Archive of Our Own

2012

He usually kept it covered. Whether it be with long sleeves, a cuff of some sort, or make up that Natasha (his new teammate) skillfully showed him how to apply, her eyes all knowing and a pat on shoulder that said he could talk to her any time.

He didn’t cover it up because he was ashamed or because he was one of those people who didn’t like others knowing who his soulmate was- no. He covered it up out of respect. Respect for his fallen partner, and respect for himself because he knew looking at those swoopy lines of James Buchanan Barnes on his wrist always made him crumble like his legs were kicked down.

He covered it out of respect and love and care- for both himself and Bucky.

When he crashed into the ice all those years ago he thought he was going to see Bucky again- he thought he was finally going to be with Bucky without people giving them ugly looks and throwing slurs their way.

He thought it was going to a place of peace.

He thought he was going to be happy again.

After Bucky fell off the train it was like everything turned grey and red. He didn’t see happiness or an end to the pain. He just saw the people that made Bucky fall. He saw blood and the war that tore them apart. He felt the serum running in his veins, keeping him warm and strong- but not strong enough to catch someone when they fell. He felt the serum that made people see him as someone he’s not and made Bucky have to relearn who his Steve was. He felt everything he was and wasn’t and couldn’t be.

That feeling- loneliness, being someone he wasn’t- felt worse than when he lost his Mama. He knew she was already slipping through his fingers like sand when she came back from the TB ward with a cough she couldn’t shake and prepared himself for her leave. For the departure she was going to take to be with Papa, away from him. He made peace with the thought that she wasn’t going to comb his hair back when he had a fever or give him that warm smile everytime he and Buck were together, that he wasn’t going to smell her perfume anymore, or even just sit with her for morning coffee. He made peace with it and he was okay.

But Bucky falling was a different story in itself. It wasn’t something he saw coming. It wasn’t something he had time to make peace with. It wasn’t something that was supposed to happen. But it did and Steve saw it.

He saw the fear in Bucky’s eyes as he held on tight and stretched his hand out. He heard the scream rip from Bucky’s throat as he fell. And he felt emptiness fill his heart because he should have caught him. Because Bucky shouldn’t be dead.

Because it was all his fault.

It was all his fought and made peace with that.

So he killed. He saw HYDRA agents and made sure that they didn’t have a pulse when he was finished with them. He didn’t stop to ask who they were, if they had a family, what name was scrawled across their wrist. He just powered through and made sure each death was in the honor of Bucky. He made sure the war would be over by his hand with the thought of Bucky Barnes burning in the back of his mind and dripping from his fingers.

He killed and fought and did it all for the name on his wrist.

He sat himself down in the seat of a plane that he knew wasn’t going to land. He let himself drive it into thick glaciers with Peggy talking to him over comms. All her words soothing with promises of seeing Bucky again how that he still owed her a dance.

And he was okay with it.

He made peace with the thought of him dying because he knew he’d see Bucky again. He knew the hand stretching out to him would catch him and that he’d be safe in Heaven with his best guy, his Mama, and his Papa. He was ready to go. And when the plane crashed and his body was rushed with pressure and pain, he thought that everything was going to be okay because he’d get to see Bucky again.

But it was just darkness. No light, no hand stretching out to him. Nothing.

And then there was light and voices. And a flutter of hope filled his body but was hurriedly covered by a blanket of cold and pain. His bones felt brittle and frozen, his head felt heavier than when he was burning up with a fever in Brooklyn December, his eyes felt like they were sewed shut, and he felt restrained. There was a beeping coming from machines to the left him and then hands were touching him. People addressing him by Mister Rogers or Captain in voices that he didn’t know.

In voices that didn’t belong to Bucky.

So he screamed.

He screamed out Bucky’s name like he did after Bucky fell. He screamed like the first time he woke up from a nightmare and there wasn’t a body in his cot to sooth his hair back. He screamed because he was afraid and he couldn’t see. He screamed because all he wanted was Bucky.

But there was only doctors and people he didn't know. People frantically touching him and asking him questions while all he repeated was BuckyBuckyBucky because he was scared and afraid and didn't know where we was and didn't know where Bucky was.

But Bucky never came home and still hasn’t.

So he went on with his life. He stayed in his small apartment, went on missions, sometimes did interviews and press- he kept himself busy. He tried his best not to dwell on the past that tore a hole in his heart, that wasn’t fair to him.

Of course there were bad days. Afternoon’s he’d be walking down the street and pass someone who smelled like the aftershave Bucky would dab on himself before they left to a dance. Nights when he felt so cold and alone and all he wanted was Bucky but he knew he’d never get him back. Early mornings when he’d wake up and think it was still 1920 and kept his eyes close. Waiting for Bucky to kiss him on the back of the ear like he used to and wrap his arms around his waist for their normal good morning. But it never came and then he remembered it was 2012 and he was pulled out of the ice and he felt like he was asthmatic again and couldn’t breathe.

He remembered, tried to pull himself together, and got up. He pushed himself out of bed, showered, and let the memories and self deprecation circle down the drain because he was Steven Grant Rogers, Captain America, and now wasn’t the time to feel bad for himself.

2013

“You know, if you ask Kristen out, from Statistics, she'll probably say yes.” Natasha said with a smirk, adjusting her uniform.

Steve looked over to Natasha and gave her what he thought looked like a genuine smile, “That’s why I don’t ask.”

“Too shy or too scared?” Natasha teased, her red lips twitching up at the ends.

“Too Busy!” He backed his way out of the plane and jumped, wind whipping against him and the black abyss of the ocean underneath him.

He wasn’t too busy, in reality. He kept to a schedule and when there wasn’t any pressing matters or meetings to attend he stayed home and tried to catch up with the times.

The reason he didn’t ask Kristen- or anyone for that matter- on a date was because he didn’t feel ready. He didn’t feel like trying to get over Bucky. It felt like something he couldn’t do and maybe never would. It felt like trying to live without breathing.

He wasn’t ready and he didn’t think he’d ever would be.

“Need a medic?” Steve walked over to the man he was running past who was now resting against a tree with a heaving chest. He hadn’t had that much fun in what felt like years. Breaking a sweat as he ran and throwing harmless quips at a stranger. He felt free and young again- but then again this can just be one good day in a week of bad.

He hopes not.

The man laughed and leaned his head back against the tree, his elbow propped up against his knee while his other hand lay limp against the grass, “I need a new set of lungs.", the man said with a breathless chuckle, "Dude, you just ran like thirteen miles in thirty minutes.”

Steve let out a small laugh and shrugged sheepishly, “I guess I got a late start.”

The man rose his eyebrows and snorted, “Oh, really? You should be ashamed of yourself. You should take another lap.”

Steve smiled and opened his mouth to introduce himself when the man spoke again.

“Did you just take it? I assumed you just took it.” He said sarcastically, breath slightly recovered but not all there yet.

“What unit are you with?” Steve asked not meaning to change the subject so abruptly but that hadn’t bantered that way with anyone since Bucky. It felt odd- good- but odd. He couldn’t place it and didn’t want to think about it either.

“Fifty-eighth, Para-rescue.” The man said without taking a moment to think about it, “But now I'm working down at the VA.", he shrugged before leaning back against the tree, "Sam Wilson.”

Steve stretched his hand out to help Sam up, “Steve Rogers.”

Sam gave him a nod in thank you for the help up, “I kind of put that together. Must have freaked you out coming home after the whole defrosting thing.”

Steve smiled tightly and nodded, memories of doctors and coldness prodding at his mind, “It took some getting used to.” he lied, “It's good to meet you, Sam.” He turned away to leave, maybe walk down the street before he got called into to work but mostly to avoid talking about being in the ice and getting out of it. It was traumatizing and another thing on his list of: Things I Don’t Talk About.

Most people assumed he didn’t have any fears, that the ice didn’t harm him both mentally and physically, but it did. When he got told his missions would be overseas, he got nervous, when they told him he’d be in a plane, he said his prayers and kept his rosary in one of the many pouches on his uniform. He did everything possible to calm himself down and not make a scene in front of people who looked up to him but sometimes doing everything he could wasn’t enough, and when he got back to the safety of his home he’d break down.

“What about the nurse that lives across the hall from you? She seems kind of nice.” Natasha asked, pulling her parachute off and tossing it behind her, walking like the ship was her runway and not a mission.

