The first thing he was aware of was the cold.

For a long time, that was all he knew.

The cold was everywhere, in the dark and the silence, surrounding him and entering him and possessing him. His bones were made of ice, and his blood ran frozen through his veins.

Gradually, he became aware of sound. It hissed and hummed and whirred. The dark was growing lighter, mist swirling in front of him. It was still cold. Everything felt wet.

Voices. People moving him. Weak, aching muscles. All so familiar. And yet, somehow, this was different. He thought he remembered…things. Random things, loud and fast and jumbled, but memories. Real memories. The voices above him…he couldn't understand them. And his arm was…No, no, no, no, no, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO!

He'd gone back. It was 1953 again, and he still had actual memories and his arm was missing and scientists he didn't understand were hovering over him and he roared and surged up off the table swinging with his one good hand because there was no way in HELL he was letting them do this again!

The people above him scattered in a flurry of noise, falling objects and breaking glass, and he couldn't really see and he didn't know where he was, but his fist kept meeting flesh, and that would work for now. His legs were weak and shaky as soon as they hit the floor and he stumbled away from the mass of bodies. He hit something cool and hard and his legs gave out completely. He slid down to the floor, turning to face whoever it was he couldn't see. Maybe they would shoot him again. He hoped he'd bleed out this time.

Large, warm arms grabbed him, encircled him, holding him fast, and he pushed back, adrenaline surging, but his shaky, frozen single arm wasn't up to the task. The owner of the arms was talking to him, and he curled down in on himself. This couldn't be happening again. He couldn't do it. He'd finally found himself again and they were going to take him away.

"Just stop," he whispered, involuntary tears welling in the corners of his eyes. "Don't, please. I can't…Please."

"Aw, Bucky, no," the voice said sadly. Warm fingers carded through his damp hair, brushing it away from his eyes. "No, you're safe now. It's okay. You're not back there and you're never going back again. You're okay." The arms cinched tighter around him, but they were…gentle. And the voice called him…

"Bucky," he breathed. That was him.

"Yeah," the voice said encouragingly. "Bucky. That's you. That's you, and you're okay. You're safe now. You're out and you're safe."

He knew that voice. That voice was safe. And if that voice was safe and he was Bucky, then…"Steve?"

He opened his eyes and blinked, and the slightly blurry face of Steve Rogers was smiling down at him, relieved and worried and trying not to grin like an idiot at the fact that Bucky recognized him. "Hey," Steve said softly.

"Steve," Bucky said again, tension draining from his freezing body. He gladly leaned into the warmth Steve was offering as he hugged his friend.

"You remember where you are?" Steve asked after a moment, pulling away and shifting to crouch in front of him so he could see him better, keeping a hand on his shoulder.

Bucky looked around. The cool, hard thing behind him was a glass window. In front of him, beyond Steve's broad shoulders, was a sleek cryo tube, medical equipment in various states of disarray, a bed and a group of people in coats huddled nervously by the door. Bucky nodded. "Wakanda," he answered, and the worried crease between Steve's eyebrows disappeared.

Bucky dropped his head, rubbing his eyes with his hand. "Sorry," he muttered. "I thought—"

"I know," Steve cut him off. He took Bucky's hand and pulled it away from his face. "It's okay," he assured him, and Bucky saw no judgement there. He huffed a small laugh. He shouldn't have expected any. It was Steve, after all.

"Old habits die hard, I guess," Bucky said, scratching absently at the side of his face.

"It's fine," Steve assured him again. He stood and held out a hand.

Bucky took it and let Steve pull him to his feet, leaning heavily against him as they crossed the room. He sank down gratefully to sit on the bed—nothing hurt, which was a nice change, but everything was still shaky. At Steve's nod, the Wakandan medics made their way back over. Bucky grimaced as he saw where his panicked punches had landed. "I'm sorry," he said to the man in front of him whose nose was still bleeding sluggishly.

"It is forgiven, Sergeant Barnes," the man replied sincerely. "Now, with your permission, we would like to run some quick checks—nothing invasive!—just to make sure everything is alright after the freezing."

Nobody moved, and Bucky realized they actually were waiting for his permission before doing anything. That was…new. It was kind of nice.

He nodded and they began, checking his vitals and listening to his heart and beeping some sort of little scanner thing at him. Steve stayed within arm's reach the whole time.

"You are probably familiar with this part," the chief medic said. "But you will experience some weakness until the effects of the freezing wear off. We've added a mild sedative to help counteract the pain that normally accompanies the process, but thanks to your advanced healing capabilities, your strength should return within the hour. I would suggest remaining in bed until then."

"Thank you," Bucky replied, nodding at the medics who all smiled and filed out of the room. A smile quirked up one corner of his mouth as he settled back against his pillow. "Nice people," he remarked to Steve. "It's a nice change."

"You alright?" Steve asked, moving to sit on the foot of the bed.

"You kidding? No electroshock therapy, needles or angry Russians with body armor? Like I said, it's a nice change."

Steve's mouth twisted in a weird little smile that Bucky knew meant he felt uncomfortable joking about what happened to him. "I'm fine," Bucky assured him.

