makinglies | Two ancient losers

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Two ancient losers

To anyone else, he'd look like some homeless person camping out in front of the World War II memorial, he certainly looked the part. He wore torn jeans, dirty shoes, a t-shirt that only had the virtue of being somewhat clean because he'd 'obtained' it recently and a faded hoodie he wore to cover the arm he couldn't stand to look at. He'd shaved all of twice in the last two months and only because he was aware it was getting too long--something that had always been taken care of for him--but now it was grown in again, a steady layer of scruff that couldn't be called a beard but was no where near simple fuzz. He looked like he wasn't taking care of himself...mostly because he wasn't, he only half remembered how. It didn't seem important compared to everything else that consisted of the static in his head.

It had been two months since he'd first noticed someone was trying to track him down. He assumed the reason he hadn't been found before that was because the person doing the tracking hadn't expected him to stick around D.C. initially. But he'd needed answers.

Unfortunately, those answers weren't too quick in coming. There were flashes--there had always been flashes--whispers of color strung through a black and white existence that had no context, made no sense and had no place in a world full of orders and pain, so they'd been discarded. At least until one man had claimed to know him and he knew the man back, or rather he felt he knew him. It was the strongest flash of color yet and it had given context to some of those whispers.

They had tried to kill those colors, to wipe them clean of his mind and they'd succeeded for a time. But now that he was looking for them they easily came back, never truly wiped, just buried. There were so many of them now, flashes of things he thought maybe he remembered but were still out of place, feelings he could name and knew he felt at one time but now couldn't tell if he was truly feeling them or if he was simply remembering.

There were too many holes. His mind was a wreck, a patchwork that had come undone and he couldn't find the needle and thread to sew it back together. He was confused, frustrated and lost. There was a disconnect between the man known as The Winter Soldier, the unfeeling, remorseless assassin and the man he'd read about, Bucky Barnes. He knew them both and could remember enough of each to know he wasn't either of them anymore. He didn't know who he was.

But maybe there was someone who did, someone who knew both and could take all of those patches, line them up for him, and hand him the means to fix what wasn't permanently broken. And if they couldn't, he at least knew Captain America would be strong enough to eliminate the threat he knew he still posed. Just as in some ways there was some Bucky Barnes still in him, there was some Winter Soldier as well; he was still at fault for all that he'd done and he was still a weapon--a tool-- that could be picked up by someone else and used again if he couldn't find his own way.

And standing here in front of this memorial, staring at a name that deserved to be up there with all of those other heroes--those other sacrifices--while he was left forgotten in the shadows, he didn't know that he could. So he waited.

He waited because he'd made certain he'd been spotted so there was a thread to follow, something for Steve Rogers to pick up and maybe lead him to the ghost he'd been chasing for who knew how long. He didn't know how long it would need to wait, but it didn't really matter when he had nowhere else to go.

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"You went down protecting me." Still simple, still straight forward.

He feels enormously guilty for it even if it was war. Bucky had chosen to fight by his side, but Steve still feels he should have been able to do something. He's a super soldier, he's Captain America for pete's sake, and he let not only one of his men but his best friend go down.

"I thought you were dead and never..." He never looked. He went after Hydra with complete voracity, knowing in his heart it was in Bucky's name and there had been a change. Yes they were still bullies - still evil - and it was a just fight, but he'd lost a little piece - more than a little - of what he'd been protecting. He can't deny he'd wanted to make them pay. "I should have looked for you."

Maybe if he had, it wouldn't be the Winter Soldier standing next to him in the 21st century but Bucky Barnes celebrating V-day in the 20th.

"Do you remember any of that?"

He did, some things more than others, but there were flashes and what Steve was talking about was one of those flashes.

"A little. Yeah. I remember a train and picking up that shield. I remember being thrown back and then falling. I remember you..." Steve calling out for him--for Bucky--the look on the other man's face when they both realized he was losing his grip.

"It wasn't your fault. It was my--his decision. He chose to be there." And he'd choose it again. Maybe he'd make some changes where he didn't get in Steve's way or maybe where he made sure he died on the way down instead of leaving enough of himself to be found and used, but he wouldn't change the fact he'd fought side-by-side with his best friend, nor that he tried to protect him.

