Chapter Text
They took him into Shield custody. Taking everything into account, Bucky knew they were gentle about it.
Steve, flanked by Agent Wilson and Agent Romanov, who were Sam and the red-head respectively, took him to the Deputy-Director of Shield. He wasn't physically restrained, but Agent Romanov placed a spell on him that would stop him from touching anyone.
Except Steve.
There'd been some intense, hushed conversation he'd couldn't overhear and didn't try between the three of them while Bucky sat in the back of a black SUV and stared at nothing, the dead once more gone from his awareness, and then she'd cast the spell. "With a Steve Rogers exception," she'd told him, and he couldn’t tell if it was disapproval or concern or something else entirely in her voice.
The whole drive to Shield, the walk through the halls, Steve kept his bare hand on Bucky's skin—an act of defiance that matched his whole body, but Bucky knew it was also a declaration. Not for the Shield agents watching, who knew what Bucky was, because apparently gossip ripped through Shield faster than dysentery. Not for Deputy-Director Hill, who listened to Steve's story and didn't ask Bucky any questions before he was taken away.
It was a declaration for Bucky. Just for Bucky.
They locked him up, Agent Romanov's spell still in place. Bucky wouldn't call where they put him a cell, because cell conjured ideas of iron bars and dirty toilets and cement walls. It was a room, clean and neat, with a bed and a tiny bathroom with at least the illusion of privacy, but he had no doubt it was fully monitored.
He sat on the edge of the bed and looked around: at the shiny tile, at the muted beige walls, at the chrome of the bathroom, just visible through the doorway, and was struck with the sudden desire to laugh. The not-a-cell Shield had locked him in was more like a studio than his shithole apartment.
It was about the same size, too.
He thought it was about noon, but he wasn't hungry. He lay back on the bed, his feet on the floor, and stared up at the ceiling. He waved, just so they'd know he knew they were watching, then shut his eyes.
He wondered if he'd ever see Steve again.
Steve stood in front of Deputy-Director Hill's desk with his hands behind his back, not quite at attention, and said, "Deputy-Director, you don't understand."
"Agent Rogers, I understand more than you think. You encountered a necromancer, a necromancer who was using his powers, and decided, despite what your duty required of you, not to bring him in."
"Because he wasn't hurting anyone."
"That you knew of."
Steve didn't glare at her, because you didn't glare at people when you were trying to save the man you loved from prison or worse. It was the first time he'd allowed himself to acknowledge it, but he didn't flinch from the thought. He'd put his hands on Bucky's skin and offered Bucky his life; that had been a declaration of love louder and stronger than anything he could ever put into words.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, setting both feelings and fear aside. They wouldn't help. "Yes, that I knew of. But I didn't jump into the decision lightly. Bucky had the chance to use his power on me and he didn't. That told me he wasn't willing to buy his freedom at the cost of hurting me. I shadowed him when he went through his days and it wasn't something he put together to fool me. He had an established routine, one that was obviously the product of months, maybe years, of routine. It was verified, unprompted, by third parties." Thank you, William and Benjamin. "His lifestyle matched up with the level of money he was bringing in. And—" How did he explain this? How did he explain Bucky?
Hill looked at him expectantly.
"And I got to know him. He argued with me about the decision not to bring him in." He couldn’t help smiling a little at the memory, but he caught himself and stopped. "He was there for me when I needed him. Everything he'd been through, everything he's lived, he could have been a monster, and he's not. He's a good person. He's one of the best people I've ever met."
"And you don't think your judgement's compromised?"
"It is now," he admitted. "It wasn't then." I'm sorry, Bucky. I'm so sorry, but I don't know if you'll speak for yourself. "There's something you need to know."
"What's that?"
"Alexander Pierce."
Her eyes narrowed. "What about him."
"Bucky was his necromancer, the one we couldn’t find, the one we thought was dead. Not by choice. His parents gave him to Pierce when he was sixteen. "
"Jesus." There was horror in her eyes and Steve leapt on it.
"They threw him away like he was trash when his power manifested, because they were afraid of him, because they were ashamed of him. They didn't want anyone to know, so they gave him to Pierce who promised to make it all go away." Hill's jaw worked, but she didn't say anything. "You know what the people we pulled out of Hydra were like. You know what they'd been through."
"How long?"
"Three years, as far as I can work out. It's not something Bucky talks about. I'm amazed he told me as much as he did, to be honest. He'd hate that I was telling you."
"So why are you?"
Steve leaned forward and put his hands on her desk, looking at her earnestly. "What would we have done with him if we'd taken him out of Hydra? Five years ago, if he hadn't run, if Shield had brought him in, how would we have treated him?" He held her eyes, kept his voice soft. "We'd have helped him. We wouldn't have locked him up."
