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buckybarnesisjewish · 26 days

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Mend My Shattered Existence

Theme(s): Bucky Barnes (Memories, "But I knew him...") mixed with On Your Left (The Smithsonian, PTSD) and To the End of the Line (1940s, Reunion) for @catws-anniversary

Rating: M (Just to be safe)

Word Count: 8,329

Summary: Following pulling Captain America from the Potomac River, the asset - freed from HYDRA's grasp - decides to find out the truth of who he once was. Takes place between the end of Captain America: The Winter Soldier up until Bucky and Steve reunite in Captain America: Civil War

Notes: Thank you to @gay-jewish-bucky for the verbalization/contextualization of the mikvah energy. Bucky is nonbinary and uses (currently) he/him pronouns. Italicized scenes are full on memories (as opposed to descriptions of memories/fragments of memories). A couple of Steve/Bucky scenes come from an RP with a friend. Also available on AO3

AO3 Tags: Bucky Barnes, Introspection, Character study, Nonbinary/Genderqueer Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Implied sex, Implied/Referenced sexual activity, Violence, Referenced experimentation, Antisemitism, Nazis

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Barukh atah Adonai, eloheinu melekh ha-olam, asher kid-shanu b'mitz'votav, v'tzi-vanu al ha-t'vilah.

The first time the asset came up for air after plunging into the water from the helicarrier, the only thing on his mind was survival. It was only for a brief moment before the pull of the current dragged him into the water once more.

Baruch atah adonay, eloheinu, melech haolam, shehechiyanu, v’ kiyimanu, v’ higianu, lazman hazeh.

The second time he came up for air, there was struggle. Grasping. A feeling that something was off, wrong. He shouldn’t care that he was the only one who had come up and yet… A decision was made and it was into the water one more time.

Compassionate God,

Healer of my body,

Healer of my soul,

Heal me.

Strengthen my ailing body;

Soothe my aching heart;

Mend my shattered existence.

Make me whole.

The third time the asset came up, he had made a choice for himself, against his programming. A choice to save instead of destroy. A choice that felt right and not like it went against something deep within. It didn’t make sense but it was instinct and right. In his hand was Captain America, the man he didn’t know (couldn’t know because to know was to bring pain, the scrambling of his mind to nothing but orders). His idealism would end him, but not today. Leaving the man on the bank of the Potomac River as his friends would find him, the asset disappeared in the shadows, a new mission in mind.

As night came, the asset found himself at the Ideal Federal Savings Bank and two of the scientists who had turned him into this, a weapon, were there. The ones who made him do the things he had, the terrible things, the things Captain America didn’t know, the reason he could see him as someone he wasn't. And there was fear in their eyes.

“M…mission report…”

“It’s done. Captain America is dead.”

Their relief was temporary, as that was when the asset struck, his true mission in motion. Revenge for the terrible things that they had done. It would be so easy. One hand pulled back, the other grasping the younger scientist’s neck and then words spoken years ago were repeated.

“I beg you. I have a daughter. P…please…”

Whether it was a veil raising or the fog clearing just a bit more…. The asset couldn’t say. All he knew was that he didn’t want any more blood on his hands. What was there to gain? These men would scurry back to their homes, praying that their own identities would be saved from the release of information. What was there to say or do but disappear into the shadows, to become the ghost story he was in the intelligence community. Money.

Clothes.

Washington D.C. was surveilled but a place of transients coming in and out for work, for travel. Safe houses would be burned, but that didn’t mean ingrained training disappeared. A cheap apartment to rent weekly to lay low in. An indent on the doorframe where…something familiar once had been.

It would be a lie to say the nights were worse, or trying to sleep was when it was worse. After all, the images, the flashes, what he had done… The face in the mirror was wrong. The body, there was too much bulk. The weapon he had been forced to become. And always the pleading that never went away until the silence after the gunshot. A name had been chosen on the off chance one had to be given as it wasn’t like he knew who he was (Captain America called him Bucky, but there was no weight to that name. Nothing that tethered him to it).

Jonathan.

It was only at one place, Loeb’s Deli, where it seemed the asset had made the mistake to go frequently, but again, there was something familiar. And so he needed a name. Different languages spoken all around, words picked up and sentences. Not just about what had happened at the Triskelion, but the information dump, the Senate hearings, what was to come next. Then there were the conversations about the day to day going ons, travel plans. An exhibit at the Smithsonian about Captain America. The former mission. The man he knew but didn’t know. The link to his past.

