Ugh...my effing muse...This was supposed to be an extended scene/fix-it story for end of the movie and it didn't really turn out that way. This is why we don't have nice things! Also, the people in the hospital are hella oblivious to all of this. Anyway, hope you guys like it! :D

Disclaimer: I own nothing =/

He knows he's there before he even opens his eyes. It's not wishful thinking or a futile prayer; he knows because he can feel him, his presence as familiar and recognizable as his own. Seventy years and he can still feel the change in atmosphere the minute the other man enters the room, the stage he commands with just his existence. It's not surprising, really; Bucky always did know how to captivate a room the minute he appeared.

Opening his eyes proves to be much more of an endeavor though and he struggles for roughly thirty seconds before he's able to blink up at the dimly lit ceiling. He can feel the wires taped to his skin, the dull ache of IVs hooked into his veins, the gauze and bandages wrapped around his body. He can feel stitches and lacerations and the sting of swelling. But above all that, past the bone deep ache that seems to settle over his entire body, he can feel him.

It takes a massive amount of effort to turn his head and the small movement causes his vision to swim and his eyes to flutter slightly. He's stiff and sore and everything hurts, from the top of his head to the balls of his feet. All of that becomes secondary, however, as his eyes come to rest on the silent, statue-still form of the man in the shadowed corner.

The assassin's eyes meet his, dark and piercing and captivating, almost exactly as Steve had remembered them decades ago. They're different now though, so similar and yet absolutely foreign at the same time. They seem haunted and lost, infinitely old and yet staggeringly young at the same time. Eyes that have seen too much but are sharp in the preparation for more. Steve feels his heart twist slightly at the hardened expression.

"You came back," he says quietly, voice wavering and thin as he speaks. Breathing hurts and speaking causes the muscles in his chest to hitch and spasm faintly with each word. The bullet wound in his abdomen throbs deeply, way down to his core, and he swallows thickly to quell a wave of nausea.

"You're not dead," the assassin, no, Bucky, intones flatly. He keeps his distance from the bed, back pressed flat and straight against the wall and arms crossed tightly over his chest. There are bruises and scrapes that stand out prominently against his skin, the dusting of stubble covering a few along his jawline. He stands rigid and still, his posture on edge like he's ready to run at any second.

"No," Steve allows in agreement, wincing as that one syllable pulls at the stitches in his abdomen. "But I gave it my best shot." The joke doesn't earn him a laugh or a smile but he wasn't really expecting on in the first place. It does earn him a thoughtful glare and a tightening of jaw muscles from the man across the room.

Bucky steps out of the shadows carefully, his movements slow and deliberate like he doesn't quite trust himself to move without every action planned out to the last step. He approaches the bed slowly, cautiously, his eyes scanning the other man's body with careful scrutiny. Steve isn't sure what he's looking for, what he's hoping to find at the end of his search, but he can't bring himself to move and disrupt the examination.

Slowly, the metal fingers reach out and brush over the bandaged bullet wound with impossible care. Steve can't quite stop his breath from hitching and his muscles from tensing because even gentle hurts right now. Bucky's eyes settle on his face, dark and angry and confused. "I shot you," he says simply, his fingers still resting over the wound left by his hand.

Steve nods very carefully. "You did."

"But I didn't kill you."

A careful shake of the head this time. "You didn't."

Confusion replaces anger and then suspicion replaces that. "Why?" he asks pointedly, the question coming out somewhere between a growl and a whine. He looks at Steve then, really looks at him, and his eyes are glassy and unfocused. "Why didn't I kill you?" The question is directed toward Steve but the way he speaks makes it seem as though he's asking himself the same thing.

Steve shakes his head slowly, wincing at the movement. He honestly doesn't have an answer; he's been asking himself the same thing ever since he regained consciousness in the back of a ambulance. "I don't know."