Steve huffed out a laugh and shook his head. Natasha was not one for patience or taking ‘No’ for an answer, “Just secure the engine room.”

“And then I can find you a date?” He could hear her smirking over the comm and resisted the urge to roll his eyes because this wasn’t a social event, this was an important mission and he wasn’t about to get distracted.

“No.”

“Why not?”

Steve let out another huff of air that wasn’t made from the fact that he was currently running through a ship but made up of annoyance, “Because I said so. Now, secure the engine room.”

She snorted and he swore he could hear her roll her eyes, “Whatever, party pooper.”

“Look who it is. The running man.”

Steve shrugged with one shoulder and let out a breath of air, trying to shake off the 100 yard stares and hollow voices, “Caught the last few minutes. It's pretty intense.”

“Yeah, brother, we all got the same problems. Guilt, regret.” Sam said, giving Steve a look he’d classify as knowing.

The words were heavy in the air in front of Steve like a piano hanging from a rope. Strings busting and groaning with the weight. He knew those pains all too well. He sees those pains each time he looks down at his wrist- covered or not. Guilt because why couldn't he save him? Regret because Bucky could have gone home, safe, but stayed because of him.

Always because of him.

"You lose someone?” Steve asked, cutting his own thoughts off.

“My wingman, Riley.” Sam rubbed his wrist unconsciously before dropping it to his side like it burned him, “Fly in the night mission. A standard PJ rescue op, nothing we hadn't done a thousand times before.. till RPG knock Riley's dumb ass out of the sky.” Sam shook his head and shrugged, “Nothing I could do. It's like I was up there just to watch.”

He swallowed thickly and silently cleared his throat, “I'm sorry.” I know what you've gone through. I know how that feels. I know how cruel God can be.

“After that,” Sam continued, “I had really hard time finding a reason for being over there, you know?”

Steve knew. He felt that before- after losing Bucky. The helplessness of only being able to see your best friend- lover- soulmate- fall and not have the power to do anything, being a bystander in God’s sick game. He knew that feeling all too well. But he didn’t want to say anything. He didn’t think he’d be able to comfort Sam without losing himself in the process. Without vomiting all his feelings and emotions to someone he didn’t even know. And he didn’t want that pity from Sam- even though he had a feeling in his gut that told him Sam already knew. So Steve ignored the words that wanted to spew so desperately from his lips and tried to move away from the subject, “But you're happy now, back in the world?”

Sam laughed and nodded, “Hey, the number of people giving me orders is down to about zero. So, hell, yeah.” He trailed off and licked his lips, giving Steve an all-knowing look, “You thinking about getting out?”

“No-" Steve started and paused, "I don't know.” Steve sighed remembering the helicarriers SHIELD had hiding in their basement, how fighting didn’t seem like helping anymore, how much getting back into being a soldier again left a bittersweet taste in his mouth, “To be honest, I don't know what I would do with myself if I did.” He went through so much to get into SHIELD- into the Military- that getting out seemed like a waste. A waste of his body and everyone who died to make him like this. It seemed like the coward’s way out. It seemed like he was running away and that's something he just didn't do even if it was for the better. He never backed down from a fight.

“Ultimate fighting?” Sam suggested with a playful smile, “It's just a great idea off the top of my head. But seriously, you could do whatever you want to do. What makes you happy?”

Bucky

Steve shrugged and pushed his hands into the pockets of his jacket, “I don’t know.”

“Is he gonna make it?”

Steve held his breath as he watched the doctors work. Frantic hands moving over Nick’s still body doing what they can with little to work with, “I don’t know.”

“Tell me about the shooter.” Natasha demanded, more emotion in her voice than he’d ever heard before.

“He’s fast and strong. He had a metal arm.” Steve wished he could say more but that's all he knew. The man that killed Nick was too fast, even for him, and his metal arm seemed like something right out of the comic books they made of him.

“Ballistics?”

Steve was about to answer that he didn’t have that information yet when he noticed Maria standing beside him.

“Three slugs.” She said with a tired voice, “No rifling and completely untraceable.”

“Soviet made?” Natasha asked, something knowing behind her worried voice.

“Yeah.”

“Time of death, 1:03 AM.”

Steve looked down at the flash drive that was burning in his hand the whole time.

“I know who killed Fury." Natasha said, her voice calm even with Steve's arm holding her against the wall, "Most of the intelligence community doesn't believe he exists, the ones who do call him The Winter Soldier. He's credited with over two dozen assassinations in the last fifty years.” Natasha finished nonchalantly, like she was telling Steve what the weather was and not who killed Nick Fury, not like she was telling Steve something he didn’t think could be possible.

“So he’s a ghost story.” Steve wasn’t convinced. He’s seen aliens come from other galaxies, a man with a red face, and what science could do to him. But something like that- a man who could kill and not be known- seemed even more like a myth than Thor did.

Natasha shrugged with small nod of her head, “Five years ago I was escorting a nuclear engineer out of Iran, somebody shot at my tires near Odessa. We lost control, went straight over a cliff, I pulled us out, but The Winter Soldier was there. I was covering my engineer, so he shot him straight through me.” She pulled her shirt up to show a badly healed shot wound. The flesh was pink and puffed over with a length of two inches or more. It looked like she sewed up her own wounds and never got the chance to have it done professionally, “A Soviet slug, no rifling.” She repeated, “Bye-bye bikinis.”

“Yeah,” Steve snorted at how lightly she took the gruesome memory, “I bet you look terrible in them now.”

She smirked and made a nonchalant gesture with her head and shoulders, “Going after him is a dead end. I know, I've tried.” Steve saw visions of Natasha running through rough terrain trying to find the person who outsmarted her, who made bikinis a thing of the past, and shifted his grip.

She rose the flash drive up between her fingers and let out what sounded like a small sigh, “Like you said, he’s a ghost story.”

Steve looked at the flashdrive and in one swift movement grabbed it, “Well, lets find out what the ghost wants.”

“Was that your first kiss since 1945?”

Steve glanced at Natasha and suppressed a sigh. They should be talking about what SHEILD’s been hiding from them or why half of the STRIKE team is out to kill them- not if he’s kissed anyone since back then. Since Bucky. So Steve deflected, “That bad, huh?” he let out a laugh he knew Natasha could tell was fake and kept his eyes on the road in front of him, not on her soul-searching stare.

“I didn’t say that.” She said, kicking her feet back up on the dash like a defiant cat.

“Well, it kinda’ sounds like that’s what you’re saying.” He remembered Bucky loving his kisses. Craving them after long days of working on the docks or at whatever factory was hiring at the time. He remembered the sweet sounds Bucky made when Steve kissed him. A humm when he got a peck on the lips, a groan when Steve kissed at the soft spot behind his ear, a moan when he ventured down Bucky’s neck, and breathy utters of his name when he got down to the hollow of Bucky’s neck. He remembered all those things and felt the words on his wrist burn because how could he kiss someone that wasn’t Bucky?

He knew that nowadays kissing someone, loving someone that wasn’t your soulmate was accepted and even promoted. But he was used to back then, when getting with someone that wasn’t your soulmate got frowns and looks of disdain. And he was okay with that- with the traditional sense of only one person being right and God made for you. Not that he looked down on the nonbelievers and people who just didn’t care, but it was him and what he believed, his morals and personal views. So kissing Natasha made him want to pull the truck over, kneel on the dirt, and send off a little prayer to Bucky because he didn’t mean for that to happen. He didn’t want that to happen, not now, not ever.

“I was just wondering how much practice you’ve had.” Natasha said and Steve could hear her rolling her eyes.

“I don’t need practice.” Bucky was all I ever needed.

Natasha snorted, “Everyone needs practice.”

“It was not my first kiss since 1945.” He lied, “I’m 95, not dead.”

A few stretches of farmland passed before Natasha spoke up again.

“Steve,” She started with a soft voice, “I know how much James meant to you and it’s okay if you-”

“Don’t,” He said, swallowing through the tightness in his throat. Flashes of memories filling his mind when she said the name on his wrist. Bucky’s knee-weakening smile, Bucky sleeping next to him without a shirt on during hot summer days, Bucky trying to twirl him around their living room with the sound of Louis Armstrong playing in the background, Bucky praying to any God that would listen when he got sick, Bucky kissing his fever-sweaty brow, “just don’t.”