Did he want to know, should he? Would it matter? It wouldn’t erase the blood or pain, the memories imprinted on his body even as his mind was shattered from decades of being scrambled, erased, all for the mission. Yet there was that tug, and so a week after making that fateful decision to pull Captain America from the water, that instinct to save his life despite the mission, the asset made his way to the Smithsonian, ball cap in place to avoid being caught on camera.

Each wing seemed focused on a different part of Captain America’s life. Some of it was the sort of thing one would expect to read in a museum, yet the asset couldn’t shake the feeling that there were things missing. That feeling was pushed aside though. It was in the wing for the Howling Commandos that things changed. He saw his face there. A panel dedicated to a man he saw glimpses of himself in, James Buchanan Barnes.

Bucky…

Who the hell is Bucky?

The asset turned the name over in his mind. James felt wrong in the way Jonathan was wrong, a mask of what was seen, expected. It was something that didn’t make sense, where there weren’t words for. Bucky felt like it had to be earned. Yet it still felt more right than the other two names if only to have something to hold onto other than the asset.

The history of this James Buchanan Barnes was written there, the only Howling Commando to give his life in the line of duty. The words he read flashed images in his mind, but in that moment, the emotional tethers of those images still did not exist. Even so, it was a lead. Information, images, to chase, to see if remembering would wash over the memories that haunted him, chased him no matter the time of day.

With the week lease up, the asset, James, Bucky, made his way to the nearest train yard to sneak onto freight train headed to New York City, a city of cameras and people, a city that memorial said he had grown up, where perhaps the memories would come back, this time perhaps with those emotional connections that would tether the images to something more concrete. Something he could hold onto.

Closing his eyes, the asset let his mind wander to what he had read and seen in the exhibit. But there were other images as well. Enemies closing in. Being separated from the others. Strapped to a table. The pain. That was something he could remember, the fire in his blood. The certainty of death. The words intermixed with his name, rank and serial number. The words he had to say when it seemed clear he would die.

Sh’ma yisrael

Adonai eloheinu

Adonai echad…

The words were mouthed even as the images flashed again, Captain America, Steve Rogers, stood over him, relieved to a pub with the men from the exhibit to a room where Steve Rogers stood before him before his lips were on his own. At least until the formerly captured soldier stepped back warily because these were boundaries that couldn’t be crossed with his best friend. And he didn’t even know if this was real, or pity because hadn’t he just been flirting with someone else hours before? So why the change?

“I…I’m sorry, I thought that you…that I…”

“You don’t need to pity me, I’m fine.” The voice that came out was hard, a way to guard himself. But the shock on Steve’s face made it clear that perhaps Bucky had been misreading the situation, so sure of everything and how it had been before.

“I would never mock you, Buck. I was heartbroken when Phillips said you were most likely dead and I realized that my life wasn’t worth living if I can’t share it with you.”

Those were words Bucky had never expected to hear, let alone from the man in front of him.

“Never say your life is not worth living.” And with that, Bucky kissed Steve, which somehow turned to the two of them on the bed, having to remember to keep quiet as clothing was lost and limbs were entangled. Where breath became a symphony as they found a new dynamic that was always there, simmering beneath the surface, never breached and always just out of reach until now.

And that was enough remembering, Bucky’s eyes snapping open, the images slowly fading away. There should be more emotional weight to what he had seen, what had not been in the Smithsonian exhibit. Perhaps with time but his body remembered, could feel the truth. Now though, he had to get off the train.

New York City would have the answers.

Arriving in Brooklyn, the borough was familiar and unfamiliar. But Bucky was used to readjusting and navigating a new location. The training to gather information, only the information being sought was information on who he had been before. Before the experiments. Before the pain. Before the orders. Before the mindless haze of what was expected by various handlers over the decades, his body not his own but the property of others. No choice. Any sign of remembering, of being Bucky, violently erased time and time again. The training did come in use though. The ability to disappear into the shadows, into the crowds of people without being noticed, without being caught on the many CCTVs the city had.

The paths were familiar. But everything was so much more. It was something Bucky couldn’t explain. Like his feet knew where to go, like he knew that there were more people than there should be, more lights, more sounds. These were things that Bucky pushed down and instead the once Winter Soldier (no, that was all he would ever be to anyone, no matter what he did now) found another rent by the week apartment, only this one had the an empty case where the previous one only had an indent where a case once had been. Instinct and muscle memory were powerful things as Bucky raised his fingers to his lips and pressed it to the empty case, as if it meant something even knowing there should be something of importance and meaning, a promise and reminder, in the case.

Apartment procured, the next thing to do was get enough to survive. Bucky wasn’t sure how long he would be there. What answers he would get, if any, but that would be figured out later. Right now it was getting the necessities, ensuring a go bag was ready for the second he had to up and leave. He was a blank slate, the shadows of memory reaching for him, the most foundational there already.

