Archive of Our Own

It was raining when they arrived. The driveway (if that track could be called such a thing) was already turning to treacherous mud, and the car Steve was driving – saved from a scrap yard for all of four hundred dollars – was not making the descent any easier.

In the rearview mirror, Bucky still hadn’t moved. Whatever glances Steve could steal showed the man the way he had been the entire drive, lying unmoving across the back seats, blank eyes staring up at the roof of the car.

But Steve needed to keep his eyes on the track, making it hard to glance back for long enough to make sure Bucky’s chest was still rising and falling. Without proof Steve’s own chest felt like it was tightening.

They pulled up next to the little house, sitting low in the bottom of a small valley, and Steve swallowed an I love you as Bucky finally stirred.

All the time it had taken to find each other, to fall together this way and accept that this wasn’t just a friendship. Steve could list every single time that Bucky had kissed him. Every single “When we get back to New York…” that he’d uttered was right there in his memory, waiting to come to life if he could just bring Bucky back.

(‘When we get back to New York we should get some goldfish.’

Steve smiled. Every time Bucky came up with a new idea it felt like another candle being lit. Soon their whole future would be bright and they’d just have to finish with Hydra and live their lives.

‘What would we call them?’

Bucky hummed softly, ‘We could call one Gill.’

Steve groaned, as one of them infailably did when the other attempted a pun.)

He’d seemed fine for so long, but now he was trudging silently to the house and Steve couldn’t rememeber the last time they’d even made eye contact.

Bucky took the room to the east, and Steve piled in pillows and blankets to the large bed. It was mid-afternoon, but Bucky collapsed on the matress and his body stilled once more.

This time Steve did say ‘I love you.’ as he was leaving the room.

Silence.

He closed the door.

That was the first day, and Steve stumbled around the rest of the house with unsettled memories of their recent hunt for Hydra filling his mind.

They’d chatted, even laughed sometimes. They’d been discussing the future and what they wanted and how they would heal. He’d thought things were getting better, and maybe he should have seen this coming but god, what had happened?

It had taken less than an hour for his boyfriend to fall apart so completely that there didn’t even seem to be any pieces to pick up. Just dust and ghosts. Ash. Tears. Steve couldn’t do anything but watch.

When it was over Bucky seemed so entirely empty, and Steve found a safe house far away for the two of them to stay.

Bucky didn’t go outside for the first five days, so Steve didn’t either. The door to the eastern room remained closed, barring the few times Steve would enter – plenty of warning and no sudden movements – to place food on the bedside table. That door became familiar. The tarnished doorhandle against the dark grain of the wood.

The rest of the house became almost as familiar in those restless days. Steve knew how rough the threadbare carpet felt under his feet after hours of pacing, knew how cold the linoleum kitchen seemed with little besides bread and cereal and oatmeal stocking the cupboards. Some evenings he lay on his back on the soft sofa and found patterns in the water damage on the ceiling. Natasha told him that the place didn’t leak anymore, and the tech inside was all world class, but it still felt so desolate to Steve’s lonely heart.

Bucky still hadn’t spoken, barely ever moved, and Steve would pause in his room for as long as he dared just to make sure his chest was still rising and falling. It was always anyone’s guess whether the food would have been touched when Steve returned for the dishes. Sometimes Bucky ate a bit. Usually he didn’t.

This was the new way it was; Bucky back to being a ghost and Steve trying to be enough for the both of them.

It had stopped raining on the second day, the weather turning to watery sunshine and the rhythmic tapping of drops falling from the trees onto their roof. Eventually that stopped too. It got warmer.

Once, or three times, Steve placed the food down gently and opened his mouth to speak. But every time he couldn’t think of anything to say, every time he shut it again, and every time he left in silence to drop down on the living room sofa and fight the sick feeling rising in his stomach.

The fifth day Steve put down a bowl of oatmeal and checked for breathing as usual. It was steady, slow and calm.

For once it was clear that Bucky was asleep; his face was slack and his hands perfectly relaxed from their usual tense fists. It was enough for Steve to reach out a hand, almost brushing some hair from that face. But he thought better of it.

Still, even through the hair there was red around his eyes and scattered in splotches over his face, a damp patch on his pillow where tears would have fallen. It made Steve think that maybe some emotional fever had finally broken.

Sure enough, Bucky left the room a few hours later to set the empty bowl in the sink. Steve still couldn’t think of anything to say, he just smiled and watched Bucky’s expression.

Everything about him seemed so raw as he stood there, like trauma could leave a body physically tender. And god, he looked so lost.

