For Steve

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[It's been fourteen months, six weeks, and four days since the Soldier pulled Steve from the Potomac and ran from everything he had ever known. Since he had begun to realise which parts of the world he'd been fed were lies, but hadn't quite managed to pin down which were truths. He knows that Steve has been looking for him. Not just him, but his friends too, most of the Avengers have been roped into Steve's unceasing search.

They never find anything.

He's too good, he knows how to hide. He's seen them - Iron Man once, Falcon four times, Steve twice - but they've never seen him. He's a ghost, just rumours that dry up on the wind. He's not too sure if he wants to remain this way for the rest of his life, he knows he's not ready for anything else, and this feels almost comforting. Anonymous. But something in him has pulled him back to America. He hears on the news what's been happening with the Avengers, he sees that there's a new 'compound' that they're using as a base, though none of the news channels know where it is.

It doesn't matter, he finds it.

There's security systems, of course, but he bypasses them all. He slips close enough past Falcon that he can smell the aftershave he used, but he isn't noticed. He finds Steve's room, easy to tell it's his because of the shield inside the door and the way that the whole place is military precision. Not a habit easy to break even once the army is done with you. He isn't even sure why he's here, just that he's following the instincts of his mind at the moment.

He takes a seat on Steve's bed, cross legged, and he waits.]

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Even before he became the Soldier, Bucky Barnes was always good at waiting. People always used to think that it would be him who was the impatient one of the two, just like they thought it would be him who got them into trouble; nobody ever suspected the frail and angelic looking Steve Rogers. Idiots. When he was a little kid he used to wait for hours to try and catch a fish down at the river, or sling a stone at a bird for the pot. It's what had made him a good boxer, and then a good sniper, his ability to wait.

That skill had only been honed by HYDRA.

But strangely, even with all of that experience behind him, he found sitting and waiting in Steve's room to be difficult. Minutes dragged like whole weeks, and every moment of silence made him more unsure that he had made the right choice. And then-- god, then he was there. The sight of him hit Bucky like a punch to the gut, but his expression never changed.

"You need to shut the door," the first words he's said to Steve in over a year, the first words to anyone in a long time, his voice a low rasp. "Or people will see."

[rogersed]

If Bucky had shot at him, or launched himself at him, Steve would've known what to do. Reflexes would have taken over and he would've moved gracefully, deftly, with power and speed. But this?

He picks up the papers like the most awkward, fumbly idiot in the history of awkward, fumbly idiots. Then he closes the door behind him, and bundles the folder onto his small table. Then, and only then, does he turn to the man sitting on his bed.

"Bucky..."

There are a thousand things he wants to say. A million. Where have you been. What do you remember. Why didn't you stay with me. How much does it hurt.

He settles for, "How are you?"

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He thought he had been prepared for this, but he's wrong. Seeing Steve up close is different from seeing him from a distance, or researching him, or looking at huge photographs of the man in the Smithsonian. It itches under his skin in a way that nothing else can and he very nearly bolts there and then.

Maybe if he did, Steve wouldn't even stop him.

A furrow appears at his brow with the question, as if trying to sort through the tangled briars of what his mind has become. How is he? Good question. He knows the answer the Soldier would give a handler, but that feels wrong in this situation.

"I killed eight men tonight."

That's not exactly an answer, but it's a type of answer.

[rogersed]

Bucky's tense. Steve is absolutely terrified in this moment that Bucky will somersault through a window and it'll be another two, ten, ninety years before he sees him again.

He swallows, but doesn't flinch. Doesn't yelp, squawk, panic. "I see."

He takes a step closer, but doesn't touch Bucky. "Did you get hurt? I have a first aid kit around here somewhere."

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He is hurt, they managed to get a shot off before he killed them and he’s bleeding through onto Steve’s bed, but it’s hidden by the black material of the hoodie he’s swathed in and there’s nothing about his expression that suggests he might be in pain. He gives a half shrug, neither confirmation or denial.

“They were HYDRA.”

Would that make a difference to this? It made a difference to him, these were people he chose to kill for the greater good rather than innocent targets on a mission.

“One was an old handler, he looked like you. They all looked like you.”

Maybe that was why he’s here, he still doesn’t entirely know himself.

[rogersed]

Steve begins to nod at Bucky's comment, because HYDRA is HYDRA is HYDRA. If Bucky's killed then it was for good reason, and not without provocation.

Then he pauses.

"They looked like me?" An exhale. "Bucky, what do you mean?"

Heck with it. He needs to trust Bucky (and his own reflexes) enough to go into his little kitchenette and fill two glasses with water, because he suspects Bucky hasn't slept or eaten for days. He comes back out and hands one to Bucky, expression suggesting that Bucky had better drink if he knows what's good for him.

His nostrils flare. There's a scent of something.

"You mean they all looked literally like me, or carried themselves like me?"

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Even though Bucky watched Steve’s every move as if waiting for an attack, he didn’t flinch or run when Steve moved in closer and handed him a glass of water. He didn’t drink it, just cradled it in gloved hands, and kept his gaze firmly on the other man in the room. His frown deepens because clearly he didn’t explain himself right. Not surprising, he’s found that he’s lost the words for a lot of things beyond what were needed for missions and gaining them back is a slow process.

“The handlers. All of them I can remember, from the first one, they all looked like you. I think I remember... it was a report in the beginning; the Asset responds better to men with blond hair and blue eyes.”

They had known about his attachment to Steve and exploited it, made sure they always had the maximum potential for obedience.

“I remember them telling him— me— that Captain America has died, crashed a plane, but you’re alive. Was that a lie or did you come back?”

[rogersed]

Bucky doesn't actually take a damn drink, and Steve's about to push him about it, but then...

Oh.

Oh, heck.

"That's... horribly cruel," Steve says at last, feeling incredibly inadequate. It's beyond cruel. The way Bucky's been manipulated. Used. He's drinking Bucky in with his eyes, half of him assessing Bucky as a potential threat (not to be killed, to be taken down if necessary and cared for) and half of him with the biggest, soppiest heart eyes he's had in decades.

Steve laughs a short pained choked kind of laugh, and nods. "Both, I'm afraid. I... I guess you didn't take all the stupid with you, when I thought you died. I went down. Got frozen. Got thawed."

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He has a vague memory of that piece of information being one of the first things that broke him. Before that, he had resisted as much as he could, he had thought that Steve would come for him. But then Steve had died and he hadn't been there to save him, and pieces of him began to break.

He doesn't say as much.

Instead, he just nods and finally moves. His legs uncurl and he shifts off the bed, leaving a smear of stained red on the neatly made covers, and crosses over to stand within arm's reach of Steve.

"You didn't fight when I fought you either, do you want to die?"