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I.
It starts with a kiss, somewhere in Europe, sometime in the long, dangerous winter of 1943. Of course, like most kisses, the kiss isn't a true beginning—it's a much longer story than that. First, there are two scrappy boys who meet in an alley and grow up like entwined trees; there is a war that takes one and refuses the other, and the kind of science that Steve thought only happened in movies, a serum to fulfill (almost) all of his dreams.
On Bucky's front, there is a dramatic capture, and the cold, unforgiving steel of a demented doctor's operating table—it's pretty bleak, for a while. There is hurt, and there is fear, and then there is the bile of despair, and the gray static of name-rank-serial number, and that's all Bucky has until the daring rescue. Everything is pain and the cold has seeped into his bones, but he still smiles when he sees Steve's face—that big heart, finally housed in the body to match. (Later, with the two of them not-quite out of the woods, dizzy with adrenaline, dizzy with each other, they should kiss, but there are soldiers to lead home and a war to fight, so neither one of them breathes a word of what they want).
The kiss finally happens one night in Italy, out on a two-day leave. Bucky is drunk—the kind of drunk that only happens on nights when the Howlers have one of the testosterone fueled drinking-contests from which Steve, with his serum-induced immunity, is exempt. Steve, prince that he is, is hauling Bucky's alcohol-marinated ass home. Except Bucky's got his manly pride, so he won't let Steve pick him up and carry him like he wants, even though it would get them home about a hundred times faster.
“Steve, I swear if you pick me up, I will kill you in your sleep,” Bucky says
“I don't know why you're so against efficiency all of a sudden,” Steve says. “It would be so much faster if I just carried you. It's the logical thing to do—oh, there we go, figured it out. Of course you wouldn't want to do the thing that actually makes sense.”
“Sh'up,” Bucky slurs. “'s not fair. Can't argue with you right now 'cause I'm drunk, and yer not. And ye've got that face that you get when you're all grumpy at me and 's way too cute.”
Steve quirks an eyebrow and stops walking. “Cute?”
“Yeah,” Bucky says, stumbling to a halt half-a-step too late, “cute.” He reaches up to poke Steve's raised eyebrow. “Tha's cute, too. Cute. What're you gonna do about it?” Bucky looks up at Steve with a challenging look on his face.
“Bucky,” Steve says, exasperated. “What are you doing? This isn't funny.”
“'m not laughing, 're you?” He smiles; it's sharp. “If you want me to stop talking,” Bucky takes a shaky step to bring himself even closer to Steve, “you should make me.”
Steve lets out a shuddering breath that he hadn't known he was holding, and makes some kind of low, gravely sound that he hadn't known he was capable of. “Do you even know what you're doing right now?” he says, and then that's it; they're outside, where anyone could see, but there's nothing else to do besides dive down to kiss Bucky hard on the mouth, one of his hands in Bucky's hair, the other, supportive, at the small of his back.
Bucky leans into his touch and breathes a contented little sound into Steve's mouth, and then deepens the kiss. He's got a fist balled into Steve's jacket, and one hand, an anchor, on the back of Steve's neck—as if either of them would pull away now, as if one of them could, with everything sharp and electric-burn-hot between them.
They kiss like that a long time, so desperate they hardly break to breathe. Neither one of them remembers how and why they break apart.
Bucky and Steve wake up the next morning, tucked warm and affectionate into the same bed. Bucky's head is killing him, and so is Steve's conscience. The short story of the next several days is—they don't talk about it. Bucky's beyond embarrassed at drunkenly accosting an unwilling Steve, who is, in turn, torn up at having taken advantage of a beyond-intoxicated Bucky. They don't talk about it at all, which is really a shame, because two days later, Bucky falls off a train protecting Steve the way he's always done.
Steve doesn't last much longer, after that. The two of them plummet into frozen depths, tragically in love, and for most people, that would be the end of the story. However, as previously noted, that drunken kiss? Much more of a starting gun than a finishing line. For Bucky and Steve, who are not and have never been most people, the ice is just the breathless rustle of pages turning between chapters.
II.
Bucky Barnes wakes up strapped to a hospital bed in a particularly shiny and bright medical facility that he is told belongs to an organization known as SHIELD. Bucky is short one cybernetic left arm and heavily-sedated—though, due to his somewhat-enhanced physiology, not as heavily-sedated as the medical staff had intended for him to be. Bucky's got some real close and personal experience with men who stand over him in white coats while he's strapped to something or other, so it's pretty natural that he's not exactly comfortable with the present circumstances.
If Bucky's slight distress means that he reacts in a less-than-favorable manner, he doesn't think anyone can blame him. There's a lot of wild flailing, probably some screaming, and possibly—though he will not admit to it—some tears. There are four doctors trying to hold Bucky, sedated and scared, down long enough to get a needle in any vein. Bucky learns, through their tireless efforts to restrain him, that he is not a particular fan of physical contact.
