1807 words
After five hours of driving, they were still in Texas, but night had fallen in earnest, making everything pitch black. It was past Steve’s dinnertime, and his hunger made itself known by growling loudly, ending with a gurgle.
Bucky looked over at him, and Steve blushed.
“That wasn’t Punk that time, was it?” It was the first thing he’d said in a couple of hours, and Steve blinked at him.
“You named your dog Punk?” His heart did a weird soaring and sinking effect simultaneously, because on one hand, he remembered enough about the word to think it fit the dog, and on the other hand, he thought it fit the dog. Steve didn’t know whether to be overjoyed or insulted. He settled on both and gave the dog – Punk – a rub between his ears and only received a growl for his efforts. He was warming up to him, and Steve grinned happily, which was a mistake, since it sent the dog off into snarls, his ire renewed.
“I’ll stop at the next restaurant I see,” Bucky said instead of confirming, which was as good of a confirmation as any, and Steve smiled more, ignoring Punk’s reaction.
The next restaurant Bucky saw turned out to be a small diner located in an even smaller town, it seemed like, and they went in after Bucky took the dog out to use the bathroom in the grass. There were two other people inside at tables, middle aged white men that gave Bucky sour looks that Steve returned a billion-fold, and it was effective, given the immediate way they looked away.
They ordered what seemed like half the menu to satiate their supersoldier appetites and as they were waiting for their food, Steve attempted to delicately bring up Bucky’s unforeseen choice in… attire.
“So, Buck.” His voice was way too loud and he ducked his head down in embarrassment, glancing around to see if the two bigots heard him.
Bucky gave Steve a flat look and he blushed at the expression.
“Sorry.” This time his voice was much quieter, more appropriate for the topic of conversation. “I like your shirt.” That was an innocent enough statement that didn’t give away how he really felt about Bucky’s outfit. “What made you decide to wear it?” Another equally innocent question.
Bucky blinked at him. He was still wearing the sunglasses, since they probably didn’t hinder his eyesight in the dark, just like Steve. “I like Carebears.”
Ah. That must be what the cartoon bear on his chest was. It was light pink and had a rainbow on the white patch on its stomach. Steve blinked at its cheerfully, smiling face. “Oh.”
Perhaps Steve was too innocent. “I meant the skirt.”
“I like feeling cute.” Now Bucky was starting to hunch over, and Steve cursed himself for making Bucky feel ashamed or whatever he was feeling.
“And you do!” he said, trying to cheer Bucky up. “I, uh… aw, hell, I just meant to ask you why you chose this outfit instead of something more…” he hunted about for an adjective that wasn’t inadvertently insulting.
“Incognito?” Bucky supplied, making Steve sink in relief.
“Yes, that.”
Bucky raised his eyebrow over his sunglasses. “The thing everyone expects me to wear would be something like what you're wearing, bland, manly and innocuous. No one expects the Winter Soldier to be wearing a pink skirt, a lavender Carebear crop top and a pair of thousand-dollar Gucci sunglasses traveling in a motorhome with a tiny little twink of a chihuahua named Punk. I’ve literally come face to face with hydra agents that had no idea I was the Winter Soldier until I slit their throats. And I look cute when I'm doing hot girl shit. So thanks for the concern about my appearance, but I'm good.”
Steve felt suitably chastised, and ducked his head. “You do look nice. I was just wondering. Sorry, Bucky,” he offered pitifully, giving Bucky an earnest look.
Bucky twitched and glanced away, and right when Steve was about to apologize again, the waitress came by with their food.
They both dug in, tucking all the food away into their seemingly endless black holes for stomachs. Steve settled the bill, ignoring Bucky’s glare. He’d need to transfer more cash from his duffle bag into his wallet, since he’d gotten rid of his credit cards and his ID before his little hunt-for-Bucky road trip.
Punk was eagerly awaiting their (okay, just Bucky’s) return, propped up on the driver’s side door, the top of his head barely visible through the window. He wagged his tail when Bucky opened the door, almost falling down out of the RV. Bucky cooed at him, bringing him to his chest to hold close. The chihuahua frantically licked the underside of his chin and Steve never in his life thought he’d be jealous of a dog, but here he was, positively stewing in envy. He went around to the other side and climbed in, and when Punk noticed, he started barking his head off at him.
Bucky only snorted and made absolutely no effort to rein him in. Thankfully, he strapped Punk into his own seatbelt, who seemed much happier than on Steve’s lap, and carefully backed out of the parking lot. Instead of continuing on down the road the way they were headed, Bucky went back the way they came, and then went north on the connecting highway a few miles down the road that they had already passed.