"You chose to be, I know. Doesn't stop me from feeling like I should have been able to do something." Steve digs his hands deeper in his pockets, cap casting shadows over his face and cutting it into angles and planes.

"What else do you remember?"

He dug his hands deeper in his pockets, slightly uncomfortable with the correction, but silent about it.

"I remember pain and Doctor Zola. I remember waking up with a new arm and how easy it was to crush the neck of the scientist who'd been working on it. I remember confusion and static and more pain and the faces of the thirty-something people I've killed over the last fifty years." And those were just the ones he'd been sent to kill, what about the ones he hadn't intended to murder but had anyway? The collateral.

But that wasn't everything.

"I remember...couch cushions on the floor and a key under a rock outside a door. I remember Becky..and I remember a punk kid who couldn't keep his nose clean." The way that last sentence had come out had sounded foreign to him, affection he didn't know he had leaking into his tone. But as soon as the words were out of his mouth, it slipped away leaving him uncomfortable and uncertain; like he'd tried to put on a jacket that didn't quite fit anymore.

"They're mostly just flashes, scenes of sounds and colors and snippets of feelings; some of it is more put together than other things, but it's all...jumbled."

That's it, that tone of voice and the little smirk when he says it, that's Bucky still in there and that's Steve's hope. And it gives him an idea. "Do you remember seeing Snow White?"

It's a stupid idea, but it's the only one he has.

"How Becky hid in your jacket at the part with the trees the first time we saw it? And how you asked me if I was gonna try and work for Disney if I finished art school?"

It's never going to work, but... His voice goes softer and he steps in closer.

"How we heckled the ending when your sister was with us but when we saw it again we both just got real quiet."

This is stupid and dangerous and Bucky might be in there but the Winter Soldier's more likely to strangle him.

"You know, the part where the prince kisses Snow White to wake her up...?"

It's time to wake up.

He didn't really remember any of it, but it sounded familiar anyway, the scene playing out like he'd read it and not like he'd lived it. But then he was aware that Steve was closer and he tensed slightly on instinct. What was he doing? What was the point of trying to remind him of that?

He was about to ask when a pair of lips found their way onto his own.

He went stock-still and there was a part of him that wanted to lash out and stop the cause of confusion and turmoil that flooded him, but a larger part welcomed the feeling.

Now he remembered: the movie, the first time they'd watched it and the second and how the second viewing had given him an idea on how to try something he'd been wanting to try for a long time without sounding like some kind of freak. He'd convinced Steve that they needed practice kissing like that or else how were girls ever going to want to go with them? So Bucky had started it, an awkward but soft kiss laid on Steve's lips that had turned into Steve kissing him back. Practice.

Slowly, Bucky kissed back.

And a few more memories surfaced, more from when they were children and played together--inseparable as long as they had anything to say about it. Children, teenagers, adults, he could remember always being there to fight for Steve, to kick the ass of whoever was the Punk Of The Week and he never once faulted Steve for that expect for what it did to the blond physically.

But then he'd have a reprimand, a snarky comment and a first aide kit there and ready to patch them both up. 'Don't cry, Stevie, I'll take care of you.'

Those other memories were still there: Winter Soldier and all he'd done, all that pain and anger and the ghosts that howled and raged in his head, but those soft lips on his dimmed them, made them quieter and easier to manage.

He kissed back until the need for air had them pulling apart again and his eyes found Steve's face, no one emotion winning out his expression. But then he's feeling rather than doing: he feels himself reach out for the taller man...his friend...and his arms find their way around a broad frame as his hands curl tightly into the materiel of his jacket. He feels that same material press against his cheek as he buries his face in Steve's shoulder. And he feels those ghosts go quieter still--not silent, they would never be that--but manageable. At least for now.

As far as Steve is concerned, the man he'd approached standing here in front of the soldiers stars was still Bucky Barnes, but in the moment where they kiss, in the next where Steve can feel hands tightening in his clothes, he feels more like Bucky. Even in pain or sadness, it's still Bucky trying to find solace in him and Steve's glad he took the chance. He can't believe it worked - True love's kiss? It makes his face turn pink at the very idea - but it did work and he's not going to question it.

Emotions choking him, Steve just bows his head to press his cheek into that long brown hair, one arm curling around the shorter man's waist and the other hand tangling in the aformentioned strands, loathe to let go. "It's okay, Buck. Everything's alright now.