"A lot can happen in five years."
"It can, but it didn't. The only thing Bucky ever did with his power was help when we needed him, and even knowing what it was going to cost him, he didn't hesitate."
After a long minute, she nodded. "We'll take that into account. You understand that your actions are going to have consequences?"
"I know."
"Whatever happens with your necromancer, I suspect we're going to need you, so they're postponed for the moment." Steve opened his mouth to ask, but she held up her hand. "I'll keep you updated."
"Thank you."
"You're dismissed."
"Yes, ma'am."
The flunky behind the desk in the outer office pointedly didn't look at him, but Steve barely noticed, because Sam and Nat were waiting. "Hey."
"What happened?" Nat asked.
Steve rubbed his forehead. "I don't know. I did what I could."
"What about you?" Steve looked at Sam blankly. "What's going to happen to you?"
"I don't know. Something. She said it was postponed until they decide what to do with Bucky."
"Probably suspension without pay," Nat said and Steve lifted his hands, let them fall, because he didn't care.
"Which will suck, but you'll survive," Sam said. "But I've got a more important question."
"What's that?" Steve asked.
"Does this mean we can ask?"
"Yeah," Steve said, as an entirely unexpected flood of warmth spread through him. "You can ask."
"Good, because I have some questions." Sam exchanged a glance with Nat. "Since you've been sneaking out behind our backs to see a boy."
It dragged a laugh out of Steve when he wouldn't have thought it was possible, and Sam pulled him into a quick hug. "Come on. Let's get you home."
Steve started to protest, but Nat overrode him. "There's nothing you can do here. Get some rest, and a shower wouldn't hurt," she wrinkled her nose and it made him smile, "and you'll be ready if Bucky needs you."
The thought of leaving Bucky behind was like barbed wire on bare flesh, but she was right. She was right, and he knew it, but letting them take him home, knowing Bucky was alone, was one of the hardest things he'd ever done.
"Mr Barnes?"
The voice from the ceiling startled Bucky awake and for several panicked seconds, he didn't know where he was. Slowly, it came back to him. He was in Shield. It was the end.
He didn't know how long he'd been asleep, hadn't thought he'd sleep at all, but they'd brought him food and he'd wolfed it down, as ravenous as Steve had been the night he'd shown up at Bucky's place, and his eyes wouldn't stay open after that. He was still tired, felt like he was wearing clothes made of lead.
"Mr Barnes?" came again, and he shuddered. The last person who'd called him Mr Barnes had been Alexander Pierce.
"My name's Bucky. Can you call me that?"
"Bucky, then. May I come in?"
"It's your digs. You can do whatever you want."
The door slid open and a plain, slightly balding man in a dark suit stood in the doorway. "I'm here to talk to you about what happened."
"You're here to interrogate me, you mean."
"Not the word I'd choose, but whatever you're comfortable with. Come with me?"
Bucky went, following him down the hall into a plain white room with a table bolted to the floor and two chairs, also bolted to the floor, and wards that felt like acid and spikes.
The man in the suit, who told Bucky to call him Phil, apologised for the wards, poured him a glass of water, and said, "Let's get started."
Bucky waited for questions about what he'd done today. About what he'd done to Steve. About what he'd done with the dead.
There were none.
Phil didn't seem interested in today. He went right back to the beginning, and he wanted to know everything.
He hesitated, thought about refusing or staying silent, because what did any of that matter? But what did any of it matter? This was the end.
Bucky folded his hands on the table, kept his eyes on them, and told him everything. Everything from the moment he'd woken up two months before his seventeenth birthday and looked into the dead eyes of Laundry. He admitted what he'd never told anyone: that when he saw her he hadn't been scared. He hadn't been upset. He'd been happy. He'd missed her so much.
Had he known she was dead?
Of course he'd known. Even infused with Bucky's power, the dead look nothing like the living. He'd known she was dead. He'd even known it wasn't her. It was only her body, but her fur had still been soft under his fingers and, even if it had only been her body, it had come because he'd needed not to be alone.
They'd all come because he'd needed them. And even then, even the first time, they'd walked with the grace of the living. His power had given them that, had held them together, had kept them intact.
When his parents had come into his room and stared at him like he was a monster, every one of those dead pets had flowed onto his bed, like they were protecting him.
Silence had stretched, Phil considering him while Bucky remembered being surrounded by the dead, little pinpricks in his mind, his power flowing out to them while they reached back for him. It had hurt to send them back, but there hadn't been any choice.
He was too tired to be angry when Phil asked if he'd stolen anyone's life for the power to call them. All he said was: no.
