Work Text:
Bucky doesn't hear about it on the news.
He wouldn't, of course, because even though the Avengers claim transparency, Stark has a chokehold on all of the major news outlets—and that doesn't even take into account the fact that he covers virtually all channels for Hydra activity. It doesn't shame Bucky to admit that he lacks the skills to crack Stark's security; he never would, not in a million years, because his strengths lie elsewhere.
Bucky has a notebook. He'd found it in an apartment, tucked under a mattress, and it'd been filled with lists of everything from major historical events to local restaurants to eat at and even inane pop culture references that he doesn't understand. He doesn't touch those pages. He makes lists of his own, lists of names and dates and places that have been burned into his memory by the serum in his veins. These are things that were taken from him by Pierce and countless others, but they filter back into his knowledge slowly but surely.
So no, he doesn't hear about it on the news. The only reason he realizes what exactly is happening here is because the items on his list are crossed out, one by one, eliminated by a person who isn't himself.
Bucky keeps the notebook on his person at all times, along with a scrap of cloth and several ceramic knives. The scrap of cloth is shaped like a star; he'd cut it straight off of that man's chest after dragging him out of the river, after falling from the sky, after failing to kill him.
That man's name is Steve Rogers.
Steve Rogers is the man who's been killing off the people on Bucky's list, one after the other.
They are one and the same, and Bucky's current object of interest. Not his mission, he thinks with contempt—he is no longer the Asset, he no longer belongs to Hydra, no longer belongs to anyone but himself—but instead his fixation. He is a curiosity, an outlier, someone who Bucky would have thought to be on the side of heroes, as inaccurate a word as that may be to describe those who kill people in the service of a misguided cause.
All Bucky knows is that Rogers is the reason for the gruesome scene in front of him.
Bodies litter the floor. There is plenty of spilled blood, but Rogers hadn't shot them; he'd killed most of them quickly and efficiently with the shield, and the others with his bare hands. Bucky knows because some of them have been bludgeoned to death, while some have had their necks snapped brutally. One of the scientists is missing a head, and as Bucky turns the corner and steps foot in the hallway he understands why.
Retinal scanner in front of a large metal door, ajar. Disembodied head lying on the ground, tossed casually away as though it were an afterthought. And through to the next room, mangled pieces of a metal chair that'd been used to wipe him.
Bucky is careful not to step in any blood as he walks out.
There's before and after, naturally. The former is before the fall, that terrifying moment when all he could think was I don't want to die, I don't want to, please. The latter is after he'd woken up, free from Hydra, and this time when he falls it's because he jumps to save the man on the bridge.
Sometimes, he has dreams of before. They play like a reel in the back of his mind, sometimes stuttering, sometimes fading away, but there is—always—a constant between them.
"What are you doing?" Bucky asks. He watches as Steve carefully, painstakingly, places one log on top of the other, over and under, over and under. There's a dip in his brow and his nose is all scrunched up, the way Steve gets when he just cannot be disturbed.
Steve makes a little, frustrated noise, scooting backward so that he's pressed right up against Bucky's side. Bucky doesn't mind. It's still chilly out this morning, the first day of spring, and Steve's hands are cold as they slap away Bucky's when he tries to help.
"Are you building a fence?" There's a semicircle of Lincoln Logs around them and Bucky blinks, baffled, as Steve tries to close it with only four pieces left. "That's not gonna work." Bucky tries to nudge him but he just shrugs it off, adjusting the little circle so that it's tighter; and that makes Bucky frown, so he just grabs him under the armpits—Steve yowls—and plops him in his lap.
"Bucky," Steve hisses, feral just like a cat. "Bucky!"
"You can't build a fence around us if you sit beside me. We're too big," he explains, gathering up the logs that Steve kicked aside. Bucky presses them into his hands and tells him to try again. This time, it works; by the end of it there's a whole circle of logs all around them, fencing them in.
Steve looks triumphant. But this feels like Bucky's victory, really.
The next time, he finds Rogers in the thick of things.
It's strange, he thinks: he's seen the footage of Rogers during the Battle of Manhattan, his fighting then graceful and lithe; there is none of that now as he storms his way through another Hydra base, shield no longer a tool of defense but a weapon. Rogers is vicious and Bucky observes nothing but cold calculation in his movements, but when he turns towards the camera briefly Bucky sees that there is fire in those eyes.
