Work Text:
Steve’s been home from the hospital for eleven days when Bucky shows up on his doorstep one afternoon and declares without preamble, “I don’t remember anything. I was hoping you could help me.” He says it like a challenge.
Steve says, “Of course,” and steps back to allow him in. He doesn’t hug Bucky, doesn’t even touch his shoulder as he moves past him through the doorway, though he desperately wants to.
***
“James Buchanan Barnes, of the 107th. Howling Commandoes. Born March 10, 1917.” He says this without emotion, reeled off as if learned by rote. “Died December 18, 1944.” This with a wry smile. That was Bucky, through and through.
“I know you and I grew up together. I know when my dad died, and that my sister’s name was Rebecca. I know that when the war came, I enlisted. I shipped out in 1943.” He pauses, looks directly at Steve for the first time in his litany. “I know about the people I killed, too. I don’t remember them, either.”
“So, what do you want to know?” Steve asks, perching awkwardly on the arm of the couch. Bucky remains standing, not quite at attention, in the middle of the living room.
“Everything. According to the Smithsonian exhibit, you knew me pretty well. You’d better, since everyone else I knew is long dead.”
“We were friends – best friends,” Steve begins, feeling a little like he’s rambling but not knowing where to start. “You pulled me out of a fight - you were always pullin’ me out of fights - and we just sorta stuck. You moved in with me after my mom died. We lived in Brooklyn, this tiny little apartment – one room on the third floor, but it was the best we could afford and still pay for art classes.”
“Then the war came, and I enlisted,” Bucky prompts.
“You enlisted,” Steve nods. “I was so angry you were gonna get to go over there and I wasn’t. I kept trying to enlist, and they kept rejecting me.”
“But you made it over there eventually,” Bucky pushes. “After I got captured.”
Steve wonders if this is a mistake. Clearly this is what Bucky really wants to hear about, the circumstances that got him to where he is now, who he is now. Steve doesn’t blame him, but the intensity is a little scary. Something about his bearing makes it seem like he should be pacing, but he’s standing stock-still.
Steve nods slowly. “You got captured. I was so furious when they said they weren’t sending a rescue team.” He holds Bucky’s eyes. “I couldn’t let that happen, so I went after you. I don’t know what they did to you in there, Buck. You never said. But I busted in and busted you out, and when things got messy, you wouldn’t leave without me.”
“But then you went back. We went back. The Howling Commandoes.” Bucky sounds angry, but Steve doesn’t know what he’s angry about. “Why? Why would you go back there? Why did we have to keep serving the people who wouldn’t even–” He’s definitely angry now, although Steve still isn’t sure if it’s at himself, at Steve, at the American government, at HYDRA. All people responsible for what was done to him.
“It wasn’t like that,” Steve says, voice gentle. “It wasn’t out of duty, not to them. You weren’t the only one strapped to a table behind enemy lines. I couldn’t let them keep doing that. You couldn’t let them do that. That’s why we kept fighting.”
***
Steve offers to take the couch, but Bucky plants himself there and pointedly refuses to move. Steve brings him a blanket and pillow, then calls Sam. Sam’s first words when Steve tells him are “Holy shit, man,” and he doesn’t like the idea of leaving Steve alone with Bucky, but Steve manages to talk him down until he agrees to come over first thing in the morning. Before he goes to bed, he checks on Bucky, who is curled into a tight ball around the pillow Steve gave him.
***
Steve dreams that he is falling. The wind rushes in his ears, bitterly cold, and he is falling so quickly, so quickly losing sight of the person above him with his arm still reaching out, reaching out- but Steve can’t see his face anymore, and he knows that when he hits the bottom it will be the end of the world.
He wakes in a cold sweat, and sits up, gasping, before he realizes that it wasn’t real. He didn’t fall. That was Bucky. Bucky, who is asleep on the couch in his living room. The memory of falling isn’t real, isn’t his; there is no one left who remembers it.
***
Sam comes over the next morning.
“I’m a semi-professional counselor,” he tells Bucky with an easy smile. “Steve asked me here to facilitate this conversation.” He keeps side-eyeing Steve, but doesn’t go off script.