The entire mess is interrupted when two-hundred-plus pounds of blonde super-soldier come barreling into the room and shouting, “Sergeant Barnes is an American hero, and deserves to be treated as such, regardless of any of this Winter Soldier business!”
Nothing has ever been quite as lovely as Steve with fire in his eyes, and he seems almost like a narcotics-induced fantasy until he gets a soothing hand on Bucky's shoulder. He is solid and real, and maybe physical contact is not so bad when it's with Steve, because the gesture really does help Bucky come down from his panicked haze.
Steve's free hand covers Bucky's, thumb stroking the blue-veined spot where hand meets wrist. “Bucky, it's okay. You're safe. I'm sorry I wasn't here when you woke up—I wanted to be.”
It is at that moment, awash in the comfort brought about by Steve's presence (and his voice, and his touch), frantic heart finally slowing its jackhammer beat, that the memories come hurtling back. Steve manages to lunge for the rubbish bin just in time for Bucky to hurl, but it's a near thing, a vomit-soaked catastrophe avoided by the grace of Steve's spectacular agility and nothing else.
As it turns out, there's not much in Bucky's stomach to spew. Steve strokes his back as he dry-heaves, purging the nothing.
The contents of his stomach are, however, much less a problem than the contents of his mind. There is a red bloom of blood and gore where a woman's head used to be; her little girl stands alongside, wailing. A man gurgles from all the blood in his airway, but he is still pleading for his life in some foreign tongue. Bucky know he did it, did all those things and so, so many more. Suddenly, he can't bear to have Steve touching him.
Bucky tries to twist away from Steve. “Stop, stop. You're going to get blood on your hands. You can't be, you can't touch me. Can't even be here.” Everything has taken on a sick sheen of heat.
Steve brings his hand—their hands, because they're still entwined—up to Bucky's face. “See? No blood. If you really want me away from you, I'll go. But if you think you're gonna sully me somehow, stop—you spent a lotta years trying to do that, if you can recall. Hardly ever stuck.”
Bucky shakes his head, and pulls Steve's hand to his lips so he can kiss the knuckles. Bucky is suddenly aware of the fact that he is trembling something terrible.
Steve presses his lips to Bucky's forehead, but it's not just a gesture. “You're burning up, Buck,” he says. “I need to go get you some help.”
Steve gets up, and Bucky wants to cry out to the empty space where his body should be. He knows better, even with his mind swimming in fever and in the disturbing past, has always known. Steve returns, a small fleet of nurses in tow, but he's the only thing Bucky sees.
There's someone taking his temperature, and someone sticking his vein, and then Bucky is out cold, but he fights the drugs a moment so that he can watch Steve's face, etch it fresh into his mind.
—
Bucky dreams that they are on a train, him and Steve. They are not fighting Hydra, not this time. This time, Bucky is tucked against Steve's side, face pressed into the crook of his neck; there's is sun coming through a window and warming his face. Steve kisses his hair, and for one golden moment, everything is right, and he is resting.
Then, the train starts to crumble, tilting off the rails as wheels pop off as if they were toys. The floor caves in beneath their feet. Bucky is clinging, fingers pressing marks into Steve's arm, and Steve is holding him around the waist, sweet and close in all the panic.
Still, he falls; they fall; they fall apart.
—
Bucky jolts awake. There's a dark-haired man poking around in what's left of his cybernetic arm with some kind of tool; he is locked in Steve's stern, watchful gaze. Bucky is not jealous, because it would be absolutely insane to be jealous of the subject of Steve's consternation. It's just—he's used to seeing the put-upon look on Steve's face directed at himself, and he's always hoarded Steve's attention, be it positive or negative, with all the zeal of a greedy child.
“Bucky! You're awake,” Steve says, smiling at the stirring flutter of his lashes. “The man with the fancy screwdriver is Tony Stark. He's on my team, and he wouldn't leave me alone until I agreed to let him start building you a new arm right away.”
“For the last time, Cap, it's not a screwdriver, it's a—never mind, it's not worth explaining this again.”
The smirk on Steve's face tells Bucky that he's perfectly aware of the tool's actual name and function, but Tony is too engrossed in his work to notice.
The sight of Tony at work is somehow familiar. “Wait, Stark?” Bucky says. “Another one? Nuh-uh. Get him outta my wiring.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Tony says, “I didn't much like the old man either.” He produces some kind of tablet and begins to jot down figures in some kind of projection. “I've got what I need, Cap. I'll make your boy an arm that'll blow your mind. And you know I mean that for real.”
“He's not my boy,” Steve tells him. “Now go play in your workshop and let him rest.”
Of course—of course he's not Steve's, Bucky thinks, with some bitterness, not Steve's except for one, stupid mistake of a kiss, one drunk night. The memory stings, but he just pulls a face and says, “I don't need rest!”
“I don't play in my workshop,” Tony says, “I create brilliant, cutting-edge technology, thank you very much.” He heads for the door, tapping things into the tablet, and smirking. “Nice to meet another surprisingly well-preserved old fella. Might make Captain Rogers here feel a bit less special.”
