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It rose out of the mist before them, looming and dreamlike. It was like someone had put up a movie set in the middle of the miserable, soggy forest.
They all stopped dead in their tracks and looked up at the steep cliff face and dark, damp stone walls rising above them; Bucky tried to wipe rain out of his eyes with the back of a wrist.
For the last hour his adrenaline-spiked attention had been singularly focused on any sign or sound of someone following them, all other senses dulled by miles of trudging through the rugged terrain. The sight of the castle with its towers and turrets shifted him into a state of surreality; like they'd somehow stepped onto the pages of a novel, Arthurian knights or undead Romanian nobility waiting behind those walls.
Dernier was the first to open his mouth, letting out a string of rapid French interspersed with curses. He switched the grip on his gun to his left hand and crossed himself.
"He's sayin' it's haunted," Gabe translated helpfully, though Bucky was sure most of them had gotten the gist. He sounded oddly cheerful given the icy bullets of rain that were pelting down on their heads, the mud soaking into their boots and the rapidly falling darkness.
From his own position on their six, Bucky caught the well-camouflaged grimace that flickered over Steve's face as he looked back over his shoulder, to where Dugan and Morita were supporting the limping Falsworth between them.
Steve had removed his helmet and his hair was dripping, the lower half of his face streaked with ash and mud. "We've put enough distance behind us," he said, using his Captain's voice. "This will be the most easily secured place for miles."
Bucky surveyed the open clearing ahead of them, both hands on his rifle, then let his eyes wander back up the castle walls. It made for a spooky sight, alright, the gaping black window holes giving the impression of eyes staring blindly out into the night.
"Ain't no ghosts gonna be more frightening than those Hydra tanks," he muttered and spit on the soggy ground, trying to get rid of the burnt, metallic taste and pulled in a deep breath of that thankfully only tasted of wet moss and dead leaves.
He hated it with a vengeance, the crackling energy that filled the air in the moment after those blue lightning bolts, the way they seemed to suck all the oxygen away and made every hair on his body stand on end. It filled him with grim satisfaction to know there would now be at least six fewer tanks in operational condition.
"Amen to that," Dugan agreed gravely. His handlebar moustache was dusted with flakes of soot.
Morita adjusted the medic pack on his back. "Are we doing this the democratic way? In that case I vote for stopping. And so does the hole in his calf." He tilted his head in Falsworth's direction.
Falsworth himself stayed silent and stony-faced, but his lips were pressed into a thin line and he looked paler than usual in the dim light.
Steve turned back to the two in front.
Gabe just shrugged and hoisted the radio pack higher on his shoulder. Dernier glanced up at the dark shape of the castle and squared his jaw, but didn't say anything else.
Steve nodded once, then took the lead as they slowly made their way around the clearing, to where the sheer cliff gave way to a sloping grassy hill. Unevenly carved steps brought them up the side, until the wall was towering above them and they could see an arched gateway at its center.
From up close it was clearly more ruin than castle. This side of the wall and one of the towers had sizable chunks missing and parts that had been made of any material other than stone were long gone.
When he was with the 107th Bucky had gotten to know one of the guys who had been a history teacher back home in Baltimore. He had told them that there were hundreds if not thousands of these medieval fortresses strewn across Europe – traces of history so old that a boy from Brooklyn couldn't even begin to fathom it. These days more than a few of them acted as lairs for Nazis and Hydra scum to hole up in.
The outer wall was several feet wide. Past a courtyard littered with fallen stones and overgrown with shrubbery lay the entrance to the castle proper.
Bucky tailed the others across the open space. A sudden rustle and movement in the corner of his eye made him jump to the side and raise his rifle, but it was just a large bird dropping down from the south tower, sweeping over his head. He forced himself to loosen his finger on the trigger and let out a slow breath. The owl landed on the castle roof without its prey and let out a mournful hoot.
One after another the Howlies stepped through the open gateway, rusted iron hinges all that was left of the gates. A small entrance hall led onto a cavernous room with a high ceiling. Dernier turned on a flashlight, carefully pointing it so the light wouldn't be spotted from the outside, and let it swipe across the vast space.
In front of Bucky, Dugan let out a low whistle.
