Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

-1939-

Winter was a helluva time in Brooklyn. The days were cold, the nights were colder, the windows creaked, and the water dripped and froze. Mice and rats scuttled along the floors, silent and hungry.

Steve Rogers lay curled up in their small apartment bed, shivering and miserable. Around this time of year, Steve was always sick. He was skinny, underweight, malnourished and so goddamn tired all the time; it was normal, it happened every winter, sometimes lasting until early spring.

He felt like death. Like a cold, soggy, wet newspaper. 

He hated winter and he cursed his body for being so small and frail. His head was so stuffy that it almost hurt to think and he groaned pitifully as he shivered harder. They had no heating in their apartment but Steve was covered in at least five ratted blankets, still cold.

There was a knock at the bedroom door but Steve just grumbled and buried his face in his pillow.

“Stevie?”

It was Bucky. Steve lifted his head out from under the covers so Bucky could hear him. “Yeah?”

“You decent? I’m comin' in.”

Steve knew that Bucky was worried, he figured that with the sun being gone, and the quietness, it was nighttime. Bucky must be getting home from work. The door opened slowly and Steve met Bucky’s dark silhouette, mustering a pathetic smile as Bucky flipped the light switch. The lights didn’t come on, they’d been without running electricity for almost two days.

“Ah damn,” Bucky cursed and flicked the light switch a few more times for good measure. “Well ain’t that just swell,” he muttered and stepped further into the room. 

Though Steve’s vision was blurry, and his eyes weighed about two tons, he saw Bucky light the candle next to his bed and it dipped with his weight.

Finally, the other man’s face was illuminated, he was covered in dust and grime, he probably smelled worse too, if Steve could smell at all that was, and he looked tired; worn. 

Yet, to Steve, he looked as gorgeous as ever but he kept his thoughts to himself and sniffled.

Bucky’s baby blue eyes softened as he brushed the sweaty, matted hair off Steve’s forehead. “How ya feelin’?”

“Bad,” Steve croaked and practically fell into Bucky’s hand, his throat felt scratchy and raw. It hurt to talk, like gargling gravel. Bucky sighed worriedly and set a small paper bag down on the bed.

“Well, you’re in luck, pal, ‘cause I got your meds.” He then pulled out two bottles, one with pills and the other had some strange-looking liquid. Bucky must have stopped by to grab them on the way home. 

Steve’s heart swelled, normally he could go without meds as long as he drank water and rested, but both he and Bucky knew that this winter was taking its toll. Twenty-one years of this and his body has had enough.

Medicine these days costs a good arm and a leg, Steve knew Bucky had picked up extra shifts just so he could get Steve the meds he needed. Steve wasn’t able to go to work in this condition.

“Thanks,” Steve whispered, staring blankly at Bucky’s poorly illuminated face. He wanted to say more, throw his arms around Bucky and steal his warmth, but he was too weak to move. Bucky would never know how grateful he was.

“Don’t sweat it, Stevie. Now sit up, it’ll make ‘em go down easier.”

^

Things most people didn’t know: Steve loved to dance. It was a certain style that some might not consider a dance, more of a sway in the kitchen after a long day and Steve not only loved dancing, but he loved doing it with one man in particular. Bucky Barnes. His partner in crime. 

Steve never enjoyed the loud, upbeat music in pubs or bars, he preferred the quiet, smooth jazz or calm instrumental, instead. He didn’t enjoy the busyness of everyone when they went out, he didn’t find pleasure in the chaos, or enjoy when big brawling men bumped into him.

He preferred the solace of their shared apartment and most importantly he enjoyed having Bucky to himself with no dames hanging by his arms, girls pushing Steve aside as if he was nothing but a nuisance, a small speed bump. They sneered at him, stared, scoffed, and overlooked him but Bucky never did. Not once. 

That was a little like how they met what seemed like a lifetime ago. 

Naturally, Steve was doing what he shouldn't, opening his mouth and asking, not demanding, the young gentleman, Allan Rue, to stop; his childhood bully and it went about as well as one would imagine. With him weighing less than paper, with weaker bones and even weaker strength than first grade boys. 

Steve never expected the hits to stop coming, Allan kicked and hit him over and over until eventually, they did. 

“Fucking pricks,” a strangers Brooklyn accent coming from above was strong and it made Steve open his eyes blearily. He removed the protection of his arms around his face 

He’d never heard another child cuss so blatantly. 

The strange new boy, whom Steve had never met, stood in front of him with his hand held out in invitation, and the prettiest blue eyes Steve had ever seen - he smiled at Steve. His knuckles were busted and bloodied like he punched someone.

Steve’s eyes jumped behind the boy and noticed Allan crying, his nose bent at an odd angle, it was most definitely broken. Steve stared until he forced his body to move as he grabbed his small rucksack of food from the muddy ground and took the stranger's hand.

“Name’s Barnes,” the boy introduced himself once he pulled him up. “James Buchanan Barnes, but most people call me Bucky.”

Steve had never heard such a name. He worked on smoothing out his coat, knowing his ma was gonna be mad about the mud stains, and smiled shyly - more like grimaced - at the boy who practically towered over him. “Steve. Steve Rogers.” 

Bucky didn’t stop smiling and looped his arm around Steve’s smaller shoulders gently. “Nice to meet ya, Steve,” he said and steered him back towards the school. 

And that, they say, was that. Not even a day later Steve found out Bucky and his family had moved into the apartment complex down the street, their thick-as-thieves friendship had begun. 

Ever since that day at school, Steve considered Bucky to be his very first friend.

“You know, you’re one tough cookie, Stevie,” Bucky said one day as they sat under the bleachers at lunch. 

Bucky had broken up a fight earlier, again, in the halls as Steve got pummeled by some kid. And it honestly wasn’t Steve’s fault this time, kinda. 

Steve, nursing his black eye while nibbling on his plain bread sandwich, looked up. “I ain’t no cookie,” he mumbled, “and who’s Stevie?”

Bucky rolled his eyes and reached over to steal one of his candies, but Steve swatted his hand away. “You obviously,” Bucky said with a scowl. “What, you don’t like it?”

Steve loved it. Instead, he looked away shyly, picking at his crust. “No, I mean, I think it’s nice.”

“See, there, now we’re even. You call me Buck all the time.”

To that, Steve smiled. “Sure, Buck.”

^ 

Things most people didn’t know: Steve liked to draw, and to Bucky, it was apparently no surprise.

“I figured,” Bucky said one day as he peered over at Steve scribbling in his sketchbook on his ma’s couch. 

Instead of playing it off, he startled at Bucky’s voice and quickly tucked the book firmly against his chest like a shield, hiding it away. “Figured what?” Steve’s voice was small and scared. 

He didn’t want Bucky to hate him for drawing, for being any more different. Most boys their age played baseball and rode bikes. Not Steve, he was too sick to go out most days, too weak.

“Oh, don’t be so sore, Steve,” Bucky chuckled and planted his arms on top of the couch, leaning over. “You’re good, you know you are.”

“What? No, I’m not…”

“Think I’d lie to you?”

“Yes.”

Bucky laughed again, reaching down to pat his shoulder. “Well, tough, I ain’t.”

And Steve believed him. He slowly moved the notebook full of drawings off his chest, peering up from the couch at Bucky. That thousand-watt smile (“Seriously, Steve, it ain’t like I got gold in my teeth or nothing”) greeted him, and Bucky didn’t look upset at all. He looked proud. 

Steve smiled and went back to trying to draw the flower vase on the table, his first still life. He knew he could always count on Bucky. 

Most days when he wasn’t drawing, Steve was still getting his ass beat when Bucky wasn’t around. “Where’s your sidekick now,” they’d sneer, but like clockwork, Bucky found him right in the nick of time, kicked the other boy's asses till they cried, and lifted Steve off the ground.

“Forget what I said about you being smart,” Bucky sighed as he wiped the blood from Steve’s nose and brow. “You’re just a stupid, stupid punk.”

Steve didn’t care. “Thanks, Buck,” he said anyway.

“Yeah, yeah.” Bucky blew out the breath he’d been holding and took Steve’s arm to get him to follow. “Now let’s go before Mrs. Nevin finds us again. Or worse, tells your ma.”

So yeah, Steve wasn’t very good at keeping his head down at school as he hoped, but most days with Bucky by his side, the struggle to breathe, to make it up the stairs - didn’t always seem so impossible. Even though his lungs rattled so badly that kids were always casting him worried glances, like he was a piece of delicate glass about to break, Bucky never did. 

He helped Steve catch his breath, glared at the kids staring in the halls with their dumb judgemental eyes, and helped Steve towards the nurses' office to get medicine or a ticket home. 

The thing was, Bucky was always there, he was a force to reckon with, but like everything, sometimes that force got knocked down. Steve looked up to Bucky, but that didn’t mean he believed the other boy was invincible - he could only wish. So when lunch ended and Steve waited outside the classroom for Bucky, his friend never showed. 

Steve was worried. He waited there, barely keeping himself from being rushed into the flowing crowd of students; he waited. His worry grew and it only doubled when he saw Allan standing by the water fountains holding something Steve knew wasn’t his. 

Bucky started carrying little doodles Steve made in his pockets, they were on small pieces of folded paper, usually napkins, and when Steve saw the same familiar paper with the dark pencil lines, he threw his backpack on the ground and rushed after Allan and his thugs.

“Where did you get that?” Steve demanded, his voice made Allan turn.

The other boy smiled, it reminded Steve a lot of a crooked thief, a no good has-been. “Aw, well if it isn’t the little squirt,” Allan goaded. “How ya been there, bean?”

Steve felt the anger in him rise. “Where’s Bucky?”

Allan looked bored and shrugged. “Hadn’t seen him.”

“Yes, you have,” Steve burst out and pointed to the paper in the boys hands. “You’re holding his stuff.”

Allan put up an innocent front. “What? This?” He turned the paper over to the side with the pencil marks. “He draw?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know it’s his?”

“‘Cause…” Steve’s fists curled in frustration. He knew that paper wasn’t Allan’s, not only did he recognize the pencil marks but the paper but the smaller initials S.R. were written on the bottom. “‘Cause I gave it to him,” Steve replied. “Now give it back.”

Allan just laughed and ripped the small paper, the other boys chuckled along noisily as Steve watched the pieces fall. “Well, why don’t you just take that trash back to him yourself.”

It might have fallen out of Bucky’s pocket, Steve hoped, so he rushed to pick up the scattered pieces of delicate paper, letting his anger subside until he heard Allan say, “If you can even find him.”

Then Steve stood, the paper in his hand, and swiftly kicked Allan Rue right in the nuts. 

“Ow!”

“Where is he?” Steve all but growled and one of the younger boys behind Allan with the curly hair pointed toward the bathrooms. Allan was cursing up a storm, “You stupid little sleaze!” He crumbled to the floor just like the paper had.

Steve ran past them, dodging hands, ignoring the pounding of his heart, the sickening fear, and rushed to the bathrooms. 

“Bucky! Buck, where are you?” He was frantic.

The bathroom was empty, along with most of the stalls, so Steve checked every last one until he got to the one that was locked. “Bucky, are you in there?” Steve whispered, but there was no reply. 

Lord have mercy would this be embarrassing, Steve thought, if it wasn't Bucky on the other side, but he dropped to his knees anyway and crawled under the door. 

Familiar red sneakers greeted him, and a body he recognized was slumped against the toilet; Steve could see Bucky’s familiar brown hair and he pushed himself under the door across the grimy tile faster. Toilet paper stuck to his hands.

“Bucky!” He rushed forward in the cramped space, lifting the other boy's chin off his chest, he let out a small gasp as Bucky slowly opened his eyes.

“Stevie…?” The other boy whispered, his limbs moving haphazardly.

“Buck,” he gasped, holding the boy's head up with his hands. “Oh god…”

Bucky’s face was a mess. His left eye was swollen and red, blood matted his hair, and his lips were busted and jacked up, swelling over. “Buck, what happened?”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” Bucky swallowed. “Just hanging out in here…restin’.”

Steve fought the urge to shake Bucky. “No, no, no resting. Stay awake, Buck, ya hear me?”

“Yes Mom,” Bucky muttered but his eyes started to droop. Steve was about to shake him when he heard Bucky whisper something else, “I had them on the ropes, promise.” 

Then Bucky smiled or tried to, it was wonky and weak and his teeth were stained with blood. 

Steve tried to calm his breathing and reached for fresh toilet paper on the rack to wipe away some of the blood from his swollen lip. “Sure Buck,” he whispered and patted his cheek gently. “I know you did.”

Getting Bucky off the ground was a challenge. It looked like one of his fingers had been smashed and he swayed when Steve tried to get him to stand, his slightly larger form nearly threatened to drag him down but he stood strong. He needed to get Bucky somewhere safe.

“S’ that?” Bucky asked as Steve unlocked the stall, motioning with his good hand at the small rumbled-up mess of paper Steve left on the ground. 

He didn’t want Bucky to be upset about the drawing, but he also didn’t want to lie to him either. “Just some paper, don’t worry,” Steve said and wrapped his arms firmly around Bucky’s waist to support him.

“‘Kay,” Bucky slurred.

Steve would draw him something else travel sized, it’d be okay. 

That was the first time Bucky had ever gotten beaten up, it nearly gave Steve a heart attack with fear. Nobody should have hurt Bucky. He knew Allan hated him which means by association he hated Bucky and Steve was almost sure that’s what had happened. 

Later on, he pleaded with Bucky to go to the principal, the bruises on his face were enough evidence, still purple and yellow; still fresh. Just the sight of them made Steve cringe, he wondered if this was what Bucky felt every time Steve got beat up. 

“Just leave it, Steve,” Bucky told him as continued to flip through his book.

“Buck, don't bother lying to me, I know who did this.”

“Oh, do you now?”

“Yes,” Steve huffed as he paced. His heart strained. “I’m not gonna let him get away with it, he’s taking this too far, it’s not fair.”

Bucky sat up and folded the top of the page he was reading, making Steve pause as Bucky stared him down. 

“Why’s it not fair?” Bucky asked and leaned back against the couch. 

Steve gave him a look. “What do you mean why? Look at your face!”

“Yeah, my face, I see it every day in the mirror pal. Chicks dig it.”

Steve looked away in frustration, he wished Bucky wouldn’t joke, not about this. But then he heard the couch shift and suddenly Bucky was reaching forward to where he sat across from him on the coffee table and grabbed his hand. 

“Hey,” Bucky’s soft voice forced Steve to look up. “I don’t care if some loser beats me up, I wasn’t expecting it, I’ll admit, but it doesn’t mean nothin’. I’d get beat up every damn day if it meant keeping you safe.”

Steve stared. 

And Bucky stared back.

Bucky nervously ran his other hand through his unruly hair, messing it up more before he added, “You know I would.” And then he looked away, shy all of a sudden, and Steve just couldn’t take it anymore. 

He moved forward and ducked so he was wrapped around Bucky’s torso, hugging him, their hands still interlocked. 

“I know,” Steve said and squeezed Bucky with all the force his little sickly little body could muster. 

