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“Halten Sie ein Auge auf das Asset.”
Bucky doesn’t know when he was transferred to the base in Berlin, but he knows that at least the head scientist is a little more lenient. Armin Zola hadn’t cared when Bucky cried for his mom, or if he promised that he’d take out the President of the US or any other country; he just carried out his cutting and his shocking until Bucky could hardly remember his own name, much less the country he was in.
This man, Schmidt, is horrible and idealistic, but at least he’s above torturing a kid.
He cracks open an eye to watch his retreat, straining an ear to catch the guttural syllables yelled at Schmidt’s lackeys from one of Schmidt’s board of command. He’s been hearing utterings of cleansing the lesser kin, of terminating the ‘mortals’ and going about this using ‘das Asset’ which Bucky’s smart enough to know is him. He’s been hearing word on experimenting with the arm Zola added to his body, about arming him.
He’s been hearing President Roosevelt’s name tossed around a lot.
The last thing Bucky remembers about Brooklyn is his mother’s face as he was led away. Bucky more than understands why it was necessary that he be sold off, of course; being the oldest and only boy of six siblings means having certain expectations thrust upon him. He never assumed being turned into a treasonous weapon would be one of those but at least his family won’t starve.
“Ich kenne nicht,” a gruff man says behind him. Bucky glances over his shoulder to see a man outfitted in camo-gear from head to toe. “Er spricht kein Deutsch. Ich glaube nicht dass er Aufträge annehmen.”
“Sie missverstehen, Rumlow,” says the head scientist. He has a well-meaning smile, and so far he hasn’t prodded at Bucky, only asked rather invasive questions. “Ich bin ihn nicht fragen um zu verstehen, ich bat ihn zu gehorchen.”
“Aber, Herr-”
“Sie sind entlassen.”
Bucky listens to the man’s retreating footsteps before turning his attention to the scientist. He’s outfitted with a pair of those fighter pilot’s glasses, kind of dorky looking things, and he’s holding up a strange blunt stick that’s buzzing from one end.
He smiles at Bucky when he notices him staring. “You know what this is?” he asks, accent heavy and stretched.
Bucky shakes his head.
The man lowers the buzzing end of the tool to Bucky’s-Zola’s-arm, and it electrifies through his body, spurring the metal arm into activation. He watches as the fingers curl into a fist, the various joints and segments clicking together and flexing, looking all like the weapon it is.
“You are familiar with the man Eisenhower, yes?” the scientist asks, pulling the tool away. Bucky nods this time, swallowing down a knot of fear that lodged itself in his throat. The man smiles when he catches Bucky’s affirmation. “We will hold you in cryostasis for the remainder of the week. For now, you will accompany me to the Room.”
This time the fear makes its way out of his throat, manifests in the air in a quiet whimper. Of course the man doesn’t miss it; his lips curl into a malicious grin beneath the strange goggles, and he holds out a hand for Bucky that he has no choice but to take.
He’s lead through a series of halls, confusing as they are meant to be, and eventually into a filthy, concrete room with a single chair resting in the middle. There are still spots of blood and other body fluids in the seat, but the man doesn’t care. He pushes Bucky down and situates the padded buzzers near each of his temples, asks him to open his mouth, and stuffs a rubber mouth guard in.
The last thing Bucky sees is the jovial flash of the man’s teeth as he activates the electric current.
*
Erskine had asked him to fight; Steve’s giving it all he’s got.
The man had spoken kind words, told him that if he wants to fight for his country, to defend his world leaders and fight against bullies on a grand scale, he was invited to do so. He just had to submit to a series of experiments that the doctor had mentioned could be unsuccessful.
Regardless, Steve wants to help; even if it means his death.
He has nothing to his name save for dead parents and a laundry list of health problems. If the man’s serum works the way he says it will, Steve will have everything. A job, first and foremost, but also a purpose, a reason to carry on with the cautious life he leads. He’ll be able too, strong and as he’s supposed to be.
Erskine had asked if he had anything else to tell him. Steve held nothing back.
