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The best revenge is living well is one of the things his mom used to say, along with dozens of others. Even now Steve's not sure they were anything other than . . . platitudes, commonplaces, litanies to get her through what the day threw at her, automatic as the rosary and - to be painfully honest - by the end just about as meaningless.
Even now, when that one turns out to be where he can dump a lot of the anger that doesn't have anywhere else to go, let it turn the thought from a platitude into a weapon he can offer up in turn.
It's about power, really. And who has it.
A long time ago, in the past that pretty near counts as another country now, the girls Bucky went with used to complain (in the way that was bragging as much as it was actually complaining) that they had to wear scarves and watch their sleeves and who they changed around for days after every date; Steve's starting to fumble with the idea that the marks Bucky leaves are about more than just sex or even a wicked sense of humour. That they're about proof, about a sign that something happened, that someone let him in.
That it's been there since even before . . . everything, that the impulse just gets a long stronger when you know someone did rip everything out, wipe everything blank, take away everything they could. Except the signs they couldn't - a face, a voice, a name, a phrase.
The thought's a tentative shape in Steve's head for a long time, what feels like a long time, before he does anything about it. Before he leaves his own marks even more deliberately, scattered where Bucky can see them as much as feel them made, over his collarbone and on the inside skin of his right arm.
Then he knows he's right, and misses lunch with Natasha and Betty because the night before means he and Bucky both sleep well past noon.
Part of him worries. Part of him can't help worrying, always worries - is he aware enough, is he careful enough, is he enough? - and probably always will, at least (Steve's not going to kid himself) for a long time to come. The rest of him -
So many things got used, polluted, and words, promises: those are part of it, leaving tracks like burns - sometimes an ache, sometimes stabbing pain like a blister . . . and sometimes nothing at all, because the skin's burned through and there's nothing left to feel anything, the edges of a gaping wound white and charred and dead. And talking about some things is hard anyway, full of confession and admission and stuff that costs a lot to bring out into the light - maybe it's worth it, yeah, sure, but it costs.
And maybe it's messed up, and maybe it isn't, but either way this lets Steve write safe and home and here and we across Bucky's skin with the blood underneath and maybe have it stay longer and burn and hurt less than saying it would.
They both end up kind of looking like teenagers half the time, but Steve actually couldn't give less of a damn if he tried, and eventually even Tony gets bored with pointing it out.