Archive of Our Own ^beta

Bucky's in Steve's apartment when he comes home.

Steve's almost too tired to notice, at first. He's just come back from another mission to raze the remnants of Hydra to the ground. Fury, for all that he's supposed to be dead and gone, is still as thorough a taskmaster as always, though it's not like Steve minds. He has his own reasons for wanting to burn every last trace of Schmidt's legacy from the face of the planet, and they all begin and end with the man who Steve was sure by now that he'd never see again. Whose gleamingly-clean and polished combat boots are sitting next to Steve's front door.

Steve eases the door shut and locks it, listening as hard as he can to the not-quite-silent depths of his apartment, though his heart's going shushshushshush so heavily in his ears that he feels like he's under water. But he thinks that there's someone in the bedroom. That maybe, if he's lucky, Bucky didn't dive out the window as soon as he heard the door open. And if he's really lucky, Bucky's not there to try and kill him; finish the mission he failed when he didn't let Steve drown.

He keeps his shield on his arm, just in case.

Steve glances into the kitchen as he pads down the hallway. There are two guns and a breathtaking array of knives on the kitchen table, and at least three meals' worth of dishes drying in the dish rack. The incongruity of the dishes and the weapons might be amusing if Steve wasn't so anxious he could barely breathe.

It warms him, though, to think of Bucky using his apartment, that he might feel comfortable there regardless of how he got in. It makes Steve happy to know that Bucky's been able to eat decent food and get clean, hopefully feel safe enough to sleep. And the fact that Bucky went to Steve's apartment, out of all the thousands he could have chosen anywhere in New York City…

Well, Steve doesn't want to think too hard about that part, because he doesn't want to hope. He's not stupid, no matter what Natasha and Sam might accuse him of. He knows it's vaguely possible he got out of the Potomac on his own. He understands that even if Bucky saved him then, that doesn't mean he won't try to kill him now. It doesn't mean that Bucky's not dangerous.

He's very aware that it might not even be Bucky in his bedroom, just the empty shell of a dead man Steve once knew.

But Bucky always cleaned and polished his shoes and boots every evening. And he always left them next to the front door, just like that. And Bucky always washed the dishes.

Steve's not stupid, so he keeps his shield. But he's looking for his friend when he gently pushes the unlocked bedroom door all the way open, and his heart isn't pounding out of fear.

Bucky's sitting cross-legged on Steve's bed, barefoot and wearing jeans Steve is pretty sure are his—the cuffs are folded up, like they're a little too long—and a hoodie he knows for sure belongs to him because it's the black fleecy one with the design of his shield on it. From Tony of course, because he thinks giving the Avengers stuff like that is hilarious. Bucky's head is bowed over whatever he's reading and the hood's up, effectively hiding his face, but even without the metal left hand Steve would know Bucky anywhere.

Bucky doesn't glance up when the door opens, like he's so caught up in what he's looking at he didn't hear Steve come in.

There's an extremely old wooden box open next to Bucky's hip, one of the few things Steve took back from the Smithsonian after they closed the exhibit. It's his, though Bucky's sisters had packed it up along with the rest of their brother's things after everyone thought they both died. Steve doesn't know why they kept it; he's still not entirely sure why the Smithsonian had wanted it either. Nothing in the box was that interesting.

Except, Bucky's spread the contents out carefully around him on the bedspread like each one is a special, precious jewel. Steve, barely breathing in the doorway, can see his mother's wedding ring and the only photographs he has of her and his father. There are the pieces of drift glass, and the smooth stones he found that fascinated him as a child, a few feathers and a baseball with the stitching undone. Postcards from family in Ireland he never met, and the two lead soldiers Bucky gave him for his tenth birthday. Every letter Steve got from Bucky that survived the war is there too, still stacked neatly in their envelopes although the twine Steve used to hold them together is gone. His mother's lice comb is next to Bucky's foot. Steve was never able to get the newspaper ink out of it.

Bucky has one of Steve's sketchbooks in his lap, the one Steve made himself by stringing together pieces of grocery paper. He's staring at a picture Steve drew of him when they were teens, Bucky grinning about something that Steve can't remember now, the moment lost to distance and time. He was young when he drew it and it's not very good—Steve can easily see the flaws in it from where he's standing—but it's a decent likeness all the same: Bucky smiling with that easy, wicked charm of his that Steve could never resist even if he wanted to try.

Steve's concentrating so hard on keeping his own breathing quiet that it takes him a minute or two to recognize the way Bucky's breath is hitching. He's crying, though Bucky's almost entirely silent in a way that's both tragic and unnerving. Bucky was never one for big displays of emotion even when they were kids; Steve can count on one hand the number of times he's seen Bucky cry. But at least he used to know how.

They took that from him too, along with everything else. Seeing Bucky so obviously wracked with sorrow but nearly unable to express it makes Steve wish Pierce were still alive so Steve could kill him himself.

As Steve watches, a tear falls onto the old, brittle paper. Bucky sucks in a small breath and smears it away with his thumb, then hurriedly wipes his eyes like he's ruined the picture with a single drop of water.

And he looks up and sees Steve.

Bucky goes completely, utterly still, like an animal poised for flight. Nothing moves except the quick rasp of his breath and his eyes, which jump from Steve's uncovered face to his ordinary shirt and jacket to his shield then flicking to his sneakered feet and back. Steve doesn't know what Bucky's looking for, or what he's recognizing. All he knows is that he desperately doesn't want Bucky to leave.

"It's okay, Buck, you're safe. I'm not going to do anything, okay?" Steve says, working very hard to keep his voice even and calm. He wishes he could ask him why he's crying, especially wishes he could comfort him, but he doesn't dare go any closer. "I'm going to put my shield down. That's all I'm doing."

