Archive of Our Own ^beta

When Bucky Barnes moved from his little hut in Wakanda to an apartment in New York it was a little jarring. Gone was the simplicity of life, replaced with a modern world that he wasn’t sure how to live in. He had to learn how to use the new technology of this new world and it was a little more difficult than he would think it would be but he somehow managed to learn how to work all of the appliances in the apartment and even learned how to cook in ways that didn’t mean boiling everything. He even learned how to work the TV, find shows that he liked - he really liked to watch sports, those were fun - and learned how to work a smart phone. Though he didn’t use his smart phone much, he had nobody to talk to.

The one thing that Bucky didn’t like, or more accurately, couldn’t get used to was the bedroom. He remembered what it was like to have an actual bed and how good it was to have something like that, and how much fun it could be, but now he couldn’t get comfortable. He laid, staring up at the ceiling and he couldn’t get comfortable. Everything felt too soft and he didn’t like it. He tried to find comfort sleeping in the bed for a few nights, knowing that it was the place to sleep and he would feel better when he got a restful night's sleep but nothing he did made it feel any better.

After the fourth night of laying away in the bed and staring up at the ceiling Bucky grabbed a pillow and blanket and made a bed on the floor beside his bed. The hard floor beneath him felt a lot better than the soft bed. He sighs softly, thinking that maybe he’s going to get some rest, and closes his eyes but he still can’t fall asleep. His room is too quiet, too still, and he can hear everything. In theory, no noise would provide a great environment to sleep in but it just caused Bucky to be on edge, expecting at any minute for someone to come in or something to happen.

He sighs again and gets up, grabbing his blanket and pillow and heads into his living room. He remakes his bed on the floor and turns on the TV. He turns it to one of the sports stations before he settles into his makeshift bed. He lays on his back and looks up at the ceiling. There. That was better. The noise from the TV and the hardness of the floor under him was a good enough combination for him to drift off to sleep for the first time in weeks…

Flashes of metal, his arm, a gun, a knife. The screams of people as bullets cut through them, as a knife finds purchase on their body. Falling over a railing, fighting until his knuckles are numb and even then he keeps on. Commands of “soldat” being whispered into the communication earpieces that he was forced to wear. Muttering of words when it looked like he wasn’t going to listen.

A weapon, that’s what he was. Free will wasn’t in his vocabulary, he was to do what his handlers wanted him to and that was to murder --

Bucky jolts awake, sweat gathered at his temple and his breathing heavy. He sits up, trying to pull his mind out of the dark place that it had gone while he was asleep. This was why he didn’t sleep much, he remembered. Sleep always brought nightmares in the form of memories that he didn’t want to think about.

His therapist would want him to write down what he had remembered in the nightmare so that they could discuss it and “build his history”, but he didn’t want to. He wanted to forget about it. He wanted to forget about his time as the “winter soldier” and all of the terrible things that he did. No matter how often he was told that it wasn’t his fault that he did those things, he still felt guilty because they were done by his hands.

He moves so that he’s sitting against the wall, letting his head fall back and stares straight ahead. He’s looking at the TV but he doesn’t really see it, no instead he sees himself in a fight, killing anyone who comes at him, trying to get to his target. Nothing could ever stop him from getting to his target. It made him sick to think about how far he would go just to take someone out, even if it meant killing innocent people.

Bucky sighs and pushes away from the wall and stands up. He makes his way into his kitchen where he pulls open the refrigerator and grabs one of the canned coffees that he started to like. He was done trying to sleep for the night so he cracks it open and takes a drink as he slides into a stool at the counter. He knew this wasn’t healthy behavior but he couldn’t find it in himself to care at the moment.

He picks up his smart phone and looks through the different apps and things that were on it. He remembers how his therapist talked to him about maintaining friendships, but he didn’t really have friends. Steve had been his friend but Steve was gone now. Bucky remembered before the war he had been someone that people liked to know and he had a lot of friends, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember how to make friends.

He clicks on the app with the little person that holds his contacts. There weren’t many but one of them was Sam Wilson. His co-worker he supposed, he wasn’t sure what else to call him because Bucky wasn’t sure that they were friends. His finger hovers over his number as he thinks about calling him, maybe he could make a friendship with Sam if the man wasn’t too annoying. He makes a face, thinking about all of the lame jokes that Sam told, but Bucky could get used to that. He got used to Steve’s flaws.
He takes another drink of his coffee and clicks on Sam’s number and waits as it rings for a few moments and a sleepy voice answers the phone.

“Hello Sam…” Bucky says, laughing softly as Sam chides him for calling so late in the night but something about his laugh must make Sam realize that Bucky wasn’t okay and he asks Bucky what’s wrong.

For the rest of the night Bucky and Sam talk on the phone and for the first time Bucky feels like maybe he does have a friend.