‘What do I-’ he swallowed, cutting off the first time he’d spoken in far too long, ‘-What am I supposed to do now?’

Come back to me. Let me hold you. Tell me you love me. Talk about the things we’re gonna do when we get back to New York. Put your hand in my hair and let me rest my head on your chest so I can hear your heartbeat and believe that everything will be okay.

‘Maybe we could start by taking a look outside.’

Bucky nodded, once, and waited there in the kitchen for Steve to arrange the next move.

It was warm outside, but still Steve fetched Bucky’s jacket. It was something about how he moved, he just seemed a little… fragile. He handed it over with the loose fabric hanging down so Bucky wouldn’t have to brush Steve’s hand when he took it.

Bucky shrugged it on with a thin smile and lead the way outside.

It didn’t have a name, this place, and Steve wasn’t even sure how much of it belonged to their little house. But somehow it was comforting to have those green hills, drawing in steep and close on three sides. They blocked the sunrise to the east; the first daylight arrived there hours after the morning had begun. But there was something of a lake to the west, and the valley opened out to the sunset every evening. The last, long sunshine lingered there until the early stars appeared. That was life in this valley. Morning gloom endured in its grey light and cool air, night fell abruptly.

Steve hoped that Bucky noticed how beautiful it was.

They strolled down towards the creek together, Steve feeling like any sudden movement could drag them back into the quiet hell of the past five days. But when Bucky took Steve’s hand it was an anchor, and their fragile peace seemed to hold.

Around the house was a ring of wild grass, all soft and unmown and in a much darker green than the town’s suburban lawns. But a little way before the treeline was a depression in the ground filled with what appeared to be some kind of thicket.

When they got a little closer the serrated leaves and distinctive red berries became clearer. Similar plants were dotted all through the woods, but these had formed into a dense cluster.

‘Holly shit.’ Steve muttered, under his breath.

‘Kinda ruins the effect, doesn’t it?’ Bucky said, apparently having not heard Steve’s comment, ‘We should do something with this or something.’

‘You… you wanna do that?’

Probably Bucky could hear the hope in his voice. The prospect of Bucky actually doing something with his time seemed like a leap forward. Particularly now that Steve had noticed Bucky’s other hand opening and closing into an absentminded fist, his movements seeming too tense, and maybe the fever hadn’t broken at all. Maybe it had just subsided for a bit.

Bucky sighed and began moving on toward the creek.

‘Look, Steve,’ he finally answered, ‘the thing I gotta tell you about this… breakdown… whatever, just so you understand, is sometimes it’s just boring.’

Steve merely nodded, hoping Bucky would continue.

‘I’m not gonna talk about this much so don’t count on any long heart to hearts but I kinda need you to understand this. I don’t really feel like existing right now but there’s only so long you can do nothing.’

‘Okay.’ Steve said, for want of anything else to say.

‘And don’t think I didn’t hear that stupid pun you just said.’

That, Steve came to realise later, was the first good day. The next day Bucky was once again behind the closed door. It was weeks before they were back to actually sharing each other’s company, but even when they did spend time together it was defined by Bucky’s tense movements and Steve’s nervous conversation, like they were both waiting for the next storm.

The internet suggested getting a hobby. Steve didn’t put too much faith in what the internet had to say about dealing with PTSD, but it was probably better than hovering awkwardly on the fringes of Bucky’s vision and trying not to exist too loudly or too much.

‘A hobby like what?’ Bucky asked.

‘Well, what do you like?’

Bucky furrowed his brow and glanced up. Steve caught the look with that horrible, twisting feeling that he’d said something wrong. These days he thought he was getting to know that feeling better than he knew Bucky.

But just this once Bucky didn’t shut down, didn’t raise the gates and withdraw once more, just lowered his eyes again and in a muted voice muttered ‘I was kinda hoping you’d know.’

Not for the first time, the words I have no idea how to help you ran through Steve’s mind.

‘Well let’s just try things.’ Yes. Good job, Steve. Very helpful. ‘See if we can find something you like.’

Bucky waited.

‘We’ll make a list.’ Steve offered, ‘There are a lot of things people do for fun. We’ll find something.’

It wasn’t much, but after last night’s nightmare he was willing to take everything he could get.

It hadn’t been of war this time, or of fighting. It was an almost-lost memory from when he was eight, maybe, or nine. He’d been staying (and whatever reason why had long since been lost to his memory) in an old home. He rememebered the carpet – soft and richly red and stretching the vast rooms – clearer than he remembered much else.

