I Will Wait For You [ stucky ]

two

2,153 words ✓

xxx

bucky

xxx

Standing in front of my bathroom mirror, I frown at myself. The morning rays from the window bounce off the mirror, lights dancing across the walls. Last night I slept well, or at least as well as I can. I woke up three times, screaming once out of three. My nightmares don't seem as intense these days, and they feature more of Steve than of my time in Hydra.

Shaking the thought away, my eyes find their way down to my wrist and the rubber band there. I take it off and hold it my hand for a moment, then reach up and brush my hair back. After tying it, I look into the mirror to inspect myself. It looks like a woman’s hairstyle. I'm not ready for that. My metal hand pulls my hair from the ponytail and it falls free; I brush through it a few times to untangle it. Turning from the sink, I put the band back on my wrist and leave the bathroom.

After I pulled Steve from the river, I didn't know what to do with myself. I managed to snag some clothes that had been hanging to dry in someone's backyard and changed into them. Along with the clothes, I also found an empty and rugged--yet still usable--backpack from their trash bin, and thus my adventure began. If I wanted to restore my memory--or at least some of it--I figured a good place to start was the Smithsonian, where they had exhibits honouring Captain America.

The museum offered brochures with facts about the Captain; I took one and was leaving when I stumbled upon the Bucky Barnes exhibit. There were a lot of things I read about myself, or my past self, rather. I learned a few things, but nothing I really remembered. The only thing I could remember from that whole museum was Steve. Not really anything about him, just him.

I swiped a notebook from a kid’s open backpack and felt a swarm of relief when I realised said book was empty. I’d feel awful for taking something he needed, even if it was to help myself. In the book, I wrote little thoughts and things I read about myself or Steve. After about a week, I started remembering things. Nothing really big or important, just little things, like walking side by side with a smaller Steve. The Steve I began to remember had a thin face and thin frame, and he always had a bloody nose or a split lip. There were bits of purple or black lining his face, a great contrast to his light skin.

I wondered how he got them. According to the museum exhibits, Steve Rogers was too sick and frail to do anything. He probably shouldn’t have ever even left his house. His family probably worried sick about him. Bucky probably worried sick about him.

Those things, the little glimpses of my memories, were scribbled down in my notebook so I wouldn’t forget them.

xxx

six days later

I'm not quite sure what brought me to go looking for Steve. Maybe it was my mind trying to remember, maybe it was the weird need to see him. Whatever it was, led me to a small apartment in Brooklyn where Steve was supposed to be living.

Guess my tracking abilities are one plus I got from Hydra.

When I found his apartment complex, I hung around for a bit before moving to the roof of a neighbouring building. I brought my rifle--which I had concealed safely in my backpack--so I pulled it out after settling at the edge of the roof. Peering through the scope, I had a perfect view through the window of Steve's apartment.

He didn't seem to be there.

I furrowed my brows and moved the gun slightly, allowing me to look into the living room. The lights are off, but the sun illuminates the room enough for me to see a small couch, a chair, and a tall floor lamp. There's a bookshelf, and something big, shaped like a box. Maybe a stereo? Does he even have time to listen to music, with all his Captain America-ing?