justakidfrombrklyn | The headaches began after he came out of the ice...

The headaches began after he came out of the ice...

To say that a lot of things had changed once he'd come out of the ice wasn't just an understatement; it was practically cruel. The worst part in a lot of ways, though, was the way people treated him: as if the ice had preserved him, kept him exactly as he'd been when he'd sent the plane crash landing into the Atlantic.

It couldn't be further from the truth, though.

He'd died. The water had rushed in, the cold had soaked into his bones, the ice had taken over and he'd died and he'd felt it as he'd died. He'd felt the cold, woken up a dozen times stuck in the ice, unable to move and let it consume him, again and again. He still had nightmares about it, nightmares he didn't share because they were so ridiculous in some ways, debilitating in others.

And then there were the headaches.

He only got them occasionally, a strange buzz beginning behind his eyes and around, his eyes shifting unbidden as if he could find the cause for something that was going on inside his own head. And yet, sometimes it really felt like he could. He'd look around, the feeling exploding inside his skull, and he'd suddenly meet eyes with someone and the feeling would suddenly vanish. Usually, the person in question would blink at him and rush off, which was fair since one of the cardinal rules of walking around a large city was to avoid eye contact unless necessary. He didn't think too much about it until he went back to Europe, back at war again in his search for his lost... friend...

Which was when the buzzing headaches started to get far more frequent.

Sam, the finest companion a man could ask for, had decided to follow a lead in Madrid that Natasha had sent their way (one that would have been set off badly had Captain America's well-known mug shown up) which had left Steve enjoying the sights and snooping around Paris for the time being. Thankfully, there was a lot to see, a lot to investigate, but also... a lot to draw.

Beautiful things to draw.

He was halfway through sketching out a panel of the Arc De Triomph when he felt it there, head lifting from the paper to try and find the 'cause'. This was getting mildly ridiculous...

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Yeah, Methos wasn't buying it for a second.

"You just want to see the trainwreck."

"You'd also probably get to meet my friend Thor," he pointed out, "and he could ensure the whole visit was safe."

"Now see, that's almost tempting," Methos admitted with a laugh. "It'd still be a trainwreck, though."

"It won't be for a while, though. Because I have to find my friend first. Though if he's here and more than likely following me, that should be... easier."

He sighed a little.

"I wish Natasha was here."

"Your friend is extremely good at what he does. Frankly, I don't think you'l find him until he wants to be found," Methos said bluntly.

Most of the time, Steve had the physique and the winning smile of Captain America, but he generally gave off the impression of a humble, friendly person. In this, however, there was nothing but resolve, tenacity, and the shining beacon of determination that had made him a war hero to his men and to the world.

"He's not the only one."

He closed his eyes before he glanced down at his phone.

"I need to go make a call. If you'll excuse me."

"The roof has the best signal, especially if you're calling international," Methos said. Joe raised an eyebrow at that. Methos just shrugged in response.

"Thank you," he said and headed for the stairs to go there himself.

"No problem." Methos gave him a perfectly friendly wave.

Joe waited until he'd heard both the stair doors shut, before saying:

"He's up there, isn't he."

"Yup."

If Steve hadn't been dialing the number when he opened the door to the roof, he might have been more prepared for what he found there. But as it was--

"Pick up, Sam. Pi--"

This. Was not part of the plan.

He stares wide-eyed at Steve, caught completely by surprise.

Steve looked back and slowly put the phone, still ringing, into his pocket.

"Bucky?"

Mission compromised. Retreat and regroup, says part of his mind. Another part says, Damn it, Steve, you idiot!

The rest of him is just sure he should've at least left Adam with a knife in his heart, because this is definitely his fault.

He stepped forward, going slow and careful with his arms out wide, obviously unnarmed.

"Buck," he said softly, "Bucky. It's Steve. I... I had no idea. I've been looking for you."

He gave a faint, brittle smile.

"Guess you've been laughing it up, me chasing you around, and you following along after us. Jerk."

"Punk," his mouth says for him, while his brain is still trying to work itself out. He frowns a moment, unsure of just where that came from; from Before HYDRA, which means With Steve, and that realisation triggers another rush of memory--

His deployment, leaving Steve behind, the worry he tried to hide, the relief that at least his fragile friend would be far, far away from the front lines--

But it makes Steve smile like the sun's come out, those blue eyes of his wide and bright.

"Buck..." he said slowly, stepping forward again.

"Bucky, God..." and his eyes are shining for a different reason now, "God, Buck, I've..." and the words aren't good enough but "I've missed you so much."

"You weren't supposed to-- I'm not ready--"

"What's 'ready', Buck?"

And that right there was a loaded question, but one he needed the answer to.

"I can help you, Bucky. Please, let me help you."

He shakes his head sharply.

"I don't want to hurt you." And he might, still; he's getting better, memories coming in fits and starts ("--not without you!--"), he's not--

"I'm not ready."

"You're not gonna hurt me, Bucky," he said slowly, "and I'd never hurt you. Not... not again. Not now. Never again."

"I'm still not myself!" His mouth says it for him again, because apparently his hindbrain has complete unquestioning trust in Steve Rogers.

"I'd... guessed that. But I want to help. I want..." he breathed in, breathed out, "I want to be a part of whoever you are now... and whoever you want to be."

"Steve..." And there's a hint of familiar exasperation there. "Just. Just give me some space, all right? I'm almost there, I just..."

He stopped moving forward.

"All right. All right, space. How much space?"

He looked back at him.

"It's apparently enough space when you're close enough not to set off a headache."

The fingers of his flesh hand curl, and he nods.

"It's fine. I'm just not ready..." He shakes his head, trying to knock loose a piece of conditioning that suddenly rears its head.

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