But then he’d been woken up in the middle of the night, hurredly wrapped up in warm clothes, and shunted out into the darkness. He’d walked through the long corridors while the walls themselves creaked and groaned. It was the boiler, he’d been told later. One of those huge old ones in the basement. It may even have still run on coal, Steve never found out. But what he did know was that there was some blockage somewhere in it and the steam had started building up pressure.

In the end they had fixed it in time. The house was saved and Steve was allowed to return to bed. No one had thought to mention at the time, but if the boiler hadn’t been fixed it would have exploded. He couldn’t help but wonder who had stayed to save the house.

Now that image was seared into his mind and he couldn’t seem to shake it. Sweating in the basement as the temperature rose and the pressure built up. Trying desperately to fix things before it was too late. Touching burning metal. Heartbeat pounding.

Steve was glad Bucky didn’t have nightmares. He already seemed to have enough pressure building up inside of him. But maybe the hobby would help.

*

They’d found a boat, so the first thing they tried was fishing.

            Step one:

‘Do I like fishing?’

Steve shrugged, ‘Let’s find out. Help me move this boat.’

‘How old is this thing? Does it even float?’

Steve shrugged again.

‘Don’t say let’s-’

‘Let’s find out.’

            Step two:

‘I don’t trust this boat.’

‘This was your idea, Steve.’

‘I know. It just seems a little fishy to me.’

Bucky turned his head away in feigned disgust, but the angle couldn’t hide his grin from Steve.

            Step three:

‘We have fishing rods for a reason.’

Bucky ignored him, taking careful aim once more.

‘Bucky you can’t shoot fish.’

‘Watch me.’

Steve watched.

Bang.

‘Okay maybe you can shoot fish.’

            Step four:

‘There are better ways to kill fish.’

‘Like?’

Bucky shrugged, ‘Gill-otine?’

(‘We could call one Gill.’)

‘You’ve already used that pun.’ Steve laughed.

‘When?’

He didn’t remember.

Steve focused on controlling his expression as he answered, ‘It was a while ago, I think.’

Bucky shrugged and turned away, leaving Steve to try to ignore the buzzing in his ears that came with the realisation that they didn’t care about the same things anymore.

            Step five:

‘Why do people like fishing?’

‘So I take it this isn’t the hobby for you?’

‘Unless you’ll let me-’

‘Shooting fish isn’t a hobby, Barnes.’

‘Then no, I don’t like fishing.’

*

The internet suggested crafts, so they tried crafts next.

This was the first time Bucky had left their valley, lying once again in the back of their old car. Steve tried not to think about the last time they drove the track, tried not to check on the rise and fall of his boyfriend’s chest too many times, and tried to believe that things were okay.

It was a Tuesday, and apparently the middle class suburban families that populated the town didn’t buy craft supplies at two thirty on a Tuesday afternoon, because the parking lot was all but empty. It was a large store in blocky concrete, across from a garden centre. Shopping trolleys were littered uselessly over the tarmac, vastly outnumbering the cars.

Bucky was too quiet, staying too close to Steve as they walked into the store. This had started as one of those scarce good days but it seemed to be disintegrating.

But Bucky offered a weak smile and an ‘I’ll be honest, I don’t know a thing about crafts.’

He was trying.

‘Neither do I.’

The solution, as arrived at by two wartorn innercity boys who knew about craft stores in the same abstract way that they knew about blue whales or Nepal – they’d heard of them, certainly, just never been near them in person – was ‘Let’s just grab some random stuff and hope for the best?’

That seemed like a good idea.

Aisle one Bucky found some American flag stickers. By the time they got to Aisle two Bucky had wondered through the entire shop ahead of Steve and found every American themed item in the store. This, apparently, was a very patriotic store.

Aisle three and Steve had decided to put every purple item they came across in the basket, until Bucky asked if he was going to get a bow and arrow next.

In aisle four Steve was only taking things from the very highest shelves and making comments about how Bucky probably couldn’t reach.

By aisle five they were already bored.

They skipped the rest of the shop and paid the bemused checkout operator for their new collection of items. Steve even managed to coax a coffee shop visit out of Bucky, but he spent the time gazing, lost, out of the windows. His food was untouched. They didn’t stay long.

Steve already felt like crying when they got home. He’d done too much of that lately; crying for Bucky, for Bucky’s trauma, his pain, all the things he’d lost. Steve never cried for himself these days, but he cried for Bucky late at night when there was no reason not to and he was too tired to hold it back.