“We wanna start with some ground rules, so you're as comfortable as possible.”
“You’re welcome to stay here as long as you want,” Steve says, “but you can come and go as you like. You’re nobody’s prisoner.” The incredulous looks Bucky and Sam give him are so close to identical that Steve almost laughs aloud. But Sam puts his professional face back on and continues:
“Yeah, no one’s gonna make you do anything you’re not comfortable with. Now, you wanna get your memories back, right?”
Bucky nods once, jerkily.
“Okay. Recovering memories is a tricky business. You really gotta trust the people who are helping you.”
Steve jumps in again, glad they semi-rehearsed this on the phone before Sam got here, “I’ll tell you anything you want to know, fully and honestly, to the best of my ability. If I don’t know the answer to one of your questions, I’ll say so. I will never lie to you.” He hopes his earnestness isn’t intimidating. It’s important that Bucky believes him.
“If you wanna talk to somebody else, a therapist–” Sam breaks off as Bucky shakes his head. “They’re not SHIELD,” he continues. “Friends from the VA–”
“No,” Bucky says adamantly.
Sam raises his hands in a placating gesture. “Okay, buddy. No one’s gonna make you do anything you don’t want. Offer stands, though, if you change your mind.”
“One more thing I gotta ask,” he continues, and Steve frowns at him; they hadn’t discussed this. “Do you feel like you might… want to hurt anyone?”
“No!” Bucky exclaims, then, softer, to himself, “No,” and Steve can see the weight of every one of his 97 years in his eyes.
Apparently Sam can too, because he drops the counselor demeanor and says, “Okay then. The floor is yours, Sergeant Barnes. Does anyone want anything? I’m starving.”
***
Steve talks for a week, watching carefully for some flicker of recognition in Bucky’s eyes. Talks until his throat is sore and his voice comes out dry and rasping. He talks about everything, anything he can remember. Things he hasn’t thought about in years, things he knows he’ll never forget, things he wishes he could. He tries to talk about sensory details: the smell of Brooklyn sidewalks in the height of summer, the lavender dress Bucky’s mother used to wear, the bone-deep cold of bivouacking in enemy territory where even a small fire might give away their position.
He starts out avoiding topics that might trigger something negative, but soon he just hopes he’ll be able to trigger any kind of reaction at all. Still, he wouldn’t risk it if Bucky didn’t insist they push further. Even without his memories, they’re still on the same page, and it’s hard for Steve to quell his growing frustration when Bucky’s is so obvious. Sam keeps telling them, gently, that it’ll take time.
“You don’t know that,” Bucky snaps back.
***
The second week, Bucky starts asking questions. “Tell me more about Howard.” About Peggy. About his parents, teachers, friends. About the summer after eighth grade. Their trip to Coney Island. The stray dog they tried to sneak home. About England, Italy, Austria.
Steve hopes at first that one of his stories triggered some glimmer of a memory and Bucky is trying to chase after it, but he soon realizes that Bucky’s just taking shots in the dark. There's no compass telling him which paths to follow further, so he is flinging himself down them blindly.
***
It's been three weeks, and Sam has gone home for the night, so it’s just the two of them when Bucky asks him, “What’s the worst thing I ever did? I mean, before…” he gestures vaguely with his left hand.
“What?” Steve is flabbergasted. “Buck, you were – you are – a good man. I don’t–”
“Yeah, but I wasn’t perfect. So?”
Steve just stares at him, dumbfounded.
“Did I ever cheat on a test?”
“Probably.”
“A girlfriend?”
“No! You would never!”
“I must have done something.”
Bucky’s fist slams down. “Pick. On. Someone. Your. Own. Size.” Each word is punctuated by another punch. He hits the bully’s nose, and Steve hears bone crack. He has to grab Bucky’s arm with both hands to drag him away.
Bucky shoots a fleeing HYDRA operative in the back. He goes down immediately, but Bucky keeps shooting until he’s emptied his clip into the motionless body.
Bucky lifts Steve’s shield, fires, falls. “Grab my hand!” But it’s too late, too far. His fingers slip, and he plummets into an abyss.
