The Winter Soldier was a wandering mess, his arm petrified at an odd and excruciating angle, reflecting the jagged pain in his head. He felt like he was coming up against a wall, throwing himself at it pitilessly, in the process destroying what little conscious he had left.

Rogers.

Steve Rogers.

His mission.

My friend.

Tantalizing bits and pieces tore through the wall, but how they did so was beyond him. To him it was impenetrable, so each time one passed by he clung to the slips of thoughts, but they drifted between his fingers like sand. Dammit, dammit, Rogers. Steve Rogers.

Friends.

He said to the end of the line…

End of the line.

End of the line.

Each time his body reacted on a muscle memory he attempted to dissect it to find the visual memory at the heart of it. Why would his heart tremble, why would his chest squeeze up in such a strange, pleasant manner? What was it, what did it mean to him?

End of the line.

End of the line.

What the actual hell was at the end of the line?

Steve Rogers.

That spangled idiot was his end of the line?

There it went, his heart squeezing up the minute "spangled idiot" lept into his mind as the most apt description for the man.

Steve Rogers is my end of the line, that spangled, starry-eyed, gorgeous smiling bastard-

Smiling?

He stopped, realizing he'd never seen Steve Rogers smiling.

Then why did he remember a sunny day, a gentle turn to his left, that giant man grinning down at him for one brief moment in time.

His smile was always so beautiful…

The Winter Soldier jerked his head back at the strangely amorous tone of his thought, the soft cadence of his voice echoing through distorted time, feeling caustic on his currently rough nature. He paused to think about this. Had he… been more than friends with Steve Rogers?

No…

Sadness clung to the one word answer. The meaning behind it was elusive, but yet again his body responded before his mind. He gasped as his chest tightened in an unpleasant, burning sort of way, like it was being pressed downward, crushing his heart. So he hadn't been more than friends, but from the way he reacted, all the little clues led right up to him wanting to be more than friends.

Then suddenly there was a memory that, though little more than a clip, was so full and beautiful it astounded him. There was a small shirtless man, resembling Steve Rogers, and even though the differences were numerous he knew it was him. He was trembling slightly and there were bruises up his chest and back, though he tried to hide the pain he was slightly hunched over on a beaten down sofa. He remembered kneeling, at eye level with Steve as he wrapped a bandage around one bleeding arm.

"Steve, you can't keep relying on garbage cans as shields… You'll give me a heart attack…"

Steve laughed it off, "I'm fine, Buck. I had him on the ropes anyway."

No you didn't… But even as he thought this Bucky said nothing, too busy trying to control his compulsion to kiss every bruise and wound Steve had gained. There were so many little scrapes and cuts… so many kisses he could give. No, dammit, control yourself, Barnes.

Those big blue eyes peered into Bucky's frowning visage and dropped to his injured hands sadly, "I-I'm so sorry, Bucky. I just… I just always think that if I keep trying I can do something good… Instead you always come in to save me…"

A gentle palm came in contact with Bucky's cheek and he couldn't resist leaning into it, memorizing the touch. Never forget this touch, never forget this scent… He chanted to himself in his moment of weakness as he closed his eyes, letting Steve explore the bruise painted below his eye. He had never been happy about someone hitting him, but he blessed the stupid man who had inflicted the wound upon him for this small moment of heaven.

But it was also torture. Stevie was leaning so close, his fingers absently brushing at his wound, the cool touch so soothing- Barnes, stop, stop, you can't do this to him, don't give into this, you can't do this to Steve…

Then it was over and Steve dropped his hand so Bucky could continue treating his injuries.

"Bucky…." He just grunted in assent, unable to vocalize anything, aware that if he spoke his voice would be unnaturally husky, "U-um… I want to thank you…" Bucky frowned in question. "F-for… I mean I have nothing… nothing at all right now. But… but there's always been you, so… Thank you for being the one thing I've ever been able to keep…"

If Bucky could have spoken… He swallowed down the words he so desperately wanted to speak, the words that Steve could never hear: "I always have and always will be yours to keep. You are my life, Steve Rogers…"

The memory was gone, and the Winter Soldier breathed in heavily.

He needed to see him, needed to find him, couldn't forget…

He spent the next few days finding food, shelter, and mending his own arm and using a makeshift sling to keep it steady. In the meantime, he looked up Steve on the internet, shocked to find something called "Stucky," and a little more hopeful that maybe regaining his friendship with Steve would be achievable. The day that that was all finished was spent finding clothing to hide his arm and his identity. When that was done, he finally gave into the internal compass tugging at him constantly and followed it to the Smithsonian, where he stared up from under a baseball cap at every single picture of Steve he could find, memorizing it, hoping the process would bring back another beautiful memory of him.

