headcanon: Bucky never actually remembers anything, but he becomes aware that he’s forgotten. Steve does not get his friend back, not really— but he gets something, which is better than the alternative. Bucky is different in almost every way, but there are things that don’t disappear; mannerisms, the pitch and timbre of his voice, the way he purrs like a cat in the first slats of sunlight, the way he smells like old linen and soap after a shower. They are the small things that were uniquely Steve’s, and he finds them there, dusty and safe— stored on the lowest shelves of muscle memory and what could be something like the soul. (It took so long to find them, so much coaxing and no sudden movements— and maybe he’s just got the Winter Soldier now, in all his confusion and attempts at normalcy, muzzled and trying to be something other than an enemy)
It’s familiar and jarringly different, but worth it, Steve thinks, worth it.