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Bucky jerked awake, fist clenched tight in his hair. A shout trapped deep in his throat. Cold sweat at his temples and at the small of his back. He swallowed. Swallowed down the saliva and bile and fear. Shouted when his door creaked open and light streamed in from the hallway. Steve rushed to his side, speaking in hushed consoling whispers. Hands curled around Bucky’s shoulders to coax away the tension.
It had been months since dragging Steve from the river like a baptism. Months since desperately seeking out his past at museums and memorials. Months since collapsing in a dingy back alley wracked with tremors and choking on his own vomit. Since hitching to Malibu unseen in flatbed trucks filled with livestock, moving vans filled with plastic-wrapped furniture, eighteen-wheelers filled with prepackaged groceries (which he ate with some guilt).
He had not expected Stark’s son to approach him like a frightened animal. He had not expected to find reprieve in the workshop as Tony took his fear in stride. Hardly expected to survive the heart palpitations and the seizure that woke him from fitful sleep one night. He had been convinced he was hallucinating when Tony held the screen before his face to show the man on the bridge, wide-eyed and pale-faced in his shock. He remembered the man and saying so seemed to break something inside both of them. He remembered the barely masked pain on the man’s face when he asked to be called “James” rather than “Bucky.” If only until he regained some sense of who Bucky was.
Steve clung to him in his bed and Bucky returned to himself. Muscles seizing as he clenched his jaw through a panic response. His breath came fast and shallow as he turned to press his face to Steve’s chest. Bucky cried out as his teeth closed on the edges of his tongue, the sharp tang of blood blooming quickly in his mouth. Steve kicked away the blankets tangled between their feet and Bucky curled further into the solidity of Steve’s breastbone, metal forearm cold against his bare chest. With a shudder, he inhaled until his lungs burned and his head spun.
It had been weeks since they made their home in DC after the political firestorm of trials and pardons. Their hearts belonged in New York but too many ghosts roamed the streets. In the same way that Steve migrated to his side in the night, Bucky often slipped into Steve’s bed and held him through tremors over facing a god and his monsters in the heart of the city. In the same way that Steve crept into the bathroom and held Bucky’s hair back while he retched his way through withdrawal and self-loathing, Bucky often pressed against Steve’s back as he wept quietly with his palms over his mouth.
They were both bleeding hearts trying to mend each other. Bucky shuddered through another muscle spasm, Steve’s grip tight and grounding on his forearms. He pressed his lips to Bucky’s forehead (skin clammy, hair a mess), his eyebrow, the bridge of his nose. Bucky tentatively stretched his legs, toes curling against Steve’s shins.
“What time is it?” His voice cracked. He slipped his hands under the hem of Steve’s shirt.
This was easy as breathing. Along with remembering Steve’s name and his own name, Bucky remembered the delicate intimacy from decades past. Two boys curled around each other in a single bed, fingers laced together, eyes shut tight in quiet laughter. Their bodies were different but the want still burned when Steve brushed against him while making breakfast. While reaching around him to grab a pen. While settling his chin on the crown of Bucky’s head as they leaned together on the sofa. Bucky just didn’t know what to do with the wanting.
“Not even four,” Steve yawned.
“In the afternoon?”
“As if you’d sleep in that late.”
Bucky grimaced. Swept his tongue over his teeth.
“Do you want to stay here? In bed, I mean?” Steve ran his fingers through Bucky’s hair.
Always asked closed-ended questions. Always extended the invitation, the opportunity for Bucky to decide. Steve always read Bucky like a book. Bucky relaxed under the attention and rolled onto his stomach. Pulled his arms beneath his chest.
“Yes.”
“Not going to go back to sleep, are you?” His voice suggested he hoped Bucky would be able to fall asleep with Steve in his bed.
“No,” Bucky answered hesitantly.
Steve’s hand rubbed down his back. Lingered on his lower back. Bucky shivered in his cotton boxers and thin undershirt despite the August humidity.
“Be right back,” Steve reassured him, slipping from the bed. Slipping from the room.
Bucky teetered on the knife’s edge between wakefulness and sleep. Flinched awake again when fragments of the last nightmare darted across his eyelids. Pushed up on his hands, elbows locked and back arched. Hips flat against the mattress. Steve toed open the door and smiled (although it failed to reach his eyes). Bucky shook the hair from his face. Rearranged his limbs to take up less space. Sat up and brought his knees to his chest.