“You died,” Steve says softly. Bucky’s expression is equal parts defeat and exasperation. It’s not the answer he wanted, but it’s the only truth Steve has to give.
***
Natasha is holding a manila envelope. “This is everything else SHIELD had on him, far as I can tell. I don’t have anything yet from when he was in Russia. Not great record-keepers, and most likely some, if not all, of it has been destroyed. But I’ll keep looking.”
“Thanks,” he says, reaching out.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” she says. “There’s not a lot of “why”s or “how”s in here. I don’t think you’re going to find the answers you’re looking for.”
“I think Bucky’s more interested in “who”s and “where”s right now.”
She shakes her head but hands him the envelope.
“It’s your play, Cap. I’ll back it as long as I can.”
“And when you think you can’t back it anymore? You’ll let me know, right?”
She smiles at him then, her real smile.
***
Poring over the files, Steve is beginning to think Natasha is right. They’re gruesome, high-def photographs in some cases, and Bucky didn’t do those things. He doesn’t need to see them. Not yet. Not while Steve’s still trying to convince him of who he is.
He starts when a voice behind him says, “Did Natasha get you the files yet?”
Jumping into a conversation without preamble is just like Bucky, but being able to sneak up on Steve is new. The last time they’d lived together, you didn’t need superhuman senses to hear Bucky coming; he announced his presence with every clomping step.
The Howling Commandos are sitting at a bar, recounting their ambush and subsequent rescue for the umpteenth time. The story gets more embellished with each retelling, until Steve half-expects Falsworth to say that the six of them alone killed a thousand Nazis before they were taken. Bucky is unusually quiet tonight, and Steve decides to take a chance. “I’m surprised you weren’t captured earlier, if someone expected Sergeant Barnes to be covert. The number of times he got caught back home, trying to sneak in after curfew…” There is a beat of dead silence, where he thinks he’s gone too far, before Bucky punches him in the shoulder, laughs, and says, “Yeah, let’s hope HYDRA doesn’t start surrounding their bases with squeaky floorboards, I’d have to quit the army.” The punch was hard enough to hurt, hard enough that it would have knocked old Steve out of his chair, but it’s worth it to chase some of the shadows out of Bucky’s eyes.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this? There’s some pretty grisly stuff in here. What if it does work like you’re hoping? Maybe you should wait a little longer. I don’t want that to be the only thing you remember.”
“It’s not about what you want.”
Steve hands him the file.
***
Sam gives him a sketchbook. Steve beams at him. Maybe he can’t reach Bucky with words, but he’s always been better with pictures. He’ll fill the pages with images: the neighbors at their old apartment, the dock where Bucky worked, the view out the window of their art classroom.
He’s drawing a few days later when Sam comes up behind him.
“Who is that?” he asks, curious.
“His sister,” Steve replies.
Sam just watches the movement of his pencil for a moment, then says, haltingly, “You know, memory is a funny thing…”
Steve’s bark of laughter is humorless. “You don’t say.” Then he realizes what Sam’s getting at. “You don’t think I should show him.”
“Everything’s subjective.” Sam’s voice is gentle. “If you remember it differently than he does… I just worry it could do more harm than good. The guy doesn’t need more confusion in his life.”
“So you’re saying this whole thing is pointless?”
“Nah, man. Prompting memories is different than replacing them. You’re helping him.” Sam holds his gaze until Steve sighs in something like acknowledgement. “You need to take care of yourself, too, though. That’s kinda why I got you that,” he gestures to the sketchbook with a smile. Steve smiles back at him, and leans into it when Sam hugs him around the shoulders before he leaves.
He turns to a new a page in the sketchbook. It doesn’t matter if he finishes if no one else is going to see his drawings anyway. He doesn’t mean to, but soon he fills the sketchbook with half-finished portraits. Bucky, laughing in the late afternoon light of their old apartment. Bucky, with a rifle on his shoulder. Bucky, long-haired and dead-eyed in his living room. Bucky Bucky Bucky Bucky Bucky.
***
“What’s on the agenda for today, Buck?” Steve asks, coming into the living room.
Bucky flinches. “Please stop calling me that.”
Steve’s smile falters, but he says, “Sure, pal. What do you want me to call you?”