He went to basic, trained with the bigger men, attempted to keep up with his thin legs and wheezing chest, befriended Peggy Carter, a woman with amazing temperament and an astonishing right hook. He learned the stories of men he never thought he’d speak with before. Jim, with his immigrant parents, going to school to be a lawyer for those whose rights were infringed by the government; Jones, with his thirst for modern language; Dugan, a wild-hearted man wanting to help his country, but desperately in love with his girl back home and his baby still cooking in her belly. Steve never had anything like this, save for his mother.
Then, training was over and he was lead back through Brooklyn, and Peggy brought him to a lab. There was a scientist there; Howard Stark, in all his brilliance, was a little intimidating as far as classifying him sane or insane. Steve warily climbed into the pod he’d prepared and let the nervousness bleed out of his skin and into his calm.
“You’re sure this is going to work?” he asks, staring not at Stark but at Erskine.
He gets a smile in reply, and he can already feel his nerves soothing. “We’ve went over the data several times, Steven,” he says. “If it doesn’t work right away, we’ll let you out. There’s nothing to worry about.”
Stark piped in with a none too reassuring, “And if it doesn’t you can say you died for your country.”
Either way, death or life, Steve was willing to take the risk. He shut his eyes and winced at the sting of the penicillin entering his veins, and then screamed at the serum pulsing through his body, burning away the flaws and imperfections. The capsule closed around him, and the vita-rays worked their magic.
He blacked out; he knows that much. But the last thing he remembers seeing is Erskine’s look of absolute glee.
*
Wound to the back of the thigh; recalibrate angle of entry and trace back to the roof of the shelter on the edge of the Place de Catalogne. One shot; the woman falls without a sound.
Injury to arm: minimal. Tune up necessary to carry out mission, but not this mission. Return to base before going to Moskova, New York, Italy.
Soldiers, Americans, march through the square. A large, blonde man at the forefront paves the way and gestures where the men in his charge must go. One of the men laughs at something the leader says, and then carries out his orders. The Soldier tracks the movements of the smaller man in the back, the intelligent eyes scoping out the crowd. Strategist: James Morita, American Army. The man beside the Captain prattling on to a French insurgent group resting on the street, their leader waving his hands about excitedly, not noticing The Asset. Gabriel Jones; he doesn’t notice either.
The men are easily recognizable. Morita, Jones, Dugan, Falsworth. Rogers. Priority: return to base and discuss with Schmidt. The Captain is to be taken out before the General, but is he the true leader? The symbol?
The Asset doesn’t know. The Soldier leaves France.
*
“Hey! Let’s hear it for Captain America!”
Steve ducks his head at the cheers of the men in his charge, of the men he and the Commandos rescued from the Italian holding camp. He catches Peggy’s eye in the crowd, the knowing twist of her bright red lips when she catches the pride shining bright in his face, clear as day. He grins right back at her, knowing that she’s not cheering just to spite him.
He smiles to the other men surrounding him too, catching Dum Dum in a headlock before pushing his way through the crowd to report to Phillips.
The man is sitting in his tent, hands clasped beneath his chin as he regards the map in front of him. Phillips is the picture of concentration almost always, as a man in his position should be. The efforts can’t be risked on carelessness, and with the Nazi subset Hydra constantly threatening to push back American forces, Steve can’t risk carelessness either.
He knocks on Phillips’ table before folding his arms over his chest. “Do you know what they’re planning?” he asks, testing his authority even if he knows Phillips will provide the answer sooner rather than later.
“West,” he replies. “You can’t go on bullshit rescue missions, Rogers.”
“With all due respect sir, it wasn’t bullshit.”
Phillips makes a grumbling noise in the back of his throat, and Steve has to bite his lip to stop from smiling. After a few minutes of silence, Phillips glances up at him and frowns.
“I need you in London,” he says. “I’ve got a team, you’re to join Eisenhower’s fleet and report directly to him.”
At first, he doesn’t believe a word out of Phillips’ mouth. If it’s true, and Steve highly doubts it, he’s being promoted to Colonel. He’d have firsthand knowledge reported to him directly from SIS; he’d go on covert missions with men of his choosing. Of course he’d love it, but it’s not going to happen.
Right?
“Sir, are you positive?” he asks, trying not to sound like a complete dumbass in front of his CO. He doesn’t succeed.