The mouthed words.

The muscle memory.

What felt familiar even when most of the images and names still were more like a flickering picture reel than anything that felt solid.

The first night out exploring, Bucky just walked wherever his feet took him, familiar paths down unfamiliar streets. Buildings had changed and buildings also seemed the same, or some did. It was hard to say what was real and what wasn’t. The faint outline of people milling about. At least until he stopped in front of one building. The facade was different but the feeling was….

The exhaustion of wearing a mask. As if this was a place to go when the mask was too much. The anxiety of being spotted. More flashes of images and fragments of feelings or thoughts to make some sense of them. Men with towels around their waists or nothing at all, steam. The exploration and expression of needs and desires or just to be, the release from expectations and knowing it was only inside that building, or what had once been that building and others like it, with people like him, where the mask could be dropped.

Another night and it was another flash of memory, two flesh hands instead of one working on a costume, no, not a costume, but something that he could never be caught wearing normally… Something that felt more true than the way everyone saw him. More secrecy. More worry of being caught. But that one night of freedom with others like him to be as he felt the most comfortable in his own skin in a world that had enough issues with him already.

Those images and accompanying thoughts and feelings had been interesting and enough to lead Bucky to the library to do reading and research. With these flashes of images and his own history supposedly stopping in 1945, there were now seventy years of history to look up. Of progress. Of words that maybe could fill in the blanks where words hadn’t even existed before.

The language that was used was different now… it seemed the bathhouses still existed - not like Bucky had much interest in that. And the history book mentioned the other flashes of memories seemed to line up with something known as drag balls or fairy balls, most popular during the Pansy Craze that had died out when he would have been 18, yet some had still gone on for a bit later. But more than that, there was language for that fleeting feeling he had felt.

The feeling that he had just brushed aside as being because he had no identity beyond what was given to him as the asset, before he now was searching for who he had been and who he could be.

This feeling of being in his skin, his body. How he approached and felt about the way society saw him and he saw himself. Mouthing the terms genderqueer and nonbinary to himself, Bucky filed the information away. There was more reading to be done but the library was closing and there were candles to light as it was Friday night. What that meant, Bucky couldn’t quite say, but he knew that it meant something and that something was going to be a lifeline.

Nights remained the hardest though. Because at night on the floor, the images had more weight to them.

The orders that came from his handlers.

The pleading.

The violence that followed him wherever he went

The blood that never washed away.

Then there were the other nights.

The scientists that hovered over him.

The feeling of his blood on fire.

Being strapped onto board. Trapped.

Exposed.

He couldn’t breathe.

He would never be free.

Was it a wonder he barely slept? When those were the flashes that had the most emotional weight? That felt the most real? And it wasn’t as if the nightmares, the memories, were just from his time as the asset. The Winter Soldier. No. These came from before, during the war. Fighting to protect those in his unit, dragged to where no one came back from… The knowing look that his dog tags were a lie…

Even so, every day, Bucky would wander and get more flashes. A scrawny kid getting beat up and stepping in and forever being by that kid’s side.

That had to be Steve. The museum exhibit had said that they had been inseparable both on the schoolyard and the battlefield since childhood.

Images of three sisters, a family, dinner with candles, traditions that he felt in his bones. The familiar recitations, movements, the scents. The people were still faint but those, those were more familiar, more grounding. Those memories became part of Bucky’s weekly routine. He had found a building he wanted to go into, but it was too much of a risk and so he didn’t. But he could feel it in his bones…

And he knew that the memorial lied about his history. Was it the dog tags he knew had lies on them in his dreams? The knowing look, the spike of anxiety from deep within that went beyond just being strapped and at the mercy of HYDRA?

It was something more to look into.

Because if the memorial lied, or had gotten that part wrong, what else had it gotten wrong? As the Winter Soldier, he had helped to topple governments, he may have been nothing more than a weapon, but he knew how propaganda worked. What was the point? The things that wouldn’t be known? Sure, but that integral part of himself that he had never been able to hide, and hadn’t until the war, why hide it?

There were other flashes and memories as well, the ones that showed a side of America that it seemed history was all too keen to forget about. Questions about having horns or a tail by some kid at a funeral for…. Was that Steve’s mother? It would make sense. Snide comments. Listening to the radio and suddenly he was hearing someone else, a Father Charles Coughlin and seeing his Social Justice magazine printed with all sorts of antisemitism including claims of how America should just wait until Hitler came over to America and sending Jews away. Nazis at Madison Square Gardens. The America First Committee and German American Bund, watching the growing concerns in his family. Whispers of if it would be wise to leave. But where would be safe?