Steve rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I'm the ego that needs adjusting in this room. Bye, Tony.” Then, he turns his fearsome attentions to Bucky. “Of course you need to rest! You didn't see you before you were sedated. You were a wreck.”
Tony pops his head back into the room to shout, “Don't give yourself a coronary fretting over your boy, Cap. I saw you watching him sleep. Save some strength for later!” He runs off like a child who's been caught misbehaving.
“Were you watching me sleep, Steve?” Bucky asks, smirking, even though his heart is somewhere in his throat. “Was I pretty, like Snow White?” He bats his eyelashes.
“Yeah, Buck, real pretty. 'Specially when you drool,” Steve says. “It's a hard job, but someone has to do it. If anyone could get in trouble in his sleep...”
“And you're the man for the job, Captain?”
“Oh yeah,” Steve says, “got a world of experience with trouble.” His voice goes soft with concern. “Seriously, though, how are you feeling?”
Bucky smiles. “Didn't sleep so hot, but I feel better. Less fever; less crazy. All good things. Say, how'd you get 'em to spring me from those straps? I bet having those off is helping with the crazy.”
“I broke them into...let's just say 'many,' pieces and threw them away. Easier to ask forgiveness than permission,” Steve says.
Bucky is charmed. He will never stop being charmed. His chest swells with something that nothing could possibly push out of him, not even his past. “You're the one who needs watching. I fall asleep for what, a few hours? And here you are, breaking all the rules. The trouble you get into without me...”
Steve sits down at the edge of the bed. “Without you? I think you mean because of you.”
Bucky is suddenly struck by a fresh wave of exhaustion, or maybe medication. He wants so much to stay awake, to stay like this with Steve, so he struggles against it.
“Bucky,” Steve says, his voice a flood of affection, “you can't even keep your eyes open. I'll leave you alone to sleep.” He makes to get up.
Bucky reaches out without thinking and grabs his wrist. “No. Stay.”
Steve laughs, and the last thing Bucky hears before he caves to the demands of pressing unconsciousness is him saying, “Alright, I'll be here, looking out for you.”
—
Bucky dreams of hunting someone through the snowy woods. There is a warm, familiar voice, calling his name, except just an order, and a weapon to carry it out with. No, that's not right—he is the weapon.
—
Bucky wakes up, always from nightmares, but always with Steve somewhere close. His mind persists on downward spirals from self-deprecating humor, to crushing self-doubt, to a consuming self-hatred, but Bucky's body heals. One morning—or is it evening? Afternoon? Bucky wakes up to a new, but still familiar face by his bedside.
“Long time no see, Soldier,” she says. Her hair is less red than the stamp seared into his mind; her eyes less bright, but more clever.
“Good to see you well, Natalia.”
“How's the inside of your head treating you?”
“Good to know you never learned to beat around the bush.” Bucky shrugs. “You know how it is.”
“Yeah, I know how it is.”
“I feel like I owe you an apology for some of it,” he says.
“Don't apologize to me, James. There's too much between us for that. If you remember as much as Cap says, you remember that I'd owe some apologies, too.”
“Fair enough. I guess we can call it even.”
Natasha's face shifts in an almost indiscernible manner. “You're well, now, physically.” It's not a question.
“Almost there.”
“Well enough to be a threat,” she amends.
“You know me. 'M always a threat.”
“SHIELD,” Natasha says, “is going to have to make sure you're a threat to the right people.”
“I'm guessing that's no trip to Coney Island,” Bucky says.
Her mouth quirks. “It's an interrogation. There are telepaths involved.”
“Sounds like a party.”
She asks, “So you'll go quietly?”
“Have to,” Bucky says. “Might have triggers. Could hurt Steve.” He taps two fingers on his temple. “Gotta make sure I'm alone up here.
“I'll call in some favors, make sure they don't rough you up too much.” Natasha is smiling. It's a much older expression than the one he remembers.
Bucky grins. “What, you think I can't take it?”
Natasha almost laughs, and aims for the door, shaking her head.
“Natalia?” Bucky calls after her. “If I go off the reservation, you'll put me down, right?”
She does not turn around. “You know I will, James.”
“It's good to see you again.”
“You, too, James. You, too.”
—
Bucky dreams in red and pain, the times is allowed to sleep, during the interrogation, in winter and wrenching screams. The less that is said of the process itself, the better. Bucky grins and bears it and tries to remember nothing besides the indignant look on Steve's face the times he is allowed a visit. Steve always there to defend—fire, fire in his eyes.
—
They let him out of SHIELD on a sharp, chilly evening. It's Steve who gets him out a full week-and-a-half earlier than any of the higher-ups are comfortable with. It's Steve who takes him home when it's over, when he's been back through it all and come back on the other side pale and shaking at too-loud noises.
