changing the stride of his words, said, "Keep a wide berth, Steve, and be quiet."

Dressed in joggers and running shoes with a thin sheen of sweat on his brow, Steve hesitated in the doorway as his eyes took in the scene. He closed the door quietly behind himself and walked in a wide arc around them, dropping into an armchair against the far wall.

The Soldier didn't seem to notice. Bucky kept his gaze on his twin, looking for signs of tension or any indication that he was about to lash out. "Jarvis, can you play I'll be home for Christmas by Bing Crosby?" It wasn't anywhere near Christmas time, but the melody had struck an emotional chord the first time he heard it—just a few weeks before the mission to capture Zola.

He'd hoped he'd make it home in time for the next Christmas, but he never spent another holiday with his family, and it would be 70 years before he heard the song again.

The song played from speakers, bathing the room in the soft melody. "The first time you heard this was December of 1944 in a bar. We had a pass for a few hours. You got all teary-eyed, but you didn't want the guys to see, so you downed your drink and went up to the bar for another."

The Soldier remained curled in on himself, but the indistinguishable sounds coming from him became shuttered breaths.

Bucky's words didn't seem to be having much of an effect. They might just have to wait this one out, but he decided to change tactics. He had to be careful, though. If he stepped on a landmine, things could go sour fast. "You had a dream, didn't you? You're going to remember in your dreams. You won't always know which ones are memories and which are just dreams, and it will take you a long time to figure that out. I wrote mine down. I had a stack of journals, and that was the only way I could make sense out of the things in my head. Part of me didn't want to write it down. If that information got into the wrong hands, it would do me no favors. But I needed to get it out of my head and onto paper. I didn't think I was going to live to be an old man, and in a way, the journals were my memoirs. At least someone would know what happened to me…the things that I did. Maybe a few family members who never knew what happened to their loved ones would find closure. Mostly, I was just trying to figure out who I was and where I'd come from. You should try writing it down. It helps. You don't have to talk about it that way, but you can start to put the pieces of those puzzles together, make a chronology. You will remember who you are and where you come from. That's gonna be the hardest part."

He could see Steve's agonized expression from the corner of his eye, but to the man's credit, he didn't make a sound. Steve didn't try to make the situation better, he was just there, and whether the man huddled in the corner knew it or not, that presence would help him remember. It was the only thing in decades that had broken through the Hydra program running through his brain.

The kitten was getting restless on his shoulder, so he brought her onto his lap and stroked her head. Her gentle purring and soft fur helped ground him.

The Soldier's breathing hitched, and he blinked. He was coming back to himself. "Who was she?"

Bucky knew her name now. It came to him last night. "Sofia Sidorov, she was his mistress."

The Soldier looked at him. "The boy?"

"Her son. His son, too, I think."

"He made me do things."

A headache flared behind Bucky's eyes, and it took him a moment to catch his breath. "Yes, he did." From the periphery of his vision, he saw Steve run a hand over his face.

"There was no mission prerogative."

"No."

Soldier-Bucky covered his head with his arms. The right hand trembled. The metal one whirred as the gears inside responded to the inner torment cascading along the nervous system.

Bucky placed the sleeping kitten next to him and slid off the bed, sensing a shift in the other man. Maybe what he needed now was to not feel so alone. "You can't hide from the memories." He scooched closer. "The only way forward is through them, but they're in the past. Gone. You don't have to do those things, not anymore. You're not the Soldier. You're James Buchanan Barnes."

Uncurling himself, the younger man's eyes went distant again. "Barnes, James Buchanan, Sergeant, 32557038."

"Hey," Bucky moved closer. He was within striking range, but he didn't think he needed to worry. He knew where the other guy was in his head.

He felt protective of this life in front of him, this other version of himself, just like he had for his sisters, and Steve. He wished he could make the future less painful for the guy who was shedding the skin of the Winter Soldier and transforming into something new. Not quite the same James Buchanan Barnes, but not the Winter Soldier, either.

He was still figuring that out, even after five years of muddling around.

He waved Steve over, and in less than a second, Steve was kneeling next to him with pained eyes and an inquisitive brow. "What do I do?"