It startles Bucky enough that he tenses, but of course, Rogers can't see through the camera's lens to where he's standing in the control room. Bucky had disarmed the sensors for him, although it hardly matters; Rogers had strong-armed his way onto the base with no care for the agents that swarmed him.
Just in case of unforeseen circumstances, he'd made sure there was more than one exit to this place. Bucky wouldn't have entered the base without knowing its layout; his plan had been to observe, not engage Rogers, and if Bucky had run into him at any time that would've complicated things.
In the moment calm comes naturally to him. Bucky is completely aware of his surroundings, and briefly he entertains the idea of before—he'd been a sniper in World War II, he knows from reading about this in the Smithsonian exhibit. This calm, the sheer blankness of his mind is in such stark contrast to the jumbled mess of thoughts in his head that had pervaded him since being made into the Asset.
It seems as though Sergeant Barnes of the 107th, 32557038, James Buchanan Barnes, had never been wiped from him completely.
He'd been swift in taking out his share of the Hydra forces earlier. There had been no one left to raise an alarm, so now the base is eerily quiet, the only sound in the room remains to be the beating of his heart. Although, he thinks with a swell of something that could only be spirit, perhaps it is not a sound but a feeling—the steady pulse in his chest that is a reminder of the fact that he's human and not a weapon.
He hears footsteps behind him. They're the long, loud strides of someone on a mission, of someone who is no longer afraid of getting caught. It checks out; Rogers has never seemed like a man who holds many fears, if any at all.
Bucky doesn't look back. He merely hides behind the machines, as swift as a shadow before he peers at the center of the room where Rogers has stopped. He stands, back to Bucky, in front of a panel of buttons; the screens flash live footage of the corridors he's just come from, and although Bucky can only view him from behind it is obvious that Rogers' form is tense as he looks them over.
"I know you're there," Rogers says bluntly, voice ringing out in the silence of the room. "Natasha. You can come out."
Bucky merely tilts his head at that back, blinking slowly. He sees hands form into fists, can imagine Rogers clenching his jaw in anger as he was wont to do, as opposed to the widely held interpretation of self-righteousness.
Bucky doesn't stir. He merely stares at Rogers, trying to understand.
After a moment of silence, he continues, sounding bitter and worn. "Fine—just don't try to stop me. I won't let you."
Not a threat but a promise.
Rogers lifts his shield and rams it into the control panel, over and over and leaving no surface untouched.
Bucky slips away.
This time they're older.
Steve's out on the fire escape with his legs hanging in between the bars, and it's just a reminder of how thin he is. But for someone who looks like a baby bird, for all his bad heart and glass bones, Steve is not fragile, and Bucky would never think that nor insinuate it, much less say it out loud to his face. Steve gets enough of that as it is from the doctors and their teachers and every nosy neighbor—he most certainly doesn't need it from Bucky, either.
But as fragile as Steve is not, Bucky wants to gather him in his arms, keep him tucked away and warm.
Steve almost died this winter. He shouldn't be outside at all, especially not when it's this late at night, but Sarah's not there to stop him from climbing outside the window. When Bucky sees him outside and nearly throws a fit, Steve leans heavily against the metal and says, "I needed some air."
"I can't believe you," Bucky grumbles, but he heads back inside to grab his coat, draping it over Steve's shoulders and sitting cross-legged beside him. Steve is pale—he always is unless he's got a fever—and his eyes are a little glassy; they watch Bucky's movements slowly as he tugs the coat tighter around Steve. "You, Rogers, are a menace. Gonna give me a heart attack one of these days."
Bucky punctuates that sentence with a glare and a finger pointed at his face. Steve looks at it warily. Bucky continues his rant.
"What's your mom gonna say if she sees you out here? What do you think she's gonna tell me, huh?"
"She's got a shift." Steve raises his eyebrows tiredly.
He wants to give Steve a hard time if that means drilling it in his head that he's not invincible. But Bucky knows better than most that Steve has never thought of himself as invincible—expendable, maybe, in the face of doing good. And maybe it's a paradox but that hasn't ever stopped him from trying with every fiber of his being to survive.
"I wanted to take a break from resting."
"Doesn't give you an excuse to—"
"Buck." Steve doesn't sound tired, he sounds frustrated. Looks it, too, from the furrow in his brow to the petulant line of his mouth. "Drop it."