Home, in this scenario, denotes Steve's home, which is a palace of a New York apartment, bigger and nicer than anywhere Bucky's ever lived, with the exception of three weeks on a mission that had seen him cozy up to an outrageously-wealthy widow. The place has clearly been customized to fit Steve's needs, and Bucky feels like so many ants creeping in through a wall—some mild infestation.
“You sure you want me stayin' here?” Bucky asks, standing in the entryway and looking in.
“This place is ridiculous for one person,” Steve says, “We can share, like old times.”
“You're sure I won't be in the way?”
“Of course not. I like sharing with you. Not much point in having nice things if I can't.” Steve tells him, the reassuring tone a foil to the vulnerability that has crept into Bucky's voice.
The way he says it, and the earnest eyes he says it with, send Bucky's heart rocketing all the way into his throat. “You must really be glad I'm here,” Bucky says, “because you haven't even ragged on me about looking like hell.”
“Yeah, well,” Steve says, his face unreadable, “didn't wanna rub it in, seeing as you're the one who's gotta look at that mug in the mirror.”
“So you really don't mind?” Bucky asks, again.
“If you ask one more time, I might just change my mind,” Steve says.
“So, where should I put my tons and tons of things.” Bucky gestures wildly to his singular duffel bag, which has been thoughtfully ferried up by some kind of robot-butler Stark has servicing the building.
“I'll put it in your room,” Steve says. “You sit down and rest. Don't want you looking like a corpse forever.”
“You don't gotta take care of me.”
“I really, really do. I have to live with that face of yours now,” Steve tells him, before disappearing into one of the flat's many rooms.
Bucky looks around the enormous living room. He feels strange in this place, with its towering luxury and exorbitant trappings, everything sparking and nice, the way his and Steve's old place never used to be. But it's where Steve lives, so it's the only place Bucky could possibly call home.
Steve comes back out. “You can unpack later. You want a beer, or some juice—wait, actually, do you want a blanket or something?”
Bucky realizes that he's shaking. “Got a sweater or something I could borrow? I don't think I have one of those.”
“Yeah, I'll get you something of mine. I'll find the smallest one. We can take you shopping, soon. You really don't have much in the way of...stuff.”
“Yeah,” Bucky says, smiling, “that'll be nice. What I've got's not much for a real kind of life.”
Steve ducks out and comes back with a gray, hooded sweatshirt. He looks strangely sheepish. “This one's smallest, but I think it'll still be big. Tony bought it for me as a joke. He really shouldn't shop without Pepper to boss him around. I'm...sorry about the design.”
Steve balls up the sweatshirt and tosses it to Bucky, who catches it and holds off on unfurling it a moment as Steve asks, “You want something hot to drink, while I'm up?”
“Do you, uh, have tea?” Bucky blushes. They used to tease Falsworth, for his tea-drinking.
“Yeah,” Steve says, “Bruce gave me some calming blends. I'll go make you some.”
He ruses out of the room, using more of his enhanced speed that strictly necessary for fetching tea, leaving Bucky alone with his sweatshirt, which he takes the time to examine. The design on the shirt is Steve's shield. Bucky smiles, shakes his head, and pulls it on. He may as well wear Steve's mark on his chest.
Steve comes back a few minutes later, carrying a steaming mug and carefully avoiding Bucky's gaze. “It's chamomile and mint, I hope that's okay.” The mug is striped in pleasant shades of green.
“Yeah,” Bucky says, “sounds nice.”
Steve brings the mug over. “Careful, it's hot.”
Bucky waggles his metal fingers before accepting the beverage. “I'm okay, Steve.”
Steve laughs. “Be careful drinking it, then. Wouldn't want that mouth of yours burned so you can't run it at me.”
“You missed me running my mouth at you, pal,” Bucky shoots back, playful.
“Yeah,” Steve says, “I really did.”
His voice is a grave sort of serious, and Bucky doesn't have anything to say to that, so everything goes quiet. Steve is watching Bucky with meaningful eyes, and for a moment, Bucky thinks about telling him, about letting all the feelings spill out of his mouth in the shape of clumsy words, but he doesn't know how to begin.
Then, Steve says, “Wanna watch a movie? The pair of us, we've got some catching up to do on that front.”
Of course, of course he couldn't have meant it that way. “Sounds good,” Bucky says, “You got anything special—I mean specific—in mind?”
“Darcy—you'll like her—has been lending me movies to watch. I've got a French one from her right now called A Very Long Engagement. She says I'll like it.”
“So, you must like this Darcy dame, to be watching something so girly-sounding just 'cause she says?” Bucky asks, trying to ignore the sinking in his chest. His heart is going down like an anchor.
“Darcy's a friend, Buck,” Steve says, “one who has taken it upon herself to try and 'broaden my horizons; when it comes to music and movies, and the like, and one who would almost certainly tase you if you called her a dame to her face.”
“I think I like her already,” Bucky says, grinning in a way that hopes looks suggestive, but probably comes out relieved. He knows when Steve's sweet on someone, and this is fond, but not sweet.