"You know where he is," Bucky answered, tapping his temple. "You pulled us out once before. You can do it again."

It was strange to talk about their shared history. At one point in time, he and the younger version of himself were one being. When the timeline split, they became two. If he thought too long about that, he'd short-circuit his already refurbished mind.

Steve nodded. Bucky went back to the bed to give them room. He and Sam would be leaving soon, and Steve would have to deal with this. It would be a hard couple of years.

"Bucky," Steve leaned over Soldier-Bucky, who was still muttering his name, rank, and serial number. "It's me. It's Steve."

Good job, go along with it. Steve was echoing the same words he said back then, and when the disoriented Soldier blinked at him, Bucky could tell he was coming back to himself.

The Soldier's brow furrowed and he uncoiled. "Steve?" He tilted his head, and looked around, his eyes settling on Bucky and the sleeping kitten.

"That's right." Steve put a gentle hand on the Soldier's arm, tentative in his touch, aware that it could be received poorly, but the other man merely looked down at the hand touching him, and then back up at Steve.

"You saved me."

Steve's smile was full of sadness. "You saved me, too."

Soldier-Bucky took a shuddering breath, averting his gaze. "You shouldn't have."

There it was. The guilt. The truth. Undeniable. Even though his brain knew that he had just been a puppet, his soul could never forget the trail of blood he'd left. He hadn't made a choice to become a murderer, but he'd become one nevertheless. If Steve hadn't saved him that day, maybe he never would've become the Winter Soldier, and maybe a few of the people he killed would still be alive.

Steve shook his head, leaning infinitesimally closer. "That's not true. The things you did…you were forced to. That wasn't you."

Soldier-Bucky straightened, his expression suddenly guarded and his eyes wet and rimmed with red. His gaze darted between the two men. Bucky recognized that look. He'd seen it a few times in the mirror. He'd remembered too much—more than he wanted.

"You didn't have a choice," Bucky said. "The sooner you come to terms, the better."

Easier said than done.

Steve looked like he'd just swallowed a rock. A knock on the door from the other room made Soldier-Bucky flinch.

"It's probably, Sam." He moved into the other room, closing the door behind him, and opened the door to the hallway. Sure enough, both Sams were there with two carts full of food.

The older Sam's eyes narrowed as he looked at Bucky. "Rough night?"

"You could say that. Rough morning, too." He stepped aside to let them in.

"Where's the other guy?" Falcon asked.

Bucky glanced at the door leading to Steve's room. "He's in there with Steve. Best to leave them alone for now."

Sam pushed one of the carts up against the wall and closed the door. "He remembered something yesterday with the piano? I take it you did, too."

He sighed with every quantum of fatigue weighing on his bones. "Yeah."

Sam leaned closer and lowered his voice. "I thought you remembered everything."

"So did I."

Sam studied him, the lines of his face softening. "You okay?"

"I'll be better after some breakfast." Dr. Rainer told him that diversion was his go-to method of dealing with trauma. That was one of the few things she'd gotten right. "Do I smell pancakes?"

Falcon lifted the lid off one platter, revealing a towering stack of buttermilk pancakes. "Enough for a small army or three super soldiers and two normal human beings."

"There's also eggs, salmon, bacon, and biscuits," Sam added. "The kitchen in this place is amazing. There's an actual chef on staff."

Bucky inhaled appreciatively. His stomach grumbled. "It must be nice being a billionaire."

The door to the other room opened and Steve walked out, leaving the door cracked open behind him. "That smells amazing."

Falcon beamed. "And I bet it tastes as good as it smells. Are we gonna eat before it gets cold?"

"Absolutely." Steve glanced at the room behind him. "Bucky—the other one in there—isn't feeling up to company, so we can eat here, and I'll save him some."

"Because he's such a social butterfly normally?" Falcon ribbed.

Sam tapped his younger twin on the arm. "He'll warm up. You just gotta talk to him a little bit, feed him some almond butter toast with plum jam, and don't let the staring thing get to you." Sam threw a grin at Bucky. "Speaking of which…" He lifted another cover to reveal a stack of toast and ceramic bowls of what looked to be either almond or peanut butter and something that could very well be plum jam.