Steve smoothed out the sheets, tucked his computer into the bundled nest of the comforter, and reached for Bucky. Palms up, fingers curling and beckoning. Bucky leaned into his gravitational pull until Steve grabbed his wrists. Until Steve smiled (it reached his eyes) and tugged a sweater over Bucky’s head. He gasped at the worn knit against his skin. Laughed as Steve held his hands and pulled his arms through the sleeves. Hummed contentedly as Steve pulled until the collar made it past Bucky’s ears and raised his hair with static. He knew it might be too much, too hot, too confining, in minutes but for the moment it was enough. Bucky draped over Steve’s back as he queued up another documentary. Steve was determined to lull him back to sleep.
“What’re you making me watch now?” He tucked his hands in Steve’s underarms. Wrestled him back to the headboard. “Another one about paper folding? Antarctica?”
“No,” Steve yawned (Bucky hoped Steve fell asleep first), “this is about backup vocalists.”
Bucky grunted. Heaved Steve’s arm over his shoulder. Elbowed Steve in the ribs.
“It won an award!”
Bucky tugged the sleeves over his hands. Patted Steve’s chest. Settled in to watch the entirety of the film while Steve held his hand, thumb sweeping over the plating of his knuckles. Within twenty minutes, Steve was asleep. Within thirty minutes, Bucky was overheating in the sweater. He shoved the sleeves up his forearms and listened more intently to the faint snoring in his ear than the computer between their outstretched legs.
Bucky made lists. They started out as notes scrawled down on scraps of paper, napkins, any paper within arm’s reach during frantic bouts of memory and forgetting. During the waking moments after nightmares. With his tongue thick in his dry mouth, Bucky first drew heavy columns down a sheet of paper towel after stumbling into the kitchen. Hands shaking he wrote “good” and “bad” as headers for the uncertain lists.
“Good” was Steve, and Sam, and Natasha. Pancakes. Steve’s thick green sweater. Morning runs when the sun just colored the clouds.
“Bad” was having his mouth covered, fireworks, and bananas. Apple skins. Sleeping alone. Waking up alone.
Steve edged into the kitchen that first night. Crouched down at Bucky’s shoulder. Pushed his fingers through Bucky’s hair. Waited until Bucky sat back on his heels (he never made it to a chair to write at the table before dropping to his knees on the cold, tiled floor) to ask if he wanted to put the list somewhere visible.
“No. Not yet.”
Steve helped him to his feet. Led him back to bed. Bucky clutched the paper towel to his chest until Steve rolled up against his back, arm draped over his ribs, hand warm against his stomach. Bucky lurched halfway off the mattress to tuck the list under the bed.
Bucky woke only once that night to roll Steve onto his side. His snoring quieted at last.
In the morning, Steve asked if Bucky wanted to talk with Sam. Bucky added his weekly meeting with Sam to the “good” column. Added being the little spoon (Natasha had explained the concept) to the “good” column. He decided he wanted to see Sam although it was earlier than they usually met and Sam was supervising a group meeting at the VA. He decided it was something he should do. He chewed on his lower lip. Asked Steve to come with him.
“Of course,” Steve answered and Bucky’s breath left him in a rush. He hadn’t realized he was holding Steve’s hand tight enough to leave crescent moons on Steve’s palm from his fingernails.
Steve helped him dress (because they never went out in public so early in the afternoon). Laced up his heavy boots (combat boots Sam had declared were too small and therefore of no use to him and would Bucky like to have them instead?) when Bucky’s fingers trembled too hard to tie a proper knot. Rolled up the sleeves of his flannel shirt past his forearms (fabric pulling tight against the metal plating went into the “bad” column). Bucky decided he would add Steve fussing over his clothes to the “good” column. Steve did it with love. There was no mistaking his devoted attention for the clinical efficiency of his handlers. His grip tightened on the knit hat in his hands. His vision swam.
Fingertips swept over his forehead. Steve held Bucky’s cheeks in his palms. Bucky inhaled. Forced the hat down over his hair curling under his ear to tickle his neck.
“Do you want the glasses?”
Bucky swallowed. Nodded. Went to find his list as Steve dug in his (their) chest of drawers for the thick plastic frames. Plain plastic lenses. Eye protection was familiar and not entirely “good” but it felt safe.