Phillips snorts. “You need it in writing too? Go ask Carter, she’s going with you.” With that, Phillips turns back to his map, this time frowning as he shifts half of the 107th up north to British territory and the other half south to Italian. Steve takes one last look at the Hydra movements, noticing a red star denoted, ‘metal armed man’ positioned at various sites throughout the map, before taking his leave.
He’ll bring the Commandos; they’re the only men he’d trust to put him down if he’s compromised.
*
Captain Rogers’ force has been sent to London.
The Soldier has been notified of the movement and drives through war torn Europe to find his mission. Schmidt had ordered him to take the shot, if he can still carry out the assassination of Eisenhower. The Soldier can take the shot; The Soldier never misses.
He hides out in bombed out hotels and houses, murders families to gain use of their transport, sleeps with a woman for food, another for lodging. Sleeps with a soldier for passage through the Channel, seduces a border guard, and when that doesn’t work, kills him.
The Soldier finds Rogers’ lodging quickly enough; he’s speaking with the General in an unassuming hotel in central Eastern Sussex. He studies Rogers’ profile; traces of the photograph of the man he’d been given before still linger in his handsome face. The carved out cheekbones for one, the pouty lips and tousled blond hair for another. Should he come across a camera, he’ll update Hydra’s intel. Rogers is no longer a ninety-five pound genius; he’s an experiment gone right.
The Soldier wishes he was afforded the same luxury. The Soldier never wishes.
*
Movement, is the first thing Steve thinks.
It’s 0220 and the General is still discussing tactic with the English forces. Steve knows he should’ve stayed, but the Commandos are smart men; they understood their orders as soon as they were received. The English forces didn’t have to resort to covert training; they have SIS for that and at the moment, most of SIS is disposed across Europe. Peggy’s come back to help train new men.
Steve keeps an eye on the man moving outside; seemingly unaware that Steve even caught sight of him. He’s slender, dressed completely in black save for the metallic gleam of his left arm. Long brown hair wisps across his face in the weak breeze, black paint smeared across his eyes and the bridge of his nose indicative of a man trying to blend in.
As quietly as he can manage, Steve creeps towards the window. If he could just unlatch it, he could grab the man and ask him what he’s doing climbing the walls of English High Command. He’s just reaching for the latch, arching on his toes and praying it doesn’t make a sound, when the man’s bright blue eyes pin him down and he dives through the window feet first, pulling a knife from the holster strapped to his thigh just before he tucks into a roll and bounces to his feet.
He barely ducks the swipe at his head, and the following kick catches him in the ribs. Steve feints to the left, holding his arms in front of his face as the man lunges at him again.
He’s quick, Steve’ll give him that much. He dodges, dives, punches, lunges, and leaps almost beautifully, all the while wearing a predatory expression. At least, Steve thinks it’s predatory. A muzzle covers his face save for his eyes, which are obscured in black paint and tousled hair. The metallic gleam of his arm suggests prosthesis, though it moves like anyone else’s arm. Perhaps it’s a sleeve?
“Who are you?” Steve asks between avoiding punches and stabs.
The man doesn’t answer, unsurprisingly, but he does pause in his movements for a fraction of a second. Steve doesn’t hesitate to take the opportunity to sock him in the jaw, the muzzle splitting under the force of his blow.
He watches rapt with attention as it falls to the floor and reveals a sad twist to the man’s mouth, the barest hint of stubble brushing his jaw. The man, no, the kid, couldn’t be much older than Steve, perhaps twenty-three or twenty-four at most. He moves as though he’s been moving like this for a century, though, and Steve is almost proud to say that he can keep up with the man’s skill.
That is, until he catches a punch to the gut, and has to correct with a sharp kick to the man’s arm.
It whirs at the place where Steve connected snapping to attention. The man’s face is carefully masked, but Steve doesn’t miss the slight tightening at the corners of his eyes, the shininess they adopt as the segments snap into place. He rolls his shoulder once before shrugging and continuing his efforts to stab Steve, but Steve’s already ahead of him.
With targeted choreography, Steve hoists his leg up and slams it into the man’s shoulder, the non-metal one. It dislodges with a sickening snap, and the man shouts, composed face collapsing in place of horrified pain and terror.