He slowly lowers his arm then crouches so he can lean the shield against the doorframe without looking away from Bucky. He's not concerned Bucky's going to attack him—he can't imagine Bucky would be barefoot and in Steve's clothes if he were—only that he'll bolt the instant Steve takes his eyes off him.

Bucky just keeps staring at him, red-rimmed eyes darting like he's cataloging the exits or looking for a weapon.

"I'm really glad you're here, Bucky," Steve says as he straightens. He keeps his hands up, trying to look as unthreatening as possible. He licks his lips, casting desperately for something to say that won't scare Bucky more than Steve's presence already has. His eyes catch the objects on the bed. "You were looking at my stuff, huh? That's fine," he adds quickly, in case Bucky might think it wasn't. "You're welcome to anything in the apartment, Buck. I'm just…I'm just so glad you came back."

Bucky swallows, but he doesn't say anything.

"Do you…remember those things?" Steve asks. His face is heating up for no reason he can name. "You gave me those lead soldiers for my birthday, because they were my favorites. I always asked to use them when you brought yours over to play with. It was really nice of you, to give them to me," he adds quietly. "You were always doing stuff like that."

Bucky doesn't answer.

"I think I was fifteen, when I drew that," Steve says even more quietly, nodding at the picture still in Bucky's lap. "I can't remember what you were grinning at anymore, but I wanted to keep it…I always liked drawing you." He wants to add, I always loved you. I still do. But even if Bucky remembers him, Steve doesn't think he ever felt the same, and right now it's a complication Bucky doesn't need. "I really missed you, Bucky," he says instead, because it's true and it's close enough to everything else he can't say.

Bucky's chin dips in a tiny nod. "Me too."

Bucky's voice sounds gravelly and unused, his words so soft that Steve doubts anyone else would've heard them. But he sure as hell did, and the hope that flares in his chest makes him gasp, step further into the room before he even thinks about it. "Bucky?"

As soon as Steve moves Bucky rockets off the bed and out the open window. In the single heartbeat it takes for Steve to blink aside his shock and rush over to look outside, Bucky's already gone.

Dear Bucky,

I'm sorry I startled you. I didn't mean to make you feel you needed to run. You're always welcome here. You know that, right? You can take or use whatever you want, and stay as long as you want to, too. I won't even talk to you, if you don't want me to. I know that you can look after yourself, I just need to know you're not holed up in some abandoned building or something. Or that Hydra

You left your boots behind, and all your weapons. They're right here under the window for you. I hate thinking of you out there in bare feet. I really didn't meant to make you leave so fast that you didn't even get any of your things.

You can have anything you want out of the box, Bucky. Heck, you can take all of it. I don't mind. I'd like you to.

Did you know that everything of yours that was in our apartment is at the Smithsonian? They used some of it for the Captain America exhibit, but I know they have it all in storage. Your great-grandnephew gave it to them a few years ago. My friend Sam is coming to visit next month. I'll ask him to get it so it'll be here for you, okay?

Just, please come back, Bucky. I miss you. I want you to be okay.

Steve

Dear Bucky,

I'm glad you came back for your boots and other stuff, and that you took the box. I hope the things inside are helping you remember all the good times we had. I found another of my old sketchbooks, in case you'd like that one, too. If you don't, just leave it on the bed the next time you visit.

Did you like the Sushi? Tony Stark brought it over last night. I still think eating raw fish is really strange, but it's better than I thought it would be. Remember Jim telling us about it? How his ma would make it for them, sometimes? I'm pretty sure he told us about it in so much detail because of how Monty always looked like he was going to throw up. Jim was a real son of a bitch like that, but boy he made you laugh.

I hope you remember how much we used to laugh, all of us, even during the War.

I'm really glad that you come here, Buck. It made me smile to see my your the black hoodie in the dryer. I folded it with the rest of your clothes and left them on the chair for you. Do you need socks or anything? Just let me know and I'll get you some.

I've got another mission. I'm leaving early tomorrow morning and I'll be gone for at least a week. I hope you'll look after the apartment for me while I'm gone, and eat the food in the fridge before it spoils. I like knowing you're here. I just wish you'd come back while I'm here, too.

You're safe, Bucky. I haven't told anyone about you, and I won't. Not until you say it's okay. I just really miss you. It's hard, knowing you've been here but not able to see you. I don't know if you're scared worried you'll hurt me or something, or if I'll hurt you, but I promise I won't touch you. And I know you won't hurt me. You saved my life even when you didn't know anything about me except that I was your mission. You're still you, Buck, even if you haven't got everything back yet.

I could help you, if you wanted me to. I'd like to help.

Steve

Dear Bucky,

I'm not supposed to tell anyone where I went so I probably shouldn't've brought you the hoodie. On the other hand, I technically haven't said anything. I hope you like it—it's the warmest one I could find (and the place I can't tell you I went knows about making warm clothing), and the antlers on the hood made me laugh so I wanted to get it for you. I don't know if you've had maple sugar candy before either, but they're really good. You're lucky I saved you any.

I'm sorry that it took so much longer to get back than I said. The mission ended up being a lot more complicated than anyone thought. But we accomplished it—there are two fewer Hydra cells in the world now. I thought you'd want to know that.

I hope you enjoyed the other sketchbook. Like I said, Sam's coming in about a week and he told me he got everything of yours from the Smithsonian. He's smart, so he probably guessed why I wanted it, but he hasn't said anything. And I know he won't ask, so you don't have to worry.

He's not upset about you tearing his wings on the helicarrier, by the way. He knows that nothing you did was your choice, just like I do.

I really hope that you know that, Bucky. You didn't hurt anyone—it was Hydra, all of it. Every time I think of what they did to you I get so angry I want to kill them all. I know that probably doesn't sound like something Captain America would think, but I'm also Steve Rogers and I l you're my best friend, and I can't stand the idea of what those fuckers did to you.