"That's not good enough!" Bucky snarls suddenly, dark eyes glinting with unbridled rage. He's breathing hard and fast, uneven, and he shakes his head sharply. The fingers of his flesh hand tangle into his hair and clutch a fistful of it in his hand. He clenches his teeth, squeezing his eyes closed and breathing harshly through his mouth. "I was ordered to kill you...my mission was to kill you...but I didn't. Why?"

He glares at Steve then, eyes bright and sharp like sunlight reflecting off of volcanic glass. He looks terrified and angry, demanding answers and yet too afraid to accept them. He's like a caged animal whose only chance at freedom is to get past the hunter.

"I've never failed to kill a target before…" he continues, glaring at Steve with suspicion and accusation. "Until now. What makes you so different than all the others?"

Steve doesn't know what to say, the words frozen in his throat and coated in a thick layer of tar. All the things he wants to say, all the things he thought he'd never get a chance to say again after watching Bucky fall from the train; it all seems so useless now. I'm sorry...I looked for you...I felt like a part of me died when I lost you...I would do anything for you… Bucky, or the fractured pieces that are left of him, is standing right there, living, breathing, and solid after all these years and he can't think of a single thing to say.

"Answer me!" Bucky snarls, metal fingers clutching in the fabric of the hospital gown and causing Steve to bite back a gasp. "What makes you so special?!"

The bandaged bullet wound throbs viciously beneath the other man's hand and Steve can feel the warm wetness of fresh blood staining the gauze covering it. There has to be some way to get through to him, some way to break through the jagged, broken pieces of his psyche and make him remember. Steve's never been one give up easily and he sure as hell isn't about to start now. He swallows another wince and shakes his head slightly. "Nothing," he replies shakily, pain causing the words to come out with a clipped bite to them. "I'm just a kid from Brooklyn…"

"Who never knew when to run from a fight…" Bucky continues but his voice now seems lost and far away, like he's speaking through a dream. His eyes go unfocused, wide and glassy, and he shakes his head, stumbling back from the bed. His back collides with the wall and the metal hand grips the chair pressed against it so hard that the plastic splinters and cracks. He's breathing hard, shaking all over, and he looks like he's going to be sick.

"Bucky-" Steve starts, trying his best to pull himself out of the bed to go over to his friend. His body refuses to cooperate though, the muscles seizing and locking up the second he tries to move.

"Don't call me that!" the other man gasps, his voice broken and frantic. He slides down the wall into a crouch, fingers tangled in his hair and palms pressing into his temples hard. "That's not my name...that's not my name…"

"It is," Steve counters, forcing his body out of the bed to a standing position. His legs are weak and unstable, threatening to give out at any moment, but Steve doesn't care. He takes a few shaky steps toward the other man, speaking quietly like he's approaching a wounded animal. "James Buchanan Barnes. Born August 11th, 1917, in Brooklyn, New York. We met when you were eight years old and were best friends ever since. You were a Sergeant in the 107th and a member of the Howling Commandos. You've been my best friend since we were kids and you're one of the best men I've ever known in my life."

"Shut up...shut up...shut up…" the assassin mutters over and over again, gritting his teeth and squeezing his eyes closed tightly.

Steve's legs finally give out from under him and he falls to his knees in front of the other man. He bites back a gasp as the impact causes a flare of pain to ignite in nearly every nerve in his body. The IVs and wires are tugging painfully against his skin but he doesn't care. All he cares about is the trembling man in front of him.

"Bucky…" he says, whispering the name the a prayer and a plea. He reaches forward, clenching his teeth as the movement pulls at the stitches in his abdomen, and covers the other man's hands with his own. He's expecting a fight, one he knows he can't fend off in his current condition, or at the very least a punch. But neither of those things happen.

Bucky stiffens beneath his hand, body going rigid and still as Steve's fingers close over his own. He freezes like a deer caught in the headlights, rooted to the spot and barely daring to breathe. Steve actually can't tell if he's breathing or not.