These images painted a fuller picture, the love and joy, the friendship, but the harsh reality, yet still, the realest thing remained the Friday night candles. The blessing over wine and spices and the braided candle on Saturday.

Bucky spent three and a half months in New York City, going to places that were familiar - Yonah Schimmel’s Knish Bakery had an oddly familiar sense to it, somewhere he had gone before. It was comforting. Bucky had found a lot of places like that in the neighborhood he had found for his weekly rental. The mix of images, good and bad, from a time long forgotten, glorified and polished with a veneer of respectability with none of those pesky things that people would have to take a closer look at, to deconstruct and grapple with. It was the past after all and look at this bright and shiny future. And in the midst of that, he had done more reading. On what he had missed in general. And more of who he might be. So when the parade came, it was… Bucky didn’t quite have the words. To see something that was now more embraced, accepted that once had been hidden for fear, that he never would have been able to voice, that he kept locked away (the museum said he had been a lady’s man….he might not have a solid grasp on his memories but what those images like a picture film showed? Definitely contradicted that particular statement). It should be overwhelming. And it was in its own way even as he observed from the shadows. So many people embracing who they were, open and proud. It was… beautiful.

And there was a twinge that Bucky couldn’t quite place.

The following day had started like any other, Bucky had awoken in a cold sweat, not certain where he was or who he was at first before awareness slowly settled in, then getting something warm into him before going to wander. But across the way at midday was him. Captain America. Steve Rogers. And the truth he had been avoiding came crashing down. He couldn’t stay in New York. Not only were there world governments after him, especially thanks to the dump of information, but the Avengers were based in New York City and it was only a matter of time before he risked running into the man who seemingly knew him - certainly better than he currently knew himself. Let alone in a city with so much surveillance, no matter his skill at avoiding detection.

No. It was dangerous to chase after information on who he had once been. That didn’t mean not being prepared though. Besides, it wasn’t like he could trust himself not to be a risk and threat to the man who had once been something to him, even if that something remained undefined and unspoken in the shadows of memory that faded from his grasp.

Which was how Bucky found himself in Bucharest, in another small apartment with papered over windows. But it was fine, he didn’t need much anyway. His go bag was in the floorboards, ready to leave at a moment’s notice, exit strategy scoped out. Bucharest was also where some semblance of a life began for Bucky.

The country was more conservative than New York had been and in that sense, it was more familiar to a past still mostly forgotten. Despite advances in LGBTQ rights (if only for political reasons to be able to join the European Union based on reading Bucky had done), the only place he would be able to explore gender expression would be his apartment. And it wasn’t like he had any real desire to seek out sex or a relationship. He couldn’t let anyone close and there just wasn’t that interest and as he mostly stuck to himself, there was less of a mask to be worn that required that release of tension.

The only community Bucky did seek out was the Jewish community. He hadn’t been able to seek it out in New York. While much larger than the Jewish community in Romania, the need to remain hidden had been worse in New York and here? Here Bucky, or Ion as he was known, was easier. It was grounding. The traditions that he had picked up and done, Shabbat, remained, but now he went to shul, he made sure to know what holiday fell when.

It was the first day of Rosh Hashanah and honestly, the idea of tashlich, of casting away of his sins seemed suspect at best. Oh, Bucky went to the Dambovita River and cast sticks into the water, though how could one cast away sins where there were holes in his memory? And the actions of the Winter Soldier were far too great… It made him dread Yom Kippur. How do you make amends to those who are dead? When families could be dead at this point? When you’re in hiding? All Bucky could do was not be that person anymore, to run from the trigger words inside of him, knowing he was still a risk, a danger. So when he cast away his sins, he also focused on what he wanted for this new year. A better grasp on who he was.

Once home, Bucky had changed into a long skirt and blouse, covering his hair with a tichel. It was something for him, no one else. He was used to hiding himself already, but no one would be coming by. It was a regular routine by that point, grounding. He didn’t have any friends, nor could he. Even at the synagogue he had found, he kept mostly to himself. It was too dangerous. But he did make sure to take care of the stray cats in the neighborhood, one he had dubbed Kochava even tended to come inside more often than not. It wasn’t like most nights though, as there were candles to be lit.

The difference though, was that some of the images from that would flicker in and out of his mind at random seemed to be longer, the picture film images were longer. The film not so filled with holes.

The first one involved the woman Bucky recognized as his sister, Rebecca, sitting at a table with a heavy air over them, draft notice in Bucky’s hand.

“What if you get captured? Don’t come home?”