Bucky was impressed, and no doubt showed in the way his eyebrows tried to climb to his hairline. "You're being awfully considerate, Samuel."

Sam crossed his arms and raised one eyebrow. "I'm always considerate."

Bucky huffed. That was an unabashed lie.

They brought the carts toward the sitting area and dug in. After the Sams poured themselves coffee, Bucky poured two cups, putting twice as much sugar in his as in Steve's, with a touch of cream for both.

"You remember how I like it." One edge of Steve's mouth quirked up.

Bucky shrugged as nonchalantly as he could, though a warmth spread in his chest and touched his cheeks. "Yeah." He'd only spent about 20 years of his life learning how Steve liked a lot of things.

Sam and Falcon talked about the boat, Sarah, and the boys. Sam told stories about AJ and Cass. They spent a good 15 minutes going through photos and videos on Sam's phone.

The door to Steve's room opened, and the conversation died. The Soldier stood in the doorway, hair wild with half of it in his face, his gaze hovering over the platters of food.

Steve waved him over. "You want to join us, Buck?"

An insistent meow preceded the appearance of Alpine as she scurried past the Soldier toward the food. The poor thing was probably hungry. Before she implemented a direct assault, he gave her one of the salmon skins. She chomped down on it with a low growl and took off like the tiny predator that she was to eat her meal in peace.

The couch was long enough for three, so Bucky grabbed his plate and moved to the sofa next to Sam and Falcon, who both scooched to a few feet toward the end to make room.

Bucky gestured to the now empty armchair. "Have a seat. Grab anything you want from a breakfast tray. The silver carafe contains coffee. The pot has black tea." Orange juice was in a glass container, but it was obvious and he was interested to see if the Soldier had progressed enough to make unilateral choices.

Bucky remembered the first time he stepped foot in a grocery store after walking away from the Potomac. He'd quickly gotten overwhelmed. He went from decades of doing nothing to care for himself—of having every decision about his body made for him—to being completely on his own, without resources or identification. The first couple of weeks had been the hardest. He'd slept in places he'd rather not think about, and the hunger had been all-consuming.

It gave him a warm sense of joy to know that this version of himself would be spared that.

The Soldier seemed to study their plates, then grabbed one of his own. He piled pancakes, toast, and salmon on his plate, filled a glass with orange juice, and glanced at them and the utensils in their hands before grabbing a fork and butter knife. Bucky wasn't expecting the Soldier to try to hurt them, but he would nevertheless keep a close eye on the man.

The Soldier sat down, eyeing them as though he half expected someone to take the food from him.

Bucky remembered enough of his headspace at this stage of recovery to know the best course of action was not to coddle his younger self or give him too much attention. He was still coming off the emotional chaos of the nightmare and processing those new memories. Now that the drugs were out of his system, and it had been a while since he'd been in the memory-wipe chair, he'd start to level out.

Soldier-Bucky was now getting a sense of what he felt like inside, as a human being. He'd start to feel things he hadn't in a long time, like fear, loneliness, sadness, grief, and, the one that would consume him the most—guilt.

He was already getting there, and the road would get a lot rougher before it evened out.

"So," Bucky shifted to better look at Falcon, "I hear Stark is making you a new suit?"

Falcon's gaze darted between Bucky and the Soldier for a moment, as if he were reconsidering the merits of being so close to two versions of the guy who tried to kill him multiple times, then set his plate down and leaned back. "Yes. He asked for my input. I'm working on a memo."

Bucky took a sip of his coffee as he pondered that. "You might want to ask him to reinforce the wings and, frankly, some bulletproof armor wouldn't be a bad thing."

"Thanks for the advice, but—"

Sam slapped Falcon on the knee. "Don't even try to pretend like you don't need advice. I wrote the same memo. I know what you're asking for. You're going to get Red Wing and a few extra bells and whistles, but Bucky's right. Reinforce those wings so a super soldier has a hard time pulling them off. Get some bullet-resistant armor, at least. Lightweight. Nothing too bulky."

"He should make some for Natasha and Clint, too."

Steve nodded. "I'll talk to him about that."