So this was the new new way it was; Steve propping Bucky up while Bucky tried to heal.

The craft supplies went to the eastern room, and so did Bucky, shutting the door. Steve on one side and the love of his life on the other.

Three straight bad days ended when Bucky marched into the house with a hoe over his shoulder.

‘Uhh…’

‘C’mon Steve we’re taking on the holly. Up. Off the sofa. Let’s go.’

Steve was already on his feet.

‘Now?’

‘Don’t make a big deal out of this, mental health-wise, but I kinda feel like destroying something.’

Steve thought of the boiler and the phrase “letting off steam” and agreed immediately.

Bucky lead the way outside like he was marching off to war.

‘Do we have a plan of action?’

There were various garden utensils scattered around the holly. Steve got the impression Bucky had gathered them up haphazardly and dumped them on the ground without paying much attention. This impression was somewhat strengthened by the presence of a screwdriver, a power drill, and what looked like a bicycle tire.

‘Pick something up and attack.’

‘You want to fight plants?’

Bucky was swinging the hoe around and hacking at the holly like he was using a broadsword.

‘Yes.’

‘Alright then.’

Steve grabbed some shears and started cutting randomly at the plants. He had to admit, this was pretty satisfying. But the thing was, right there, just out of reach, that branch was pissing him off. Being taller that the rest. Avoiding the shears. If he could just reach a little further…

Predictably, he toppled forward into the holly.

‘Steve?’

The shears were out in front of him and he was caught up in branches and leaves. The bright daylight had turned to sinister green shadows and there was a stabbing pain in his… well, everywhere.

‘You okay Stevie?’

Stevie.

‘Yeah I’m fine just stuck and everything is very very sharp.’

‘Need some help?’

‘Ifuckinghatenature.’ Steve grumbled to himself.

‘Heard that.’

Bucky pulled him out with his metal arm and together they made their way back to the house. He didn’t talk, just patched up Steve’s cuts with gentle hands. And maybe the memories of Bucky scolding a banged-up Steve with that rough sort of love they had still felt like a punch compared to this, but then this was nice too. A different kind of nice. A different kind of love.

But after a while Bucky shook his head and muttered, ‘Just like you to somehow lose a fight to plant life.’

‘I know,’ Steve sighed, ‘I just can’t be-leaf it.’

Bucky’s heavy sigh was somewhat ruined by the fleeting almost-smile that flickered over his face. He disappeared into his room for a few moments before arriving again in front of Steve with a jar in his hand, homemade label taped on the glass. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘it’s the first thing I made with the craft stuff.’

‘Pun jar?’ Steve read, trying not to laugh.

‘I want a dollar for that leaf joke.’

Steve drew out his wallet, ‘Y’know, Buck, I find this whole idea very,’ –he dropped in two dollars- ‘jarring.’

Bucky smiled, genuinely smiled, and Steve desperately tried to memorise that image with his artist’s mind before it disappeared again.

He held on to that picture while Bucky finished tending to his cuts, and while they ate lunch silently at their little table. Bucky withdrew to his room shortly after, and Steve turned to his sketchpad.

God, it was so lonely there by himself, sketching out the soft lines of Bucky’s smile just so he could remember that there had been a smile. What it looked like. How it made him feel. This was so stupid.

But he didn’t stop drawing. This had been something he’d always done; if he could only forget where he was it might almost feel like he was back home. Not that he really had a home.

Whatever this feeling was now – restlessness or hopelessness or loneliness – it ached. It had been aching for so long for all the times he hadn’t said something, or all the times Bucky hadn’t responded. There wasn’t a home for him to go to but that was all he desperately wanted.

(‘Home, Steve please. I need you to promise me.’

‘I don’t understand what you’re asking.’

‘You said you had a place in New York. I just need to know if you think of it as home.’)

But Steve hadn’t had a permanent home since the apartment they’d shared back in nineteen forty three. There was no promise, there was no home, and that had been the first sign that Bucky was falling apart.

He couldn’t draw anymore. His hand was shaking.

The thing was, there had always been this… grand future for them to share. This shining idea of “home” that the two of them would find one day if they tried hard enough. If they worked at their jobs and then if they survived the war and then if they could just beat Hydra and then

And then

And then whatever this was. Steve was still trying but he wasn’t sure how anymore. He wasn’t quite sure what he was supposed to do. It’s just… he couldn’t get that thing out of his head. The thing Bucky had said right before he stopped talking.

(‘Steve, can I ask you a question?’

‘Sure. Anything.’