Anyway, I hope you're doing well. It's been over a month since I saw you. I'm still glad that you're using the apartment. I got you your own key, so you don't have to keep coming through the window. I mean, you can use the window if you want, but you probably want to use the door too sometimes, since it's easier. Now you can. And my phone number's at the bottom of the page, in case you ever want to call.

I miss you, Bucky. I wish I could talk to you.

Steve

Dear Bucky,

Thank you for replacing the milk, but you didn't have to do that. I hope you didn't st I hope you like the coffee. Sam brought it from D.C. when he visited, from a place called Peregrine Espresso. I think he likes it because it's kind of a joke with the bird name, since his code name is Falcon. But they have decent coffee. It reminds me of the stuff we used to get from the grocer when we could afford it. You always liked it so strong I would tease you about the spoons dissolving along with the sugar you put in it. Do you remember that?

I've put the sugar next to the coffee machine, in case you want any.

I hope you've been getting good use out of your hoodies, since the weather's getting colder. Natasha helped me choose the coat—she thinks it's for Sam. Well, she probably doesn't, but all she did was arch her eyebrow at me when I asked for her help, so I'm pretty sure it's all right anyway. She grew up in Russia, so she knows good winter gear. And the style and color reminded me of your Howling Commando uniform. I hope that's okay. It also has a lot of pockets.

I didn't tell her you were here, just like I promised. I think she guessed, though. But she didn't ask just like she didn't ask about the jacket, and I'm not going to tell her. You can trust her, though, Bucky. She doesn't blame you for anything you did either, just like Sam and I don't. She told me she'd like to be your friend. I hope you can meet her soon.

I hope you're okay, Buck. Natasha also told me that some Hydra operatives she's been keeping track of have suddenly stopped all contact, and others are on high alert. We're both pretty sure we know why. I can understand it, and I think it's a good thing, though maybe I shouldn't. But I just want you to be safe.

I miss you,

Steve

Dear Bucky,

I haven't seen any sign of you visiting in a while. I don't know if you're just being really careful or if you really haven't. I hope you're just being careful, since it's really cold out there now and I don't know if you have anywhere warm to sleep. I'm going to spend a few days at Avengers Tower, in case I've been around too much and that's why you haven't come home back. But I hope you know you're safe with me. I won't touch you, Bucky. I won't even talk to you, like I said. I just want to see you and know you're all right.

I'm glad you took the jacket. I hope it's warm enough. I found some of your old sweaters in the boxes Sam got from the Smithsonian—I think a couple of them will fit you, though you're a bit bigger now than you were. I really wasn't trying to snoop around your things, but I didn't like the idea of your stuff rotting away in moldy cardboard. It's all clean and reboxed now, waiting for you whenever you want to get it.

Just please come back, Bucky.

Steve

Dear Bucky,

You didn't pick up the last letter and I'm getting worried. Please let me know you're all right, or where you are so I can come help you. I know you have my phone number.

Steve

Bucky,

I have to go away again, hopefully for just a few days.

Please be here when I come back. Or leave me a note, or text me. Or anything you want. Just please let me know you're all right. I need to know you're all right.

I love you,

Steve

Steve doesn't get back until four days later, shoving his miserable way into his apartment at five sixteen in the morning. He's exhausted, after spending close to 90 hours chasing some kind of monstrous hybrid between Cerberus and a dragon that a supposedly rogue Latverian scientist created using gamma radiation and magic. Doctor Doom didn't want any of the Avengers inside his borders, let alone Captain America, but he grudgingly accepted it rather than put his population at risk.

Nearly four days after the official request for assistance, they finally killed the thing on the outskirts of Doomstadt. Doom himself shook Steve's hand next to the beast's carcass and thanked them for their help, which was nice, and the Avengers took advantage of Doom's hospitality long enough to shower and change. But they politely refused Doom's offer for them to stay on as his guests.

Steve agreed that he just wanted to go home, but that's not really true. Steve hasn't lived anywhere that's felt like a home since he lost Bucky on the mountainside. Right now Steve only wants to crash, and to see if Bucky's taken his letters.

He's not hopeful, not after going on three weeks since he's had any hint that Bucky's even been in the apartment. Steve may be exhausted, but he's already thinking of what he's going to do next; where he can start looking for Bucky again. He's sure Nat will help. Sam would too, though Steve's not going to ask this time, not after already ripping the guy away from his life for weeks on end. They didn't find Bucky then, and if Steve's honest he has no reason to think they'll find him now. But Bucky hasn't come back, and Steve can't just do nothing. He's always been lousy at waiting.

But Bucky's boots are next to the front door.

For a long second Steve just kind of blinks at them, too distantly startled to really get what it means. And then it clicks and his heart jumps so fast into his throat that he feels like he's choking on it.

Steve locks the door, then sets the bag with his shield and uniform in it down so carefully that it barely scuffs on the floor, trying not to startle Bucky more than he maybe already has. Steve wants to call out to him so badly that he bites his tongue to stay quiet, remembering how he found Bucky the first time and how quickly he ran.

The box Steve gave Bucky is on the kitchen table, surrounded by a small fortress of guns and knives. The knives have blood on them; so does the box: soaked into the old, dry wood along one side.

Steve sucks in a breath and eases off his sneakers, listening for Bucky. He can't hear him anywhere in the apartment, and considering all the blood that's scary as hell. Steve goes to the bedroom immediately, padding as quietly as possible down the short hallway in his sock feet. There's a trail of blood on the floor. Not much, but enough to turn Steve's guts to ice. It leads to the bathroom, and there's a smear of blood on the doorknob.

Steve's holding his breath as he eases the door open.

His first thought when he sees Bucky slumped against the tiled side of the bathtub is that he's dead. His legs are bent and his arms are crossed over his torso, but the way Bucky's head's hanging doesn't look like anything alive. There's a long, terrible moment between Steve's brain stuttering over notdeadnotdeadnonono and calling Bucky's name, and then Bucky's head jerks up and suddenly he's on the other side of the room with one more gun drawn and pointed and his chest heaving. It's in his left hand, and Steve can see how his right is still tight over his side, how the light grey of the thick wool sweater (it's one of Bucky's own that Steve left under the window) is dark and wet with blood. Bucky's black military-style pants are wet as well on the right side, like he's been bleeding a long time.