“What about you?” he asked as he folded folded folded the list down to fit in his pocket.
Steve shrugged. Bucky shouldered him out of the way. Untangled The Green Sweater from a mess of clean undershirts. Held it out to Steve. Late September had set in with a persistent chill and even Bucky knew that no one would expect Captain America to wear the comfortable clothes usually reserved for home. Steve worked the sweater over his head, the collar of his button-up shirt flipped up against his neck. Bucky had a swift memory of a childhood dog whose ears never stayed right-side out. Or maybe a wandering stray in Titisee-Neustadt.
Steve took his hand and Bucky jerked back to himself. They stood on the front landing leading to the street. He didn’t remember leaving the apartment. He stared down at Steve’s grip on his metal hand. Stared down at his exposed metal forearm.
“Ready?”
He leaned heavily against Steve’s shoulder.
Bucky remembered overhearing the initial protesting conversation between Steve and Sam when they thought he was asleep in his room. He stared out the window. Blinds drawn closed. Sam reminded Steve that his confidence was reassuring but he might be in over his head. Counseling was different from therapy which was not his forte. Bucky grunted and stretched out on the mattress. Sam promised he would try but asked Steve not to get his hopes too high in case something backfired. In case something triggered.
“But he trusts you.”
Bucky considered this and decided it was true. He trusted Sam because Steve trusted Sam. Bucky thought he might like Sam despite the initial confusion of how Sam could so easily join what could have been a global wild goose chase. Steve’s stubborn determination was inspiring that way.
“That’s a start,” Sam conceded. “We’ll have to see how far it gets us.”
Bucky added caffeine and alcohol (written at the top of the page, underlined for good measure) to the “bad” column. Partially from remembering fever dream instructions during his time with Tony and his artificial intelligence assistant. Partially from the tremors and hallucinations after having black coffee with breakfast. Steve tried to convince him to drink something (cold water from the tap) and eat something (hastily torn off scraps of sesame seed bagel). Natasha called Sam. Bucky was wrapped in a blanket and arranged on the couch. Touch grounded by their bodies. Head in Steve’s lap (sitting in his spot). Feet kneading against the curve of Natasha’s hip (sitting in Bucky’s spot). Arm draped limp across Sam’s chest (sitting with his back to the couch which was not meant to hold so many bodies).
It took five months of hiding in Steve’s apartment from SHIELD and the media and vicious public opinion. Five months of lists and night terrors and unofficial counseling meetings in Sam’s quiet office. Five months of Natasha dropping in unannounced. Sometimes in uniform, sometimes in street clothes, once completely undercover with a wig and colored lenses (it startled Bucky to recognize her face but not understand why and Natasha had been quick to strip out of the disguise to calm his panic).
Five months before Bucky rolled over in bed. Early hours of the morning. Pressed his hands to Steve’s face. Watched Steve’s eyelashes against his cheeks. Waited for Steve to wake.
“Morning, Buck--”
Bucky leaned in and pressed his mouth soundly to Steve’s parted lips. Steve was awake then. Wide-eyed and still. Bucky pushed himself up (hands planted by Steve’s shoulders) and locked his elbows. Cocked his head. Sniffed. Steve blinked and cleared his throat.
“Oh.”
“G’morning,” Bucky laughed. Dipped in to kiss Steve again. Again. Again.
Steve hooked his arms around Bucky’s ribs and tugged him to his chest. Bucky laughed against Steve’s mouth until tears welled up and he kept kissing Steve. Saying “good morning” as often as he could catch his breath. Steve repeating his name and stroking his hair.
“How long have I kept you waiting, punk?” Bucky asked breathlessly.
“I would have waited another fifty years for you, jerk.”
Steve stared at him like Bucky hung the moon and stars (he wondered how he knew that phrase) and Bucky knew he had the same dumbstruck lovestruck look on his face.
Sometimes speaking English was too much. Too taxing. Rather than stumbling through broken English blended with Russian and German and Pashto, Bucky would shadow Steve more closely. Propped his chin on Steve’s shoulder as he made dinner. Tucked his feet under Steve’s thigh as they bunched up on the couch with Sam to watch movies.
