He doesn't speak right away. He can't. The door creaks as he opens it, and the scent of baking rye bread, coal heat, and a little lilac soap hits him all at once. Something deep in his ribs aches.

"James?"

Her voice. It’s her voice. It shouldn’t be. But it is.

She turns from the stove, and she smiles like nothing’s wrong—because to her, nothing is. Her boy is home. Her boy is young. Her boy isn’t yet ashes and steel.

But then she sees him. Really sees him.

The metal arm. The eyes that have forgotten how to be young. The trembling lip. And the silence.

“…oh.” Her hand covers her mouth, and her knees nearly give. “Oh, my darling boy… what have they done to you?”

Bucky falls to his knees in front of her like a child. “Ma.” Just that. Just one word. Cracked open and crumbling.

She sinks down to meet him on the kitchen floor, hands on either side of his face, eyes like warmth in winter.

“You come home hurt, but you still come home,” she whispers, pressing her forehead to his. “They didn’t take you, James. Not really. Not from me.”

He closes his eyes and weeps. For her. For himself. For every day between then and now.

When he speaks again, his voice is just above a whisper. “…I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to forget you.”

And she smiles through her tears. “Then remember. Just this once. Let me hold you again.”