It was a question that had been on Bucky’s mind as well. Going into war, to fight in Europe at that, well…there were going to be added risks for him.

“The Army’s made it so, if we want, Jews can have a P put on our dog tags to mark as Protestant instead of the H…Better than trying to obscure it and drawing attention that way.” It left a foul taste in Bucky’s mouth, to deny such an integral part of who he was, but if it meant being able to have some form of protection, he should take it, right?

“So that’s that then.” “What would you have me do, Becca?” Looking at his sister, he could tell she was just as at much of a loss as he was. Everything was so complicated. All there was to do was take this one step at a time, even if it left a pit in his stomach to do so.

Then he had to figure out how to tell Steve. Steve, who was always so willing to jump into a fight. Steve, who was desperate to join the Army, who refused to acknowledge there were other ways to help the war effort besides throwing his life away on the front in a desperate attempt to emulate his father because he had a chip on his shoulder and something to prove. Bucky could see what was hidden within the skinny, sick frame of his best friend, the person he couldn’t bear to lose. So how to tell him that he’d been drafted, that he hadn’t chosen this at all?

As the memory faded, the impression remained and Bucky just blinked. Usually whatever emotional weight or impression would be gone as well but this time, this time it remained. Lingered in his mind, in his soul and consciousness. Huffing out a breath, all Bucky could do was watch as the flames of the candles, wondering if this was a fluke, or if there had been a shift and there would be more memories that would linger, if the emotional weight would remain. And then the more terrifying question.

If he did remain, what did that mean?

It soon became clear that it wasn’t a fluke. There was never telling when a memory would strike, good or bad. But the more Bucky became grounded in himself through tradition - be it Shabbat or just recreating recipes from the past, and reconnecting with that part of who he were, as well as exploring what felt comfortable to dress in when there was no one around, free to be true to himself, the more the memories would come.

They weren’t all new memories. A lot of holes from previous ones seemed to be filling in. The emotional ties that had been missing regarding his family. Regarding Steve.

Steve who he had taken upon himself to protect from that first fight on the play yard.

Steve who terrified him whenever he got sick and nearly died.

Steve who was stubborn as a mule and made Bucky want to bang his head on a wall sometimes.

Steve who was the best person he knew and he never wanted to let down and so Bucky had sworn never to let him know about the part of himself he couldn’t reveal to anyone outside of specific safe walls. Because he would either reject him because that was society and he was Irish Catholic so it would just be a bridge too far for him (unlikely) or he would start picking even more fights because of things said and that was the last thing Bucky needed (likely).

Steve, who was the most important person to Bucky outside of family, who was family really and Bucky loved. But only as a brother because that was all it ever could be because Steve was Irish Catholic and as far he could tell? Very much straight. And so to avoid losing his best friend by crossing boundaries, Bucky ensured a mental barrier was in place so his feelings would never go beyond that. He couldn’t lose Steve.

Yet the other flashes of memories seemed to tell a different story. The ones in the lead up to the war? Sure. They tell that story, but the ones from after… Stolen moments where it is clear that Steven Grant Rogers is definitely not straight. There were still holes in Bucky’s memories, memories that came out of order, but that was something that was becoming more clear.

And as the months went on, the memories that came happened even when Bucky wasn’t doing something rooted in the foundation he had created for himself. Though often they came while in the apartment where there was nothing that really made it a home as the former Winter Soldier in search of who he had once been knew that nothing was ever going to be permanent. After all, there was nothing in Bucharest to trigger the memories. Not like in New York.

Bucky didn’t know how long it had been since Steve had come to his room, how long they had been lost in one another, learning new things about one another… just that his curls were sticking to his forehead and he were curled up against the super soldier, his arm holding him protectively as he traced designs on his chest, his arm, his abdomen, in the silent moments of calm. But there was still that lingering question… so even as he was still catching his breath, now seemed as good a time as any (and really, who knew when another time would come up), Bucky decided to ask even as he kept his focus on the absent minded design tracing he were doing, “So… going to tell me how this happened?”

He could feel Steve shift some, as if he knew the question was coming, and really…how could it not?

“A doctor working with the Army and Strategic Scientific Reserve thought I was the perfect candidate for his serum he wanted to try out. To create a super soldier to help turn the tide of the war. It worked but… Dr. Erskine was shot and killed by a HYDRA assassin right after I became this. Phillips wanted to stick me in a lab, but Senator Brant got me to be a seller of war bonds.”

