Hey guys! This is the follow-up story I promised from the last chapter of Coming Of Age. This takes place almost immediately after the events in Assignment so if you haven't read that chapter you may want to check it out to understand the continuity. And this story contains a couple hundred feels all rolled into one; seriously, like ALL of the feels. Hope you all enjoy it!

A/N regarding Steve's age in this story: I'm placing this immediately after COA but his age is pretty open for interpretation. If you feel like reading him as a teenager, that's perfectly acceptable. If not, I'm setting his age canonically from the movie to be just a little bit younger than Bucky (maybe 1-2 years) so you're welcome to read it that was as well. Enjoy lovelies! :D

Song lyrics and memories are in italics

Steve arrives on the Helicarrier less than an hour after he gets the call, Tony following in his footsteps. He walks straight past a handful of agents who all look up in surprise as he passes and makes a direct line for the lower decks of the Helicarrier. That's where they're holding him, that's where they're holding Bucky.

Fury stops him at the door, holding up a single hand and instantly halting the soldier's stride. "I want to see him," Steve says firmly, his eyes narrowing just slightly when Fury refuses to move.

"He's sedated right now, Cap," Fury explains, not budging from his place in front of the door. "He's not going to be in much of conversational mood for a few hours now."

"I don't care," Steve continues, clenching his teeth slightly. Three days earlier he'd nearly been killed by the same man being held on the other side of the door, the same man who turned out to be the best friend he believed died during the war. He needed to see him, he needed proof. It had to be Bucky. He needs to see him.

"Steve, I don't think you understand-" Fury starts but Tony steps forward just slightly and rests a hand on Steve's shoulder.

"Nick, please," Tony says smoothly, keeping his hand planted on Steve's shoulder and feeling the stiff tremble of nervous energy vibrating through him. "Five minutes, that's all we ask. We'll be in and out before you know it."

Fury remains unmoved for another few seconds, taking in the desperate expression on Steve's face and the patient determination on Tony's. Finally, he sighs and steps to the side. "Five minutes. That's it. Understand?"

Steve nods stiffly, swallowing a bit convulsively as his stomach lodges itself somewhere in his throat. He's not sure what he's hoping for on the other side of that door: a long overdue reunion or another assassination attempt. Either way, he needs to see him. Just to be sure...he needs to be sure…

Fury punches in a code on the panel built into the wall and steps back as the door slides open. Steve walks in wordlessly, Tony following along behind him. Fury reaches out as he passes, catching the billionaire by the elbow. "Five minutes, Stark," he mutters quietly, catching Tony's eye as he speaks. "I'm afraid Steve is going to be in for some disappointment."

Tony nods slightly and steps into the room behind Steve, keeping a watchful eye on the younger man. There's still a noticeable line of bruises around Steve's throat, dark and ugly beneath the collar of his shirt. Most of the others have faded save for the one still dusting his temple and disappearing into his hairline. The ones around his throat are still there though, a grisly reminder of that night. The assassin had been dangerously close to succeeding in his mission; had JARVIS not informed Tony of the security breach when he did, Steve likely wouldn't have survived the night. And now they were here in the holding cells of the Helicarrier, Steve hellbent on seeing the same man who had tried to kill him.

Steve seems completely oblivious to Tony's scrutinous gaze, his attention focused entirely on the unconscious man on the cot before him. Laid out and drugged into a oblivion, the man doesn't appear all that dangerous, nothing like some of the other enemies they've faced off with in the past. He's loosely restrained with corded straps fastened loosely across his legs, hips, and chest, his breathing slow and even. His hair is dark and dirty, hanging across his forehead in black clumps. Dark, bruise-like circles stretch beneath his closed eyes, adding several years to the young man's face.

The agents have taken the liberty of removing the bionic arm, leaving a metallic ring of circuitry attached to the joint in his shoulder. He's dressed in a pair of loose cotton pants and shirt, the harsh black clothing removed and more than likely destroyed. In this setting, with the metal arm removed and the dark clothing no longer existent, he looks nearly harmless. Had he not seen it with his own eyes, Tony would have a hard time believing this was the same man who almost single-handedly killed Captain America.

Steve ignores all of this and steps up to the cot, dropping to a crouch beside the unconscious assassin.

"Uh, Steve," Tony starts, glancing between the soldier and the slack expression on the other man's face. "I don't think he's in much of a talking mood right now. Maybe we should- whoa, what are you doing?"

Steve doesn't answer, his hands fumbling with the loose cotton of the assassin's shirt.

"Um, do I need to give you two some alone time?" Tony asks, genuinely confused by the younger man's actions.

Steve shakes his head, rolling up the hem of the other's man's shirt to reveal his stomach. "I just need to check something," he says simply, blue eyes troubled and dark. "I need to be sure…"

The hem of the shirt is lifted a little bit further and Tony catches a glimpse of a thick, ropey scar running across the assassin's stomach and down one side. Steve's breath hitches in his throat and the blood drains from his face. "It's him…" he mumbles weakly, his voice cracking and shaking as he speaks. "Oh my God...it's really him…"

Tony frowns in confusion and continues to eye the scar carefully. It's an old scar, one acquired during childhood or early adolescence by the blending of scar tissue. It's old but Steve recognizes it.

"He fell out of a tree when we were kids," Steve explains shakily as if responding to Tony's thoughts. His voice is wavering and broken, trembling like it's hard to speak, and he takes a deep, shuddering breath. "His foot slipped and he fell. He nearly gutted himself on a tree branch on the way down." His fingers brush just slightly over the thick cord of scar tissue. "He's had this ever since we were kids…"

Before anything else can be said, there's a flash of movement and a fist catches Steve in the jaw. He stumbles backwards and Tony catches him by the back of the shirt, shoving him behind him instantly. The assassin is awake, dark eyes cold and sharp as he glares at the other men in the room. He struggles violently against his restraints, growling in frustration when he can't break free.

Suddenly, a swarm of S.H.I.E.L.D agents fill the room, holding the assassin down and emptying a syringe into the vein in his arm. The struggling lessens and the fight dies down but the glare remains. His eyes stay locked on Steve until they can't anymore, murderous rage filling his expression. He glares until his eyes begin to flutter shut and he slips back into unconsciousness.

Tony chances a glance back at Steve and wishes he hadn't. The younger man looks absolutely stricken, crushed in every way imaginable. His best friend is alive, after so many years of Steve believing he was dead, and now he wants nothing more than his head on a silver platter. That's a tough blow for anyone.

Fury appears behind them, placing a gentle hand on Steve's shoulder and motioning them toward the door. Steve allows himself to be steered out of the room, numb and compliant beneath the director's hands. Fury catches Tony's eyes on the way out and the expression is painfully clear: I tried to warn you.

Say something, I'm giving up on you.

I'll be the one, if you want me to.

"Hello Captain Rogers, Mr. Stark," the woman greets with a warm smile when he and Tony step into Fury's office. She walks forward and extends her hand to both men, giving a surprisingly firm shake to each of them. "My name is Dr. Olivia Chandler, I'm the neurologist in charge of Mr. Barnes' recovery." She motions to the chairs on the other side of the desk and gives them another warm smile. "Please, have a seat."

Steve and Tony obey wordlessly, settling in the chairs indicated. Fury enters the office behind them and steps behind his desk, shuffling a few files and then handing them over to the woman. "Gentlemen, Dr. Chandler is one of the top neuroscientists S.H.I.E.L.D has at its disposal. She's offered to personally oversee this case and ensure the best possible care can be provided for Mr. Barnes."

"What did they do to him?" Steve asks quietly, his voice flat and empty like he's speaking into a tin can. He looks up at Fury and Chandler, his eyes dark and distraught. "The people who found him. What did they do to him?" He grits his teeth, jaw clenching painfully as he tries to speak. "They turned him into a cold-blooded killer."

"Steve-" Tony starts, reaching out to touch the younger man's arm.

Steve jerks away from him and slams his hands against Fury's desk. "What did they do?!" He demands, outrage and pain and anguish filling his expression.

Fury opens his mouth to speak but Dr. Chandler beats him to it. "Captain Rogers," she begins gently, her expression softening when she sees the raw emotion on the younger man's face. "I know this is difficult for you and I understand that you're anger," she says, stepping forward slowly and keeping her voice calm. "Please allow me to explain. It will help you understand what's happened to your friend."

She reaches forward and grasps his shoulders gently, guiding him back to the chair. All the fight leaves Steve almost instantly and he slumps into the chair, emotionally and mentally strung. He doesn't look angry anymore, he just looks exhausted.

"We believe Mr. Barnes is suffering from a rather complex form of retrograde amnesia," Chandler begins, looking between Steve and Tony as she speaks. "This type of memory loss is typically brought on by traumatic head injuries like those suffered during a fall or an accident. We believe that this kind of injury occurred when Mr. Barnes was lost during the war."

Fury plucks a file from the top of his desk and flips it open. "It seems he was found by the Russians after he fell from the train," he explains, catching Steve's eyes briefly before continuing. "They found him washed up on the banks of a river, half-frozen and barely alive with no memories of who he was or where he was from." He passes the folder across the desk to Steve but the soldier doesn't take it; Tony reaches out and grabs it instead. "From there they started what became known as Operation: Winter Soldier. They used his lack of memories as a blank slate to create the perfect assassin, keeping him brainwashed and on a short leash so they could keep him under their thumb."

Tony frowns at the file, eyes scanning over the faded ink and choppy handwriting filling the pages. "So how did they keep his memory from coming back?" He asks, glancing over the names indicated in the file. "Shouldn't it have started coming back on its own after a while?"

"In some cases, yes," Dr. Chandler asserts, flipping through the files that Fury had handed her and pulling out another document. "But head injuries are tricky and amnesia is equally difficult. You see, memories can only be recovered if they are allowed to return on their own; the brain must be allowed to access them independently in order for them to resurface."