Immediately Steve holds up his hands but otherwise goes completely still. "It's me, it's Steve," he says. He waits a second, but Bucky doesn't speak or move other than the quick rise and fall of his chest and the minute trembling everywhere but his left arm. "I just got back from Latveria. I'm really glad to see you, Bucky.

"Are you okay?" Steve asks a moment later because Bucky still hasn't said anything. "You look like you're bleeding."

He expects a nod or a growl of denial or—hell, Steve kind of expects to be shot, though Bucky could've already emptied his clip into him about five times over by now—but instead Bucky's eyes dart to the bathtub, and Steve could swear he sees guilt flash over Bucky's stone-blank expression. Guilt and maybe fear.

Steve glances at the tub. It's half-filled with water and the dark blue jacket Steve bought him is soaking in it. The jacket's colorfast, so the water's not tinged blue. It's tinged pink, a worrying amount of it.

"Are you…washing the jacket?" Steve asks.

He means why the hell is Bucky worried about his jacket when he's bleeding, but Bucky just gives a fraction of a nod and his eyes widen with what is now very clearly guilt and fear.

"Why are you washing the jacket?" Steve demands, genuinely bewildered. "Bucky, I found you passed out on the floor. You're bleeding."

What little color Bucky has drains out of his face, leaving his eyes like glassy blue pits in snow. He starts trembling harder, and Steve's shocked to realize that it's not out of exhaustion or pain, but because Bucky's afraid.

"Bucky, what's wrong?" Steve wants to go into the room, but regardless of what the rest of his body's doing, Bucky's left arm is still aiming the gun at him straight as an arrow. "Can you put the gun down, please?"

Bucky blinks like he'd forgotten he was even holding it, then puts the safety on and drops the weapon like it's about to explode. And then he pulls himself up straight and slaps his hands to his sides. He stands at perfect attention, save for the trembling he can't seem to control.

"Bucky?" Steve doesn't get this at all, except that Bucky's obviously afraid and the effort he's putting in to not show it is gut-wrenching. Steve risks a step into the room, then another when Bucky doesn't move. Steve hooks the gun with the ball of his foot and kicks it away from them. It sounds appallingly loud skittering out the door and down the hallway. "Bucky, what is it? What's wrong?"

Bucky swallows. "I'm sorry," he says. He's breathing like he's forcing each word. "I'm sorry. I tried to fix it."

"Fix what? Your side?" It doesn't look like Bucky's done anything other than hold his arm against it, but Bucky just gives his head a single, tiny shake. "Wait…you mean the jacket?" Steve asks, astonished. "That's what you're trying to fix?"

Bucky nods. "Misuse of mission materiel. I'm ready to accept punishment."

"What?" Steve stares at him, and then he gets it and he can't help gaping. "Bucky, the jacket's yours. I gave it to you. I don't care what happens to it. I only care that you got hurt."

Bucky glances at him in abject confusion before fixing his eyes on the far wall again. "I'm allocated a certain amount of materiel per mission parameters. Such items are required to be returned whenever possible. In optimum condition."

"I didn't give you the jacket for a mission, Bucky," Steve says. He runs his fingers through his hair instead of touching Bucky the way he so very badly wants to. "I got it for you. To keep warm. It wasn't for a mission. There's no mission."

Bucky finally looks at him, but his expression is bleak and completely uncomprehending. "The Asset is only allocated materiel for missions."

"Oh, God, Bucky." Steve finally puts his hands on Bucky's shoulders, telegraphing the movement but unable to see that expression and keep his distance anymore. He's unspeakably grateful when Bucky lets him. "You're not the Asset. You're James Buchanan Barnes. You're allowed to have stuff. Not just for missions. For—for anything. You're allowed to have sketchbooks just because you want to look at the pictures. You're allowed to have a jacket to keep warm. Those were presents, Bucky. Gifts. For you. Do you remember what those are?"

It seems like a ridiculous question, but Bucky only blinks at him, then nods slowly like he's not really sure. He licks his lips. "The jacket was…a gift?"

"Yeah." Steve grapples up some kind of smile. "It was a gift. For you. To keep you warm. Just like the stuff in the box. And the sketchbooks. The sweaters were yours anyway, from before the war. But the other things…yeah. Gifts. From me."

Bucky blinks at him. "Why?"

Steve grits his teeth for a moment, telling himself he's not going to cry. "Because I care about you. You're important to me, and I want you to be warm, and have things of your own again."

"You said you love me," Bucky says.

Steve manages not to wince. He hadn't thought about it, how he'd ended the most recent note he'd left on the windowsill. He hadn't thought about it or how Bucky might react, mostly because Steve hadn't expected to see him again. "Yeah," he says. He can feel heat flooding his face but he ignores it. "I do love you."

"Okay," Bucky says. He grimaces a little. "My side hurts."

"Yeah, I can see that. How about you let me take a look at it?" Steve stamps down the useless and selfish disappointment that Bucky didn't say it back to him. Bucky barely remembers who he is right now, let alone who Steve might be. And if Steve's honest with himself—and he is—it wasn't fair of him to write it in the first place. Not to someone who might not even remember what the words mean.

Bucky hesitates at Steve's offer to help, but Steve just waits, patient and as unthreatening as possible, until he finally gets another tiny nod and he can help Bucky sit on the closed toilet. Steve hates having to ask Bucky to raise his arms to get the sweater off, but after he's just more-or-less convinced Bucky that he's allowed to own anything, the last thing Steve wants is to cut one of his sweaters apart.