Bucky worked on his lists, notebooks accumulating throughout the apartment. Sam had taken one look at the creased paper towel during their impromptu meeting and dug through a drawer in his office desk. Produced a small, black notebook held closed with an elastic band. It fit comfortably in Bucky’s palm. Sam encouraged him to catalogue anything and everything. Assured him that it was constructive. Calmly asked what sparked the sudden interest in making the distinction between “good” and “bad” in a binary sense. Steve had shifted in his seat next to Bucky who slouched further in his chair, toeing at the carpet.
Lying on his stomach in the middle of the living room, he scratched his fingernails over the fabric cover of the notebook as he remembered trying to explain. Muted conversation from the kitchen reminded him that Natasha had dropped in for coffee. Her soft laughter startled him. Her small hand settled on the back of his head, her fingers curling into his hair.
“Что это, Яша?”
He shivered as her fingers drew across his scalp. “Воспоминания.”
She sat at his side, legs crossed and knees nudging his shoulder.
“О том, что было. И о том, что теперь.” He glared down at the page before him. Completely filled. “Я не хочу ничего забыть.”
Flipped back a page. Back a few more pages. Back to the beginning of the notebook. He worried he might be wiped again. Worried his handlers might be waiting to reclaim him. Bucky threw his pencil across the room. Dropped his forehead to the carpet. Recognized Steve’s footsteps (socked feet dragging to telegraph his movements). Steve’s hands on his shoulders. Bucky let himself be gathered into a ball between Steve and Natasha.
List entries began bleeding into neutral territory. “Bad” things worked their way over into pages of “good” things. Bucky had eaten half of an apple before he realized he never skinned it after ripping off the stem. Steve found him twenty minutes later staring at the fruit in his hand. Threatened to start drawing still life portraits. Bucky glared at him (the effect was severely lessened with his cheeks full of chewed apple).
Memories filtered back. Slowly. Not enough to remind Bucky of who he was seventy years prior. Steve stopped looking heartbroken when Bucky didn’t recognize records of old jazz and photos of old friends and stories of old fights. Steve went a bit pale when Bucky asked about Peggy. Bucky never asked a second time. Waited for Steve to tell him first.
Bucky stopped using pencil on his lists because it was much more satisfying to use pen. He chewed on the cap while he struck out apple skins and small dogs and Chicago. Rewrote them on a neutral page. Added burnt scrambled eggs to the “bad” list. Heard Steve laugh from over his shoulder. Bucky threatened to never make him breakfast again.
Bucky sat back, legs splayed out, fingers plucking at the cotton and polyester of the loose-fitting shorts Steve lent him. He watched Tony wrap his hands as Steve stretched one arm behind his back. Sam leaned forward in a folding chair at his side, asking if he wanted to make a bet on how long Stark would last in the ring before ducking out. Bucky turned to meet his wager but a familiar motion caught his attention.
Steve was laughing (head thrown back, right hand flat to his chest) at something Tony said but Bucky felt his stomach drop as he watched Tony work his jaw. Slot a rubber mouth guard between his teeth. Bite down. Sam’s voice at his side sounded faint, like being underwater and only hearing the distorted versions of outside noises. His lungs worked to breathe as his fists clenched at the shorts. His legs moved against his will, feet raising to his toes and bouncing nervously against the solid floor.
He vaguely recognized the pressure of a hand on his left forearm before Sam drew away. He was calling for Steve. Voice raised enough to carry over Tony’s muffled taunting in the boxing ring. Bucky could hear his breathing, quick and shallow to his own ears. Blinked at the sudden wetness in his eyes. Could not look away from the mouth guard showing black through Tony’s teeth as he grinned at Steve. Bucky felt his tongue thick in his mouth. Felt his throat clench.
His arms were stiff at his sides. Neck stiff as he held his back rigid. Gears and plates whirring as his arm ran through calibrations. He focused on Steve’s face falling as he dodged a jab and finally noticed. He focused on Steve forcing his way through the ropes. Jumping down from the platform. Rushing to kneel before him, palms warm on his face.
“Bucky? Buck, stay with me.” Steve’s voice was calm but his hands trembled.
Bucky stared at Tony, chewing idly on the mouth guard.
“I need you to look at me,” Steve said as he stroked his fingers over Bucky’s temples. “Can you do that?”
Bucky tipped his face (sunflower face turned toward the sun) but his eyes never strayed.
“Can you hear me?”
“Yes.” He heard his voice break.
“Where are we? Where are we right now, Buck?”
“New York. Tower. Gym.”
