Author's Note: The main characters belong to the Marvel Universe. There won’t be a summary at this moment, as I’m unsure if the fanfic will continue. So, if you like this preview, please comment and like. Engage! Thank you for your attention.
"Please, tell me—what do you remember?" you ask, your voice measured. Steve sits across from you at the interrogation table, his posture tense, his expression unreadable. The two of you are inside a S.H.I.E.L.D. base, in one of the rooms designed specifically for this type of questioning.
"Miss, I’ll say this one last time—I don’t remember anything," he replies, his arms crossed in defiance. "All I know is that I saw you for the first time weeks ago and that I’ve been locked up in this place ever since." His voice is firm, but there’s a flicker of frustration in his eyes—the same lost, bewildered look he’s had since this all began.
"Do you remember your name?" you ask carefully. You shouldn’t be deviating from the script approved by Nick Fury and Tony Stark, but you can’t help yourself. Steve tilts his head slightly, as if amused by your persistence.
"No. I don’t know my name, my age, nothing," he says, his voice sharpening. "Is that what you wanted to hear?" He shifts in his chair, attempting to stand, but the restraints hold him in place. Your jaw tightens. Damn whoever decided to keep him restrained like this. Who are you kidding—it was probably Stark. His way of ensuring control, of getting payback for something.
"I suggest you calm down—for your own safety," you say evenly. Your gaze locks with Steve’s, and for the briefest of moments, it’s almost like he’s really there—your Steve. Or rather, the Steve you once knew.
You take a slow breath before continuing. "I want you to look at these photographs. If you recognize anyone, tell me everything you can about them."
You place the pictures on the table, watching him carefully. Despite his earlier defiance, he looks at them. He was always good at following orders, even when he didn’t want to. "Do I know you?" he asks suddenly, his eyes scanning the images as he moves them around.
Your heart stutters for a beat, but you force yourself to remain composed. "I'm not authorized to—" You stop mid-sentence as an uneasy feeling washes over you.
Steve exhales a quiet laugh. "I’ll take that as a yes." Letting him believe that would be dangerous. But denying it outright would be a lie. And if you want him to remember who he is, who he was, lying to him is not an option.
"Little bird—I recognize her. I don’t remember her name, but she has good aim. She once shot me in the shoulder. Didn’t hurt me, though. Am I human?" The photo on the table is of Peggy Carter. Bucky is going to lose his mind when he hears that Steve’s first real memory… is of her.
"What do you think? Do you believe you're not human?" you counter, turning Steve’s question back on him, hoping to guide him toward something—anything.
"I think a human would be wounded by a bullet," he murmurs, his gaze dropping. "But I guess I’m just a nobody, then." There’s a flicker of sadness in his voice, but you can’t react. Empathy isn’t part of the protocol—rules are rules.
"Do you remember anything else?" you ask, shifting the photos on the table so he can see them more clearly.
But his focus drifts elsewhere. His eyes settle on your hands, watching them with quiet intensity. Then, to your surprise, he reaches forward, his fingers brushing against yours with a touch so gentle it nearly steals your breath. He caresses your hands slowly, as though memorizing them.
"Have I touched you before?" he asks, lost in thought, his blue eyes studying every detail of your hands. You don’t answer. You can’t.
His brows draw together, his expression clouded with uncertainty. Then, so softly that you can barely hear him, he murmurs, "How could I have forgotten you?" Is he questioning himself? Remembering Peggy? Or is he speaking about you?
You force yourself to pull away. "I believe we’ve made enough progress for today. Rest, do your exercises, and we’ll continue soon," you say, gathering the photos and placing them back in the folder.
Steve leans back in his chair, his restrained hands still resting against the table. His gaze remains locked on you. "I know you. I may not know myself right now, but I know you, miss," he says with quiet certainty. You don’t look back as you leave the room. The moment the door closes behind you, the S.H.I.E.L.D. security team steps in to take over.
You head home, the weight of guilt settling over you like a heavy cloak. Tears slip from your eyes as you struggle to contain the ache in your chest.
After your session with Steve Rogers, you turn on your phone—countless missed calls from Bucky, one from Tony, and another from Sam. You don’t bother returning them. By the time you reach your house, Bucky is already there, waiting at the entrance.
"You shouldn’t keep me waiting this late," he says, striding toward you.His metal arm wraps around your waist, pulling you close, while his other hand gently cups your face.
"Steve’s treatment was more difficult today," you murmur, barely finishing the sentence before Bucky’s lips find your neck—not once, not twice, but lingering, as if he wants to lose himself there.
"Did he remember anything?" he asks, tightening his hold on your waist. You know better than anyone how much James wants Steve to return to who he once was.
"He vaguely remembered Peggy Carter today," you admit, your voice tinged with concern. "I think… I think he’s sad." Bucky presses a kiss to your cheek before whispering, "We should bring him here. Keep him with the people who love him—no Stark, no S.H.I.E.L.D. tests. Just us." And then, without waiting for a response, he kisses you.
"We're in Stark's hands until he figures out how to remove whatever HYDRA injected into Steve to suppress the serum that made him so powerful. Tony had to reset him like a toy just to keep him from turning into a…" You hesitate, realizing too late that your words might cut too deep.
"A Winter Soldier," Bucky finishes for you, his voice quiet but firm. You meet his gaze, guilt settling in your chest. You shouldn’t have brought it up, not like this.
"You know as well as I do that if we’re careless, we could lose him forever," you say, trying to steady yourself. "And that’s not even mentioning the shock he’ll have when he finds out what happened while he was…"
"Presumed dead," Bucky murmurs, completing your thought. The words hang heavy between you, the reality of it all feeling almost surreal.
You take a deep breath. "Imagine telling him that the man he loved is now living with the woman he used to date. That he doesn’t remember us, doesn’t remember the roles we played in his life. And then there’s Peggy—how do we even begin to explain that?" You shake your head. "Like it or not, it’s safer if we stick to Stark’s rules until we figure out how to bring Steve back."
Bucky exhales, his jaw tightening. He doesn’t argue, but the disappointment in his eyes is unmistakable. This has always been the fundamental difference between the two of you—he takes risks, while you try to play by the rules.
"Come inside," he says after a long moment, shifting the subject. "I took a risk and cooked today." You arch a brow, sensing the underlying tension that neither of you is quite ready to confront. Everything about this situation is too fragile, too uncertain.
"If it's terrible, pizza's on me," you reply, offering a small smile as you follow him inside. And as you step into your home together, you push the weight of Steve’s absence aside—just for tonight.