“You stay away from Darcy. She's got some pretty scary people watching her back.”
“I am scary people,” Bucky says, waggling his eyebrows. It's almost amazing how good he is, even after all those years, at pretending not to be in love with Steve.
“Yeah, yeah. Scary people, you ready to watch a movie?” Steve's smile is warm, but something in it is strained.
“Yeah, movie,” Bucky says. Steve switches on the enormous TV and switches off the lights.
The film, as it turns out, is not half-bad—there's war and blood and a pretty, sickly-but-high-spirited French girl who refuses to believe that her fiancé (who's not half-bad looking either) is dead, and searches for him against all odds. Bucky quickly becomes engrossed in what's happening (and perhaps more in engrossed in Steve's reactions, his face flickering with the light of the screen. Bucky almost swears he sees Steve looking his way sometimes, but it must be wishful thinking).
The movie's nice and all, but Bucky is warm and safe in Steve's sweater, and he succumbs to his exhaustion sooner rather than later, and falls asleep on the couch wondering if Mathilde and Manech will ever be reunited.
—
Bucky falls asleep on the couch, but he wakes up from the night's first bad dream in a plush bed, blankets tucked neatly around him. The thought of Steve putting him to bed—carrying him, stripping him of shoes and socks, tucking him in with such terrible consideration—fills Bucky with a poignant, almost-painful warmth. There is, however, also the terror of all the things he could have done to Steve, had he startled awake.
Bucky goes back to sleep, and dreams of Steve carrying him to bed, of waking up in a frenzy, lunging with metal hands—in the dream, he has two—at Steve's throat. Steve pins his wrists, though, shakes him back into his senses. It's the best sleep Bucky can remember.
—
He wakes up in the morning and stalks Steve down, barefoot and wearing the previous night's clothes. “What were you thinking, Steve, carrying me to bed?”
“And I apologize for the affront to your masculinity with an offering of food.” Steve is in the kitchen, cooking an entire carton of eggs in nothing but his boxers. He's a terribly distracting sight, but Bucky is intent.
“That's not why I'm mad! I could have freaked out and hurt you.” Bucky looks at the cracked eggshells, aghast. “And is that really how many eggs you think I need? The Russians made me into an assassin, not a football team!”
“I'm not worried about you hurting me,” Steve says, very calm. “And as for the eggs, I figured you'd eat four, along with a generous helping of toast. The rest are for me, unless you'd like some more, of course. What kind of bread do you like, by the way? I have all sorts.”
Bucky blinks. “You invite a famed Russian assassin into your home, and instead of worrying about your safety, you worry about his preference in toast.”
“Yep,” Steve says, stirring the eggs with a bright orange spatula.
“It's a miracle you've survived this long without me,” Bucky says. “...I guess just make me whichever kind you're having. I don't really have much in the way of memories about food. Except for borscht and pilmeni and other Russian things, I know I like those, but I think the Red Room put that in my head. And I'm pretty sure I like grilled-cheese.” Bucky realizes that he's rambling, but Steve is watching him with some kind of look on his face that is familiar for reasons Bucky can't quite place, and it feels like everything's alright.
“Whole wheat it is, then,” Steve says, with a smile. “I don't suppose you've had hot sauce that you can remember, then? You'll like that, I think. I have lots of different kinds of that, too.”
“I did a big assassination in Mexico, a long time ago, and I must have had spicy things then, but I can't remember...”
“Wait, you don't mean—“ Steve's eyes are very wide.
Bucky grins. He can see Steve reviewing history books in his head.
“The hell you did!” Steve says. “That was before your time. We were still in Brooklyn!”
“Yeah, yeah, okay...But I bet the Red Room had a hand in that,” Bucky says.
Steve puts an implausible quantity of slices of brown bread into a very fancy toaster. “I'm sure there's intel on that somewhere.” He returns to stirring the eggs.
“I don't wanna know that badly.”
“Fair enough,” Steve says. “Breakfast will be ready soon. Do you want butter on your toast?”
“I can butter my own toast, Steve!”
“I'm sure you can, but I'm making you breakfast,” Steve says.
“You gonna chew it up for me, too?”
“Tony gave me a device that butters toast,” Steve admits. “It's kind of awesome.”
Bucky makes a show of being indignant. “Then I wanna do it!”
They wind up tussling over the toast-buttering contraption, and the eggs almost burn, and butter winds up covering half the counter. Bucky's not sure he's ever been happier.
—
Everything is going well, and Bucky should see that trouble is brewing, he really should. He should know better, by now, than to ever get comfortable when things are good. Living with Steve is wonderful, and his SHIELD therapists say he's making progress, so much progress that they've even allowed Stark to activate some of the toys he built into Bucky's arm. He and Steve are out on a walk, and a car backfires without Bucky tackling him to the ground and improvising a weapon.