“Good,” Steve sighed. “Do you know who I am?”
“Yes.”
Steve cupped his hands over Bucky’s cheeks. “Who am I?”
Ringing in his ears. His head hurt. He knew. He remembered and it burned in his mouth. Bucky worked his jaw. Fought against the hands on him before stilling. (This was “good” touch. This was not the way his handlers directed him to the chair.)
Steve’s name rushed from his lips like a mantra. Steve’s mouth went soft with a weak smile.
Tony tugged the guard from his mouth, gesturing wildly with it while asking Sam if there was something he should do to help. Bucky’s eyes trained on the rubber. Remembered the texture on his tongue, between his teeth. Remembered the saliva pooling in his mouth and the nausea pooling in his gut. Steve (beautiful, observant Steve) sought out what pulled Bucky’s attention away.
“Should I go? If this is a bad time we can spar again lat--”
“Tony! Get rid of it!”
Stark froze, arms dropping to his sides. His shoulders jerked in an aborted shrug.
“In your hand, Tony. Just get rid of it!”
To his credit, rather than questioning Steve, he turned and whipped the mouth guard toward the mirrored back wall of the room. Bucky felt a weight leave his chest as he dragged in a gasping breath. His eyes were wet, his mouth was dry, his thighs ached from his legs bouncing. Steve’s hands were everywhere. Firm on the tight muscles of his flesh-and-blood arm. Gentle as he pried Bucky’s fingers loose from his grip on his shorts. As he tucked hair behind Bucky’s ear. Bucky tipped forward to wedge his face into the cradle of Steve’s shoulder.
Steve’s hands slipped around to Bucky’s back. He shivered, cold as the adrenaline faded. He distantly heard Steve ask Sam to bring his bag. Footsteps retreating. (Sam crossing to the shelves by the door.) Heavy thump against padding. (Tony collapsing to the steps of the ring.) Metal ringing. (Tiny metal tabs of the duffel zipper jangling as Sam dropped the bag.) Cotton rasping against nylon.
Bucky curled in closer as Steve wrapped his hooded sweatshirt around Bucky. He let Steve tip him back in the chair. He let Steve manipulate his arms, tugging the sleeves past his clenching fists. He let Steve zip him up, fingers cradling the line of his jaw. Bucky pulled the sleeves down to wrap his fingers in the fabric and brought his hands to his face. Inhaled. Exhaled a deep sigh. Steve drew the hood up over his head. Bucky’s eyes finally focused on Steve’s mouth curled up at the corners.
“You here with me now?”
“I’m here.”
“Do you want to leave?” Steve looked to Sam. Back to Bucky.
Bucky slouched down in the chair, his knees bracketing Steve’s ribs. He kept his hands near his face, talking through the fabric bunched around his nose and mouth.
“No.”
“I can leave if you need me to, Starbuck,” Tony suggested as he adjusted the tape on his knuckles. “If it’ll help with all of-- that. Earlier.”
“No.”
“Do you want me to sit with you?”
Bucky thought back to how Steve had looked free. Uninhibited and commanding in the ring. Thumped his knees against Steve’s shoulders. Steve caught his thighs. Dug his fingers in just enough for Bucky to laugh (a bit breathless from hyperventilating) and bite his lip. Steve couldn’t see.
“No. You were enjoying yourself.”
“You weren’t, though.”
“Sam’s good company.”
Sam propped his left foot on his opposite knee. Crossed his arms over his chest. “And he says that after I was about to make a bet he would have been sure to lose.”
“I take it back. Sam’s horrible company. Make him leave.”
Sam’s laugh was incredulous as Steve cradled the nape of Bucky’s neck. Pressed a kiss to his forehead before standing. Bucky sat up, leaning into the touch.
“I’ll join you in a minute.”
“Don’t force yourself for me,” Steve sighed, rocking back on his heels.
“I’ll join you once Stark taps out.”
Steve shook his head (smiling) and loped back to the boxing ring. Bucky tugged at the drawstrings fed through the hood. Brought his hands to his nose. Inhaled again.
“Willing to make that bet now?” Sam offered.
Bucky toed at the strap of Steve’s duffel bag. Flipped it over and into the unzipped main pouch. Pushed the hood off his head. Worked the elastic band from his hair. Tied his hair back again. He watched Steve stretch out, smiling as he caught Bucky staring.