Not Fit For Duty

To help an old friend sounds like a good plan, but this is Bucky Barnes. Best laid plans oft go awry, and absolutely nothing is ever easy for him. Follow-up to "Orders Acknowledged". A one-shot for now, maybe more to come? Many thanks to Nath for the beta.

It would be beneficial to read Orders Acknowledged first, as this picks up immediately after that one ends. I thought about making this a second chapter to that fic, but because it goes into darker areas that necessitated a higher rating, it stands alone (or may have additional chapters; depends on the feedback to this, I guess). AU because MCU canon isn't established yet, plus my usual attempt to blend MCU with comics. And this is entirely my own universe. All characters are Marvel's, not mine, alas.

There be language.

Trigger warning: a dark glimpse (a glimpse only, no real details) into torturous, non-consensual things HYDRA did to Bucky. I didn't intend to go there but… yeah. Rating is completely earned because of the unmistakable implications. You've been warned. Bring tissues. And a warm blanket for Bucky, please. Even though this is partially a memories-returning badass!Bucky post-WS tale and not brokenbebe!Bucky story, he still needs them, because he's maybe still a little bit of a broken bebe.

Even if he thinks he isn't.

-o0o-

As badly as he needed to, he couldn't go to Steve. Not right here, not right now. There were too many people, too many who knew the Winter Soldier from the news and too many who knew him up front and painfully personal, like the black man who had worn the winged suit who was sitting right behind Steve.

The organ music swelled toward a crescendo. Nimrod, by Elgar. How did he know that?

"It's called classical music, Sergeant Barnes. Nothing about bugle boys and the boogie woogie, I'm afraid."

"I know what classical music is. And I like it."

"You do? That rather shocks me."

"Hey, ain't nobody ever gonna say that Bucky Barnes don't have some class."

"I may need to revise my opinion of you."

Had Peggy Carter ever revised her opinion? No way now to ever know.

The people sitting in the front row stirred, and Bucky saw the black man—had he ever known his name? Surely he had, but he couldn't remember—lean forward and give Steve a reassuring pat on the shoulder. When Steve glanced back, Bucky ducked enough to peek with only one eye around the big hat on the lady in front him. He was sure that Steve would look straight through the crowd—and the hat—to the last row and somehow spot him.

Don't see me.

Not yet. Not yet not yet not yet.

Steve didn't really look at anything, just aimed a sad smile vaguely toward the black man… his friend? Maybe even his best friend now.

"We're best pals, ain't we, Rogers? You ain't gonna ever have a better best friend than me, right?"

"Yep, Buck. You're my best guy."

"'til the end of the line?"

"'til the end of the line."

"'cuz I help you, right?"

"Right."

"Barney Peters don't help you like I do."

"Nope."

"Georgy Steinmetz don't help you like I do."

"Nope."

"And neither does Bullethead Clark."

"Nope. Besides, Bullethead Clark's feet smell like old cheese." Steve picked up a rock and threw it. It hit a trash can lid with a loud clank. "Why you so worried about this, Buck? You afraid I'm gonna find a new best friend?"

Bucky blushed. "Nah."

"You are!"

"Race you to Mr. Perlman's cart! Loser has to buy me a sweet potato!"

Bucky winced.

Breathe.

Focus.

Breathe.

Focus.

For Pete's sake, Barnes, jealousy? Really? What are you, eight years old again? It's good that Steve has a friend. Steve needs a lot of friends. God knows he didn't have many growing up. He had me. And a string of alley cats and a scruffy little stray dog that gave him asthma attacks every time he went near it, which was every day, stupid punk kid. The damn dog died, and I might as well have. Messed up as I am now, he doesn't need me holding his hand like he did when we were little.

But what if he does…

Go up there. Go up there. Go up there.

Bucky shut his eyes.

Breathe.

Focus.

Breathe.

Focus.

Steve was stepping back down from the pulpit. Bucky winced. He'd been so lost in his memories that he'd completely missed Steve's words. His heart thumped. What if Steve had seen him from up there? He watched Steve carefully, but if he knew Bucky was in the back row, he hid it well. He simply looked pale and drained and ready to break down, though Bucky knew he wouldn't, at least not right then. Steve was strong that way. Duty first, emotions later. That's how he always played it. Let no one see what he considered to be weakness. No one but Bucky, that is.

