Cake. Chocolate cake. He wanted chocolate cake.

They continued eating in silence. The food tasted better than he deserved, but his stomach felt like it was trying to crawl up his throat. He remembered chocolate cake. He'd remembered how to say it and he'd said it. He wanted chocolate cake.

Nothing happened after he said it. No anger. No retaliation. He waited for it, but it didn't happen. He kept eating; if he didn't eat, he didn't know what he would do, what he was supposed to do. Steve wanted him to eat, so he ate.

Steve was keeping his eyes on his plate as though he was expecting something to appear under his food. Finally, he cleared his throat and didn't quite look over.

"Your Mom made really good chocolate cake. She made it all the time for when we got home from school. Maybe we can find a recipe. I think she put vinegar in it."

Then Steve paused, as though waiting for an answer, but he couldn't think of an answer to give him. Recipe. Vinegar. Mom.

"I don't remember."

"Don't remember what?" Steve asked, but he couldn't answer. "Bucky? Don't remember what?"

"I'm not Bucky," he said and something twisted in his chest that felt like regret.

"No. You don't have to be."

"It's what you call me."

"Because I want - Just because I call you that doesn't mean -" Steve sighed. "Just tell me what you'd rather be called, and I'll call you that." He didn't sound angry. His voice was gentle. "I need to call you something. You need a name. You deserve a name."

You're James Buchanan Barnes. You've known me your whole life.

But no, he hadn't known Steve his whole life. He'd known him for twenty years then forgotten him for seventy.

"What did she call me?" he asked and his voice sounded as rough in his ears as it felt in his throat.

"'She'? You mean your Mom? Yeah, your Mom called you Bucky."

Was she his Mom? If he was Bucky, would she have wanted to be his Mom after everything he'd done? If he wasn't Bucky, did that mean she wasn't his Mom? If he cared what she called him, did that mean she was? Could she be his Mom even if he didn't know who he was?

Trying to satisfy that dilemma made his head hurt and he didn't want to have to think about it. "No. I don't want to know."

Steve took a breath like he was going argue or answer anyway but then he nodded. "Okay."

So they began eating again. The sooner he ate maybe the sooner he could go back to the room, back to the bed, back to not having to think or remember or want to remember. He'd eat. He had to eat. Steve wanted him to eat.

"Hey - hey," Steve's voice penetrated his brain like an echo. "Maybe you should slow down. If you eat that fast, you'll make yourself sick."

And he stopped and stared at his plate that was almost empty of the food he didn't remember eating.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to - I just - I - " He almost said, 'I thought' but he didn't think. He wasn't allowed to think. He set the fork down but couldn't get his hand to let go of it. "I'm sorry."

"No one's going to take it from you," Steve said. His mouth was smiling but his eyes were - sad? "And we've got plenty."

"Can I - what do I -" he tried to think what to say, how to ask if he could go back to the room, could he just go back to the room, away from this, from having to think, from trying not to remember, but his brain was misfiring and he felt like he wasn't getting enough air. He was clean and fed and safe, but he'd never felt so much on the edge of danger. He wanted something. He wanted something. Just thinking that made his mouth dry and his heart pound. More than he wanted chocolate cake, he wanted to know who he was. He wanted it enough to risk asking for it. All he had to do was ask. All he had to do was risk everything.

"She called me Bucky?"

"She did," Steve nodded then shrugged. "I mean, unless you were ignoring her. If you were ignoring her, she called you 'Jaaaames'. If you annoyed her, she called you 'James. Buchanan. Barnes'."

"Is that who I am?" He met Steve's eyes and held his gaze, waiting for the answer. Waiting to be told who he was. "She called me that, you call me that; is that who I am?"

"Only you can decide that," Steve said. "You can be whoever you want to be, but only you get to decide who that is. Do you want to be Bucky?"