Then he had to try and explain the core of power inside of him, the tiny brilliant sun, waiting to be tapped, how right now it was mostly empty. He didn't need anyone else's life. He wouldn't take anyone else's life.
There was a much longer silence after that. Then Phil told him the core of power was his own life energy. Most people can't see their own. Most people's isn't strong enough to do what you did. Bucky just offered him a tired shrug, and then found himself recounting every time he'd ever used his power.
Phil was ruthless and thorough, and Bucky's mind felt like it had been scrubbed with steel wool by the time Phil told him they were done for the day and took him back to his not-a-cell. His throat was dry and he was so exhausted he could hardly see.
He lay face down on the bed and didn't move, keeping his mind still so the memories Phil had stirred into life wouldn't notice him. He didn't want to deal with them. The air was sterile, and he missed the smell of flowers, he missed the rough lumpiness of his own bed, and he missed Steve. He missed Steve touching him. He missed the feel of Steve's life under his hands. It shook him. For so long he'd fought to avoid it and after less than a day he wanted it back.
Surprise wasn't a strong enough word for what he felt when the door opened and Agent Wilson appeared, holding a bag. Bucky's first thought was that maybe he'd come to kill him for what he'd done to Steve. It must have shown on his face, because Agent Wilson said, "Calm down."
"I'm calm."
"Sure you are," he said with a little smirk and came inside. "Steve asked me to bring you these." He hefted the bag.
Bucky stared at him and he shook his head, like there wasn't enough patience in the world for him to deal with this. He dropped the bag on the floor, pulled out a blanket, and tossed it to Bucky, who caught it automatically. It was soft, smelled a little like flowers and a little like Steve, and Bucky recognised it. It was the blanket from Steve's couch. He resisted the temptation to rub it against his face.
"Head's up." Something flew towards him and he snatched it out of the air. It was a chocolate mint, wrapped in bright green foil. "He said," Agent Wilson heaved a deep, put-upon sigh, "to tell you the pillow's waiting when you're done."
He closed his hand around the mint, not letting himself think about what it meant. "Why?"
Agent Wilson lifted both eyebrows.
"Why— You know what I am, so why?"
"Because we trust Steve. Because he asked me to."
"Thank you."
He nodded and left without a word.
Bucky slept curled under the soft blanket that smelled like Steve and flowers, and tried to imagine what it would be like if he was allowed to go back to him.
Phil came for him in the morning after breakfast. It was a repeat of the day before, only this time he told him everything about his time with Hydra. About his time under the control of Alexander Pierce. About the pain and the terror, about being beaten until he bled, about watching Pierce use his power to kill.
He told Phil what he remembered about Hydra, which he'd thought wasn't much. Under Phil's skillful questioning, teasing out every last thread of his memory, it was far more than he'd thought.
He told Phil everything about the day Shield came for Pierce, about the explosion that woke him from unconsciousness and set him free, Shield so preoccupied with the aftermath that they'd missed him. He told him about building a life for himself out of nothing but will and stubborn determination, about the months of homelessness before he stumbled on the trick with the flowers, about the fear, the terror of being caught before he figured out there was no one randomly scanning for proscribed powers.
He refused to talk about Steve.
He refused to admit Steve had known he was a necromancer before yesterday morning.
How did Agent Rogers know to come to you, then? You'll have to ask Agent Rogers. Agent Rogers has already told us he knew you were a necromancer. He's lying to try and make things go easier for me. Why would he do that? You'd have to ask him.
Bucky wouldn't budge.
Phil eventually let it go and moved onto: Why did you agree to help when Agent Rogers, who didn't know you were a necromancer and just randomly picked you, showed up at your apartment?
Bucky was impressed at the sheer amount of sarcasm packed into the question, but it took him a long time to answer, and when he did all he said was: Because I had to.
Phil seemed satisfied with that.
Finally, when Phil had drained him so dry he felt like if he moved too quickly he'd crumble into sand and blow away, he sent him back to the not-a-cell and left him there. No one asked him any more questions or brought him unexpected gifts. There was lunch, and dinner, and then the lights dimmed, and then there was a sleepless night, and then breakfast and lunch and if it wasn't for Steve's blanket he thought he might have gone mad.
He couldn't imagine a lifetime of this. No, he could imagine a lifetime of this. That was the problem. It was too close to what he'd already lived.
When the door opened he was expecting them to bring dinner. Instead, they took him out of the not-a-cell. Phil was waiting along with some interchangeable agents in uniform. "Where are we going?"
"We're releasing you into the custody of an agent. I have to put a tracker on you."
"Are you asking me for permission?"
"Not really." There was a sensation of ice over his skin and Phil said, "Don't try and run. I will find you and you won't like it." Bucky believed him.