“James Buchanan Barnes. Folks call me Bucky,” the boy says, grinning down at Steve. Steve takes his outstretched hand and gasps out, “Steve Rogers,” as Bucky hauls him to his feet.
“If ya don’t mind me sayin’ so, you’re a piss-poor fighter, Steve Rogers.”
“Someone has to be.”
Bucky lets out a shout of laughter, claps an arm around his shoulders, and says, “You’re all right, Rogers. Let’s go get you cleaned up.”
Bucky looks like he hadn’t thought about it. After a long moment he says, “James.” The name sounds foreign on his tongue.
“Okay, James.”
***
Bucky was always trying to drag Steve out dancing. He loved music, so Steve feels inspired when he declares, “This was your favorite song.”
“Put on your dancin’ shoes, Stevie. We’re goin’ out tonight!”
Steve looks up from his sketchpad at Bucky standing in the doorway. “Hello to you too.”
“Yeah, yeah. Come on, get ready. Mary Thompson’s got a cousin visiting up from Virginia, and we are going on a double.”
“How am I s’posed to go out with a girl who lives in Virginia?”
“You’re not s’posed to go steady with her, Steve, you’re supposed to practice talkin’ to her.”
Steve sighs but agrees to go. They both know Bucky will talk him into it eventually, so he figures he’ll save them both the trouble.
Steve loses track of Bucky almost as soon as they reach the club. It’s Bucky’s fourth or fifth date with Mary Thompson, and Steve idly wonders if Bucky’s already got her tucked away in some corner. Before long, his own date is dancing with someone else, a broad-shouldered fellow in an army uniform who has nearly a foot on Steve. She asked, and he told her he didn’t mind. She clearly wasn’t interested and there was no reason for both of them to be miserable all night.
Steve spots Bucky again a moment too late; Bucky has noticed that Steve is by himself. He rounds on Mary, and though Steve can’t hear their words, he knows Bucky is insulting Mary’s cousin, who she’ll feel the need to defend, and they’ll get into an argument and break up all because Steve couldn’t say no to the stupid double date. It looks for a second like Mary is going to slap Bucky, but she doesn’t, just storms off, and he walks over to Steve.
“She shouldn’t do that. It’s not right.”
“I don’t mind, Buck. Now go apologize to Mary. I bet she’d take you back if you say you’re sorry.”
“She’s not worth it,” Bucky says with a shrug.
“I don’t need to be looked after,” Steve grumbles. “I can get home by myself. You stay, have fun.”
“Nah. It’s too crowded here anyway. Besides, all I really need’s a radio, and we’ve got one of those.” He slings an arm around Steve’s shoulder and guides him out the door.
True to form, when they get home, Bucky turns on the radio and dances, by himself, in their living room, until Steve is laughing again.
“Okay, Buck,” he starts – it’s getting late, and he doesn’t want to disturb the neighbors – but Bucky exclaims, “No, I love this one! C’mon!” and drags Steve to his feet. He whirls him around their tiny apartment, his smile never changing, and if Steve is so breathless he has to be deposited back on the couch before the song is even over, Bucky will assume it's just his asthma.
James sits there, quietly, shoulders hunched, that now-familiar look of intense concentration on his face. About halfway through the song, he closes his eyes and leans back against the couch cushions. Hope flares, bright and treacherous, in Steve’s chest. When the song ends, James takes a moment to open his eyes. Then he shakes his head, “Nothing.”
Steve tries not to let his face fall. “Well, did you like the song anyway?” he asks in a falsely cheery voice.
James shrugs. “I don’t know.”
***
“This isn’t working,” he says. He says it all the time. Says it but then dives right back in with more questions.
“That’s one thing you and Bucky have in common,” Steve laughs, “he was a stubborn bastard too.”
Bucky would’ve laughed, maybe punched his arm. James just stares at him, stoic. He has no idea what he’s thinking. He always knew what Bucky was thinking.
***
This is the fourth time Natasha has showed up with an envelope or a USB drive full of bodies. Assassinations. Targets neutralized. Missions completed. She hasn’t volunteered, and he hasn’t asked, how she’s been getting those files. She doesn’t look any happier than she had the first time, but she’s still bringing them, which must mean she thinks Steve is doing something right.