Bucky listened intently as Steve explained what had happened. It had to have been at the Stark Expo, the fight from before he shipped out. And yet? He looked up at the man he was curled up against through his curls, quirking a brow, “So… you let a Jewish scientist run an experiment on you in order to create a super soldier to fight the Nazis, who are killing the Jewish people… Meaning you became a golem. Do I have that right?” Noticing the blush Steve had, Bucky waited until he got his answer.

“Pretty much. Think I prefer that to being the performing monkey Brant made me.”

“A golem is much preferable to a performing monkey.”

Steve began to stroke Bucky’s hair as he continued to speak, Bucky leaning into his touch, “Dr. Erskine said a guy like me who’d never known power would respect it when they have it…. I made a promise to him to stay a good man…”

Seeing the way that Steve was staring at the hand he was holding up by that point, Bucky shifted and kissed the spot over his heart, reaching up to take the raised hand and interlace their fingers, “I know you will.”

The news coming out of Sokovia was….well, it was one of the things he had worried about. There was always going to be another threat. And this time? It wasn’t all glowing headlines about them saving the day, or taking down another HYDRA base. No. Like in D.C., like in Lagos, people had died. And people were angry. The question was what would come after this. Would any action be done or would people move on? Only time would tell it seemed.

If Bucky could stay with those memories, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. But he couldn’t. Because at night, especially when Kochava hadn’t decided to follow him into the apartment and sleep right against him, the nightmares remained. Waking up unable to breathe, heart rate erratic and covered in a cold sweat. Sometimes it was the orders from his handlers that whispered in the silence. Sometimes the words of Zola, his scientists.

Bucky fucking hated scientists these days.

The unit that had been captured behind enemy lines, and Bucky, along with Dum Dum Dugan and Gabe Jones were forced to the weapons factory along with others who had been captured. The thing Becca had been most worried about, he had been most worried about… Bucky did his best to keep track of where he was going, the path, anything, but his head was swimming.

At some point, they arrived, and they were shoved into a cold room, each captured soldier to be examined and processed. When it was his turn, Bucky was unceremoniously pushed into the center of the room, stripped for the scientists to examine, to determine who was to go work and who was to go behind the closed doors, never to be seen again.

It was the chuckle that sent the shiver down his spine as opposed to the coldness of the room.

“How interesting… What have we here, Juden? You played a gamble, proved as sneaky as the rest of your kind and now you are my rat.”

Eyes blazing, Bucky growled and lunged forward only to be beaten down with what felt like an electrified baton by someone he would later learn was named Lohmer.

“Yes, yes. Let me see your hatred. That fire. You think you are strong…” Struggling for breath, Bucky could only glare up through the pain as the scientist who was speaking came over to him, spitting at him, only to feel the electric current once more run through his body, “Oh, you will be fun to break, to become my lab rat. Make no mistake, you won’t survive this, but your contribution to the great cause will be appreciated.” Pulled up, Bucky was allowed to redress and join the others in a cell until they were all put to work. But it was clear as the days went on that he, along with certain others, were targeted by the guards for punishment. Food that wasn’t quite right. More demanding positions. Beatings. Bucky did what he could to keep track of everything, as if he might get out. But it was clear that those who were sent behind the doors, the doors the scientist promised he’d be behind, never came out.

The worse it got, the more he struggled. The beatings were worse, he grew weaker. The others in the cell would fight, but they also bonded. Time lost meaning. So when Bucky was finally brought back and strapped to the table, he fought as best he could even as he’d been weakened by whatever food he’d been given and the constant cold and the beatings.

“We meet again… let’s begin, shall we?”If Bucky thought it was bad before, it had just gotten so much worse.

It was bad enough to have his mind and identity wiped, to be so scrambled he didn’t know who he was. To lose that foundational core of who he was. But to become a weapon for the group who sought to destroy his people like so many before, to kill them and erase them…. It made Bucky’s blood boil. And the anger that almost never went away with that. Kochava would jump on his lap whenever the anger was at a danger point, calm him but it was so much. It hurt so much. And there was never going to be anything he could do to atone. It wasn’t him but did that matter?

Every time a part of him came through, he was strapped down again, scrambled, so there was nothing left. They tracked him. His vitals. How many times now had Bucky tried to scratch and dig those out? Each time he thought he had gotten the last of them, of the tracking devices, the paranoid part of his brain said there was more. But no one had used them to search for him, so they had to be out… right?

It was only a few weeks after the events in Sokovia when Bucharest had its own Pride Parade. Nothing like that in New York, but apparently it had gotten over double the people this year than the previous year (over 1,000 people as opposed to 400). Bucky of course wasn’t going to go. He kept a low profile. But it was nice to see all the same.