I'll take care of you."

He wants so desperately to believe that, to just stay where he was and let everything else go because for the first time in a long time he feels truly safe and like he's were he belongs, like things might make sense here. There's no bullets whizzing past their faces, no nazis to kill and there's no strings attached to his wrists and ankles as voices whisper chaos and destruction in the guise of value and nobility into his ear.

They're them, even if he's still trying to figure out exactly who he is.

But there's one thing that holds him back, one thing he can't just leave be because just as those ghosts will never fully vanish, nor will the man he used to be and the man who Steve wants him to be can't leave that part addressed.

"Steve...could you kill me? If something happens and Hydra or someone else gets a hold of me--I've killed a lot of people, some of them didn't have it coming to them, I can't do that again and still try to make up for it. So, could you kill me? Even if I asked you right now?" Was he asking right now? He didn't even know. A part of him was and before that quieter state of mind had settled on him, that part had been larger, but he didn't know if that was what he wanted anymore.

But what was the point in continuing to try and sort through his head if there wasn't anything he could do to redeem himself? If there was no righting his wrongs? It was a moot point if Steve couldn't pull the trigger, however, he'd have no choice but to try anyway.

"What kind of question is that?" He can't. Not if it's just them. Over the Patomic it had been different, so many people would have died if he hadn't done what he'd done, and yet he still was ready to let Bucky kill him instead of the other way around, just so long as his mission was complete.

He'd rather die than kill his best friend. He'd deserve it, too, for failing him so completely.

"I said I'd take care of you and that I'll do. I'll track down every last one of those Hydra psychos and put them in the ground if I have to." But he won't put a bullet in Bucky Barnes. He can't. He just can't.

He's quiet for another moment, then breaks into a tremulous smile, trying to change the subject awkwardly. "C'mon, you need a haircut. We can go back to my place."

He pulls away quickly, not because he wants to, but because it's what he probably ought to do and there's still a part of him that's a little jumpy, even as close to comfortable as he is now.

"I think I might need a shower." And maybe a new pair of clothes, or at least get the ones on him washed. He didn't know where it came from, but something ran through his head that made the corner of his mouth twitch in what really couldn't be called a smile, but was the closest he could manage right now. "You don't know how to cut hair."

"There's this thing called the internet, I can look it up." He flashes a small grin in response to Bucky's not-smile but there's a little strain to it, a desperate effort to keep the conversation light through sheer force of will.

He turns a bit, making it clear he's ready to go right then, though he doesn't start walking until Bucky's ready to go with him, that slightly manic and forced but still so damn hopeful grin plastered to his face. "And you're right, you do need a shower."

He follows along obediently, keeping his silence, though he's sorely tempted to tell Steve not to smile if he doesn't actually want to. He knows what a fake smile looks like, even one made with the best of intentions. The problem is that he can't quite bring himself to speak up, which just makes him wonder if Steve knows better in this case and he might need even that forced smile for right now. At least until the dust settles a little more and things don't feel so fragile.

He tries to keep the conversation going as best he can, though he still carries himself with the tension of a strung wire about to snap, as though the smallest thing could have him jolting. He didn't mean to, it was habit and the feeling that something right couldn't actually be happening because it was happening to him and that just made him feel like it could vanish with just a well-placed volt of electricity.

But he does stick to Steve's side, watchful and weary, less of the man next to him and more of everything else. If looked at closely, his body language said he still expected danger, some threat or something that would need to be eliminated by the assassin part of him, but he wasn't expecting it from the blond at his shoulder.

Not anymore.

Steve's non-answer--while not entirely thrilling for the fact the Bucky part of him knew he was still a danger to Steve and everyone else--had told him that despite 'Captain America' Steve didn't feel he could kill him; not as the Winter Soldier and certainly not as some confused, bedraggled, guy with only half his brain cells currently functioning.

"Hey..." Steve doesn't interrupt so much as slip the word into an awkward silence where he can tell Bucky is groping for words, trying so hard to find something to keep up the tenuous bond they've reformed. It's good to know that Bucky actually wants to try - why else would he be struggling to talk when he could just as easily fight instead? Or flee? - but it hurts too, hurts to watch his best friend blindly stumble for things to say, it hurts to watch him struggle so hard to find things that Steve will recognize as Bucky Barnes from the 1940's.