They loaded him into the back of an SUV and he made his mind blank and didn't think until he was walking into Steve's building and out of the elevator and Steve was waiting for him. Holding out his hands. Bucky grabbed hold of them, and one of the Shield agents visibly shuddered. Steve's eyes went cold and hard. He reeled Bucky in and lifted Bucky's hand to press it briefly against his cheek and Steve's life was golden and bright.
There was some back and forth between Steve and Phil, but Bucky ignored it. All he could think was that they'd sent him home to Steve. He wondered if this was like the last meal they gave to the condemned.
When he was safely inside Steve's wards, Steve held him and ran his fingers through Bucky's hair and said nothing while Bucky buried his face in Steve's shoulder and cried, the memories Phil had stirred into life crashing down on him all at once.
When he was finished, when his eyes were dry and burning and his stomach hurt but he felt unaccountably better, Steve leaned back a little and pushed the hair off his face. The tips of his fingers brushed against Bucky's cheek, against his ear, and he knew it was deliberate. Skin against skin. It was Steve talking to him, it was Steve saying things Bucky wasn't sure there were words for. Bucky leaned into the touch and Steve was drawing him up, drawing him out, like he'd been way down deep in the ocean's depths and he broke the surface with a deep sigh. "Do you know when I have to go back?"
"Not yet. They'll let me know, but whenever it is, I'm going with you. I won't leave you alone again."
"You don't have to."
"Yes, I do." Steve kissed the top of his head, making warmth surge through Bucky, and as Steve stepped away, it was all he could do not to reach out and pull him back. "Let me feed you and then you need to sleep. I don't imagine you got a lot."
"The blanket helped," he admitted. "And I ate the mint."
"I thought I should send one that wouldn't poison you." Steve gave him a light shove. "Go shower while I rustle you up something to eat. I'll leave clean clothes outside the door."
He showered and pulled on the clothes Steve had left him, thick socks, soft sweats and an oversized sweater that hung down over his hands, and he knew it was so he'd be comfortable and warm, and not because Steve wanted to cover Bucky's skin. He stumbled out into the kitchen where Steve was leaning against the counter, watching the oven. He held out his arm and Bucky didn't hesitate, tucking against him and wrapping his arms around Steve when Steve closed his arm around his waist.
"Leftover lasagne okay? I remember you like it."
"Sound's good."
He stayed there until the buzzer dinged, then let Steve steer him out to sit at the table and ate the lasagne without really tasting it. After, he brushed his teeth with a toothbrush Steve dug out for him, and had turned towards the living room and the couch when Steve stopped him with a hand on his arm.
"I have an alternative to the couch."
"I'm not sleeping on the floor," he said, but he thought he knew where Steve was going with this.
"Sleep with me. It helped when I did it."
"When you slept with yourself?" Steve wrinkled his nose at him and Bucky managed a tired grin. "Yeah, that sounds good."
Steve's bedroom was warm. Welcoming. Golden browns and tans and deep greens and it felt like stepping into a sun dappled forest. Possibly he was too tired to be allowed to describe things, but Steve pulled the covers back and gestured for Bucky to get in and he did, sliding across to the other side and leaving room for Steve.
The bed dipped under Steve's weight when he climbed in and he pulled the covers up to their waists. Bucky settled his hand on Steve's forearm, the flow of Steve's life under his touch endlessly comforting. "Did you know I can feel it?" he murmured.
"Feel it?"
"Your life."
Steve smiled.
"It's golden. I can feel it under my hands, and it's golden and beautiful." He ran his fingers in a slow swoop up Steve's arm to his elbow and down again, feeling his life swirl and change. He looked up from his hand to find Steve watching him.
"There's something you should probably know," Steve said, turning to face him. Bucky pressed both hands against Steve's arm and Steve lifted a hand to touch his cheek. "I love you."
The words took a moment to sink in, they'd been said so matter-of-factly, like they were simply a fact of the world Steve was sharing with him. And that's what they were, he realised. For Steve, that's exactly what they were: a fact of the world.
"Are you going to ask if I love you, too?" Bucky asked, and his voice sounded like it was coming from far away.
Steve shook his head. "No."
"Why not?"
"Because it's not a trade. I told you because I wanted you to know that I love you."
It didn't make sense, Steve was saying these things and he was so calm, smiling faintly, his fingers gentle as they curled around Bucky's. Bucky grabbed hold of his hand and held on tight.
"Bucky?"