At the same time, while it didn’t trigger a memory per se, it did make something fall into place. Again, one of those things where he didn’t have the words necessarily back in the 30s and 40s that he had now (even as he was still wrapping his mind around it all and figuring out what worked best for him). Admittedly, he hadn’t really looked into sexuality while in New York and he likely wouldn’t while here as it didn’t seem pertinent when one was in hiding. But it was still a realization all the same.

He had always known that having sex with a woman was not something that had any interest for him. Flirting and charming was just an act and what was expected to keep suspicion off of him. So he’d gone to the gay bathhouses whenever that mask of masculinity had been overbearing. The exploration and experimentation, learning what he liked and didn’t. Even in the heat and steam of the bathhouses, Bucky on his knees for someone, or using his hands on someone, he responded to the physical stimuli and enjoyed it, but just seeing someone? It never did anything.

Until Steve showed up in the pub in that damn suit, when Bucky’s mind was still out of sorts and all attempts to keep the barrier in place that he could only love him as a friend or brother were well and truly shattered. Because there was that connection and deep bond the two had always had. And dammit if Bucky hadn’t wanted that man to jump him there and then, despite the law. Wanted to be with him and screw what society said. No one had ever made Bucky feel the way Steve did.

Steve eventually had said that he had never really thought about his own sexuality. Women never did anything for him, and who would want some scrawny guy anyway? He had just been waiting for the right person. Then things had clicked that night in the pub as well for him and that was all there was to it. There were appearances to be had, of course, but the two knew the truth and wasn’t that the important thing?

Steve had made his pitch for the Howling Commandos, and of course, despite it all, Bucky had agreed. Where Steve went, Bucky followed. It had always been that way, from the very beginning. It might not have seemed that way but that didn’t change the fact that it always had been. Someone had to have his back. And because Bucky had had way too many drinks by that point, trying to drown the crushing realization that he could never walk back from, he had let slip just a bit of his thoughts. His feelings. As if that declaration to follow Steve hadn’t been a declaration in and of itself. So leaning forward so only the super soldier could hear, Bucky spoke almost conspiratorially, flirting, charming.

“You’re keeping the outfit, right?” And then leaned back with a quick once over of his best friend, because that had been smooth. No it hadn’t. Bucky, for all the suave bravado he was putting on, was still a mess from what HYDRA had done to him at Azzano. And if Steve clearly thought he was messing with him, thinking he meant the Captain America one and not what he was wearing at the moment.

“You know what, it’s kind of growing on me.”

Then a hush seemed to come over the pub as the agent walked in, so of course both stood up as she walked to where they had been sitting.

“Captain.”“Agent Carter.”

Bucky had to give her taste in the dress she wore. It was very eye-catching and he wouldn’t mind wearing something similar.

“Ma’am.” He received the briefest of acknowledgement before she turned her attention back to Steve. Yeah. That was clearly a thing.

“Howard has some equipment he would like for you to try. Tomorrow morning?”

“Sounds good.”

“I see your top squad is prepping for duty.” With the tension between the two (how else was there to read it?) Bucky just put on the charm, the facade, that was always there, that was expected of him.

“You don’t like music?”

“I do, actually. I might, even, when this is all over, go dancing.” And yet she kept her attention on Steve, not even paying attention to him. Which fine. Not like he could blame her, she was seeing him the way Bucky always had. Okay, time to try harder. If only to prove to himself that he wasn't broken like Zola had promised to do to him.

“Then what are we waiting for?”

“The right partner. Nine sharp, Captain.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be there.”

Watching as Peggy walked away, there was only one thing that came to mind, one dangerous thing clawing at his mind that he had always avoided being.

“I’m invisible,” To be invisible made it easier to be disappeared by people who wanted you gone. So Bucky had always been the top of his class, best at athletics, the charmer even when he never actually did anything, it was a well honed mask to protect him and it was shattered, “I’m turning into you.” Not the nicest thing to say but he was supposed to be messing with Steve, the same back and forth they always had and he couldn’t let him see the truth, “This is a horrible dream.”

“Don’t take it so hard. Maybe she has a friend.” As Steve patted his shoulder, it was clear he had seemed to buy it. At least in that moment, which was what Bucky had wanted. Yet it still stung, so he just shook his head.

“I’m heading up for the night. Try not to get into too much trouble without me.”

Leaving the pub, Bucky headed up to where the group had been put up for their leave, showering to get a hold of himself. He knew this was how it was going to be, so he just had to pull himself together. This was why that barrier had existed in the first place. It was while he’d been toweling off after putting pajama pants on that he heard the knock at his door. And who was there but Steve. “Everything okay?” “Yeah… Can I come in?” As if Bucky would turn Steve away, he just stepped aside to let his now taller best friend in (would that ever stop being weird?). He looked… well he didn’t look drunk but like he’d been thinking over things.