Bucky followed Steve into his little one-room flat. "I meant what I said. You're not alone, you got that?"

"I got it, Buck." His face was a blank wall. Bricks held more expression.

Bucky wasn't fooled, but he let Steve have his pride. He peeled off his jacket and tossed it on the back of a chair, then undid the buttons on his vest. "You got anything to eat around here?"

Steve plopped down in one of the rickety chairs around the plank-covered bathtub that passed for his kitchen table. He stared into space. Didn't answer.

Bucky sighed quietly. He turned his back on Steve and opened the battered pie safe. It was empty except for a biscuit that had gone moldy. He tossed it in the scrap bucket and kept his back turned to Steve as he fiddled with the plates. It wasn't long before he heard a snuffle and then a muffled thump. He turned and saw that Steve had buried his head in his arms. "Ah, kid, I'm sorry," Buck whispered as he went over and laid a hand on Steve's shaking shoulders….

Bucky reached forward with his right hand. He dropped it back to his side before anyone noticed.

Breathe.

Focus.

Breathe.

Focus.

As Steve neared the pew, five other men stood. Pallbearers. God, Steve…a fella shouldn't have to carry his best gal's coffin. I'm so sorry.

His eyes stung again. He wished he had a handkerchief. He wished he was helping Steve carry that load. He wished Steve didn't have to carry that load. He wished a lot of things, but wishing wasn't doing anything but make his throat swell and his eyes burn and his hand reach out in comfort he couldn't get close enough to give.

It was time to leave.

Just as he'd done when he entered the church, he waited until people started to stand and let the noise and disorder cover him as he slipped out. The church grounds were neat and orderly and lousy at providing cover, so he walked as casually as he could, head down, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, just another mourner too overcome to stay to the bitter end. Which was the truth, more or less. Another minute in there and he'd have been bounding over the pews trying to get to Steve.

The security team hovering in the parking lot barely gave him a glance.

He made his way to the far side of the lot, weaving through the cars until he reached the trees planted along the edge. It wasn't perfect—hiding in plain sight never was—but it was his only option if he wanted to see Steve come out of the building. If he wanted a chance to make contact.

Did he really want that chance?

Shying away from all the possible answers to that question, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He'd picked them up on a whim from a convenience store on the way to the church, thinking they'd make a good prop in case he had to do exactly what he was doing now. No one would give a second glance to a man stepping out of a funeral for a quick smoke, and doing it far from the doors. Only polite, after all. He'd seen the glares; no one these days likes walking through a haze of secondhand smoke.

He shook out a cigarette. Stuck it between his lips. But he didn't light it.

He should light it. Man holding an unlit cigarette might be noticed.

So light it already, Barnes.

He slowly took out the lighter, a cheap plastic thing. A memory of a heavier, sturdier metal lighter drifted lazily through his mind as his thumb touched the ridged wheel.

"Hey, Steve, look at this lighter I picked up off that dead Nazi back there… you gotta unscrew the lid before you can use it. Kind of a pain if you're in a hurry for your smoke."

"I guess it won't leak, with a screw-top. Toss it here."

Bucky drew his hand back, but Dum Dum grabbed it before he could throw it.

"Lemme see that, Sarge. Hell, looks like a suppository. How'd you like Nurse Battleaxe shoving this thing up your ass when you got piles? Yee-ouch!"

Steve gave him a disgusted glare and snatched it from him. "Hey, Buck, you oughta keep this, give it to Barney Peters' dad when you get home, for his collection…."

Of course Bucky never made it home. Neither did the lighter, as far as he knew. It'd been in his pocket when…

The ground fell away from his feet for an instant. He shot out his left hand and grabbed a tree branch. Not falling. Not falling.

Breathe.

Focus.

Breathe.

Focus.

Light the stupid cigarette before someone notices.

He lifted the lighter. Thumbed the wheel. A click. A flame. A curl of smoke… the smell.

His hand started to shake.

The smell….

