Run

Steve joined Bucky on Tony’s plane. He was still visibly hurt, no matter how he tried to hide it.
"Bucky, did you remember something?" He asked. Bucky was looking out the window, watching the lights turn into fuzzy blurs below as the plane took off. He swallowed and looked down at his hands. No shaking.
"I had a dream," Bucky said. "It felt real."
"And that's how you knew the drawing thing," Steve said. Bucky nodded. His hair fell in his eyes. He needed to get it cut again. He hadn’t cut it that short in the first place, it had only been a trim, still long in the front but just another way to put distance between himself and his recent past. He considered cutting it shorter, like he had seen pictures of himself from before, but he didn’t know if he wanted to look like before.
"You weren't drawing in the dream, we were just talking about it," Bucky admitted.
"So what you're saying," Steve said with a sudden, drastic switch into lightheartedness. "Is that you don't know whether I'm any good or not." Bucky looked over at Steve, alarmed. He didn't really know how to respond, he was rarely addressed this way. Had he offended him?
"That's not what I meant to say," Bucky backpedaled. Steve frowned and looked down, his features becoming stony again and Bucky was at a loss.
"It was a joke," he said. "Buck, it was just a joke." Bucky froze, humiliated and overly aware that this was not how he was supposed to act. This wasn't what Bucky 1.0 was supposed to say. He didn't know know to play it off.
"I don't...," Bucky said after a long pause. “I don’t remember everything, Steve. I can’t, I’m not-” okay. I’m not okay. He stopped and started again. “It’s painful and I’m trying, but I… I. I’m just not-” the same. “I’m not-”
“I know,” Steve said. No! Bucky cried in his head. No, you don’t know, let me talk[i/]! But he said nothing and let the plane ride elapse back into silence. If only he were more eloquent, more articulate. If only he had the courage to put his feelings into words.
They arrived at Steve’s apartment soon after, having taken a cab, and Bucky followed Steve to his door. He took deep breaths and kept an eye on the dam. There were no flooding memories or disembodied emotions. He could settle his own guilt enough to look Steve in the face and the coldness he often felt buried underneath himself was hidden deep. By all accounts, Bucky seemed okay so when Steve unlocked the door and held it out to him, Bucky took it.
“I don’t have any of my old art from when we were kids,” Steve said as he shuffled through a nearby bookcase. “But I’ve done stuff since then and I redid some of my favorites.” Steve pulled out a spiral notebook from the bookcase and continued searching. “Some of the old ones are in the museum.” Steve looked over at Bucky. “Have you been to the museum?”
“Yeah, I saw it. I mean, I just glanced,” Bucky admitted. He had looked at the information about himself. It had been one of the first things he had done, sneaking himself in. He stood in front of a wall with his face on it, dedicated to a man long dead, and stared for ages, searching in his soul for the stirring of a thousand memories that just weren’t there anymore. Eventually, he left.
Steve now had two or three spiral notebooks of various sizes in his arms. He brought Bucky over to the couch and sat him down and handed him the notebooks. He sat down next to Bucky and Bucky noticed that he was sure to keep just an inch away. He was being cautious. That was good, be cautious for once, Steve. Bucky supposed he remembered being threatened the last time he touched him.
Steve was a great sketch artist. Bucky recognized images of the city and the Avengers. There was a very beautiful picture of Natasha that Steve had clearly spent time on.
“These are very good,” Bucky commented. Steve didn’t reply. Bucky flipped through sketch after sketch and stopped as he recognized his own face and felt utterly gutted. It was Bucky, different angles, different expressions. He was laughing in one picture. Bucky realized he couldn’t remembered seeing his own face laughing. It looked like fun. He shut the notebook quickly and picked up the next one, but he was already hurt.
Captain America did not miss him, Bucky forced himself to remember. He didn't love the Winter Soldier. He wanted his childhood friend back and he couldn't understand that despite the fact that Bucky survived, he didn't, not really. And that was fine, that was okay. Bucky didn't expect Steve to want him. It was just the fact that Captain America seemed to love a memory that no one else could remember and that broke Bucky's heart.
Bucky didn't want to feel this pressure to be 1.0. He couldn't be that guy, he couldn't hurt himself further in trying, he wouldn't let Steve be led on by a lie. But he still couldn't help but want to be please. He wanted to see Steve smile.
The next book Bucky picked up was significantly worse than the first and Bucky blanched. There it was, on the paper, first page, that flash of a memory that had hit him with a ferocity when Steve touched his shoulder. Small pieces fell into place. It was Steve with the bruises and the smiles and Bucky’s hand on his shoulder. They were kids, it was 1930-something, they were laughing and Bucky felt a certain level of… Disappointment? In himself. He could see it in his own eyes on the page, he’d let Steve down and he laughed it off because Steve laughed it off, but he didn’t want to see his friend with bruises again. Bucky noticed his hands were beginning to shake, just a little. He set the book down and stood up.
"Where are you going?" Steve asked, bewildered.
"Leaving. Your art's great, thanks," Bucky said hastily, making a break for the door. Steve bolted up and blocked the exit.
“Wait!” He cried. “I don’t understand, what have I done?”
“Please let me leave, Steve,” Bucky pleaded.
“No! We’re best friends-”
“No, we’re not.”
“We’re supposed to work this out together!”
“But we can’t!” Bucky cried.
“Why not?” Steve aid. “What is it, why do you hate me?”
“It’s not you, I don’t hate you,” Bucky replied uncomfortably.
“Then what is it?” Steve said. Bucky’s face grew cold.
“Don’t make me remove you from the doorway,” he threatened.
“Try it!” Steve cried. “You can’t.” Bucky knew Steve was right. He remembered an aircraft and slugging Steve until he bled. He wasn’t going to do that again. Bucky shook his head, swallowing.
“I’m not talking to you about this right now,” he said.
“Are you angry? Are you angry with me? Because I didn’t know what to do, Bucky, I couldn’t help you, I didn’t know, you were dead[i/]!” Bucky stared for a second, bewildered.
“What are you…,” he said. Steve’s eyes were unbearable to look into as he stared straight into Bucky’s face and kept talking.
“You fell off that train and I thought you were dead. If I’d had any idea that they had you… I would have stopped at nothing to save you from this, Bucky,” Steve said. Bucky stared at him and felt a knife of deep-seated agony twist in his gut.
“It’s not-,” he said. “It wasn’t your fault, Steve.” For a disoriented minute, Bucky stared out at Steve from the eyes of his past self. He felt like Bucky 1.0 and it felt wrong. But between the shock of hearing that Steve blamed himself for the things that happened to Bucky in Russia and the overwhelming emotions, disembodied and not, that began to seep through the cracks in the dam, Bucky didn’t know what to do and all he could think was that he wanted to run.
“You were counting on me,” Steve said and he sounded as broken as Bucky felt. Bucky stared.
“I just can’t stop hurting you, can I,” he said quietly. Steve had moved away from the door a little. He wasn’t in any sort of fighting stance anymore. Bucky eased past him through the door and out into the hallway and all he could hear in his head was draw me.
I already drew you, stupid.[i/]