Great, a fight. What most people don't figure about Bucky is that his temper's just as bad as Steve's, and just because he's good at tamping down on it doesn't mean he always feels the need to. Today is one of those days when he can't find it in him to give a shit, and he decides he's definitely not backing down.
"I'll drop it when you stop being such a stubborn ass," he says with a glare.
"So, never?" Steve has the fucking gall to smirk at him.
Bucky's eyes narrow.
"Don't you fuckin' dare—" Steve says loudly when Bucky sticks his cold hands under his shirt. "Do not—Bucky!"
Steve scrambles away when he gets enough time to breathe through the laughter. And just like Bucky expected, he retreats into the apartment as soon as the threat of tickling becomes too much to bear. Steve tries to shut the window on him but Bucky wedges himself in there quickly enough. He makes it through the window but stumbles, grabbing at the coat around Steve's shoulders and sending them sprawling on the ground.
Steve blinks up at him, startled. Bucky looks down at him with wide eyes.
He wakes up.
It takes him only a second to take stock of his surroundings, which to his immense relief are familiar. Those first few weeks after the fall of Hydra had been the worst of it—Bucky had been unable to sleep, unable to relax lest he open his eyes and find out he was right back where he started. That this had all been a fever dream, chemicals in his brain singing a false tune when he was still with Hydra all along.
That's the thing about not being able to trust your mind, isn't it; you can't trust your eyes either, nor your perception of anything at all, really. Like a butterfly who dreams it's a man, is he rotting at the bottom of a ravine, dreaming of a life he wishes he got to live? Is this a nightmare?
He doesn't know what he wishes the answer would be. In some ways it had been simpler in cryo, not to dream at all.
But none of that matters now because he is awake. He chooses to be awake, and it is the sweetest feeling, having a choice at all. Today he is in Minsk, going after a trail once more, and he wonders if Rogers knows he is being followed or if he'd care at all.
It's easy trailing him because Rogers doesn't attempt to hide his tracks. It surprises Bucky, the fact that the Avengers haven't taken him down sooner; surely this went against some sort of code they have, but it just reinforces the idea in Bucky's mind that a killer is a killer is a killer, and the only difference between Hydra and the Avengers is that people are taught to celebrate the latter.
Perhaps it's because he's lost in his thoughts—he's distracted is what he is, and it's jarring because he'd never had thoughts to distract him as the Asset. It doesn't matter. What matters is that distraction has its consequences, and these are his.
Bucky doesn't know how Hydra manages to get the jump on Rogers, but they do.
They'd been prepared for him, it seems. He and Rogers had been approaching another base on the outskirts of the city, near the factory district, and it had been too quiet, too undisturbed to be anything but a trap. Rogers hadn't paid it any mind; he rarely shows concern for his own safety, Bucky had noticed, and today that turns out to be his downfall.
When the Hydra agents come for Rogers, Bucky is the one who takes them down. He knows how they operate and can do the same—can do it better than them, and more efficiently at that.
This isn't how he planned on showing himself to Rogers, but when has Bucky ever gotten what he wants?
Rogers is down on a knee when he dispatches the last of them. He hasn't seen Bucky's face—Bucky hasn't let him see his face—but Rogers must know it's him. There's a sharp intake of breath behind him and Bucky knows: this is it. He turns.
Rogers' eyes are blown, mouth parted like he's in shock, and Bucky thinks he might be because seeing him is as good as seeing a ghost. There are tranqs embedded in his back, his arms, his legs. He sways, nearly dropping the shield.
Bucky's in front of him in a flash and he grips Rogers' arms tight.
Rogers slumps against him, unconscious.
Steve never knows how to fucking quit. If only Bucky knew how to quit Steve, too.
It's another day, another fight, this time with some random jackass outside an alleyway who'd been hurting a cat. Bucky takes it and Steve home; it's hiding under the bed while Steve sits in front of him, glowering.
"You don't need to coddle me," Steve spits, jerking his hands away from his touch. Bucky just frowns and doesn't entertain him. He snarls, "I said, don't—touch—me."
"You want me to, though. You always fucking want it," Bucky says simply, kneeling in front of him to assess the damage, and maybe he says it with more force than he should because Steve actually pauses. His knuckles are a bright, angry red that'll definitely bruise; his face looks even worse and he's lucky he hadn't broken his nose again. Bucky grabs him by the wrist and it's rougher than he ever has before—Steve's eyes widen, and after a moment he licks his lips. Bucky doesn't stop. "Admit it."