The silence was tense between them for a few more miles. He could feel the buzz of Natasha wanting to say something but being polite enough not to. She knew about Bucky, and was probably well informed on what exactly happened. He knew she probably read about them in the books that were published. How they were best friends and soulmates from a young age, inseparable even in war, and were to be in heaven together if not for the serum running through Steve’s veins.

“So nobody special then?”

Steve looked at her out of the corner of his eye before flicking them back to the road, “Believe it or not, it’s kinda’ hard to find someone with the shared life experience.” he could hear the bitterness staining his voice.

“Well, that’s alright,” She said with a small shrug, “you just make something up.”

“What, like you?” He was never too sure about Natasha. He knew part of her background but he never knew which background she was playing. He didn’t know if she was playing spy or actually being herself. And that put him off. He was used to upfront people. People that were in the army not because they wanted to be but because the draft forced them. Run of the mill army men that didn’t have any alternative mission but to point, shoot, kill, check kill.

“I don’t know." She shrugged, "Truth is a matter of circumstances, it’s not all things to all people all the time. And neither am I.”

Steve could feel the truthfulness of what she just said leaking through her words, “It’s a tough way to live.” Lying all the time, not being the same person you were yesterday.

“It’s a good way not to die, though.”

They drove in silence for a moment before Steve spoke up, something that’s been on his chest since he first met Natasha, “You know, it’s hard to trust someone when you don’t know who that someone really is.” He wanted to trust Natasha, to let his life lay in her hands just for a moment so he himself could get some rest. But he didn’t know if he could. If it was possible for him to trust someone that he could lose just as easily.

“Yeah. Who do you want me to be?”

“How about a friend?” He asked, trying to will the hopefulness out of his voice.

Natasha laughed and turned to him, “There’s a chance you might be in the wrong business, Rogers.”

It’s a start.

Your death amounts to the same as your life; a zero sum.

Steve gripped the lip of the sink and held his breath, trying to calm himself down. He didn’t want to get riled up over something a computer told him, something he knew he shouldn’t believe. Like when Stark told him that everything special about him came out of a bottle. They were just words; fighting words at that.

Fighting words that told him that all he worked for went down the drain like dirty water. Dirty, blood stained water. That losing Bucky because of a stupid mission wasn’t worth it and that he- even if he had trained harder, ran faster, moved quicker- would have never been able to catch Bucky.

Steve looked down at his wrists and closed his eyes. The makeup he padded onto his mark earlier was faded leaving the outline of Bucky’s name. He leaned down and pressed his forehead into the cool porcelain of the sink and sighed, “What do I do, Buck?” he whispered, knowing Natasha was in the room over, “What should I do?”

“You okay?” Steve asked, slowly lowering himself on the bed in front of Natasha. He needed to take care of his team, to make sure she was alright before he dealt with himself. He owed her that.

Natasha looked up at him and nodded, still toweling her hair, a slight curl coming out, “Yeah.”

“What’s going on?” He could tell by her short reply that something was wrong. There wasn’t a snappy comment about the dirt still on him or how a senior citizen could carry a full grown woman out of rubble.

“When I first joined SHIELD, I thought it was going straight.” She said softly, her eyes showing more of her soul rather than looking into his, “But I guess I just traded in the KGB for HYDRA. I thought I knew whose lies I was telling, but..” she trailed off, looking somewhere so far past the bed that Steve knew she wasn’t in the present anymore but remembering things from before SHIELD took her in, “I guess I can't tell the difference anymore.”

Steve knew she wasn’t about to have a heart to heart with him and was probably straining herself to even talk about this, about the past that hardly anyone knew, so he decided to let the topic go, “There’s a chance you might be in the wrong business.”

Natasha gave him a small smile before it faded into something a little more serious, “I owe you.”

Steve shook his head, “It’s okay.” He didn’t want to be in anyone’s debt.

“If it was the other way around, and it was down to me to save your life, and you be honest with me, would you trust me to do it?”

Steve nodded, “I would now.” Before all this he didn’t know if he’d ever trust her, if he could ever see her for anything other than a spy, but going through this with her made him see Natasha differently, almost as a friend, “And I’m always honest.”

“Is this Riley?” Steve looked down at the picture in his hands. Two well built men standing in rocky terrain. Sam looked a little bit younger, eyes brighter, and happier. The man beside him just the same. Both of their wrists touching; Riley’s with Sam’s precise handwriting that Steve only just came to know.

Sam nodded and swallowed, “Yeah.”

Natasha looked up from the picture and broke the heavy silence, “I heard they couldn't bring in the choppers because of the RPGs. What did you use, a stealth chute?”

“No,” Sam said handing Steve a file, “these.”

“I thought you said you were a pilot.” Steve felt his eyebrows raise to his hairline. If he thought the helicarriers were impressive then he was sorely mistaken. The twenty first century has wings.

“I never said pilot.” Sam preened like a bird and Steve wanted to laugh at the sight.

Steve looked back down at the file and shook his head, “I can’t ask you to do this, Sam. You got out for a good reason.” A reason that Steve knew all too well. A reason Steve wanted to get out with but couldn’t push himself to because there was more people to think about than just himself and Bucky.

“Dude,” Sam said rolling his eyes like Steve should be able to read his mind, “Captain America needs my help, there’s no better reason to get back in.”

Steve stood his ground as The Winter Soldier rolled away. He noticed the man’s mask fall to the ground and felt his muscles tense up at the thought of seeing who the ghost really was.

Who the man behind the mask and killing was- behind the killing of Fury.

He let the man get up from the ground before taking a step forward to punch when the man turned around, brown hair falling in his face- longer than Steve ever remembered seeing it, stubble around his face like that time he hadn’t been shaved in days because Steve came down with the flu, and dark circles under his eyes like when he spent day in and out working on the docks. Grey-blue eyes that he knew so well.

“Bucky?” He could hear the hopefulness in his voice, he could feel the nerves swirling through his stomach, and he could see the man he thought he lost so long ago. The man he loved and still does, the man whose name is scrawled across his wrist-

“Who the hell is Bucky?”

Steve felt his knees go weak. Not in the way they used to- from Bucky’s grins that told Steve everything he already knew- but because there was no Brooklyn accent, no combed back hair, no ‘Hey, Stevie’, no arm that held Steve’s name on its wrist, and most of all: no memories.

Steve snapped out of his own thoughts when he saw Bucky pointing a gun to him. He almost felt like not raising his shield up. Letting Bucky take the shot and put him out of his own pain. His own selfish pain that only grew more because his soulmate didn’t remember him. Steve loosened his grip on his shield so he could throw it behind him and tell Bucky to take the shot when something pushed him out of the way. It felt like a blur- like when he tried mixing all his paints as a kid and it gave him a murky green. He let his muscle memory take over- shield raising when Bucky threw what he guessed was grenade at him, moving when agents point a gun to his head, getting on his knees when told so.

Because who the hell was Bucky?

“It was him. He looked right at me and he didn’t even know me.” Steve didn’t want to believe it. He didn’t want to think about Bucky being alive after all these years, that Bucky was living and breathing somewhere- that Bucky had to deal with the aftermath of falling off that train, that he could have fallen with him and they’d both have lived.

“How’s that even possible?” Sam said, “It was like seventy years ago.”

“Zola.” Steve shook his head and looked down at his lap, “Bucky’s whole unit was captured in ‘43- Zola experimented on ‘em.” Steve never knew what Zola did the Bucky. He’d ask and ask but Bucky would tell him not to worry about it, that it wasn’t important, “Whatever he did, it helped Bucky survive the fall. They must have found him.” The fall that was Steve’s fault because Bucky went on that mission with him, because Bucky was the one who picked up his shield and saved him. If Steve had reached farther or faster he could have saved Bucky from all of this.

If Steve wasn’t so reckless Bucky wouldn’t be dead. Bucky wouldn't be whatever he is now.

“None of that’s your fault, Steve.” Natasha said, her voice sounding weak.

He didn't hear what Natasha said. It felt like there was an ocean in head head muting, and washing out everything. Filling his mind with images of Bucky, memories, anything that his brain could grab onto and hold close, any little thing that hurt more than comforted him.

“Even when I had nothing I had Bucky.”

Steve sighed when he heard Sam walk onto the bridge and prepared himself for a talk down.

“He’s going to be there, you know?” Sam said, stopping next to him and looking out onto the horizon.

Steve nodded, “I know.”

“Look,” Sam started, crossing his arms, “whoever he used to be-” Sam stopped and sighed, “the guy he is now, I don’t think he’s the kind you save. I think he’s the kind you stop.”