The Captain's fingers clutch over the other man's, squeezing as tightly as he can. Once he's convinced the assassin isn't going to bolt for the door the second he moves, he allows his hands to travel down to cup his face. Rough stubble scratches against his palms, damp hair that still smells faintly of river water and fire and oil brushing over his knuckles. Dark eyes usually full of mischief and humor now guarded and haunted. It's Bucky though, all of it, down to the last detail. Gently, carefully, he raises his head up until they're eye level with each other.

"Bucky," Steve says again, speaking slowly and clearly. "Look at me."

He does as he's told, meeting the Captain's eyes and letting out a shaky breath that sounds something like a gasp and a sob. "Steve?" he asks brokenly, tears sliding from his eyes and trickling over the other man's fingers. His eyes widen and he blinks rapidly like he's coming out a dream, a waking nightmare that's hounded him for years.

His fingers untangle themselves from his hair and come up to touch Steve's face hesitantly. He touches bruises and scrapes, cuts and lacerations, a face he's seen a thousand times before and is only now just remembering. Features he used to know as well as his own, a person who was closer than a brother, a constant presence he hadn't felt in lifetimes. "Steve?"

Steve nods slightly, a small, broken smile crossing his face. "Yeah, Buck, it's me."

Bucky stares at him for another long minute, eyes wide and disbelieving like he's seen a ghost. Suddenly, he shakes his head and pulls away, hands falling away from Steve's face and dropping to the ground to push himself up. "I-I can't be here...I have to go…"

Steve blinks in confusion and watches him stand. "What? Bucky, no-"

The assassin shakes his head and takes a staggering step back toward the door. "I can't...I…" He stumbles and bumps into the wall drunkenly, shaking his head sharply.

Steve tries to get back to his feet but can't; the short walk away from the bed depleted the very last reserves of energy he had left. The effort leaves him breathless and gasping, the bandages weaved around his body now damp and tacky with fresh blood. He's desperate though; he's afraid that if he lets Bucky leave now, he'll disappear all over again. "Bucky, please," he begs, unashamed of the shaking shudder of his words as he speaks. "Please don't go."

The assassin looks at him brokenly and shakes his head again. "I can't…" he breathes out, the only words he can manage in response. His metal fist clenches at his side and he takes a ragged breath. "Don't look for me," he pleads although he's not sure if he's asking for himself or for Steve.

Steve's fingers clench on the cold linoleum and he feels his own hot tears streak across his face. "You know I can't do that…"

Bucky chances one last look back at the man on the floor. The man he was assigned to kill, the man he saved, the man who's begging him to stay. His target, his mission, his best friend… His heart pounds loud and hard, painful against bruised ribs and invisible wounds which have opened and bled deep in his soul. He can't breathe and he can't stay and he doesn't want to leave ever again.

"Goodbye Steve," he mumbles brokenly, staggering out the door and disappearing into the hallway, leaving the other man crumpled in the middle of the floor. He leaves because he doesn't trust himself to stay, doesn't trust himself not to snap and try to finish what he started. He leaves because he's terrified that if he stays, he'll complete his mission and kill the man who called himself his friend. He leaves because he knows that if that happens, the very small part of him that's still human, that insignificant speck that clings to humanity like a lifeline, will disappear forever.

He slips out into the street, ducking into a crowd and blending in as best he can. No one looks at him, no one stares at the metal arm, no one spares him a second glance. He's a nameless stranger in a city of thousands and that's the way it's always been. He can feel the looming shadow of the hospital behind him, pressing against his back like a living thing. He doesn't look back at it because he knows if he does, he'll turn around and go back, find Steve again, try to be something he's not anymore and probably never will be again. Best friend...brother...good man...he's none of those things no matter how much it hurts his heart to accept that.

He pulls away from the crowd and retreats into an alley, folding himself into the shadows and pulling his hood down low. It's better this way, for both of them. This is for the best. He tells himself this over and over, hoping it will sink in and become a fact rather than a suggestion. He's become an expert at not being found and in a city like this, it shouldn't be too hard. After all, he's a ghost and it's time to do what ghosts do best. Disappear.

Thanks for reading guys! :D