He’s not so sure. James always insists on looking through everything, memorizing the faces of the people he killed. Steve wishes he wouldn’t, but he won’t stop him. James has spent long enough having his free will taken away. He rarely asks for anything other than information; Steve can’t deny him that.
He hates it, though. Political assassinations, clean kills, he can handle. He’s not exactly thrilled with them, but he’s seen the horrors of war. He’s done things he’s not proud of. Bucky was always a crack shot, even before HYDRA got their hands on him. When the files just say “target eliminated,” Steve can tell himself it was probably quick and relatively painless. Bullets hurt like hell, he knows, but aimed right, you’re dead before you can feel it, and Bucky always aimed right.
There are others, though. Civilians. Knives in the dark. The broken bodies of a pair of children surrounded by so much blood and god, someone took pictures, and it was all at the hands of his best friend, who sits here stoic, looking at them clinically while Steve pales and turns away.
“You can go,” James says, placing his metal hand on Steve’s arm. “You don’t have to look at this with me.”
Steve just shakes his head. Anything James can look at, he can look at. He can’t take back the damage that was done to him; the least he can do is stand by him as he surveys the destruction.
This time is different, though, Natasha tells him. These files aren’t missions from his handlers, they’re methodologies from scientists. This might be, if not the key to his cure, at least a clue. A hope. He grins and hugs Natasha, who stands stiffly for a moment before awkwardly putting her arms around him.
When he pulls away, she says, “There’s some videos in there you might not wanna watch.”
He smiles at her again. “I’ll be okay.” He wonders how long it’s been since Natasha’s been hugged.
When they show the recordings to James, Steve has to leave the room. James just sits there on the couch, watching impassively, as if it is not him being strapped to that chair, as if it is not his screams that the mouth guard does not adequately muffle. Steve can’t tell which is worse to look at, Bucky being tortured on the screen or James sitting blank-faced beside him. Sam looks like he’s about to throw up, but he stays with James when Steve storms out. He punches a hole through the wall, which doesn’t make him feel any better. Natasha’s hands are surprisingly gentle when she wraps his bloody knuckles in gauze and leads him outside where he can’t hear the screaming anymore.
“I told you so,” she says.
“Why?” he asks. Why did they do it, and why does he have to watch? Why doesn’t he seem to care?
“You can’t protect him from everything, Steve,” she says.
“I just wish I could protect him from anything.”
***
That night, he dreams about the chair.
His arms aren’t strapped down, but he doesn’t resist as the chair leans back. Doesn’t struggle when Bucky appears over him. Doesn’t scream when metal fingers press against his forehead and into his brain.
***
Tony and Bruce have had copies of the file for three days before they call. Steve tamps down the hope that they’ve found something. When the screen lights up, their faces look haggard. Knowing Tony, he hasn’t slept since Natasha sent over the files.
“We don’t have anything conclusive yet, but… it’s not promising,” Bruce has never been one to sugar-coat things. Steve appreciates that about him.
“Yeah, those HYDRA scientists had some pretty hinky documentation.”
James is clenching his fists so hard Steve hears metal grinding.
“Plus,” Bruce continues, “even if we do come up with something, it’s not exactly as if we can test it. Normal medical trials take years, and this…” he trails off when James jerks to his feet and leaves the room. Sam nods at Steve and follows. He can hear James shout, “I’m not letting them anywhere near my brain!” and the soothing cadence of Sam’s response.
Bruce’s look of sympathy is heartbreaking. Steve is overwhelmed with gratitude towards the rest of his team. They didn’t have to help with this thankless task, but they do anyway, without being asked.
“You’ll keep looking?”
“We’ll keep looking.”
***
“I’m going for a run, you should come,” Sam says.
“I gotta stay here, help James.” He’s stopped stumbling over the name.
“Dude, James doesn’t need your help 24/7. You need to get out of the house. Unless,” Sam’s mouth quirks up into a grin, “you’re afraid you can’t beat me anymore now you’ve been sitting on your ass for a couple of months.”
“Oh, that’s how it’s gonna be?”
“That’s how it’s gonna be.”