She hands the document to Tony, a list of dates scrolling across the page. "Unfortunately, it seems that whoever was keeping Mr. Barnes was ensuring that his memories never returned, that he remained essentially blank in order for them to keep using him." She nods toward the page in Tony's hands before continuing. "The dates you see are confirmed sightings of the Winter Soldier in countries all over the world. The dates are years apart and yet Mr. Barnes appears completely unchanged in each sighting. He doesn't appear to age even though he's been used as an assassin for at least the past 60 years."

"So how does that work?" Tony asks, flipping through the dates and the subsequent pictures beside them. Just as she'd said, Barnes looks almost exactly the same in every picture, from the one taken in Berlin in 1953 to the one in Paris in 1988. "Do they have a whole room full of clones or something?"

Dr. Chandler shakes her head slowly in response. "To the best of our knowledge, we believe they have been keeping Mr. Barnes in a form of stasis between each mission. Cryogenics, suspended animation, something in those regards. He would be revived long enough to complete his mission and would then be put back under until the next assignment came around." She sighs softly, crossing her arms over her chest. "This would prevent his memory from returning and his handlers would maintain the upper hand. And it's worked remarkably well for them for years; that is until-"

"Until the other night," Steve mumbles quietly, the first time he's spoken since his outburst. He looks up at Fury and Chandler, his eyes turbulent and haunted. "He started to remember something the other night. That's why he didn't kill me."

Dr. Chandler gives him a small smile and nods. "We think that's why Mr. Barnes couldn't complete his assignment. Seeing you triggered something in his memory, Captain Rogers, something that hasn't happened since the war. He was beginning to remember something of his past and we believe that's why he couldn't kill you."

"But earlier in the holding cell-"

Chandler gives him another sad smile and shakes her head. "Unfortunately, a reaction like that is not entirely uncommon. While some part of him may remember you, at least at the most basic level, another part of him may still see you as a target. If he becomes enraged and violent at the sight of you, I'm afraid that's to be expected. And while I think it is very important for you to have a hand in helping Mr. Barnes recover his memories, I should also warn you that his reactions and behavior toward you may be...complicated."

She bounces a pencil against her knee briefly before continuing. "As I said, head injuries are tricky and the recovery of memories can be a scary and confusing process. Whatever was triggered in Mr. Barnes mind, memories or recollections, his body is still reacting from years of muscle memory and conditioning. Even if he begins remembering things from his past, he may still react violently out of instinct and impulse."

"When we caught up to him, he appeared confused and disoriented, like he wasn't sure where he was," Fury explains, looking across the desk to Tony and Steve. "He almost came willingly but became hostile when we told him where we were taking him. He took down three of our agents before we sedated him. We're keeping him under careful observation for the next few hours in case he becomes violent again."

"Captain Rogers," Dr. Chandler begins, her voice soft and gentle as she speaks. "I know this must be difficult for you to understand but reactions like this are perfectly normal for someone in Mr. Barnes' condition. I don't want you to become alarmed if he experiences violent outbursts or moments of confusion while we work to recover his memories. It will take some time but the outbursts should fade as he begins to remember who he is."

Steve is silent for several seconds, his expression unreadable and his eyes stormy. When he finally does speak, it's almost a whisper, hesitant and unsure. "So you think you can help him remember his past?"

Dr. Chandler hesitates briefly before she gives him another small smile. "We believe we can recover many of his memories, yes, but maybe not all. The combination of the head injury and the years he's spent in and out of stasis, it may be impossible for him to remember everything from his former life. We have high hopes for a positive prognosis but we can't be sure if it will be a full recovery."

Her expression softens a bit before continuing. "Captain Rogers, I want you to understand this will be a slow process. It may take weeks or even months for the memories to begin returning on their own and there may be some that can never be recovered. You'll have to be patient with him, understand that he's experiencing a lot of uncertainty and confusion as these memories come back."

She hesitates for a moment, her words gentle when she speaks again. "And you must also understand that he may never be the same man you knew before the war. His memories may return but his personality may be fundamentally and irreparably altered because of his time in stasis. If he remembers you, and we strongly believe that he will, he may not be the same person as before. We can't know for sure, but I wanted to prepare you in case that comes to pass."

Steve is silent for another moment, his eyes tracking the floor blankly. He sighs heavily, shoulders slumping and posture sagging in the chair. When he looks up again, his expression is resigned yet determined. "I want him back, whether he's the same man or not," he says quietly, glancing away to keep his resolve strong. "I just want him to get better. If you think you can undo whatever the Russians did to him, then you have my blessing. Help him recover his memories and remember who he is, even if means I'm no longer a part of his life anymore."

Dr. Chandler smiles softly and reaches forward to give his arm a reassuring squeeze. "We'll start first thing tomorrow morning."

Anywhere, I would've followed you.

Say something, I'm giving up on you.

They lead him to a different cell early the next morning, an agent on either side of him and one following along behind. All of them are armed with both tranquilizer guns and actual pistols and he has no reason to believe that they won't use them if they feel it's necessary.

The agents have been with him since he woke up in the holding cell, keeping a constant eye on everything he does. They watch as he showers and gets dressed, dark hair still long and dripping in his face. One of them suggests cutting his hair and he calmly suggests cutting off the agent's thumbs in response. The suggestions stop after that. They still have possession of his arm but they all seem to realize he's plenty deadly without it. One hand remains resting on top of their weapons at all times.

One of the agents steps forward and types in an access code, the door sliding open with a soft hiss a moment later. This cell is very much like the other except that two of the walls are made of thick, bullet-proof glass and provide a scenic view of the open expanse of one of the decks of the helicarrier.

A woman is sitting in a chair in the middle of the room and she smiles at him when they enter. "Hello Mr. Barnes," she greets as the agents lead him over to an adjacent chair and set him down in it. One of them loops a flexible strap around one ankle that hooks into the floor. Extra precaution in case he tries to escape again. These agents are painfully predictable.

"I'm Dr. Chandler and I'm going to be helping you try to regain your memories," the woman continues, her smile gentle and pleasant as she speaks. She looks to be in her mid-30s, honey-gold hair pulled back in a low bun at the base of her skull and dark, intelligent eyes settling on him as the agents step away.

The door slides closed behind them but it doesn't take a rocket scientist to know that they're standing just outside in case he becomes violent again. He slides his gaze away from the door and back to the woman sitting across from him.

"I'd like to start off small if that's alright," she tells him, completely unperturbed by the cold expression he's fixed her with. "Do you know what your name is?"

He doesn't answer. He doesn't have a name; he's never had a name. Has he? He gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head as a response.

The woman nods just slightly like she expected as much. "Do you mind if I call you James?"

There's a very small twinge somewhere deep inside, like a chord being plucked from a thousand miles away. That's not his name, he's certain of it, but it's a good name and he'll answer to it if he has to. He gives her a very tiny nod.

"Do you know how old you are, James?" She continues, jotting something down on the clipboard in her lap.

Once again, he gives a tiny shake of his head. His age is irrelevant, it's never meant anything before. Age is not a determining factor in the ability to kill; skill and efficiency are the only things that matter.

"Do you remember how you got here? Where you were before?"

He shakes his head again. In spite of his memory retention, the past few days are beginning to blur together, faded edges and frayed strings of time. He didn't go back to the facility when he failed to kill Rogers, he didn't go anywhere. He just...walked. He doesn't remember where he went, who he saw, what he did; it felt like walking through a thick fog that covered the world in a haze. Ever since that night, ever since Rogers had called out to him, he's felt...different. He can't explain it and he doesn't understand. He doesn't know anything anymore.

The woman continues asking him questions, pausing occasionally to write something down on her clipboard. She asks if he's ever been to Germany, Russia, England; he nods but he can't tell her anything about them. Just like the past couple of days, the world is beginning to blur together. He remembers different eras and places, people and names, but he can't focus on any one specific detail. He remembers feeling this way immediately after being brought out of stasis, the confusion and disorientation of trying to reprocess everything in his mind. It usually faded after a the first few hours thanks to the reprogramming, it always did, but this was different. This had been going on for days and it wasn't getting any better. It was like his mind was at war with itself and he was stuck in the middle.

"James?" The woman's voice is soft and it brings him back to the present. "I'd like to show you a few photographs. Would that be okay?"

He silent and stiff as a board for a moment but finally he nods his assent and presses his back against the chair to feel more grounded.

The woman pulls out three photographs, all in black and white, and places them on her lap. She pulls up the first one and holds it up so he can see it. The background of the photo shows a large wood and stone building that looks a bit like a church. Three long rows of boys are standing on the front steps of the building with tall, older women dressed in habits standing alongside them and looking sternly at the camera. A wooden sign by the base of the steps reads: Sister Margaret's Home for Boys. He doesn't know why she's showing him this picture.

The woman glances down at the photo and points out a little boy in the second row, dark hair falling across his forehead and a mischievous glint in his eye even around the sisters standing beside him. "Do you recognize this boy, James?" She asks and for the briefest of moments, he thinks he does. There's a fragmented flash of laughter, a gap-toothed smile, freckles dotting tan skin in the summer. And just like that, it's gone like it had never been there in the first place.

The woman must have seen something though because she gives him an encouraging smile and holds up another photograph. This one shows a young man dressed in a military uniform. He's handsome and stoic, mature and ready to defend his country, but that glint is still in his eyes. He can't deny anything about this photograph; the soldier looks exactly like him.

"This is you, James," the woman explains, glancing down at the photograph in her hands. "This was taken in 1942, just before you left for the war. Do you remember taking this picture?"

