NEVER COMING HOME

The Only Part I Enjoy

Bucky didn't want to leave his friend behind, not again, but he wasn't sure what other option he had. He had caused enough destruction for the day, which had begun perfectly normal. He had woke up that morning, showered, combed out his tangled hair. It had been a pleasant morning, the sun warm against his skin, a light breeze on the back of his neck. Bucky had wanted to buy plums. He'd read somewhere that they helped with memory, and he hoped that, if they could prevent dementia, that perhaps they could help with the long-term memory loss that came with being brainwashed. 
He hadn't thought buying fruit a particularly dangerous activity, but the Norns must have been cross that day, and they must have woven fate to be against him. 

Never again did Bucky think he'd hear those thirteen words, yet here he was, mere hours later.  He hopelessly willed himself not to cry as he sat beside a cryochamber, Steve soothing him as Bucky prepared to go back under. 
'Are you sure about this, Buck?' Steve asked tentatively. 
'There's no other way. I can't trust my mind anymore.' 

It was true. Bucky had no doubt he would never purposefully hurt another person, not as long as he lived, but he was by now very aware that forces lay low in shadows, sculpting between their fingers a hundred thousand evil plans, all of which could involve The Winter Soldier's special attention. He had been a great assassin, Bucky knew, and in perhaps any other circumstance, he would have been proud on the mark he left behind, but all he could do was fear. He lived in terror of being activated, terror of his metal arm one day crushing Steve's head in a moment of animalistic rage. It was his greatest fear, to kill the man he loved the most. 
To kill a friend must be the most terrible sin of all. 

It was nightmarish, the thought of his limp body in my arms, all the terror held in the dying grey-blue of his eyes.

I had loved this man, why should I have killed him? If I had hated him so, why did I hold him? To missions, I gave no second thought, yet the agony upon his features was alight in each cell of my body. I hadn't known 'til now that I was human. Whatever the man had told me, he had brought memories to the surface. They were blurred and patchy, hardly memories as much as they were broken photographs from a time long since passed, but they were mine, and so I cherished them. I left the man on the shore, suddenly aware of the tears that streamed down my face. He was dead at my hands, and I could have saved him. I could have let him go. Whoever he was, I knew him. I knew him, but I killed him, and so I lost him.

He glanced sadly at the cryochamber, then to Steve, who looked utterly miserable. Bucky couldn't blame him. It was the second time that day that Steve was going to lose his friend, and Bucky understood how much that must have torn him apart. 
There was no other way. He had to go under 'til they could remove the programming from his brain. Whatever HYDRA had done, they'd done it well, and Bucky offered endless prayer that he wouldn't wake to find Steve long since dead. He was so lost in his thoughts of waking that he hardly noticed T'Challa entering the room.
'It's time.' He said. Steve bid a final goodbye and hastily removed himself from the room, waiting around only to see James' body cease to move another inch. 

~~
It had been a long day, and he was glad it was over. That he could go home, that he could rest, that he could sit and watch the rain glaze over the windows while the boundless thoughts of James devoured him. That once again, he could be alone in perfect silence. He would be his own company once more. It was so utterly wonderful, not having to fight. 

He supposed he was still fighting with Tony. Siberia had caused a split so violent neither could mend, neither could find comfort in each other again. 
Not after Tony hurt Bucky. 
Not after Tony convinced Bucky of the monster inside him. 
For the second time in an evening, Steve lost his world and his reason. He'd watched Bucky slip like running water through his fingers, lost to the painful memories and the inability to trust his own mind not to fail him. For the last time, Steve watched the cars outside with unusual interest, praying for a distraction from the emptiness that threatened to take over the blood in his veins and the sense in his brain.
 
It's been a long fucking day my friend,

And now we're torn apart again...