The next day, Steve got thrown in the trash can at lunch - payment, he guessed, for kicking Allan in the balls. They laughed at him as he struggled to get out and dumped their food trays over him; he had lugged his way around school the rest of the day smelling like stale milk and banana peels, but he didn’t care.

Bucky, however, was furious. Luckily, though, Steve was able to talk him down before he went on a rampage.

Or, at least, he thought he had.

Strange enough, the next few days at school, Allan Rue was noticeably missing. Basically, Steve was surprised not to see him lurking in every corner like a vulture, but his absence started to make more sense when one morning in class, a note was passed to the teacher and she was telling Bucky he needed to go see the principal immediately. 

She told him to take all his stuff.

Steve stared after his best friend in shock, setting his pencil down. He was worried, ready to jump up and join his friend, but then, when Bucky looked back at him over his shoulder and winked—Steve understood.

The kid behind him whispered, “I heard he knocked some of Allan’s teeth out! They fell on the floor and everything!”

“Ew,” the other kids squealed but Steve grinned.

^ 

Steve could recall bad days; the days where he felt so ill and frail that if the slightest draft flowed into his room he’d be done for, days like that where his body fought against him, were the worst.

Bucky ran a damp cloth over Steve’s forehead as he lay in his bed, feverish and barely lucid. 

There was a knock on the door and Steve’s ma, Sarah, came into the room. 

“Is he ever gonna get better?” Bucky whispered to her without looking back as Ms. Rogers came to stand next to him and rubbed his back in comfort.

“No, honey,” she sighed. He knew this was hard for her too. “I’m afraid it’ll only get worse. He’ll go through the motions but we just gotta make sure we’re here for him. His medicine will do its job.”

She moved forward to replace the cup of water on Steve’s nightstand and leaned down to kiss his rosy, red cheek. Bucky’s heart clenched and he re-wets the rag in the bin next to his leg, dunking it with cold water and sweeping it over Steve’s brow again every couple minutes. 

“Thank you,” Ms. Rogers whispered to Bucky as she looked down at him with a smile. “You’re good to him.”

Bucky ducked his head down, bashfully. “Thanks, ma’am, but I wish…I wish I could do more.”

She leaned down to kiss his cheek too. “To Steve, this is more,” she said before she left the room as quietly as she had entered so as not to wake Steve. 

Bucky stayed by his friend's side. He needed to look after Steve who looked paler than the moon, like a corpse, silent and still - Bucky could barely hear the small rattling breaths Steve sucked in. 

“C’mon Stevie,” Bucky leaned down to whisper over the smaller boy. He was nearly going out of his mind with worry, Steve never told him it got this bad. “You can’t go out like this, pal, you’re a fighter. I know you are, ya punk.”

Steve remembered that being the worst sickness he’s had to deal with to date. He was bedridden for almost a month so much so that he started getting bed sores and gawked at the pile of school papers he needed to catch up on once he was lucid, but instantly forgot about them when he dozed off again. 

It was awful but at least he had his ma and Bucky there to take care of him, and even though he barely saw the sun, shivered and shook while he coughed his lungs out, them being there made it worthwhile.

“I’m telling ya, Stevie, the Dodgers are gonna win it big this year. I know it.”

Bucky was sitting next to Steve on his bed, going through his old baseball cards over and over, he had just about every team member, their birthday, and hometown memorized.

Steve yawned and nodded along. “Sure, Buck.” Then he began to doze off as Bucky talked, slowly, ever so slowly leaning over until his head was resting against Bucky’s shoulder. 

Bucky stopped talking and peered down at Steve, he smiled to himself and moved slowly so he could get closer, sharing his warmth.  

Everyone knew Bucky always stuck around when Steve got sick, most times he’d ditch school until his parents found out, and them along with Steve and Steve’s Ma would scold him. “Your education is important, Bucky,” Ms. Rogers would say and Steve would nod along, trying to put on his best stern face, but internally grateful that Bucky did stay. 

One night Steve was sitting in his bed munching on some saltine crackers and water. He hardly had an appetite but right as he was about to take a sip from his glass a hooded figure in the window made him screech in surprise. Nearly sending him into another coughing fit.

The figure was currently trying to open the window and ‘gracefully’ fell through once it finally gave way, their body thudded on the ground, and the person let out a curse. The familiar red shoes, though, kept Steve from screaming again.

He knew those shoes and the person they belonged to.

“Buck?”

The hooded figure jumped to their feet and ripped off the hood covering his face. Bucky smiled at him and Steve smiled back, finally relaxing.

Then they started to laugh.

“You’re an idiot,” Steve chuckled quietly, trying to hold back a cough. “You could have just used to the front door, you pally.”

Bucky shrugged. “Where’s the fun in that? Plus, now your ma won’t see me.”

Steve rolled his eyes, letting a cough escape his throat. “She’s been expecting you all day. You’re late.”

“Damn.”

Steve coughed harder and took a sip of water before saying, “I appreciate your quiet entrance, pal. The neighbors did too, I know it.”

“Oh shut up,” Bucky groaned and came over to sit on the vacated side of the bed. Steve lifted the covers and Bucky squeezed in beside him, immediately Steve set his water on the nightstand and curled against his friend's side.

How was Bucky always so warm?

And said soft, warm hand came up to his forehead then, checking his temperature, and Steve stifled a pleased sigh. “How ya feelin’ today, pal?” Bucky asked like clockwork. It made Steve’s heart beat happily.

“Better,” Steve muttered and closed his eyes. His energy was already drained. “Got to the bathroom all on my own today.”

“That’s my Stevie,” Bucky said happily and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “Soon you’ll be back to getting kicked in the alleyway and pushed into trash cans in no time!”

Laughing made Steve’s ribs and throat hurt, it came out more as a wheeze but it didn’t make him stop. “Thanks, Buck,” he smiled.

It was funny Bucky said that too because his friend was almost always there, protecting him and beating up his bullies before they got to him. Though it would be nice to get out of the apartment again, he figured.

A sudden knock on the door made them both tense. Steve peeled his eyes open, however, the door didn’t open instead it was merely a warning because the next minute Ms. Rogers was saying, “Boys, dinner in ten!”

Steve merely sighed and relaxed again by snuggling back down against his personal heater, but Bucky let out an affronted noise. “How’d she even know I was here?” He gawked.

“You were super quiet, remember?” Steve mumbled against his shirt. It smelled of lavender and grass. “It’s not like it’s no surprise either.”

“Yeah, yeah. I guess.”

“You’re dumb.”  

I love you.

“I know,” Bucky sighed wistfully before finally relaxing back against the pillows, resting his head atop Steve’s. “So,” he drawls. “What are we having?”

“Soup.”

“Sweet.”

It was another week or two before Steve made a ‘full’ recovery. His cough faded and he finally had the energy to get out of bed. It was a miracle though that each time he did get sick, he somehow made it out alive. Even the doctors were skeptical. 

It was a miserable experience, and he’d take a beating from Allan any day of the week over being sick, it was some of the worst times in his life.

But he grew up, not quite physically, he was still small - still got sick, but he matured, got tougher and he learned the hard way, until one fall day in 1936, that the worst had yet to come. That year had been burned into Steve’s mind. 

It was the year his mother died of tuberculosis. 

That by far was the single worst day of Steve’s life, worse than any head cold or fever.

He remembers the funeral. It was small, they didn't have enough money for one of those big fancy ones, one that he should have been able to give his ma, but that day as she was lowered into the ground he couldn’t think of much else besides the pain. 

He was freshly eighteen, a number he never thought he see and now he’d be living the rest of it without her. Neighbors came, and some of her work associates. Bucky came. Steve didn’t think his friend ever not show but it made it all the more bearable seeing Bucky walk towards him and give him the hug he’d been craving. 

“God, I’m so sorry, Steve,” Bucky said softly above his head. All Steve wanted to do was hide in Bucky’s black coat and disappear. 

The funeral was short, it rained - like Mother Nature needed to make things worse, and it only seemed to drag Steve further into despair, the coldness soaked his bones, biting harshly at his exposed skin. 

His lungs strained to breathe, but as he stood there, staring at his mother's coffin, Bucky’s warm hand never once left his arm and it was enough. It had to be enough because he had nothing else.

People fizzled out, condolences were made, umbrellas were tucked away and Steve eventually headed back towards his apartment where he and his ma lived. He’d only be able to pay rent, the rest of what his mother had saved, for at least another two months until he’d eventually get booted out and lose the place; he’d lose everything. 

“Steve!”

Bucky had caught up with him. Steve turned as he was about to open the apartment door to see him racing up the steps. 

“I…” Steve met Bucky’s concerned gaze, trying to find the words. “I know what you’re gonna say, Buck, but I can get by on my own.”

“I know you can.” Bucky’s gaze softened and he didn’t even hesitate, he reached for Steve who fell graciously into the man’s arms again. “But you don’t have to,” he said overtop of him, “‘cause I’m with you till the end of the line, pal.”

Till the end of the line. 

Steve couldn’t help it, he started crying, big, heavy, loud sobs that shook his shoulders and he tried to muffle them in Bucky’s shirt. “S-She’s gone,” he cried, fisting his hands in Bucky’s jacket. “She’s gone,” he sobbed, repeating that over and over. 

Bucky just held him tightly, like his arms were the only thing keeping Steve from sinking to the ground. “I know, Stevie,” he soothed, feeling tears prick his own eyes. “I’m sorry.”

His mind replayed all the moments his ma was there for him: feeding him crackers and soup every time he was under the weather. She’d knit him new blankets during the winter, kiss him goodnight, she’d sit and read to him in his younger years when he was feeling his worst. Best enough she welcomed Bucky into her home, just like Steve had, and she’d include him in almost everything they did without batting an eye. 

Her smile at his and Bucky’s silly banter and pranks was enough to light a room. Her pies were to die for, her singing voice always brought a smile to Steve’s face and her hugs made him feel like everything was gonna be okay.

She was kind, and caring - had an iron will, and…loved him unconditionally.

He barely even got to say goodbye.

Steve knew now that there were worse things than nearly dying every winter. Nothing could compare to this emptiness and all-encompassing sorrow that came with losing someone so close to him. 

^ 

Steve never knew Bucky liked to dance. 

It was about as sudden as Bucky finding out Steve could draw when they were younger. It was during the summer and they had saved up enough money together to buy a radio, and usually, they’d sit around at dinner listening to some broadcaster, ads, sports games, or whatever they could find.

Until one day, Bucky had flipped to the channel and the sweet melody of music rang through the radio’s ratty speakers and the smile on Bucky’s face was something Steve would never forget. 

And that night was something he’d never forget either.

The sun was beginning to set and Steve was in their small kitchen scrubbing the dishes from their salvaged leftovers with a rag, all of two plates, and a bowl, when he heard the sound of music coming from their room. Steve figured Bucky was enjoying the music, singing along out of tune, so Steve went about his chore.

Afterward, as he came down the hall, hearing the music get louder, Steve slowly opened their door and peered into the room only to find Bucky dancing.

It wasn’t weird or all that strange to find but the way Bucky moved had Steve in a trace. He moved with fluid grace, a certain sway to his hips that Steve had only ever seen him do at bars or pubs with the dames, and it was never this slow or sensual. 

Steve couldn’t help but stare. 

It was the first time he had ever seen Bucky dance, truly dance as he learned, with no one else around, no crowds, no one to impress.

As soon as the sound of soft jazz came through the little radio, Bucky danced. It wasn’t the loud eccentric dancing most young people did where they threw their arms around wild and careless. Bucky hardly made a sound when he danced, his arms moved in and out at a measured pace, he never tripped, and he was purposeful, like a ballerina, as he spun and swayed.

So Steve watched unblinkingly, hidden and out of sight, he couldn’t deny that Bucky was beautiful. 

From his movements, even to the way he had grown into himself, that Steve noticed more and more. He knew Bucky since he was a little kid, and watched him through it all but now as they were both in their twenties, Bucky was gorgeous; to his soft brown hair, his bright vibrant baby blue eyes, and the smile that made Steve’s chest ache a little. A good ache.

He’d be a fool not to notice, but an even bigger fool not to keep it to himself. It was a scary thought but he didn’t push it away. 

He shouldn’t think any man was beautiful, handsome maybe, never beautiful, but as Steve watched Bucky dance, he found that he didn’t much care. 

Bucky was beautiful.

His movements caught Steve’s eye as he danced but it was also the blissful, content expression on Bucky’s face that made it hard to look away, and when he started – his smile was ten times brighter. It was nice to see Bucky happy. 

He worked nights, sometimes not coming home until the next morning and they struggled, much like everyone, to pay rent and make ends meet. Bucky worked; he worked his ass off just so they could have a roof over their head, and get Steve medicine for his asthma and fevers.

Steve never admired a man more.

After his ma died, Bucky never stopped caring for Steve. And after that night, every time it was late and he’d hear the quiet sound of music filter through their apartment, Steve didn’t bother going back to sleep. He wanted to watch. 

Bucky kept the music quiet, so as not to wake him but Steve was already wide awake sneaking out of their bed.

One day as he hid in the hallway watching Bucky dance and sway by the kitchen, the time nearing midnight, he heard the soft muttering of his name as Bucky turned around and stared right at where Steve was hiding.

“Steve,” he said, his dimly lit expression from the kitchen light betraying nothing.

Steve cringed; he was busted. Bucky was probably going to think he was a creep and maybe kick him out of the apartment.

“Yeah?” Steve mumbled. 

“C’mere, punk.”

“Okay…” his voice fell, his tone sullen as he dragged himself off the floor and out into the light. Steve knew he was in trouble, he should have just gone to bed but amidst his thoughts, he noticed Bucky holding out his hand. He was smiling. Not yelling or cursing, he gave Steve that confident, silly grin.

“Dance with me.”

Steve’s jaw dropped to the floor and he hardly noticed Bucky taking his hand as it nearly dropped from his grip in shock too, but Bucky held it tightly. 

“W-what?” Steve all but squeaked.

“Dance with me,” he repeated, trying to tug Steve’s smaller body closer. 

Steve stared at his friend in complete shock before he tried to squirm away. “Buck, I-I can’t, I didn’t mean to–”

But Bucky wasn’t listening. He grabbed Steve’s other hand and dragged him so they were barely a hair-width apart and Steve felt all the air expel from his lungs, he gasped.

“Bucky,” came his breathless and frankly weak protest.

“Just follow my lead, it’s alright,” Bucky chuckled, looking far too amused. 

“…Jerk.”

“Punk.”

And then they danced.

Steve suddenly found himself spun, Bucky looming over his back, his hands pressing lightly into Steve’s sharp hipbones. 

“This okay?” Bucky nearly breathed into his ear, and Steve could only nod. He was coming apart at the seams - his mind reeling. 

Bucky swayed for a minute as the song on the radio changed and then he was moving away, his hand still encompassing Steve’s own and he moved so they were at an arm's length, connected by their hands. Steve could finally see Bucky’s face and it made his cheeks heat, pink, and burn.