One of his guards had smoked, once upon an awful time. He would light up after he… after he…

…after…

He snatched the cigarette out of his mouth and threw it to the ground. Stepped on it. Crushed it into the grass with the toe of his boot. He cursed under his breath. Maybe it wasn't such a great prop after all.

He shoved the lighter back into his jacket pocket. Stupid memories, fickle as hell. Why couldn't cigarette smoke remind him of somebody who'd been a stand-up kinda guy? Surely he had known good people back in the 1930's and 40's who'd smoked. Everybody smoked back then, he remembered that much. But other than the memory of the Nazi lighter, his brain offered up nothing more than shadowy glimpses out of the corner of his eye, outlines in the fog of people lighting up. But like trying to remember a dream, as soon as he turned his attention toward them, they melted away. The good memories always did, seemed like. Why couldn't the bad memories do the same?

The bad memories…

The HYDRA bastard's hands… his hands…

… touching him, stroking… lips on his skin… hot breath… grunting like an animal… no… no… please… nononono….

...hot tears… pain…

…click… flame… a curl of smoke blown into his face… cruel laughter…

"No," he whimpered as he stumbled backwards. His back collided with the tree, jarring him back to the here and now. Nausea washed hot and sweat broke cold. He swallowed hard. A guy tossing his cookies would be noticed.

Forget it. Forget it. You survived. You lived. You're free.

Put it out of your mind.

He banged the back of his head against the tree. Once. Twice. Finally shoved the memories back into the hellhole where his brain stored his nightmares.

Breathe.

Goddamn HYDRA. Burning out the good and leaving the bad.

Breathe.

Focus.

Blue sky. Puffy white clouds. Birdsong. Soft breeze. I'm free. I survived. I'm free.

I survived.

I survived.

I survived.

Breathe.

Focus.

Breathe.

Focus.

He turned his eyes to the church and waited.

-o0o-

The pallbearers carried the casket down the steps to the back of the waiting hearse. Steve's face was a study in concentration until after he'd let go of the brass rail and the hearse's rear door closed. Then sorrow broke through the stoic mask. The winged black man… black wingman? Mr. Blackwing?... I really need to learn his name… came up beside him and murmured something in his ear. Steve frowned and started to turn toward the parking lot. Bucky prepared to duck behind a minivan, but when Mr. Blackwing whispered again, Steve's eyes dropped to the ground. Mr. Blackwing patted his back one last time then turned away and melted into the crowd.

Bucky was impressed. Mr. Blackwing could move almost as quickly and stealthily as he could. Almost. But his interest wasn't in Steve's flying friend. It was in Steve, and how best to approach him.

Just the thought of talking to him left his throat dry and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

What would he say? Should he say anything? Or should he just walk up to him and wait for Steve to say something…

"Hi, Bucky, what the hell did you think you were doing, letting HYDRA use you like that?"

Yeah, that would be fun.

And what about all the people around? What if someone recognized him and screamed or something?

"Sergeant Barnes?" a soft voice suddenly said from about fifteen feet away. Bucky flinched and spun around. Damn it, it was Mr. Blackwing. Bucky backed away, searching for the best way out. How could I have been so stupid, letting myself get so caught up in watching Steve that I didn't see him approach?

He took another step back.

Sloppy, Barnes… too sloppy. Should I run for the parking lot? Weave through the cars, hope he doesn't have his wings under that suit coat?

"Hey, it's okay, Sergeant." Sam held both hands out from his sides, open and non-threatening. "Take it easy. I just want to talk, that's all."

Bucky took one more step back. He didn't want to hurt Steve's friend, but the nails of his right hand dug into his palm; the metal plates of his left arm shifted with soft whirring clicks. Echoes of smoke, of wind and altitude and a grappling hook and a swift yank, pulling the wing off…

He scowled.

"Hey, man, seriously. No need for the death glare. I'm not going to do anything but stand right here. You can leave if you want, but I hope you'll give me a minute."

The guy was brave, coming up to him unarmed. Bucky could give him that. He also seemed sincere. Didn't have that chill deep in his eyes that belied the friendly face and instead promised attack… betrayal… capture… restraints… chair…

Chair… electricity… mind wiped… gone… everything gone…

Bucky shook his head sharply, as if shooing off a bothersome gnat. Losing himself in a flashback now would be disastrous.

