Bucky shrugged a little. "The only thing I remember was that I taught you to swing dance once." he replied slowly. "And I don't even know if that's a real one." He kept eating, not really seeming to mind too much that his memories might be false. But in reality…it really did bother him. That he didn't know who he was or anything.
Steve sat up a little straighter, So he does remember, "Ye-Yes that- that's a real one, that happened."
"God, it was-" Steve said, snapping his fingers and trying to remember the song, "Benny Goodman– Get Happy. Yeah. That's what it was." He nodded quickly, looking to the side thoughtfully as an idea came to mind.
Bucky rubbed the side of his jaw with a hand for a moment, then continued to eat, not seeming to notice what Steve was doing. He wasn't sure what he would have responded with anyways, since the words didn't seem directed at him. He mumbled something in Russian, shifting in his seat, and continued to eat.
"The music-" Steve said, standing up, mumbling and walking over to his storage closet by the door, kneeling to unlock a hidden safe. He pressed a button, then waited.
"Rogers, Steve." He said aloud to the safe– voice-activated of course; Tony's recommendation.
Steve started sorting through various belongings he’d managed to find after tracking down a few people. He moved through dog tags, folded maps and posters, finally finding what he was looking for. The Album. From the time he’d gotten off ice to this point, he’d been collecting photos, film snippets, letters…anything from his life before and during the war. He shut the safe with a gentle push from his foot, and moved back to the table with the gray, leatherbound album in hand. Maybe if he saw some pictures.. Steve wondered. "I…found some photos,"
Bucky looked at Steve, then the album, his eyes blank and emotionless. His head listed to one side a little as he studied Steve, his brown hair falling down to his shoulders in long, still-drying strands. He cautiously reached out and took the album, eyes flicking down to it as he opened it up and looked down at pictures hidden behind protective sheets of clear plastic. A faint bell of recognition went off as he saw himself, smiling, standing beside Steve and a group of men. But this wasn't the him that he saw when he looked in the mirror. This version had short hair. Was smaller. Had both arms.
"That's us," Steve said, crouching over a bit beside Bucky, he pointed,
"They called us The Howling Commandos." He nodded, almost letting himself smile at the memory of them together, celebrating their escape and drinking merrily, squabbling happily in broken french and german. The warm lights of whatever bar they were in were reflective of the wood panelling, the sounds were loud and well. But what Steve remembered most was how safe the feeling was in that moment; as if they'd won their own war and finally got to go home. But that wasn't the case.
Bucky nodded a little. "I know. I saw the museum exhibit." He replied, his voice a little rough. "But that's all I know." He shook his head slightly, and turned the page, careful not to break anything or damage the pages.
"Hmm," Steve mumbled, taking in the photos, trying to pick up on anything he might distinctly remember, and among the many war photographs, his eyes widened at the sight of a long and slightly burned photograph
"There," Steve said, pointing to it. The dull sepia colour had faded over time, it was burnt at the bottom corner and burdened with a deep crease from being folded– but the image was clear enough.
"That's us– at the Stark Expo, I think, when we lost our dates, pissed off that carny guy and ran into a photo booth to hide." Their faces in the vertical five-panelled piece were carefree; both laughing together and smiling– they seemed to mock Steve in his current state: he should have known then, that nothing lasts forever, and you should say what you feel in the moment before it was too late.
Bucky swallowed, and nodded a little. He didn't remember that. Even the picture didn't ring a bell, though he again recognized himself, and the facial features of the man with him. He kept scanning through the photos, wishing something would just ring a bell once and for all.
Steve took Bucky's silence as what it was and studied the photographs as the pages turned, wishing desperately for something, anything to be distinct and tug at some memories. What if he never remembers? His mind prompted,
What if he wants to move on and doesn't want to remember? These thoughts would hurt him, he knew, but in times of self-preservation, the best thing you could do would be to prepare yourself for the worst. What will he remember?
Bucky continued looking, face impassive as he absorbed the old, black and white or sepia images, eyes studying each one carefully, hoping one would trigger something. He shifted in his seat, and wondered if he would ever remember. Or if he would be like this his whole life.
(do u know anything he would remember?)