Bucky hadn’t stopped smiling and it was doing something funny to Steve’s insides. 

He brought their bodies closer again, Steve nearly stumbling into Bucky’s chest as he lightly tugged on his hand, then he somehow managed to trip and step on Bucky’s foot, cringing at himself and he tried to pull away in embarrassment.

“Buck, I really–”

“Steve,” Bucky’s voice was light and airy like he was out of breath too and Steve used all the confidence he had to look up at him. “Relax, it ain’t like I’m gonna call you a dame or nothin’, just move when I move,” Bucky instructed and repositioned Steve’s hands until one was wrapped around Bucky’s waist and the other was placed on his shoulder.

Steve gulped, trying not to let his body betray him as they began to sway, he was so worried about misstepping, face planting, or worse - doing something to ruin Bucky’s obvious good mood. 

But he kept his gaze on Bucky’s face, even as the music picked up speed, they moved fluidly to their own beat, practically waltzing around their small living room, step after step. It became rhythmic, and Steve found himself able to match Bucky’s steps easier.

“Ready?” The other man asked and Steve’s expression must have shown his confusion, because it made Bucky laugh before Steve found himself being spun like before until he made a full circle and was safely encased back in Bucky’s arms. “See, you’re a natural,” Bucky encouraged.

“Not as good as you,” Steve says, but to that, Bucky scoffs. 

“You just think too much. Just listen to the music.”

Bucky made it sound easy and Steve guessed the more they swayed and followed the slower beats, it was pretty easy, as long as he had Bucky guiding him. 

Two men dancing together - wasn’t that something, but Steve didn’t think of it as strange. It didn’t make him feel guilty for anything and every time Bucky flashed him that smile, Steve felt his worry ebb away until it was nothing but a meddling thought. 

So what if they were two men dancing together, Bucky didn’t make a fuss so Steve didn’t either.

And their time off from working went a lot like that. Steve drew, he drew Bucky dancing, making sure to capture his expression even though the movements were hard to put on paper. Steve didn’t hide anymore when he heard the sound of music playing through the radio speakers. 

Often times when Bucky was just too tired they’d sit together on the couch, holding one another as the music filtered through the room, filling the comfortable silence. 

Other times Bucky practically dragged Steve into the room when he popped through the doorway and he’d teach him a new move. They didn’t often try the loud, eccentric, fast-paced moves; no, theirs was slow, calculated, peaceful and Steve loved it. 

He loved making Bucky laugh each time he messed up a little or grabbed Bucky as he tripped over his own two feet. He loved the happiness in Bucky’s eyes as they held each other and Steve was spun gently in his arms.

Each time they danced it was like they were in their own little world together, the outside noise of busy people and city life didn’t bother them much, the jazz or soft singing was theirs to dance to and Steve wouldn’t change it for anything. 

Some days when he was too weak to get out of bed or do anything, Bucky would come in and take care of him, same as always - only this time he was followed by a little red radio held in his hands and would ask Steve, “What do you want to listen to today, pal?”

It was almost better than any medicine because it made Steve feel elated even though he struggled to breathe or even move, Bucky would often dance for him and that was something Steve would never forget.

Things Steve knew to be absolutely true, was that even in his worst moments, Bucky would be there. Always. 

^

Steve and Bucky survived the Depression. Bucky helped Steve after his ma died, took him in, cared for him, and bought his medicine when he ran out. They got by. 

Until one day, December 7th to be exact, when Steve and Bucky were hanging around their apartment on their day off, a Sunday; snow fell like heavy blankets outside and Steve was still recovering from a nasty head cold when the music on their radio fizzled out suddenly. 

Bucky looked up from his book, re-reading The Hobbit for what had to be the tenth time and Steve looked up from his messy sketchbook when the static started. “You turn it off?” Bucky asked as he moved forward to fiddle with the machine. 

Steve shook his head slowly. “No, it just–”

Just ask quickly, though, Steve was interrupted when a voice came over the radio. 

“Hello, NBC. Hello, NBC. This is the KGU in Honolulu, Hawaii.”

Bucky quickly took his hands off the radio and looked up at Steve in surprise as the voice went on, Steve set his notebook down on the cushions next to him and leaned forward to hear better. 

“…I am speaking from the roof of the Advertiser Publishing Company building, we have witnessed this morning the distant view of a brief battle of Pearl Harbor and the severe bombing of Pearl Harbor by enemy planes...”

“Buck?” Steve said distantly as he looked up from the radio in shock. 

But Bucky didn’t know what to say, he didn’t know how to comfort Steve so he just sat there speechless.

“…This battle has been going on for nearly three hours. One of the bombs dropped within fifty feet of the KGU tower...”

Bucky slowly stood from the couch. There was static for a few more seconds on the radio as the voice struggled to be heard. 

“It is no joke. It is a real war…We cannot estimate yet how much damage has been done, but it has been a very severe attack.”

Bucky wrung his hands out on his pants and Steve sat on the couch, staring blankly at the radio in shock. Nobody talked, they hardly breathed.

“Is this real?” Steve’s weak voice finally spoke out and it took a minute before Bucky responded.

“I–” he cleared his throat. “I don’t know.”

“Did Pearl Harbor really get attacked?”

“I don’t know.”

“War, he said war, Bucky. Does that mean…”

It was something neither of them wanted to say out loud. What did this mean for them? What did this mean for America?

The static continued until the sound of the music filtered into the room once more, picking up where it left off as if the sudden intermission had never happened. Steve pried his eyes away from the small red radio on the ground, he nearly pleaded for Bucky to meet his gaze.

“I don’t know,” Bucky repeated.

^

The events after that day had everyone rattled and rightly so. Newspapers were printed out rapidly each with a bigger and bolder headline: Japs Open War on U.S. With Bombing of Hawaii and Tensions Escalating In Europe And Pacific - Will America Finally Join to Fight Another World War?

Steve’s seen the newspapers, him and Bucky even scraped up enough extra coin to go buy themselves one and Steve almost wished they didn’t - it was terrifying to read.

Another World War. 

They tried not to dwell on it, at the moment there was nothing they could do, no use in panicking, there were riots, protests, and people out in the streets violently speaking against joining the war. 

Steve wasn’t sure how he felt, neither did Bucky for that matter and it was something he never thought they’d have to talk about but he couldn’t help but think: America was just attacked, how could they not join?

On their way to work one morning Steve saw another newspaper in the salesman's window, taped to the glass. I Want You and on it was an image of Uncle Sam pointing, Join the U.S. Army.

Bucky nudged his shoulder, noticing he had stopped. “You alright?” He asked.

Steve looked away from the poster and nodded, hitching his bag a little higher on his shoulder. “Yeah, I’m good. Let’s go.”

But Steve couldn’t get the poster out of his head even as the months passed. The weather started to get warmer but the war with Japan down in the Pacific was still raging. News poured in each week about the rising U.S. casualties. 

More time passed, it had been almost a full year since Pearl Harbor and now it was official: America was heading over to Europe to fight.

War was here whether people liked it or not. 

Steve and Bucky worked. They kept their heads down and tried to ignore the news as best they could, because with the news brought anger. Riots. Violence. The streets were littered with scared, furious people.

It was a time of panic. People didn’t want America getting involved overseas, against a powerful country like Germany. 

Steve never quite understood that mindset but he didn’t say anything. Bucky urged him time and time again not to say anything, “They’re already mad, Stevie, they won’t listen. Some people just don’t understand,” Bucky would say.

Steve didn’t understand how there were those out there who thought America shouldn’t help, if they were able, how could they not?

But he kept his head down. He already got into enough fights as it was.

However, Steve would never forget that one day as they walked home one weekday night, bundled up in their coats as rain poured down, he noticed the stiffness in Bucky’s shoulders. He’d be a fool not to, his friend looked - well, not different but focused, he had this look in his eye that Steve had never seen before. 

He didn’t want to push though and it wasn’t until they got back to their apartment did Bucky finally speak up. 

“I’ve decided,” he said, suddenly, as they hung their coats by the door. Steve shivered so hard that his teeth rattled and before he could ask what that meant Bucky was already guiding him to the couch. “I’ll get some dinner going, stay put,” and then he fled to the kitchen. 

Bucky never fled anywhere but all Steve could do was gaze at his retreating form dubiously before moving to untie his shoes. 

Dinner usually consisted of bread, meat and water. Most days, though, they could afford to get a can of beans once a week along with some can-filled vegetables.

Bucky was quick and was already bringing their plates out, he handed it to Steve, still avoiding eye contact, and sat next to him on the couch.

Steve watched as Bucky shoved the cold beans into his mouth, bite after bite, barely chewing before he swallowed. 

Something was wrong. 

“Bucky.” Steve set his plate beside him and touched his friend's shoulder. “Talk to me,” he pleaded.

His words seemed to do the trick because Bucky sighed, deep and heavy, before he set his plate in his lap. He turned to face him, suddenly more serious than Steve’s ever seen him in a while. 

“I’m joining the army.” 

Steve slowly felt his hand fall away, the cold seemed to take root in his stomach. 

“You’re…”

The man shook his head and looked away, despair written across his features. “I’ve already decided, I’m enlisting tomorrow. I’m sorry. I told Terry and he promised to keep paying you, I made sure to save up for electricity and water bill and I was gonna go buy more medicine just in case–”

“Bucky,” Steve pleaded as Bucky went on talking but he had to redouble he efforts by grabbing his shoulder. “Buck, stop.”

He looked up at Steve in surprise. “Steve,” he practically begged. “I don’t want you to hate me.”

Steve nearly reeled back like he had been struck. “Hate you? Why would I hate you?” He demanded.

Then Bucky began to fiddle nervously with his hands. “I know people are at odds with the war and all, but I know that joining is the right thing. I know it is.”

Steve’s eyes softened and he scooted closer, Bucky let him.

“Look at me,” Steve asked, noting how Bucky stared at the floor like it was the most interesting thing in the world. “Buck, look at me, you idiot.”

And when those blue eyes meet his own, Steve gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, wanting to do more. “I know it’s the right thing, joining the war,” he agreed and Bucky’s shocked face didn’t surprise Steve much. At this moment, it was a crazy idea.

“I don’t hate you,” Steve insisted, “especially, for something like this and you're an idiot for thinking so.”

To that, Bucky gave him a small smile and shrugged. “Yeah, well, I try.”

Steve smiled back. “Yeah, I know,” then he said, “But if you think you’re doing this without me, just forget about that.”

And that really got Bucky going. And Steve means really. Their argument was dumb, Steve hated fighting, but he knew he needed to say it. 

“Steve, you can’t be serious–”

“If you’re going, I’m going too,” Steve stated, letting go, and moved back to picking at the food on his plate, trying to avoid confrontation.

“Steve,” Bucky stressed. “This isn’t the back ally’s, this is war. You can’t come!”

“Why?” He suddenly burst out, glaring at Bucky. He knew what was right. “Because I’m weak and small? I’m a man, the same as you are, I can help.”

“Stevie,” Bucky sighed as he rubbed his temple furiously. “You know I don’t think that…I…I just don’t want you to die goddammit.”

Steve cringed, Bucky hardly swore, it made him feel like a scolded child but he didn’t back down. “So it’s okay my best friend goes to war and I don’t hear back for months, years, only to find out he’s dead?”

That made Bucky pause. “Steve…”

“Please Bucky,” he urged. “I gotta try. This is bigger than the both of us and you know it.”

Suddenly, Steve was pulled into a hug and he when wrapped his arms around the other man’s shoulders, he could feel the way Bucky’s own shook and it just made Steve cling harder. This was no easy decision for either of them, he knew that.

“Okay,” Bucky eventually relented as they pulled away. A grim expression on his face. He set his hand on Steve’s shoulder and shook it gently. “I guess I’m draggin’ you down there with me.”

You’re damn right, Steve wanted to say but he felt his stomach grumble furiously, and threw Bucky a pleased smile as he ate for real that time. The lingering anxiety was still in the air for what tomorrow would hold, but for now, he and Bucky ate together, their radio sat in the middle of the floor between the kitchen and the couch.

Some sports broadcasters spoke about the upcoming season and they relaxed in the peaceful atmosphere.

^

“Sorry, son,” the doctor told him as he flipped between papers on the clipboard. “I’m afraid we can’t take you, your health problems are about a mile long, and your asthma makes you ineligible alone.”

Steve stopped buttoning up his shirt. “You can’t take me?” He repeated, looking up at the doctor. He knew he was small but he didn’t think that it would affect him getting into the army, especially at a time like this. “But don’t you need soldiers?” Steve questioned.

The doctor shrugged distractedly as he wrote something down on the paper. “We do but I still have to follow regulations. Can’t have nobody going that doesn’t meet the requirements. I’m sorry.”

The doctor went over to the desk and stamped the papers on the clipboard. A clear sign that the man on there was inadequate. Steve leaned back against his chair like his strings had been cut and the doctor excused himself, pulling the curtains to the small makeshift room.

He hardly noticed the next person enter.

“Heya there, punk.”

Steve looked up from his chair at Bucky, sitting straighter when he noticed the papers the man had in his hands.

“What’s that?” Steve asked, afraid he already knew the answer.

Bucky gave him a sympathetic look. “My paperwork. More stuff I gotta fill out but…I got in.”

Steve tried not to let the news wear on him, tried not to let the sorrow and disappointment ruin the mood. “Congrats,” he said instead. “I’m proud of you, Buck.” And he was, he really was.

“I couldn’t help but overhear the doc,” Bucky grimaced and Steve sighed as he went back to buttoning up his shirt and cuffs. “I’m sorry Steve.”

“No, no. It’s okay. You were right anyway,” Steve mumbled. “It was foolish to even try.”

“Hey,” Bucky chided as he knelt next to him. Steve forced himself to meet his friend's gaze. “The army would be lucky to have a fella like you - you got more guts than half the men out there in that waiting room. That’s something you can’t find on those damn papers.”

Steve gave his friend a watery smile, leave it to Bucky to try and lift his spirits at a time like this. He was grateful. 

“Thanks, Buck.”

Unfortunately, heart and courage didn’t mean much on paper and Steve was fresh out of luck in that department. 

Bucky waited until he was done and they walked out of the room and building together. 

Steve thought from a young age that they’d do everything together, he’d follow Bucky to the ends of the earth if he needed to, but his body had other plans and it seemed that he wouldn’t be following his friend to the end of the line this time.

Bucky being accepted into the army meant that he only had a day before he was supposed to meet back and be shipped out somewhere across America for a recruitment camp. It wasn’t the real battle yet, just training, but the day drew nearer - Steve was still sad to see his friend go. 

“They say it’ll only be a few weeks,” Bucky mentions as he reads through the papers. Boot camp that is. “It’ll go by in a flash, I promise.”

Steve just nodded. Bucky didn’t have much to pack, he didn’t own much, and the recruits weren't allowed to bring anything special except for pictures, small portable items, and a toothbrush. Things like that. 

Lucky for Steve, the walk to the train station was less than a mile and Bucky kept pace with him most of the way. Soon the train station, packed full of fresh soldiers, was just up ahead.