Breathe.

Focus.

Breathe.

The memory retreated, but he felt the strain in his legs, heard the scream in his head to run and keep running no one will take me in no one no chains no chair… no chair… no electricity shrieking buzzing roaring painhurtgodstopithurts…

"Sergeant Barnes? You with me, man?"

The gentle voice broke through the noise in Bucky's head. He staggered a little, then righted himself. He took a deep breath, hating the way it shook, hating that he couldn't hide his fear.

Mr. Blackwing smiled a little. He didn't seem overly concerned that Bucky was a breath from exploding into violent action against him. "I'm sorry. My fault. I shouldn't have surprised you like that. How about I start over. Hi, I'm Sam. Sam Wilson. I'm a friend of Steve Rogers."

Bucky's heart banged in his chest and all the memories of fighting this man on the Insight carrier roared like turbulent waters in his head, but okay… okay… he could… he could do this. He took another deep breath and forced his hands open. "I'm, uh, I'm…" He licked his lips. Why was saying his own name always so hard? It was his goddamned name. "J-James Barnes. James Buchanan Barnes." He suddenly felt a need to recite Barnes, James Buchanan, Sergeant. 32557308. "Call me… I guess call me Bucky, if you want."

"Nice to finally meet you, Bucky. Especially when, you know, you're not about to kick me into the next county."

Sam's eyes were twinkling so much that Bucky felt his own lips twitch upward. He might come to like Sam. Maybe. He watched him warily for another few seconds and then, just like that, he felt… calm again. He almost thought 'felt like himself', but he hadn't felt like himself since… before the War? Was 'himself' the guy back in World War II? Or was he the man who jumped from the Insight carrier after Steve? Or was he some combination of the two that he had yet to fully figure out? Yeah, probably that last one. He had so much to sort out. But he knew one thing: he was no longer the Asset. He might be so screwy in the head he'll never be right, but he knew this one thing: he was no longer a mindless puppet. He was a man who could choose his actions. Right now, he could choose, for the sake of conversation with Sam Wilson, to feel like something human and not a wild animal about to attack. He shook his hair out of his eyes and forced a half smile. "Yeah, um, sorry about that?"

"Water under the bridge, man. You were having a bad half century."

Bucky couldn't hold back a small huff of laughter. "You could say that."

Sam studied him, his dark eyes holding no judgment, no condemnation. If anything, they looked concerned. And his next words bore that out. "How are you doing? I mean, physically? You got a home, a way to eat regular?"

The question caught him off guard. No one ever asked him how he was actually doing. HYDRA chased him, they shot at him, tried to recapture him…and then they burned in hell after he was done with them. But they never, now or before his escape, asked him how he was doing. They never asked whether he was warm or sheltered or eating his vegetables.

He realized Sam was waiting for an answer. "Uh, yeah, I got a place." He always had places. Abandoned buildings usually, no electricity, running water when he was lucky. Quick stops in homeless shelters for showers when he wasn't.

"What about food? Money?"

"I eat at soup kitchens, mostly." He cleared his throat. This was as long a conversation as he'd had in seventy years, probably. "Even volunteer sometimes, when I can. You know, try to pay them back. Those places, they never got enough volunteers, you know?" He was rambling. He wiped his sweaty right hand on his pants. "Anyway, yeah. Um, yeah. I got money." Money grabbed in HYDRA bases and safe houses before setting the next fire. Didn't make sense to burn everything.

Sam's eyebrows shot up. "That's great, man, real great."

Bucky shot him a sardonic glance. "Surprised I'm trying to make up for all my villainous deeds?"

"Never said villain."

Bucky said nothing. He turned his eyes back toward the church. Steve was shaking hands with people. Bucky wondered how many of those people were HYDRA—

"Seriously, man, I'm happy for you. You sound like you're dealing."