They've changed. They've both changed.

"Hey," he repeats. "It's me, Buck. You don't have to try so hard."

He stops on the curb, his motorcycle sitting there with his shield strapped to the handlebars, a silent sign from Sam that he's still watching. That Steve should still be careful.

"You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to. You can relax."

Maybe he didn't, but he felt like he did. Like some part of him believed that if he stopped talking or said the wrong thing then Steve would give up and leave. But things made more sense with Steve around, he could hear past the static and the screams in his head with that achingly familiar presence nearby.

But he didn't want to tell Steve that yet without it coming out wrong, so he didn't. He nodded and tried to relax a little more--though if he succeeded, it wasn't very apparent.

He gestured to the bike. "Guess I've got shotgun."

"Yeah." It's a lame response, but whereas once upon a time he might have took a shot about Bucky falling off behind him, he feels incredibly guilty for the thought even crossing his mind. He'd woken up from nightmares of Bucky falling from the train multiple times. How could he even think of making a stupid joke about it now?

Jaw clenching a bit, Steve swings himself onto the bike and waits for Bucky to climb on behind him. He's sure he doesn't have to explain the travel time to his friend but with all the emotions and thoughts running through his head, his mouth decides it needs to run too, maybe just to break up the tension. "It'll take awhile to get there, my apartment's in New York. You'll like it, I think. It's bigger."

"Okay." He knew the distance, but the thought that anything was better than the nothing he was currently inhabiting wasn't something he wanted leaving his lips.

Instead, he climbed on behind Steve and hesitated only a second before wrapping his arms around the teller man's waist. Luckily, the trip made talking fairly difficult, so he didn't bother trying, choosing instead to watch as one city morphed into another with only small strips of nature to break them up.

At some point along the line, he could feel his eyes drooping a little and try as he might to resist, he found his forehead resting against Steve's back and his eyes drifting closed as he dozed, though his grip never once slackened.

Four hours later Steve pulls into the alley behind his building, cutting the engine to his bike and planting his foot to keep from toppling over. The building is an old factory, empty of all machines now and cordoned into empty retail space below and what Steve has adopted as an overlarge studio apartment above. Fury had helped him set it up, something he'd insisted on after the small fiasco with the D.C. apartment S.H.I.E.L.D. had originally furnished him with. At least now he knows he's not being spied on by agents masquerading as neighbors. He has no neighbors to speak of.

He moves to put a hand carefully over Bucky's, still tight around his stomach, but the glint of light off of metal gives him pause. He knew Bucky had a metal arm, how could he miss it when they'd fought? But this is his first time seeing it up close and not about to cave his face in. He examines the fingers, metal panels fitted together, putting him in mind of the back of a pill bug dipped in chrome. They're the right shape but that's it. Those fingers are cold, a reflection of what Hydra had turned Bucky into.

Attempted to turn Bucky into, his mind supplies stubbornly, and Steve shoves his thoughts away, brushing that hand with his in a gentle effort to wake his friend without startling him. "Hey, we're here."

He didn't startle, but he did wake up almost immediately, fully alert and listening for a moment before remembering he didn't really have to.

Quietly, he let go and dismounted, standing sort of awkwardly by the side for a moment before his eyes traveled to the building itself.

"Nice place. Seems a little big for one guy." But he wasn't really complaining. Really, some part of him kind of liked it and he didn't know why.

"It's hard to get privacy nowadays." He swings off the bike, moving to the corrugated metal door in the shadow of the alley. He digs out a key to an old fashioned padlock and soon it's rumbling open and Steve waits for Bucky to enter before wheeling his motorcycle in behind his friend.

The first floor is dark even when Steve clicks on the aging overhead lighting to reveal the expanse of empty concrete, spotted here and there with red brick supports. A line of heavy punching bags leans against a far window and across the way a steel stairwell winds up in a spiral to an unseen second floor.

The blond props the bike up near the door they'd come through then perches his hands on his waist, surveying the room. "The real apartment's upstairs." It's not defensive, but there's a small note the betrays Steve wanting to put his best foot forward to Bucky, maybe not impress him but at least get his approval.

There's nothing much remarkable about the first floor space, other than how much space there was. Other than storage for his bike and working out, it didn't seem like the place was being used for much else. But then, Steve had always been a more simple guy with simple needs...at least that was what one twisted fragment of a memory combined with a feeling told him. It might be a big space, bigger than either of them had ever lived in, but it was still very Steve.