Steve looked at Sam out of the corner of his eye and sighed, “I don’t think I can do that.”, Sam was telling it like he saw it but he didn’t know Bucky like Steve did and Steve wasn’t about to kill his best friend- soulmate.

“Well, he might not give you a choice.” Sam paused like he was thinking his words through before speaking again, “He doesn’t know you.”

Those words felt like a punch in Steve’s gut. He wanted to lash out, yell at Sam and tell him that he knows. He knows Bucky is in some lost state and isn’t his best guy from decades ago, he knows that Bucky doesn’t remember him, he knows it all and he doesn’t need someone reminding him, but instead he bit in the inside of his cheek, took second, and said: “He will. Gear up, it’s time.”

Steve looked across the ramp at Bucky- The Winter Soldier in the eyes, “People are going to die, Buck.” he swallowed back a lump forming in his throat, “I can’t let that happen.” Steve stared at The Winter Soldier and ignored the helpless crack in his voice when he said, “Please don’t make me do this.” He didn’t want the death of his best friend to be on his hands, he didn’t want to fight the man he loved- loves- he didn’t want any of this.

The Winter Soldier didn’t respond. He just stared; matted hair framing his face, grey-blue eyes cold like ice, and lips pressed into a frown that seemed to be permanent.

Steve let a few seconds pass (he watched The Winter Soldier, waiting for a movement of some sort but the man didn’t even flex a muscle) before deciding to push Steve Rogers from the 40’s to the back of his mind and bring Captain America to the front. The man that America thought was fit to protect and represent them, the man they put faith in. He didn’t think about how that was his best friend a few feet from him or what he would have to do if his life was threatened by the man. He didn't think about how he'd rather die than hurt Bucky. He didn’t think about the new blood that was about to splatter on his hands, he just acted.

He tightened gripped on his shield, looked at The Winter Soldier, and threw.

“Charlie locked.” Steve breathed out, his voice tired and body burning with bullets.

“Okay, Cap.” Maria said, “Get out of there, I can take it from here.”

Steve could hear a tinge of happiness in Maria’s voice and let out a pant of air, “Fire now.” It was almost ironic how similar this death would be to the one 70 years ago; a machine above it’s time crashing into a body of water, people not having to die by the hands of HYDRA, his friend on the comm with him as he took his last breath.

He accepted the thought of dying a long time ago. Back when he was a slip of a thing, when his wrists were too small, and knees too knobby. Years ago when his ribs used to feel like they were burning after each cough, when every sharp breath could be his last, and every touch of winter was like a kiss of death. But even though he had accepted the thought of dying he was never one to give up and let sickness take him. He wasn’t one to roll over and let asthma or the common cold make him weak. He didn’t let it stop him from waking up each morning to either the sun on his face or Bucky’s lips pressed to his skin. Sickness didn’t stop him from trying to pull his own weight so Buck didn’t have to work at the docks every afternoon, or standing up against something that wasn’t right. Sickness didn’t stop him. It didn’t kill him and he never let it.

But that was then. Before he became Captain America, before he thought he destroyed HYDRA, before he lost his soulmate only to find him again without memories.

“But, Steve-” Maria started, her voice sounding worried and panicked.

“Do it!” Steve yelled into the comm before pushing himself up and letting his body weight rest against one of the rails, “Do it now.” Steve heard Maria muttering to herself and braced himself for the worst. He felt the helicarrier being shot; vibrations from rubble falling and bullets impacting.

It was worse than crashing into ice.

Steve gripped on to the rail, knuckles white and the metal cold under his palms. He could still feel the bullets in him- it wasn’t an excruciating pain like it should have been but more of something throbbing the back of his mind that told him whatever was in him shouldn’t be. He knows he should be hurting more- that he should be laying on the ramp and not standing up- but the serum does wonders, apparently.

He looked down below him where rubble was crashing through the helicarrier’s glass and into the Potomac and noticed Bucky.

Bucky was caught under a fallen beam. His face twisted in agony and panic where he was trying to get the beam off but couldn’t. Steve picked up the little mewls and groans Bucky made with each push on the beam and felt something pang in his heart because not once had he ever seen Bucky in enough pain where he cried out.

Steve vaulted over the rail and slid down the side of the helicarrier until the hit the side of the beam Bucky was struggling under. He ignored the slight growl and stare he was getting for pulling the beam up. Steve gritted his teeth and lifted the beam as high as he could; his body was sore with bullet wounds and bruises. Once Bucky slipped out from under the fallen beam Steve let it drop and exhaled before standing up and looking at Bucky.

“You know me.” Steve said, hope blooming in his chest because the man before him was Bucky and Bucky could never forget him. No matter how much damage HYDRA did.

A growl ripped out of Bucky, “No, I don’t!”

Steve took a step forward and reached out before stopping, “Bucky, you’ve known me your whole life.” Steve wanted to scream for him to remember, for something to spark in those blue eyes he drew constantly on hot summers, but he knew that wouldn’t help. “Buck-” Steve felt something cold and hard impact his cheekbone but kept his ground, he wouldn’t fight Bucky. Not now, not ever from this point. He knew that if he didn’t have serum running through his veins the punch would have broken a bone or three, but this was Bucky “Your name is James Buchanan Barnes.” Steve moved to pull his glove off and show Bucky the name on his wrist when he felt another blow to his face.

“Shut up!” Bucky yelled, his chest rising and falling with harsh breaths and his fists clenched at his sides.

Steve decided against showing Bucky his wrist for taking his helmet off; maybe Bucky seeing his face will spark a memory- something. He dropped his helmet to the side and let go of his shield, letting it fall down into the Potomac like he’d soon be doing too, “I’m not gonna’ fight you.” Steve said looking Bucky in the eyes, “You’re my friend.” My soulmate.

Steve let himself fall when Bucky pushed him down; a breath of air pushing out of his lips when he hit the ground. Steve wanted to groan in pain when Bucky straddled his hips (the position so familiar that Steve wanted to grip onto Bucky’s waist like he used to) and pushed him down with his metal hand, “You’re my mission.”

Steve opened his mouth to protest and tell Bucky that he wasn’t just another confirm and kill because The Winter Soldier would have already finished the mission already, how much history they had together, how much he’s missed him, when he felt more blows come to his face. Back and forth, his face went. From one set of knuckles to another. He felt pain bloom on his face, like flowers opening in the early hours of the morning. Blackness edged his vision and all he wanted to do was reach out and touch Bucky. Touch the dimple on his chin so he knows he’s real and not another vision. But he couldn’t move his arms, he couldn’t reach out and touch so he speaks instead, “Then finish it,” Steve slurs, “‘cause i’m with you till the end of the line.”

”We looked for you after,” Bucky said quietly as they walked up Steve’s rickety stairs, “my folks wanted to give you a ride from the cemetery.” The I missed you was clear to Steve’s ears.

“I know,” Steve sighed, his small body emotionally tired from burying his mother and thinking about all the ways he was going to miss her, “I’m sorry- I just.. I just kind of wanted to be alone.” It’s not that he didn’t want Bucky’s company or Bucky holding his hand as they lowered her into the ground, it’s that he didn’t want Bucky’s pity. He didn’t want anyone’s pity, not while his mother was alive and definitely not after.

They were both quiet for a moment, the sound of cars buzzing down the street and creaks of wood beneath their feet were the only sounds heard before Bucky broke the silence, “How was it?” how are you?

“It was okay.” Steve said, nodding to himself and trying not to give into the gravitational pull that Bucky radiated, trying not to slip into Bucky’s arms and let his walls break down, “She’s next to dad.” They were both buried in the military cemetery, right next to each other, almost holding hands if not for the dirt and wood preventing them.

Bucky nodded and rocked back on his heels, hesitating with a lick of his lips, “I was gonna’ ask..”

“I know what you’re gonna’ say,” Steve sighed shaking his head, “Buck- I just-” he trailed off because all he wanted was his mom back. Strong Sarah Rogers back at home or taking care of sick soldiers- hell, taking care of him. He wanted to see her red lipped smile, to flush out of embarrassment when she asked about Bucky or asked when he was going to pop the question. He just wanted to hear her Brooklyn Irish accent once more- that honey sound she made when they both sat quietly during Sunday mass. That’s all he wanted but he couldn’t get that back, not now and not ever.