Things have been much too good, and so he really should have seen the dream coming. He's in an orphanage. It is small, ten kids, two nuns, and a cook. One of the children is the little boy or girl of an enemy of the state, being hidden away from the Red Room's wrath, but they do not know which. His orders are to kill them all. The nuns are begging, not for their own lives, but for the lives of the children. The cook, he has a family, one of the nuns says. He does not know what language they are speaking in, perhaps, Lithuanian.
The Winter Soldier cannot disobey orders.
When it is done, he is covered in blood. No, that's not right, cannot be right—he killed them all cleanly, one shot each. It can't be right, but he is covered in blood all the same.
He does not have a name, and he does not have memories, except for the ones that he is given. But there was once a name—he cannot recall it, but knows that it was shouted by angry nuns once, in a place very much like this. There was a name, and there were nuns, and there was a boy with yellow hair—and.
He makes his rendezvous and kills his handler. He does not know why; he does not know where he is going; he just knows that he is going to the ocean. Once he gets to the ocean, maybe he will remember where to find the boy with yellow hair. Maybe he will remember his name.
They catch him on the shore of the Adriatic Sea—not an ocean, not a ocean at all. He does not remember the name, not either of them. The torture is punishment for escaping, punishment for the handler. He doesn't make a sound, takes the pain because he earned it. He killed them cleanly, one bullet each, no life left in any of the tiny bodies.
He does not make a sound, not until they realize why, and then they make him forget the children, too.
—
Bucky wakes up screaming and cowering in the corner. The bed frame is broken; the room is a wreck. Steve is calling his name, over and over, a stricken look upon his face, and it takes a second to connect the two syllables to who he is. For a second, his name is lost, and Bucky does not know that it is better when it's found. He tries to stand, but his legs refuse to hold him, and he collapses, because the children, the children—at least, he makes a valiant effort at collapsing. Steve catches him before he hits the ground, pulls him close, and holds him there. “You're safe, Bucky,” Steve says. “It's all over now. That was a dream.”
Bucky realizes that he is crying. “Steve, Steve, I don't deserve this,” he manages through broken sobs. “Children, I killed children. I don't deserve any of it, not to be here, with you taking care of me. I don't even deserve to be—”
“Stop right there, Bucky. That wasn't you. You are a victim of the Red Room. If they hadn't used you, they would have used one of their other assassins. Turn that anger out at them, where it belongs.”
Bucky nods against Steve's chest. His is still crying, but the panic is gone.
“Now, Buck. You need to get some rest, if you can go back to sleep. You were only in bed an hour.”
“I broke the bed,” Bucky mumbles into Steve's skin.
Steve smiles a sad little smile. “You can come to mine. That way, I'll be able to wake you if you have another dream. It's big enough to share, I promise.”
Bucky lets Steve almost-carry him to bed. He hasn't the will or strength to even put up a cursory fight, not after that. He doesn't think he'll ever be able to sleep after that particular nightmare of a memory, but Steve is a warm presence by his side; Steve holds Bucky's hand to anchor him to the present, and tells him sweet stories about the Brooklyn past. He doesn't ask whether or not Bucky remembers (he does, mostly), and he stays like that until Bucky drifts back to sleep.
—
Asleep in Steve's bed, he dreams of being lost in a crowd. He doesn't have a name, or memories, or anywhere to go. All he knows, is that they are looking for him; they are coming. He has to find the blonde man, the blonde man he can almost remember, that he knows with some part of him that they can never erase. That blonde man has to be here, in New York, somewhere. He knows, that the blonde man will always save him.
(He wakes up in Steve's arms, pressed against that chest, Steve whispering, “Wake up, Buck! It's just a dream, I've got you. You're here, safe with me.”
Steve kisses his hair, and then the nightmare doesn't really matter).
—
All of Steve's talk about turning the anger outwards has got Bucky thinking, which has, historically, been a dangerous thing. He goes to SHIELD. SHIELD, as it turns out, has been waiting.
“Hell yes, we've got work for you, Sargent Barnes,” Fury says. “Your therapists have approved you for field duty. You'll start off light, so we can see what you're capable of, but your record speaks for itself. You'll be a valuable asset here at SHIELD.”
He does not tell Steve, who, of course, finds out anyway. The argument that they get into the day that Bucky receives his first mission is one for the books. Regrettable words are thrown in all directions—Steve insults Bucky's ability to make decisions; Bucky may or may not accuse Steve of trying to keep him as some kind of exotic pet.
As such, Bucky leaves for his mission, to hunt down some cut-rate mad scientist named something like Doctor All-Of-the-Good-Mad-Science-Monikers-Are-Taken, with Steve angry at him. Bucky's own rage evaporates before he even gets on the quinjet. He wonders if it was always like this, if he always missed Steve's face the moment it was out of his sight.
Bucky is terribly sorry for every word he said by the time he's dropped on the remote island, and that is when everything goes straight to hell.
—
Everything about the intel said that this was going to be easy, and Bucky should have known, he should have known that nothing is ever that cut and dry. There's not much use in beating himself up over it, though, particularly as the cut-rate mad scientist—who turns out to be much, much better as a mystic— keeps conjuring up things that will do it for him.