He wants to shake his head in denial but he can't. He can't because the similarities are uncanny and he doesn't understand. He never fought in the war, he never lived in a boy's home, he wasn't born in the 1920s. None of it makes sense and he can hear blood pounding in his ears like a tidal wave. None of this makes sense…

The woman holds up the last photograph and it's an image of the same soldier standing next to Steve Rogers. Their arms are looped around each other's shoulders, helmets slightly askew and off center, and they're grinning at the camera. They look like best friends, partners, comrades in arms...they look like brothers. It's him in the photograph but it's not, it's impossible, it's not him. He's not there but he's in the picture and he's friends with the same man he was sent to kill. It's not him...it is...but it's not…

He doesn't feel himself react until the agents tackle him from behind and pin himself to the floor. He'd gone from sitting to standing in less than a second and the agents were inside the next. The photographs have been slapped out of the woman's hands but she doesn't appear afraid; she seems just as calm and composed as she was when they first started speaking.

He thrashes hard against the agents, the cord around his ankle biting painfully into his skin. One of them catches his arm and he feels the sharp sting of the needle puncture his skin and the world begins to fade again. Oddly enough, he doesn't care; the world has been fading for days.

And I am feeling so small

His brain recognizes that he's dreaming before the rest of his body realizes it. There's a knee-jerk reaction to shake himself awake but he can't, the tranquilizers are too powerful and he can't rise above the hazy sea they have him submerged in. Words and images flash through his head, snippets of conversation and flickers of memory. He doesn't have the strength to wake himself up and he can't prevent the dreams from taking over so he gives up and just lets it happen. It should be interesting if nothing else...he's never dreamed before...has he...?

He's nine years old and thinks he's one of the coolest kids on the block. He's charming, charismatic, and can smooth talk his way out of almost anything. He's a natural leader, strong and persuasive, and he has the other kids following his every word.

They're sitting on the back stoop of the soda shop at the corner, playing marbles for matchsticks. There's a handful of them all together, seven or eight total, and he's the center of it all. He's street smart and magnetic, working the entire group with little more than a smile and a flick of his wrist. They're eating out of the palm of his hand and he's the ringleader of their merry band of misfits.

They should all be in school right now but that doesn't seem to faze any of them. School is for chumps and it will never pay off in the end. Besides, who needs school when you can learn everything you need to know out here? The only thing you ever learn in school is how to be bored.

There's a commotion from around the corner and he looks up to see a few of the bigger kids crowded around something at the end of the side alley. He avoids the bigger kids most of the time; they're loud and obnoxious and act like they know everything. It's annoying to say the least. He's curious now though and stands slowly, walking away from the game and leaving his friends behind.

The end of the alley is blocked off by a semicircle of teenage boys and they're cheering and yelling at something. He peaks between the elbows of two of them to see what they're yelling at.

There's a little boy in the middle of their pack, small and scrawny with dusty blond hair and angry blue eyes. His lip is split open, blood staining the front of his shirt, but he's standing as tall as he can. The older teens tower over him, multiple Goliaths to his one David, but the boy clenches his bony fists like he's ready to take on the world. They're going to kill him unless he does something.

He pushes his way past the teenagers and comes up a little too fast to the boy in the middle which turns out to be a mistake. The boy rounds on him, catching him in the nose with a small fist and tackling him to the ground before he can recover. They tumble to the concrete, wrestling through puddles of muddy water and rotting garbage. The teenagers are cheering above them, calling out for blood and a fight, and he's more than happy to give it to them now.

He flips the boy over, catching his busted lip with his elbow and causing more blood to spill down the front of his shirt. The boy lands flat on his back with a painful thud, the wind knocked out of him. He expects the fight to be over then and there but the fierce glare the smaller boy gives him is one for the record books.

"Stop!" He growls, tightening his grip on the boy's bony wrists. He can almost feel the bones rubbing together between his fingers. "I'm trying to help you!"

The smaller boy sneers at him, his teeth painted pink from his bloody lip, and he looks like he's ready to fight again, but suddenly there's a whistle from the mouth of the alley and an officer comes stalking down the path toward the group. The teenagers scatter like birds and he doesn't realized he's hauled the other boy to his feet and taken off running with him until they both sag against a wall about a block away, gasping and panting.

The smaller boy jerks his arm away from him, using his sleeve to mop up the blood dripping down his chin. He feels his earlier irritation return with a white-hot flash. "You know, you got a real funny way of showing appreciation, punk."

The boy glares at him and spits a glob of blood into the gutter. "You've got a real funny way of helping," he counters acidly, swiping his sleeve over his lip again. "I had him on the ropes."

He looks at him incredulously for a moment, taking in the split lip, blood spattered clothes, and dusty hair. It takes every ounce of strength he has not to burst out into disbelieving laughter. "Yeah, they were running for cover, that's for sure," he says with an easy grin. The kid had moxy, he had to admit. "You got guts, kid, I'll give you that. Don't know too many people stupid enough to take on a group of teenagers twice their size."

The smaller boy shrugs and spits again. "Don't know too many people stupid enough to jump in the middle of it either."

He smirks again and dusts off his pants. "What's your name, kid?"

The boy looks at him carefully, suspiciously. He's silent for a few seconds before sighing heavily and holding out on tiny hand. "Steve. Steve Rogers."

He takes the boy's hand and gives it solid shake. "Nice to meet ya, Steve. Name's James. Friends call me Bucky."

He opens his eyes slowly, blinking up at the ceiling. He doesn't know what time it is and he doesn't know how long he's been asleep. He looks down at himself and sees that's he's no longer restrained which is something of a surprise; he figures with his outburst earlier, he'd be shackled for sure. He has to remind himself that he's not being reprogrammed again and that the shackles are unnecessary. Had they shackled him before? He's not sure...

There are two agents standing outside the cell, their backs to him and their weapons visible. One of them glances at him through the glass when he stands up but doesn't move other than to watch him walk across the cell to the chair in the center of the room. One photograph is still sitting on the chair, the one of the boys standing out in front of the home. He picks it up and walks back to his cot, sitting down and studying the picture carefully.

He manages to pick out the little boy the doctor had pointed out earlier, the one that looked like the boy in his dream. On the first row, mixed in with some of the smaller boys, he manages to pick up the other boy from the dream as well. Slightly off center and just as small as he was in the alley; Steve Rogers.

He stares at the picture for a long time, trying to remember and trying to forget at the same time. It's not him but it is; the boy in the photograph is the same as the one in his dream. He passes a hand over his eyes and sighs heavily. It's been an interesting night. After all, he's never dreamed before…

It was over my head

I know nothing at all.

Over the next two weeks, he meets with Dr. Chandler daily and she does her best to help him unravel a past he doesn't know he had. Her presence is calm and steady, her voice soft and soothing when she speaks, and he finds it easier to open up to her after the first week of their sessions together. She reminds him of someone but he doesn't know who. The fact that he's cognizantly aware that she reminds him of someone is a big deal though.

"Tell me what you remember about the war," she prompts one morning, relaxing against the back of her chair and balancing her clipboard on one knee.

He shrugs one shoulder slightly, the movement heavy and a bit stiff. They had finally given him his arm back but it felt bulky and uncoordinated after having been removed for so long. He rotates the joint unconsciously before speaking. "Not much. I remember leaving. I don't remember returning."

Dr. Chandler nods patiently, urging him to continue. "Do you remember where you were sent?"

"Germany," he replies almost instantly although he's not sure why; it felt like a normal reaction. "Everyone was sent to Germany back then."

Chandler nods again and writes something down on her clipboard. "Do you remember what part of Germany you were in? Were there any towns nearby?"

He shakes his head slowly, uncertainly. "I don't know," he says and there's a slight edge of frustration that creeps into his voice as he speaks. The strap has been removed from his ankle but he still feels like he's chained to the floor, unable to move. He feels like he should remember this; it was a part of his life, wasn't it? So why can't he remember…

"It's okay," Dr. Chandler assure him, still speaking in her soft, gentle voice. "It's okay if you don't remember; don't try to force it." She makes a small note on her clipboard and looks back up at him. "Do you remember if Steve was there?"

"No," he answers immediately, shaking his head forcefully once and then frowning. Steve wasn't there, not when he left...at least not at first. He saw the photograph but Steve shouldn't have been there. Not in that picture. "He wasn't supposed to be there…" he hears himself mumble, not aware that he's spoke until the words are out in the open.

"Why wasn't he supposed to be there?" Dr. Chandler asks, tilting her head to the side and looking at him with genuine curiosity.

"It wasn't safe," he mutters again, the words tumbling out without discretion. He can't control them, it's like they have a mind of their own. "I promised…"

"Who?" Chandler asks gently, encouraging him to continue. "Who did you promise?"

"I promised…" he fades off, his voice becoming soft and small as he speaks. There's a flash of warm blue eyes, a loving smile, and soft hands on his face. It's not his mother, he knows that, but he knows her too. He knows her…

He'd never had a mother until he met Steve. His own mother was too busy trying to drown herself in gin to pay any attention to him and barely seemed to notice if he was even in the house or not. He doesn't know where his father is, he doesn't know if he's ever even met the man before, but it doesn't matter. He's gotten along fine without him until now.

Steve's mother is everything he never had; she's everything good in the world. She's kind and loving and treats him like her own son. She worries over him and scolds him and loves him the way his own mother never did. She makes sure he has a warm meal and safe place to sleep and that his pants don't have holes in them. Most of all, she makes sure he can read.

One of the first things he noticed about Steve when they became friends was that the kid was brilliant for his age. He could read and write better than anyone he's ever met and he knows how to make tactical decisions in the blink of an eye. Steve approached the world with a calm, inner logic that can't be taught; it's something that's passed down through the blood. He knows the second he meets her that he got it from his mother.

When he and Steve first became friends, Steve's mother had invited him over for dinner one night. Their apartment was tiny, one small room surrounded on all side by other families. The beds were pushed in the corner, a small iron stove on the other side of the room, and a blanket was nailed over the only window to keep the cold, damp breeze from filtering in through the broken glass. The food was scarce, little more than vegetable broth and a chunk of stale bread, but he can honestly say it was one of the best meals he ever had.