“We can put the couch cushions on the floor like we used to when we first started out, lay there until our backs hurt then go to the bed.” Bucky said, placing a reassuring palm on Steve’s back, “It’ll be nice.”

Steve sighed and stuck his hands in his jacket pockets before frowning and pulling them out to dig through his pant pockets. He remembered putting his keys in his pocket this morning- or was that yesterday? Steve stuck his hands in his jacket pockets once more, feeling nothing but lint and a tissue-

“Steve,” Bucky said and Steve turned around to see Bucky holding a key out to him, “come on, let me just-”

“I can get by on my own.” but not without you Steve wanted to scream. Because he couldn’t. Not right now. At the same time, though, he wanted to show the world that he was strong- but then again.. he never had to prove anything to Bucky. Not once, even when they were first starting out.

“The thing is, you don’t have to.” Bucky moved forward and Steve thought he was going to kiss him but instead he got a warm hand on his shoulder and Bucky’s thumb rubbing small circles into his collarbone; Steve leaned into it. “‘Cause i’m with you till the end of the line, pal.”

The familiar scent of sterile bedsheets filled his nose, his heart monitor beeping slowly to his left, and the sound of a man crooning beside him. Slowly, Steve opened his eyes. He could feel the bruises and cuts stretching on his face, the soreness that the bullets left him, and the stiffness from however long he’d been laying on this hospital bed.

It’d been years since he’d been admitted to a hospital but the scene is all too familiar. Hard bed beneath his body, IVs in his arms, the loud sound of silence loud in his ears. It was like a second home and all he was missing was Bucky. Except now, he knew he was going to live and survive through whatever was wrong with him. Before, though, there would be a priest waiting by the door, Bucky holding his hands tight, and his mom pushing back his hair because the doctors had long since given up.

A tight smile formed on Steve’s face when he noticed what song was playing and who was sitting next to him. Sam was sitting on his right side, one leg propped up across the other, flicking through a magazine and looking oddly comfortable sitting on a plastic hospital chair.

“On your left.” Steve said, his voice cracking from disuse.

Sam’s head snapped up before he started chuckling. He set his magazine to the side and relaxed back into the chair, “I’m pretty sure if we went running right now I’d beat your ass.”

Steve snorted and pointed to the styrofoam cup resting on the table in front of Sam. He made a grateful sound when Sam passed him the cup and brought it to his lips. The water was refreshing when it touched his dry mouth; some dribbled out the side of his lips.

“So, Cap,” Sam started, refilling his cup when he passed it back, “how’re you feeling?”

Steve downed one more cup and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, “Okay,” Steve said nodding, “I’ve had worse.” physically he felt fine, emotionally he was drained, and mentally- well, he wasn’t too sure.

A moment passed before Sam spoke again, “And what happened with Bucky?” Sam said Bucky’s name so hesitantly Steve felt like the name was a bad omen- like a name parents told their children to scare them at night.

Steve sighed and looked down at his hospital gown, wondering what nurse had to fumble through changing, tracing the pattern with his eyes before answering, “Bucky..” was like a wild card right now, one he wasn’t sure about but had hope in. He hoped Bucky would come back to him without a mission on his mind but instead what they once had, “Bucky is something that I don’t want to talk about.”

Sam pursed his lips, obviously displeased with Steve’s answer, “Steve, look, I saw your wrist. I know who James is and I know that the man on the helicarrier wasn’t him.”

“You know what HYDRA’s used his body for but not who he was, or is.” Steve said, his voice tight and sharp. He turned away from Sam and closed his eyes when pain bloomed between his temples. He didn’t mean to snap at Sam but really and truly Sam nor anyone knew Bucky like he did.

It’s been two weeks since Steve got out of the hospital, one since he last saw Bucky, and four since everything went down in DC.

Congress and other suits have been clawing at Natasha since she first got on the stand; demanding answers from her about how something like that could have happened to SHIELD, how she could be so careless and spew SHIELD’s secrets like bathroom gossip, and who exactly The Winter Soldier was. Steve understood that she knew exactly what she was doing but at the same time he wanted to pull her down from the stand because none of this should be put on her. None of the blame, none of the finger pointing, none of the slander. Nothing.

But a finger needed to be pointed at someone right?

Steve watched as Fury made his way through the cemetery, hood covering his face and trees shadowing him. If this case- mission- had been any different Steve would have taken up the offer to join Fury. Follow someone again instead of leading, wipe through HYDRA bases like they were back in the 40s. But he couldn’t because there was something else he needed to do- someone he needed to find.

“That thing you asked for,” Natasha said, stopping by Steve’s side. He noticed she was still dressed like she should be fighting suits, not taking a stroll through a cemetery, “I called in a few favors from Kiev.”

“Thank you.” Steve said, taking the file from her. The thick paper was soft between his fingers and all Steve wanted to do was unwind the red string and see what they did to his best friend.

Natasha smiled and shrugged, “I pay my debts.” she took one step forward, the heels of her boots sinking into the soft dirt, and kissed Steve’s cheek before pulling back, “Do me a favor, don’t pull that thread.”

“Nat-” Steve started, a protest heavy on his tongue.

“Just think about it. You might not be ready to see what they did to your best friend.” She pointed looked down at his wrist before stepping back, “Good luck.”

Steve watched her walk away, opposite of the direction Fury went, before he looked down at the file in his hands. He had no choice but to open it. He owed this to Bucky and partly to himself. Steve let out a breath of air and undid the red string, fingers slightly shaking as the string got longer and the file was closer to being opened, he let the folder fall open and saw Bucky-

Ice.

Frozen.

Cryotube.

Steve felt chills run down his spine. He knew how it felt to freeze into unconsciousness and wake up again, but being frozen over and over again and waking up each time. He shook his head and flipped the file close.

“You’re going after him?” Sam asked, leaning in to look at the file.

Steve clenched the worn folder and sighed, looking at Sam, “You don’t have to come with me.” He didn’t want anyone following into something they didn’t want to go into, he didn’t want any more blood on his hands.

“I know,” Sam said quietly, a breeze rustled the trees, “when do we start?”

2015

Steve was exhausted. He could feel the ache in his bones for one, he could feel the cuts running up and down his back where he fell into glass, he could feel it all and he just wanted to sleep. He didn’t care about being seen by the medics, he didn’t care about the blood that would stain through his sheets and onto his mattress, he just didn’t care. Not today, not right now.

He made his way clumsily through his apartment, JARVIS expressing his worry multiple times before Steve asked him for a moment to himself, and then- blessedly- there was silence. He leaned a shoulder against the wall in his hallway and sighed, it had been a long day- a long few months.

He filled almost two years up with looking for Bucky. Day after day, sleeping in a new city or town each week, burning HYDRA bases to the ground as their exit. Each day- each mission- that passed, no sign of Bucky. He didn’t wanted to give up the chase, not when it was something so important, but he couldn’t keep Sam in the field forever. He wouldn’t do that to one of his only friends, to a man who got out of war for a good, valid reason. So, he canceled the mission.

He lied to Sam and said that he was tired- which he was, both physically and mentally but not enough to stop. He told Sam that they should be back in the city to help with the aftermath of SHIELD’s fall. He told Sam so many lies that he couldn’t find the truth in any of his words. And he knew Sam figured out he was lying by the second lie. But he wasn’t about to keep someone in a war that wasn’t theirs to fight- not like he did with Bucky, because Bucky could have gone back home but instead he fell and now look where they were.

So they came back home. Steve threw himself into helping what was left of SHIELD get back on their feet, helping the Avengers out when they needed him, trying to stay out of the media when possible, and trying to look for Bucky in the comfort of his own home.

Of course he never found him. If he did he might not have thrown himself in a life-threatening situation, he might have stayed in his designated area, letting each member of the team pull their own weight instead of trying to take on opponents he knew he couldn’t handle, he might have gone to the medic instead of staying on the elevator until he got to his floor.

But he’s always been a little self sacrificing.