He moved to the stairs and carefully made his way up, his left hand grazing along the railing as he went. Once on the landing, he stopped and took in the apartment, a very small but not forced smile touching his face.

He waited until the other man was up there with him before finally passing his verdict.

"I like it."

Upstairs is more homey than downstairs. The second floor only covers a quarter of the building's space with the rest being open to the floor below down one side. Each wall has giant windows, yellowed with age higher up but replaced with modern safety glass where the light would be needed to see by. Like the floor below, there are no walls up here aside from those that make up the perimeter of the building and the little bathroom and so through the use of creatively placed furniture, Steve has divided up the cozy space into compartments.

The kitchen has modern fixtures and an island in the middle, open to the living area and a curtained off nook made of bookshelves along the back wall houses a bed, made up all neatly with military precision. Some habits die hard. The living area has a couch and a bench under the gigantic window that takes up the opposite wall and overlooks the Hudson river. A few books and sketchbooks are scattered around across surfaces, coffee table and kitchen island alike, and though the lamps that Steve flick on as he moves into the space don't throw much light, they cast a homey glow over the quarters.

Bucky's assessment makes him smile even as he tries to hide it by moving to the kitchen. "Make yourself at home. Are you hungry?"

"A bit." More like he was ravenous and would likely gulp down whatever Steve made in a heartbeat, but again that particular sentiment didn't escape. He wondered if he'd always been this way or if he'd been more open before. He couldn't fully remember.

He also couldn't fully remember what 'make yourself at home' meant, but he thought he had an idea from back when he had a home to relax in. The worn hat came off his head, allowing his long hair to fall around his face, and the jacket he'd had wound up folded up underneath it on one of the chairs. His arms felt exposed after being covered for so long, but he let the feeling go. His shoes, habitually, stayed on.

A thought occurred to him that ran in that same familiar yet alien vein some other thoughts from earlier ran, but he decided to try it out loud instead of ignore it and see how it felt.

"Are you going to make something or do places deliver to random warehouse apartments?" Inconclusive, but it didn't necessarily feel wrong so that was an improvement.

"I'm gonna make something, but places deliver anywhere nowadays. You don't even have to call most of them anymore, you can just order on the internet." He gestures in the general direction of a laptop on the modest coffee table. "'Course I don't get take out much. People tend to recognize me."

It had been nice for a little while, being a nobody again and having what he'd been duped into believing was privacy, but after the Chitauri invasion it had been like the USO all over again. Steve Rogers, Captain America, National Hero. He feels like a museum exhibit. Hell, he is a museum exhibit.

So is Bucky.

A bit sobered, Steve pulls out a pan and some ingredients from the fridge and from cabinets. Rationing may have been long over and meat and other things readily available, but for his limited experience in the kitchen, Steve has stuck to that familiar. Spam hash it is.

Bucky shifted a moment then decided he'd rather move around a bit more than sit and wait for the food to be made. He wandered around to take in what little was left he hadn't already seen before stopping in front of one of the bookcases to look at what lined them.

After a few minutes his nose caught the scent of whatever Steve was making and sent it to his brain where a memory lay waiting. "Spam hash? Really?" It made him give that sort-of smile again as he looked over at the younger man from where he stood.

"Hey, I learned to cook in an army camp," he says by way of explanation, looking over at Bucky. "Besides, it's quick and easy and I remember you saying you hated it the least."

And doesn't require the microwave, which while Steve had been experimenting with the thing, he still hadn't managed to learn how long things went in for. 2 minutes can't be right.

"You can read anything you want, if you want." He stirs the mess in his pan for a minute, listening for Bucky rifling through his shelves of WWII historical accounts, art collections, and pulp fiction. It's a modest collection but clearly chosen with care, with small pockets of incongruous titles thrown in here and there where he'd gotten books as gifts. Most of those haven't been read. There are even a few DVDs interspersed, Arsenic and Old Lace, The Big Sleep, and a few Disney titles too, Snow White and Bambi bookending more recent films like Aladdin and Beauty and the Beast. He keeps meaning to get more but it's hard for him to sit through a whole 90 minutes. Steve finds himself restless more often than not.

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