‘Remember before the serum, back when you were just Steve and you wanted so bad to do the right thing? If you were that person, and you met yourself the way you are now… if you heard all the things that you would do…’ he dropped his eyes, taking a deep breath and finishing the question in a quieter voice, ‘would you be proud?’)

Would he be proud?

‘Are you okay?’

Steve started. Bucky was watching from the side, searching eyes roving over his face with concern.

‘Fine.’

There was nothing in Bucky’s face as he nodded that suggested he believed him.

Steve told himself that they just had to keep going. They’d be fine. One day. Despite everything their plan would work out. They’d be home.

One day they’d be home.

They tried baking next.

This seemed like an obvious choice but, as Bucky was quick to point out,

‘You can’t cook, Steve.’

‘I make breakfast everyday.’

‘I hate to tell ya, punk, but if you’re cooking cereal, you’re doing it wrong.’

Punk.

‘I can cook fine. Remember back in our apartment?’

Bucky laughed, ‘You set the kitchen on fire.’

‘That was one time.’

‘It happened four times, Steve.’

Steve scowled and mutted something about cooking being harder if the kitchen was already charred. But none of that really mattered when Bucky was so close to how he used to talk.

They ended up picking the hardest-sounding recipe in their little book. Probably it was one part Steve’s stubborn insistence that he could bake, and three parts Bucky wanting to prove him wrong. Which was why, fully an hour later and having exhausted their supplies of both flour and butter, Bucky asked, ‘What was that thing you said before?’

‘What thing?’

‘Y’know, before we started? That super optimistic thing you said.’

‘You mean “how hard could pastry be?”’

‘That’s it.’

They stood there a few moments more, dispassionately surveying the flames bursting from their oven.

‘So, do we get the fire extinguisher, or…?’

Bucky flipped through the pages of the recipe book while the fire extinguisher released a white cloud, accompanied by its distinctive “ZZZZSSSSSHHHH” sound.

‘We didn’t even get to the-’

ZZZZZZSSSSSHHHHHHH

‘We didn’t even-’

ZZSSH

‘get to the glazing bit.’ Bucky complained.

Steve surveyed the mess of their kitchen and turned to the freezer. ‘Y’know,’ he said, digging around in the cold, ‘the French word for ice cream is “glace”, if that counts?’

‘You mean can we substitute glazing our pastry-ash for eating ice cream, and still count it as baking?’

Steve shrugged.

‘I like the way you think, Rogers. Grab a seat.’

A quick glance over the benches made it clear that there was not enough space for sitting, so they dropped onto the floor and began scooping out large spoonfuls of ice cream. It was almost nice. They were nearly okay. But even bickering lightheartedly about whose fault the fire was, something about Bucky seemed subtly wrong.

His hands hadn’t yet stopped absentmindedly curling into fists, and now his eyes were flicking to the burned out oven again and again. It seemed like he was thinking, but what he was thinking about Steve didn’t really want to know. It was easier to eat ice cream and give himself brain freeze and pretend.

And pretend.

And pretend.

Bucky tried to help clean up after they were done, but he soon disappeared again.

Night fell quickly in that valley. Steve had worked in the kitchen all through twilight, and the first stars were shining out of the darkness when he began to worry about where Bucky had gone.

He can look after himself.

The cushions from the sofa had been converted into a makeshift bed for the night, just like when they were kids, and already it looked inviting. What was this strange sickness infesting the house that left Steve alternately angry and exhausted? God, it probably came from Bucky, but Steve just wanted to collapse into the cushions and shut his eyes until morning.

Maybe he could catch Bucky’s lack of nightmares alongside his restless emotions.

Steve’s train of thought was derailed by the unmistakable sound of a flare gun. For a moment the red light poured through the windows and then vanished again.

What the hell?

And another went off. This time the light didn’t fade entirely, but flickered in dim squares on the walls opposite the windows.

He rushed outside. The light was coming from the holly in front of the house. Bucky’s silhouette was easy to pick out as he turned their emergency supplies into the world’s most effective matches for their holly bonfire.

‘Bucky! Bucky what the hell are you doing?’

‘What does it look like?’ Bucky yelled back, aiming another flare into the already burning holly, ‘I’m getting rid of this crap! How else are we going to do it?’

‘You’re gonna start a forest fire! What the hell are you thinking?’

Bucky froze, and Steve realised too late that all his frustration and fear had found its way into his voice as he yelled at Bucky.