It was crowded and busy, Bucky had his small rucksack thrown over his soldier and stopped just shy of the ticket booth to turn back and face Steve.

“Try to stay out of trouble while I’m gone,” Bucky teased. “I know you're drawn to it like a moth to a flame buddy but–”

“Oh shut it,” Steve laughed, though he didn’t bother denying it. Bucky grinned and they shared a brief hug before the whistle of the train sounded and all the rowdy, young men fled to the train doors.

“I’ll be back soon,” Bucky promised again, patting him on the arm.

“I’ll be here,” Steve said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. The final whistle sounded and Bucky waved at him before jogging away. “Make me proud!” Steve yelled for the final time and Bucky yelled back, “You can count on it!”

Steve watched his friend board the train with a small smile, he stayed until everyone boarded, trying to make out the people in the small windows but soon enough the train started moving, the gears turned, steam shot out the top and then it was off.

He felt the smile fall from his face. Bucky’s grin was nothing but a distant memory now. 

A few weeks, he thought dully, he could wait.

^

One might assume that after getting denied from the army, Steve would have taken it as a clear sign and given up, when in fact he did the opposite - he was stubborn like that. 

Who was that desperate to lay down their life for their country? Well, apparently him. He figured he had to try. He owed it to Bucky, to his country and he’d be damned if he was going to sit on the sidelines again. 

It was war for Christ's sake, he needed to help. 

So he came up with the plan, albeit a very dumb plan, one that might even get him thrown in jail but Steve figured if it was for his country, therefore it wouldn’t matter too much. Yet, in his head, he could already hear Bucky ripping him a new one: “You punk, don’t you know it’s illegal to lie on your forms, you tryna get thrown in jail?”

Of course, Steve was scared, rightfully so, he wouldn’t last a day in jail but he still needed to go through with it. He couldn’t not try, so he decided to fake his address, they already knew of a Steve Rogers from Brooklyn but they didn’t know of a Steve Rogers from Vermont.

Steve Rogers from Portland, Maine

Steve Rogers from Albany, Manhattan. 

Steve Rogers from Paramus, New Jersey.

Each time, each new address, each new doctor, Steve only got the same answer: “We can’t take you, sorry.”

It hurt. They’d take one look at him, do the exams, hear his erratic heartbeat, figure out he had asthma, no matter how hard he tried to hide it, and he’d be booted out over and over. A grand total of five times.

The sound of the stamp sealed his fate on each and every visit.

Steve sat in the waiting room after the last doctor left, silent and dull. He was crouched over in the chair, dangling his feet above the floor, his head in his hands and he never felt more useless. How was he going to help his country, in their time of need, help Bucky, when he couldn’t even get through the first gate?

I’m sorry, Buck, Steve thought to himself and dragged his limp form out of the chair. 

He kept his head low as he passed all the other shirtless men in the waiting room, he didn’t bother to try and share their enthusiasm or explain why he looked like his dog had just been run over. Nobody would understand, everyone had their own problems. 

The only thing Steve couldn’t get over was—what now?

Soon the days went by. He dragged himself out of bed during the gloomy, cloudy days, even as summer neared the horizon, the cold in his body never seemed to go away.

Some days it got hard to breathe, and he was a lot more prone to panic and asthma attacks now, he still took his medicine when he needed but there was no denying that in months like these, even the simplest of tasks got harder. It wore him down. Despite that though, Steve did his damndest to make good on his promise to Bucky, he kept his head down and stay out of trouble. 

Until one day he was coming home from the corner store and saw some young women getting heckled in the alleyway. 

Steve was small. He knew he was small, he was about the size of a teenage girl, everyone knew that, but for some reason, his brain and his heart didn’t realize that his body wasn’t quite up to par. 

Meaning, that when Steve saw trouble, specifically someone in trouble, he didn’t run or look away - nope, he went head first, more often than not fist first into trouble. He hated bullies, the scums that lurked in allies picking on people, so when he saw the girl in trouble he did something about it. 

“You’ve got a brave heart, Steve,” his mother told him before she passed. “Don’t lose it.”

She never told him to fight, though, and if she knew she’d probably be rolling in her grave but Steve knew, in his heart, that it was right. Before, he fought and usually he ended up getting thrown and beaten to hell for doing so, he was small and practically defenseless against the other burly guys but that didn't stop him from doing it anyway. Somebody had to.

Bucky would probably wring his neck if he knew Steve hadn’t stopped sniffing out trouble, but Bucky wasn’t here so Steve didn’t see that point anymore. He couldn’t not do what was right. 

“Whad’ya say to me, boy?” The man with twisted teeth, a yellowy grin, and a crooked jaw sneered down at him. 

Steve tried to stand as tall as he could, ignoring the pain in his spine and the heaviness in his lungs.

“I said let her go.”

The man laughed and shoved the woman, she shrieked, picked up her purse, and took off down the alley, not bothering to spare them another glance. At least she was safe, Steve thought as the larger man approached.

“Or what you little twig? You gonna hit me? You?”

Unlikely, Steve sucked at throwing punches but that didn’t stop him from raising his fists anyway. He hated bullies.

Steve didn’t have time to duck when the punch came.

It was fast, nearly sending his head on a swivel as he was sent careening back into the trash cans, his skull colliding with the brick wall. Pain exploded behind his eyes and he struggled to push himself off the ground. 

Get up, get up, his mind screamed.

“Hey! Why don’t you pick on someone your own size!”

Steve paused. He knew that voice. 

There would have been a thousand voices in the world at that moment but Steve knew that one. 

He tried to turn, blood oozed from his nose steadily and he could barely make out the image of a small brawl happening. Fists were thrown, the slightly taller man hit the other in the jaw and gave him a good kick before the crook went sprawling to the ground in a heap and Steve knew the man that did that - it was Bucky. That was as much as Steve could see before his arms gave out and he struggled to pull in his next breath.

“Hey, hey, pal. Look at me, just breathe.”

Bucky. Bucky was here. 

Steve felt his breath skip a beat just in pure joy.

“Steve. Breathe.”

“Am,” he gasped. He was breathing - a little at least. Steve felt Bucky’s arms wound their way around his torso, lifting him off the ground and against Bucky’s chest. 

“Sure, I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Bucky was a pro at calming Steve down from panic and asthma attacks and for that he was grateful. Steve sighed, trying to relax, and moved to touch the part in his forehead that ached and throbbed, already feeling the bruise forming, but Bucky was there swatting his hand away. 

“No, don’t touch, you punk. I leave you alone for hardly two months–” Bucky sounded mad.

He always was after picking Steve’s sorry carcass off the ground one too many times but he still did it anyway. “I-I had him on the ropes,” Steve said and leaned back against the other man, suddenly exhausted.

He could practically hear Bucky roll his eyes. “Sure ya did. You always do.”

Steve cleared the black spots from his vision and by God did he nearly weep when his friend's face came into view.

“Bucky.”

The other man finally looked down at him and it was the same face Steve was so used to seeing and when his friend smiled at him, Steve knew that this was real.

Bucky had finally come home. 

“Heya, Stevie.”

Steve practically flopped further onto the man when he caught his breath and it made Bucky laugh, the noise made Steve cling harder to his friend’s shoulders.

“Well, someone missed me,” Bucky practically wheezed but wrapped his arms around him.

“Of course, I did you idiot,” Steve cried and pulled away to get a better look at the man’s face. He didn’t care that they were both kneeling on the dirty, city ground. It was the last thing on his mind.

“You’re back,” Steve breathed and smoothed his fingers over Bucky’s jaw.

Only then did he notice the tan get-up Bucky had on, his army uniform, and the hat on his head that was tipped slightly back, no doubt from Steve bumping it. It was odd seeing Bucky in anything but regular clothes. 

Unfortunately, as Steve took in the outfit, Bucky’s sudden arrival, he knew it only meant one thing. “Why are you back so soon?” He asked and let Bucky help him up off the ground.

Bucky readjusted his hat and overcoat but Steve noticed how his expression dropped. “Well, training’s finally over and they said we’d have today to, you know…”

The unspoken words hung in the air.

“Say goodbye?” Steve finished for him. All the excitement drained from his body. 

“Yeah,” Bucky said, his tone heavy like he knew what Steve was thinking, he confirmed it. “The 107th. Sergeant James Barnes, shipping out for England first thing tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. Bucky was getting shipped out, he was going to war, to the real front lines in Europe, tomorrow. 

Steve was quiet, he didn’t know how to respond for a few seconds. Oh god, oh god. He lifted his head towards Bucky. How could he forget? All this time he was waiting for Bucky to come home…only to forget the reason why the man left in the first place.

Bucky was going to war, he had to and Steve knew that but it didn’t stop it from hurting, from ripping apart his heart, especially when he knew he’d never be able to join his friend. 

Five failed attempts at trying to join the army. They needed real men and fighters, but Steve was none of those. 

He wasn’t what America needed and Steve hated that Bucky was. War was cruel and unforgiving and he didn’t want to lose Bucky, he didn’t want to lose the only person he had left. 

“Come on,” Bucky finally spoke with a smile and patted him on the shoulder but the light behind his gray eyes wasn’t there. “Let’s go get you cleaned up and do somethin’ fun, it’s my last night after all.”

^ 

“Don’t do anything stupid till I get back,” Bucky half pleaded as they stood barely a foot apart in the plaza. The Stark Expo had just ended, Bucky's choice on how to spend their last night, it was full of flying cars, and new inventions, but it did little to distract Steve from the inevitable.

It was nearing the end of the night, and people brushed by them but all Steve could focus on was Bucky.

This was it. 

“How can I,” Steve answered, his voice cracked. “You’re taking all the stupid with you.”

Bucky gave a watery grin and pulled Steve’s smaller frame in for a hug. 

“Hey, Buck?”

Bucky pulled back to look at him and those expressive blue eyes that danced with unshed tears. Steve had to force the words past his aching throat. “Come back?” He begged, he knew Bucky could see the pain on his face if not hear it in his voice. 

He didn’t just mean come back, in there he meant the words he didn’t want to say: Please, don’t die, but that was a foolish request for someone going to war. Lives would be laid down and they’d be honored for doing it for their country.

Bucky nodded solemnly. “Always, Stevie.”

Steve reluctantly let Bucky go, knowing the man had to say goodbye to a few more people before the night was up. But as Bucky turned away Steve couldn’t help but blurt, “Don’t win the war till I get there!”

Bucky and himself knew that was probably never going to happen, him going to war that was, but nevertheless, Bucky turned back with a sideways smile and saluted him before disappearing down the steps.

Eventually, Steve found Bucky again later that night and they walked back to the apartment together, they talked, Bucky mostly about how grueling and bizarre training was. He asked Steve how things had been going on here, but to that, he didn’t have much to say.

‘Nothing here is the same without you, Buck, it’s bleak and sad.’ But he couldn’t admit that.

Catching up, it had been like Bucky had never left at all, he cracked jokes and got Steve to laugh.

It was another brisk night and that didn’t much matter to Steve, he had gotten used to going to bed cold but tonight was officially the last time for a while he’d be able to steal some of Bucky’s warmth.

As Steve crawled into bed, it felt like a final goodbye.

Bucky joined him after laying out his uniform on the desk chair, all neat and folded. They had gotten ready for bed and Bucky flicked off the lights. He crawled into the bed and the familiar sound of the creaking mattress when more weight was added, echoed through the room. He looked over at Steve who lay facing him. 

All the light that was left in the room was the small yellow lamp beside the bed on Bucky’s side. Steve couldn’t quite make out his face in the dim room so he reached forward until his fingers connected with Bucky’s jaw and cheek.

“I’m gonna miss you,” Steve whispered, soft and fleeting. He felt that if he raised his voice any louder it would ruin the peaceful atmosphere.

“I’ll miss you too,” Bucky murmured and wrapped his hand around Steve’s delicate wrist. “Try not to beat up any old ladies while I’m gone,” he teased and Steve laughed quietly. What he really meant was to try not to get into any fights, like the one today.

“You know I’d never,” Steve conceded. “I’m an upstanding citizen of society.”

“Uh-huh. Tell that to the granny down the hall.”

Steve huffed. “Our music doesn’t even make that much noise, I think she’s just cranky.” Their conversation was still hushed so Steve threw in a fake pout as he spoke.

Bucky’s naked shoulders shook with laughter. “Ain’t that the truth.”

The real truth was that Steve hadn’t played the radio in weeks, it reminded him too much of Bucky.

It got quiet again. Steve traced his finger along Bucky’s skin as the man held his wrist, Bucky’s touch was always soft and gentle; Steve was going to miss it. The intimacy didn’t weird them out either, it was different being this close–being two grown men–but it was a delicate shared moment and it was theirs.

“Steve?” Bucky’s voice drew his mind from distraction and he looked back up past their entwined hand. He scoots closer, dragging the blanket to cover both of them better and Steve’s heart sped up at the proximity. 

Bucky always made his heart do funny things. He was going to miss this.

“You wanna dance?” 

Steve’s eyes widened in surprise. “You mean, right now?”

Bucky shrugged. “Why not? Unless you're too tired, I mean.”

And Bucky would, they’d go to bed right now if Steve was too tired but at that moment, sleeping was the last thing he wanted to do.

Steve nearly sat up too fast but gasped out, “Nope not tired.” He hoped he didn’t sound too desperate but finally getting to dance with Bucky after so long made him ache for it. He needed this.

Then Bucky was rolling out of bed, out of their little nest, and grabbed for the radio off the nightstand. It groaned from misuse when Bucky flicked the dial, voices were cut off as he switched through different stations until that familiar sound of a soft melody was once again playing through the room and Steve’s heart ached.

Bucky turned to him and held out his hand. “C’mon, Stevie. They’re playing our song.”

He leaned over the bed onto Bucky’s side and let the man gently guide him off the mattress. 

As soon as Steve is off the bed he moves up to put his arms around Bucky’s neck. Strong arms wrap around his narrow waist and he presses his forehead into Bucky’s chest.

“Okay there, mister,” Steve said as he looked back up at Bucky. “Gonna show me your best moves?”

“Of course,” Bucky says and smiles down at him, slowly starting to shuffle them around the room. They take small steps, swaying from side to side as the music fills the cramped bedroom. 

“It’s still the same old story, a fight for love and glory, a case of do or die…”

The soulful, timey voice on their radio sings.

“…The world will always welcome lovers, as time goes by…”

The notes float over their heads as Bucky slowly twirls Steve around and dips him low. Time seems to have slowed down and the only thing that matters is the way they move together across the floor, eyes glued together.

“The world will always welcome lovers, as time goes by.”

They slowly come to a halt in the center of the floor, feeling the last notes of the song fade out around them. The next song comes on, but they’re still pressed together, chests brushing and hands clinging to fabric and flesh. They stand there momentarily and breathe each other in, aware that this can’t last forever. 

The world rushes by around them and the minutes keep sliding through their fingertips, but for just a little while they’ve carved out their own corner of the universe where all it takes is a dance to know you’re loved.