Bucky grits his teeth but doesn't make a sound as he lifts his arms, then waits silently for Steve to pull the sweater off over his head. Steve tosses it into the bathtub with the jacket. Bucky's white-faced and sweating by the time he lowers his arms, so Steve just cuts his white tee-shirt off him. That's easy enough to replace, and Steve's pretty sure it was one of his anyway.

He'd like to get Bucky into the shower, since he's a mess even without the blood, but Steve's not sure Bucky can stay on his feet that long. What he really needs is a doctor at the very least and more likely a hospital, but Steve knows there's no point in even suggesting it. He's lucky that Bucky's letting him help this much: carefully washing out the wound and closing it up with butterfly bandages. The fact that Bucky trusts him enough is humbling.

The wound is a long, thin cut from a knife blade, and Steve can't help wondering who the stupid fuck was who thought he or she could survive hand-to-hand combat with the Winter Soldier. "Who hurt you?" he asks, wondering if they should go to the Avengers Tower or if he should at least get Natasha here for backup. He can only imagine how many people might be gunning for Bucky now that Hydra no longer controls him.

"Handlers," Bucky says softly. He has his arms crossed with his hands on his shoulders, giving Steve space to work. His metal arm gleams where it's not tarnished with blood. It has to hurt, what Steve's doing, but Bucky hasn't so much as breathed differently. Even his trembling's eased, though despite how the bathroom heater's blasting his skin still feels cold. "They wanted to use the chair on me again."

Steve stops to look up at Bucky, hands gone still where he's holding the last butterfly bandage over the end of his wound. "You mean, Hydra?" He has to fight to keep his voice even, not let the horror and anger he's feeling creep into his voice. He knows he can't help Bucky if he's not calm. "Did they come after you?"

Bucky shakes his head. "I know where they are. They thought I came back. I killed them."

"All of them?" Steve asks, and he's not sure if he's more upset or relieved at Bucky's nod. Maybe both. He looks down at Bucky's wound, finally placing the last butterfly bandage. It's too easy to see Bucky's ribcage, the sharp jut of his hips. "I wish you'd told me, Buck. I would've helped you."

"No," Bucky says. "This is mine."

Steve looks up again at that. "What do you mean?" Bucky just told him that he didn't think he could own anything. "What's yours?"

"This is," Bucky says with finality. "My mission."

"Your mission," Steve repeats. He's remembering the helicarrier, slowly dying under Bucky's panicked rage. You are my mission!, each word punctuated by his metal fist. "You gave yourself this mission? To destroy what's left of Hydra?"

Bucky nods, and for the first time since Steve's seen him there's a light in his eyes, and that's really Bucky there, looking out from behind them. "They won't hurt anyone again."

"I'm glad, Buck," Steve says. He isn't—he's not sure what he feels about this, except frightened that this is nothing but a prolonged suicide. He stands, puts his hands on Bucky's shoulders again. The metal one is unyielding but warm and the plates whirr as they flex under his fingers, like their movement is an automatic reflex. "But you shouldn't go after them alone. You don't have to. I'll go with you. I want to go with you, Bucky. We can stop them together." He rubs gently with his thumbs, the closest to a caress that he dares. He's unsure why Bucky's allowing even this much purposeless contact. "You should have someone watching your back."

"No." Bucky frowns. "I watch your back. You're the one always walking into everything." He blinks like he's startled himself, but when he looks at Steve his face is confused again. "I remember you," he says, voice hushed. "It was winter, and…I was a sniper. But, to protect you. I had a blue jacket." He looks at the bathtub, the waterlogged cloth and the pink water. "It was different. Not…materiel. Mine."

"That's right." Steve nods quickly, heart hammering. "The jacket was part of your uniform when you were with the Howling Commandos. You chose it yourself." He smiles. "You always liked blue. That's why I got you this one, because it reminded me of the one you used to wear. It was a gift. It belongs to you."

"A gift. Because you love me," Bucky says, like he's trying out the words. He looks back at Steve. "It was damaged. I'm sorry."

"God, Bucky." Steve crouches so he can hug him, careful and gentle and slow. "It doesn't matter. The jacket doesn't matter, Bucky. I'm just glad you're all right. That's all I care about. We can fix the jacket. We can fix everything."

Steve succeeds in convincing Bucky to change into a clean tee-shirt and a pair of his sweatpants, then drink two glasses of juice and lie down in his bed afterwards. Steve even manages to not stand there watching until Bucky falls asleep. He's absolutely certain that Bucky will be out the window again as soon as his back is turned, but when Steve checks on him five minutes later, Bucky's fast asleep. And he's still out five minutes after that. After checking every five minutes for an hour, Steve finally relaxes enough to stop pacing back and forth in front of the stove clock.

Instead he cleans the blood in the bathroom and hallway, then drains the bathtub and wrings out the jacket and the sweater. The cold water's gotten a lot of the blood out, but Steve still winces at how much is left on the cloth, and the long knife slash that goes though both garments. Steve puts them in the washing machine, hoping the delicate cycle won't damage the sweater more than it has been already. He probably should've just cut it off Bucky, he figures; he's not sure the knit wool can be patched.

Steve's even more exhausted now than when he came in, but daylight is flooding into the living room and he's too keyed up to try and sleep on the couch anyway. He tidies up instead. He puts Bucky's knives into the dishwasher and cleans them on the 'sterilizer' cycle, idly thinking how he's possibly made himself an accessory to murder and how he really doesn't care. As far as he's concerned whatever Bucky did was in self-defense. And even if it wasn't, Steve can't bring himself to give a damn. He meant what he wrote about wanting to kill everyone who had a hand in Bucky's suffering. He has a feeling that whatever Bucky did, it was kinder than they deserved.

He strips and cleans the guns and reassembles them, then leaves them on the counter. After that he cleans all the blood and gun oil off the kitchen table, and then makes himself a coffee. He smiles a little at what an odd tableau he must make, standing in the kitchen in his blood-smeared tee-shirt and jeans, with the domestic gurgle of the coffeemaker on one side and four pristine handguns on the other.