Once Steve's mother figured out he was skipping school and didn't know how to read, she made it her personal mission to ensure that he would be literate if it was the death of her. Even though she worked two jobs during the day to keep their tiny roof over their heads, she still found time at night to teach him the alphabet and how to read simple sentences. He was a fast learner, he retained everything almost instantly, and she beamed at him for his accomplishments.

He finds a family with Steve and his mother, a brother he never had and a mother he'd always wanted. He spends more time with them than he does with his own mother, although he's nearly certain she doesn't notice. He helps her around the house, keeps an eye on Steve (he quickly discovers that Steve is often teased and bullied for his size and tends to find himself in scrapes more often than not) and does everything he can to preserve the small but perfect family that has taken him in. Then Steve's mother fell sick and everything changed.

He doesn't know how old he is when it happens; old enough to know she's going to die but still young enough to foolishly wish it wouldn't happen. She's laying in the middle of the bed, her beautiful blond hair damp with sweat and her eyes glassy with fever. She smiles at him and he feels his heart break.

"James, come here," she whispers, her voice broken and frail. She'd spent much of the night coughing, tiny red spatters dotting her handkerchief after each attack. Her lips are pale, a bright flush of scarlet coloring the hollows of her cheeks, but still she smiles. Steve is asleep on the floor at the foot of the bed, exhausted from having stayed awake all night to take care of his mother. The doctors had told them they shouldn't be in here, that they would get sick as well, but neither of them listen. He glances down at Steve as he passes, wondering if he should wake him up or not. He looks small and young, so, so young, and he feels his stomach clench as he looks down at him. What's going to happen to them when she's gone?

Her hand is fever-warm and shaking slightly when she touches his face but her fingers are soft and gentle as they card through his hair. He feels tears burn in his eyes and bites down hard on his lip to keep them from falling.

"Shh," she whispers, her thumb brushing along his lower lashes softly. "Don't cry, my brave boy. I need you to be strong; you both have to be strong now." She breaks off and takes a shallow, rattling breath. "I want you to take care of each other, understand? You keep each other safe and you look out for one another." She cups his face gently, thumbs brushing away the tears that he can't hold back. "I want you to promise me, okay? Promise me that you'll keep each other safe."

He nods shakily, gripping her frails wrists lightly. "I promise. I promise."

She smiles tiredly and cards her fingers through his hair one more time before letting her hands fall back to the bed. "I'm so proud of both of you," she whispers, her eyes fluttering a bit in exhaustion. "So proud…"

She dies later that night, succumbing to the fever that had racked her for days. It's peaceful and silent, there one minute and gone the next; she'd been asleep when it happened but he and Steve were awake. He doesn't remember much else except that he held Steve for the rest of the night while he sobbed. He knows that his own tears were added in as well.

"James?" Dr. Chandler's voice brings him back to the present and he looks back at her. She's frowning just slightly, eyebrows knit together in concern. "Are you alright?"

He nods just slightly, suddenly aware of the damp trail down one side of his face. He swipes it away absently and lets his hand fall back into his lap. That explains how they had ended up in the boy's home, orphaned and alone with no one to cling to but each other. He doesn't remember what happened to his mother and he's pretty sure it has nothing to do with the rest of his memories; his mother was just gone. Whether she was still alive or not was irrelevant; he would have ended up on the streets anyway.

"Who did you promise, James?" Dr. Chandler presses again, still watching him with concern bleeding into her expression. "You mentioned that Steve wasn't safe and that you had promised someone something. Who did you promise?"

He's silent for a moment, his mind lingering on the memory from before. Steve shouldn't have been in the photograph because he had promised Sarah Rogers on her deathbed that he would keep him safe. He had promised he would protect him, keep him out of trouble, keep him away from harm. It was a promise he had kept to himself ever since that night, one he'd never told anyone, not even Steve. It had been his mother's last request and he had never told him.

He had promised to protect Steve and he had tried to kill him. With his own two hands, he had tried to kill him. He had broken his promise in every conceivable way possible. He feels sick.

"I don't remember."

And I will stumble and fall

He jolts awake with a strangled gasp, body tense and muscles rigid. He's preparing for impact, for the feeling of the hard, unforgiving ground thousands of miles below. He's preparing for rocks and frozen water and death. He's falling down, down, down and the only way to stop it is to hit the ground. He's falling…

"Bucky?"

His head snaps to the side, eyes landing on the solitary figure standing on the other side of the glass of his cell. Steve Rogers. Captain America. Mission failed. Assignment incomplete.

His body reacts before his mind does and he's across the room in two steps, slamming his fists against the unbreakable glass in an attempt to get to the man on the other side. The glass walls vibrate and shudder but remain intact no matter how many times he slams his fists against it. He punches hard with his metal hand, furious and desperate to get his hands on the man on the other side of the glass. It's useless, the glass remains unbroken, and he rests his forehead against the polished surface, hands still pressed against the glass. He's panting and winded, the irrational rage at seeing the other man still coursing through his veins. He doesn't know why; it felt like a natural instinct. Muscle memory at its peak.

"You were dreaming," Steve says simply, completely unfazed by the outburst. He seemed prepared for it, ready in the same way Dr. Chandler had been when he slapped the pictures out of her hands during one of their first meetings. They're working together. Of course they are.

"Are you alright?" Steve asks quietly, his eyes never leaving the other man's face. Concerned, intelligent blue eyes. Just like Sarah's. He closes his eyes so he doesn't have to look at them. His head is swimming, adrenaline and memories making him feel light-headed. There's a very tiny tap against the glass and he opens his eyes to see Steve pressing his hand to the other side of the glass where his own hand is. Palms touching yet separated by bulletproof glass. So close and yet miles away. He jerks his hands away and walks back across the room, slumping down onto his cot.

Steve stays where he is but there's a very brief flash of hurt behind his eyes. It disappears quickly and he's just as stoic as before. "I dream about it too sometimes," he tells him quietly, his voice filtering into the cell through the open intercom on the other side of the glass. "The war and the ice...I dream about them too."

Steve is looking directly at him, trying to meet his eyes. He turns his back to him instead. He can't face him. He doesn't want to face him. He wants him to go away and leave him alone.

"You're not alone anymore, Bucky," Steve tells him and he does everything he can think of to shut him out. He's not Bucky, he never has been. At least he doesn't think he is. Those memories are not his own; they're supplanted and falsified, fake memories for someone who never existed. Rogers is wrong. He's not Bucky. He's not…

"We're here to help you. You don't have to be alone anymore."

Go away.

Steve doesn't go away; he lingers outside the glass for several more minutes, watching him carefully. His head tips forward, forehead resting against the glass in much the same position the other man had been in earlier. "I'm glad you're alive, Buck…" Steve mutters softly, speaking more to himself than anyone else. "I've missed you."

He keeps his eyes closed and blocks him out as best as he can. He thinks he drifts off to sleep at some point because when he opens his eyes again, Steve is gone and he's alone. Good, he wanted him to leave anyway. Right?

I'm still learning to love

Just starting to crawl

Much to his chagrin, Steve returns the next day. And the day after that. And the day after that. Dr. Chandler still comes to see him every morning but Steve begins coming every afternoon, speaking with him from the other side of the glass and trying in his own way to help him recover his memories. The agents won't let Steve come in the room, they're worried that he'll try to kill him again (which, in all honesty, he probably would), but they allow him to sit outside the cell and speak with him every time he comes. Chandler seems to think letting them interact with one another will help with the process even though he has to physically rope in the instinct to fly into a murderous rage every time he sees Steve for the whole first week of their meetings. The captain remains blissfully unaware of all the times he's been grisly murdered in the other man's head when they first begin seeing each other.

Steve is unperturbed and speaks with him in warm, friendly terms. He talks to him about their childhood, their time in the war, all the girls Bucky dated before he went off to Germany. He talks to him like a friend, not an assassin who tried to kill him in his own bed.

He tries to block him out as best he can but the cell is only so big and he can only pretend to be asleep or unconscious for so long before he's forced to give up and move again. He never says a word to Steve and ignores him like he's not even there. Every day Steve comes back.

One afternoon, Steve walks in with a worn and tattered book in one hand. He can't make out the title from where he's sitting, his back pressed against the glass and eyes focused straight ahead at the sink on the other side of the room. He feels the vibration in the glass as Steve slides down the other side, his back pressed against his own through the thick barrier. He doesn't even have it in him to move right now, he just stays where he is, back to back with Captain America himself.

Steve opens the book and starts reading and he feels a twist in his gut at the opening words of the story. "Dr. Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island," Steve begins, speaking clearly on the other side of the glass. "From the beginning to the end, keeping nothing back but the bearings of the island, and that only because there is still treasure not yet lifted, I take up my pen in the year of grace 17_ and go back to the time when my father kept the Admiral Benbow inn and the brown old seaman with the sabre cut first took up his lodging under our roof."

He says nothing but one fist clenches tightly against the fabric of his pants. Treasure Island. He knows this book almost by rote. He's read it at least a hundred times, he took it with him when he went to Germany…

"I remember him as if it were yesterday," Steve continues, shifting a bit and stretching his leg out before him. "As he came plodding to the inn door, his sea-chest following behind him in a hand-barrow—a tall, strong, heavy, nut-brown man, his tarry pigtail falling over the shoulder of his soiled blue coat, his hands ragged and scarred, with black, broken nails, and the sabre cut across one cheek, a dirty, livid white. I remember him looking round the cover and whistling to himself as he did so, and then breaking out in that old sea-song that he sang so often afterward:'Fifteen men on the dead man's chest—Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!'"