Steve pushed himself off the wall, his uniform shirt slapping on his back, sticky with blood, and moved. He could smell the sweat on his skin, his dirty fingers trailing across the small table he had in the hallway stacked high with mail and lined with pictures he got back from the Smithsonian. He knew he shouldn’t have taken on all those goons, not when Tony was so close, not when Clint was on the other roof, but he threw himself into action and now he had to deal with the literal bloody consequences. He could blame it on fatigue- say he was tired from fighting for hours on end- but he knew he threw himself in that fight hoping Bucky would jump in. Hoping Bucky would appear out of thin air like the ghost they said he was with a smirk on his face and a hand stretched out. And Steve would have taken that hand with a quick quip of ‘I had ‘em on the ropes’ before moving in tandem with Bucky in battle like they used to. With another sigh he kept moving, giving his Ma’s picture a smile- split lip stinging- touching his fingers to the corner of Bucky’s, before turning into his bathroom.

Steve paused when he entered his bathroom, frowning down at his shoes when they made a squelching sound, only just noticing the blood on them. Great. Now he was going to have to get his carpet cleaned by some unfortunate Stark janitor because he didn’t think he could get blood stains out of the white carpet on his own. He ignored the squelching sounds for turning on his shower to the highest setting and peeling off his clothes. He took his pants and shoes off first- the glass in his back digging in with each bend for his shoes, blood slipping down his body like rain water. He let his pants slip down his body once his shoes were off, not caring for the belt attached to them, not caring about the blood staining the light blue color, just wanting to get into the hot spray of his shower.

He stepped out of his pants and kicked them to the other side of the bathroom, chuckling to himself somewhat hysterically when he thought about how he used to chide Bucky for doing the same thing. Look at me now, he thought, laughing at myself in the bathroom, all bloody, acting like it was a normal Wednesday night. He shook his swimming head and focused on taking off his ridiculous gloves, tugging on the velcro with his free hand and pulling it off with his teeth- he could taste dirt and someone’s blood.. gross- before moving on to the other. Steve paused when he saw Bucky’s name on his wrist and held his hand closer to his body. He could feel himself swaying back and forth but focused on his wrist instead.

He knew he should give up looking for Bucky, even in these not-so-lucid thoughts he knew it. He knew that chasing Bucky was like chasing after a dream, he could keep running for it, he could grab it, but it wouldn’t be anything tangible. He didn’t want to give up his search, but something in him told him that he should. Steve shook his head, and let his hands fall. He wasn’t thinking straight, he was tired from fighting and blood loss, he wasn’t going to give up on finding Bucky.

Steve breathed in the steam-humid air and gritted his teeth before pulling his shirt off. The material grazed against the glass still lodged in his back, scraping sounds making him cringe even more than the blood he could feel dripping down his back. He threw the shirt off to where his pants were and let out the gulp of air he’d been holding.

He could finally shower.

He tested the temperature with his hand before stepping into the shower, boxer-shorts still on but the water felt good on his skin nonetheless. He stayed facing the spray for a few minutes, letting the hot water wash over his body, taking blood and sweat and dirt down the drain in a murky swirl. Showers with hot water was one of the best inventions in Steve’s mind. No more baths in cold water or having to drag pots of boiled water to a tub with plug in the drain. No more having to reuse the same dirty water through a bath because they couldn’t afford to use more gas or water. No more of that. Now was the time of hot showers and baths and working pipes and affordable water and gas bills- now was the time that he’d like Bucky to live through.

Steve sighed and turned his back to the water, hissing when water got into his cuts and little chips of glass fell out. He knew soon enough each little glass shard would be out of his back but he was just so tired. His eyelids were heavy like when he’d come home from working at the grocer’s down the street, ready to close and fall into a warm bed and just sleep. But he was in the shower right now, he still had glass in his back, and his room was across the hall but across the hall was too far for his mindframe- besides, he might slip and do more damage than already done to his body.

He gently lowered his body until he was sitting on the shower tiles. His back arched, arms folded over his knees, and closed his eyes.

Faintly, in the distance somewhere between reality and the hazy state of dreaming he was fading into, he heard a worried “Stevie?” before everything went black.

The mountains were rocky beneath Steve’s feet, powdery white snow reaching up to his calves, soaking through his uniform. He shifted the weight of his shield on his back, still getting used to wearing it like a rucksack instead of on his arm, even though he’s had it for months. He looked down at the railroad and sighed, “You think this is a good idea?”

Bucky frowned, dimpled chin indenting more as he focused on the situation at hand, “Well, I mean,” he shifted his hips and grabbed onto his rifle strap, black lines of Steven Grant Rogers peaking out from his jacket cuff- a slight surprise to Steve when he saw it, so used to Bucky wearing gloves on missions- “it could be a bad idea, if one of us slips or somethin’.”

Steve chuckled, lightly nudging Bucky with his shoulder, “If anyone’s gonna’ fall it’ll be me. I got two left feet.”

“Don’t I know it,” Bucky snorted, looking away from the snowy ridges to face Steve, “I think I got too many stubbed toes from all those dance lessons.”

Steve smiled at Bucky, thoughts of dancing in their ratty apartment warm in his memory- nothing like the coldness they were feeling right now, “You gonna try teaching me again when we get back home? Right and proper in a club- maybe at The Stork, Peggy told me about it, said it’s real nice.”

“Maybe you could lead this time, twirl me around for a change with those big ol’ muscles of yours.”

“And maybe the dames will be jealous of you for a change.” Steve added, remembering all the times when they went dancing and every gal in the room would glare at him, wishing that their soulmate was Bucky.

“The dames were always jealous of me, Stevie, jus’ didn’t show it- hell, even the guys were jealous, wanting your pretty little hide to be theirs.” Bucky smirked at Steve, “You still my pretty little thing, Stevie?”

Steve blushed, his cheeks feeling warm even in the cold gusts of air whipping from the mountains, “I’ll always be yours, Buck. You still mine? My big tough guy?”

“Don’t the words on your wrist know it.” Bucky gave him a gentle nudge back, “Come on, I think we got a HYDRA base to blow.“

Steve nodded, trying to regain his sense of being a Captain again and not some love-sick skinny kid, taking Bucky’s hand as they walked to the edge of the mountain- not caring if any of the other guys saw, just wanting to hold his soulmate’s hand.

“Hey, Buck,” he started, eyeing the rope they’d have to glide down nervously, “you think it’s safe?”

No reply.

“Buck?” Steve turned to look at Bucky and gasped-

Half of Bucky’s left side was missing, blood dripping from his shoulder, cuts and scrapes littering his face, his eyes staring blankly at the mountains in front of him.

“Buck?” Steve tentatively said, his heart beating fast in his chest, dread filling his gut like he was drowning in it.

“You could have saved me.” Bucky said, still staring far off in front of him, “You could have saved me, but you didn’t.” He turned to face Steve, the scars were deep on his face, blood staining the deep blue of his peacoat, “Why didn’t you save me?”

“I-” Steve started, his chest tightened like when he used to get asthma attacks, tears rimmed his eyes because this was all just a dream. He wasn’t on the mountain with Bucky, he wasn’t kidding around with Bucky like he used to because Bucky fell. Bucky had already fallen and he’s God know’s where, because Bucky blamed him- and Steve knew he would, “I-”

“Wanna know why you didn’t save me?” Bucky said, his eyes glazed over, blood pooling on the white snow, “You didn’t save me because you weren’t strong enough, because you were never meant to be Captain America, because you were never good enough.”

With each spit of words Steve flinched, the hand still holding onto Bucky’s shaking, tears finally slipping out. He knew it was all true, he knew he’d never be good enough for a job like this, and he never wanted a job like this. He just wanted to fight in the war, he never wanted to be Captain America or to cause all this death. He never wanted his best friend- soulmate- to die because of him, “Buck-”

“No.” Bucky shook his head, “You let me down, Steve, you let all of us down.” With a quick wrist flick Bucky let Steve’s hand go and backed away, “You let us down and how could we forgive you for that? How could you even ask for something like that?”

Steve woke with a start, his heart hammering in his chest, breath coming out in short gasps. He could feel tears drying on his face, his throat hoarse where he’d probably been screaming. He hadn’t had a night like that in a while. It had been good for the most part, his mind preoccupied with finding Bucky or whatever his mission he was working on. But he should have known a nightmare was in his future.

And it was always the same nightmare, sometimes a different person, but always the same concept. Someone he couldn’t save, someone he wasn’t there for, someone he let down telling him how worthless he was. He didn’t want to give into their words, but when they plagued his dreams night after night, how could he not?

Steve scrubbed his face with his hands, only just noticing his sore back was patched up and how he wasn’t in the shower but his bed. He dropped his hands and looked around his room, everything was in the same order, like someone just tended to his back, put him in dry clothes, and tucked him into bed.

