He remembers things in flashes. One moment He’s walking along a back road in Sochi, the next He is in a living room with a Menorah being lit beside a Christmas tree. There are people there with Him, a woman, worry lines that normally grace her worn but beautiful face, vanished on this day; leaning against him is a smaller man, more so a boy, no older than 14, with light blonde hair going in all different directions. If His memory serves him right, this boys name is Steve, He thinks. It could be Stevie; He doesn’t think it’s Babydoll but His memory cannot be trusted. The woman’s name is either Sara or Mom, He does not know which. Both of the blondes infest most of His memories.
This one is different, the boy has never been this close before and seems to have grown older. When He looks down, the Boy is looking up at him with shockingly blue eyes and the biggest smile He has ever seen. He thinks the boy is pretty. Steve. The boys name is Steve He must remind Himself. Whoever Steve is, and where ever he is, He must find him.
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“Bucky?”
“Who the hell is Bucky”