Good days and bad days. Bucky had always had them, or at least, the memories that he had recently recovered implied that was the case. There were nights that he woke up in a cold sweat, reaching for the gun under his pillow, or throwing his mattress up to get to the small armory he had placed there before he was taken once again. There were others when he opened his eyes with a start, pushed himself up in bed, and stared at the wall in front of him until he convinced himself that he was in Brooklyn, it was 1925, his sisters were bickering in their bedroom hoping that their parents wouldn’t hear them, and Steve would be around the next day with a bloodier nose than he’d had the previous. Good nights and bad nights, that might’ve been a better description.
He wasn’t quite sure where this night fit in when it came to those categories. His dreams, or nightmares depending on the definition, seemed more like memories, which he took to be a good thing. A song playing from a staticky radio, the crooning voice blending with the sizzle of bacon in the pan, and someone mumbling curse words from the bed pushed against the wall as Bucky grinned. (Had he done that since the fall? Was he capable of it, even? No - to grin, he would have to be human, not a machine, not a weapon, not whatever the hell they had turned him into.) Bucky couldn’t quite pick out the words of their conversation, but he knew the sentiment. They were both going to work, the war was fast approaching, they were arguing over when Bucky would get the draft.
When he woke up, another truth came to him: he had lied. Bucky had looked his best friend in the eye, had told him that he had signed up to the army, that he’d beat the bullet before it hit him. He’d tried to be a hero, rather than a coward who was pulled into a war kicking and screaming. It sounded more like him than any of the other memories.
That truth, though, wasn’t satisfying enough in a notebook. Something needed to be done with it, to help it to settle. Bucky had been watching him, looking over him for weeks, watching him make dumb decision after dumb decision that always seemed to work out for him, the Father’s grace alone ensuring that. He knew where he lived, knew what his patterns were, knew he’d be home this time of night if he wasn’t out for a jog. He did that, sometimes, when he couldn’t sleep. Always had. At least now he wouldn’t break out in an asthma attack from the cold air.
The door opened in front of him. Bucky suddenly realised that this was insanely different to sending a letter, or flashing a quick, coded message through the man’s window. I.A.M.O.K. This was something else, this was reality, though it felt as if he was still half asleep.
“He didn’t sign up,” Bucky said, voice thick from disuse. “He lied to you. He was drafted.” Steve probably knew that, from the books, from the reports after the war. “Stupid.” The word was spoken out loud, he realised too late. “‘Twas stupid for me to come here. I’ll … I’ll go.”