He laps Sam twelve times. If feels good to get lost in the motion.
He starts running with Sam every day, and going to VA meetings. James walks with them to the VA, but absolutely refuses to go inside. Steve wishes he knew where James went during those hours. He knows Natasha’s trailing him, at a distance, but close enough that she could stop him before he hurt anyone, if it came to that. Steve knows it won’t, but Natasha is nothing if not overly careful. Besides, he has his own reasons for wanting her to stay close to James. If he disappears, she’ll be able to tell Steve where he went. He doesn’t know if she would, but she’d be able to. He has to let that be enough.
***
Steve’s gotten used to Sam and Natasha coming and going. Sam has a key; Nat doesn’t need one. He’s glad of their almost-constant presence. Living with James is like living with a ghost.
He’s not expecting to find Clint sitting on his kitchen counter when he comes in from his morning run. James and Natasha are out on the fire escape. They’ve been spending a lot of time together lately. Steve wishes he knew what they talked about, but he hasn’t quite gotten up the nerve to ask. He assumes they know Clint’s here. Whether they actually let him in is immaterial; they are definitely aware of his presence. It occurs to Steve that he used to be friends with people who weren’t so good at breaking and entering.
He assumes Clint isn’t just here for a friendly visit, and that he’ll make his point known in his own time. His face is uncharacteristically serious when he jumps off the counter and asks Steve, “How was your run?”
“Good,” Steve replies, pulling a water bottle out of the fridge. “How was your… however you got here?”
“Flight. It was good. Private jet and whatnot, benefits of being friends with Stark.”
Steve gives him a smile that he suspects is unique to Tony Stark’s friends, equal parts exasperation and affection.
“That’s sort of why I’m here. He’s – We’ve –” Clint grimaces, “We’re worried about you. Tony, me, Nat, Bruce, Sam. We’re wondering if you have a plan for after.” He pauses, but Steve doesn’t answer. A plan? Ever since he’d seen Bucky’s face on that street, his whole plan had been to get him back. Now that he’s here-but-not, Steve isn’t thinking about an after.
When it becomes clear that Steve isn’t going to answer, Clint continues, hesitantly, hands held up placatingly, “We’re not saying you should give up, but have you thought about a – a stop date? You can’t just stay shut up in here forever. Tony has rooms set aside for you in Stark tower, if you want to come to New York for a while–”
“New York!” Steve shouts. “You’re a genius!” He can’t believe it never occurred to him before. He’s spent – wasted – all this time talking, when clearly what he should have done is just take James to New York.
Grinning, he claps Clint on the shoulder before he rushes off to find James. He doesn’t notice Clint’s horrified expression.
***
A few minutes contemplating trying to get James and his metal arm through airport security is all it takes to convince Steve to take the quinjet back with Clint. He declines Tony's offer to stay in the tower, though, electing instead for a hotel in Brooklyn so they'll be closer to their old haunts.
Steve has his first flash of doubt when he has to use the map on his phone to find their apartment. Most of his old landmarks are gone, and the building itself has been rebuilt, but there's still something familiar about it.
"This is where you and I lived."
"He," James says quietly.
"What?" Steve asks, bewildered.
"You and he lived here; I've never been to New York." James' hands are clenched into fists, and he's trembling. Steve has no idea what he did wrong.
"You're right, buddy, I'm sorry. This is where Bucky and I lived."
James goes on talking as if he hadn't heard Steve. "Because if I lived here, even though I don't remember, then I also shot three people from that building." He's not looking in the direction he's pointing, but Steve has no doubt it's the right building.
"I said you're right, James, you're right, I'm sorry." Steve is desperate to calm him down. Even in New York, people tend not to ignore a wild-eyed man standing on the sidewalk shouting about killing people, and they're starting to draw a crowd.
James looks at Steve like he's just realized he's there. He thinks he might be able to get the situation under control, but a woman in the crowd chooses that moment to step forward and ask, "Are you Captain America?" Steve sees several people pulling out their phones, but he figures he can use this to his advantage, and goes into an "everything's under control, citizen" spiel. A few winning smiles later, he's successfully convinced the crowd that he is Captain America and that his friend is not a crazed murderer. When the crowd finally dissipates enough for him to turn back to James and apologize for the commotion, he is nowhere to be found.