It was the first book he learned to read, the one Sarah read along with him while he and Steve sat on the floor on that single room apartment. That book was one of his most prized possessions, he kept it with him for years…

His knuckles are bloody and his back end hurts from the paddling he'd gotten from Sister Mary that afternoon. Coupled with a growling stomach from being sent to bed without supper and it all adds up to a pretty miserable night.

He doesn't care, he's still angry and sullen about it. Thomas should have given his book back when he asked the first time. He hadn't lost his temper then, he was irritated more than anything. But then the older boy threatened to tear out a page out and he lost it. He tackled him to the ground and started punching and didn't stop until one of the sisters grabbed him around the waist and dragged him back inside. He knew Thomas had been punished too but the sisters hadn't given his book back to him after they took it and it didn't seem fair.

"You shouldn't have hit him, Buck," a soft voice says from behind him and he glances over his shoulder to see Steve standing beside the bed. The boy looks small and young in the darkness of the room, his clothes hanging off of his thin frame loosely. He's lost weight since his mother died, not that he had much to lose in the first place, but now he's even skinnier than before.

"He started it," he answers sullenly, turning back over and crossing his arms over his chest. He doesn't want a lecture from anyone right now, let alone Steve. He just wants to pout in peace. "You should be in the dining room with the others. You're too skinny to miss a meal, Steve."

"And leave you in here to sulk by yourself? Not likely." Something drops onto the bed next to his elbow and he looks down to see a chunk of bread sitting on the mattress. He almost smiles.

He hears Steve settle onto the floor beside his bed and feels the slight weight of his bony shoulders pressing into his back. He leans back just a bit to give him more support. There's a ruffle of paper and Steve clears his throat softly. "Dr. Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island."

He jerks up onto one elbow on the mattress, eyes wide in the dark. "How did you get that?"

Even though he can't see him, he can nearly hear Steve roll his eyes. "I'm small, remember? I can sneak in and out of places without people seeing me. Now hush up or I won't read this to you."

This time he does smile, bright and brilliant, and he can't remember the last time it stretched that big. He lays back down on his side, listening quietly as Steve continues to read. His voice fills the room, chasing away the shadows and the loneliness. He closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep with Steve's voice in his ears.

An agent approaches on the other side of the glass and Steve stops reading. They quietly tell him it's time to leave and the assassin has never wanted to reach through the glass and strangle someone so much in his life. Steve sighs softly and nods, closing the book in his lap quietly. He shifts slightly on the other side of the glass and looks back over his shoulder. "I'll be back tomorrow, okay?"

He says nothing and keeps his back pressed against the glass. He doesn't want to turn and face him; he's afraid if he does he'll ask him to stay. He stays sitting against the glass until Steve disappears around the corner and he's alone again. Only then does he unfold himself from the floor and walk back over to his cot. He lays back against the mattress and closes his eyes. That night he doesn't dream of falling or rocks or ice. That night he dreams of pirates and gold and adventure.

Say something, I'm giving up on you

I'm sorry that I couldn't get to you

"Do you remember when we snuck into that Dodgers game and you were determined not to leave until you got a signature from Babe Herman?" Steve asks one afternoon, his back pressed against the glass again like it usually is. It had become a familiar position for him, sitting with his back against the glass and talking to him over his shoulder. He'd quickly figured out that as long as the younger man wasn't looking directly at him, the urge to kill him didn't resurface as often. He was going on a full week now of not wanting to murder Steve Rogers every time he saw him. It was a big accomplishment.

"We hid out under the stands for the entire game, watching from between the seats." Steve smiles softly and looks down at the baseball card in his hand. It's old and faded, encased in plastic to ensure preservation. It wasn't from the game they went to; the card in his hands was signed in 1945, after they were both lost in the war. He doesn't have the original signature though, he has no idea what happened to it.

"We didn't even have a card with us when we went. I don't even think we had a pen." Steve smiles again, flipping the card slowly between his fingers. "I think you found a piece of wax paper on the way into the stadium; it was the only thing we had. You were determined to get a signature though."

He doesn't remember the game, not all of it at least. He remembers the sounds though; the crack of the baseball as it collided with the bat, the roar of the crowd above his head, the officials calling the plays as they happened.

"You got it," Steve tells him after a moment. "I have no idea how but you got it. You got him to sign that piece of paper and you kept it with you all the time after that. You said it was your good luck charm."

Steve's smile fades a bit and he looks back down at the card in his hands. "You didn't have it with you when you fell though…" he mumbles quietly, fingertips brushing over the plastic corners of the card. "You had left it in the tent that morning...you even told me that before we left. You said, 'dammit, Steve, I don't have lucky charm with me!' I told you it would be okay, that it would be there when you got back…"

Steve goes silent for a few seconds, the smile dropping from his face. The card is grasped tightly in between his fingers, plastic slick and impersonal. His shoulders slump just slightly and his head tips forward. "I tried to go back for you, you know," he says but his voice is detached in a way that makes it seem as though he's not speaking to him but to himself. "I wanted to go back, organize a search party...I wanted to-"

He breaks off, his voice wavering a bit as he speaks. With his back to him, he can't see the other man looking at him. "Even if you were dead, I wanted you back," he continues after a second. "It didn't matter. I just wanted you back."

Steve glances over his shoulder and catches the other man's eyes briefly. He looks away instantly, refusing to meet the soldier's eyes. "I'm so sorry, Buck," Steve whispers quietly, letting his head fall back against the glass. "I'm sorry I couldn't get to you. God knows I tried…"

The conversation stops after that and an agent appears a few moments later, ushering the Captain away. Before he leaves, he hands the card to the agent and asks if he can leave it. The agent nods and Steve looks back at the cell one last time before he walks away. True to his word, the agents steps into the cell, weapon in hand, and places the card on the edge of the bed.

He doesn't move, doesn't acknowledge the agent at all the entire time he's in the room. He doesn't move until the agent leaves and he's alone in the cell again. He walks across the room and picks the card up off the edge of the bed, turning it in between his fingers. He doesn't recognize the player or the uniform or the name but he holds on to it anyway.

He falls asleep that night with the card pressed to his chest, right above his heart.

Anywhere, I would've followed you

Say something, I'm giving up on you

"Is something wrong?"

He blinks and looks up to see Dr. Chandler watching him carefully. Her eyes are thoughtful and placid but the expression on her face is mixed with quiet concern. He can't remember what they were just talking about, what the questions had been about today. There were words in his head, not his own but definitely ones he had spoken at some point. The memories (at least that's what he thinks they are because he still doesn't entirely believe they're his own) are becoming more frequent now and at Dr. Chandler's advice, he lets them come unimpeded. However, they tend to come at the worst possible time and cause him to temporarily forget everything that happened before, like right now for instance. Ironic, really; remember something from the past at the cost of forgetting something in the present. Screw memories.

"Sorry," he mutters, looking back down at the floor briefly. He's trying to remember her questions while still grasping for the words that had been floating around in his head only moments before. "You were saying?"

Dr. Chandler smiles softly, allowing the distraction to dissipate like nothing had happened. She knew when to push and when to leave it alone. "I was saying that you've made some remarkable progress lately and that both myself and Director Fury feel it may be time to start branching out with your treatment."

She shuffles a few papers in her lap and pulls one out after a moment of looking. "Through city records, we were able to locate some of the places you lived and worked at before the war. With your permission, I'd like to take you to them and let you see them again. It may help you regain some of your memories a bit better. Would you be interested in doing that?"

He shrugs once because he really doesn't have a better suggestion. The number of guards outside his cell had decreased dramatically since his first day but he was still under constant surveillance. He was a killer after all; forgetting that for even a moment could lead to disaster. Still, he hasn't been outside of this cell in over a month, maybe more, and if Dr. Chandler thinks it's a good idea to drag him back into the world then he's willing to let her.

Taking his shrug as a positive gesture, Dr. Chandler nods and writes down a note on her

clipboard. "Tomorrow morning in place of our regular session, we'll go on a bit of a field trip instead. We'll be escorted by S.H.I.E.L.D agents of course, they'll follow us to every location-"

Her words fade again and the other words come back to replace them. They're distant and fuzzy, spoken years ago by someone who doesn't remember saying them. They have to be his if he's remembering them though, right? Why else would they be rattling around inside his head?

"You ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?"

"Hell no. The little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb to run from a fight. I'm following him."

Huh, so he had followed Steve willingly. Interesting. He's not sure why that surprises him but it does. Following someone with the name 'Captain America' seems a bit ridiculous in the long run but apparently at one time he had believed it was a worthy cause to pursue. After all, why else would he agree to follow him into the jaws of death. He must had trusted him an awful lot to put such blind faith into the other man.

"-at 8 am," Dr. Chandler tells him and he nods at the appropriate pause to convince her that he was listening the whole time. She doesn't buy it, not completely, but she doesn't question him either. Just as well, he can't really explain it even if he wanted to.

The next morning at 7 am, the agents step into the cell and outfit him with a GPS tracker around his left ankle and thin, wire bracelet around his right wrist. The tracker on his ankle will allow them to keep a locked position on him at all times and the bracelet is linked to another security system on the ship. If he tries to run, the bracelet will emit an electric volt that will render him unconscious and then he'll be dragged back to the Helicarrier. He vaguely wonders if all field trips are like this.

Dr. Chandler arrives less than 20 minutes later and at least a half dozen agents escort them off the Helicarrier and onto the mainland of New York city. All of them have weapons, loaded and ready, and they keep a constant, sharp eye on him at all times. They're waiting for him to run, ready for it, but oddly enough he doesn't feel like running. Not anymore. The longer he's spent away from his handlers, the more he wonders why he ever went back. Not that he's overly fond of the situation he's found himself in right now but it's better than willingly allowing himself to be frozen again.

He sits quietly as they travel around the city, taking in the new buildings and advertisements that fill the streets. The world has become more crowded since he was last in it, more people, more industries, more markets. It seems like a never ending cycle really. He almost doesn't recognize this city anymore and it has nothing to do with his time in stasis.