Steve tries to push down the tears as he hides his face in Bucky’s chest again, the man’s warm skin helps ease his shivers but it’s more from desperation than the cold.

“Steve?” Bucky’s warm voice asks and Steve slowly picks his head up to stare into his friend's eyes. “Save me a dance?” He whispers and leans down to press their foreheads together ever so slightly.

Save me a dance for when I see you again, went unsaid.

Steve felt his lungs rush full of air and that nearly made him break, right then and there in that room.

“Always,” Steve promises, nearly choking up with emotion as he fights tears. 

He’d always save a dance for Bucky. 

They didn’t need more, just that promise was enough. They could make it through anything, miles and miles apart if they had that. Dancing meant they had to see each other again, so Steve held onto the words like a lifeline with nothing else to tether him. 

It was their final goodbye.

They clung to one another, more like a steady hug than a dance, and soon enough as the night grew longer, they had to pull away. 

Steve knew right then and there that there would be no one else for him but Bucky. Come war or the end of the world, he knew he could make it through it all as long as Bucky was around. With his friend going off to war he was just going to have to cling to that hope - the hope that Bucky would return. 

“Come on, pal,” Bucky whispers as he steps out of Steve’s arm, the cold rushes around him again. “Let's get some shut-eye.”

He moves towards the radio and interrupts the music by turning it off.

Steve feels a piece of him break as he walks back toward his side of the bed. Soon enough Bucky crawls in right behind him and Steve is once again wrapped in the man’s arms, finally able to feel more than the cold.

“Thank you,” he hears Bucky mutter softly, “for the dance.”

“Of course,” Steve whispers back and presses himself closer to the man as Bucky drags the blanket over them once more.

Bucky soon began to doze and Steve didn’t want to keep him up but that didn’t mean he let sleep come so easily to himself. He stared at Bucky’s face, trying to remember every last detail down to his red lips, the lines, the curves, everything. He didn’t want to forget, just in case.

“Sleep Steve,” Bucky’s groggy voice startled him, he reached back over to shut off the lamp before his arms were wrapping around Steve’s shoulders, tucking him against his right side as if he belonged there. 

“Night Buck,” Steve whispered back. 

Eventually, as the night wore down and Steve could no longer keep his eyes open, he cuddled even closer to Bucky, aching to touch his skin more, and settled down. Finally letting sleep drag him under.

Waking up the next morning, Steve didn’t bother to roll over and reach for Bucky no matter how much his hand itched to. He was used to it being empty.

He knew the man was gone. His side of the bed was cold and bare and it wouldn’t be warm for…well…Steve didn’t know how long. 

That was the hell of it. 

Instead, he forced himself out of bed, shivering and aching from crying, grabbed their small red radio, curled it against his chest as he moved out of the room to sit on the couch, and let the melody of songs wash over him. 

“...We’ll meet again, some sunny day… ”

He stared at the spot in the living room where they danced together for the first time, forcing his tears and throbbing eyes to give him a break.

But soon enough his sobs were louder than the music.

Steve hardly moved for what felt like days.

It never got easier. Bucky’s absence was like a stone on his chest, getting heavier with each passing day. 

Somehow it was worse than before, knowing Bucky was out there risking his life, where Steve should be too, made the hurt all the harder to bear. 

After passing street by street with the signs saying, ‘We Want You. Join Now’ Steve had about enough. He didn’t need the reminder.

It had been nearly a week since Bucky was shipped out when Steve was approached as he walked the path back to their apartment. 

“Excuse me? Are you Mr. Steven Grant Rogers?” 

An older man stopped in front of him, a distinct non-American accent to his voice. It sounded German.

“Yes?” Steve answered hesitantly and took a step back. 

He really didn’t feel like getting his ass kicked today and he had already started planning an escape route to run, even if he’d never make it very far.

The man just smiled, holding out his hand which Steve took slowly. “I’m Dr. Abram Erskine, I represent the Strategic Scientific Reserve for the U.S Army.” He pushed his glasses up his nose before pulling out a sheet of paper from his coat pocket. 

“Well, Mr. Rogers, to business then. It says here on the transcripts that you applied for the army program and evaluation. Is that correct?”

Steve looked at the man, checking for any signs of trickery or mockery. ‘Maggots like you shouldn’t be tryna join the army,’ is what he heard a lot.

But Steve also knew that this could be about something else. He had directly broken the law to get re-evaluated so many times and lied in his forms to get in. 

Bucky would kill him for getting popped like this. 

“Yes,” Steve eventually said. How’d you find me, was also on his mind. “Is there a problem?”

“Not for you at least,” the man corrected before saying, “You’re probably wondering how I found you.” Yes. The man squints his eyes. “You are Steven Grant Rogers, are you not?”

Steve nods. “I am…how did you find me?”

“Your first joining attempt,” the doctor says suddenly before flipping the paper over to point at the name and address Steve gave. “I figured after you tried so many times, the first was bound to be the real one. Pretty good guess I should say.”

Steve gazed at the paper, feeling all the color drain from his face. They knew he lied on his forms.

“I-I can explain,” Steve began but then the man was laughing and moving the paper away.

“No, no, Mister Rogers. I’m not upset, merely curious.”

Steve gave the man an incredulous look. He was waiting for the cops to bust out of the corner streets any minute, or for the strange doctor to take him and turn him in himself. Steve’s feet itched to run.

The man gave him a look as he folded the paper and placed it back into his coat pocket. “Are you that eager to go kill some Nazis?”

Steve’s brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”

“Do you want to kill Nazis, Mr. Rogers?” The man repeated patiently.

He stared blankly at the man. “Is this a test?” He asked and the man nodded.

“Yes.”

“I don’t want to kill anyone,” Steve stated then, stuffing his hands in his pockets defensively. “But I don’t like bullies, I don’t care where they’re from.” 

To this, the man smiled. “Well, then you’ll be surprised to know that I can offer you a chance to fight alongside the others.”

Steve perked up, trying not to let his heart get ahead of him. “You can?”

“I give you a chance, just that, but yes. First, you’ll have to come with me.”

Steve stumbled after the man without question. 

Dr. Abram Erskine, as he called himself, led him back to the enlistment building where he made his first attempt to join the army. Steve slowed a few steps but the doctor encouraged him to follow.

“Do not be afraid, Mr. Rogers, we’re merely going to my office at the moment.”

When they got inside, passing the waiting room and check-in centers, the doctor led him to a small, boxed room and grabbed a tan folder off his desk. He turned back to face Steve, motioning for him to close the door. 

Steve did so and the doctor leaned against the desk, opening the folder.

“You do want to join the war, do you not, Mr. Rogers?” He asked, looking at Steve, searching for something but to that Steve already had an answer.

“More than anything, sir.”

Suddenly, the man was slamming the folder against the desk, grabbing the stamp by the pencil holder, and pushing it onto the paper in the folder.

Steve flinched.

He didn’t realize he would be brought all the way here just to be turned down again–

“Congratulations, then,” the doctor said with a grin and picked up the folder, walking closer to where Steve could see. “Welcome to the army.”

On the paper in the small box at the bottom was a stamp, the stamp Steve’s been waiting for, the stamp to seal his fate, an official decree; he was accepted into the army.

Steve tried to fight the triumphant smile off his face but still gazed up at the man with the slightest hint of suspicion. “I don’t understand, I was told no. Why are you letting me join?”

“Well, the way I see it,” the doctor confessed. “If there’s a man who was so hell-bent on joining the war, on fighting for his country, and doing the right thing - and that man is you, Mister Rogers - then there’s no reason any of us dare stop him. I see something in you.” The doctor patted his shoulder, sincerity written across his features.  

And at that, Steve finally let a grin spread across his face.

^

The sweltering heat of New Jersey was no joke. It made Steve’s lungs fret, from the sweat dripping from his body to the sun cooking his pasty skin, he never felt more alive.

He stood in line next to the other recruits at base camp, his helmet occasionally slid off his face and every few minutes while they waited in the hot scorching sun for the special operations agent to get there. He’d quickly move and tilt it back up. 

A car pulled up in the distance of the camp, a mere few feet away and Steve saw a woman, the first he’s ever seen on base dressed in the army uniform, step out of the passenger side. A man waited for her, holding a box, and followed as she walked. 

Her short, curly, brown hair bounced as she made her way over to them, her red-painted lips stood at attention and her posture demanded respect, her heels made little noise in the grass. Steve would deny that he hunkered down a little in respect as she approached. 

“Recruits, attention,” the young woman commanded as she stopped in front of them. They all straightened up. “Gentlemen, I’m Agent Carter. I supervise all operations for this division.”

“Must be the accent, Queen Victoria,” one of the recruits piped up, obviously poking fun at her distinct British accent. Steve kept his gaze forward. “Thought I was signing up for the U.S. Army,” the recruit said. Finding hilarity in the situation.

“What’s your name, soldier?” Steve heard Agent Carter ask. 

“Gilmore Harge, your majesty.”

“Step forward, Harge,” she demanded. “And put your right foot forward.”

Steve just knew by the man’s tone that he was smirking. “Mmm, we gonna rassle? ‘Cause I gotta few moves I know you’ll like–”

Steve heard the punch and he looked over just in time to see the recruit fall to the ground. Agent Carters looked pleased and Steve felt himself smirk.

Just as quickly, the man with the box began to pass out the clipboards before another car pulled up and an older man climbed out. Steve noticed Dr. Erskine accompanying him as well. “Agent Carters,” the older man said and she turned on her heel to face him. 

“Colonel Phillips,” she greeted.

“I can see that you’re breaking in the new candidates. That’s good,” he noted and looked down at the recruit still in the dirt as he stepped towards their line. “Get your ass up outta that dirt and stand in line at attention till somebody comes tell you what to do,” he told the man.

“Yes, sir,” the recruit replied, moving to attention.

The Colonel rolls his eyes and looks away in dismissal. “General Patton has said that wars are fought with weapons,” he begins to walk down the line, “but they are won by men. We are going to win this war because we have the best…men…”

Steve notices him pause when he gets to his spot in line, but Steve doesn’t move an inch. He stares straight ahead at attention. He’s used to being called out for being small and doubted for his size but he knows he belongs here, just like anyone else. 

“And because they are going to get better,” the Colonel continues after a brief pause and moves away. “Much better.”

^

Army training was in short: difficult for Steve. Not so much the fact that they trained almost continuously day and night, from dusk till dawn, till their feet bled from sores, but the obstacles and courses sure as hell made Steve stand out like a sore thumb. 

The new recruits were super welcoming too. 

“Hey, Rogers, you gonna join us up here someday?” The recruit, Tanni, goaded from the top of the rope course. Steve was still struggling to make it up.

“Soldier! Did I tell you to stop?” One of the commanding officers yelled and Tanni practically tucked tail and climbed down the other side. 

Steve’s body was working double time but that didn’t mean he quit. He didn’t stop as they crawled through eight inches of mud in the rain carrying rifles, he didn’t quit when the man in front of him hit the post purposefully to make the barbwire fall on him. Steve just crawled around it. 

“Rogers, pick it up, let’s go! Let’s go!”

He came in dead last, each time, whether it was running or climbing, he pushed himself past the point where his lungs burned and his legs shook. He didn’t give up. He couldn’t. 

Steve ran, he climbed, he crawled, even if it meant screaming pains in his muscles, or lack thereof, and constant shortness of breath.

He pushed on, over and over.

One morning, during their run, the commanding officer made them stop at a flag post, their halfway point. 

“First man to bring it to me,” the officer stated, pointing to the flag at the top, “gets to ride back in the car with Agent Carter.”

Most of the men hooped and hollered, rushing over to the pole. Steve stood behind on the path, trying to catch his breath, and watched as man after man failed to climb up the slippery pole. 

“Nobody’s got that flag in seventeen years!” The commander yelled. “Now fall back in line, let’s go!”

They rushed away from the pole, unsuccessful, but Steve walked over to it with an idea forming. He figured there had to be some other way to get it down, there was no way to climb the metal, it was too high, then he noticed the simple rod keeping the pole upright and bent down to pull it out.

“Rogers! I said fall in line!”

Then the pole began to tilt, Steve watched it go down until it hit the dirt and the commander went silent. Steve was still panting from exertion as he stepped forward and retrieved the flag, handing it to the commander muttering a small, “Thank you, sir,” before he climbed, more like collapsed, into the back of the car with Colonel Phillips and Agent Carter.

He half expected to be dragged out for ‘cheating’ if the commander meant he had to climb the pole, but then the car was speeding away and Steve tilted his exhausted body to look back at the shocked faces of his troop and the commander.

“Well done, Soldier,” Agent Carter commends as she turns around from the passenger seat to smile at him.

“Thanks,” Steve wheezed. He was just glad to get a ride.

Wearied from fatigue and determination Steve didn’t think all too much later on when they were doing jumping jacks back at base and someone yelled grenade.  

In fact, he didn’t think at all when he saw the small but deadly device fall on the ground and he rushed forward to cover it with his own small body.

“Get back!” Steve yelled.

I’m sorry Bucky. 

The least he could do was try and protect everyone else, that’s all he thought at the moment, nothing but pure instinct running through him. But when the people scattered, held their breaths and the grenade didn’t go off, Steve opened his eyes slowly in surprise.

Dr. Erskine and Colonel Phillips were standing in front of him as he lay there. The other soldiers and Agent Carter merely stared at him from a distance like he’d grown two heads. The doctor had the biggest smile on his face and the colonel looked mildly bewildered.

“Son, why don’t you go ahead and get up,” Colonel Phillips requested and Steve did so, picking up the grenade that failed to detonate in his hand. “Jesus,” the Colonel sighed and took the dummy grenade from him. “He’s all yours, doctor.”

Steve watched the colonels’ retreating form and was about to move back into formation when the commander shouted at the other men but the doctor stopped him. “Sergeant Rogers, would you mind if I have a word with you?”

^

“Why me?” Steve asked the doctor as they sat across from each other in the barracks. 

The doctor had finished explaining how Hitler and Schmidt wanted to use the super soldier serum, part of their fabricated fantasy to rule the world, which the doctor himself created, and become the ‘superior man’ but only Shmidt was crazy enough to try it.

“The serum was not ready then,” Dr. Erskine explains. “But more importantly, the man was not ready. It amplifies everything that is inside, so good becomes great; bad becomes worse. This is why you were chosen.”

Steve looks away from the man, trying to wrap his head around the possibility. 

The doctor continues, “A strong man, who has known power his whole life, may lose respect for that power, but a weak man knows to value his own strength and knows… compassion. You are not a perfect soldier, Mr. Rogers, but a good man.”

Steve looks back up. “Thanks, I think,” he mutters and then the doctor is standing, reaching over to pat his shoulder in comfort.

“Do you think you are ready?”

Steve wills his shaky limbs to move and the violent churning of his stomach to stop as he stands. 

“Yes. I’m ready.”

^

The drive into town is short, but the awkward silence that stretches when Steve finds himself in the backseat of the car with Agent Carter, seems to last forever. He was never any good at talking to dames, he didn’t have the sway or charm like Bucky did. Not to mention that Carter scared him a little.