Here the floor and walls were mostly intact, made of smooth stones so skilfully joined that the seams were barely visible. The walls were lined with pillars and dipped into alcoves. The room was bare, but if you'd ever read the kinds of novels that Bucky used to devour in his teens, you could easily imagine the colorful tapestries on the walls and a long table stretching down the length of the room, a roaring fire in the raised fireplace on the east wall.
Falsworth sat down in one of the alcoves with a muted grunt. Morita knelt down and dug out a small portable lantern from his pack, then started unwrapping the stained cloth tied around his leg. Gabe picked the alcove next to them and laid out his radio equipment to dry off, humming under his breath like he usually did.
With the help of the lantern and flashlight, Bucky was able to take stock of the rest of the space: two openings on the north wall, one leading down to some kind of cellar; one door on the south that probably led to one of the towers; no windows apart from the small, vertical slits high up on the wall; a ceiling that didn't look like it was about to crumble in over their heads.
He could see Steve doing the same evaluations, hands on his hips. "We can risk setting up a small fire," he decided. "Dugan, Dernier."
"Yes, captain." Dugan gave him a sarcastic, stiff-backed salute. As a rule the Commandos' considerable respect for Steve as their leader did not extend to any military formalities.
Next Steve turned to him. "Sergeant."
Bucky nodded. "I'll scout out the rest of it."
He put his rifle down and checked the handgun and knives in his belt.
He started south, moved almost soundlessly, the unavoidable squelch of his drenched boots the only noise he made. It was almost fully dark outside, but the moon had come out from behind the clouds and his eyes adjusted to darkness easier than they had before– well, Before.
As he'd suspected, the opening in the south wall led to the tower, through a short corridor with a couple of empty chambers or store rooms. In one of them something had died recently, judging by the sickening sweet smell of decay. Bucky hoped it was just a fox or rabbit.
The tower was a dead end. There was nothing left of the staircase or roof, just a large circle of night sky above him. The wind had picked up and the rain shifted to a steady drizzle.
Back in the grand hall Steve had sat down on the floor, flashlight pointed at a map spread out before him. He looked up when Bucky entered and their eyes met briefly across the room – Steve asking a question with a raised eyebrow and Bucky deflecting by looking down at his feet. Steve's sharp gaze burned on his forehead and an uncomfortable tightness rose in his throat.
Denier and Dugan chose that moment to stumble back inside, carrying bundles of branches that showed promise of being dry enough to burn. Bucky left them to it and returned to his assignment.
The cellar turned out to be another dead end, just a collapsed staircase leading down to a cave dug out from the sandstone underneath.
The final door led to a row of rooms, less imposing than the large hall. Bucky moved through them methodically, making a mental map of the castle layout. He circled every room, checking for hidden nooks or doorways and making sure there weren't any gaping holes in the floor or walls that would collapse over them.
Outside the owl hooted and a panicked rodent skittered across the floor in front of his feet. The thick stone walls dampened most of the sounds from the forest and the rain. Despite moving slowly Bucky's breath sounded harsh and loud in his ears.
He jumped when something soft and light brushed across his face and waved frantically at the empty air, catching the sticky spider web threads between his fingers. When his racing heart had settled back in his chest Bucky smiled at himself and holstered his gun.
Five rooms down he finally entered the north tower, which was in much the same state as the south, except it was still partly covered by the remains of a roof. He could no longer hear any sound of the others, just the howl of wind passing through the narrow windows and sound of water dripping down the wall.
This room had a larger window in the outside facing part of the wall, conveniently placed at about chest height. He stuck his head out and judged the drop to the sloping ground underneath: not too bad, if need arose this could be used as an alternate exit.
Bucky shivered, feeling the cold wetness seeping through his layers. If the guys actually managed to get a fire started he could dry out his socks and shirt. Right now that sounded about as close to heaven as you could get in the middle of this godforsaken forest.
He'd made it halfway through the room closest to the tower when a cold gust hit the back of his neck, making his skin crawl. Suddenly he was certain that someone was standing behind him.
He spun around, brandishing a knife. There was – nothing. Just the dark empty room.
Bucky lowered the knife, shaking his head and silently cursing Dernier and his ghost stories.