They lead him all over the city, Dr. Chandler providing him with information at each stop that he can't provide for himself. The boy's home has turned into an elementary school and house his mother had lived in had been demolished in the 1960s to make way for a grocery store. He doesn't remember any of it, maybe a flash or two here and there, but nothing sticks in his mind. Not until they reach the apartment.

It's their last stop and it doesn't look like much from the outside. Red brick, rusty fire escape leading out into an alley back behind it. The bottom floor is a deli, the upper two doubling as loft apartments and a dance studio. He doesn't need to look at the piece of paper in Dr. Chandler's hand to know that his name is signed at the bottom as well as Steve's. This had been their first apartment, many long, long years ago, only then it had been a boarding house. He doesn't know why he's so sure of that, he just is.

He stands motionless on the street corner, gazing up at the pollution-hazy windows of the two upper floors. Dr. Chandler stands beside him, quiet and non-intrusive, allowing him to remember on his own. The agents are behind them, watching silently with their weapons still available at a moment's notice. No one speaks or asks questions, the only sound is the bustle of traffic behind them and the occasional person walking by and talking on their cell phone.

He remembers this place but for all the wrong reasons. It doesn't bring back memories of a warm home and friendly neighbors. It brings back memories of strife and tribulation. They had struggled here, day in and day out, just to keep a roof over their heads; everyone did back then. This was a poor neighborhood even after the Depression ended and it took every dime you had to ensure that you didn't end up on the street.

He remembers this place because it had been horrible but it was all they could afford. Being as young and desperate as they were, they didn't exactly have the money to put down on anything better. He remember this place because they had teetered on the precarious edge of poverty for almost a year before things got better and they moved somewhere else. He remembers this place because Steve had nearly died here.

He feels something dark and sharp twist in his gut at the memory and inhales just a little too deeply. Dr. Chandler notices and looks at him carefully. "James? Are you alright?"

He nods once and turns back to the car. "I'd like to leave now," he tells her before sliding into the backseat and closing the door.

And I will swallow my pride

He's silent for a long time when they get back and Dr. Chandler doesn't push him until she sees the tight lines of tension fade a bit from the corners of his eyes. When she finally does speak, her voice is gentle and soft, careful to avoid spooking him again. "Would you like to talk about what happened at the apartment?"

He doesn't, not really, but he knows it will come out eventually. This memory isn't like some of the others, distorted and fading in and out when he tries to focus in on them. This memory is sharp and clear, painful and terrifying. The fear is raw and alive, long forgotten and yet viciously present just beneath the surface. He remembers that same fear settling over him in that apartment, a physical being in the room. It's so powerful it's nearly suffocating.

Dr. Chandler is still looking at him, patient and calm as always, and he unclenches his hand at his side. She wants to know so he tells her.

He's 17 years old when Steve nearly dies in his arms.

He knows something is wrong the minute he gets home and finds Marcella and her granddaughter waiting for him on the front steps. The Luzzano family lived across the hall from them, four adults with three children. He always thought it was cramped with just he and Steve sharing a room; he has no idea how a family of seven manages it.

Marcella was the oldest, the matriarch of the family and the one who stayed home to care for the children. She's a kind woman, large smiles and bright eyes, and she always stops to say good morning to him with what little English she knows when he leaves for work each day. Today she's frantic though, speaking in rapid-fire Italian, and he can't understand a word of it.

Lucia steps in to translate for her, her English better than both her parents and her grandmother's even though her accent is still heavy. "Nonna says your friend is very sick. She found him in the stairwell this afternoon. She has called for a doctor but he has not come yet."

He doesn't stop to hear the rest, already bolting up the stairs two and three at a time. Their room was on the second floor, split four ways between three other families. He knew the Luzzanos well enough but he had only ever met the other two families once before. He doesn't know if anyone else is in the building except for Marcella and her grandchildren but he doesn't care. He kicks open the door the second he reaches it.

Steve is half-curled on the bed, shivering and mumbling incoherently. His face is flushed with fever, bright patches of scarlet flaring along his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. He's restless and fidgety, hopelessly tangled in the thin sheets that have wrapped around his legs. He doesn't even seem to be aware that someone else is in the room.

He crosses the room in three steps and drops down to his knees beside the bed. "Steve, hey. Can you hear me? I need you to open your eyes for me, kid. Can you do that? Steve, look at me." His hands cup the younger boy's face and his stomach drops at the heat rolling off of him. Steve's skin is hot, too hot, and it's burning his palms like a furnace.

Steve's eyes are glassy and unfocused when he opens them, blinking for several seconds before he recognizes who's speaking. "Buck…?"

"Yeah, kid, it's me," he says instantly, brushing an unruly strand of blond hair away from his face. "I'm right here."

Steve is shaking all over, tiny trembles turning into full blown shakes with each passing second. His breathing is off, chest rising and falling in hitched stutters, and there's a strange crackling sound accompanying each breath. He coughs weakly, gasping and wheezing as he tries to regain his breath, and his lips are taking on a bluish tint. It's just like when his mother died…

The door is pushed open behind him and he looks over his shoulder to see a thin, white-haired doctor enter the room. Marcella and Lucia are standing just outside the door, peering into the room worriedly. The doctor walks across the room without a word and ushers him away from the bed so he can get to Steve. He wants to stay, he needs to stay because Steve is all he has and if something happens to him he doesn't know what he's going to-

Lucia walks over and takes his hand, pulling him away gently so the doctor has room to work. Her hands are small and warm when they wrap around his own and she gives his hand a reassuring squeeze as they step away. Lucia is a beautiful girl, dark eyes and dark hair with olive skin and a heart-shaped face. She's 14 years old and she's been in love with him since they moved into this building. She talks with him and smiles sweetly when he's around and any other time, he would have been glad to return a pretty girl's attention. He doesn't think about that right now though, all he thinks about Steve laying in the bed across the room.

The doctor steps away after a while, his face grim and somber. It's pneumonia and he nearly kicks himself for not realizing it sooner. Steve had always had respiratory problems, ever since they were kids, and it always got worse in the winter. He'd heard him coughing last night and the night before but had chalked it up to the cold weather and nothing more. This was bad though, worse than he could have imagined, and he hadn't even realized it until now.

The doctor gives him a handful of antibiotics that they can't afford and tells him that he'll be back in the morning to check on Steve. There's something in his voice though, a resigned tone that make it clear he doesn't expect him to live through the night. He's too far gone already, the pills and the follow-up visit are just a formality. Steve is dying and he didn't even realize it.

He's back over by the bed the second the doctor leaves, cradling Steve's face and speaking to him quietly. It takes some work but he manages to get Steve to swallow two of the pills, one for the fluid in his lungs and the other for the fever. Steve doesn't try to fight it, he's too delirious and weak to do much of anything other than lay there.

The rest of the night creeps by at a snail's pace, seconds turning into minutes, minutes into hours. Steve is almost completely unconscious through most of it, breathing weak and heartbeat too rapid. He stays by the bed for hours, gripping Steve's limp hand in both of his own and watching his face carefully. Marcella and Lucia drift in and out, offering comfort and support to both of them. It doesn't do much good.

The fever spikes near midnight and Steve begins shaking all over again. They strip him of his clothes, leaving him in only his underwear, but it doesn't seem to do much for the fever. Marcella disappears across the hall and comes back with damp rags, laying them gently across Steve's forehead and his shuddering bare chest. He reacts violently to the cold sensation, curling in on himself and crying out weakly. He cries out for his mother, he cries out for Bucky, his voice fading into weak, shuddering sobs.

Something in him breaks then and suddenly he's ten years old again and watching Sarah Rogers die in her bed. He reacts without thinking and climbs into the bed, gathering Steve in his arms and holding him close. The younger boy fights him weakly, trying to pull away, but he holds on. He buries his face into the side of the fever-scorched throat and closes his eyes, holding him tightly. "I'm right here, I'm right here, I'm right here…"

He doesn't care that Marcella and Lucia are still in the room or that he's weeping into the side of Steve's neck like a child. He doesn't care that he's begging him to stay, stay with me, or that his own arms are shaking with desperation as Steve continues to thrash and tremble in his arms. His pride is gone, dignity replaced with the abject terror only death can bring. He holds onto him tightly, hands splayed over the feverish skin of his chest, feeling each weak, shuddering breath and the faint, fluttering pulse of his heartbeat beneath his fingers. He holds onto him and he prays.

He says every prayer he remembers from the boy's home, every prayer he remembers the sisters ever saying. He prays to God, he prays to Jesus, he prays to Steve's mother. He begs for him to stay, please don't take him, stay with me, and he holds on. He prays for each breath, each heartbeat, each whimper, and he prays until it all just sounds like a wordless hum.

He's not sure how and he doesn't question it but it works. Steve's fever breaks in the middle of the night and he's soaked in sweat and gasping. Marcella hovers over him, eyes exhausted but smile bright as she bathes his face and chest with a damp cloth. Lucia gives him a warm smile from across the room and walks across the hall to tell her parents. He watches her go but doesn't say anything; Steve is finally asleep, not unconscious, in his arms and he doesn't speak or move for fear of waking him.

At some point Marcella disappears from the room and closes the door behind her. It's late, he has no idea what time it is. Steve's breathing is still shuddering and uneven but it's a bit more stable now, his heartbeat steadier and slower beneath his hand. He's still sweating, his body ridding itself of the fever that had ravaged him for most of the night, but he doesn't care. He buries his face in the sweat-slick skin of his throat, his lips brushing along the solidity of bone along his jaw.

Steve is still stripped down to his underwear but he's not shivering any more, his body limp in the throes of an exhaustion induced sleep. He curls himself around Steve, pulling his body against him as tightly as he can. He keeps his arms locked around the small, thin body and listening to him breathe. He holds him close, cradled tightly in his arms, and finally he allows himself to drift off to sleep.