He pushed the sheets off himself and stepped onto the carpet, slowly making his way to the door. He could feel the bandages on his back move with him in an uncomfortable flex. His head was still swimming, like he hadn’t got enough sleep with the nightmare haunting him- Bucky’s words still fresh in his mind as he put a hand on the wall to stable himself. He ignored the nervous flutter in his gut for walking, plush carpet smooth under his feet.

He wasn’t sure who to expect when he walked out of his room, but it sure as hell wasn’t this, “Bucky?” he felt his hand slip off the wall he was holding onto and his shoulder fall into it instead.

“Hey, Stevie.”

Steve felt his heart lurch into his throat, pinpricks lining his eyes, “Is that really you?” He wanted to reach out and touch, let his hand stroke through Bucky’s long hair, let his fingers press at the dark circles under his eyes- just feel Bucky.

Bucky rose slowly from where he was sitting at the dining room table, like he didn’t want to scare Steve, and crossed the room, socked feet making him silent, “It really is me, pal, whatcha’ gonna’ do about it?”

Steve felt his lip tremble at the watery smile Bucky gave him, “Can I touch you?”

“I think I should be asking that, pal.” Bucky snorted, his metal hand clenching and unclenching by his side.

“I forgive you for all that, Buck,” Steve said, shaking his head, not wanting Bucky to think he blamed him for the actions of the Winter Soldier, not wanting Bucky to feel guilty over something that was HYDRA’s fault, “I never blamed you for any of that, not during, not after.”

Bucky nodded, still looking at Steve- his eyes a color Steve could never perfect with paints, could never fully remember even when he looked at the old black and white reels- “I don’t know if I could forgive myself, but,” he shrugged, “I’m not him any more.”

The air was heavy between them and all Steve wanted to do was clear it, he wanted to pull Bucky into a hug, kiss his temple, and make sure this was all real. He’s had hallucinations like this before, seeing Bucky in his apartment after a long mission, Bucky talking to him but never touching him, and when Steve would move in for a hug the vision would disappear.

He thinks visions of Bucky were the worst possible thing that could happen to him.

“You never answered my question,” Steve started, his voice shaky, hoping that this all wasn’t another hallucination because he wouldn’t be able to deal with that, “Can I touch you?”

Bucky didn’t answer and Steve felt like his heart stopped- because this was another hallucination, this was another trick of his mind because of blood loss and fatigue, that Bucky was still out there in the world and not with him- until Bucky took two short steps and pulled Steve into his chest.

And, goddamn, Steve felt like he could breathe for the first time in years.

He wrapped his own arms around Bucky’s warm form, pulling him into his chest like he hasn’t in years, and breathed in Bucky’s scent. He could tell Bucky had recently showered- the smell of soap fresh in his hair- but under all that was the familiar, comforting scent of Bucky. And, oh, how he had missed that.

“I remembered you a few months ago,” Bucky said, his voice muffled by Steve’s shoulder, “but I was afraid of coming back- of becoming him again and finishing my mission.”

Steve gripped onto Bucky tighter, not saying anything just listening with an odd mix of sorrow, rage, and love in his heart.

“So I kept my distance, watched you from afar where I knew I couldn’t hurt you. I tried to let myself heal from whatever the hell HYDRA did to me- but I knew I couldn’t do it alone.” Bucky pulled away and Steve wanted to cry, he just wanted to hold onto whatever line Bucky was giving him, soak in the sunlight that was Bucky, drown in the blue of his eyes, but Bucky was trying to talk to him and he knew he needed to listen.

“I knew I couldn’t do it alone,” Bucky repeated, his hands coming up to frame Steve’s face- one warm, one cool- “So I found help.”

“Help?”

Bucky nodded, looking away, “Like I said before, I didn’t trust myself to come to you, so I went to your friends instead.”

Steve felt his heart fall into his stomach, “What?” he knew he should be happy- proud- that whichever of his friends helped Bucky, but he wasn’t. He was saddened that Bucky couldn’t come to him- his soulmate- and that his friends kept it from him. Steve knew he was being irrational but he couldn’t help but feeling that way, he’s only human.

“I found Natalia- Natasha- one day when she was in Europe. I remembered training her in Red Room and I knew she was good now, I knew she could help me, and I knew she wouldn’t tell you.” Bucky licked his lips, eyes still averted, “So for the past few months I’ve been in a rehabilitation of sorts- psych treatments from some Ex-SHIELD doctor, arm repairs from Howard’s son- things like that.”

“All without telling me.” Steve said, his voice sounding like it was a mile away to his own ears. He didn’t want to be upset- not when Bucky got help- but nobody told him, Bucky didn’t tell him, and it hurt.

Bucky nodded again, this time looking into Steve’s eyes, “All without telling you, but last night..” he shook his head, hands falling from Steve’s face to lightly touch at the bandages on Steve’s back, “Last night you were reckless, you jumped into a fight you knew you couldn’t win, you didn’t go to medical, you didn’t update your team, nothing. You just came back home, bleeding down your back and across the damn carpet and basically passed out in the shower. If Natalia hadn’t told me when JARVIS notified them of your arrival home- if they didn’t trust me enough to let me on your floor so I could talk to ya’, you’d probably still be in the damn shower.”

Steve averted his eyes and frowned. He never wanted Bucky to see him so low. Not in this century where he can’t get sick, not when he basically had everything he could ever want, but Bucky’d seen him have low days before. Back when Death was trying to pull him into her arms, back when winters meant brittle bones and wet- sometimes bloody- coughs. So Steve should have been okay with it but he wasn’t.

Now, in this age he was supposed to be strong and stoic. He’s supposed to represent a nation and support a misfit team on his back. He supposed to hardly have emotions and wants and dreams. He’s just supposed to be an icon. And he wanted to keep that facade up, even to Bucky- especially to Bucky who was already so hurt and broken that he didn’t need Steve’s weight on his back.

So, Steve squared his shoulders and tried to put his strongest face on, “I’m sorry, that won’t happen again.”

Bucky frowned, looking Steve’s face over before sighing, “Stevie, you don’t gotta’ do that with me. Not with me, ever.” Bucky moved his hands up from Steve’s back, the pads of his thumbs resting over the dark circles Steve knew he had under his eyes, “You don’t gotta’ be Captain America with me. Just let go, let me hold your weight, yeah? Let me be your soulmate.”

Steve felt his lip tremble again, Bucky’s words lighting up his soul like nothing else. He let himself bow forward into Bucky, his head on Bucky’s shoulder, both of his arms between his and Bucky’s chest, wanting nothing more to be that scrawny kid again so Bucky could hold him properly. He breathed in and out against Bucky’s shoulder, each inhale as ragged as his exhale, trying to breathe with the up and down motions Bucky was rubbing into his back, “I’m so tired, Buck.” he breathed out, saliva catching in his mouth, “I’m so fucking tired.”

“I know,” Bucky said, his voice sounding wet, “I know you are, Stevie, just let me take care of you now. Lemme’ take care of you like I did back in the day.”

Steve nodded against Bucky’s shoulder, wanting nothing more than to be taken care of, wanting nothing more than Bucky being the one to comfort him, “Okay, Buck, okay.”

Steve woke up in his bed. His eyes opened slowly, warmth radiating across his back and a hand was calmly stroking his hair. It felt good, he felt good. For what felt like the first time in a long time he felt like he could breathe easy again, nothing obstructing the path to and from his lungs, nothing poking at the back of his mind. He wanted to go back to sleep just so he could wake up and feel Bucky beside him, maybe close his eyes and pretend they were in the simpler times of the 30s. But he needed to wake up, face the reality that might be easy and simple and everything he ever dreamed of.

He let his eyes fully open and smiled. Bucky’s face was right beside, metal arm tucked under Steve’s pillow, and a smile smile dancing across his lips, “Hey, Buck.”

“Hi, Stevie.” Bucky whispered, his hand slipping down to run across the features on Steve’s face.

“I was worried I dreamed you up.” Steve brought his own hand up to Bucky’s face. He let his fingers trace the sharp edge of his jaw, across the dimple on his chin, pressing into the dip of his lower lip, trying to relearn the shapes of his soulmate.

Bucky gave a small shake of his head, eyes still a soft blue-grey, “No, ‘m all real.”

“Thank God.”

