The familiar prickle at the back of his neck was clue enough that somebody was watching him, following him, and one of his hands, stuffed into the pocket of the raggedy sweatshirt that he’d stolen from a supermarket, closed around a small pocket knife, tense. This was his own fault, he’d let himself fall into a pattern.
The voice that follows, oddly enough, relieves a little bit of the tension, but not by much. He’d known that Captain America Steve Rogers was following him. Of course he is, stupid little punk never knew when to quit his brain whispered, even though he had no idea where it was coming from.
The problem is that Steve wants Bucky.
He wasn’t Bucky, not anymore, hadn’t been in a long time. If he concentrated, he could get flashes, figments of memories, of feelings, but every time he tried to reach for something solid, it slipped through his fingers. He couldn’t be what Steve wanted, couldn’t be the friend he’d lost.
He doesn’t know though, what else Steve wants from him. Would he bring him in? He doesn’t know. His brain is a mess, and it makes his head pound with pain, and his left shoulder aches something fierce, the metal arm weighing down the joint, pulling at the broken skin. It had taken him over a week to figure out how to feed himself. HYDRA hadn’t needed a self-sufficient asset. They’d pumped him full of god knows what, wiped him and frozen him, time and again.
“I’m not…” he starts, and his voice is raspy from disuse, quiet and uncertain, and he swallows roughly, “I’m not him.”
While his disguise somehow did offer him a shield from eager onlookers and even the paparazzi, he felt it was more important for the one he faced now to see him for who he is. Taking off the hat and glasses, he stuffed both carelessly into a jacket pocket.
Hearing those words coming from Bucky hurt more than he thought was possible, like swallowing hot lead that made his stomach drop.
Brows knit, he stared at the man for a moment before letting out a breath that he hasn’t realized he had been holding before quickly stepping forward, and pushing the other man and himself into a darker side–not a corner–out of the way of the most conspicuous display in the museum of Captain America’s story so that they can hopefully talk in peace.
“That’s fine.” He swallowed, hard; it was a lie but he’s determined to keep up the façade. However, Steve does know better than to expect the man who’s been brain washed for so long to be the long lost best friend that he has missed every day and he knows better than to expect Bucky to remember their shared past as he did.
Still. Steve wanted him safe and wanted to lend a hand where he can. It’s the least he can do for him for all the years he had looked after the skinny Steve who couldn’t even breathe correctly.
“You don’t have to be. I just want to make sure you’re doing.. okay.”
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