Bucky stared at Steve, unsure what to do. He was crying…why was he crying? Part of Bucky the Soldier wanted to comfort the blonde man but the other part wanted to get away, and another part wanted to kill him. "I don't remember saying anything to you."
"Don't you?" He pleaded, "You don't remember all those years we were together, inseparable?" Steve tucked the compass back into his pocket and wiped away his tears. He pointed at him, "Your name. Is James. Buchannon. Barnes." Touching his chest with his quivering hand, feeling his erratic pulse through his chest. "Steven Rogers." He said. "Steve…"
Bucky the Soldier took a step back. "No." He said, shaking his head, his entire body tensed and unsure. "I told you, I don't remember. Stop." His eyes flickered over the blonde man, swaying a little. He was pretty sure that the bullet wound in his leg was infected. It hurt like hell, and he wasn't sure what to do about it.
Steve shook his head in disbelief. Why was he continuing to hurt himself like this? He should just walk away.
He doesn't remember. He kept telling himself. He has to remember. Make him remember. Steve shook his head again, swallowing hard and exhaling shakily. "Don't leave me Bucky." He said, standing upright and still, a single tear rolling down his rough skin. "Don't leave me," Steve asked again. "Come back to me?"
"I don't know you." Bucky said harshly, breathing speeding up. He took another step back, and grimaced, leg hurting more than ever with just that pressure. His nostrils flared, and his hands tightened into fists again. He frowned, still watching Steve warily.
(what can steve do/say to make him remember him? im running out of ideas.)
(erm…honestly Bucky's not going to remember everything all at once. That's why I've been trying to show that he's struggling and sometimes it's there, sometimes it isn't. Steve should maybe just try and get Bucky to come with him, and maybe stop talking about remembering and memories so much? Idk)
"Look, you're hurt." Steve pointed at Bucky's leg, "You have nowhere else to go. Let me, help you." He breathed, outstretching an arm, waiting for Bucky's reaction, waiting for him to do anything; move towards him, slowly perhaps, to Steve, like a scared stray dog.
Bucky frowned, and cautiously took a step towards Steve. His blue eyes were wary and cautious, more like a beaten dog's than a human. He looked around, then back at Steve again, as if scared he would be hurt.
Steve stood still, eyebrows pressed together in this moment of stress, praying that nothing around him would scare him and drive him away. His hand stayed outstretched craving the moment Bucky's hand, metal or skin, he didn't care, would touch his, and would feel his lost ones affect and Steve's own near-crippling sensation.
"I won't hurt you." He said, barely a whisper.
Bucky took another step closer, but didn't take Steve's hand. He stared at the outstretched hand for a moment, then at Steve's face again. His pale blue eyes flickered slightly, and he took another cautious step forward towards Steve. His movements were more like a scared and wounded animal's than a man.
Steve stood still, like a tree whose roots were planted firmly in the ground, crushing the concrete beneath, not wanting this moment to change, to forever see Bucky's face, just a few feet away from him, scared, but here. Alive.
His breathing slowed to almost nothing at all, and as his tired eyes watched frozen as Bucky approached him, he wondered Bucky would always be just out of his reach. All he could do know was wait for Bucky to come to him.
Bucky stopped a foot or so away from Steve, staring at him silently. "Where are you taking me?" He asked, voice emotionless. He didn't know who he was. He didn't know what to do or to say about anything. Especially not the expectations that Steve seemed to have about him. He wasn't sure how to interpret that.
Steve dropped his hand and stuffed it into these pockets. He shrugged with a pained expression.
"Home." He simply said.
That was all that he could call it, he thought. Steve had nowhere else, and people back then, they used to say;
'Home is where the heart is.' But at this moment, he didn't know where his heart was. Was it with Bucky? Did he lose it all those years ago, the moment bucky fell from that train?
The Soldier Bucky whoever he was nodded. "Alright." He replied, and followed Steve when the blonde began to move. He was limping, his brown hair hanging into his face a little in greasy, unkempt strands.
Steve guided the limping soldier to his apartment building, constantly looking behind his shoulder to see if Bucky was still there. They went up the creaky stairs slowly and in silence, and finally arrived at Steve's apartment. He pushed his keys in opened his, his smiley face keychain seemingly mocking him. He opened the door to his small and dimly lit apartment, walking in first.
He turned to Bucky, "I'm going to get my first-aid kit, okay? it's just in the kitchen."
(im gonna be on and off)
Bucky nodded a little, and waited in the entryway for Steve. His eyes flicked around cautiously, taking in the apartment warily. He didn't quite understand what was going on here, or what he was supposed to be doing. He stood quietly, rubbing his face with his flesh hand. Fuzzy, half there memories flickered into shape, then vanished again, gone in a blink and frustrating him to no end.
(okay. dwb)
Steve came back from the kitchen with a black duffel bag, Not your standard pack. Fury had told him. He pulled out an IV bag, gauze, various tools for stitches, morphine, and so many more things he didn't know what to do with.
"I need to get to where you're hit." He said, gesturing to Bucky.
Bucky nodded, and bent, rolling up his pant leg to show the bullet wound there. "I already got the bullet out." he said. The wound itself had been rather clumsily stitched closed, and it was weeping blood and pus, the skin puffy and red and angry from an infection that had set in. While Bucky was the Winter Soldier, he obviously had not been well-trained in doing stitches on himself.
"Okay, okay." Steve thought nervously. It was obviously badly infected, and he thought about the possibility of calling Fury. No, I can't risk it. He inhaled deeply, already preparing an IV despite his shaking hands.
Steve looked up at Bucky and tried to offer his sincerity,
"I need to start you on this," He said, showing him the morphine, IV bag and the needle that would be attached.
Moving every so slightly towards his forearm he paused and met his gaze. "Can I?" He asked
Bucky stared at him in silence for a long, long moment. After a while, he nodded slowly and rolled his right sleeve up, still watching Steve warily from beneath lowered brows. His pale blue eyes went to the IV and bag, then back to Steve, still studying him.
Steve pressed his thumb to Bucky's cold forearm, carefully guiding the needle through his skin, connecting the tube to it, and making sure it was flowing freely. "Okay, he nodded, I need you to move onto the couch, I'm gonna fix your stitches, and, well," He sighed, "It's gonna hurt like a bitch."
(brb)
Bucky nodded a little. As a supersoldier, the morphine didn't affect him as much as it would have effected a normal person. He sat down on the couch, eyes still trained on Steve in a way that was still a little suspicious, wary of what could happen. He frowned a little, eyes flicking around the room before returning to Steve.