His mouth twitched into a lopsided smile at the display showing Steve's change from a 95 lb irresistible cutie to-

That delicious man who I had under me just a couple weeks ago.

At that the Winter Soldier's eyebrow twitched in annoyance, "Down, Barnes," he muttered under his breath. He shook off the intrusion of his past self and went forward, finding his own face plastered up on a board. Feeling a churn in his stomach he kept his head down and peaked at the tablet, only to be shocked to see a black and white capture of one of his regained memories. That smile…

Oh Captain, my captain…

Squeezing his eyes closed for composure, he tried to hold back from acting on the urge to smirk and say each word with the sarcastic but seductive tone Barnes had just growled with from his past.

Moving along, Barnes…

The Winter Soldier spent the rest of the encounter dealing with other such phrases peeking in from beyond his icy grave, little rumbles and ground out sentences of appreciation as clips depicting Steve's strength, courage, and-

SHIRTLESS! SHIRTLESS PICTURE!

Goddamnit, Barnes…

But the Winter Soldier obliged, pretending to read the text to the side of a particular picture where Rogers was shirtless for...some unknown but delightful reason. When he realized that he was doing this, the Winter Soldier inwardly shook himself and Barnes, deciding it was time to wrap this up. He exited the exhibit, meandered toward the Smithsonian's exit and-

On your left.

What?

He looked over and wondered how in the hell Barnes had known that there, grinning and talking to a curator, old suit in his arms and a small apologetic smile shyly resting on his mouth, was Steve Rogers.

Couldn't Barnes do that for anything dangerous? Like the mission where he was in Afghanistan and that one assassin had come out of nowhere-

Oh… He remembered that.

He shook his head and ducked behind his hair. He started moving, but felt like it was through water. Barnes had surfaced more than ever before, his essence molding back into the Winter Soldier, and his very soul cringed at the forced separation from Rogers.

No. Move Barnes. Move your damned legs. One, fucking, Two, fucking, Three, out the goddamned door- Each curse falling on an extra internal push to get himself away from Steve. This was getting ridiculous. He was actually out of breath by the time he'd counted the stairs he had to go down. He sat on a bench, an itch on his back telling him how dangerous this was. But Barnes was insatiable, he wanted to try for one more glimpse of Steve… Just one more. The real thing this time.

When Steve came out, the Winter Soldier could see how quickly the wounds had healed, but a bruise still settled under his eye, a scarring over the left side of his mouth where stitches had been. Guilt made him feel like retching, but he held it back, focusing on Steve. With bated breath, he and Barnes watched the man practically glide down the stairs on the pure aura of masculinity and confidence he exuded. His lips parted on a breath when Steve smiled over somewhere and waved-

Who the fuck to?

Barnes's anger was reflected quickly by the Winter Soldier when he saw that damned winged pilot, waving from a car.

Oh, Hell no.

Before he could stop himself, the two halves of Bucky were up and striding toward Steve in united fury. The Winter Soldier grabbed Steve harshly by the hand with his own metal one and tugged him away, not even turning his head to acknowledge the man who probably thought himself Steve's partner.

I'M his partner, dammit. He's MINE.

"B-Bucky!?" Steve gasped, luckily having noticed who his assailant was before reacting with violence. "Bucky, what are you doing here? Are you okay? Is your arm still hurt?"

Always so caring… Never stops to think about himself. You could be here to kill him and he's just worried about your health.

His heart felt constrained, his eyes stinging.

He's ours. The Winter Soldier ground out in his mind. Ours.

Damn right he's ours.

The Winter Soldier finally stopped beside a tree, hoping that the stupid bird man would come over eventually so he could punch him in the gut for every time he was there for Steve when Bucky couldn't be. He turned to Steve, but bit his tongue when he realized he was about to growl "Mine." He figured that wouldn't be a very good way to start this...

"B-Bucky," The hand that wasn't restrained by the Winter Soldier's left one reached out to touch his injured arm, "Oh, Bucky, I'm so sorry… Is there anything I can do…? Oh, God, you've got a cut right here on your cheek." That soft hand hadn't changed, nor did Bucky's reaction when it skimmed the small wound under his eye. His features relaxed, eyelids fluttered, leaning into the touch.

Steve…

He let out a low rumble in his chest that caused Steve's eyes to widen, "Bucky… Hey, it's okay, I'm here- Woah!"

Bucky didn't care.

He didn't care that tears were flowing from his eyes and dampening Steve's neck, he didn't care that his injured arm was awkwardly crushed between him and Steve as he pulled him far too tightly into a hug, he didn't care that he was still having memory issues, and he didn't care that he wasn't fully James Buchanan Barnes or The Winter Soldier.

All that mattered was that Steve was here.

All that mattered was that Steve had kept him.

All that mattered was that in that moment, he was Bucky.