26

(Steve POV) 

Bucky discards his nonchalant demeanor the moment I tell him that this is serious. I sit down in a chair opposite to his, wringing my hands nervously. I have no idea how I'm supposed to tell him this.

Damn it, Rogers, you fought in a war! This should pale in comparison.

Except it doesn't. Because he also fought in a war, and has continued fighting that war ever since. How can I tell him that it's still not over, just when he thought he was free?

He sits patiently, giving me all his attention even though I haven't even started to speak yet. 

"You know how you just kind of space out sometimes?" I begin. "And you never really remember it?" 

He nods. "It's something to do with trauma from the war, right?" 

"Yeah, but recently, we- Dr. Raynor and I, that is- discovered that it's a little more complicated than we originally thought." 

"Alright," he urges me to continue.

There really is no tactful way to say this, so I blurt out, "When that happens, you switch over to being the Winter Soldier."

He doesn't react the way I thought he would. In fact, he doesn't react at all at first. 

"The words are gone," he argues steadily, not showing any emotion. "I can't become him anymore." 

"Last time it happened, I talked to him," I begin to explain. "He said that the words being gone didn't mean he was gone. I think it means that he isn't under anyone's control."

"Including mine." He grits his teeth angrily and taps his foot against the floor. "Do I have to go away again?"

"What? No, of course not." It's not like being sent away again would help him, anyway.

"Then what are we going to do about this?"

"We're not.. We don't have to do anything. Dr. Raynor doesn't think it's a bad thing."

"How could it not be a bad thing, Steven?" 

He's lost any semblance of patience, which is completely understandable. 

"Well, it's been happening for weeks and he never hurt anyone," I tell him. "And he can't be controlled, so no one can use you for that ever again! Dr. Raynor genuinely thinks he is here to protect you."

"Protect me from what?"

"From.. from your trauma," I say softly, losing the steam I had before as I realize how silly that's going to sound to him. 

"I can take care of myself. I want him gone."

"Can't you try to find a bright side to this?" I'm asking him to do the impossible. "If you hadn't become the Winter Soldier, you would have died in '45, and we never would have found each other again." 

"I would rather be dead than be this." He says it so quietly, but it packs a powerful punch.

"Don't say that," I plead. I hate when he talks like that. 

"It's true. Sometimes I wish I died on that godforsaken train." 

"No you don't." I only say it because I don't want it to be true. 

"You don't get to tell me how I feel about this." He rises from his chair and starts walking away, patting my should as he passes me. "I'm gonna go take a shower." 

-------

When I go to check up on him later, I find him walking circles around our backyard, bare feet making one continuous track in the snow. I almost open the door to call him inside, but I notice he's on the phone and decide to let him be. 

I make sure there's a pot of coffee ready by the time he gets back in so he can warm up. He silently accepts the mug I push into his hands the second he comes through the door. 

"I haven't..." He says shakily, then clears his throat and corrects himself. "He hasn't hurt anyone?" 

"That's right." 

"Including you?"

"Including me." 

Bucky goes silent again. He looks lost and reasonably angry.

Since he doesn't seem interested in doing anything other than cradling his cup close to his chest, I grab a hand towel and dry the melted snow from his hair. He lets me do it.

"I understand-" I start to try and comfort him, but he's not interested in that, either.

"No, you don't."

He's absolutely right. I don't. I may know what he's been through, but I don't understand it. 

I move to stand next to him, throwing an arm around his shoulder so I can hold him. Once again, he allows it and even lays his head down on my shoulder. It's funny to think that a century ago, I was nowhere near tall enough to be doing this.

"I'm sorry about earlier," he says eventually. "When I said that I'd rather be dead-"

"You don't need to apologize for that," I tell him. "If that's how you feel, then that's how you feel." 

"I know it upsets you when I say things like that." 

"I'd rather you say 'em than keep 'em all bottled up." 

He hums noncommittally. 

We stand like that for a good long while, regardless of how uncomfortable it gets after five minutes. I'd stand like that with him forever if I could.