Steve doesn’t hesitate to tackle him to the ground, using his leverage on the man’s shoulder to keep him pinned as he yells for his men, knowing the walls are thin enough to hear through if he speaks at normal volume.
He keeps his eyes on the man, even as the sound of footsteps closes in on his door.
*
“Name? Rank? Age? Anything?”
The Soldier-or is he really a Soldier? He doesn’t know-doesn’t answer any of the small man’s questions. They’ve tried English, French, German, Russian, Japanese, and he still hasn’t cracked. Though, what information he is to give, he doesn’t know. He can’t tell them his name because that information is classified, even from him. He assumes he has no rank, and he believes himself to be in his twenties, though for how long, he’s unsure.
The Captain is standing in the corner of the room, grim expression on his face. He pities The Soldier-The Asset-The Soviet-My Love. Flashes of red hair and a small smile, strong legs wrapped around his waist, skilled hands stabbing knives between his shoulder blades and tearing at his arm. Bright eyes and screaming children climbing up his legs and giggling, “Bucky, come play!”
A thin face, dropping papers every morning, with the same eyes, hair, lips as the Captain, calls for Mrs. Barnes; The Solder doesn’t know if she’s home-no, Bucky doesn’t know if she’s home.
“Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes,” The Soldier-James-says, though he doesn’t know if it’s a fantasy he’s created. “Twenty-seven, from Brooklyn, New York.”
Recognition, the twist of puffy lips, sparkling blue eyes and a nice smile; Bucky likes that smile. The small man is asking him more questions, this time in English, but James-The Soldier-doesn’t answer. He looks at the Captain, searching for traces of the skinny kid from Apt. 12B in the man’s hulking figure. There’s something familiar in the man’s gaze, the soft slide of his eyes down The Soldier’s-James’-frame. He remembers liking it.
A sharp pain in his shoulder, a small hand pressing the bone back where it’s supposed to be. The Soldier can’t move; he is restrained.
The voice yells at him again. “Stationed?”
“Berlin,” he says, without realizing his mouth has moved. “Schmidt-um, the leader-Wo sind wir? Ich kenne nicht- Warum ziehst du- Do you know where my mother is? I need to tell her something.”
Four sets of concerned eyes, one familiar. James’ eyes flit from face to face, searching for anything that’ll say he can get out of this mess and back home. Ma should-she’s going to be so mad. He needs to make it home before sundown or she’s gonna have his ass.
“James?” a familiar tenor voice cuts through his thoughts.
“Yeah?”
“I know you’re worried about your mother but could you tell us more about Schmidt?”
Oh, yes, the mission. Steven Grant Rogers, 107th Unit, American forces. Former Captain, rumored to have been promoted to Colonel. Reports directly to General Eisenhower, who’s in the building. The Mission-
“Wo zum Teufel bin ich?!” The Soldier snarls, straining against the metallic restraints binding his arms, hands, throat. He kicks, but all it does is rattle the chair. “Wer sind sie?! Ich muss meine Mission zu erfüllen!”
Little Stevie would always come riding down the street and smile at Bucky. He was so polite for such a fucked up kid, always wearing a patchwork of bruises, always getting into fights he didn’t need to get into. Bucky found him in an alley once, carried him home and put ice to his black eye. Said he’d defend the kid if he ever got into a scuffle again. Steve just looked at him with those owlish eyes before snarling that he didn’t need protection.
Bucky laughs, slumping in the chair. “Jesus Christ, Stevie, you’re always chasin’ a fight.”
*
“Sir, we think he’s been brainwashed and reprogrammed.”
Steve holds out the rap sheet to the General, tapping his foot when he takes it and reads over the list of symptoms that can only lead to the conclusion Steve’s already gotten to. He watches Eisenhower’s face phase through various stages of disgust before he glances back up at Steve.
It’s with a grim expression that he says, “I’m going to see him.”
“But sir-”
“He’s an American?”
Steve nods. “I knew him back in Brooklyn. He’s definitely James Buchanan Barnes, like he says he is.” Except one minute he’s Bucky and the next he’s The Asset, The Ghost that they’ve been hunting alongside Hydra all this time. Of all the people Steve thought would be the symbol of the destruction of humanity he never thought it’d be a kid who warned him to be careful when he fights the guys from the docks who liked to whistle at the girls coming out of the bar on Steve’s corner.