Then came a shuffling sound from the doorway and a big hand grabbed his arm. Before he had time to move or make a sound another hand came up and covered his mouth. Instinctively he kicked back against the assailant's legs and crouched down to throw him over his head. The person – or spirit – anticipated his movements and easily followed him down without letting up its grip. Bucky pushed back against the solid form. He kept writhing and struggling, fighting not to panic, but its arms held onto him like bands of steel and he couldn't reach any of his weapons.
A huff of quiet laughter and warm breath hit his ear and Bucky abruptly stopped fighting. He let his body slump and the arms loosened their grip.
"Jesus, Steve!" Bucky hissed as he whirled around and took in the flushed face of the idiot standing in front of him. "D'you wanna get stabbed?"
Steve grinned at him, all bright white teeth and electric blue eyes in his grimy face, captainly composure put aside, still riding on the last scraps of adrenaline from their successful ambush and escape.
"Shh," he whispered, casting a glance over his shoulder before crowding Bucky up against the nearest wall.
Bucky dimly registered being pressed up against the rough stone, feeling the chill through the fabric of his coat. He was breathing hard, his heart pounding against its rib cage prison. The heat that flooded his chest had nothing to do with the fight and everything to do with the fact that they were alone here and the other Howlies were only a few rooms over and Steve's fingers were caressing his jaw with absurd gentleness.
"Are you outta your mind?" Bucky whispered, the sudden dryness in his throat making it hard to form the sounds.
"Yes," Steve said, and kissed him.
He tasted like blood and sweat and dirt and when both of Steve's large hands came up to cup his head, Bucky let out a soft whimper and sank into the touch.
He hadn't had enough time to get used to this, to Steve's new, bigger body, the way it folded around him, anchored him. But Steve kissed the same as always: easy yet uncompromising, a constant hunger running like an undercurrent.
Bucky allowed himself to fall into it, to let go, let himself sink; for every drop he swallowed he poured himself back, an even exchange. He let his hands smooth over the hard plane of Steve's chest, the raised outline of the star.
"Are you okay?" Steve asked as he pulled back an inch and rested their foreheads together.
"Yeah," Bucky said, voice like gravel. He closed his eyes and felt the heat of Steve's hands on his neck thaw some part of him he hadn't even known was frozen. "I'm fine."
He knew the place where a piece of shrapnel had grazed his left side had already stopped bleeding and would have scabbed over by the morning – and whether that was a blessing or curse, it wasn't anything he needed Steve to worry about.
"You?" Bucky asked, unable to resist carding a hand through the damp tendrils framing his face. His calloused fingers scraping over Steve's scalp elicited a shiver.
He felt Steve nod before pressing another quick kiss to Bucky's lips. "I am now."
Bucky couldn't stop the smile that pulled at the corners of his mouth. He pushed at Steve's chest. "You're an idiot, 's what you are. Sneaking up on your own guy. In the dark. Tactical genius, my ass."
"Maybe I just wanted a moment alone with my guy," Steve smirked, then glanced down at where Bucky's fingers were hooking under the straps of his harness. "We haven't really– not since Paris ... " He paused, bit his lip.
"Sap," Bucky muttered fondly and rubbed at his cheek where the helmet had cut a sharp line between pale skin and dirt.
"Just admit that you're feeling lonely," he continued. "In that big officer's tent of yours. It's alright. I bet Dum Dum would snuggle up with you if you'd ask."
Steve's face twitched, he bit the inside of his cheek, then blurted: "Oh God, imagine with that moustache–"
Bucky made a noise between a snort and a groan and covered his face with a hand. "Please no, don't make me."
Steve chuckled and pulled Bucky's hand away from his face, turning his palm out and pressing a kiss to the root of his thumb.
"What if I asked you?" he murmured.
Bucky swallowed. His throat hurt like he'd been breathing in smoke. "You know we can't."
Steve opened his mouth, then closed it again. He sighed and wrapped his arms around Bucky's back, bunching his coat in his fists and pulling him close, until they were chest to chest and cheek to cheek. The fabric of his uniform was coarse under Bucky's fingers. He smelled like smoke and gunpowder and a fire that had nothing to do with either of those, that was just Steve.
They stayed like that for a minute, breathing the same air, heartbeats falling in sync. Even as Bucky kept one ear tuned to catch the sound of footsteps approaching, he felt his shoulders dropping, tightly coiled muscles unwinding, finally coming down from the fight.
