WASHINGTON D.C.
2014

THE week went by somewhat mundanely, to June's surprise. Bucky was quiet and shut tight, like an old house in a bitter winter, but he made for a decent roommate. They ate their meals together (often in silence, but June couldn't say she minded all that much) and always said goodnight before retiring to bed. Every day Steve called, and every day June answered, forgetting the guilt she had suffered initially from keeping Bucky a secret. Steve's and Sam's search was relentless—one morning they might be in Europe, and the same evening June would find out they had begun scouring Canada.

Because of this, it became almost habit for June to ask Bucky if he would like to talk to Steve.

"It's him again," she would say.

"Not yet," he always replied.

They fell into such a routine that occasionally June would forget Bucky was around—or, had grown so used to him, she was hardly startled by his presence anymore. He seemed to have warmed up to her, too. She learned things about him. Even stranger was the fact that Bucky was learning as well; it was as if he was meeting himself for the first time. So along came the realizations that Bucky took his coffee black, but with plenty of sugar, preferred Bing Crosby over The Ink Spots (they had snooped through Steve's records), and hated falling asleep in the dark. Night after night, when June slipped past his door on her way to Steve's room, the light from a bedside lamp spilled out from under the door and illuminated a strip of the hall.

Sunday morning was as soft and quiet as all the other mornings before it. June shuffled into the living room, her hair a tragic mess (the result of another sleepless night impeded by nightmares) and her limbs never feeling more heavy. Bucky was already up, as was his custom, a mug of coffee wrapped in his hands. He was perched on the couch, leaning forward with his elbows rested atop his knees. Bucky's blue eyes blazed, a deep crease in his brow as he stared straight ahead at the wall before him. June sighed; she wished he would relax.

"Morning," he said tonelessly.

"Good morning," replied June with a faint smile. "How did you sleep?"

"Decent." Bucky shrugged.

Liar, June thought sadly.

She made her way into the small kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee, unsure what to say next. The fact that neither of them were very good at conversation did not ever help their situation.

"Um," began June, her heart beating very quickly, "I was thinking . . . today we could work on your, uh . . . your mind. Your memories. I guess . . ."

Bucky did not move. "You think so?"

"Yeah," she remained as offhanded as she could be. "It's worth a try. Isn't it?"

Bucky maintained his unreadable façade. "It can't hurt."

Cautiously optimistic, June meandered back into the living room. She perched on the edge of an armchair across from Bucky and crossed her legs, quietly studying his demeanor. His gaze had dropped from the wall to the floor, and he gripped his mug so tight his knuckles were beginning to turn white. Bucky's entire stature was tense with anxiety—the hunched shoulders and bouncing knee were telltales June knew all-too well.

"We can start with something simple," said June, her voice gentle in the manner that one would take when coaxing a wild dog. "Can you tell me why you won't talk to Steve?"

Bucky gnawed on the inside of his cheek. "Because . . . just . . . I . . . I can't face him. Not after what I did--what I tried to do. He said we knew each other our whole lives . . . and I almost killed him."

June's face softened. "Bucky, Steve doesn't blame you—"

"—I know he doesn't," Bucky snapped. He shot abruptly to his feet, and began pacing around. "I know Steve doesn't care about what I've done, all right? I don't care if he thinks I'm somehow still a good man. He should blame me. The rest of world does."

Bucky's last sentence held no bitterness. His deep voice lacked any spite, or contempt, and certainly was not seeking consolation. Bucky was simply stating a fact: the world blamed him.

And he was right. The world hated Bucky Barnes.

June, however, was suddenly struck with a contrary thought. "They blame the Winter Soldier," she said. "Not you. No one knows you anymore." She waited several moments before murmuring, "Except Steve."

Bucky's eyes flashed, but he made not a sound. So June went on.

"I understand why you're afraid," she said. "Truly. You feel like you're beyond help. Alone and hopeless, with nothing to your name except a kill list . . . there's blood on your hands and it's stained the skin past repair. And you can't connect with anything or anyone, because you can't even feel connected to yourself. So everything feels like nothing. Anyone who tries to understand why—"

"—is only observing you for the next experiment," Bucky finished for her, "so they can find a way to hollow you out even more."

June blinked away tears she had not even realized had pooled in the corners of her eyes. "What did Hydra do to you?"

Bucky turned away from her. He ran a hand over his face and sighed. "They gave me this," he held up his left arm. Light glinted off the metal as it moved and shifted like flesh. "They called it a gift. Called me a gift to mankind, like I was their messiah. The arm had a mind of its own, though, and soon enough the handlers figured mine needed to match it. So they took . . . they took everything. For hours and hours, they had me on that machine. It—"

Bucky broke off, twitching strangely. His eyes squeezed shut, as if he was in sudden pain.