Now Steve sounded concerned, and he wanted to reassure him, but he wasn't Steve, he couldn’t master that matter-of-factness while he tossed himself out of a plane with no parachute. He knew Steve was part of him, couldn't imagine life without him in it, but it was, he didn't know… He opened his mouth, closed it. Tried again. "Steve. I don't—"
"It's okay, Bucky."
Bucky covered Steve's mouth with one hand. "You don't know what I was going to say. It wasn't I don't love you. It was: it's too big, it's too much. I need…I don't know what I need."
"You need to sleep," Steve said firmly. "You're exhausted."
Steve was right, he could feel it dragging at him, fogging his thoughts. He curled against Steve, forehead tucked into the curve of his neck, body curved against Steve's, Steve's arm around him, and Steve kissed his temple. Bucky hooked his bare ankle over Steve's, skin on skin. Everywhere his skin touched Steve's he could feel Steve's life, flowing golden and bright. Steve stroked his fingers slowly down his spine, and the motion soothed Bucky into sleep.
Steve woke up at his usual time, but he didn't get out of bed. Instead, he watched Bucky sleep, figuring the creepiness was mitigated when the person you were watching was asleep in your arms, half-sprawled across your chest, with their chin jammed in your collarbone.
His bladder eventually demanded he get up, which involved complicated disentangling from a reluctant to let go Bucky, and since he was up anyway, he got dressed and made breakfast. He wouldn't be getting ready for work, since work currently consisted of having custody of Bucky.
When Agent Coulson had contacted him, to see if he was willing to take Bucky, he'd started to hope. That wasn't standard practice for dealing with a necromancer, it was so far out of standard practice it was practically on another planet, and it gave him hope.
He didn't know whether to say anything to Bucky. He stood in the doorway of his bedroom, breakfast sitting in the kitchen waiting to be eaten, watching Bucky, who was curled in a ball in the centre of the bed, and he still didn't know.
"Bucky," he called, crossing the floor to stand a couple of feet away from the bed, because he didn't want to lean over Bucky, didn't want to risk scaring him again. Bucky blinked blearily up at him and uncurled. "Hey," Steve said softly. "I didn't want to startle you."
Without speaking, eyes barely open, Bucky opened his arms. It shot straight to Steve's heart, because it meant Bucky wanted him. Wanted to be held, wanted to be touched, wanted Steve, even half-asleep. I love you didn't have to be said in words, and Steve wasn't taking anything for granted, he wasn't assuming anything, but he didn't think he was alone in this.
He slipped back into bed to wrap himself around Bucky, making sure to slide his hands over bare skin, the back of Bucky's neck, the strip of skin where his shirt had ridden up, I trust you, I love you, struck with the wonder of knowing Bucky could feel his life. Bucky burrowed into Steve, clinging like he'd never let go, and Steve laughed softly and held him closer as his hands found Steve's bare skin in turn. "I made breakfast."
Bucky made a soft, approving, expectant sound.
"I'm not bringing you breakfast in bed."
The next sound was not so approving.
"No way. You have to get up if you want to eat."
Bucky pulled back enough to deliver a one-eyed glare. His hair was a disaster, hanging half over his face, and Steve thought his heart was going to swell up and burst out of his chest. God, he loved him. He brushed the hair off Bucky's face, making Bucky blink at him, and kissed his forehead. Bucky sighed and cuddled closer and Steve could feel him drifting off again.
"Stay," Bucky muttered, pressing his palm over Steve's heart. The little noise of discontent he made didn't give Steve time to react, not that he would have stopped Bucky from wriggling his hand under Steve's shirt so he could press his hand against his chest in the same spot over his heart. Bucky's eyes closed on a sigh of contentment, and Steve knew Bucky was feeling his life flow. Bucky could put his hands on him whenever he wanted, wherever he wanted, and maybe he shouldn't feel wonder; maybe it should freak him out that Bucky could feel his life, that it was right there for the taking if Bucky wanted it, but it didn't.
Breakfast could be reheated or remade. It wasn't important.This was important. "I'm not going anywhere," Steve promised and Bucky's fingers curled against his skin. His eyes fluttered open and Steve was caught by them, trapped in blue-grey, but he was happy to be there.
Bucky smiled, soft and sleepy and warm, and then his eyes slipped shut as he held Steve tighter.
No, I'm not going anywhere. Whatever happens, I'm not going anywhere.
They spent the day doing very little. Bucky was still tired, his core of energy still refilling, and he wasn't allowed to leave the apartment, so he spent most of the day on the couch, Steve's bookshelves keeping him occupied. Steve would drop in and out, and Bucky wasn't sure what he was doing, something in his office, but every time he'd walk past, he'd touch Bucky, skin against skin. He'd drop down onto the couch and Bucky would slide over into his arms. Bucky didn't question it. You didn't question something that felt as right as this. You didn't question something that you felt like you'd been waiting for your whole life.