Steve's heart thunders in his ears and he can't seem to get enough oxygen in his lungs. It's been years since Steve had trouble breathing, but he still remembers what it was like, how panicking just makes it worse. He leans against the wall of the nearest building, clutches it, closes his eyes and counts to ten, telling himself over and over again to breathe, just breathe. He fumbles out his phone and hits the first number on the speed dial. Sam answers on the second ring.
"I lost him, James, I don't know where he is, I lost him-"
"Whoa, Steve, slow down, take a breath. Now tell me what happened."
He does, about the shouting and the crowds and turning around to find that he'd lost him, again.
"It sounds like he just got overwhelmed by too many people and freaked. So go back over your steps, go everywhere the two of you have been today, he'll probably go somewhere familiar. It wasn't like he suddenly reverted to the Winter Soldier or anything, right?" Sam's tone of voice denies the possibility, calms Steve's pounding heart.
"No, it was still Bucky - James - it was still James." He can practically hear Sam's frown.
"Ok. James is a pretty smart guy, a reasonable guy. He's not gonna get himself hurt, and he's not gonna just run off. Plus, if you still can't find him in a couple hours, you're right on top of all of Stark Industries' resources. We'll find him."
Sam stays on the phone with him the whole way back through Brooklyn. He's not going to be able to repay Sam for all he's done in the last six months if he lives another hundred years.
When he opens the door of their hotel room, James is sitting on his bed. "He's here," he says, sagging against the doorframe, and hangs up the phone. Sam will understand.
"You're okay," he says to James. James looks up at him sharply.
"I mean, you're okay?"
James considers for a moment, then nods. "I'm okay." He doesn't look okay. He looks ready to break apart at any minute, but he's here and he's safe, and that's all that matters.
Steve sinks down onto the other bed. "I'm sorry," he says, running a hand through his hair. "This whole thing was a bad idea, wasn't it?"
James sighs. "No, I - I needed to know, too." He hesitates, then says, "I'm sorry. For disappearing like that, I just couldn't..."
"I'm sorry. For all the -" Steve waves his hands around, and James chuckles weakly.
"I'll call Tony," he continues. "We can fly out tomorrow."
James hesitates. "You told me about going to Coney Island one time. We could go, if you wanted," he offers.
"Do you think it would help?" Steve asks.
"I think you might not throw up this time," James says, surprising a laugh out of Steve.
"I will if you want to, but I don't - It won't be the same.” Steve’s hands twist in his lap. “They’ve probably rebuilt everything anyway," he adds, so the unspoken without Bucky doesn't echo as loudly.
James shrugs, but he looks relieved not to be spending the next day surrounded by people. Steve smiles. He’s starting to figure out James' signals.
"Let's go home."
***
Back in D.C, Steve notices a subtle change in James. He can’t tell if it’s defeat or resignation, but he seems calmer, somehow. He’s still asking questions, like he owes it to Bucky to find out all he can about the man he used to be, but he's no longer bracing himself for each answer like a blow.
“What was his favorite color?”
They have an agreement with their art teacher that if they clean up after class, they can keep anything they find. Half of Steve’s drawings are on the backs of other people’s failed attempts, angrily wadded up by richer classmates and then lovingly smoothed flat again in Steve and Bucky’s small apartment. They’re building up a halfway-decent set of pastel stubs, collected from where they’ve been left behind on easels, the floor, in trash bins. Steve will crush them between his fingertips and then smear them in broad strokes across carefully-saved-up-for canvas.
Bucky has been suppressing a smile the whole way home from class, and when Steve closes the door, he finally draws his prize from his pocket with a flourish. “You can finish that one of the park now,” he says with a grin. Steve reaches out hesitantly. “Are you sure you don’t want it?” he asks.
“Nah, you’re better’n me anyway.” Bucky watches quietly, smiling, as Steve pulls out the picture, abandoned when their last pastel ran out, and sets to work, putting leaves onto trees with careful fingers.
“Green.” Steve stands up and leaves the room without another word.
***
“What’s the best thing he ever did?”