Eventually though as the silence stretches on and Steve’s nerves get the better of him, he opens his mouth. “Why did you join the army anyway, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Agent Carters spares him a glance. 

Steve barrels on. “I mean you're such a, you know…nice, beautiful dame, or a woman–a beautiful woman. An agent. Not a dame, you are beautiful, but–” He trips over his words realizing that what he said can no longer be salvaged when she looks over at him in surprise. He curses himself internally.

Smooth, Rogers. 

Bucky would definitely be laughing at him now.

“You have no idea how to talk to a woman, do you?” She very nearly smiles.

Steve ducks away. “No, I - uh, I think this is the longest conversation I’ve had with one,” he grimaces. “Women aren’t exactly lining up to dance with a guy they might step on.”

“Surely you’ve danced?”

And then Steve thinks back to the last dance he ever shared with someone. Not just someone - Bucky. The only person in the world who wanted to dance with Steve. He remembers the way Bucky swayed to songs, sometimes losing himself so much in the rhythm he didn’t notice Steve lurking but when he did they danced together. 

It made Steve feel like a million bucks, they laughed and swayed and sometimes Bucky would go all out and Steve would fall to the floor laughing at the man’s silly, exaggerated moves. But even in the good memories Steve can’t help but remember the last final dance he had with Bucky. Their final goodbye in their room the night before his friend got shipped out.

It seemed like just yesterday Bucky was asking him, “Dance with me?”

And Steve had, each and every time. He always would.

Now Bucky was somewhere in Europe, dead or alive, and Steve never knew if he’d be able to keep that promise to his friend. But now that he thought about it, was Bucky more than a friend? But that’s–

“Steve?” Agent Carter was asking him then, leaning over so she could catch his eyes. He realizes he must have gone silent. Her brows are furrowed in concern, her painted lips turned down. “Are you alright?” 

He cleared his throat and nodded at her. “Yeah, sorry.”

If Steve knew any better he’d say her gaze softened but he’d never be sure because then the car stopped and Agent Carter was announcing, “Time to go make history, soldier.” Then she rushed out of the car.

Steve climbed out and followed after her. She led him towards a small antique shop by the busy road.

“What are we doing here?” He asks. The place he imagined didn’t quite look like this.

“Follow me,” she told him and then they walked into the store. A bell rang as they entered and an older woman in a pink floral dress stepped out from the hall.

“Wonderful weather this morning, isn’t it?” She queried and Steve figured it was some kind of code.

“Yes, but I always carry an umbrella,” Agent Carter says. The older woman just smiles and moves behind her desk, Steve barely finishes looking around before Agent Carter is motioning him to follow through the hallway.

It leads them around a bend and into a connecting one; Steve stares as they’re suddenly walking through a hallway with white tile and what appears to be U.S. Army men standing guard. She pushes through more doors that open up to a sublevel room. It looks an awful lot like the lab he was expecting. Busy scientists in white overcoats move around the floor but they all turn to stare when they enter.

“Welcome, Mr. Rogers,” Dr. Erksine greets him as he and Agent Carter walk down the stairs onto the floor. A flash goes off, a photographer had hastily taken their picture but then the doctor shoos the man away. 

But Steve’s attention is drawn to the supposed machine he’ll be placed in. It looks like some sort of torture device, wires connect from the sides, and straps are hanging. 

“Are you ready?” Dr. Erskine asks, startling Steve’s attention away from the machine and he nods. “Good. Now take off your shirt, your tie, and your hat.”

Steve complies and once he’s done he's instructed to lie down on the machine. 

“Comfortable?” Dr. Erskine says and he moves to stand beside the machine Steve laid on. 

Steve shoots him a shaky smile. “It’s a little big.”

The doctor chuckles then he turns to face the newcomer. “Mr. Stark, how are your levels?” 

A familiar man walks in, and Steve remembers him from the Brooklyn Stark Expo Bucky dragged him to. “Levels are at one hundred percent but we may dim half the lights within a mile radius,” Stark says before he looks over at Steve’s small body in surprise. “But we are as ready as we’ll ever be.” He didn’t sound so sure.

Nurses begin to check the machinery and Steve shifts uncomfortably atop the cold metal table. From his spot, Steve finally notices the small room above the lab covered in windows and from there he can see at least ten men standing, watching him. One of which is Colonel Phillips. 

Just breathe, he reminds himself, in and out. Just like how Bucky taught him.

“Focus Stevie, you’re alright. Find something to focus on. Deep breaths, in and out…”

Suddenly, Dr. Erskine is tapping on a microphone, gathering the attention of everyone above. “Can you hear me, is this on?” He pauses for a minute, then speaks, “Ladies and gentlemen, today we take not just another step towards annihilation but the first step on the path to peace.”

Steve startles slightly when the nurses bring down heavy metal plates that fit right over his pecs, tubes were hooked to the top of them; the coldness nearly makes him flinch but he stares at the ceiling in concentration, distracting himself with the doctor's speech.

“We begin with a series of microinjections into the subject’s major muscle groups. The serum infusion will cause immediate cellular change.”

Steve breathes, though he has little to no idea what the doctor means. They’re growing his muscles with injections? He could do that.

“–and then to stimulate growth, the subject will be saturated with Vita-Rays.”

The nurses around him place vials of blue liquids into tubes by the straps, he sees them out of the corner of his eye but has to look away when his breath skips a beat. The part the doctor explained made Steve’s head spin. He looks over as Dr. Erskine approaches him again, then he grinds his teeth to stifle the surprised groan in pain when the nurse injects his arm with a needle.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Steve mutters distractedly, eyes squeezed shut. 

He doesn’t need to see the doctor to know that the worst was yet to come. “That was penicillin,” the doctor says. Then he addresses the room. “Serum infusion beginning in five…four…three…”

The doctor touches his shoulder in comfort, or to keep his body from moving, Steve couldn’t tell.

“...two…one…”

Steve scrunches his face up in pain. Breathe, breathe. 

God, but it hurt like hell. Like fire was spreading through his blood as it began. 

“Now, Mr. Stark.”

The metal table he’s on begins to move up and he pries his eyes open, ignoring the pain. The metal doors connected to the table begin to close once he’s lying upright and vertical, Steve forces himself not to panic when the doors shut, sealing him in the little chamber. 

Oh god. What was he doing, he shouldn’t have done this, he–

“Mr. Rogers?” Someone taps the metal frame. “Can you hear me?” The doctor asks. 

Steve’s too short to see out of the small window at the top of the machine but he can hear the doctor well enough. “It’s probably too late to go to the bathroom, right?” Steve jokes, and exhales. 

He hears the doctor mutter something else but the thick metal contraption blocks out most of his words. Suddenly, the chamber around Steve goes bright, faster than he could prepare, and soon it felt like he was staring directly into the sun but worse - way worse.

He screws his eyes shut but the light seeps through. 

Oh god.

Then the pain is back. His skin and eyes felt like they were on fire, the strange liquid inside him seemed to react to the light and soon it felt like his whole insides were set ablaze, burning him from every direction. His skin felt like it was splitting apart, ripping, stretching beyond normal, and reshaping itself. 

He screams.

The doctor told him it would take less than a minute but to Steve, it feels like an eternity.

He bit his lip to muffle the yells but it felt like he walked through fire, dumped gasoline all over himself, and set it aflame. It fucking burned.

But as he breathed through the pain, the light began to subside, and the burning of his skin and insides slowly ebbed away enough that he sucked in a large, shaky lungful of air. 

It was over.

Steve didn’t pry his eyes apart till he felt the capsule open, the cool air hit his skin and he gasped, it was a drastic change from the scorching temperature around him.

“Mr. Rogers?”

He finally opened his eyes. The doctor was in front of him, along with Stark and they reached for him, he pushed himself off the table with as much force as he could muster. Their cool skin touched his own and he hid a flinch, they held onto his sides as they guided him out of the machine. 

He hardly noticed how he was almost a foot taller than them both now.

Steve no longer felt the struggle to suck in his next breath, and as the pain finally subsided completely, he looked down. 

“Well, I’ll say it worked,” Stark said in surprise and then they released him. 

Steve barely, barely stopped his jaw from dropping. He…he had abs, no longer thin skin that sat on his boney ribs. He was tall. Oh. He held his arms out in front of him, staring at the glistening skin and the muscles. He looked like a normal person, but the energy inside him made him feel like more.

“You are far from normal now, Mr. Rogers,” the doctor said and looked him up and down from head to toe in awe. There was clapping from above, but Steve couldn’t look away from his own body. His new body.

Footsteps rang and the people from above came wandering down. The first to reach him was Agent Carter. Steve looked up at her, the wonder showing on both their faces. 

“How do you feel?” She asks, meeting his eye, but Steve feels speechless. 

Holy shit.

“Taller,” he finally gets out. He still felt some lingering effects from the experiment, his throat was dry and hoarse from screaming.

“Well, you look…you look taller,” she agrees, hands moving frantically, one just barely touching his chest but it pulls away and then she’s handing him a shirt. 

Steve tries to get more words out. “I–”

Glass shatters suddenly, and the noise echoes before fire spreads above them from the observation room. Steve jumps in surprise and covers Agent Carters as fragments of broken glass fall over them, people yelp in surprise, and duck down. Steve looks up in time to see a man grabbing one of the leftover blue vials of the super soldier serum across the room.

“Stop him!” Dr. Erskine shouts, but the man pulls out a gun, and before Steve could move to cover the doctor, the gun fires.

“No!” Steve yells and lets go of Agent Carter but barely catches Dr. Erskine before the man’s lifeless body hits the ground. 

More shots ring out as people try to shoot the fleeing man but Steve's hands roam over the doctor's body, useless and shaking. 

Even as the light fades from the doctor's eyes the wounded man somehow manages to lift his hand and he’s pressing weakly against Steve’s chest just over his heart with his finger.

He gets what the man is too weak to say.

“You are not a perfect soldier, Mr. Rogers, but a good man.”

The doctor's hand falls and blood seeps through his white lab coat, the man exhales slowly, faintly, and his eyes slide shut.

Overwhelming emotions course through Steve then, a rage he’s never quite felt takes him over and he propels his new body forward. 

Running faster without breaking a sweat for the first time in his life.

‘If only Bucky could see me now.’

^

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, for letting the man get away, but that part goes unsaid.

He pushed his new body, ran faster than he ever had–faster than any human, and even broke a window of a building but he hadn’t been able to stop the German spy from taking the serum.

Agent Carter looks up from the file. 

“I’m sorry this is all you have now,” Steve explains. 

“Don’t fret, soldier,” she says. “There’s nothing to do about it now.”

Steve just nodded and followed her to the other room where Colonel Phillips and the senator were.

“This was a spy from Hydra. The Nazi deep-science division,” Agent Carter announces. “It’s led by Johann Schmidt  and we have reason to believe he has much bigger ambitions.”

“Hydra is practically a cult,” Phillips says to the senator. “They worship Schmidt, they think he’s invincible.”

“So what are you gonna do about it?” The senator asks and Colonel Phillps turns to walk toward them.

“I spoke to the president this morning, as of today the SSR is being retasked.”

“Colonel.” There’s a question in Agent Carter's tone.

The Colonel nods. “We are taking the fight to Hydra. Pack your bags, Agent Carter. You too, Stark. We’re flying to London tonight.”

Steve’s head whips between them. “Sir,” he begins. “If you’re going after Schmidt, I want in.”

That makes the Colonel scoff. “You’re an experiment, Rogers, you’re going to Alamogordo.”

Steve tries to keep himself collected. “But, sir, the serum worked–”

“I asked for an army and all I got was you,” the Colonel declared. “You are not enough.”

Just like before, just like now.

The colonel walks away. Steve steels the disappointment on his face as the senator walks over. “With all due respect for the colonel,” the man says. “I’ve seen you in action. More importantly, the country’s seen it.” He gestures to the man behind him. “Paper.”

That same man brings over the newspaper with Steve’s face on it. The headlines claim he’s a hero for saving that child even if he didn’t catch the target as everyone here wanted. 

“You don’t take a soldier, a symbol like that, and hide him in a lab.” The senator wraps his arm around Steve’s shoulder. “Son, do you want to serve your country on the most important battlefield of the war?”

Steve replies, “Sir, that’s all I want.” It’s all he’s ever wanted to do. 

The senator shakes his hand. “Then, congratulations, Mr. Rogers, you’ve just got promoted.”

^

There was never a time in Steve’s life, not one single moment, where he ever imagined himself going up on stage to talk in front of hundreds of people across the country. 

He never imagined himself being a staple for the war effort, but he also never imagined himself dressing up in red and blue spandex and tights. 

Bucky would have a field day with this if he knew and Steve can’t help but cringe at himself every time he looks in a mirror from the big A on his hood to the star on his chest. 

Sure, he was happy to help, but he never thought it would come to this. This is nothing like what he’d imagined when he signed up to help his country, but it was either this or being stuck in a lab doing absolutely jack-shit. At least he was out there encouraging people to join.

That was something…right?

Well, the answer to that became less and less clear as he went from town to town, city to city, walking on stage with beautiful dames pretending to be something he was not. Reading scripts pinned to the back of his ‘shield.’ Doing that just didn’t sit right with him.

One day before the next show at one of the army camps, Steve sat under one of the tents listening to the pitter-patter of rain as it bounced off the roof. 

He had his sketchbook with him, the only thing he brought from home, and inside he sketched a picture of himself in the costume–only he was a monkey instead of a man, ‘cause now he sure as hell felt like one. 

Dressed up and thrown out there for people's entertainment. 

He remembered hating the rain, the way it brought with it immense cold, even for the summer and it brought him terrible shivers and sniffles if a window was left open too long. Bucky used to cover Steve with his jacket as they rushed home after work during the rainy weeks. 

The thought of what he used to be quickly turned into thoughts of Bucky. Every night he lay awake thinking about his friend. He hoped and prayed to whatever was up there that Bucky was still alive, still safe, because one way or another, even if he had to do a hundred more shows, Steve was going to find his way back to Bucky. That he was certain about.

“Hello, Steve.”

He turned to face the familiar voice, only to find Agent Carters standing there. He sat up straighter and managed out a small, “Hi,” as he stared at her in surprise. 

“Hi,” she greeted and moved to sit down on the stage steps in front of him. 

“What are you doing here?”

“Officially I’m not here at all,” she said as she placed her coat over her lap to keep warm. “That was quite a performance, earlier.”

Steve cringed. “Yeah. I had to improvise a little bit. The crowds I’m used to are usually a little more, uh, twelve.”

“I understand you’re “America’s New Hope” then.”

Steve sighs and looks away. “Bond sales take a ten percent bump in every state I visit.”

“Is that Senator Brandt I hear?”

“At least he’s got me doing this,” he defends. Doing something. “Phillips would have had me stuck in a lab.”

“Are those your only two options?” She asks, genuinely curious. “A lab rat or a performing monkey?” Steve looks up at her and she gives him an understanding nod when their eyes meet. “You’re meant for more than this, you know,” she says.

