Bucky watches the birds outside quietly, curled up on the armchair in a strangely child-like position. His long, dark hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and the bags under his eyes aren't quite as big as they used to be. The big hoodie and sweatpants are warm and soft against his skin, and the room smells of peaches.

He hasn't called himself the Soldier in months. He's calling himself Bucky- trying to get used to the name. More and more memories have been coming back, much to Steve's delight- and sometimes even Bucky's delight.

(He almost never shares the rough ones with Steve, even though he knows Steve knows that they're coming back, too. He knows that Steve hears him whimpering in his sleep when the nightmares come.)

Steve is in the other armchair, the bigger one with the ugly plaid print ("It's not ugly!" Steve had protested hotly when Bucky commented on it), sketching something, Bucky isn't sure what. He doesn't ask. Steve would show him if he did, but Bucky doesn't want to interrupt him.

Steve sighs and sets the sketchbook to the side. He notices Bucky sitting with nothing to do (something Bucky doesn't mind that much, if he had to be honest). "Do you want something to drink?"

Bucky thinks about it. "Like what?"

"I don't know. Milk, apple juice, water. There's alcohol, too. Not mine. Fury left it for me." Steve gets up and heads to the kitchen.

Something about alcohol makes Bucky pause. "You drink alcohol?"

"Yeah, I do." Steve smiled fondly, and Bucky can tell he's remembering something. "You introduced me to the drink, actually. Well. I'd known alcohol existed, obviously, but you were the one who made me try it."

"I didn't make you," Bucky said, and then he froze. He smells the alcohol- he can almost taste it- and Steve hasn't even gotten it out yet.

Steve is frozen, too, and he doesn't move, doesn't make a sound. He doesn't want to risk Bucky losing whatever he's trying to remember.

"First time" - "someone you trust, right?" - "an adventure" - kissing and blue eyes and he's so frail and it's dark and kissing, god, the kissing- "Steve's never had a first kiss!" -

"Steve," he says suddenly. "Steve. Steve, do you remember- do you remember the night we got drunk because I took alcohol from my parents, and I was teasing you about how you'd never had a first kiss, and then you tackled me and I kissed you?" He looks to Steve with wide eyes, desperate for validation. He needs to know if this one is real, because this one feels important. He'd kissed Steve after stealing alcohol from his parents, and then Steve hadn't hated him- why would Steve hate him? He's not sure- and it was Steve's first kiss. This one feels real and important.

Steve gets that look on his face. The look that screams how close Bucky was, but how wrong, and how disappointing that was for him, despite trying so hard to be encouraging when Bucky fails. He swallows. "No, Buck," he says gently.

Bucky feels something inside him ache and he looks away, unable to meet Steve's eyes. He was so close. He could feel it. The memory was so real, how could it be untrue? Had he imagined it? Had he just wanted to kiss Steve so he imagined kissing him? But that didn't feel right at all. He'd kissed him. He had.

Neither of them mention the incident again, but sometimes, if the nightmare was too terrifying or if he was so low he couldn't bear to even speak, Bucky would think about that not-memory and try to feel the happiness he'd imagined in that moment. He kept it close, clinging to the illusion like a drowning man clings to a life preserver.