He walks ahead of the General when he opens the door and gestures to Steve. They’re silent as they walk through the musty hallway and down the stairs. Steve types in the code to walk into the bunker, nods towards Peggy where she’s consulting with Stark about what appears to be the safety on a new issue pistol, and types another code into the panel beside the interrogation room.
The Soldier’s eyes are definitely more focused this time, clear blue pinned to Steve as he leads the way into the room. He pulls out the chair and gestures for Eisenhower to take a seat, and then makes his way back to the door, crossing his arms and watching the processions silently.
At first, no one speaks a word. Then, Barnes chuckles, before breaking out into loud, obtrusive guffaws. When he quiets, he sighs.
“Well, can I say it’s good to see you? I was supposed to kill you but,” he flashes a smile as he nods his head to his restraints. “You sure are thorough.”
“What’s your name, soldier?” the General asks, ignoring Bucky’s mindless chatter.
“Bucky Barnes, what’s your name, General?” he bites back, barely covering a snarl with a mean sounding chortle.
The General ignores the question as he sorts through the other sheets on the table. Steve’s sure Morita’s scrawled out his own notes on Barnes’ psyche, just as Dernier did, vocally exclaiming that the man had clearly lost his marbles. Steve can’t say he argued to enthusiastically.
After a few moments, the General clears his throat. “You said you were supposed to kill me? Who’s your CO?”
“Johann Schmidt. Do me a favor and put a bullet between his eyes, please.”
At that, the General snorts. “It’d be my pleasure, Barnes.”
That, at least, puts Bucky to rest. He slumps in his chair, face and body the picture of exasperation and fear. The paint framing his eyes is smeared with tears he shed as they bound and restrained him, lips bitten red when he shouted in broken Russian that he didn’t want the men with the knives to come back and make him new or better. Steve tried to calm him down, but Bucky immediately turned his attention on him, telling him all of the ways he wanted to kill his capitalist ass.
He’s obviously going to be down for a while, but even this lucidity is a gift.
*
It takes days, but eventually Peggy manages to coax Bucky outside of the assassin spell Hydra’s put on him.
The first thing he says, as soon as he’s fully comprehensive, is that Schmidt’s got planes filled with bombs. He says he knows where the hangar is, and he knows how to disarm them if he can get close enough. They’re all connected by the same switch and will go off simultaneously when the switch is flipped.
The second thing he says is that there’s a girl, no older than eighteen that they need to rescue. Alianovna is a spy, and a skilled one at that, so whoever is the one to pick her up needs to take certain precautions. Dum Dum volunteers without a second thought.
The third thing he mentions, and it’s offhand when Steve’s showing him through the corridors of the base, is that he remembers Steve more than he remembers his sisters. It should come as a shock, but when Bucky’s fingers tangle with his own when they round a corner, he can’t help but smile.
“When this is over-”
“Want to go dancing? I hear there’s a place in France that allows this sorta thing,” Bucky interrupts, smirking.
Steve just grins back, giving his hand a tight squeeze. “Of course,” he replies. “But I don’t know how.”
Bucky waves him off before darting up to kiss his cheek. “I won’t break if you step on my feet, Stevie,” he murmurs, low and curt, in his ear.
The fourth thing he informs them, is that Schmidt’s guard isn’t loyal; that they’re kidnapped children and starving folk from the town’s Hitler’s army has burnt to a crisp. The knowledge is helpful; if they have enough soldiers they should be able to entice a rebellion, if anything.
The fifth thing Bucky says is to tell his family that he loves him.
Steve tries not to think about why he says this to him in the quiet of his private quarters, spread out and sweaty on damp sheets.
He tries, but he can’t help but notice the way Bucky’s shoulders sag when he’s on his own.
*
The mission is a success, of course.
As it were, Alianovna was going to join the forces of the enslaved people anyways; she said she had red in her ledger, that she wanted to wipe it out. Steve just nodded and said he’d be happy to help her with that.
They took out Schmidt together, and dumped his carcass in front of Eisenhower himself.
