The Shadowed Truths of the Son of a Hero

It Takes Me Right Back to That Horrible Place

Author's Note: A large portion of this chapter has been taken from a story that I had started to write but it didn't end up going anywhere so apologies if you've already read it.

Bucky's POV:

Oh god.

I knew that would be hard, but not that hard. That was the first time I have said what happened to me out loud in so long and it took me right back to that horrible place I was in when I first snapped out of it all those years ago. Like I'm still the winter soldier. Still dealing with the fresh wounds of the reality of what I've done.

I thought I'd gotten better. I thought I'd moved on from it. But obviously I'm never going to be able to escape the clutches of the winter soldier completely.

I feel so stupid. I should be being strong for Alex after he's had this bombshell dropped on his life that will most certainly change his outlook forever. But all I can do is think back to that awful moment where Steve woke me up from the trance I was in and I started to realise everything I had done.

                                      ~~~~

I stop for one second, to catch my breath, my body heaving with each heavy gasp. Beneath me Captain America looks like a useless mess. His face battered and bruised.

"Then finish it," he suddenly mumbles, barely audibly.

I freeze, my body shaking with adrenaline, glaring down at him as he looks like he's going to go on, letting him have his last words.

"Cos I'm with you... till the end of the line." He grunts out in barely a gasp, winded from the force of my punches.

I'm just about to finish him off. To land one last blow that will crush his scull, finally allowing me to complete this mission. But then something happens that never has before... I falter.

Those words. They sound so familiar. And I haven't felt 'familiar' in the longest time.

I stare down at the blonde man before me in confused horror. He's beaten to a pulp, within an inch of his life, black eye swollen shut, blood trickling down his face. For a moment an image flickers into my head, of a skinnier, much more sickly looking version of the man before me. But it's clearly him, and still beaten up just as bad.

I frown at him freaked out as a sense of déjà vu washes over me. Then suddenly it all clicks. A single picture, a single name. That's all it takes for everything to make sense.

Steve Rogers.

The face of the small, skinny boy comes into my mind again. I can barely match the picture to the beat up man before me but it's him. The same blonde hair. The same blue eyes. This is Steve Rogers.

What is this? In my whole life I've never recognised anyone except for my handlers and trainers. Never remembered anyone or anything. Literally, the only memory I have right now consists of today and this fight.

Who is this Steve Rogers? I don't know, or at least I can't remember. All I know is that I do know him. He's important to me.

Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. A voice faintly echoes in my head.

Is it? Am I Bucky? How do I know Steve?

I falter. It's like I'm snapping out of a trance. My arm falls to my side. I blink to clear my head and draw in a sharp breath.

Something else becomes obvious. Steve Rogers is a good man. That makes me on the bad side. I'm not a bad guy... Am I?

What have I done?