Bucky just stared straight ahead, hands curled into fists. The fire threw violent light over the undirected anger, the unspecific disguist, the directionless fury that had been building up so much pressure and searing the both of them with every unsaid word, drawn all over his face. Suddenly Steve was terrified again, helpless while his boyfriend kept getting caught in his own spiral.

There were sandbags in the basement. Enough for Steve to carry out and pour out around the edges of the fire. By the time he’d finished and fetched the hose (please don’t have used petrol in this) Bucky had disappeared from his vigil at the edge of the flames. But one thing at a time, and Steve had to make sure this valley wouldn’t burn.

He paced around the edges, aiming the water at the fire, and cursing under his breath.

There was only so much of this he could handle. God, it felt like he was taking on Bucky’s pressure just so he wouldn’t explode. But Steve might, he could feel it building up inside of him until he wanted to scream; wanted to throw everything they owned on this fire and let the whole valley go up in flames. Forget New York. Forget love. Forget fucking Hydra. Just damn it all to hell because hell was exactly what Steve was staring at and hoping a garden hose would somehow be enough to extinguish. He could feel sweat on his own flushed face and he desperately wished that this was a problem he could punch. He wanted something he could destroy by anger and force but this was a fire. So he aimed the hose and waited, hoping this wild, unsatisfied rage pumping through his blood stream would fade on its own.

There was nothing they could do to fix this. Nothing they had ever been able to do. It was unfair and endless and every time they’d ever tried to help anyone they’d just destroyed themselves a little more for some intanglible greater good and ‘it’s not our FUCKING FAULT!’

Steve took a breath and stopped pacing. He hadn’t meant to say that aloud.

‘What’s not?’

Steve started. Bucky was walking nonchalantly back outside with a bag of marshmellows.

There was still blood pounding in Steve’s ears and it took all of his effort not to snap at Bucky again. Of course he’d fetched marshmellows. He couldn’t even have a mental breakdown properly, just zigzagged between imploding and turning back to this façade of okayness so abrupty it left Steve dizzy.

‘Oh.’ Bucky continued, ‘You mean…’ he made some vague gesture than managed to encompass them both and all their surroundings.

‘Yeah.’

Bucky nodded solemnly, selecting a marshmellow from the bag.

Steve watched the water turn to steam for a few moments, wondering if this was even helping.

‘And no,’ he said quietly, not glancing back to Bucky, ‘I don’t think I would have been proud.’

‘Hmmm?’

‘You asked me, before you- before we came to this safe house. If past me would be proud of present me. Well the answer’s no. Because pride doesn’t really seem to matter anymore. Honour and all that stuff. Right now I guess I’m concerned with survival, and I think I’d hate that about myself if I were still… you know… who I used to be.’

Bucky pinched the marshmellow between the thumb and forefinger of his metal hand, then held it outstretch in the flames. ‘Steve, I’m…’

‘What?’

Bucky watched the roasting marshmellow thoughtfully as he continued, ‘I’m not sure how to put this, but…’ he took a breath, ‘once when you were drunk you made friends with a potted plant.’

‘Wait what?’

‘It’s true. You don’t remember because you were completely pissed, but you spent most of the night chatting to it about baseball.’

‘Bucky?’

‘You called him Joseph. You invited him to your birthday party.’

‘What does this have to do with anything?’

‘The point is I shouldn’t have asked that question,’ here he apparently decided that the marshmellow was cooked to perfection and drew it out to cool, ‘Steve Rogers, circa 1940, wasn’t always the pinnacle of logic and composure. You don’t need to worry about what he’d think of you. Want one?’ he was holding out the bag of marshmellows, ‘I brought some skewers from the kitchen so you don’t have to stick your hand in the fire.’

By the firelight Steve could see the tearstreaks cutting through the red blotches on Bucky’s face, the bloodshot whites of his red-ringed eyes. He took a marshmellow.

‘And what about you?’

Bucky frowned, ‘What about me?’

‘Did you answer the question for yourself?’

‘How do you think I knew it was stupid? Remember that time I got stuck up a tree? It was snowing and I was twenty two.’

‘Of course I remember. It was three in the morning and you made me bring a mattress out so you could jump.’

‘And I missed the mattress? Yeah, I don’t trust that guy’s judgement.’

Steve would have laughed, but he’d noticed the set of Bucky’s shoulders and the way he continuously opened and closed his fists and knew that nothing had really changed.

They sat down. Bucky held his hand into the inferno again, and Steve skewered his marshmellow.

‘Y’know,’ Steve began, ‘this whole thing kinda reminds me of Gone With The Wind.’

