Steve kept his pace slow. It felt right to have him leading the way, even more right to have him setting the pace. Every walk they'd ever taken together had been at Steve's pace. It was only fitting for it to be at a pace Steve set slower than his usual so the rest of them could keep up.
Pain radiated down his legs with every step. No one and nothing would keep him behind though. He would keep the pace or die trying. Besides, the longer they walked, the longer the march went on, the warmer he felt, the stronger in spite of his pain. It was like he was truly soldiering on through the pain. He felt like he was finally living the way Steve had lived: struggling for even a breath of air.
Shaking his head, he forced himself out of the memory. It was visceral. Too real in fact. That happened a lot when he thought about Steve Rogers. This man took him out of reality to make him remember who he'd been, things he'd done, their life. He made him a man again. It was only with him he felt as if he had a purpose even if he didn't.
"Can you stop touching me? It bothers me. People touching me. I don't have any memories of people touching me in a good way. Not even you."
It wasn't much to say. There wasn't much he could say under the circumstances. How was he supposed to explain how he'd missed part of what the man was saying courtesy of a trip down memory lane which was decades old? It would make him sound insane. He was insane. Possibly. There was a possibility he actually couldn't be insane courtesy of how many brain cells he was missing.
He thought his brain cells were missing.
They might have only been shocked stupid. That was a possibility, too, wasn't it? His memories weren't gone. They were only in remission somewhere in his overcooked noodle. Cancer. Just like cancer. Those memories could come back to him, grow back in overnight, while he was trying to sleep. It was fine. If that was the way things were going to be. If that was the way things had to be. It would be fine.
Steve Rogers might be missing pieces of his life or might feel as if he were missing pieces, but Bucky Barnes actually was missing pieces. The bionic arm made a whirring noise, angry, as he flexed the fake hand attached to it. There was an understanding between them, he'd thought. Touching wasn't something they did peacefully.
He wasn't entirely certain he knew anything of peace any longer. All his memories were of fights, battles, war.
Death.
Death had a place in his mind. All kinds of deaths...
Making a sound of discontent, he moved away from Steve's hand, shrugging it off.
"Don't touch me again. Not without asking. I won't like it. I might hurt you. I don't think I want to hurt you. I don't want to be touched. Not without permission. Do you understand what I'm saying? Do I make sense?"