Bucky holds his own all-together admirably against the small army of eerily-demonic shadow-creatures, who, luckily, seem to be corporeal enough for him to strike. Unluckily, their method of attack involves lashing out with horrifying claws and whips that appear to be made of darkness, but have a wicked sting that is most-assuredly real. None of the weapons Bucky has on his person are remotely well-suited to this particular battle. What he needs, is some kind of sword.; what he has, is a knife, and several guns with a tragically finite supply of ammo. He takes out several dozen of the creatures with the guns, and is then forced to switch to the knife, which involves coming far too close to the creatures' claws to be a salient strategy.
His radio hasn't been working since he parachuted down to the island, and things are looking grim enough as is when Bucky finds himself swept up by some kind of massive, invisible hand. He can feel the fingers closing in on him, crushing.
The doctor laughs—a patent-perfect villain cackle—and says, “Don't worry. He's going to come for you. You're the dearest person to him in the whole world wide.”
The fingers curl in, and Bucky blacks out. The last thing he thinks about while he's conscious is Steve, and how terribly he hopes that Steve does not fall headfirst into this trap.
—
He wakes up strapped to a table, and Bucky hates, hates that the doctor scraped this particular corner of his mind.
“I wanted to make sure you were comfortable,” he says, “hence the familiar setting.”
Bucky swallows down bile and bites back, “Yeah, well. Can't say you're the best I've had.” It takes everything that he has to keep the panic at bay. He tests the restraints, and finds that his cybernetic arm is disabled.
“Of course,” the doctors says. “How rude of me. You're a guest, and I have yet to offer you refreshments.”
Bucky's got no witty comeback for the syringe in his hand.
“I must insist,” he says. “It's the specialty of the house.”
Bucky can see the needle. The bile rises up again. Then, the needle sticks in his vein and everything goes hot and sick and panicked—and then the drugs kick in.
—
His skin is burning, and the straps holding him down feel like they're crushing his chest. Bucky can't breathe—he can't breathe, and the bright, laboratory lights are not only blinding, but they're shifting in pinprick patterns that Bucky can feel in his bones. He can't close his eyes to force the light out. Bucky wants to scream, but his voice is gone—or maybe he's already screaming. It's impossible to tell.
Suddenly, the warehouse door bursts open, and Bucky doesn't have to look to know who it is—which is good, because he can't see through the lights. He can't see through the lights, but Steve is a beacon, glowing somewhere on the outer edges of his vision. Bucky wants to reach out, but he is trapped by bruising leather.
Steve does not say anything, and Bucky knows that something is wrong. There is too much silence and Steve is not coming closer, trapped in the periphery like a fly in honey, like a broken record. Bucky realizes, with a start, that it is not real. Steve has not come to save him.
Steve is not there, and Bucky is burning.
He can hear the sound of his own screams now, raw and broken, and then it all melts together into hot and bright and pain, and that is when the hallucinations really start.
Bucky is dreaming-awake, and the sick, revolting, horror of it avoids description.
—
Bucky is coming down, and he is somewhere between reality and nightmare when he hears a loud crash. He still can't see for all the lights, but he senses the commotion. If there is anything that Bucky knows, it is the howling din of chaos. He can hear the boiling hiss of the shadow creatures as they are destroyed—flamethrower, clever.
There's a ruckus, and the doctor is saying something, and then there's the most lovely sound in all the world, the thud of metal—vibranium, to be exact—hitting flesh. The drugs spike in his system once again, and the lights start melting; Bucky loses track of the battle, then, and focuses on trying not to scream as molten light drips down onto his face.
Sometime later, Steve is by his side, shield in hand and a flamethrower strapped to his back. Bucky knows he's real, because that is too glorious a sight to dream up. “Jesus, Buck,” he says, voice terribly, terribly tender, “I leave you alone for a couple of minutes, and you go and get yourself captured.” He breaks the straps holding Bucky down and hoists him up. “I'm sorry I got mad at you. I should have been more supportive. If I'd just looked over the intel, I would have known you were walking into a trap. 'Doc' over there is one of my regulars.”
“Later,” Bucky manages to croak out. “And also not your fault. I should have just told you I was taking a job.” Steve is supporting the bulk of his weight, but trying to walk still hurts badly enough that Bucky's pretty sure something in at least one of his legs is broken, though he's still too out of it to know exactly what.
He makes a valiant effort not to wince, but Steve sees right through that. “This is ridiculous, Bucky—you're way too hurt. I know I'm gonna catch hell from you for this later, but I'm carrying you out of here,” Steve says. “There's a good chance this place is gonna blow as soon as he can crawl his way to some kind of self-destruct switch.”
Steve is careful picking Bucky up, obviously trying not to aggravate any injuries, and then he runs like hell. Bucky thinks about how Steve must look, flamethrower on his back, shield and hopelessly besotted best friend in his arms. It's a good mental image, one that lasts Bucky until they are safe on the beach, out of the potential explosion's fiery reach, and Steve is setting him down, gentle as can be.