‘Really?’ Bucky replied, confusion evident in his voice, ‘Are these particularly racist marshmellows, or…?’

‘I meant when it was being filmed. Did you know that to make Atlanta they just used a whole lot of older sets?’

‘No, I did not know that.’

‘Yeah, just left over sets from earlier movies like King Kong. It’s that bit where the Northern soldiers lay waste to Atlanta that this reminds me of.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, you could say that they burned a lot of Hollywood.’

Bucky laughed and, while Steve tentatively tried the hot marshmellow, said ‘The price of that pun is all the plants we need to fill in the satanic holly pit.’

‘Okay.’

‘And none of them will be called Joseph.’

‘Okay.’

‘And also this-’ and Bucky kissed him.

His lips were soft, and when he opened his mouth Steve could taste sugar and smoke and that afternoon’s coffee. The hand on his waist was still warm from the fire. The one on his neck brushed lightly up and down like Bucky was trying to comfort him for something. There was supposed to be tension but whatever it was about was lost as Steve tangled his hand in Bucky’s soft hair. The words I love you ran through his mind over and over again, but he didn’t acknowledge the fact that this felt ridiculously like home.

And then it was over. Bucky drew back to watch his face with an expression too close to dismay for Steve’s comfort. Steve opened his mouth to ask if Bucky was okay, but he was cut off.

‘Let’s go inside.’

‘O- okay.’

The security system would warn them if the fire started getting out of control. They could let it burn out by itself. So Steve followed his boyfriend inside and dropped down on the cushions he’d arranged. Bucky didn’t sit down immediately. He still seemed restless, striding haphazardly around the room and throwing occasional glances at Steve.

‘Did it help?’ Steve asked, causing Bucky to jump slightly.

‘Did- what?’

‘The bonfire you just set, did it help? Do you feel any better?’

For a moment he looked shocked, but then he stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked at the floor, almost guiltily.

‘Not much. I thought it might but…’

He dropped heavily onto the cushions while Steve sat in nervous silence. There were tears visible in his eyes, poised to fall if he would let them. Instead he tilted his head back and swallowed, but he couldn’t keep the waver from his voice as he continued, ‘I’m sorry I kissed you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I shouldn’t have. It was selfish and… cruel because I knew what was coming but I just. I wanted that one last time.’

Steve felt himself stop breathing for a moment.

‘I don’t understand.’

The first tear fell. Bucky was still looking at the ceiling.

‘Look, I just need to say.’

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, letting a few more tears splash down his face. Steve stayed quiet.

‘You mean so much to me and you’ve done more for me than I could ever have asked for. You’re amazing and you never gave up on me and I’m- I’m so sorry for how I’m about to hurt you.’

The buzzing began in Steve’s ears and his heart was threatening to crack.

‘What do you mean?’ he asked again, slowly.

Bucky took another deep breath and lowered his head, staring straight ahead now. His expression was strong but his shoulders were shaking.

‘I don’t think I can do this.’

No wait.

‘Not right now, anyway. I thought I could, I thought- I hoped it’ll be alright, and this might even help but…’

No, please don’t. Steve’s heart was fracturing over all the old fault lines; the scars from the other times it had broken were slowly opening again.

‘Are you-’ fuck. He hadn’t meant for Bucky to hear the shaking in his voice. One calming breath and ‘Are you breaking up with me?’

Silence. Steve watched the tears dripping from his boyfriend’s chin. Then Bucky turned to him with a whispered, ‘Please don’t hate me.’

Steve tried to keep his expression blank as his heart shattered.

‘Of course I don’t hate you.’

I love you. I’ll always love you. Please don’t do this.

‘Are you sure?’

And that question was so earnest that Steve could feel the pieces of his heart crumble even more. All he could do was try to reassure him – ‘I’m sure. I’m never gonna hate you.’ – and pretend he didn’t feel like falling apart for the night. That would be selfish. Only one of them could fall apart at a time.

‘I keep waiting for you to hate me. All the stuff I put you through, even before I- and I’m not exactly the Bucky you knew anymore so I can’t work out why you’d stick around. And then I had this… breakdown. Thing. And you just dropped everything and brought me here and started acting like my personal nurse and I- I keep waiting for you to work out that I’m just a stranger taking over your life with no idea of how to give it back. I say I love you but I can’t even do that properly because I just can’t handle… I’m not ready for this.’