He was about to answer when the loud honking of a car made him look over past the stage. A vehicle carrying the sick and injured pulled up and soldiers rushed to grab the people inside. Two bodies were carried out on stretchers.

“They look like they’ve been through hell,” he found himself saying. He sympathized.

“These men more than most,” she said and looked back at him, more serious now. “Schmidt sent out a force to Azzano. Two hundred men went up against him and less than fifty returned. Your audience contained what was left of the 107th.”

Steve’s eyes widen in surprise and his head snaps to her. He knew that regiment.

“—The rest were killed or captured.”

Steve feels himself stand, his sketchbook completely forgotten. “The 107th?” He asks, his tone concerned enough that Agent Carter gave him a surprised look.

“What?”

Steve feels his heart thud, and the panic in him rises.

That’s Bucky’s regiment, that’s Bucky, Bucky, Bucky–

It can’t be. It can’t.

He runs out from under the tent, “Come on!” He yells after Agent Carters and she follows after him hastily.

They race to the sick bay tent where the colonel and some of the troops were. “Colonel Phillips,” Steve addresses the man at the table once he stops. 

The older man sighs. “Well if it isn’t the Star-Spangled Man With A Plan. What is your plan today?”

Steve tries to stop the shake in his voice as he asks, “I need the casualty list from Azzano.”

The colonel shoots him a stern look. “You don’t get to give me orders, son.”

“I just need one name,” he practically pleads. “Sergeant James Barnes from the 107th.”

Please, please. 

Phillips ignores him and points to Agent Carter who hovers from behind. “You and I are gonna have a conversation later that you won’t enjoy.”

Steve tries to keep himself calm. He just needed to know, he just needed– “Please tell me if he’s alive, sir. B-A-R…”

“I can spell,” the colonel interrupts but his stern expression is gone and then he’s standing to grab the file box on the next desk behind him. “I have signed more of these condolence letters today than I would care to count.”

Steve’s heart is in his throat.

“But,” the colonel adds after a pause. He turns to look back at them. “The name does sound familiar.”

Oh god. Oh god. It can’t be…

“I’m sorry,” the colonel says. 

Steve can’t wipe the ghostly expression off his face, nor the feeling of disbelief but he can’t ignore the honesty in the colonel's eyes. He’s telling the truth.

Bucky is…Bucky’s…No. No, he can’t think like that. 

“What about the others?” Steve forces himself to speak over the pounding in his ears. “Are you planning a rescue mission?”

“Yes, it’s called ‘winning the war.’”

Steve looks up at the colonel. “But if you know where they are, why not at least–”

“They’re 30 miles behind enemy lines through some of the most heavily fortified territory in Europe,” Phillips said and pointed to the map on the board. “We’d lose more men than we’d save, but I don’t expect you to understand that because you’re a chorus girl.”

Steve pushes his shoulders back, ironing the rippling feeling in his chest, and he stares at the colonel. “I think I understand just fine.”

“Then understand it somewhere else,” the Colonel dismisses him and walks past his shoulder. “If I read the posters correctly, you got someplace to be in 30 minutes.”

Steve wasn’t paying much attention to what the colonel said, instead, he looked right at the map to where the colonel had pointed. Phillips may have given up on those men but Steve sure as hell wasn’t, he didn’t need the approval to do what was right.

And if risking his life to save Bucky…knowing his friend may or may not still be alive, was worth everything Steve had. 

“Yes, sir. I do,” Steve said offhandedly, not caring if the colonel could hear him and he fled out of the tent with one goal in mind.

He was going to save Bucky, he still had hope, and save whatever soldiers were still out there in need. 

He went back to the tent behind the stage. Grabbing his other clothes and shoving them in a small rucksack. 

“Steve,” and by the sound of the voice he knew Agent Carter had followed him but he didn’t look up from what he was doing. She no doubt caught up with his plan but he was still going to go through with it. “What do you plan to do, walk to Austria?” She questions, disbelief in her voice.

“If that’s what it takes, then yes.”

He had to.

“You heard the colonel, your friend is most likely dead.”

Steve shook his head vehemently. “You don’t know that.”

“Steve.”

“Agent Carters,” he pleads and finally looks up at her. “It’s Bucky and there are good men out there, our men. I have to do something.”

Bucky meant everything to him, he was all Steve had left, he couldn’t just abandon him or take people's word for granted. That wasn’t fair to anyone. And if…by some chance, Bucky wasn’t alive then Steve could at least bring those soldiers home. Someone had to.

She didn’t immediately shut him down, instead, she said, “Well if you’re so intent on doing this then you’re going to need some help.”

^

“You’re one crazy bastard,” Stark said, addressing him from the front of the plane as he flew them into the darkness of enemy territory. “But I like where your head's at, Captain.”

“Thanks,” Steve says. “I appreciate the help.”

Agent Carter walked him through the terrain of the land during the plane ride and gave him a transponder to signal his location when he got in. 

“Remember, Steve–”

But before she could finish, flashes and the unmistakable sound of war machines amping up began shooting at them. They all jumped in surprise.

“Shit,” Stark curses and the plane swerves to avoid direct contact from the guns. “We’re definitely in the right place!”

Steve’s quick to move. He jumps out of his seat, fastens the parachute straps, and heads towards the exit, opening the door. 

The sound of the canons got louder, making his heart lurch in fear. The wind blows angrily as he stares out into the darkness below, orange and red shots are all that is between him and the ground.

“Steve, get back here!” Agent Carter demands and grabs his arm. “We’re taking you all the way in.”

He crouches by the door and shoots her a look. “We won’t make it all the way in. As soon as I’m out you guys turn this thing around and get the hell outta here.”

“Whatever you’re gonna do, do it now!” Stark yells in a warning. The plane lurches to the left violently.

Agent Carter shakes her head, and for the first time he’s seen, fear crosses her features. “Steve–”

He sends her a smile, and one last glance, before he jumps. 

^

Steve quietly slipped behind the abandoned car as he neared the door of the building. It was without a doubt a Hydra facility and he was surprisingly creeping around unnoticed. The place seemed empty, sure it made his mission easier but something felt off. 

It was too quiet.

Steve decided to kick the door down once he was close enough. The sound echoed as it fell in and landed harshly on the ground. If Hydra didn’t know he was here, they did now. He raised his gun and surveyed both hallways on either side of the door, checking for any unsurprising guests; he followed the long hallway for as far as it seemed to go, quietly moving against the walls - checking his six.

Steve wondered if the place had been abandoned, something in his chest ached at the thought so he pressed forward, determined to find some kind of life. Bucky had to be here. 

He ignored the wave of hopelessness that threatened to overwhelm him - Bucky needed to be here. Steve didn’t know what he’d do…he couldn’t imagine.

Eventually, walking through enough halls Steve was brought to a room with what appeared to be holding cells. He slowly crept into the room littered with small round cages whose bars went a good few feet high but worst of all there were people still in them. 

Steve rushed towards the bars, waking some of the sleeping bodies huddled on the ground.

Blank, hollow eyes stared back at him. These men were covered in grime and looked worse for wear, some didn’t bother to move as he neared and some it was clear were already dead.

Steve clung to the bars in desperation but was interrupted by a voice; a gravelly unused voice of a man.

“You American?”

The voice was so quiet and dead, it took Steve a minute to understand what the man was trying to say but he understood the tone enough: Are you one of them? 

Steve looked down to where he heard the voice; a man sat against the bars, an older man, covered in blood, but the U.S Army uniform on his body was unmistakable.

The man's thin, boney finger poked out from behind the bars and he pointed at something, Steve followed the finger that traced back to the red, white, and blue stripes of his costume not covered by his overcoat.

Steve didn’t bother to keep his voice down, he disturbed the eerie silence. “Yeah, yeah I’m American. I’m from Brooklyn. They sent me here to rescue you, I’m here to help.”

That seemed to stir the haze right from the man's eyes and the surrounding men. There was movement then, Steve looked down the line of cells and noticed the other men in the cells staring, some standing to their feet in surprise - and that gave Steve hope, the courage he needed.

“I’m getting you all out of here,” Steve promised and backed up enough before delivering a swift kick to the metal door. The hinges of it snapped and Steve ripped it from the frame, the metal creaked loudly as it bent and he flung the door to the ground.

The men in the cells got to their feet, helping the hurt up off the ground. The man who spoke earlier stared at Steve and he couldn’t tell if the man was scared or shocked but it wasn’t long before the man muttered, “Who are you?”

Steve held out his hand and guided the man out of the cell. “Captain America,” he said and it didn’t sound so strange on his tongue now. He was more than a show act. Steve patted the man on the arm before making his way down the line of cells, one by one.

Others followed, and soon Steve had broken door after door, kick after kick was made, and he had a large group of soldiers already freed from Hydra.

But as he checked every cell, forced himself to identify each and everybody that didn’t get up, someone was still missing. Bucky. Where was Bucky?

The men began to chatter, some hadn’t stopped staring, but Steve felt that same desperation seize his bones. He stood in front of the men and they stood in front of him, waiting.

He needed to know. He had to. “Has anyone seen a man by the name of James Bucky Barnes? Sergeant of the 107th?” Steve asked.

Men turned to each other, murmured to themselves and Steve felt fear beat to the sound of his heart until a group of a few men stepped forward.

“I know James Barnes,” one man with a burly mustache said. “We’re what’s left of the 107th infantry. They…Hydra took Barnes almost five days ago.”

Took. Hydra took Bucky. “Where?” Steve pleaded.

The frontman shook his head. “There was a doctor, a small little bastard. He kept saying something about experiments, something that required a shit ton of test subjects and most of those men never returned, just their bodies were dragged back.”

Steve felt his heart fall to his feet. No, no, no. Not Bucky–

“They took Sergeant James for the…experiment. I don’t…I don’t know if he’s still alive.”

Steve forced himself to breathe, to not panic, these men needed him to be strong. 

Steve surveyed the remaining soldiers before him and he knew they needed to act. He needed to get these men to safety, it’s what he came here for after all and he’d be damned if he couldn’t save them or left here without being a hundred percent certain Bucky was…gone.

“Alright, listen up. I’m going to sweep the building one more time. Stay sharp, and watch each other's sixes. Get out and get as far away from this place as you can,” Steve told them before taking off up the stairs down the long halls.

He needed to be sure. He needed to be sure that Bucky wasn’t here or alive somewhere waiting. He owed that to his friend.

Steve jogged down the hall, peering into abandoned room after room. It was quiet, completely and utterly empty it seemed - like Hydra just ran and left everyone else here to die. He slowed to a halt when he came to a room with papers and maps taped to the wall and strewn across the floor - he stepped forward until footsteps alerted him of another presence.

Steve raised his gun and turned to see a smaller man with glasses, clutching a briefcase to his chest, exiting the room just down the hall. The man turned and spotted Steve before breaking into a run in the opposite direction.

“Hey!” Steve yelled after him, lowering his gun, and rushed forward to chase after him, sparing a small glance to the room the man left but stopped dead in his tracks when he saw…was that…

Steve ignored the fleeing man, even though his mind screamed he should run after him, he couldn’t just ignore this. He noticed a body laying on a metal table in the middle of the tiled room. He felt his feet carry him across the floor and over to the table, and that’s when he heard the person muttering something.

He finally got closer to see their face.

Is that…

Steve’s eyes widened when he rounded the edge of the table, the man on the table was Bucky. It was Bucky. Oh god, it was Bucky.

“32…557…42…1.”

“Bucky,” Steve gasped and grabbed hold of Bucky’s arm. His friend was reciting his serial number, what all captured army men were supposed to do if…Oh god. Steve ran his hands over his friend's frigid body. Bucky was freezing, he was pale and sickly looking but he was breathing and talking. Fuck, he was alive.

“3…255...7…421…”

“Bucky, Buck come on.” Steve gently tapped his friend's cheek, trying not to let his excitement get away from him. Bucky looked…wrong.

His eyes were unfocused and hazy, he looked half dead but he was still talking, still holding strong. That man that had fled had done something to Bucky.

Steve pushed down his rage and cupped his friend's cold, pale cheeks. Trying to get his attention.

Steve’s internal clock was ticking and he knew he had already been in the building too long but he found Bucky! He couldn’t just leave him, so he redoubled his efforts.

“Come on, Buck. Come back to me, it’s Steve. I’m here.”

Eventually, Bucky stopped muttering his number and his fogged gray eyes slid to Steve’s own desperate ones.

Come on, Buck.

“S-Steve,” Bucky muttered before he smiled. “Steve.”

And Steve could hardly stop himself from smiling back. “Yeah, Buck. It’s me, it’s Steve.” He undid the straps keeping Bucky’s body pinned, trying not to curse out loud in outrage, and grabbed his friend by the shoulders before heaving him off the table.

Bucky swayed and clung to Steve’s arms but when Bucky looked up his eyes were clearer and they widened as he undoubtedly took in Steve’s new appearance. 

Steve hadn't thought about how Bucky would react, right now he kept running his hands over Bucky’s arms trying to bring some warmth back to them.

“I thought you were dead,” Steve found himself saying, but he didn’t really, something deep within him still had hope that Bucky was alive, and he was damn glad to be right. 

Bucky swallowed, his eyes traveled along Steve’s body and back up before he whispered, “I thought you were smaller.”

Steve finally looked up at his friend, looked at those familiar eyes he was finally able to see, and gave a small chuckle. “Yeah, pal. A lot’s changed.” Steve curled his arm protectively around Bucky’s thinner-than-normal waist and threw Bucky’s arm over his shoulder to help lift him. “Come on, Buck. We gotta get you outta here.”

Steve helped a stumbling Bucky into the hall, casting glances at his friend every so often just to make sure he was there. He was actually here.

It seemed that Bucky was having a hard time getting his feet to move in time with Steve’s and he shook from the cold or pain as they traveled down the hall. He was glad Bucky was alive but it was clear something was wrong.

Then he remembered the man from downstairs say something about experiments.

“Is it permanent?” 

Steve looked over at his friend again when he heard him speak. Bucky was gazing curiously back at him. God, it was good to hear Bucky’s voice, Steve nearly drove himself mad most nights trying to remember what it sounded like.

Steve didn’t realize he hadn’t answered, too busy staring at Bucky’s face which was slowly regaining color, but then he finally noticed the confused expression Bucky was giving him.

“What?”

“You.” Bucky nodded to his body. “Is it permanent?”

“So far.”

“Did it hurt?”

“A little.” A fucking lot.

He heard Bucky huff or maybe it was a sigh but Steve just gripped his waist a little tighter. “Thank you,” Bucky muttered after a beat and Steve glanced over again, only this time, Bucky was smiling. It was weak and strained but it was a smile nonetheless.

Steve grinned. “You don’t have to thank me, Buck. Should’ve known I was gonna come after your sorry ass.”

Bucky’s laugh was quiet and weak but Steve’s heart clenched at hearing it.

Now he just needed to get Bucky out of there and meet up again with the other men, but Steve should have known that it wasn’t going to be a walk in the park.