"Really?"

"Yeah. I mean, I'm tired and I'm cold, but…" He shrugged.

"Oh, right." Steve turned and grabbed a thick blanket from a chair by the bed. "Here." He unfurled it and dropped it over his friend, tucking in the edges around his feet. "Better?"

"You tucking me in, Stevie?" Bucky teased.

Steve blushed a little. "Figured it was my turn."

How many times had a young Bucky tucked in a sick Steve when they were kids?

The warmth and the feeling of safety was something he hadn't really felt in a long time, and it was surprisingly soothing. "You can sleep if you want, Buck," Steve said, sitting down again by Bucky's feet. "Nothing you need to stay up for."

Bucky smiled. Despite the fact that he'd been awake for all of twenty minutes, sleep did sound good. But before he did that…

"Why am I out?" he asked. Steve looked down at him, surprised. "I know you didn't want me going in there, but I'm not safe, Steve. I'm not. Why am I awake? Did—" Something like hope fluttered against his ribcage. "Did they figure out how to fix me?"

"They think they found a way to help you," Steve answered, trying not to look too excited. Bucky noted his use of the word 'help', not 'fix', and something warm purred happily inside his chest.

"They don't have it all nailed down yet," Steve admitted. "But they have a good idea, and they needed to do some scans and tests and stuff while you were awake to make sure they're on the right track."

"Okay," Bucky said. Not quite what he'd been hoping for, but certainly not bad. Hopefully these guys worked faster than Zola.

"They don't know how long it will take, but they keep telling me it's easier to take something like this out than to put it in," Steve continued. "What?" he asked, seeing Bucky's amused raise of an eyebrow.

"Don't tell me you learned how to read minds while I was out," Bucky said.

"Nope," Steve chuckled. "Been reading you like a book for ninety-three years, though."

That got an honest-to-goodness laugh out of Bucky. Steve laughed along with him, and Bucky saw lines of tension lifting out of the set of his shoulders.

"How long was I in there?" Bucky asked, nodding over at the machine. He always wondered. Usually no one bothered to tell him.

"Um," Steve looked thoughtful. "Five months yesterday."

Bucky considered. If the Wakandans already had some ideas for fixing his brain after five months, maybe it wouldn't take too long to get things going. Still…He wasn't sure, not really, but he thought his first mission might have been in 1963. That gave Zola at least ten years to mess around with his head, if not more. And that wasn't even taking into account all his years as the Soldier and all the times they reset his brain. Two years of freedom and the way he could heal had gone a long way towards finding most of his memories again, but it hadn't done anything for the words and that deep programming. Could they really undo something like that?

"What's wrong?" Steve asked him.

"Hm? Nothing," Bucky said. He wondered how far off he'd drifted. He did that sometimes.

"C'mon," Steve nudged his foot. "Something's eating you."

Bucky sighed. "Can they really do this, Steve? I mean, as long as it all took to go in…"

"They can," Steve said firmly. "And if it takes just as long to take out as it did to put in…" He shrugged. "I've got no place else to be."

Bucky snorted. "It took 'em at least ten years, Steve. Hell of a long time to wait."

Steve frowned, and was quiet for a long moment. "You know on the jet," he said at last. "You said you didn't think you were worth all this to me?"

Bucky nodded.

"Well, you are," Steve declared. "So, you need to quit thinking you're not worth saving, and quit trying to talk me out of helping you. You're the one who taught me that there's no shame in letting someone else carry you when you need it. So, let me carry you for a while. What do you think 'with you to the end of the line' means, jerk?"

Bucky stared at him. "I…" Part of him didn't want to believe Steve, because after everything he'd done, no, he honestly didn't think he was worth it. But he'd never not believed Steve before—he'd always had faith in the little guy, and it was still there. It was humbling and overwhelming and a little bit scary that the little guy still had faith in him. "What if…" he began hesitantly. "What if I can't be the Bucky you remember?" Steve had given up so much, but what if Bucky was damaged beyond repair? What if he couldn't get all of him back? Would he still be worth it then?

"Then you'll still be worth it, and I'll get to know the Bucky you are now," Steve said simply.

Bucky swallowed hard over a lump in his throat. "Steve, I…" He looked down at his lap. There was no way in hell he deserved a friend like Steve. He looked up. "Thanks," he said softly. There just weren't any other words.

Steve smiled back.

"And thanks for finding me again," Bucky said. He wasn't sure if he meant D.C., or Bucharest, or his little episode just now, or all three, but he meant it.

"Always will," Steve promised him.

"I know." He yawned. "Kept thinking that back…y'know, before," he said sleepily. "And you did."

"Took me a while," Steve said ruefully.

"But you did," Bucky repeated. "If I don't get to beat myself up, neither do you."

Steve laughed and Bucky smiled. Maybe he really would be okay.

"Get some sleep, Buck," Steve said. Bucky realized his eyes had drifted shut. "I'll be here when you wake up."

He fell asleep soft and slow and warm and not afraid.

And Steve was still there when he woke up.