“Can you stand?” Steve asks. His cowl's slipped to the side, somewhere in all the chaos, and Bucky can see the concerned furrow of his brow.
Bucky is about to tell him, “Yes, of course,” when his body does the answering instead, and he collapses. Steve catches him, and does not relinquish his hold once Bucky is steadied.
Bucky laughs, and ducks his head. “Thanks,” he says, shortly before realizing that he's now got his head on Steve's shoulder. “For everything.”
“Least I could do.”
“As if you've ever done the least you could do in your entire life!” Bucky says. “It's one of the nicest things about you. But then again, everything is one of the nicest things about you.”
Steve asks. “You're very, very drugged, aren't you?”
“Mhm, not as drugged as I used to be, though,” Bucky tells him. Steve's shoulder is nice and solid to rest on. “And it doesn't mean I'm not right.”
Bucky's eyes are closed, so he can't see the utterly fond way that Steve is looking at him, like he's the only thing worth seeing, but he can feel the warmth of it. “Bucky—” Steve says, “This is probably an awful time, but I really need to tell you something. Do you think you'd remember? It's okay if you won't, because I'll just tell you again later, again and again if you need, but I just—I have to say it now. I have to say it now because I just almost lost you—again! I almost lost you again, and I can't be this much of a coward when you think I'm such a good man—”
“Out with it, Rogers,” Bucky says. His heart is racing. “I'll remember. I promise I'll remember anything you say.” His eyes are open, now, and he is looking up, watching Steve's face.
“Okay,” Steve says. He's smiling, and it's more blinding than the laboratory lights ever were. “Okay. Bucky Barnes, I love you. I have for way, way more years than I care to admit. I loved you the whole time I thought you were dead, and I've loved you more every single damn day since you came back.”
“Steve,” Bucky says. “Steve. Oh my god. I love you, too. Just shut up and kiss me already.”
Steve grins, bright and cocky, and says, “Make me.”
Bucky leans up. Moving hurts, but Steve's got him anchored in his arms, and pain doesn't matter. Bucky leans up for a kiss, and Steve ducks down to meet him, and Bucky can tell that he's trying to be gentle, careful, but the way he kisses comes out passionate, and sure, like he's been wanting this, waiting for it just the same way Bucky has.
They break apart, breathless, hair whipped-about by the sea breathe, and Steve starts laughing—a free and giddy sound that holds nothing of Captain America, and everything of the stubborn kid Bucky met in an alley and fell in love with in a fistfight several lifetimes ago.
“'m I that bad a kisser, Steve?” Bucky says, but he's too delirious with joy to even try sounding hurt.
“We're idiots, Bucky. Well at least I am! We could have been doing this for years, and instead I've been moping around our apartment, going to bed shirtless and trying to send you messages through French movies.”
“You think you were being ridiculous?” Bucky says. “You should have seen me moping. I know you usually get all the stupid, but I was way more of an idiot this time.”
“We're a crack team, the pair of us!” Steve throws the shield down on the sand, still laughing; and just like that, he collapses onto the sand, holding Bucky close with one arm so that he lands cradled against Steve's broad chest, while Steve takes the brunt of the landing, and then promptly panics. “Jesus, Buck, are you okay? I completely forgot how hurt you are for a second there.”
“Calm down. I'm fine.” Bucky nuzzles Steve's chest. “It was a nice, soft landing. And I can die knowing that I kissed you so good you forgot to worry about me for an entire second.”
“Mmm, about that kiss,” Steve says, “I think you can do better.”
And then he (gently, carefully) hauls Bucky up for another kiss, mouth hot and insistent and exactly right. Waves crash on the beach; somewhere in the background, the warehouse explodes. Neither one of them notices.
III.
It ends with a kiss, too, in the sand, and by the sea. Though like most kisses, it's not really an ending at all. After the kiss, they go home—well, first Bucky does his time in medical with his usual level of patience and composure in the face of boredom (none, though Steve's constant presence certainly goes a long way towards easing the monotony of laying in bed all day)--and then they go home.
After the kiss, things aren't perfect, but they're pretty great. There's a lot of sex, for one. Bucky has Steve to kiss him awake on rough nights and stroke his back after bad dreams; Steve has Bucky to ease the stressed out furrow in his brow, and to throw shoes at him when he spends too many hours working.
Bucky learns to cook, because feeding Steve is a way of taking care of Steve, and finds that he rather enjoys it. In the mornings, when he's in the kitchen making breakfast, Steve comes up behind Bucky, wraps muscular arms around his waist, and kisses the bare skin of his shoulder. The first few times, Bucky startles—for all that Steve's huge, he moves like a cat—but one day, he's stirring the eggs, and he feels Steve's chest against his back, and Steve's mouth on his skin, and Bucky doesn't jump—he just smiles, content to his bones, and says, “Good morning.”