(I don't think Bucky could have made it from New York to Romania quite that fast…I was thinking more along the lines of Bucky is hiding in New York as he tries to figure out what to do now that HYDRA is gone, and he has all these strange fragments of memories that he's trying to put together still)
(that makes sense, but idk how steve will find him again, what do you think?)
(Maybe he's just out for a walk or something, and sees someone familiar, wonders if it's Bucky, and follows/confronts them? Or the remnants of SHIELD helps to bring him in or something?)
(yeah, if he's just smoking in an alleyway and sees a flash of metal.. and then.. yeah ok, i think we could do that?)
(Alrighty! Want me to do the starter?)
( :)yes pleæse)
The Winter Soldier was not sure what he was supposed to do. He had checked in at the base, but there had been no one there. Everything had been abandoned. He had failed the mission, too. Had failed to kill Steve Rogers. His F̵̻̖̱͚̾̕r̸̟̪͚̃͝i̶̯͠ë̶͎̟̹̱́͋̕n̵̲͋̍d̶̯͉̆ enemy. His enemy. …right? He didn't know anymore. His memories said friend but his programming said enemy. Steve Rogers was his ệ̷͕n̶̰̱̥̝̈́̓̅͆ͅe̶̤̼͈͓̅̇̌̂m̵̞͚̘̳͓̐̇͂y̵̨͙̭͎̑̆̈́̍̂̅͗. That was what his programming said and that had to be right, because it was HYDRA's mission to unite the world, and he was their weapon to do that with…right?
Steve walked out of his apartment building and was greeted with the harsh wind. Once more into the fray, He thought and pulled out a cigarette. Smoking had become his latest distraction from the migraines triggered by his old friend's arrival. Living with a new, constant throbbing that pulled him away from his thoughts, the thick yet heavy pulse was a constant reminder of the decades he'd lost; the people he could have met, the music he could have danced to… and the person he could've loved. It soon became a nausea that wouldn't ease. The days had passed by one and the same: "No sign of him, we'll keep you updated," and "How are you holding up? We haven't heard from you for a while." The dull pain never left him, and he had been grasping at anything and everything to distract him. Steve knew it'd be hard to light it in this wind, so he sought after an alleyway across Brooklyn's busy streets that would shield him from the wind.
The Winter Soldier- no, it was…James. Bucky? James? Winter Soldier? He groaned in frustration, rubbing his forehead with a hand. The long sleeve of his clothing slipped down, and silvery metal caught the sunlight. He pulled the torn sleeve back up. He was still in the jacket HYDRA had given him, the buckles across his front having been loosened in an attempt to disguise what it was. He took a deep breath, leaning his head against the wall of the building behind him. Who was he? What was he? He was in New York, whoever he was. He was…he was supposed to kill Steven Rogers. Captain America. But he didn't. Because Steven had said… "With you to the end of the line" and he had remembered…something. That he had felt…something…for the blonde man. But he couldn't remember what.
A flicker of flame lit alight Steve's cigarette without a problem, and after a few deep drags the throbbing was beginning to seem distant. A crumpled newspaper drifting into the alleyway danced across the ground, in front of Steve and to his right. His gaze followed in curiously, Some things, never change, he thought to himself. But the second he turned his head, a flicker of sunlight on shiny metal grabbed his focus. A dark figure a ways away from him stook, breathing lightly but obviously tiredly. Steve's instinct was to ask if he needed any help, but as he further turned his body to see, he wouldn't have been able to say a word as he realized who the man was. His cigarette fell from his hand and his body was frozen in shock.
Bucky no, the Soldier no…who was he?? Winter, he decided. He was Winter. He saw Steven Rogers looking at him, and he blinked slowly, body tensing. Kill. No. No he wasn't going to kill him…but why? Why wasn't he going to kill him? He frowned, and then fled, walking away as quickly as he could. He was limping from bullet wounds sustained after the fight with Steven Rogers. He had been shot by SHIELD agents as he left, and while he had managed to dig the bullets out, the wounds were still healing and caused pain.
His breath surged into his lungs like his chest had been hit with a sledgehammer. His body shook with adrenaline as his legs heaved from beneath him, already breaking into a paced but shaky and staggering walk.
"No-" He muttered, "Bucky! Wait-" Steve called after him, his face twisted with fear.