Dr. Chandler says nothing when he finishes speaking, her eyes dark and unreadable. He allows himself to linger on the memory for a moment, thinking back to Marcella and Lucia, both long dead and gone from there. It doesn't hurt him when he speaks again.

"I always hated that apartment."

You're the one that I love

And I'm saying goodbye

"James, I'd like to you to come to France with me," Dr. Chandler tells him one morning during their meeting. "There's a clinic in Nantes that specializes in neurological disorders and therapy for patients suffering from traumatic head injuries. I think they could help with your treatment."

He says nothing for several minutes, mulling over the proposition in his mind. The idea of leaving sits badly with him for some reason. He's never been one to stay in one place for longer than he has to but leaving now seems...wrong.

"When?" He asks quietly, meeting her eyes with a coolly detached expression. Emotionless mask at its best.

"Next Tuesday," she tells him, balancing her ever-present clipboard on one knee. "I've already contacted them and explained your progress and treatment. They seem very eager to work with you."

He nods once in response and stays quiet. He really has nothing more to say. If the clinic in France can help, why not? Still, the idea of leaving makes him uneasy in ways he can't explain. He doesn't waste time trying to figure it out, he just stays silent.

The reason doesn't strike him until later that afternoon when Steve is sitting with his back against the glass like he always does, a tattered copy of Gone With The Wind balanced in his lap. "Dr. Chandler told me you're going with her to France next week," he mentions casually, glancing over his shoulder to the man on the other side of the wall.

He's sitting against the glass as well, back pressed against Steve's from the other side. This has become an oddly comfortable position for the two of them. He no longer wants to murder Steve every time he sees him and has finally gotten to the point of being within five feet of him without wanting to punch a hole through the glass. He tips his head just slightly in a nod, remaining silent behind the glass.

"She told me about the clinic," Steve continues, fingers drumming across the cover of the book in his lap. "She thinks they can help you."

There's another nod and he lets his head tilt back just slightly to rest against the glass. It's cool and smooth, completely clear and yet almost indestructible. It makes his head hurt.

"You don't seem that excited," Steve suggests with a glance, letting his gaze linger for a moment.

He shrugs one shoulder in response, the movement heavy and stiff. The metal joints had become inflexible and creaky over the past few days, a new development he hadn't experience before. He's never been out this long without scientists running constant recalibrations and tinkering with the arm like it was an alien life form. He should probably mention it to someone.

Steve is silent for a moment before he speaks again. "You don't have to go, you know," he says quietly, nonchalantly, but there's something in his voice when he speaks. Hopeful, maybe? Pleading?

He suddenly realizes that Steve doesn't want him to leave either. Letting him leave meant he may never see him again; he could disappear off to France and never come back. Steve doesn't want him to leave because he might lose him all over again.

He says nothing but the suggestion is oddly familiar and jarring. Steve doesn't want him to go. He wants him to stay. He doesn't want him to go…

Steve is pissed at him. In all the time they've known each other, Steve has never actually be angry with him. The bicker and tease each other, sure, but he's never been genuinely angry at him. He angry now though; more than that actually, he's pissed.

"You're an idiot," he growls angrily, blue eyes flashing as he speaks.

He sighs heavily. "Steve, we're not doing this again, alright? I have to go. You know that."

"Yeah," Steve snaps, crossing his arms over his chest hotly. "You have to go so you can get shot up behind enemy lines or get blown to pieces by a German grenade. You're an idiot."

He sighs again and shakes his head, grabbing his duffle bag and slinging it over his shoulder as the train rumbles into the station. He knew a good majority of Steve's attitude was stemming from fear; he was terrified for his best friend and there was no hiding it. He had every right to be, they'd both seen the uniformed soldiers standing solemn and sober on the front steps of the families of soldiers killed in action. They'd both heard the anguished cries of grief when the news was delivered, watched as the deceased soldier's loved ones crumpled to the ground sobbing. Steve was terrified for him and, if he's honest with himself, he's a little bit terrified too.

Their last night hadn't gone quite the way he expected in spite of his best intentions. Steve had disappeared into a GI tent and even the rapt attention from the girls on his arms hadn't been able to chase away the deep hidden apprehension settling in his stomach. He knew full well he could be hopping on a train that leads him straight to his death the next morning but he'd tried to forget that for at least one more night.

Steve had been in an odd mood when he deposited his drunken friend's stumbling form onto the bed later that night. He was different, slightly giddy and with a strange expression on his face that the other man couldn't distinguish; it was like he was hiding something important. He was a little too drunk to focus on it right then though, the flood of alcohol in his system going straight to his head. He'd fallen asleep meaning to ask about it but forgot in his drunken haze.

The expression is gone the next morning, replaced by poorly hidden fear and completely visible anger. Today was the day, no more waiting or delays. He shipped out today for basic training and there was no telling if he would ever come home.

"So you gonna write to me or are you just gonna pout until I get back?" He asks casually as he steps up into the line of passengers waiting to board the train.

Steve rolls his eyes but helps him with his other bag. "I'll promise to write only if you promise not to get yourself killed."

He smirks and shoulders the other bag. "I'll do my best, Steve."

"Bucky, I'm serious," Steve says, catching one wrist and looking up to meet his eyes. Sad thing about puberty, Steve never did grow very much. He's standing tall now though, his eyes sharp and level with his best friend's.

He sighs and drops the duffle bag onto the platform, pulling the smaller man against his chest in a one-armed hug. It's tight and he rests his chin on top of Steve's head lightly. "Yeah, I'll be careful," he mumbles as the line surges forward behind him. He doesn't say anything when Steve's fingers clench in the thick fabric of his uniform. A few of the other soldiers give them strange looks as they pass but he doesn't care.

When Steve finally pulls away, the anger has left his eyes and he looks resigned and somber. "Don't get yourself in trouble over there," he tells him quietly as the conductor calls for boarding passengers again. "I'd hate to have to come and bail you out."

He smirks a bit but the expression doesn't reach his eyes. "The Nazis will never know what hit them," he teases and Steve tries for a laugh but fails. He turns then, unable to stay any longer, and boards the train. Steve stays on the platform until it pulls away, hands dug deep in his pockets, expression hardened and eyes dark. He watches until the platform and Steve disappear into the distance. It feels significant and final, like he's saying goodbye for the last time. He swallows hard.

He stays silent long enough that Steve seems to drop the subject entirely and turns his attention back to reading. The room is filled with visions of Tera and the burning of Georgia but he finds he's not really paying attention to the book anymore. All he thinks about is leaving.

Say something, I'm giving up on you

And I'm sorry that I couldn't get to you

He's disappointed when Steve doesn't show up the next afternoon. He's angry when he doesn't come the next day. He's confused when he doesn't come the day after that. Had he given up? Did he finally see this as a lost cause and simply resign himself to the fact that this was all pointless? He kind of wishes that were true; the sooner Steve realizes that his best friend is gone forever, the easier it will be for both of them.

He looks up when the man in the suit approaches the cell, his eyes narrowing instantly. He's the same one who shot at him that night in the Tower, the one with the energy weapon in his hands. He doesn't know his name but he knows his face and the last time they saw one another, they weren't exactly on the friendliest of terms.

The other man seems to realize this and sighs dramatically in response. "Relax, Stalingrad, I'm not here to fight. Fury called and told me you were having some trouble with your arm. Seeing as how working with metal appendages is kind of my thing, he thought I could help."

He remains motionless for several moments, eyeing the other man carefully. He seems harmless enough, dressed in a suit and tie combo that probably costs more than everything on this floor of the Helicarrier. He also seems fidgety, like he can't stand being still and quiet for longer than a few minutes at a time.

"Oh, and if you're wondering about Steve, he'll be back Sunday," the other man continues, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "He got called away on a mission a couple days ago. Should be back before you take off for France."

He's not sure why but the assurance that Steve will be back before he leaves puts him at ease for some reason. He feels almost relieved. He pushes the thought away a second after it appears.

"So here's how this is going to work," the other man says, stepping toward the cell carefully. "I'll fix your arm if you promise not to kill me." The door opens and he takes a few cautious steps inside. "You don't beat me to death with my own spine and I won't blast you across the room. Deal?"

He watches him warily for a few seconds before finally nodding. "Deal."

"Good," the other man beams at him, cocky and a little bit arrogant. It's an expression that sits easily on his face. "That would be tough to explain when Steve comes home."

He says nothing and simply walks over to the bed, sinking down onto the mattress and allowing the other man to poke and prod at the joints in his arm. He mutters to himself quietly as he works, speaking to someone named JARVIS through a wireless headset tucked into one ear. He rambles off a list of equations and calculations and electrical circuitry terms that don't make sense to anyone but him. The assassin remains silent through the whole thing.

"Mind if I-?" He asks at one point, motioning toward the arm. In one smooth movement, the assassin detaches it from his body and drops it into the other man's hands. The engineer blinks at the metal limb for several seconds, an expression halfway between shock and amazement crossing his features. "Wow, uh...I was just going to gauge the density of the metal but...uh...I mean, I guess this works too."

He watches silently as the engineer takes measurements and readings, filing them away to JARVIS as he works. He has no idea who JARVIS is but he feels it has something to do with the Tower itself; he remember the AI had a name in the file he was given.

"You don't talk all that much, do you?" The man asks at one point, looking up from the arm.

He shrugs with his good shoulder and meets his gaze. "Not much to talk about."

The other man rolls his eyes dramatically. "Dude, you just ripped your own arm off your body and handed it to me. You've been a super-secret Soviet assassin for the past 60 years. You fought Nazis. There has to be something you want to talk about."

He shakes his head. "Not really."

The other man goes back to tinkering with the arm for a few more moments. "We could talk about Steve."

