Steve nods. He scrapes his sleeve roughly across his face to clear the wetness off his cheeks. “They sent me a letter. The Army. They-” he swallows, reddened eyes searching Bucky’s for even a scrap of recognition, a sliver of remembrance. “They told me you died in action, and they- they couldn’t get your body back, we buried an empty- we had a funeral, Bucky.”
Bucky’s eyes are tortured but distant. As he gasps, Steve jumps a little. “Buck?” When his eyes find Steve’s again, they’re almost angry. Steve can’t help but be a little intimidated, but not scared. This is Bucky, here. Bucky, miraculously returned from the dead. Steve shouldn’t be standing here in shock, he ought to be jumping for joy.
Well. Not quite. Bucky’s body had come back. Bucky’s mind seemed to be left somewhere on a battlefield, along with his left arm. “What happened to your arm?” he asked, one hand reaching out to touch it. Steve stopped short and pulled his arm back, hesitant.
I don’t remember anything.
“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. You’re my best friend,” he said quietly. “My name is Steve Rogers. You’ve known me since we were kids,” Steve said, practically begging to pull those memories back. “You…you always used to slick your hair back. And you- you made me go on the Cyclone at Coney Island. You live here with me. It’s shitty but, I mean- it’s ours. It was.”
He flicks a light on and tries not to gasp. Bucky looks worse than he’d been thinking. He’s weathered and worn, filthy, and covered in either dirt or blood. His hair hangs long and haggard around his cheeks.
At Steve’s question, the Soldier’s eyes fall to the metal appendage at his left side.
He remembers. He remembers the pain, the ruptured nerve endings left behind as white-coated men cut back flesh and bone. He remembers fluttering in and out of consciousness as they affixed crude prosthetics one after the other, testing and maintaining. He remembers the sudden and remarkable strength, how easy it felt to crush the throats of the men around him… And he remembers how he’d spent the next 24 hours desperately attempting to tear it off.
“— They took it…” The Asset can still recall the crippling cold, the thick snow settling over his body, the blood pooling out around him, “What was left of it — after — after I was in the snow, the cold — they cut it back, gave me… this.” He extends the arm a little, flexing his fingers. It hums gently.
There it is again. Steve, recalling handfuls of memories that the Soldier has no knowledge of — it makes his gut twist and lurch uncomfortably, the feeling of forgetting something he’s not supposed to.
“I don’t remember — I just…” But he trails off as Steve finally illuminates the apartment.
Shabby walls, old furniture, things patched up a hundred times over. Creaky floorboards, small rooms, it’s — familiar. It takes the breath out of him, forces his brow into a tight frown.
When his eyes wander back to Steve, theres an undoubtable look of shock on the small blonde’s face. Following his eyes, his expression, the Asset turns a fraction, as if anticipating an incoming threat, “What is it—?” He hadn’t considered that Steve’s reaction, was to him.
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