Steve didn’t say anything about it, happy to be with Bucky at long last. Bucky flipped on the radio to some new pop station and they listened in silence for a while until Steve had the mental clarity to ask Bucky what he’d been wondering, worrying, agonizing over all this time.
“Do you remember me? Do you remember who you are?”
It was a terrible way to ask, but there was nothing else for it.
Bucky shifted, and reached over to turn off the radio. Silence reigned for about five seconds before Bucky turned it back on, apparently deciding that was worse.
“I… don’t remember as much as you probably want me to,” Bucky hedged, and then laughed bitterly. “Fuck, you probably want me to remember anything else besides what I do.”
Steve had a lump in his throat. “No, Bucky, I… whatever you remember is fine. I don’t care what it is, as long as you know who I am, who you are. I can't bear the thought that- that you don’t…” he trailed off, too choked up to speak.
“Aw, jeez,” he muttered, the same way he did when his sisters did something equally as pitiful as crying about something he had to go deal with or comfort them. He was always the best brother in the world, and now Steve was going to fully dissolve into tears at the thought. “Here, take this,” he said, surprising Steve, making him look up into the undignified face of Punk being held up in one hand, who began snarling at Steve once he realized he was being looked at. Steve carefully obeyed and reached out to gently grab Punk, reaching around to where he couldn’t bite Steve.
“What?” Steve wondered, a bit dumbly, as he fastened Punk into his seatbelt and only got bit four times for his trouble.
Bucky looked over at him. “I figured you’d be too busy dealing with that hellion to cry. And, hey, it worked.” Then he took a deep breath, which was the only warning Steve received before Bucky continued. “I remember my time as the winter soldier, of course. All the torture and brainwashing and they did to… me, to Bucky. All the atrocities I did. Everything they made me do. There’s only one memory before all that I can remember with any sort of clarity. And for all the times I saw mentioned on the internet about you getting into fights, they never said anything about Bucky’s – about my proclivity for getting into them.”
Steve’s heart was weighed down by dread, then, because if that memory was the one that Bucky remembered, then…
Steve let Punk bite him, and welcomed the sting of tiny teeth piercing his flesh.
He could still see the scar bisecting Bucky’s eyebrow from where the bottle had cut him open. Bucky had needed to go to the hospital because that was hardly the worst of his injuries. He had been lucky not to end up dead like those other men had. The queers that frequented the area Bucky had eventually told Steve was where he had been. Steve hadn’t let himself think of why Bucky would be there, passing it off as just a coincidence.
Now, seventy-five-ish years in the future, Steve can let himself think of why. It came easily to him, confronted with Bucky’s new appearance.
“I don’t think anyone would dare hate crime the Winter Soldier now,” Bucky piped up after a moment. “Not when I got this shiny, fuck-off metal arm.”
It was as good of a confirmation as any, and Steve’s breath caught.
“You were so angry at me, but I couldn’t let you know that they attacked me so I said I provoked a group of guys. I remember thinking I didn’t want to you worry I was gonna get jumped every time I went out. It wasn’t that I thought you would hate me or anything, I just didn’t wanna tell ya. I didn’t even wanna admit it to myself. Because then that would seal my fate.” Bucky didn’t look at him, his eyes on the road.
Shame coursed through Steve then, since he never told Bucky the same because he feared that Bucky would hate him. He should have known Bucky would never do that. He should have had as much faith in Bucky as Bucky had in him.
“That’s the only thing I remember from when I was Bucky Barnes. Sorry. I wish it was a better memory. More pleasant.”
Steve shook his head, a lump in his throat. “God, Bucky, you don’t have to apologize. Not for that. Not for anything.”
Bucky huffed out an incredulous laugh. “Has anyone ever told you that you're crazy, Rogers?”
Steve nearly broke down. “Yeah, all the time,” he smiled wetly, before continuing, utterly sincere, “but I'm not crazy, Buck. Not for this. Not about you.”
Bucky smiled at him, small and all the more meaningful. “Not crazy about me, huh? You found me in the middle of buttfuck, nowhere, Texas, like some kinda rabid, souped up bloodhound. You call that sane?”
Steve blushed eight ways to Sunday. “Well, maybe I am,” he admitted sheepishly, ducking his head down and nearly getting his face bitten off by a very irate Punk.
Bucky's laughter was worth the bloody scratch on his chin.