Bucky again. Who was Bucky? He was Bucky, maybe, but if he was, why couldn't he remember? He didn't understand what was happening any more than…than an animal understood cars. He continued moving, weaving through the streets at a fast walk, though not yet running. He would run if he was pursued for too long. His brown hair hung down to his shoulders in tangled, greasy strands.
The figure in front of him continued to stagger through the streets, and he was unmistakably him; Bucky: the man he left behind, all those years ago. His body was rigid with every step he took, and his shuddering breath moved in a desperate attempt to get away from him. Why? Steve thought, begging, Why does he always leave me?
"Please." He quietly begged, still trying to keep up, but keep his distance.
"You know me, look at me! It's me." He called, his breath making clouds in the cold air.
Bucky stopped for a moment. I do. I know…no, I don't. He ran a hand through his hair, but didn't turn around. His black clothes were torn and stained and dirty. He was living on the streets, without money or anywhere to call home. He hadn't been able to pay to replace the clothes, or take a shower, or anything. He had barely been able to get supplies to eat and clean his wounds.
(I gtg to bed now. Good night!)
(ok~ goodnight!)
"You saved me," Steve said, loud enough for Bucky to hear,
"You, did! Why did you do it? You pulled me out of the river." He coughed desperately, his lungs already choking up at his panicked breaths and racing thoughts. No, not now! He shouted internally. Steve's panic attacks had been more frequent, but now..this couldn't happen. Just- Breathe- His chest felt tightened and like it was about to collapse on itself. "You. Saved. Me." He said again.
"I don't know why." Bucky- or was he the Soldier? Who was he? He shook his head a little. "I don't know who you think I am." And he didn't. He had gone to the museum, had seen the display. "James Buchanan Barnes and Steve Rogers. Best friends since childhood." But he couldn't remember anything. The photos, the videos…he recognized himself, inasmuch as he saw his own facial features, but…he didn't recognize anything else.
"Wait- just look at this!" Steve said, frantically grasping at his pockets for the compact compass from the war that held a photograph of him and Bucky. His hands shook as he dug through his pockets and held it out in front of him.
"Just look- This picture, that's you and me. See?" He pleaded, his hand trembling, outstretched, and begging for him to just see it.
Bucky turned a little, eyes flickering over the picture, then to Steve's face, then back to the picture. He had short hair in the image. Both arms, too. He looked…happy. He looked down at his hands. One metal, one flesh, both wearing fingerless gloves. "It's just a picture. It doesn't mean anything." he replied. His voice was cold. But he was…conflicted. He didn't quite know what to do or what to say. He should leave. But…no. He should leave. Bucky - the Soldier - Winter he didn't know who he was. He didn't know what he was. Just that he woke up screaming at night from nightmares that he didn't remember when he woke up, just that he didn't know his name and all he seemed to know how to do was kill.
"Don't you remember? Steve asked, desperate.
"On this day- when we went to that carnival, right before you left me. We played those stupid games, and you hit the guy at the booth!" He laughed weakly, "We ran away…laughing." He gasped and wrapped his other arm around his midsection, feeling like his chest was being tightened by the second.
He blinked slowly. Colors swirled through his mind, faint images and snapshots of the day Steve was describing. The games, the carnival…and then it was gone again, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. "I don't remember anything." he replied, balling his hands into fists. He wondered what was wrong with Steve. He wasn't behaving normally. But…did he care? Part of him did…but part of him wanted to take advantage of that weakness and just kill him.
"Please, Buck, I don't care if you don't remember. Just don't leave me again." Steve said bitterly, I can't stand it.
"You made a promise. You said you were with me!- To the end of the line!" He exhaled deeply, Just leave, His mind told him, You're just hurting yourself further. He doesn't want you.
But would it be better to keep trying and possibly risk that much pain? Or should he give up now, and hang on to what little feeling he had left?
"Stop calling me Buck!" He shouted, unable to distinguish friend from foe and reality from fantasy and memory from imagination. There were those words again. "With ya to the end of the line" and they felt familiar, they really did…but…he didn't know. He stared at Steve, face twisted with fuzzy, half-remembered memories.
Steve was at his limit. Tears lined his tired eyes, dancing on the line of his lashes and blurring his vision.
"I don't care, I don't care." He repeated quietly, to himself. "Don't leave me again, not again. You just can't!"
And then, he broke. His heart dropped and his lungs closed up, sending him into gasping fits of tears and pleading.
"You told me.."