"Yeah, well, I'm trying to. Beats sitting in some flophouse moping my way down memory lane. That back alley goes through too many crummy neighborhoods." Just thinking about it had him teetering on the ragged edge of nightmare, but he kept his eye on Steve. Looking at him reminded him that he had some good memories, lotta good memories, if he could just tease them out into the open.

Sam followed his gaze. "He's been looking for you, when he can."

"Yeah. I noticed."

"Despite the trail of destruction you've been leaving behind, you're a hard man to track."

Bucky smiled. He was sure it wasn't a pleasant one. He'd spent the last year, once he recovered enough to function, avoiding Steve and chasing down HYDRA bases. Sometimes, despite his caution, his path would cross Steve's when they both ended up at the same HYDRA base at the same time. There was one memorable battle when they'd found themselves fighting side by side. Steve had given him a crazed grin, his eyes so full of hope that it hurt Bucky to see, actually caused such a sharp pain in his chest that for a split second he thought he'd been shot. As soon as the dust settled, Bucky had melted into the smoke and ran, Steve's shout to stop… "You don't have to keep running, Buck!"... echoing in his ears for days after. "Wasn't ready to talk."

"Are you now?"

Am I?

"You don't have to keep running, Buck!"

Breathe.

Focus.

Breath.

Focus.

He lifted one shoulder. "Not sure I have anything to say. Or anything to say that he'd want to hear."

…what the hell were you doing, Buck, letting HYDRA use you all those years…

"He knows none of it's your fault."

Damn, he flies and he's a mind reader. Terrific. Bucky glared at him.

Wilson was unfazed. "And I agree with him. You're not a bad guy, Bucky. Way I see it, you were a prisoner of war for a very, very long time. Now it's time to let yourself come home. Steve wants you to come in."

"Now why would he want some nutty creep hanging around who's prone to blowin' his lid? I break stuff." And I might break him.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe because he wants his best friend back?"

Bucky felt like grinding his teeth. This was all a mistake, a very big mistake. He had nothing to offer Steve Rogers. Nothing. He was a fool for even thinking about it for a minute. "I'm not the man he knew. Not anymore."

"Doesn't matter. He wants to help you. So do I."

"Why you?"

"Simple. Steve's my commanding officer, and he's my friend. I do what he does, only slower."

"That mean you drop your guard and refuse to defend yourself because you're a sentimental idiot?"

Sam laughed, but he neither confirmed nor denied it. "What about it? You want to see Steve or not? Your choice. Last thing he wants is to make you do something you don't want to. I'll tell him to back off if you really aren't interested, and he will. But I kind of think that because you're here, that says something."

"It says I'm an idiot," he muttered. He ran a hand through his hair. After staring at the church without really seeing it, he finally said, "I don't know."

Sam waited. His expression was calm, patient. Bucky appreciated that. And hated it.

"Sitting in there," he nodded toward the church, "I… I remembered his ma's funeral. Being there for him, back then."

Sam nodded.

"He thought he hid it, but I saw it. It hurt him deep, losing his ma. Same now, losing his best gal. He'll hide it, but he… anyway, I thought maybe he might need an old friend. Keep him from feeling too…" He shrugged. "Ah, forget it. It's stupid. He doesn't need me. He's got plenty of friends now. You. All those crazy Avengers. Probably a bunch of other people I don't know about."

"Yeah, he's got some friends. Good friends. But none of those friends are you. Steve's told me all about you. About who you were before all this happened, how close you two were, like brothers. And how you were all he had after his mom died."

Bucky said nothing.

"You know, we all treasure the most the people who've known and loved us the longest. I know Steve Rogers pretty well, but I wasn't around when he was a kid, when all he had was a good heart that no one saw except you, his mother. Dr. Erskine and Peggy Carter. When he went into the ice and woke up 70 years later, all those people were gone, except Peggy, and now he's lost her. But you… you're a piece of that past he can have back. Who wouldn't want that?"

Bucky laughed, a bitter sound that was more growl than mirth. "Nobody needs a broken relic. I'm not a very fit souvenir."

"Why don't you let Steve decide that?"

That was it. That was the problem. He couldn't let Steve decide, because Steve was a stupid, stubborn punk who wouldn't cast him away, no matter how broken he was. He'd find out that James Buchanan Barnes was no longer the Bucky he knew, and that would hurt him as badly as the bullets and punches the Asset had hurled at him on the Insight carrier.