Bucky spent the night in Steve's bed, in Steve's arms, and didn't question it. Steve didn't say I love you again, but the echo of it was reverberating through Bucky's bones.
The next morning, they were sitting next to each other at the dining room table, breakfast dishes waiting to be taken to the sink, when Steve said, "If you want to run, we can run."
Bucky froze and turned to look at Steve. He was calm, like he hadn't just suggested something that would break Bucky didn't even know how many laws. Like he hadn't just suggested doing it for Bucky. Steve had to know about the tracker, but he knew Steve: he'd have a plan to get rid of it.
Maybe, if it had been anyone but Steve asking, he'd think about saying yes, but he wouldn't do that to Steve. Maybe, if it had been anyone but Steve… But maybe not.
"No. This is the end. Whatever happens, let it be the end." Bucky slid his fingers through Steve's. "You set me free when you killed Pierce, when you broke Hydra. Shield should have had me then, but I ran. Everything between now and then, I've been in limbo, and now it's time to end." He lifted Steve's hand and kissed his knuckles, held Steve's hand against his cheek. "I'm glad it was you. It's always been you. All along, it's been you." He knew, now. He knew. "Maybe that's why I love you. Or it could be the way you assemble food. Who knows?"
"Bucky?"
"I love you." That's what this was, this Steve shaped space in his soul, this Steve shaped space in his heart, it was just so big, so overwhelming, it had taken him time to understand.
The dawning joy on Steve's face was almost too bright to look at, so Bucky kissed him. It took Steve by surprise, judging by the muffled sound he made, and this wasn't something Bucky had a lot of experience with, but Steve recovered quickly, and Bucky was nothing if not adaptable. It smoothed into something earnest and honest and gentle, Steve's hand cupping his cheek, Steve's life flowing under his skin, golden and bright.
"I love you, too," Bucky said when they separated. "Not a trade. I just love you."
Steve's smile was beautiful, pleased and just a little smug, and Bucky had to lean forward and kiss him again, a quick fleeting thing as the truth of it settled into his bones.
As if the universe knew, Steve's phone rang. They pulled apart and stared at it, like the utterly innocuous ringtone was a snake's warning rattle. Without letting go of Bucky, Steve half rose to his feet and stretched out one arm to snag it.
"Hello," he said. "Yes. I understand. I'll bring him." Bucky closed his eyes and tipped his head to rest against Steve's chest. "Yes, ma'am."
"Is it too late to run?" he asked when Steve tossed the phone on the table.
"I have to bring you back to Shield."
"Nice timing," Bucky grumbled, because that was easier than giving into the sudden fear.
Steve seized his hands. "Bucky. If it goes badly. Between the three of us, me, Sam and Nat could break you out of just about anywhere."
Bucky laughed, but it faded under Steve's steady gaze. "Steve? You're not serious."
"I don't know."
"First off, they wouldn't do that, not for me."
"I'm not sure that's true. I told them about you. They know what you mean to me."
"Steve." Bucky pulled his hands free to catch Steve's face, fingers curling around his jaw. "Promise me. Promise me, whatever happens, you're not going to do anything stupid. Even if they do lock me up, I didn't hurt anyone. I helped Shield. It'll be a short sentence."
Steve was shaking his head and Bucky dragged him forward to press their foreheads together. "You will promise me, or I swear to god, Steve, I'll…" There was nothing he could threaten him with, nothing he could muster. "Please. I love you. The thought of something happening to you because you were trying to get to me, it kills me. I just found you. I might not survive losing you." It was deliberate manipulation, it was all he could think of, and god help him, it was true.
"Unfair," Steve breathed. "Bucky."
"I know."
"All right, I promise."
"Thank you." Bucky kissed him and rose to his feet. "Now, you'd better take me in."
Steve walked into Shield with his fingers twined through Bucky's. He walked in to stares and whispers and flinches when curiosity about who Agent Rogers was holding hands with was answered by other agents with: the necromancer, quickly followed by: no, not that one, the other one.
They didn't walk in alone. Sam and Nat were waiting inside the main doors and they fell into step, flanking them, as they made the walk to Deputy-Director Hill's office. They didn't speak, simply gave encouraging nods, first to Steve and then to Bucky. Bucky's hastily covered shock, his confusion, at being on the receiving end of their support made Steve's heart hurt. He lifted Bucky's hand and kissed it, because he no longer gave a damn about what anyone in Shield thought.
He had nothing to lose, anyway. If this went badly, he and Shield would be parting company.