Eventually Steve pushed away from the wall and reluctantly turned to walk back to the others. "Come on. Don't let the ghosts get you."
He was standing in the perfect spot for the moonlight that cut in through one narrow window to spill over his face, outlining him in black and white – like he was the knight in their movie castle, having stepped right off the silver screen.
Without thinking Bucky reached out and grabbed his wrist. "Steve."
And then he didn't have any more words, so he pressed his thumb to the place where he could feel Steve's pulse underneath his skin, this beating life he had sworn to protect with his own long before there was ever a war.
Steve looked at him, face half in light and half in shadow, and it turned out Bucky didn't need words because he twisted his hand and laced their fingers together.
"I know," he said quietly.
They walked slowly back to the big hall. Despite the rain and wind outside the castle was eerily quiet, just their footsteps and the drip of water falling somewhere close by. Steve held on to his hand and didn't drop it until they were a few feet from the final doorway.
Through the opening in the wall they could see the soft, flickering shadow that meant someone had got a fire started. Oddly there was no sound of Gabe humming, or Falsworth complaining about Morita's fussing or Dernier telling dirty jokes.
When they came closer to the doorway they heard a strange wailing noise that seemed to stem from several directions at once. Then came a groan and rattle like chains on the floor to their left. The shadows started dancing wildly over the walls and grew bigger and bigger and the noises louder until –
Two hooded shapes jumped out at them, howling and moaning.
Bucky stumbled back and grabbed Steve's shirtsleeve. In his haste to retreat from their attackers he hit his heel on the doorstep and tumbled backwards, dragging Steve down with him.
They landed in a graceless heap on the dirty stone floor. Bucky scrambled to gather his limbs, his blood pounding in his ears.
All he heard was a loud, evil cackling –
– followed by a blinding flash and the soft click-click-click of a camera shutter.
Bucky let out a groan and let go of Steve's shirt to rub at his assaulted eyes. Before the dancing spots had disappeared from his vision the perpetrators were running into the next room and they were alone in the muggy, dark wine cellar.
"I would watch my back if I were you, Wilson," he shouted after them. "You too, Romanoff."
Steve, that bastard, was vibrating with badly concealed laughter as he boosted himself up from the ground.
He brushed his hands on his jeans and ran one through the messy hair that had gotten him called a hobo, affectionately, on more than one occasion (and which Bucky secretly loved, because the long hair and beard on Steve made him look soft, at ease in a way he hadn't ever been in this century).
"Come on." Steve reached out a hand to Bucky, who was still plotting under his breath about revenge and bugs in breakfast cereal and people who would not be getting any homemade apple cider doughnuts.
He begrudgingly took the offered hand and found himself hoisted into the solid chest of Steve Rogers.
"Hi," Steve smiled as he spun them around and pushed Bucky up against the rough brick wall. "This seems familiar."
Steve brought up a hand and pushed a loose strand of hair behind Bucky's ear, stroking his knuckles along the rasp of stubble covering his jawline. Bucky shivered, feeling the cold surface through his thin sweatshirt.
Steve's cheek had a smudge of dirt on it.
The image caught on something in the criss-crossed paths of his brain.
And time stopped there, between the cobwebbed shelves; a scratch, the needle skipping on the record as it started spinning backwards.
Bucky swallowed around the lump in his throat. "France. 1944," he said hoarsely.
And then he smiled too, because he remembered. "You nearly threw the shield in Gabe's face."
"Oh, right," Steve mused, eyes going unfocused as if the film was projected behind them, "I think Dernier was more afraid of you than of ghosts after you chewed them out …"
Steve's focus returned to him, gaze intent. "But I was mostly thinking about the part that came before that." The naked lightbulb swinging from the low ceiling made his hair and beard glow golden.
"What part was that?" Bucky knew but asked anyway, voice barely above a whisper.
Steve kissed him. Easy, uncompromising, and a little bit hungry.
This never got old.
Bucky kissed him back, chased his mouth, sucked on his lower lip and ate up the sounds he made.