He carefully opens the box while he's waiting for the coffee to finish brewing, removing each keepsake one by one and checking it for damage. The old, dry wood of the box soaked up the blood like a sponge, but none of it seeped to the inside.

All of the notes Steve left for Bucky are in the box, neatly stacked and tied in the same bundle as Bucky's old letters. It makes Steve blink and smile to see them, not quite believing it. He'd known Bucky read them from what he said, but somehow Steve hadn't expected this: that Bucky would've kept them, that they would've mattered that much.

It's probably too much to hope that means anything, but it's hard not to.

Everything else that Steve kept in the box is still there, but there're other things as well, things Steve knows he never collected. He pulls out two interestingly-colored bottle caps, and a bright blue mini toy car with sand still in the wheels. There's a rough grey stone with a white thread of quartz in it, and a small bundle of hawk and pigeon feathers held together with an elastic. There's an unopened box of Jujyfruits. There's a ten franc coin from France, several Euro coins and a golden dollar coin from Canada. There's a backless, triangular green earring and a child's necklace with bright plastic beads. A ticket stub for the Bronx Zoo and an orange MetroCard from the subway, and a meticulously folded info pamphlet from the Museum of Modern Art.

Steve's throat is tight and painful by the time he's emptied the box and placed everything on the table. He wishes he could ask what the significance is for each of these things, if there even is one beyond something that caught Bucky's eye. The items are childlike, but it's that very innocence that has Steve blinking back tears. He might not remember what a gift is, but he chose these things for himself. This is Bucky relearning the world, one tiny keepsake at a time.

The coffee's been ready for a long time when Steve finally remembers it.

He's standing at the counter pouring himself a second cup when he hears Bucky come into the kitchen.

"Hi," Steve says warmly. He smiles as he turns around, going for normalcy and all but biting his tongue so he won't gush about how happy he is that Bucky didn't leave. "Did you sleep okay? Would you like—" He stops, because Bucky isn't looking at him. He's staring at everything on the table that Steve took out of the box and still hasn't put back in.

"I'm sorry," Steve says immediately, because—Jesus Christ—just a few hours ago he was trying to convince Bucky that he wasn't going to be punished for getting a knife slash in his jacket, and then he goes and starts pawing through Bucky's things. "I didn't mean to…" He breaks off, wincing. "I mean, I was just making sure nothing in the box had been damaged. I didn't know you'd added to the collection. But that doesn't change the fact I opened the box and took everything out without asking." He squares his shoulders and looks Bucky in the eye, just like he would with anyone he respects. "I shouldn't've done that. Those things are yours, and I should've asked to look at them. I'm sorry."

Bucky stares at him like he has no idea what Steve's talking about. Which he probably doesn't, but Steve can't think of that too much because Bucky doesn't need his rage. "The box is damaged," he says.

Steve takes a breath, sets his coffee down so he won't throw it at the wall. He's not angry at Bucky. "I know," he says. He can imagine Bucky holding it against his body with his right hand as he made his way to Steve's apartment, leaving his left one free in case he had to fight. Steve is absolutely certain that Bucky had stashed the box somewhere he considered safe. He'd like to think it means something that Bucky brought it here, something important. "You got cut pretty badly. I'm not surprised you got blood on it. But I'm not upset about the box, Bucky. I gave it to you, just like the jacket, and the hoodies, and the sketchbooks."

Bucky nods distantly, and Steve's still not sure he gets it, but at least he's not apologizing or looking like he expects to be tortured. That's got to be a good thing. Hopefully. Maybe. Bucky walks to the table and picks up the stone with the line of quartz, turning it over and over between the fingers of both his hands. "You used to collect stones," he says. "Especially smooth ones that you could roll in your hand. You kept them in your pockets. Sometimes I could hear them clicking against each other when you walked. This one made me think of that, so I kept it."

"Oh," Steve says, shocked. He has to swallow so he takes a sip of his all-but forgotten coffee. "I didn't…I didn't know you remembered that." He'd assumed Bucky had forgotten it even before he fell. It wasn't anything important.

Bucky shrugs, but then he turns and holds out the stone. It's in his left hand, his right is still close to his side. "Here."

Steve puts his hand out automatically, watches as Bucky neatly drops the stone into his palm. "Thank you. But, it's yours. You don't have to give it to me."

"It's a gift," Bucky says, but he sounds uncertain. "That's… It made me think of you. And, you like stones. So I want you to have it. That makes it a gift. Right?"

"Yes it does," Steve says quickly. "It does. Thank you, Bucky." He grins, and he knows it's besotted and a little teary but he's too stunned and happy to care. "Thank you," he says again, then has to clear his throat. "I really like it."

And Bucky smiles.

Steve puts the stone on the windowsill over the sink where the quartz can catch the light. Then he makes lunch while Bucky examines his guns and the dishwasher-fresh knives. They apparently meet with his approval because he disappears with them into the bedroom and comes back empty handed. Steve has no idea where he put them all and decides not to ask. But he allows himself to hope it means Bucky intends to stay.

He doesn't ask about the other things from the box either, even though he really wants to. He just watches quietly while Bucky painstakingly puts everything back, reminding himself that there were things Bucky always kept private; this is no different. But Steve smiles to himself when, after they eat, Bucky casually picks the box up and goes down the hallway again. Steve won't look for it because Bucky's entitled to his secrets, but it makes Steve happy to think that Bucky feels comfortable enough to hide the box in Steve's apartment.

He's even indulging himself with thinking about it maybe becoming their apartment, when he hears the bedroom window open.

He drops the mug he was washing in the sink, ignores the sound of it breaking as he runs down the hallway and slams his way into the bedroom.

The box is on the night table, and the window's still open. And Bucky is gone.