Bucky and Dernier were tasked to take out the bombs, and they did, but Bucky insisted that the risk of a mistake was too high, that he needs to take the command plane out into open waters and send it deep into the Atlantic. Everyone had been adamant to let him carry out such a wasteful mission, but it was the General’s order and his call for volunteers, that ensured it.
Steve immediately raised his hand, and knotted his fingers with Bucky’s.
After that, everything was a blur. Alianovna-call me Natasha-and ran her fingers through Bucky’s hair and said sorry for what she put him through, then something else using words Steve couldn’t understand. Peggy had kissed each of their cheeks and wished them the best of luck. The Commandos had saluted the pair of them; Dugan even volunteered to go along, but only two men were necessary to pilot the massive craft and Dugan wasn’t licensed as a pilot, much less had knowledge of flight.
All in all, they weren’t aware they were given a farewell until they were a few miles in the air with a ticking time bomb at their disposal.
It had to go down, and there were no parachutes.
Bucky smiled up to Steve and tell him he loved him back in Brooklyn, even if they’d only spoken a few choice words here and there.
Steve said he’d love to let him clean him up and have his back, if only things were different.
Just before they hit the water, just before the chill filled their lungs and the bright blue light filled the cabin with something akin to godly brightness, they reached for each other, and Steve caught Bucky’s lips with his own.
*
“Steve… Steve, goddammit wake the fuck up!”
He turned away from the voice, rolling onto his side of the extremely comfortable mattress. He never had anything like this, not even when he was promoted and given the best lodgings the U.S. Military had to offer. The pillow was soft as a cloud and Steve was more than happy to bury his face in it.
Then, someone above him grunts and flicks on a light. “For the love of Christ, Stevie, I know you’re awake.” A weight settles on the mattress beside him, soft hands sliding over his arms and giving his shoulder a gentle shake.
All he can muster is a weak, “g’away,” before he rolls to avoid the light. Unfortunately, the asshole catches his wrists and pins them above his head.
“For fuck’s sake, open your damn eyes!”
He grumbles, but complies with the angry man, wincing when blinding white hits his eyes. He adjusts quickly, nonetheless; the serum ensured that he’d be pretty much able to adapt to every situation he so happens to be thrust into.
Of course, he doesn’t expect the strange projection on the wall, a ball game playing clear as if he were sitting in the stadium playing in front of him. He frowns, combing his hair back as he sits up, groaning when his back gives a series of resounding cracks, as though he hasn’t moved for a century. He turns to the window, taking in the light breeze, smelling faintly of brine and the filthy water of the east coast, before turning to stare at his ‘guest’.
And… and what he sees takes him back a little.
“Bucky?” he asks, flinching at the way his voice crack. “What the hell?”
Bucky just snorts, looking all the derisive asshole he was, but with longer hair tied up in a messy bun, and a t-shirt displaying a large green man with protruding muscles. Steve’s at an utter and complete loss, and Bucky must notice something in expression because his face splits with a wide grin.
“Hey,” he says, holding his arms out wide like a toddler about to brag how much more his ‘ma loves him than Steve’s. “Welcome to the future!”
“The future?”
“Oh come on, Stevie, you’re smarter than that.” If anything, Bucky is more derisive than Steve remembers, rolling his eyes and giving a sarcastic belt of laughter.
Okay, he is smarter than to just have woken up without a clue in the world. He does remember some things; Peggy Carter, for one, with all of her brave intelligence and her take-no-bullshit attitude. Then he remembers a man, wild haired and intimidatingly smart, but well meaning. Stark, then. Soldiers galore, few faces standing out from a sea of loyal men, a leader, a General, a snarky redheaded woman with a Russian accent and, and The Soldier previously coined: The Asset, The Ghost, Winter itself.
“We died!” Steve exclaims, sounding perhaps a bit more excited than he should.
It gets him a raised eyebrow, and a disappointed twist of lips. “Oh my God,” Bucky grumbles. “No, Steve, we survived. We’re super soldiers, moron, emphasis on the super.”
“But we crashed-”
“I was told, back then, that you jumped from a plane at several miles, were shot on the descent, and came up without so much as a scratch.” Bucky scratches his head. “Zola wanted to see if I could do it too, and I did, but I broke the wrist on my old prosthesis when I landed.”