Almost a month had past since Bucky first showed up in Steve’s apartment. Weeks of them catching up, of them just being together, and of Bucky meeting the rest of the Avengers. Everyone took well to him- which was nice- but Steve could feel them wanting someone to address the elephant in the room.

That elephant being: where was Bucky’s soulmark?

He remembered Stark almost asking, his mouth forming the word ‘where’, when Natasha elbowed him in the ribs. He was curious too, if Bucky had lost his soulmark with his arm, but the subject seemed touchy for him to bring up- and he didn’t want to do anything to make Bucky uncomfortable. Anything that could make him leave.

So everyone ignored it and acted like nothing was different.

Steve ignored it when Bucky wrapped his metal arm around him when they were sleeping. Steve ignored it when he’d pass by Bucky reading biographies of their life. Steve ignored it when Bucky kissed his own soulmark- the loopy letters of James Buchanan Barnes stark as ever on his skin. Steve ignored it through everything they did, but ignoring it was getting harder and harder as the days passed.

He wanted to know out of purely selfish reasons, nothing Bucky said would benefit either of them. It would just lead to more heartbreak, more loss, and more things to fuel the rage he had for HYDRA. Nothing beneficial whatsoever.

But he still wanted to know.

They were laying on the couch one night- Bucky laying between his legs, an ear resting against his sternum- when Steve built up the gall to ask.

Steve ran the tips of his fingers up and down Bucky’s back and licked his lips “Can I ask you a question?”

“Mm?” Bucky hummed in reply, his eyes shut, body so relaxed he was like dead weight on Steve’s chest.

“Where did- what happened to your soulmark?” Steve kept his eyes on the ceiling once the question was out in the air. He felt Bucky tense up ever so slightly under his fingers, “You don’t have to answer me, it- it’s totally fine. I don’t need to know.”

Bucky sighed, he pushed himself up and out of Steve’s arms so he was sitting between his legs. He took one of Steve’s hand in his- the one with James Buchanan Barnes scrawled across the wrist- and stared at it as he spoke, “When I fell off the train the way down wasn’t so nice,” he shifted and licked his lips, “I don’t remember most of it but I remember laying in the snow and seeing the bottom half of my arm gone.”

Steve stayed quiet as Bucky spoke. Listening, trying not to cringe or get angered at HYDRA, just keeping a straight face, even when he knew he should had fallen with Bucky.

“HYDRA didn’t care about soulmates, they thought they made us weak,” Bucky shook his head, and pursed his lips, a confused look on his face, “when I was still lucid I remember looking at the arm and freaking out- not because it was metal, but because your name wasn’t there.” Bucky pulled Steve up so they were looking at each other, still holding Steve’s hand close to his chest, “you grounded me Stevie, I remember, during the war when you weren’t there I could just look at my arm and I’d feel okay, and I think when I was the soldier, when they’d do things to me,” his mouth twisted at the thought, “I would think about your name, even when I didn’t know what it meant.”

Steve looked at the silver plates of Bucky’s arm, taking in everything Bucky said, and liked his lips, “Do you want my name on your arm again?” Steve would be fine if Bucky didn’t want his name on his arm again, but he wanted to be able to give Bucky that sense of safety back. So after a night of nightmares, or whenever Steve wasn’t near Bucky, he could have something that grounds him, almost like a security blanket of sorts.

“Yeah,” Bucky nodded, looking at the spotless on his arm, “More than anything.”

They went to Stark the next day, Bucky was tingling with excitement, and Steve with nervousness in his stomach.

The man himself was messing with the entrails of robot, music thrumming through the lab,

“What can I do for you boys?” He asked, lowering the music and setting his tools down.

Steve took a step in front of Bucky, and cleared his throat, when Bucky beat him to the punch.

“I want Steve’s name on my arm again.” He said it bluntly, without a care in the world about what Stark thought.

“You- want- oh,” he nodded, shrugging, “okay. So like, Tattoo style? Burn it on? Paint it on? Stickers? Magnets? You name it, I can do it.”

“Whatever makes it permanent.” Bucky said, crossing his arms over his chest.

Stark hummed for a couple of seconds, before bounding up out of his seat, “I think some engraving and some car paint will do the job-” He walked over to Bucky and grabbed his left arm, pulling him over to one of his work stations, “I need to measure your wrist,” He explained, pulling out some rulers and paper, he laid them across Bucky’s wrist, speaking to himself in gibberish that Steve couldn’t understand, while he drew the measurements on a piece of grid paper. He nodded to himself again then looked up and pointed to Steve, “I need you to write your name on here, Cap'n’ Crunch.”

Steve rolled his eyes at the nickname before walking over to where Tony was, he tried to remember how his name was on Bucky’s wrist from before- was it in cursive? was it in print? was it chicken scrawl?- he looked down to the name across his own wrist (loopy letters, nice and cursive, totally unlike Bucky’s actual handwriting) and smiled. He signed the paper, spreading the letters and names out so they’d take up the whole piece of paper, feeling both Tony’s and Bucky’s eyes on the back of his head as he signed the last ’s’.

Steve picked up the paper and handed it gently back to Stark, acting like the piece of paper was a piece of him- which, in a way, it was. Those letters were going to be on Bucky’s arm again, Bucky was going to have an official soulmate again, Steve was going to be Bucky’s again- and permanently this time.

Tony held the piece of paper up to the light and nodded, “Okay, Capsicle, get out. ”

“What?” Steve looked from Bucky- who was casually leaning against one of Tony’s tables, poking at a little robot- to Stark, “What?

“Get. Out.” Tony said, making little sweeping gestures with his hands, “This is between me an Winter’s Child over here, you don’t get to see this process.”

“Buck-”

“I’d rather you not see it, either, honestly.” Bucky said with a shrug, not looking at him but instead at the little robot he was poking at, “Kinda defeats the purpose of both of us thinking this was somethin’ natural.”

Steve watched Bucky for a few seconds before nodding and walking backwards, “Okay, Buck, I’ll be on our floor, come find me?”

Bucky nodded, finally turning around to look at Steve, “‘Course, I’ll see you in a few, Stevie.”

Steve smiled at Bucky, and turned to leave the lab. He heard Stark snickering about ‘Stevie’ as the doors whooshed shut, a barrier between him and Bucky that hasn’t been there in weeks.

For the past few weeks that Bucky’s been here they’ve been inseparable, practically joined at the hip. It felt like how it was before the war, both of them together getting in trouble or watching from the side lines. Both of them together and in love.

So, so in love.

Steve thought he lost this when Bucky fell from the train. He thought getting the chance- the honor- to physically love Bucky again was gone forever. He thought it fell from the train, and now that he had Bucky back he never wanted to let go.

He knew he was being a little dramatic- Bucky was going to come back to their floor when Stark was finished- but he thought he had a little room to be dramatic after all that’s happened.

It was a couple hours later when Bucky slid onto the couch with him.

Steve stopped coloring in the drawing of Clint’s dog that he was working on and turned to Bucky, greeting him with a chaste peck on the lips, “How did it go with Stark?”

Bucky hummed into the kiss, giving him one more before leaning back into the couch, “Good, he was real chatty the whole time, kept me focused on whatever he was saying and not the little blow torch he was using on my arm.”

Steve flicked his eyes down to Bucky’s arm before he looked back up at Bucky, “Can I- Can I see it?” He suddenly felt nervous, little butterflies fluttering around his stomach, he didn’t know why he felt like this was something big.. but he did.

Bucky nodded, pulling his arm away from his side and showing it to Steve, “Sorry I kicked ya’ out earlier, I just wanted this to seem like it was somethin’ normal and not manmade. He nodded to Steve’s arm, I wanted to give ya’ that feeling you first got when you saw your name on my arm.”

Steve let his fingers drift over the engraved letters of his name, Steven Grant Rogers, it read. The engraving was shallow but filled in with black ink, mimicking natural soulmarks enough to where if Bucky’s arm wasn’t metal people would think it was the real thing. He could see the care Tony put in it and made a mental note to thank him later.

“What do you think?” Bucky asked, a nervous flit to his voice.

“It’s perfect,” Steve said, a lump forming in his throat as he spoke, he pressed his lips to the still warm metal twice before looking up at Bucky and kissing him, “It’s so perfect.”

And in that moment, with Bucky warm at his side, and his own name finally on Bucky’s arm again. He felt whole, like what happened these past few years was erased from his mind, like the load on his shoulders finally evaporated. He felt whole, and he knew, in a way, he knew Bucky did too.

-end