But he's your friend. With you to the end of the line….

God, it'd be so good if… if…

Bucky's eyes chose that moment to start burning. He blinked several times and swallowed and tried to find his voice. Couldn't, so he just shook his head hard and stared at the ground and tried to fight back the wave of grief pounding against his chest.

Didn't matter how good it'd feel to him. It wouldn't be fair to Steve. He looked through blurry eyes at Sam and shook his head. "No," he choked, and god, it hurt to say that.

Sam walked closer, less than an arm's length away. "He needs his brother back."

Bucky tightened his jaw. Tried to stop his stupid damn chin from wobbling. He looked away from Sam, from the church, from everywhere.

Breathe.

Focus.

Focus…

He couldn't focus. He stared at the grass as his breathing grew ragged. "I… I can't… he doesn't… the things I've done…might still do because my brain is still…"

Sam bent down a little so he could catch Bucky's eye. "Hey man, don't do this to yourself." He reached out a hand, hesitated. "Gonna put my hand on your shoulder, if that's okay?" When Bucky nodded, he laid it gently on Bucky's right shoulder, the one that was him. Not the metal monstrosity. Not the side of him that was HYDRA's and that he still couldn't quite reconcile as his. The side that still belonged to the Asset. "What you've done… it wasn't you, man. Steve knows that. I know that. Everyone who matters knows it. And Steve… like I said, he just wants his brother back, no matter what shape he's in. You need to find yourself? Let him help. That's all he wants."

Sam's words, along with his touch, finally broke the fraying threads of Bucky's control. He dropped hard onto his knees, digging his fingers into his hair. Before he could stop it, a desperate keening cry edged past his clenched teeth. He bent forward, hiding his face as he stifled any more of the betraying sound, but holding back the tears was impossible. He shouldn't be crying, didn't deserve to be comforted. Didn't deserve any help, any absolution. Probably didn't even deserve to live. But still… somewhere deep below the shame and revulsion was a tiny flicker of hope that refused to let him give in to despair, and he couldn't stand it. Hope was useless. Hope was pain. Hope was something that he thought died a long, long time ago.

Hope hurt. Hurt so damn much.

He didn't think he had the strength to hope.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed when he felt an arm cross his shoulders. Thought about shaking it off, but he didn't. He couldn't. He'd gone so long… so long… without warmth or companionship, without feeling like he was a fucking human being, that even a touch from a near stranger like Sam felt like water to a man dying of thirst. He stayed where he was, the gentle hand on his shoulder and hot tears running down his cheeks as he hiccupped and gasped and snuffled and was basically a damned sorry mess of a human.

But a human.

A human.

Not a weapon. Not a puppet.

A person.

A man. Maybe a man who doesn't deserve to live, but one who at least deserves the right to make that decision himself.

There was a rustling noise beside him and the arm pulled him closer. "Bucky," a very soft, very familiar voice said.

Bucky's head shot up. It wasn't Sam's arm across his shoulders, but Steve's. He stared wide-eyed into Steve's face so close to his as he knelt beside him, and he immediately tensed, ready to lunge to his feet, but Steve's arm tightened. Steve's eyes were damp, but his jaw was set. "Don't you dare run, Buck. You're done running."

He shook his head hard, a fresh gout of tears blinding him. A thousand protests lodged unspoken in his throat. He squirmed… actually fucking squirmed like a little kid… out from under Steve's arm and executed a clumsy roll until he banged up against the tree. He dragged his hand across his eyes. Not that it helped.

Run… get up and run run run… don't do this to Steve…

His legs didn't listen. He stayed where he was.

And Steve stayed where he was, kneeling on the ground, one knee in the grass. Bucky stared at it, incongruously worrying about grass stains on the nice fabric.

"Damn it, punk. That was your only suit and you had to go and get it torn in another stupid fight…look at that, the sleeve's ripped clean off. Your ma is gonna skin you alive and then she'll skin me for letting it happen."

