I'm Here | ✓

44 - Gray

I growled at Robbie Morris as he fled away from me, a black eye already developing on his face. That son of a bitch thought he could get away with anything, but I'd been brushing up on better punching techniques and putting them to good use.

I turned to Steve, limp on the sidewalk. I shook him a little bit, waiting for him to get up and groan and dab at the blood on his face from the assault, but he didn't move. "Let me guess, you had him on the ropes?" I chuckle, but there was no reply. I shook him harder, and my blood ran cold.

"Steve?" I whimper. I searched his face for a flicker of his eyelids, a breath to escape his lips, but there was nothing. "Steve!" I cry again, jostling his shoulders and pulling him into my lap. My fingers searched his neck desperately for a pulse, and my breath hitched in my throat when at first I couldn't find one, but eventually, my index finger felt his pounding heartbeat.

"Steve, please," I begged, wishing he'd get up and laugh it off and play it as a joke, but Robbie did a number on him, and he's out cold.

I pull the blanket up over my knees and bring it a little closer to my chin, my eyes focused on the screen and slightly aware of Steve's arm draped across my shoulders and his warmth against my skin. I try to blink away the images of his small, pre-serum self lying slack on the pavement, but it's seconds before another memory hits me.

I bite back a yelp of surprise as I felt Steve's frigid toes brush my leg under the blanket. I draw back quickly, and he only moans a little bit. He's fast asleep, but the poor kid is like an ice cube with a body. A delicate, shivering, handsomely small body.

I wrangle my thoughts away from there before they can get out of control. Gently, I roll back over, careful to avoid Steve's freezing feet and his bony elbows. God knows he needs the warmth. I didn't realize it was going to get so cold tonight, and now I'm grateful I agreed to let Steve sleep with me. Part of me is terrified that somebody is going to barge through our apartment door and see the two of us curled up together; the other half tells me to just savor this moment, because the war is practically at our doorstep and I'm going to get shipped out as soon as it gets here, left with only memories from back home.

My mind is in a million places at once, but at the same time, strangely calm. Sometimes I have bad memories of the past, like when Steve got really hurt, or sometimes the memories are good, like when we used to go to Coney Island once we saved up enough money. It's not always black and white; occasionally, my memories will fall into a gray area of not quite good, not quite bad, not quite real, not quite true.

"Are you sure, Buck?" I try to keep my paces short and slow, but somehow, Steve still struggles to catch up. The tails of my coat flutter behind him and he wraps it tighter around himself, jogging to walk beside me. "Aren't you gonna get cold?"

I shrug. I probably will, but what he doesn't know won't kill him. Pneumonia very well might, and that's something I can't risk. "Nah. I've got thick skin," I say casually, trying to ignore the white puffs of breath that hang in front of my face at every word I say. It's colder than I thought, and I stuff my hands a little deeper in my pockets. Steve gives me a small grin, his nose and ears already pink. I don't regret giving him my jacket; he looks cuter with it. I give him a lopsided smirk to hide my blush. "Now c'mon, let's get you home 'fore it gets much darker out."

After a minute, I realize Steve's dragging behind me. I try to look straight ahead and slow up, but no matter how short I make my steps, it still seems like he's struggling. I glance behind me. He's hunched over, still walking, but it's uncomfortable and rigid and painful. I stop, wondering what could be wrong and mentally calculating how long it would take for us to get home.

"Buck?" His voice is fragile and weak. His breath forms a little white ring around his head like a halo before being blown away by a chilly breeze. His hands are shaking as they grip the edges of my coat that looks huge on him, and he stares down in confusion.

"Steve?" He stumbles, and I step back to be by his side. "Stevie, what's wrong?"

Steve makes a sick choking noise and the fabric slips out of his fingers, revealing a black suit underneath, very different from the thin button-up he'd been wearing earlier. It's like a vest, with all sorts of belts strapping tightly across it. Black gloves cover his bloody hands, and he gazes at them in horror. The whole thing looks more like a dark straitjacket; like it was meant for a wild animal that needed to be restrained.

"Buck!" Steve gasps and the coat flies backward, exposing the whole suit. His stance wavers a bit before his knees lock, and I watch as his fingers flick to the gun on his belt. I've never seen it before, but at the same time, it looks all too familiar. I stare rubbernecked at him with wide eyes, and dimly, I can feel tears dripping down my cheeks, though my mind is too fuzzy to figure out why. He slips the gun out of its holster and our eyes meet. Mine are filled with desperation, and his are just... cold. Empty. Unfeeling.

I'm staring down the barrel of the gun, with Steve's finger brushing the trigger. He cocks his head. "There was a reason they called you the Winter Soldier," he says in a voice not quite his own; a little deeper, a little accented, a little too familiar. He simpers, baring his teeth just a tiny bit, and pulls the trigger. Bullet swallows fire, air swallows bullet, and I cough feebly as I fall to the ground, but my vision is black before I even get there.

Steve clicks the pause button on the remote, and I can't take my eyes away from the little white symbol in the corner of the TV. Whatever movie we were watching, the characters are frozen in the middle of speech, hands raised, all perfect fake acting.

"Hey, Buck, you alright?" He strokes my hair behind my ear and I resist the urge to lean into his hand, worried I'm being too needy.

I sniff. "I... I think Hydra gave me memories of things that never happened."

Steve leans against the back of the couch, resting a hand comfortingly on my knee. "Do you wanna tell me?"

I nod. "It was you and me, and it was cold outside so I lent you my coat, but then the breeze blew it away and it was my suit that I had when Hydra had control of me, but you were wearing it, and then you... you turned all weird, and then you shot me." I put a hand to my head. "It sounds weird even saying that out loud."

"No, it's fine." Steve licks his lips, testing his next words. "Does this happen with every memory?"

"Just some. It's only happened, maybe, a dozen times?" I squint, the details of the memory - the nightmare - already slipping away. "Why would they need that?"

"They erased who you were. Maybe instead of just trying to make you forget that, they were trying to make you a fake identity to cover up all that missing space."

I hum quietly in contemplation. "It didn't work. Not well, anyway."

"I'm really glad it didn't."

"Me too."

We're quiet for a moment, thinking this over, before Steve speaks again. "Maybe we could have Shuri check it out, see if there's nothing we can do. Bruce would be a little more convenient, but since he's currently..." He sighs, not wanting to say the words dead, stranded in space. "I trust Shuri to do the same work, if not better."

I remember how amazing Wakanda was last time we were there, and I nod eagerly before hesitating. "I mean, as much as I'd love to get the memories out of my head, I just want everything to go back to normal, you know? I want the metal arm to just be a prosthetic, I want to be able to live a quiet life with you as Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, I want to be able to go out and get a coffee without having a panic attack if I see a dog."

"Listen, Buck, it's up to you. I hate to see you suffering, but it's your choice."

I try to add a little humor to the situation. "Recent development: local man has been given the power of choice." Given my history, it's really not that funny, but Steve gives a little genuine chuckle, and I smile. "Let's wait until this all sorts itself out. It always does, right?"

"It always does," Steve reassures me.

I tuck my feet underneath myself on the couch and pull the blanket back up, trying to get as warm as I can. Steve gives me a small kiss on the cheek and presses the play button on the remote. And for a very brief second, I believe everything will be okay.