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remembrance (n.): the action of remembering something
remembering (v. – gerund or present participle of remember): have in or be able to bring to one's mind an awareness of (someone or something that one has seen, known, or experienced in the past)
The first thing James does after he breaks free from the conditioning, after he runs and hides from everyone who might want to find him, is googling Steve Rogers. The results are endless, pages and pages of information, spanning from speculation to fact to opinion; James reads it all. Then he goes to the Smithsonian and reads all of that too, looks at the pictures and objects showcased in the hopes that they'll help him remember. Through it all, the name James Buchanan 'Bucky' Barnes in the background, a character in their stories, a constant presence by Captain America's side, a thread woven through history until it disappears, becomes a name in a memorial wall.
So, James knows. He knows he was born on March 10, 1917. He knows he had sisters. He knows he was drafted into the army, fought for his country, got captured and rescued, then captured again for good. He knows he met Steve when he was small, sickly and feisty as hell, the human version of a wet feral kitten, that they were best friends. He knows he was the only member of the Howling Commandos to be presumed dead in the service of his country. He knows he used to love Steve Rogers with all of his heart.
James knows. But he doesn't remember.
Bucky Barnes is a concept; someone he believes must have once existed but that is as familiar to him as any other stranger. The name 'Bucky' feels wrong, ill-fitting like the gloves he wears to hide the metal of his arm. Like the personality he puts on to interact with the world when he must, a front that hides the utter absence of identity underneath. The Winter Soldier moniker fits even worse, suffocating, claustrophobic, tightening around his heart until all he can feel is dread and the undeniable pull of non-existence. 'James' is an empty shell; a name he can barely find evidence of being called. He takes it for himself.
Things get easier, but they don't get better. James doubts they'll ever get better; maybe easier is all he can hope for. He keeps researching, and his knowledge grows, but the memories don't come back. He knows the names and faces of his past, has seen them over and over again, repeated them until his voice was hoarse. But try as he might, he can't bring to mind their presence in his life. The pictures are just that: pictures. Images on Google, newspaper clippings, old and new, tucked inside his journal for safekeeping of a life he doesn't remember having. Maybe there is simply no space in his brain for these memories, not when it feels like every single inch of it is covered in death, blood, rot, the stench of it permeating his every thought.
There's a certain safety that comes with being James. The Winter Soldier means fighting, means death. Bucky means Steve's best friend, with all the expectations attached to the title. James is a clean slate; someone he can become rather than revert back into. James means a lonely, dark apartment with no company outside his broken brain, but it also comes with trips to the farmer's market for fresh fruit and a blissful lack of screaming, save for that which happens in his nightmares. His life isn't good, but it's quiet and more peaceful than he'd have considered himself lucky enough to have. Until it isn't.
James knows it's over the second he sees his own face on the news. For a moment, he stops to consider the possibility that it was him who was responsible for the attack, that he simply doesn't remember. But no. All his terrible memories are very much intact, it's only the good he can't recall.
Guilty or not, he knows he has to leave, but, as it turns out, he's not even afforded that chance. It's Steve—it's always Steve, it seems, perhaps it has always been Steve—who gets to him first, and James knows he should be able to trust him, but he can't. So he runs. He always runs. It's the only thing he remembers how to do.