"Who cares about a suit, Buck. That guy was badmouthing Stella Peters. I couldn't let it go." His stupid stubborn chin stuck out a mile.

"I don't care! Your ma told me to keep an eye on you so you didn't get dirty and now my goose is good as cooked…."

"I'm sorry, Buck…"

"I'm sorry, Buck."

Bucky blinked and looked up at Steve's face.

"I shouldn't have ordered you to stop running. Should have asked before I touched you." He made a helpless gesture with one hand while he massaged the back of his neck with the other.

"No," Bucky grated. He coughed. "It's okay. I just…" The words skittered away into corners of his brain he couldn't reach. He looked at Steve, hoping he didn't look too pathetic.

Who was he kidding? Pathetic was all he was these days.

Steve gave him a sad smile. "I'm glad you came."

Bucky nodded. "I… I don't have a lot to offer, but I remember when your ma died and…" He shrugged.

"Thank you. I know it wasn't easy for you to come, to hang around afterwards." Steve slowly stood and took a step back. "I, um… do you have a place? You know, to stay?"

Bucky climbed to his feet. He gave Steve a fleeting smile. "First thing your buddy Sam over there asked me was whether I had a roof over my head."

Sam crossed his arms and smirked a little. "Told you I do what he does."

"Only faster this time, apparently," Bucky said.

Sam smiled broadly but said nothing. Steve meanwhile looked a little shocked at the exchange.

Yeah, Steve… I can still make a joke. I'm not that far gone.

"So, you have a place?"

"Yeah, I'm good."

"Because you can… I mean, if you want… only if you want… you can stay with me."

He looked so hopeful… so fragile… that Bucky almost gave in and broke his resolve to stay away. "You don't want that in your life, Steve. Trust me."

"I can help you."

"…a new mission...I want confirmed kills..."

"And I would hurt you!" The words came out far more harshly than he intended. God damn Pierce. Goddamn him all the way to the darkest corner of hell...

Breathe.

Focus.

Breathe.

Focus.

He felt his eyes stinging again. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be... it's just...I've already hurt you enough."

"I'm strong, Buck. I can handle anything you throw at me."

"I nearly killed you!" He winced, then lowered his voice. "Sorry. Sorry. Don't mean to keep shouting at you. It's just…I would have killed you, if you hadn't jarred me outta that seventy-year nightmare. And I'm grateful to you for that. I can't even start to tell you how grateful. But…" He had to stare at the sky for a moment, blinking rapidly. He finally looked sadly at his old friend. "I want to be there for you, be the friend I was, the right hand man you need. I want to so badly I can taste it. In there, during the funeral, I even felt like it was something that… something that Peggy wanted me to do. Protect you. Watch your flank. It was like I could hear her voice issuing me the order." He blinked and smiled through more tears. "I even… it's so stupid, but standing back there in the back, I saluted her and told her, 'Orders acknowledged, ma'am.' Just like old times." He swiped the back of his hand across his running nose. Shook his head. "But… turns out I can't. I don't know what else is in my head, Steve. Memories come back… I can't control when or how. They just… spring on me. Standing here watching the church, a bunch of 'em blindsided me, just about made me sick. Can't protect you if one hits at the wrong time."

"Buck, you don't have to—"

But he shook him off. "No, Steve. Let me finish. They scare me, those flashes, because I don't know if there's something in there that might make me snap back to what… what I was before. And if that happens, I would kill you. I know I would. And you'd have to kill me to stop me. I-I can't put that burden on you."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the hearse pulling out of the church lot, heading for the cemetery. I'm sorry, Ma'am. I can't take up my post. I thought I could. I did. But I'm just not fit for that duty yet. He bit his lower lip. I'm sorry.

Steve ran a hand through his hair and looked like he was ready to argue, but he let out a long sigh instead. "Okay." The word sounded like it was torn from the depths of his soul. Bucky wanted to hide from all that sorrow in Steve's eyes. "Okay. I promised myself I wouldn't force you do to do anything you didn't want to."

Bucky nodded his thanks.

"So what will you do?"

He shrugged. "What I've been doing. Hunting down the people who did this to me."