Agent Coulson was waiting outside Hill's office. Coulson was as inscrutable as always—Steve had never been able to read him, no one could read him, so he had no idea how this was going to go. Sam and Nat peeled off to join him, Sam murmuring, "Good luck," while Steve and Bucky continued into Hill's office. The flunky who usually sat behind the desk in the outer office was missing.
"Do we wait?" Bucky asked.
"Looks like it."
Bucky stood in the outer office of the Deputy-Director of Shield, holding Steve's hand, and knew this had been inevitable.
Not the holding Steve's hand part. Steve was the anomaly, the one thing he never could have predicted, but ending up in Shield's hands—it had been inevitable. From the moment he'd called Laundry back from the dead, it had been inevitable.
Hopefully whatever was coming wouldn't be too bad.
The door to the inner office opened and the Deputy-Director stepped out. "Bucky? I'll see you now." He took a deep breath, gently freed his hand from Steve's, squared his shoulders in finest Steve Roger's fashion, and went to meet his fate.
Of course, Steve tried to follow him.
"Agent Rogers," the Deputy-Director said patiently. "I need to see him alone."
Steve looked like he was about to mutiny, and Bucky knew he was remembering his promise, that he wouldn't leave Bucky alone. Bucky pressed a hand against his chest, wishing he was touching skin, wishing he could feel the glow of Steve's life. "Steve. It's fine. I'll be fine."
Steve's eyes dropped to Bucky's hand on his chest and after a moment he covered it with his own. "I'll be here if you need me."
"You'd be here even if I didn't need you," Bucky pointed out, light, teasing, and it made Steve grin, just a tiny thing, but enough to settle them both.
Bucky followed the Deputy-Director into her office and she shut the door and gestured for him to sit in one of the chairs in front of her desk while she sat behind it. Bucky did and waited silently for whatever was coming.
He didn't expect it to be a bulging paper file that she slid across the desk. "This is you."
He blinked at it, thrown off balance. "I'm sorry?"
"We don't use paper files anymore, but I had them print this one, so you could appreciate the size of it."
He groped for a response, then gave up. "I don't know what you want me to say here."
"That's fine. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes, but you prefer to go by Bucky. I'm happy to call you that." She flipped open the file, ruffled through the papers, pulled out a birth certificate, and pushed it across the desk to him. "Can you confirm this is you?"
It was his: his name, his birthday, his parents—and he bit down on emotions that tried to flare to life—where he was born. He nodded and gave it back.
"Thank you." She tucked it back in the file. "Everything you've told us has been surprisingly simple to verify. You really didn't try and hide your tracks." She tapped the top of the file. "If you ever want to read it, you can. There's some things in here you might be interested to know. Some sections will have to be redacted, mostly to do with Hydra, but the rest is available if you want it."
"Uh, thanks?" He didn't know what to do with this. This was not what was supposed to happen. He didn't understand what was going on.
"Having considered your situation, and you should know Agent Coulson," at his blank look, she said, "he introduced himself to you as Phil, spoke highly of you, there's some different options Shield can offer you. We can block your power—"
"No." He was half out of his seat and didn't know how he'd gotten there.
"Sit down, Bucky." Her voice was firm, her hands were raised, but she didn't look even slightly concerned, and Bucky was struck with the certainty that she could turn him into a smear on the wall before he could draw breath to scream. "It wasn't a threat."
He sat down and clasped his hands together. "Sorry," he said. "Sorry, but it's mine. It's part of me, part of who I am, and even if I never get to use it again, it's mine. I won't give it up, not if I have a choice. "
"All right. I'll skip over option two as well, which was modification?" He shook his head. "Option three." She paused and considered him, like she was weighing him up. "Option three is a job offer."
Obviously he'd fallen into some sort of alternate universe where what she'd just said made sense. "A job with who?"
Her lips twitched, but she remained as straight-faced as ever. "With Shield. It would be conditional, there's things you'd have to do if you accept, like get your high school equivalency, and we don't require a degree for our Specialists, but if you want one, Shield will help pay for it." She waited, and he knew he was supposed to say something, but he had nothing. "What do you think?"
"I don't understand."
"I pulled the stats on how many deaths and injuries generally result from a necromancy incident. They're high. If you factor in the psychological injuries suffered by the families of the dead raised by a necromancer, who tend to suffer associated trauma when their former loved ones start killing and maiming people, they get much higher. Do you know what the stats were for the necromancy incident you shut down?"
Bucky shook his head.
"Six dead, four Shield agents injured seriously enough to need medical attention, and the six who died were the ones the necromancer sacrificed to raise power. No one could have saved them."
"Did they get home to their families?"
"Yes."
"Thank you. I promised them."