Bucky almost topples headfirst into the river fishing out a half-drowned kitten. He carries her home tucked into the warmth of his shirt.
Bucky reaches down and helps a bruised, skinny kid to his feet, over and over and over.
Bucky half-carries, half-drags a wounded POW out of a HYDRA base.
Steve says, “I can get by on my own.” Bucky says, “The thing is, you don’t have to.”
Bucky sees a girl sitting forlornly in a corner and asks her for a dance. She beams up at him.
Bucky smiles, and Steve feels himself smiling in return, despite himself, for the first time in weeks. Bucky smiles, and a wounded man in a field hospital looks a little less haunted. Bucky smiles, and Steve’s stomach does backflips.
“I think the answer to that question says more about me than it does about him,” Steve says.
James half-smiles. “I think you’re a pretty good judge of character.”
“He was a hero,” Steve says, automatic. “He saved – probably hundreds of lives. He saved my life, dozens of times, he–” he pauses, looks down. “He took me in after my mom died. I was flat broke, I had no one left, and he – he took me in.” He looks back up at James. “He didn’t let me give up. He never gave up on me.”
***
Steve is sitting on the roof. He and Bucky used to sit out on the fire escape on warm nights like this, just looking out over their neighborhood or up at the sky. You can't see as many stars as you used to, but Steve still finds it peaceful. He's been coming up here more often since they got back from New York.
Steve turns when he hears quiet footsteps behind him. He greets James with a small smile, and James sits next to him and lets his legs hang out over the edge of the building. He doesn't normally come up here, and his face looks troubled.
“You and Bucky, before, were you… were you in love with him?”
Steve sighs and looks down at his hands. “Yes,” he says quietly.
“Was he in love with you?”
Steve doesn’t say, “I was hoping you could tell me.” He knows better. It would only hurt James. It would only hurt both of them. “I don’t know. He never said anything if he was. I mean, I never said anything either. It was different back then, you didn’t talk about… But it wasn’t just that. We were all each other had. If I’d said something, and he hadn’t–” He shakes his head. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if I’d lost Bucky.”
James lets out a shuddering breath. “I was hoping you’d say no.”
“I promised I wouldn’t lie to you.”
James looks away.
“I’m leaving.”
“What, because of that?” Steve practically squawks. He can feel his heart rate accelerating in a way that still, all these years after the serum, feels dangerous. He tries to stop the panic rising in his chest, tries to reason with him.
“I’m not asking you to love me. I never asked him; I won’t ask you.”
“Steve,” he sighs. It’s the first time Steve can remember James saying his first name. “I’m never gonna be Bucky Barnes. It’s time I find out who I am gonna be.”
“You could do that here,” Steve insists, trying not to sound like he’s pleading.
“You’ll never stop looking at me like maybe…” James gives a rueful shake of his head. “You’re Captain America. Total loss of hope isn’t really something you’re capable of.”
“Where will you go?” he finally manages, and his voice sounds terribly young and lost to his own ears.
“Nat’s helping me set up identity papers. Us assassins have to stick together, you know. Then… I don’t know.” He shrugs. “I’m good at disappearing.”
After a moment, James stands up to go. He pauses at the top of the stairs, and, without looking back at Steve, says, “I think he was. I don’t remember, but… I think he was. I think that’s why they couldn’t erase you. I mean, they took away everything, but… I still knew you.” He sounds almost wistful. “I think… yeah.”
He shuts the door behind him.
***
Steve dreams that night that he is standing by a grave. There is no body in the grave, and he can’t quite make out the words on the headstone. He turns when he hears footsteps behind him.
“I was wondering when you’d get here, Buck.”
“Bucky Barnes is dead, Steve,” Bucky says, looking pointedly at the headstone. “HYDRA killed him seventy years ago.”
“Who are you, then?” Steve asks.
He grins, an old Bucky smile so infectious that Steve finds himself smiling back even though he’s not quite sure what the joke is.
“I’m a ghost,” Bucky says.
His lips are cool against Steve’s cheek before he disappears.
Steve wakes with a breeze blowing through a window that was closed when he fell asleep and the ghost of a kiss still on his cheek.