Bucky could never figure out why the only two non-enhanced members of the original Avengers were never given even the most basic form of protective gear. Hell, if Romanoff had been wearing a bulletproof vest of any kind, she may not have ended up with a gunshot wound to the shoulder that day on the street.

He watched from the corner of his eye as the Soldier cut into his pancakes and stuffed a large helping into his mouth. His table manners were atrocious—not that they were at a table—but he was learning by watching. Muscle memory was helping, too.

The conversation continued. They chatted about ordinary things—the boat and Louisiana, the time Bucky caught a baseball at Ebert's stadium, and how god-awful it was that the Dodgers moved to Los Angeles. When the Soldier remembered that he cared about the Brooklyn Dodgers, that one would be a blow.

"You should add a different firearm," the Soldier said.

All eyes shifted to the younger Barnes. Even Bucky was surprised that his counterpart had interjected himself in the conversation.

"What?" Falcon asked.

The Soldier shoved a forkful of pancake in his mouth and spoke as he chewed. He swallowed. "The submachine gun has a long trigger, small sights, and is a close-range weapon. When engaging a ground target, it requires that you get too close," he swallowed and gave a chilling look that made Bucky decide to take Sam's advice about not staring so much, "as you did with me."

Steve was suddenly smiling like a fat head. Sam's eyebrows were almost to his hairline, and Falcon was dangerously close to glaring. Bucky wasn't sure they knew the significance of what just happened.

Bucky set his plate down and leaned forward. "You remember the fight on the helicarriers?"

The Soldier nodded.

"All of it?"

The Soldier's eyes went to Steve. "I remember."

The last wipe was wearing off. Bucky knew his counterpart had started to remember glimpses of his past, but this was another good sign. "What else do you remember about that day?"

The Soldier's gaze shifted to Bucky. "I failed my mission."

"Yes, you did." Bucky sighed and leaned back. "Thankfully."

If he'd succeeded, it would've been over for him, even before Thanos arrived. If he still managed to break free from Hydra and remember who he was, he wouldn't have been able to live with the memory of ending Steve. Without Steve around, who would've been crazy enough to endorse Scott's mind-boggling time travel idea? Steve was always one to push forward against impossible odds.

"Do you remember us…in Brooklyn?" Steve asked.

The Soldier's brow furrowed as he shifted his gaze to Steve. "You were smaller."

Steve smiled again, and his eyes shimmered. "Yes."

"You often initiated combat with larger opponents."

"That, too."

"You lost."

Steve huffed out a single, amused breath. "Yeah. You, uh, saved my hide a few times."

The Soldier tilted his head and studied Steve for a moment, his eyes narrowing in a way that told Bucky he was sifting through memories, trying to make sense of them. "You were my mission then, too."

Steve blinked, jaw going slack. "I…I…What?"

Bucky resisted rolling his eyes. Steve was smart in some things, but dense in others. How could he explain the comment without insulting Steve? Back then, Steve had a chip on his shoulder, and Bucky learned early on not to say or do anything that reeked of pity. He stopped helping Steve up and only intervened in fights when the other guy wasn't letting up and Steve's pig-headed stubbornness was about to put him in the hospital…or the grave.

Steve no longer had that same chip on his shoulder now that he was six-feet-two-inches of muscle, so Bucky didn't have to pussy-foot around his words so much.

"He means he remembers looking after you," Bucky clarified. "You know, making sure you didn't get your skull bashed in, rounding up dates for you, that kind of thing."

The Soldier looked uneasy. "I failed that mission, too."

That got a chuckle out of the Sams. The Soldier's brow furrowed with confusion at their reaction.

"Hey, you kept him alive," Bucky countered, "the rest ain't on you. He's impossible."

Steve looked insulted, but the glint in his eyes betrayed him. "I am not 'impossible.' I see a situation going south and…"

"Yeah, I know." Bucky finally did roll his eyes, and despite his best efforts, a smile broke forth. "Like I said, impossible."

Steve's smile turned into the same one he'd sported as a dorky, shy teenager—half surprise that anyone would give him the time of day and half pure, unadulterated joy. It was the smile that turned Bucky soft inside from his head to his toes.

Goddamnit.

He missed that smile and the way Steve looked at him as though he were the only truly good person left in the world—with a conviction in his eyes that made Bucky believe he really was worth saving. No one else saw him that way. Not anymore.