“What about Peggy? Or Alia-Natasha? Or the Commandos? Or fucking Hitler!” Steve pushes to his feet, grabbing for anything to grab for no other reason than to have something on hand.
Bucky gives him a worried look before grabbing his wrist and sitting him down on the bed. He takes the other hand too, entwines their fingers and leans forward to kiss Steve’s cheek. “Peggy’s still around,” he says. “Nat’s practically immortal, like us, and she’s standing just outside the door. I heard she’s the one that shot that Nazi bastard between the eyes.”
“That’s… not surprising,” Steve concedes. Then he frowns. “The Commandos?”
“We’ve been asleep a long time, Stevie,” is all Bucky says in reply. Gone, then. At least the most of them. Steve allows himself a moment to let it out, and he punches the pillow before settling down again. Bucky just watches him with that calm, collected expression of his. Then, Steve gets a thought.
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
Steve rolls his eyes. “Obviously you woke up before me,” he mutters. “When?”
Bucky sighs and reaches up to play with his hair; stalling. “A couple months ago,” he replies. “Nat and Sam-oh, you’ll like Sam-moved into Stark’s tower and you’ve got a floor just to yourself, if you want it, but you’re more than welcome to stay with me too.”
“Stark’s still around?” Steve asks.
“Nah, he had a kid. Looks just like him too.”
Steve nods, trying to absorb the new knowledge. He’s sure the curtain will be pulled away eventually, that this guise of survival will crumble and show hell for what it really is, but he’s content to humor it for a while. He’ll take any semblance to his own time, even if it is just a neighbor who he happened to be far too invested in for it to be classified as normal.
Then he looks down at his hands, then back at Bucky, then at the camera recording their movements in the corner of the room before pulling away and tucking his hands beneath his ass.
When Bucky gives him an almost hurt look, he nods towards the camera. Bucky’s reply surprises him. “Oh, that’s not an issue anymore,” he says.
“But it’s illegal-”
“Not here, not anymore.” Bucky tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “Folks are gettin’ hitched all over the country, guys with guys, girls with girls, people with people; no one cares anymore, Stevie.”
Huh. That’s… huh. He looks down at his lap, considering, before pulling his hands back out and holding them palms up, not looking up at Bucky but knowing him enough to know that Bucky’d recognize the gesture for what it is.
Less than a minute later, Bucky’s pulling him up and against his chest, strong arms wrapping around Steve’s waist and tugging him in and down, bristles of sharp stubble brushing over his cheek. He doesn’t give a damn about the camera in the corner, recording their movements; at least, that’s what he tells himself.
Steeling himself, he pulls away and tentatively leans forward to kiss Bucky’s cheek. It earns him an eye roll, but he catches Bucky’s tiny smile before it quirks into a smirk. “That’s the best you got, Captain?” Bucky asks, eyes sparking with mischief.
Steve sighs, but it’s swallowed by Bucky’s mouth, warm lips pressing against his own in languid waves, the slick touch of a tongue just sliding over Steve’s lower lip before he’s pulling away, a metal thumb dragging over the skin of his cheekbone.
He doesn’t notice the concern in Bucky’s gaze until a second too late.
“What’s wrong?” Bucky asks, right hand sliding from Steve’s waist to capture his fingers. Steve just shakes his head, laughing at the situation, the unlikelihood of it all, at the tears spilling down his face like some deluge that he can’t help but release. He flops backwards onto the bed, pulling Bucky down beside him, and leans his head against his shoulder.
For the first time in a long time, even ignoring the time they’ve been asleep, Steve feels something like innocence warm and pulsing through his veins. He looks at their hands, knitted together on Bucky’s knee, and thinks of the boys from the docks always whistling and catcalling the dancing girls and the boys like Bucky who could’ve gotten a date but were of a different taste. He thinks of himself, weak and frail and thin and awkward and… well, unsavory, and laughs because he’s here in this ridiculous, wonderful situation, with Bucky Barnes of all people.
He glances up to Bucky, grin growing when he finds those pretty gray eyes already trained on his face. It’s too easy to give in and kiss the corner of his mouth, too easy to snuggle against his chest.
“Nothing,” he answers honestly, perhaps for the first time. “Absolutely nothing.”