Dear Bucky,

Tony Stark said his tailor can clean and repair your sweater and the jacket. They'll be ready in a few days. I'll bring them back and leave them here for you. Tony brings her Avengers uniforms all the time, so she's used to clothes with blood and strange things on them. He assured me she's very discrete.

I know I told you that I wasn't going to tell anyone about you until you were ready, and I haven't, but I'm pretty sure everyone I would've told already knows by now anyway. But you don't have to worry because they're my friends. I trust them with my life, which means I know I can trust them with yours. None of them would ever betray us.

Did you leave because I took your stuff out of the box? I'm sorry I did that. I know that you aren't used to having things of your own and I should have thought of that before I touched them. I promise I won't do that again.

(I know I took your jacket and sweater, but it was only to get them clean and repaired. And you'll get them back as soon as they're ready. They're yours. No one's going to take them.)

If you left this time because of something else that I did, just tell me what it was and I won't do it again. It's hard to know what you need me to do or not do. I'm trying, but I can't read your mind. You have to tell me.

I love you,

Steve

Dear Bucky,

Natasha came over last night. I thought it was about an upcoming mission with Coulson or Fury, but she dropped a bombshell on me instead.

She knows you from the Red Room, Bucky. She was born in 1928, not 1984. That was one hell of a surprise when I found out, believe me. Then again, she knows so much and she's so capable, it makes a lot of sense that she would've had decades more training than it looks like, given her apparent age. Like you.

She told me that she was given a version of the Super Soldier Serum, like you were, and that they trained her the way they trained you. (I think 'tortured' and 'brainwashed' are better words, personally.)

But she met you in the early 1950s. You helped perfect her training. I don't know if you remember that. She said you were kind to her, before you turned on your handlers and the KGB took you away.

The point is, I think she could help you. She understands a lot of what happened to you, and she told me she'd be willing to talk to you about it, if you wanted. You could leave a message for her with me.

I love you,

Steve

Dear Bucky,

Looks like you've pulled a disappearing act again. I wish you wouldn't do that, but I'm sure you know that by now. I don't like knowing you're here and not being able to see you either, but I really hate that you're somewhere without me.

All the boxes with your clothes and things in them are in the back of my closet, where you found the wooden box. I put the box back there too, in case you still want it. I wish you'd just fucking tell me.

I wish you'd come back to get your damn jacket, if nothing else. So I can at least know you're alive.

You're a fucking punk, Bucky, pulling this shit. I'm not just some storage facility or walk-in clinic. I'm your friend and I think I deserve to know if you're still breathing.

I love you, but I'm sick of this.

Steve

Dear Bucky,

Sorry about my last letter. I'm just worried about you.

I love you,

Steve

Dear Bucky,

I got word from Natasha the other day. Three more Hydra cells have gone dark with no explanation over the past week. She didn't say anything overt, but I know she told me for a reason. I guess that's why you haven't picked up any of my letters in a while.

I'm worried about you, Bucky. I know I've said that in probably every letter but that doesn't make it less true. I know you can take care of yourself, but you shouldn't have to. You told that to me once. I don't know if you remember, but it's just as true for you as it was for me. I could help you. I want to help you, but I can't if I don't know where you are.

I know you can't call, but I'm sure there's a way you could get a message to me. I hate not knowing where you are or what's happening. I keep thinking of that cut on your side. I'm sure it's healed by now, but it was pretty deep when you got it. I don't want you getting hurt again and not able to go to anyone for help.

I love you,

Steve

Steve doesn't mean to fall asleep on the couch. He hasn't been sleeping well, and there's been no call from Fury needing him or from Tony needing the Avengers to distract him from worrying. He feels like he's slowly going crazy, with no sign of Bucky and no way to know what's happening to him. He was trying to draw something, because normally it's relaxing and he doesn't know what else to do with himself.

He ends up drawing Bucky, of course.

Steve wants to draw Bucky the way he was before he left for the war: happy and cocky and so damn beautiful, looking like a movie star in his Army uniform. But Steve knows as soon as he starts filling in his features that it'll be Bucky as he is now, with his too-long hair and sharp cheekbones and dark, haunted eyes.

Steve doesn't finish the picture. He can't bear it.

But he doesn't mean to fall asleep, doesn't even realize he has until he wakes up and Bucky's looking down at him. He's wearing the moose hoodie Steve got him from Canada. There's a half-filled duffle bag at his feet that looks like it came from a military surplus store, and a liquor bottle on the coffee table with a white label that says Seco Herrerano on it.

Steve blinks up at him, half certain he's dreaming. "Bucky?"

Bucky smiles. It's painfully uncertain, but it's there and it's his. Steve can recognize it. "You were expecting someone else?"

"Oh my God. Bucky." Steve surges to his feet but then stops dead when Bucky backs up in alarm, even though the coffee table's between them. "Sorry. Sorry." Steve spreads his hands, palms out. "I won't touch you. I'm not touching you." He swallows. "It's just, I didn't think you'd come back."

Bucky blinks at him. "I'm right here."

Steve nods. "Yeah. But…you keep leaving."

"I had a mission," Bucky says. "I finished it. So I came back." He jerks his chin at the bottle. "I got you a present."

"Thank you." Steve takes a deep breath, trying to quell his heartbeat, trying not to hope. "So, you're staying?"

"Yeah." Bucky changes his grip on the duffel, probably the closest he'll ever get to fidgeting. "That's okay, right?"

Steve swallows again, then nods because he can't find his voice. "Yeah, Buck," he says, rough. "That's perfectly okay."

Bucky cocks his head a little. "You look sad."

Steve shakes his head. "I'm not sad." He laughs, though he can hear how wet it is. "I'm…" He laughs again, probably slightly hysterical but he doesn't care; the only thing cares about in the entire world is standing right in front of him and just said he was going to stay. "I think I'm feeling too much. But none of it's bad. I just… Can I hug you?"