"Yeah well, being impossible seems to have worked out for you," Falcon said. "As for the recommendation, I'll take it under advisement."

Bucky pulled his thoughts back to the conversation. What had they been talking about before the diversion? Oh…Guns. Right.

There was a knock at the door, and Tony popped his head in. "So Barnes bros, you ever gonna make your way down to the lab this morning?"

Bucky glanced at his watch. It was barely 8 AM. Tony had asked him to show up with his younger half this morning to take additional scans of the titanium arm so that he could develop a lighter, upgraded arm that hopefully wouldn't hurt as much. Apparently, Tony's definition of morning was narrower than most.

Bucky looked at his counterpart. "We're going to take more scans of the metal arm. When you're ready, you get to decide whether or not you want a replacement. The choice will be up to you. I know how much that one hurts, all the time."

The chronic pain was a big reason for his discussion with Stark on swapping out the arm. The other reason was he knew there would be a point when the younger version of himself was less the Soldier and more James Buchanan Barnes, that the arm would be a reminder, every time he looked in the mirror, of what Hydra had turned him into. The Red Star would feel like a mark on his soul, a reminder that he'd been claimed and branded by his captors, twisted into furthering their agenda and sent to fight against his own people.

"Give us five minutes?" Bucky asked, glancing at the unfinished food on his plate. His stomach was still unsatisfied.

"Sure." Tony slid in and started rummaging through the platters on the carts. He popped a piece of bacon in his mouth. "Thanks for inviting me to breakfast, by the way," he said as he chewed.

-000-

The two hours spent in Tony's lab were relatively uneventful, if a bit awkward. Tony seemed content to ignore everything that had happened between them, which was fine with Bucky. His go-to method for coping was not to talk about it. So far, that was working for him, as evidenced by the fact that he was able to walk, talk, and dress himself and wasn't locked up in an institution.

Steve stayed to observe the entire time. The Sams went off to do something. They'd obviously gotten over the initial weirdness of having a new twin.

They headed back to the room to change clothes. Steve wanted a workout in the gym and had leveled his big, stupid blue eyes at Bucky as he asked if Bucky wanted to join him because he didn't have any other partner right now. Everybody else was busy, and there were so few people who could really give him a run for his money sparring, except Thor who was off-world.

When they got back to the room, there was a white paper bag on the bed. That was fast. He'd given a list of items and some cash to one of the staff just before heading to the lab, and he assumed this must be the result of his shopping list. He peeked in to confirm.

Steve peered over Bucky's shoulder. "What's that?"

Bucky glanced at the soldier and took the items out one by one. The first was a stack of journals with brown leather covers. Next was a collection of elegantly packaged pens and colored pencils. There was also a Captain America DVD from the Smithsonian and a few other things he had not put on the list—a tablet and a watch that had to be worth a small fortune.

There was an envelope in the bag. He opened it to find all the cash he'd given along with a signed note by Pepper telling him to let her know if there was anything else he or his younger self needed.

Steve tapped him on the arm. "That was nice of her."

"Yeah." He threw a lopsided smile at Steve. "I guess she's grateful."

Turning to the Soldier, he handed the man a journal. "When my memories came back, I wrote them down in a journal like this. It helped me make sense of things. It might help you, too. Whatever comes to your mind. . .glimpses, nightmares. . . anything.

The Soldier took the journal and leafed through the empty pages.

"You ready to hit the gym?" Steve asked, with a mischievous glint in his eye.

Bucky didn't like that look. "If you're planning on getting payback for me using you as a punching bag on the helicarriers, just remember that you're the idiot that decided to drop your shield, and I was brainwashed with amnesia. Also, I gotta take it easy on my right arm, so don't go gettin' overly competitive."

Steve raised his eyebrows innocently. "I wouldn't dream of it."

---

Author's Note

As always, I adore reviews. Also, AO3 hosts my main writing account. Heads up that I've posted a couple of other short/medium stories over there (they are open to guests, so you don't need an account). If you just type in Operation Hindsight in the AO3 search bar, this story will pop up. Click on my username (DC...) and you'll see all my recent works.