“I just want you to know, you aren’t invisible, and that I see you. The real you.” Just what was Steve on? The whole point was for him to think that he had been messing around with him like he always did. He hadn’t needed to read anything more into that. It was dangerous for him to do that.

“O…kay….” But suddenly the blond man was in his space and kissing him and he was kissing him back and nothing was making sense but everything was falling into place the way it always should have been.

Spring turned into summer and summer turned into fall and once again it was Rosh Hashanah and once again the idea of casting tashlich seemed pointless. Because even as his memories were coming more and more, the missions, who he had been, there was still no way to make amends, there was still no way to make it right. He couldn’t even trust his own mind after all. He had found more of himself, not so much a complete balance - that could never come - but he knew who he was. Had his foundation, for there were days when he forgot all over again but the traditions remained and the memories came back. He could be more true to himself in the safety of the apartment for as long as he remained hidden.

Bucky was eating an apple when he noticed his reflection, he had tried some makeup this time along with the skirt and blouse, hair styled, which just led to his mind drifting.

It was another stolen moment in the midst of war, doing what they could to be together and just being the same as they always had. It turned out, nothing had really changed in that regard and why should it?

“You know, get me into a USO outfit, some Victory Red lipstick, then if someone asks you, you can just say you lost your virginity during the USO tour.” “Oh yeah?” There’s amusement in Steve’s eyes at that and Bucky is keeping the tone light even though there’s a part of him that wishes Steve knew that he wasn't actually joking. Maybe about the specific outfit, but the idea in general? To let him see that part of him?

“Yeah. I bet my legs would look amazing.” “You know? I can see it.” There’s laughter in Steve’s voice but just for a moment, Bucky lets himself imagine a time and place where he can show that part of himself to him. After the war. Where it isn’t him just joking around. Or Steve joking and Bucky hiding the truth behind a joke.

Well, Steve was never going to get to see that part of him. Like the rest of the world, he saw him as the Winter Soldier. Bucky had known from the beginning that was who he would always be now. No matter what he did, even if there were some way to atone, in the end, he had killed too many, done too much…. Steve was hunting down the Winter Soldier, so even if Bucky could trust his mind to be around Steve without the risk of hurting him again - god how could he have hurt Steve? - It was too late for them.

The memories continued to flesh out. To become etched in Bucky’s soul over the foundation of his culture, his traditions, that grounding force that had brought him out of the Potomac River. There were memories he couldn’t tell if they were real or not, and there was no one there to tell him one way or the other. There was no way to tell, really, how long he had been out of hibernation for HYDRA either. If he weren’t on a mission, he’d been put into hibernation.

So Bucky continued the tenuous life he had made for himself in Bucharest, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. He had left New York because it had been dangerous looking for answers, yet the memories had come anyway. He had known that he would always need to be ready for the worst to come and it was coming on to two years of being in the same location. Tensions hadn’t eased since the previous year and Sokovia either. No. Bucky followed the news. The fact that so many world governments were on the same page, meeting together.

It was a recipe for disaster.

Which was why it came as no surprise when Bucky was out getting food for the week when he felt eyes on him then that someone disappeared. Going to the newstand, he saw the news from Austria. He had apparently attacked the signing of the Sokovia Accords, killing people.

Except…. He hadn’t done that. Even with waking up at times not knowing who or where he was, he hadn’t blacked out long enough for that to be possible. Which meant it was time to leave. So much for getting the rest of his food. Bucky quickly headed to his apartment, mind going over what was needed. Well, nothing. He kept almost nothing there, just the necessities, he had his go bag still ready to go, and he could only hope someone else would take up the cause of the stray cats abandoned to the streets.

What he wasn't expecting (but probably should have) was to see Captain America standing in his apartment. And if he was there, others would be there soon as well.

You’re. My. Mission.

Then finish it, cuz I’m with you to the end of the line.

He hadn’t heard him come in yet, too engrossed in what he was reading. Which meant he had found his journal of important dates, of memories that he was trying to keep track of given there was no linear fashion to how they happened or way to tell at times.

Thank you, Buck, but I can get by on my own.

The thing is, you don’t have to. I’m with you to the end of the line, pal.

“Understood.”

Captain America was talking to someone but finally seemed to realize he wasn’t alone in the apartment, and just as Bucky assumed, one of his journals of memories was in his hand as he turned to face him.

“You know me?”

You ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?Hell, no. That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight? I’m following him.

“You’re Steve.”

#Mod Keshet

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