His first reaction was to think yes, yes he wanted to be Bucky, he wanted to be that Bucky who smiled and joked and laughed with Steve and protected people instead of slaughtering them. He wanted to be the Bucky who Steve trusted and relied on and knew better than anybody else.

Then he looked at his metal hand, his metal arm. He looked into his past and saw a faceless, nameless, pitiless killer.

"I can't be him. I've done - the things I've done - He died a long time ago. I can't be him."

Steve took a breath and seemed about to say something, then he narrowed his eyes and tilted his head like he was thinking about it.

"No, you're right. You can't be that Bucky. You're not that Bucky, not from the war, or from before the war. Just like I'm not Steve from before the war anymore, either. Not the one before the war, not even the one from the war. I'm the Steve who survived the war, the serum, the ice, and everything that's happened since the ice. I'm this Steve. You can't be that Bucky, but you can be this Bucky. The Bucky who survived."

He wasn't sure he liked that answer. He couldn't process it. He couldn't define it. This Bucky. "But is he - what is he?"

Steve didn't answer right away. He tilted his head and seemed to be thinking, considering the question. "If you want to be Bucky, whoever you want to be, he's what you make him."

"But everything - everything - " His left hand curled into a fist and he pushed it under the table. "How do I - ? Everything I did - ?"

"You learn to deal with the past so that it doesn't overwhelm you," Steve said. "And you learn to deal with the future the same way. I won't lie; it's not easy. But it's possible. It's the way I had to do it. "

'The way I had to do it.' It hadn't been easy for Steve either; he hadn't considered that. Steve had had to make a similar assimilation and it hadn't been easy. It was okay if it wasn't easy. Not easy was what Steve expected.

"But - what do I do? Where do I go? Who - who do I belong -"

"With?" Steve asked, cutting him off. "Who do you belong with? You belong withme. Just like I belong with you. And the only place you go is wherever the hell you want to, and the only thing you do is whatever you want to. And you don't fear anybody or anything."

By the end, Steve was speaking insistently, but then he rolled his eyes and smiled, looking embarrassed. "At least that's what we're aiming for. Right now, you think of who you want to be, what name you want to be called. That's the starting point. We'll work from there."

"Can I be Bucky? If I w- if I wa-" He had to drag the word out and it left his throat raw. "If I want to be Bucky, is that - if I want to be him but I'm not him, is that - will that - To say his name but see me? Don't you wish - aren't you going to wish he was here instead of me? Don't you miss him?"

"Yeah, I miss him," Steve said after a moment's hesitation. "Losing Bucky was the worst thing that ever happened to me. But however much or how little there is of him in you, whatever name you choose, whoever you choose to be, I'm going to be glad that you're safe and sound and free. Just take one step at a time."

"What's the first step?" he asked.

But Steve said, "The first step is you decide what your name is."

He heard the answer and understood the words but his mind blanked on being able to answer them. He swallowed and then swallowed again. Bolts of terror shot through his body, the fear that had been beaten and burned into him both not to look, not to want, not to be anything but a faceless, nameless, attack dog, and the fear of not answering. Mind wipe. Confinement. Disengage the arm. Rules. Protocols. Ensure his compliance. Mission report. Mission report now.

Without thinking, he ducked his head and put his hands to his face, trying to stop the decades of blows that punished anything less than instant obedience. He couldn't answer Steve. He didn't know his name. He didn't know who he was. He couldn't answer. There was no answer. He had to answer.

"If I - if I -" he gulped around the fear and breathlessness. "If I say I'm Bucky Barnes, then what do I do?"

He felt Steve wrap his hand around his metal arm. "Then you say it again."

"Again?"

"You say it as many times as you need to."

'You're my friend. You've known me your whole life. I'm with you to the end of the line.'

"James Buchanan Barnes," he said, softly, down to the table.

"What?"

"My name is James Buchanan Barnes." He looked at Steve and managed to hold his gaze. "My name is Bucky."

Steve smiled, a broad smile with no underlying sadness or anger or tears. "Welcome home, Bucky."

The End.