The old mansion's wine cellar was musty and damp and possibly even less pleasant than a medieval ruin, but the man in front of him no longer carried the stench of war. Bucky brushed his lips across his cheek, felt the beard tickle his skin, and nosed at the spot beneath Steve's jaw where he could inhale the warm, clean scent of him.
He smelled like waking up slowly with the sun in your eyes and pillow creases on your face, like a sketchbook filled with sure strokes of pencil, like bare feet dangling over a fire escape. He smelled like home.
Steve's mouth moved against the shell of his ear. "You think they knew?" he murmured.
Bucky pulled back so he could see his face. "About us you mean?"
Steve nodded, a distracting flush spread over his cheeks.
Bucky pretended to consider the question, but in truth he thought he'd known the answer for a long time. It was the way Falsworth would suddenly remember an important task and leave the two of them alone in a room; the way Gabe and Dernier would stop outside the tent flaps to talk loudly about some inane topic before they entered.
Some days the thought of their loyalty made his own cowardice all the uglier. Some days he just missed them fiercely. He knew Steve did too.
"Yeah," he said finally, pushing a finger against the plump cushion of Steve's lower lip. "I hate to break it to you pal, but you haven't been subtle a day in your life."
Steve answered by licking his finger, then his chin.
"Will you two stop sucking face, you're scaring away the ghosts."
Without looking Bucky made a rude gesture in Natasha's direction.
"Come on," Sam whined like an actual child next to her, "we're running out of time and we need to find the last key."
"Shoulda thought of that before you ambushed us," Bucky said drily and ignored them as he busied himself with straightening Steve's shirt collar.
To Steve he mused: "You'd think Captain America and Black Widow could handle a game made for business retreats and bachelor parties."
Steve giggled and planted a final kiss on the tip of his nose. "Sorry Sam, we're coming."
They did find the last key, hidden behind a false brick, and the game host congratulated them as they burst out through the door with a minute to spare on the clock.
Outside on the big, round lawn Bucky stopped and drank in slow, greedy breaths. After an hour in the stuffy mansion, the October air was crisp and fresh and scented with a ridiculously idyllic mix of apples and spice.
The sun had barely set and painted a dusky pink backdrop for the row of blood maples that lined the driveway. Someone had lit candles between the piles of happy pumpkins that were stacked next to the front gate, and by the sign advertising the haunted house tours and escape rooms. Next to the crooked garden shed a stall was set up, a woman dressed like a Victorian servant girl selling coffee and hot cider.
Sam kept periodically glancing over at them and cackling to himself and Natasha wore the innocently smug look of someone who could blackmail you out of your best set of throwing knives.
Bucky couldn't bring himself to care. Steve had taken his hand – out here under the open sky with visitors milling about – braided his warm fingers together with Bucky’s cool vibranium ones, and was dragging him to the small queue lining up the drinks stall.
Later.
Bucky folded up the empty pizza boxes and grabbed the bowl of popcorn from the counter.
"You got the movie up?" he asked, grabbing two beers from the fridge and elbowing the door shut. "I'm still not convinced that sparkly vampires are a thing. I think Natasha was having you on."
He turned to the living room to find Steve sprawled across all three seats, blanket draped over his middle and sock-clad feet kicked up on the arm rest.
"Are you gonna take up the whole couch?" Bucky aimed a menacing scowl at him.
"Maybe. I can share. Wanna snuggle with me?" Steve gave him a ridiculous pout, spreading his arms and blinking his baby blues.
"Alright then," Bucky sighed theatrically, "if I have to."
He placed the bowl and beers on the coffee table and unceremoniously lifted Steve's leg so he could sit down on the edge of the seat.
"You know, I've been thinking," he said in a serious tone and managing an almost completely straight face, "I should grow a moustache."
Bucky yelped when a cushion hit him in the face, followed by some two hundred pounds of retired super soldier putting him in a headlock that – when he didn't deign to fight it – quickly turned into more of a spooning situation.
"Ha," Steve said triumphantly and smacked a kiss on his temple. "I win."
With Bucky lying practically on top of him, he had to flap around a bit before he managed to get a hand on the remote and press play. Bucky chose not to assist him. Once the movie was rolling Steve wrapped both arms around him again and sighed happily into his neck.
"Yeah, pal." Bucky smiled to himself and patted the strong arm resting snugly on top of his heart. "You win."