"No," the words is out of him and thrown down before he even realizes he's said it. It's sharp and final, like a whip cracking through the air. Talking about Steve is not allowed; the only one who can talk to him about Steve is Dr. Chandler. He won't talk about Steve to anyone else.

The engineer blinks in surprise at the verbal slap of denial. He holds up his hands in mock surrender and keeps working. "Alright, fair enough. Just thought I'd offer."

He sighs and slumps against the wall slightly, looking away. He's not sure why the offer bothered him as much as it did. "Sorry."

The other man shrugs and hands the arm back to him. "It's cool. Everyone has their triggers, I guess." He watches wordlessly as the assassin fastens the arm back into its correct place. "I'll be back tomorrow to fix it," he tells him as he walks toward the door. "Don't do anything crazy like mountain climbing or grizzly bear arm wrestling until then."

He says nothing and watches as the door slides closed behind him. He's alone again, in the emptiness of the cell and he lays back on the mattress to stare up at the ceiling. Steve doesn't come to visit that afternoon but now he knows why. He falls asleep to the sound of silence.

And anywhere, I would've followed you

"He'd go with you if you asked, you know," the man, Tony, tells him the next day while he's working on his arm. He's wearing goggles and the suit is gone, replaced with a t-shirt and thick welding gloves. His jeans are stained with grease and motor oil and there's half a dozen shiny tools on the floor beside him. It would have been so easy to grab one of those tools and jam it into his throat, no effort at all. He doesn't though, doesn't even have the urge to anymore; he just sits still. What the hell was happening to him?

"A few words is all it would take," Tony continues, tightening one screw and reaching for another. "He'd drop everything and hold your hand all the way to the clinic."

He says nothing but the glare is white-hot and palpable, a clear indication to back off and stop talking. Tony appears unfazed; he must be used to this look by now. He actually does have his weapon today, out in the open and visible, so he knows better than to try anything. He can still glare with the intensity of a thousand suns though.

"Look man," Tony says finally, sitting back on his heels and pushing his goggles up with one hand. "All I'm saying is that the guy would do anything for you. You're his best friend. You say jump, he'll ask how high. You say run, he'll ask how far. You say crawl through barbed wire, he'll ask if you want to toss in razor wire as well."

Tony sighs and rubs his hands on his jeans which really doesn't seem to do much good. "The point is, Steve has been coming here every single day for a month and a half, hoping to get something out of you, and I don't think you've ever said a word to him. You've talked to everyone else on this ship; hell, you and I almost had a full conversation yesterday and you don't even know me. You and Steve go back years longer than anyone on this ship and you won't even give him the time of day. Steve believes in you, he wants you back, and he'll keep coming here until the day he dies if that's what it takes."

He frowns at the arm and flexes the fingers slightly. The joints move with much more ease now, fluid and smooth like they're his own flesh and blood. It's pretty amazing actually. "You don't understand," he says simply, uncurling the finger again.

Tony sighs irritably and scrubs at his hair. "No, you're right. I don't understand. I don't understand losing my best friend and thinking he's dead only to find out he's alive 70 years later and has been playing spy games with the Russians. I don't understand having that same best friend try to kill me in my own house and almost letting him do it. And I really don't understand coming back here, day after day, in the hopes that he'll suddenly wake up and remember me after all these years. Forgive me if I don't understand."

He's up on his feet a split second later, metal fist clenched so tightly the repaired joints creak in protest, but Tony is just as fast, the repulsor already palmed and ready in his hand, pointed at him with level precision. "We had a deal," Tony reminds him through clenched teeth, his hand unwavering. He really doesn't want to shoot him but if it comes down to it, he will.

He eyes the weapon carefully for a moment before taking a small step backwards and sinking back onto the bed again. Tony is slower to lower his weapon, keeping it trained on the other man for several more seconds before he finally lowers his arm. He keeps the weapon in his lap, easy access in case he needs it again, and goes back to working on the arm.

"He's better off without me," he mutters after a moment, causing the engineer to look up from what he's doing. "Getting my memories back...it won't help him at all," the words tumble out loosely and he lets them. He hasn't spoken this much to anyone who wasn't Dr. Chandler in he can't remember how long. "You said it yourself. I'm an assassin. A killer. I've killed dozens of people, maybe hundreds. Tell me how that's supposed to help him."

Tony is silent for a moment, soldering one of the joints carefully. "You may not believe this," he says after a moment, glancing up from the arm. "But Steve doesn't care about that. He cares about you. Trust me, he's had plenty of time to get used to the idea of you being a hired gun for the Russians and he still comes back every day. He doesn't care that you're an assassin; shit, we work with two of them on a daily basis."

He sighs and swipes a hand through his hair. "Listen," he begins quietly, glancing around the room like he's looking for anyone who may be listening in on their conversation. "If you say anything about what I'm about to tell you, I will personally bludgeon you to death with this metal arm." His voice drops to just above a whisper and he continues to speak. "Steve is probably one of the greatest men I've ever met in my life. He's smart, he's brave, and he's ridiculously loyal. He believes in you, he trusts you, and he's willing to do anything to get you back. He doesn't care about your past or what you've done, he just care about you. You could be the devil incarnate and he would still try to see the best in you."

He grabs a screwdriver from the floor and rolls it back and forth between his hands. "I'm not saying this to guilt trip you or anything, I'm saying it because it's true. Steve lost a lot when he went down in the war, you both did, but the fact that you're both here now after all these years is pretty astounding. I'm not one to believe in miracles but I don't know what else to call this. Fate, destiny, divine intervention; take your pick. Steve knows it too and he's willing to follow it all the way to the end. If there's even the slightest chance that he could get you back, if he believes for even one second that it could happen, he'll take it."

Tony stands then, dusting off his jeans and giving him a serious look. "His fate rests in your hands now," he tells him quietly as he gathers his tools. "You can keep ignoring him, keep giving him the silent treatment in the hopes that he'll eventually give up on his own. Or," he points at him with the same screwdriver he'd been playing with earlier. "You can say something to him and convince him that there is some hope left."

He shrugs and walks toward the door, glancing back over his shoulder as he goes. "The choice is yours, Barnes."

Say something, I'm giving up on you

He wrestles with Tony's words for an entire day after he leaves. It shouldn't matter; Steve wasn't his friend even if he did come to see him every day and talk to him like he's known him all his life. He shouldn't give Steve any hope because that would be pointless. He's not Bucky, no matter how much Steve wants him to be, and admitting to any kind of memories would just be cruel.

But that's the problem because he does remember Steve. Not all of him, not completely; more like fragmented and fractured snippets of his past, but he does remember him. But now he can't face him. Remembering him means remembering everything and remembering everything makes him feel sick. He's a killer, a murderer, the blood on his hands is so dark it's almost black. True, he may not have known what he was doing at the time, may have been brainwashed into becoming a ruthless assassin responsible for the deaths of untold numbers of people, but it didn't change what he'd done. He was a killer and he couldn't face Steve as one.

Ever since they were children, Steve had always looked up to him. He was his best friend, adopted big brother, and super hero all rolled into one. Steve had believed the sun rose and set with him and he had been happy to let him think that. Until now.

He doesn't want to see the look of disappointment in Steve's eyes, the knowledge of what he's done crossing the younger man's face. He doesn't want him to know everything even though he already does and he wants Steve to walk away and forget all about him. He can't face him, he's afraid. Forcing him to give up would be better for both of them.

It's Sunday night and Steve doesn't come.

Say something, I'm giving up on you

He's not sure what wakes him up but when he opens his eyes, he sees Steve with his back pressed against the glass like he's done so many times before. Something is wrong though, something is different about tonight, and he frowns as he walks across the cell to the glass.

Steve is leaning heavily against the glass wall, legs stretched out in front of him and hands resting in his lap. His head is resting against the glass, eyes closed and breathing slow and even as he sleeps. His suit is dirty and ripped in several places, burned in others, and looks like it's being held together with little more than frayed thread and hope. He's covered in scrapes and bruises, dark and ugly, and there's matted blood clumping in his hair from a healed wound on his scalp. The sight of the injuries infuriates him for some reason and he crouches down on the other side of the glass to get a closer look, his knee bumping into the wall as he does.

The vibration is just enough to shake Steve back to consciousness and he blinks over his shoulder at the crouching assassin. "Hey Buck," he greets casually, lifting one hand in a wave. There's a dark red stain on the back of his hand; he doesn't seem to notice.

"Wanted to come see you before you leave tomorrow," he continues, his voice slightly slurred from sleep or maybe the healed head wound he'd received before, there was no way to be sure. The latter twists like a knife in his gut. "Gotta promise to come back though, okay?"

He nods once, his eyes still traveling over the tattered suit and bruises. He remembers taking care of Steve after he got into fights, hauling him away over one shoulder like a scrappy, kicking sack of flour. He remembers defending him, coming to the rescue when Steve found himself in over his head. He remembers being pissed when Steve got hurt.

The younger man seems to notice his scrutinous gaze and waves it away gently. "Don't worry, most of it's not mine," he mumbles, taking stock of the blood on his uniform for the first time. "Some of it is though...just not sure which."

He almost responds but stops himself just before the words can come out. Should he do it? Should he give in and accept everything even if he wanted to forget? Should he take that chance?

Say something

He leans one shoulder against the glass, pressing against it so that he and Steve are back to back like they always are when he comes to see him. When he does speak, the words feel alien yet familiar at the same time, a stranger speaking with his mouth. He doesn't know what Bucky would say in a situation like this, doesn't know what he would do, but maybe he is Bucky and maybe this is right. Maybe...

"I'm sure you had 'em on the ropes."

It's Steve's turn to be silent now on the other side of the glass. He doesn't say anything, he doesn't move. He just smiles.

Thanks for reading guys! Hope you all liked it! :D