He didn't expect to wake up, but he did. Bucky had fallen. Steve watched the light leave him, eyes growing almost hollow, mouth gaping in agony. And then heard the first of- from what he knew from Bucky's stories- would be the first of many, many heart-wrenching screams. Then he was gone, leaving a single, white feather behind. Steve kept it. He held it as the plane went down, as he spoke to Peggy for the last time and made a date he knew he'd never be able to keep, knowing that- for a week at least, Bucky would not be able to come save him. There could be redemption for the fallen. Bucky could go on, if he really wanted to. Just not with Steve.

And then he was awake. And they were telling him what year it was, and how credit cards worked and about the internet and TV. Steve was consumed by a sense of loss. Everything he'd ever known- gone. Everyone he'd ever loved- dead. Even Bucky was gone. Bucky, who'd promised Steve that he would never be further than a word away.

"You don't gotta get beat up no more. Just just say my name, Stevie-o, an' I'm there."

For all the world, they looked like two young boys, kicking rocks down the street, with nowhere to go, and no one to miss them.

"Yeah, Buck, I know," he mumbled, ashamed eyes cast downwards.

"No!" Bucky stopped, holding Steve's shoulders gently, but firmly, forcing Steve to look him in the eyes. "My real-serious name, Steve. You gotta use that one or I won't hear you. Say you need me." He took a step back. "Practice."

And Bucky was gone, vanished into thin air. So often was he by Steve's side that the smaller boy felt almost naked in his absence. "James," he said softly. "I need you."

"There ya go," Bucky said, a touch of relief in his voice as he tapped Steve on the shoulder, mussing his hair playfully. "That's it. Whenever ya need a pal, okay? I'm always gonna be there. 'Til the end of the line, punk."

Steve had nightmares now, the kind that made him wake up to the sound of his own screaming. He screamed for Bucky, used the real-serious name he'd been taught as a child. Steve dreamed about the slow way he'd frozen to- not death, but at the time, it had felt that way. Hands tightening into fists by his side as he laid down, deciding to die with dignity. He laid still and sobbed. "James! James, please, please, I need you now, I need you, please, James."

He couldn't stop crying for him. Whether anyone else knew or not, Bucky was dead. He had to be. Or else he'd come when Steve needed him to.

Sometimes the Asset convulsed when they had him in cryo, surrounded by holy fire to keep him trapped in place. It was a recent trend, they'd noticed. Just in the last few years. Maybe he was getting worn out- but then, his fighting skills seemed only to get better. Odd. He shouldn't have been able to move at all, much less have what looked almost like seizures. Still. It did not effect his usefulness, and so they did not bother looking into it.

He was James now, and 'Bucky' was a memory that faded to the back of his mind, slipped under images of war, and death, hid under piles that were too heavy to move. 'Bucky' faded, but it took longer for Steve to go. James remembered him for quite a time before the wipes got rid of him. He remembered Steve holding him as he fell, large, but always gentle hands brushing his hair back, murmuring in his ear. Promising he'd be okay. At the time, it had been almost deja vu, but reversed. He'd been so used to taking care of Steve, so used to comforting and cradling him. And then he was ripped away, screaming.

When he finally recovered, wings blackened and bedraggled, James dragged himself into a diner for food and the first thing he heard was that Steve was dead. He got sick on the spot, hands braced on the grimy tiles. Steve couldn't be dead. He'd have felt it. He'd have felt it, he was supposed to have felt it. Unless the pain of falling had covered it up. That was possible. He'd never lost anyone before, so he didn't know how it felt. He'd never been assigned anyone before. They'd grown up together.

He wandered after that, purposeless. It wasn't long before he was snagged up by the Red Room.

The loss of memory was almost a gift. In a sick kind of way, he served him in gratitude.

At least he didn't hurt anymore.