Understandably, Steve bristles. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Bucky tugs him forward until they're face to face, and he says darkly, "You think you can hide from me? You?"
It's simple to him. Things have never made more sense than in this moment.
It isn't about knowing Steve since childhood, and it isn't about Bucky projecting onto him. It's about the conversations they've exchanged since that night on the fire escape, the glances when Steve thinks he isn't looking, the way they shiver in each other's presence.
He opens his mouth in yet another protest, but Bucky claps his hand over it, dragging him down until Steve's on his knees. Bucky tilts his head.
"I'll stop." Bucky's voice doesn't waver. "If you want me to, I'll stop."
Steve's eyes search his for something, Bucky doesn't know what, but slowly Bucky feels his fists unclench. He thinks Steve stops breathing, and Bucky realizes he's holding his breath, too.
"I didn't think so."
Bucky's grip on his wrist shifts until his thumb is at Steve's pulse point. He strokes at the paper-thin skin there, imagining he can feel his pulse, his want.
And then he leans forward and presses a chaste kiss against the back of his hand, the only thing keeping their lips from touching.
He lets Steve go.
"When you admit exactly what it is you want, you can take that from me yourself."
Rogers wakes up.
He jerks all of a sudden, reaching for a shield that isn't there. Rogers is on his feet in an instant, but Bucky merely waits for him patiently, standing five feet from the spot on the warehouse floor where he'd been lying prone seconds prior.
Bucky doesn't blink. To his credit, Steve doesn't either.
"You're dead," Rogers says, low and dangerous. "I saw you die."
Bucky just dips his head, waiting.
"I killed you," he finishes.
"You freed me," Bucky agrees.
There's a Hydra agent in some underground bunker who's had his neck snapped. There's another one whose head has been caved in by something stronger than steel. There is one who is missing a head, tossed carelessly aside in front of a large, metal door. There is a broken chair.
Rogers clenches his jaw. "But you're here." He raises his chin at Bucky, eyes narrowed. He calls out, "Stark, if this is you I'll kill you, I swear to god—"
Bucky takes a step forward; Steve's mouth shuts. He bridges the gap between them, eyes never leaving Rogers', and he—
—drops to his knees in front of him. Grabs his wrist with his flesh hand, because he wants to feel his pulse, his want. It's all too familiar, but this time Bucky leans forward and rests his cheek against the plane of his stomach. He closes his eyes.
"What are you doing," Steve says steadily. Bucky wants to know if his eyes are hard, if he's looking down at him with contempt. But he keeps his eyes shut. "What are you doing."
"I'll stop. If you want me to, I'll stop."
Steve freezes.
"But I want you to stop this," he murmurs, "I don't want to see you ruin yourself."
Steve has him on his back in an instant and he looks feral, eyes wide and unseeing as he looks down at Bucky. His hair hangs in his eyes, and absently Bucky thinks that they're such a clear shade of blue.
"You'll ruin yourself," Bucky repeats.
"You ruined me a long time ago, Buck," Steve replies hoarsely.
The corner of his lips twitches into something amused. Bucky breathes out, and the air between them cools. Steve doesn't let go of his neck.
"Why'd you do it, Stevie?" Out of guilt? Regret? Or perhaps he had an Avenger in him, after all. Thing is, Bucky doesn't know the answer; perhaps he'd been chasing that too, along with Steve.
Steve doesn't hesitate. "Because I wanted to."
"Why?"
"Because you were dead."
"I'm not, though," Bucky says gently. "That's not going to work."
"I needed to."
Bucky smiles sadly. "Doesn't give you an excuse."
Steve looks down at him, stricken. Bucky doesn't let up; he pushes because that's exactly what Steve needs. This is their dance, time and again; it's strange how it comes down to it always ends in a fight.
Bucky's about to speak once more when Steve presses his hand over his mouth and whispers. "Stop."
He doesn't look away from Steve, never wants to look away ever again, knows that if he lets Steve out of his sight then he'll never get him back.
Steve leans down to rest his forehead against Bucky's, eyes clenched shut. Bucky waits for him, patient; he's prepared to wait forever for him, but he knows Steve won't let that happen. They've been waiting for each other for too long. Steve reaches for his wrist and Bucky knows there's no pulse, no want to be felt.
But Bucky's sure Steve knows it's there.
When you admit exactly what it is you want, you can take that from me yourself.
This time when they kiss, there's nothing separating their lips from one another's.