Bucky looks wary, but he nods.

Steve goes slow—he walks slowly right over the coffee table and slowly slides his arms around Bucky's back and slowly tugs him into his arms. Steve rests his chin on Bucky's shoulder and closes his eyes and just breathes. Bucky smells like sweat and a bit like car exhaust and a hot, foreign city. He needs a shave, and his bones are too evident under Steve's chin and beneath his hands. But he's solid and real and there, and after maybe a minute he drops the duffel bag and hugs Steve back.

"I thought you weren't coming back," Steve says. "I was sure I wasn't going to see you again."

"Of course I was gonna come back," Bucky says, affronted and so much like himself that Steve hugs him tighter, buries his face against the curve of Bucky's neck. "You're here."

"I don't really know why I took most of this stuff," Bucky says. There are two empty glasses of Seco y Vaca on the coffee table—the liquor Bucky got is from Panama, and apparently it's drunk with milk—and the contents of the wooden box, all the new things Bucky found. It's dark outside; each object is ringed with shadow in the soft overhead light. Bucky's lying with his head on Steve's thigh and Steve's running his fingers through Bucky's hair. Bucky said he likes it as long as Steve's careful, doesn't pull.

He drags the little girl's necklace along the coffee table with his metal forefinger, making patterns. "A lot of it…it was just the bright colors, I guess. They were interesting." He leaves the necklace, nudges the blue car then smiles slightly when it rolls into the coins. "And, I didn't need any of it, you know?" He turns his head so he can look up at Steve's face. "It wasn't for a mission. I chose what I picked up or not. It was mine."

"I'm glad, Buck," Steve says. He smiles down at him, tracing his nearer eyebrow, the curve of his cheek. Bucky twitches, then scratches his face where Steve touched too lightly. Steve puts his hand on Bucky's arm instead. It's his left, hard but warm under the soft fleece of Bucky's hoodie. "I'm really glad you got things of your own. You know you have all your old stuff here too now, right?"

Bucky nods, his jaw rubbing on Steve's leg. He puts his hand on Steve's knee, idly smoothing the cloth with his thumb. "It's not the same, though. I don't remember most of it, where it came from or anything like that. It doesn't feel like it belongs to me."

"I'm sorry," Steve says.

Bucky shrugs, one-shouldered. "Can't miss what you don't remember having, right?" His words are light but Steve can still hear the bitter anger.

"You'll get it back, Bucky." Steve rubs Bucky's arm, then realizes he doesn't know if Bucky can even feel it. "You're remembering more and more all the time."

Bucky smirks. "'Sure as hell remembered what a worrywart you are. You must'a left me about 600 letters."

Steve smirks as well, letting Bucky lighten the mood. "Well, can you blame me? With you gallivanting off God knows where, no boots or jacket, likely freezing your balls off in a sewer or something…"

Bucky snorts. "Naw. I was in a cistern. Way more hygienic."

Steve grins at him, but it fades. "I hated it, you being gone so long like that," he says, and he can't joke about it anymore. "And both times, you went out the damn window like an adulterer or something. Barefoot, nothing but a hoodie or even less to keep you warm...." He shakes his head, lips pressed tight. "Stupid was about the only thing you did take with you. I really figured that was it, I'd never see you again. And I wouldn't even know…" He stops, blinking hard, then wipes his eyes. "Sorry."

Bucky sits up, then moves so that he's cross-legged on the couch facing Steve. He reaches out with his left hand, cupping Steve's face, making Steve look at him. Steve's seen Bucky kill people with that hand, but now he's nothing but gentle. "I'm here now," he says. "I'm right here, Steve."

Steve nods, but it's still hard to speak. "Don't leave again, okay? Stay here. Please stay with me."

"I'm not goin' anywhere, Stevie," Bucky says. He still has his hand on the side of Steve's face. He slides it to the back of Steve's neck, still so gentle, and pulls him into a kiss.

Steve gasps, breathing Bucky's air. He never expected this, never imagined it, but it's everything he ever wanted and he couldn't stop himself if he tried. Bucky's kiss is as gentle as his hand, and sweet like Steve is the most precious thing in the world. Like Bucky's wanted this as much and as long as Steve ever did.

The next sound Steve makes is a whimper of gratitude and need and he can feel the puff of air as Bucky smirks into his mouth, but Steve's too happy to mind. He lets Bucky lead, doesn't restrain him in any way at all as the kiss deepens and goes on. All Steve does is hold Bucky's free hand, loosely threading their fingers. Bucky can pull away whenever he wants, but he doesn't. Not for a long time.

When Bucky finally moves back with a last lick and soft press of teeth to Steve's lower lip, they're both breathing like bellows and Steve knows he's flushed from his navel to the roots of his hair. Bucky's just grinning like the cat that got the cream, but his eyes are bright blue and shining. He licks his lips, then grins some more when Steve's eyes dart to his mouth. "I remember I always wanted to do that."

"God, Buck." Steve pants and laughs, but he has no idea what to say; there's nothing, no words for how happy he is at this moment. He leans his forehead against Bucky's, takes both his hands. "Me too. God, since we were kids… I didn't know, didn't think you wanted—"

"'Wasn't worth it," Bucky says. "Not when it mighta' meant I lost you, or got you killed, even. But now…" He lifts his head from Steve's, but only so they can see each other's eyes. Bucky's smile is real and his and so beautiful it's like looking into the sun. He touches Steve's face again, like he can't get enough of him. Like he can't believe it. "It's a whole new world, ain't it? And you can be mine."

"I've always been yours," Steve says.

Bucky's smile is incandescent before he kisses Steve again.

Dear Stevie,

We need more milk and bread so I went to the grocery store. I will return in approximately 15.40 minutes, depending on pedestrian and vehicular traffic.

In other words, I'm not skipping out on ya, punk. So don't have kittens.

Love,

Bucky

END