June scowled. "What's—"

"—nothing," Bucky insisted. "It happens, sometimes. When I remember . . . but anyway . . . they wiped my head clean. I lost it all. Every memory, every . . . piece of myself. Jesus, I'm talking like I've ever actually fixed something . . ."

"But you are!" June protested. "Look, this is the most you've ever spoken about what happened. Keep going. Please."

Bucky eyed her doubtfully. "All right. Uh . . . well, back to . . . Siberia. That's where they kept me. There were so many tests. Experiments, procedures, the whole god damned nine yards. They figured out a way to . . . to hijack my—my brain." His face contorted again, and this time he uttered a low groan of pain as his metal fingers clutched at his forehead. "They used . . . argh, God, they used these . . . these words—"

Without warning, Bucky dropped to his knees. His hands tore at his hair, and his entire body shook so much June thought he might be having a seizure.

"Bucky?" she said, jumping to her feet. "What's wrong? Bucky? James!"

He did not even seem to hear her. Sharp gasps of pain and guttural moans were all he offered, until his mouth dropped open and he cried out in his invisible agony.

June began to panic.

Don't! she screamed at herself. Don't you dare.

"James, please, tell me what to do!" June begged, approaching him with terrified tears brimming her eyes. "Bucky . . ."

"Net," he groaned under his breath. "Net, Ya ne budu podchinyat'sya. Ya ne budu—DON'T!"

Bucky threw out his left arm and shoved June away from him. Knocked off balance, she tripped backwards into the coffee table and toppled to the floor, striking her head against the table's corner as she fell.

It was June's startled shout that snapped Bucky out of his episode. At once, his convulsions ceased and his eyes flew to her; his frame wilted when he saw what he had done.

Wincing, June sat up. Bucky had scared her more than anything, but nevertheless she brought her fingers to her eyebrow, and felt blood beginning to trickle down her forehead. June looked back at Bucky, and never had she seen someone look so disgusted at themselves.

"I'm sorry," he said immediately, extremely childlike in tone. "I didn't—I couldn't . . . I couldn't stop myself. I'm sorry, June, I—"

"I-It's okay," June cut him off, her voice shaking with adrenaline; her hand had instinctively gone to her hip, searching for a pistol. If one had been there . . . she shook her head. "It was an accident."

Bucky watched her warily, staring at the fresh cut that sliced her brow bone. "You're hurt."

June smeared blood away from her eye; the gash had begun to sting and throb nastily. "I'm fine," she insisted. "I've suffered worse, honestly."

She tried to smile, but Bucky's mortified gaze remained unchanged. Everything was suddenly extremely awkward, neither one knowing what to say or what to do. They were back to square one.

"I'll, uh," June stammered, "I'll be right back. Just let me go clean this up. Don't go anywhere, all right?"

Bucky nodded limply.

June sighed in satisfaction. "Okay."

Casting one last look at the stunned man, she turned on her heel and went into the minuscule bathroom. June set a washcloth under the sink and pressed the rag against the cut, dabbing it gently until the blood stopped streaming.

June heard Bucky approaching before she saw him behind her in the mirror (occasionally she forgot about her enhanced hearing, though was always reminded of it in rather unpleasant ways). His footsteps, however light they were trained to be, made the floorboards creak, and his tall shadow darkened the hallway before he came fully into view.

"I've hurt you before. Haven't I?"

June did not think before speaking. "Yes."

"Where?"

Taken aback, June felt a curt decline forming on her lips. But . . . if he truly wanted to know . . .

She turned around to face Bucky, but had not expected him to be so close; their chests nearly brushed.

"On Virginia Avenue, when you saw Steve for the first time, I fought you. And you stabbed me. And threw me off of the overpass."

Before she knew what she was doing, June lifted her shirt just high enough to reveal the thick white scar that Bucky had carved into her side. He grimaced.

"God . . . damn it," he said, his eyes closing for a moment, perhaps weighed down by remorse.

And then, in the strangest action June could conceive in the moment, Bucky's metal fingers grazed her skin, touching softly along the scar.

"I didn't want to cause you harm," he went on, pulling his hand away as quickly as he had outstretched it. "Even when I couldn't control it. It will never happen again. I'm sorry, June."

She blinked. Her stomach buzzed from the chill of his fingertips. "I forgive you."

Bucky had vanished from the doorway even before the words had completely left June's lips, but she did not care. June could only think of the gentleness his inhuman hand had possessed—

and why she wished in that moment he was before her once again.