"So I heard. You could help us, Bucky. You could help a lot of people. What you can offer is unique." She folded her hands on the desk and leaned forward. "When you shut down the necromancer, Agent Rogers gave you the opportunity to use his life energy and you didn't take it."
"The idiot put his hands on the skin of a necromancer actively using his power and said take what you need," Bucky muttered, staring at the floor, because he might love Steve, he might love the feel of Steve's life under his hands, but nothing was going to change how objectively stupid that had been.
She cleared her throat, and his eyes went wide as he realised what he'd said and who he'd said it to.
For the first time, she smiled. "But you didn't."
"I don't need it. I use what I have in here." He pressed a hand against his sternum. "I don't need anyone's life." Anyone else's life, he guessed, if what Phil had told him was right.
"Like I said, what you can offer is unique."
She was serious. It was dawning on him that she was serious. She was offering him a job with Shield. This was not how this was supposed to go. This wasn't how the world worked. Suspicion flared, and his eyes narrowed, because this wasn't how things worked. "I won't raise the dead for you." It came out harsh, harsher than he meant it to. "I won't turn them into weapons."
"And I don't want you to. That's not what I'm offering. Think of this as…guarding the dead from people who would turn them into weapons. That's what we want you to stop."
Guarding the dead. It resonated through his bones the way Steve's I love you had. "For Shield."
"For Shield, and for anyone who needs you. We aren't jealous with our Specialists. If there's someone who needs what you can offer, Shield will send you if you're willing to go."
"This can't be real. You're supposed to be locking me up. Mind locked, power blocked, prison for the rest of my life. That what Steve said happens to the necromancers that survive to be brought in."
"The necromancers that are trying to kill people, yes." She leaned forward and gave him a thoughtful look. "Bucky, do you really think you're the first?"
"What?"
"You're not the first person with proscribed powers to be offered a position with Shield. Every law has its exceptions and working for Shield is one of them. This is a genuine offer. I can't guarantee things will be easy. Not with what you are, but we won't, I won't, allow you to be harassed or hurt. And if you want some completely non-biased advice? I think you should say yes."
He should think about it. He should think about it and give it time and weigh up everything and find out what the other options were and— "Yes. Yes, I'll take it."
She smiled. "Good. Welcome to Shield. I'll get them started on the paperwork and if you'll hold still, I'll remove the spell that prevents you from touching people. I'm afraid the tracker has to stay in place, at least for the time being."
He didn't like it, but he understood. "Yeah, I get it."
There was a brief sensation, wind over his skin, and she sat back. "There. Who you touch is up to you, but I'd advise you to tread carefully on that front."
"That's okay. There's only one pers—" He snapped his mouth shut and was horrified to feel his cheeks warm.
She took pity on him and ignored it. "I believe Agent Rogers is waiting outside to take you home."
It was clearly a dismissal, so he got up and left.
Steve was waiting outside, pacing anxiously back and forth. Bucky caught his arm, pulling him to a stop. Steve curled his fingers around Bucky's wrist, pushing his sleeve up as he ran his hand up Bucky's arm, brushing his thumb over the sensitive skin inside Bucky's elbow, and Bucky shivered. Steve's lips grazed his temple, and he pressed his cheek against Steve's, letting his mouth drift over the delicate skin in front of Steve's ear as they stood together, breathing together, Bucky losing himself in the feel of Steve, in the golden flow of his life, in the warm, solid strength of him.
"Bucky? What happened?"
"I don't know. I don't understand. I think we're colleagues."
"What?" Steve leaned back, and Bucky blinked at him, a little dazed.
"She offered me a job. With Shield. As a Specialist."
Steve stared down at him and a smile slowly spread across his face. "You said yes?"
"I said yes."
Steve's smile got wider, and he settled his hands on Bucky's shoulders, squeezing gently, then trailed his fingers up the side of his neck, slowly, like he was memorising every inch. The glow of Steve's life, that golden perfect glow, beat in Bucky's awareness, mingling with the warmth of Steve's touch and the slide of Steve's skin against his as Steve cupped his jaw. Bucky tipped his head back and Steve kissed him, the explosion of sensation rolling through him and he pushed Steve's shirt up to touch skin, to skim his hands up Steve's side, feeling the play of muscle over ribs as he pressed closer.
They finally broke apart, and Steve said, "Come home with me."
"That's where I'm supposed to go." Bucky laughed and pressed his face against Steve's neck, taking advantage of proximity to kiss the corner of his jaw. "I don't understand. This was supposed to be the end. I knew this was the end."
"Maybe it is the end. Maybe you're right about that, but, Bucky?" Bucky tipped his head back to look at him, and Steve kissed him, soft and sweet. "Endings don't just have to be endings. They can be beginnings, too."