"Oh by the way," Steve said, dragging a nearby stool to sit and face Bucky. "What were you sayin' in Russian earlier?"
As soon as he'd said the words, he immediately regretted them. "Sorr- I didn't, If you don't remember..I-" Steve stuttered, trying to apologize in case he reacted badly.
(mmm….I'm trying to do a slow remembering thing)
Bucky blinked slowly. "Oh. That. The…the swing dancing." He said slowly. "That's all." He shrugged a little, and looked down at the photos again. He remembered what he had said. He was a little offended that Steve thought he wouldn't.
"Yeah.." Steve said, nodding slightly, pausing to think to himself while he still studied the photographs,
This is pointless, just stop before someone get's hurt. He chose to act on that thought and maybe call it a night. Steve stood up, feeling his weight press into the floor and acknowledged that he was tired. Emotionally or mentally, he didn't know, but today had been hard for both of them, so maybe it would be best to get some sleep.
"I'm gonna.. hit the hay." Steve nodded, looking away and sighing.
"You can keep looking through it if you like, but get some sleep too, Buck."
Bucky nodded a little, and kept looking through the pictures for a few minutes. After a bit, he got up and lay down on the couch, tugging the blanket over his body and going to sleep. Or at least closing his eyes, he wasn't quite asleep yet.
Steve flopped heavily onto his bead, his front facing the ceiling and arms open and outstretched beside him.
"What can I do?" He whispered to himself, To God, maybe, but he never believed in that stuff, though now would be a good time to. I should give Tony a call in the morning. Maybe stop by the grocery sotre to..to get…. and before long he'd drifted off to sleep.
(gonna do a little timeskip~)
Bucky was screaming again. It happened nearly every night. He had a nightmare and started screaming, and began to thrash, the blanket falling away from his body. He was pitching and tossing and screaming, mind caught in nightmares and memories of blood and horror.
Steve jerked awake at the first sound of screaming, reminding himself in mere seconds that Bucky is alive and here but that something was wrong. He flinched, wondering if he'd actually imagined it, but then jumped to his feet when he heard it again. "Bucky!" He hollered before he was even at his door, leaping into action and darting into the living room.
He froze, trying to process what was happening, a nightmare.
"Hey." He said, in a loud but calming tone, trying to wake him from his frantic moving, "Bucky, it's Steve. Wake up!"
Bucky shot upright, blue eyes wide and haunted and frightened as he stared around the room, chest heaving for breath. He blinked hard, the memory of the nightmare already falling away, even as he tried to remember it. Ice…snow…falling…then it was gone. Gone like sand. He took a deep breath, looking over at Steve. "Sorry." he said after a moment.
"No…It's okay." Steve nodded, watching Bucky's troubled expression, remembering his own nightmares. The same ones every time; missiles headed for New York being detonated as he watched from afar, not being able to move as the city crumbled in a pile of fire and ash. Steve sighed, "I get them too. They start to– go away after a while."
Bucky shrugged a little, and nodded. "Right." He said softly. He ran a hand through his hair, looking to the window of the apartment. He couldn't remember the nightmares anymore. Couldn't remember what he had dreamed of, just that it had been terrible.
Steve smiled sympathetically, rubbing the back of his head, "Just remember, I'm here, not going anywhere."
That is, until we figure out if you'll stay here or another apartment, or maybe even at Stark tower. He thought, feeling a little guilty that Bucky would have to stay somewhere else, but he couldn't stay on his couch forever– he needed whatever was best for him.
Bucky shrugged a little. "I suppose you are." He replied after a moment, looking at Steve again and yet again trying to figure out what Steve wanted from him. Everyone wanted something from him, it was just a question of what. What they wanted from him.
"Okay then," Steve said slowly, turning but hesitating, looking back. "Goodnight, Bucky, I'll uh..see you in the morning."
He headed back to his room slowly, closing the creaky door and climbing back into bed. Maybe we'll grab breakfast at Lucy's diner.. it's old. Maybe he'll be gone in the morning and I'll be all..alone. Just- like before..
Bucky nodded, and lay back down, closing his eyes to sleep again. He tugged the blanket over his body again. He fell asleep after a while, not moving save for his breathing.