"You know you can come to me any time you need me. Night or day. I want you to keep in touch, all right? Or I'll come drag your sorry hide back home despite what I said about not forcing you to do anything."

You can try, Rogers….

He said nothing. Didn't have to.

Steve let out a frustrated sigh. "I don't know. I don't think letting you go is the right thing, but…"

"You can't stop me."

"No. I can't." He glared, and there went that stubborn chin again, just like when they were kids. "I want to."

"But you won't."

"Damn it, Buck…" He shook his head, leaving whatever thoughts he had unsaid. "You have a phone?"

He pulled his cheap burner phone out of his jacket pocket.

Steve took it from him, punched a few buttons, read what he found, then quickly typed with his thumbs. He handed it back. "I know your number now, and I've put in my private number. Sam's, too. I only give it out to my friends...my family. You understand what I'm saying? Family, Buck. You'll always be my brother." His voice shook, but he went on. "Call me. Doesn't matter what I'm doing, I'll be there. You remember that, all right?"

Bucky glanced at the names. Punk and Birdie. He smiled a little. "I'll remember."

Steve's face started to flush and his eyes reddened. "To the end of the line, pal."

Bucky bit his lower lip again. Nodded. Couldn't have said anything if he tried, so instead he stepped forward and threw both arms around his friend. Steve hugged him back, his own arms convulsively tightening around Bucky's shoulders as he patted him on the back. Bucky let himself sink into the hug, resting his cheek against Steve's shoulder. Savoring the feel of human affection, the touch of his old friend.

"You're my friend…you've known me your whole life… I'm not gonna fight you…"

He shuddered, a sob trying to work its way out. He bunched a handful of Steve's suit coat in his fist.

…water was everywhere, but he held on tight to the strap of Captain America's uniform…

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry."

Steve's arms tightened, almost to the point of pain. "Shh. Wasn't you, pal. Wasn't you. It's all right."

Breathe.

Focus.

Breathe.

Focus.

He loosened his death grip on the fabric, but before he could step back, Steve grabbed his arms. "It wasn't you. You understand that?"

He nodded. Didn't really agree. But he nodded.

Steve studied him, saw the denial. He sighed, his frustration evident, but he reached up and gave Bucky's hair a rough tousle. "Just… don't do anything stupid, all right?"

And there it was, emerging from the mists in his mind… another memory of another time and another parting. A stiff new uniform and his hat set at a cocky angle on his head. Two girls waiting to dance, and a science expo waiting to be explored…. He slowly smiled as he stepped back. "How can I? You're keeping all the stupid with you."

Steve laughed through his tears, and Bucky thought it might be the best sound he'd ever heard. Maybe this crazy new life would work out after all.

Maybe.

He snapped off a salute, just like he had back then, then took a step away. "I… I'll try not to stay so far away. As long as, uh, I don't…" As long as I don't lose my mind and try to kill you. "I just gotta be sure, you know?"

Steve nodded, understanding all he hadn't said, just like always. "I can accept that. For now." His jaw hardened again. "You get any intel you think I need to know, report in."

He started to answer, "Yes, sir," but the words sent a frisson down his back.

… a stinging slap against his face… a hard punch to his gut… "You will address me with 'yes, sir' and 'no, sir' and say nothing else!"

Breathe.

Focus.

Breathe.

Focus.

He cleared his throat. "I will."

Bucky held Steve's gaze for another moment, letting it anchor him in the here and now, then turned to Sam. He held out his hand. "Good meeting you. Take care of this punk. He never watches his back."

"I noticed that." Sam gave him a firm handshake. "And you take care of yourself. What he said about calling goes for me, too. Even if it's just to talk. I'm a good listener."

He nodded. He gave them both a shy smile, then started walking.

He had a fuzzy memory of a HYDRA base in a town about thirty miles from here….

-fini-

A/N: I have a feeling that Bucky probably isn't going to be able to go without Steve's help for long. We'll see.

Also, if you're interested, there's a video of the WWII German trench lighter that I put in Bucky's pocket when he fell from the train. This site doesn't allow links, so just google "The Ultimate Survival lighter - from WWII" and that should bring up the video.

It really does look like a suppository.

Ow.