Steve put his arm around him, relieved when he responded by relaxing into his shoulder, and muttered, ‘You’re not a stranger. And you’re not a burden.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Bucky said again, ‘It’s Hydra. It’s still fucking Hydra. I’ve been trying so hard to distract myself, to get rid of it but-’ Steve could feel the metal arm pull him in tighter and hear that broken voice manage- ‘They’re still in my head. I can’t handle a boyfriend. I just need my best friend.’

‘It’s okay. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.’

Hours passed with Steve holding on to his boyfr- his friend, as Bucky cried himself into exhaustion. A few tears rolled down his own face, but he ignored them. This didn’t matter. He told himself that it was just another thing that he would have to take while Bucky fought his way back to him.

Eventually Bucky fell asleep, still in Steve’s arms. Steve could feel his chest moving slowly in time with calm breaths. He could have stayed like that all night, but that wasn’t for him anymore. So instead he lowered him carefully onto the cushions and lay down at his side, trying to ignore the way his chest felt cold with the sudden absence of contact.

Bucky’s face next to him was tear-streaked but peaceful. Steve didn’t think he’d ever been more in love.

But he had to accept the ache in his heart; it was Bucky to break. So he turned his face towards the pillow and, for once, he cried for himself.

*

They didn’t do much the next day. Steve made breakfast and polite conversation. Bucky nodded a lot and shot him guilty glances when he thought he couldn’t see.

But Bucky’s shoulders were relaxed now, his hands stopped curling into those nervous fists. Steve got the impression that Bucky had been putting off last night’s conversation for a long time. It was the last thing, the last block in the boiler, and all the tears had relieved the pressure enough for Bucky to breathe.

Steve couldn’t seem to make his own lungs work properly, but he could deal with that. Besides, that was a familiar feeling.

It was a relief when they went to bed.

*

The day after was a Sunday, and they decided to go to the garden centre.

Sunday, as it turned out, was the day all the local suburban couples converged on the garden centre to argue about plants and eat brunch. The early antipathy Steve had harboured to the almost-crowd dissipated with a laugh from Bucky.

‘Come on, Paul,’ he said, with a quick smirk and an attempt at what he imagined was a suburban dad voice, ‘we can’t be too long. Remember we have to pick Laklyn and Apple up from soccer practice.’

Steve glanced around quickly to make sure no one was close enough to overhear their mocking conversation before replying, ‘Good point, Craig. And I have to make that cake for the school bake sale.’

‘Of course. I hope Susan doesn’t bring a store-bought cake this time.’

Steve sighed as Bucky turned to examine some ferns, ‘Some people just don’t put the effort in.’

It didn’t take long for them to realise they’d need a trolley, and soon it was full of mismatched plant life picked out by their inexperienced green thumbs. Bucky had pouted next to a small orange tree long enough for Steve to relent. He spent the day carrying it around protectively.

‘When we get back to New York,’ he said, abruptly ‘we should grow potted plants in our apartment.’

And, unexpectedly, another candle was lit. Steve could already feel the warmth in his chest. The future, still uncertain, but still theirs.

‘So you still wanna… I mean…’

Bucky arranged the tree slightly to hide their faces as he kissed Steve lightly on the cheek.

‘One day.’ and he sighed, ‘Though it might take some patience.’

Steve had the feeling that the the “one day” was about the kiss just as much as it was about New York. So he smiled, and nodded slightly, and said, ‘Come on Craig, let’s eat brunch before we find the rest of the plants.’

It wouldn’t make it into any historical biography of either of their lives, but Steve would always remember eating eggs benedicts in the midst of their youthful green plants, Bucky across from him looking relaxed for the first time in far too long. Whatever the breakdown was, Bucky had finally gotten through it. Not in the way Steve would have wanted (and it would take a long time for Steve to stop hurting) but in the way Bucky had needed. This was alright. They’d be fine.

He put the radio on as they drove back. They didn’t know the songs, but it was nice anyway. Bucky sat in the back, protecting the plants around all the corners. He only let go of the orange tree when the engine finally stopped outside their little house.

Steve made a mental note to draw Bucky the way he looked right at that moment; reclining in the back seat, the plants surrounding him lit up in vivid green by the sunlight pouring in. It looked like some improvised greenhouse and there was a lazy smile forming at the corners of Bucky’s mouth.

So this would be the third new way it was. Bucky starting again from whatever was left. Steve loving and hoping and waiting in silence. A broken heart wasn’t a fatal wound.

For now he’d let himself imagine that distant maybe – that future valley morning or that warm night in New York City – when they could have what they almost had before.

Maybe. But if not Steve was used to being his friend.