He turned the next corner only to find Hydra waiting for them.

Schmidt, the leader of Hydra, stood across the platform from them and he was grinning.

*

Escaping the Hydra facility after Shmidt set it aflame with self-detonating bombs was definitely a treat. They had broken out of the Hydra facility, Steve had saved them and now they marched themselves all the way back to camp, following Captain America’s lead. 

Steve, Bucky’s Steve, was Captain America. He was…different than he remembered.

But Bucky wasn’t touching that within a ten-foot pole just yet, not when his brain felt like it has been run through a blender. He couldn’t stop the small bubble of excitement knowing Steve was here. He was finally seeing Steve after almost a year. 

Bucky forced his feet to move, step after step, foot after foot, to keep himself from collapsing. 

He didn’t remember much while being Zola’s little guinea pig but the most noticeable difference was the fact that a deep, crushing, breathtaking cold seeped through his bones, even as they walked miles in the sun - the feeling only got worse.

He felt so cold.

His head felt heavy, it lolled against his shoulders, a sense of wrongness tugged at his gut but he didn’t know what to do to make it go away. 

Bucky cast another glance over to his right, over to his friend Steve. Bucky could tell him but as the miles stretched on and the speed in Steve’s steps increased, he couldn’t find it in himself to say anything. 

Steve didn’t need to hear about it, he had more important things to take care of. 

The camp neared around evening and the scouts and soldiers rushed over as they saw their mass near from down the road.

Bucky tried not to let the wariness drag him down and he plastered a smile to his face when he met Steve’s eyes as the people from camp swarmed them in surprise and awe. 

Bucky felt emotion well in him and raised his tired, shaky voice louder than he’s spoken in days, “Let’s hear it for Captain America!” He yelled and there were hoops and hollers, hugs, but Bucky’s eyes never left Steve.

People shook his friend's hand, congratulated him, and praised his heroics. Bucky felt pride nearly threatening to overtake him, that’s my Stevie, he thought proudly. Finally, the size of Steve’s body matched the strength and determination in his heart; finally, everyone else saw it too.

Bucky had a million questions but more importantly, he knew that he’d never be able to repay Steve for breaking him and his men out of that hellhole. The cheers eventually quieted down, men scattered, some were dragged to the first aid tent, and Steve was busy talking with the Colonel. Bucky found himself trudging back to where he remembered his tent being last.

He brushed by people, hardly aware of their presence, all he could feel was the growing numbness inside him, the pressing need to lay down but he didn’t imagine he’d ever be able to get back up again. 

Something was wrong, his mind screamed but Bucky didn’t care, he just wanted to sleep for weeks.

He set his gun down at the foot of his cot and lowered his battered body down onto it, bruises littered his forearms under his shirt and Bucky was sure that while he was asleep the bad doctor had poked him full of holes with needles but he still didn’t feel like telling anyone.

It didn’t matter anymore, he was free. 

Bucky fell against the hard, firm mattress with a groan. He laid his head on the makeshift pillow and allowed himself to doze.

But then his mind begins to plague him with memories of that hell he endured not too long ago.

***

Bucky coughed harshly into his hand, then he sighs heavily and that triggers another coughing fit. Leaning his head back against the bars of his shared cell, he groans. Having pneumonia is bad enough when it's at home in Brooklyn, let alone while he's a POW in a Nazi work factory. 

Constantly coughing, never getting enough air, and always feeling like he's going to keel over, with, of course, getting bruised ribs from the inhuman overseer, it's the cherry on top of the ice cream.

“How ya doing, Jimmy?" Dugan says at his elbow.

Bucky levels a glare at him. “Quit callin' me Jimmy, you sleaze. For the hundredth time, my name is Bucky."

“Why would you want to go by Bucky if your name is James?” James Montgomery Falsworth asks, curled into himself for warmth.

Bucky lets a chuckle escape his lips, careful to not alert the guards. They seem to have something against their prisoners being happy. “'Cause James is a name for a stiff, not a ladies' man like me,” he joked weakly. All he wanted to do was kneel over and sleep.

He guesses the men he’s trapped with noticed him fading in and out and are trying to keep him awake. It’s slightly touching. 

Falsworth raises an eyebrow. “American women would prefer a man named after an animal than one named after a king?”

“We're Americans. We've got a bit of a problem with kings,” Jones tells him, causing some quiet chuckling from the three Americans.

“Besides, Monty,” Bucky says. “I think I'm a dear.” Then everyone starts laughing as quietly as they can, even Frenchie. His English must be better than Bucky thought. “Dames love danger, and Bucky's better for that than James.”

“Let me guess: you woke up one day during puberty and tried to get a girl by playing tough?”

“Not quite.” Really, he just couldn’t pronounce his name, James, at age three, so James became Buck and Buck became Bucky. It was a better name than James in any case. 

“Then tell me again why you don't go by James or Jim or something of the like?”

“‘Cause it’s just Bucky for Christ's sake. And it lets people know not to mess with us.”

“Us?”

Bucky glances at him, realizes his slip, and chuckles tiredly. “My best friend, Steve. He's always gettin’ into fights he can't win. I usually end up finishing 'em for him.” Homesickness clogs up his throat, keeping him from explaining more.

God, did he miss Steve. More and more each day.

“Is he a soldier?” Jones asks. Bucky shakes his head.

“Wants to be. He's got asthma.” Plus a list of health problems and yearly illnesses as long as Bucky's arm, but he wouldn't go into that.

“Why would he want to be a soldier?” Dugan asks offhandedly.

“Don't get me started, Dum Dum,” Bucky sighs. Really just don't. Steve's complex with fighting went over Bucky's head and he's known the punk since he was seven.

“Well, is he the type of guy that−”

“Silence, dogs!” The group of POWs' attention snaps to where the guard had yelled. “Stand up now! All of you!”

The group, and all the others, slowly stand up, Bucky using the bars of the cell for support. He leans against it, focusing on the figures of the two guards walking from cell to cell. No, not guards, a tall man in a black, full-length trench coat and a small, portly man with glasses. 

Sadly, he recognizes them from previous visits. He swallows and turns to his cellmates. “I don't think the private made it.”

The rest of them swallow nervously too. Dernier begins to fiddle with a fold in his shirt.

“At least he made it longer than the others,” Jim offers. “Maybe he's letting up.”

“Sorry to burst your bubble, Jimbo, but living three weeks instead of two ain't my idea of comfort,” Sam interjects.

“Quiet, they are coming,” Dernier says, speaking English for a rare moment.

They fall silent as the two Nazis draw closer. The taller one is speaking. “…insist on continuing this project?”

“It would be an advantage over the Allies, sir. We would have an ultimate weapon,” the fat one replies, glancing in at the men in the cells.

“And what are you searching for, Doctor?” The first one asks as they approach Bucky's cell. “Choose one for your experiments and be done with it.”

The ‘doctor’ sighs. “Erskine stated quite clearly the need for the right type of psyche for the subject. I can only use what resources we have.”

“You will find no strong men here.” The taller one gestures at them. Bucky's knuckles whiten. “They do not submit.”

“I do not need the strongest man, I need…” The doctor one trails off, noticing Bucky's murderous look. “Человек, который не боится получить кровь на его руках. Guards!” They appear on his shoulder. “Take that one,” he says, pointing at Bucky. “Bring him to my laboratory.”

“No!” He heard Dum Dum shout.

“He has pneumonia, for heaven's sake!” Sam yells.

The others protest but the guards aren’t listening as they begin to unlock the cell door. Bucky feels his heart nearly beat out of his chest.

“Vous n—”

“Don't, he'll die!”

The guards shove the others aside and grab Bucky. They drag him out of the cell and in front of the doctor. “Your name, rank, and serial number,” he says simply, looking over Bucky with interest.

Bucky grits his teeth, experimentally twisting his arms in the guard's grip. “James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557421.”

The doctor's kind smile doesn't match the sick satisfaction in his eyes. “Try to remember that.”

Name. Rank. Number.

James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557421. Bucky exhales heavily, but carefully, and repeats it in his mind. James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557421. He breathes again. James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557421. Breathe. James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557421. Breathe. James Barnes. Serg− 

The pattern he had started is interrupted by a coughing fit that Steve would find impressive.

The doctor walks in at the tail end of it. “And how are you feeling, Sergeant?” Bucky glares at him. “Now, now, that's not how you treat your superiors in America, is it, Sergeant?”

This time Bucky scoffs. This guy is a psycho. “You will treat me with respect,” the doctor commands but Bucky gives a small eye roll. The doctor grabs his face and forces him to look at him. “Do you know who I am? I am Doctor Armin Zola, head scientist of Hydra and the greatest mind in the world. And you, Sergeant Barnes, are going to be the new fist of Hydra. Наш самый большой актив.”

Bucky spits in his face. Zola flinches, but returns his gaze to Bucky's face, reaching for something in Bucky's blind spot. A syringe. “We will see if your usefulness lasts, Sergeant.” 

A needle goes into his neck, it burns and Bucky feels his limbs turn to mush before his mind goes blank.

^

Name. Rank. Number.

James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557241. Named for the fifteenth president. Part of the 107th Infantry of the U.S. Army. Given a number like the thousands of other men the government sent out on the battlefield. Captured by Hydra instead of everyday Nazis and is currently being used as a human experiment by a nut job doctor.

Better live as a dog than die a lion has become Bucky's philosophy. He thinks he read it somewhere. Steve would hate it, but, honestly, he doesn't care how mad it would make the punk so long as he would make it back to him in Brooklyn.

“Now that you have successfully recovered from your pneumonia, Sergeant, we are going to start the true experiment,” Zola says to him, walking briskly into the room with a sheaf of papers in his hands. He stops by Bucky's bedside and smirks at the prostrate man. “I trust you won't disturb the other prisoners with pointless screams.”

Bucky's chest tightens. This nut job. He'll kill him. His emotions must show on his face because Zola clucks disapprovingly.

“Sergeant, as a soldier, you must understand that your life has been on the line since you enlisted, yes? The American government cannot hope to win, yet they insist on sending their fathers and sons out to die. So pointless.” He gives a fake sigh of pity and smirks again. “But, without their foolish lust for glory, we would not be here, would we? So, America's government has done something sensible for once, да?”

Blood pounds in Bucky's ears. “Screw you,” he snarls, and Zola's eyes harden.

“I take it your supposed military leaders never trained you to speak to your superiors with respect.”

This is too easy, he's setting himself up. Bucky smirks at him. “Superiors? Don't worry, they did.”

“As I was saying," Zola continues, trying to gather his dignity. “You are finally healthy enough to be put to good use, and we will be able to truly start.” Bucky's stomach turns to lead as Zola walks to a table beside him and fills a syringe with a thick, syrupy fluid.

“Do not move,” he orders, pushing the tip against Bucky's neck. It breaks skin, and the liquid gets pushed slowly into his blood.

Liquid ice seems to spread through his veins, freezing him in place. It goes into his lungs and his heart, frosting everything it touches. He swears the air streams as it touches his body. His eyes lock, frozen by the ice. Somehow, his lungs keep working despite the chill. He whimpers. “Stop…”

He can hear the smile in Zola’s voice. “It cannot be stopped, Sergeant, the procedure has already begun.”

^

Name. Rank. Number.

James Barnes. Sergeant. 3255721.

Bucky Barnes. Steve Rogers' best friend. Forever Steve and Bucky, resident punk and jerk. The stubborn little guy who never ran away and the tough guy who finished his fights.

His neck and arms hurt. Why? And why doesn't he know? What does he know? His name is Bucky Barnes. He's a sergeant in the U.S. Army, serial code 32557421.

His best friend was a ninety-pound asthmatic punk that never knew when to run. His favorite food was…Steve would always be on his side for… it doesn't matter. But where is he? Brooklyn? He's from Brooklyn.

“Soldier.” 

Zola. He will punish him if Bucky doesn't respond. But he needs to know where he is. 

“Soldier.” 

Why doesn't he know where he is? And is Steve here too? Is he alright? 

“Soldier!” He always said to Steve that he'd be with him 'til the end of the line. Bucky needs to get to him, protect him, and keep him safe from bullies and Hydra alike. “Soldat!” A hand slaps his face, hard. His eyes open and find Zola immediately.

Bucky glares defiantly at Zola. The doctor's expression twists with displeasure, then changes to completely calm. “You must learn to respond quickly to your superiors, Soldier. Guards!” he calls behind him. Heavy boots approach the table. “Удар эту собаку.”

He doesn't know which one starts, but he can feel the sharp blows to his stomach and ribs, the pain soon encompasses him as he loses consciousness.

^

Name. Rank. Number.

James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557421. It feels wrong though. James Barnes. James. No. James…Jim…Jimmy…Jimbo…James Buchanan…Buck-tooth…Bucky…Bucky. His name is Bucky. Bucky Barnes, apart from his middle name and part from the overbite he'd grown out of.

Only his…only Steve could get away with Buck. Skinny, stubborn, constantly sick with a list of problems as long as Bucky's arm…Steve…the little guy…who would never run away.

Steve is his best friend. 

His best friend. Right? 

He missed Steve, so much that the thought of him being gone, back in America, made it hard to breathe.

“Soldier,” he hears, and he knows the voice is Doctor Zola's. He opens his eyes and looks up at him. “Thinking of old memories? Of your home?” The doctor's voice is sympathetic, kind. Bucky doesn't trust it, but he nods. “A lover you left behind? A friend? Family?” He nods again. “You know, they have abandoned you. But we will stay. You are now Hydra's soldier. Гидра никогда не откажутся от вас.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Come back,” he remembers Steve pleading.

Steve didn't abandon him. Bucky left him safe in Brooklyn where the biggest danger was meathead delinquents that would be drafted in the next month anyway.

“You do not think so?” Zola asks and Bucky shakes his head again. “You must believe your superiors, soldier.”

“Didn't abandon me,” Bucky’s weak voice protests. It's defiance, and he'll probably get hit again, but he knows Steve didn't and would never abandon him.

Zola sighs again, he's always sighing and starts filling the syringe. Bucky tries to move away from it, making a fair bit of noise, but Zola just ignores him and pumps the syringe full of a green liquid. He punches the needle into his neck again, but instead of filling with ice, his brain seems to slow down. 

Things fade like they do before he falls asleep, but he stays awake and things start to fade more, the thought of Steve safe in Brooklyn flying away, quickly followed by other things: Corporal Harrison praising his aim in training, Steve throwing up at Coney Island, Steve…Steve? Steve…never ran…danced…

^

Name. Rank. Number.

James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557241. Bucky. That's his name. Bucky Barnes. A soldier. No, a fighter. He fights in alleys. Bucky fights bullies. Он борется за Гидры.

No, he doesn't fight for them, he fights for…his best friend…his Steve…the little guy…he never ran away…

“Soldier,” Doctor Zola says. “Do you know what day this is?” He doesn't. “This day marks that you have survived the procedures longer than any other. How exciting, no?” How long? It's all blurred. “Your persistence is truly amazing. We are even considering taking you to Heimdall Base.”

“No…” He doesn't want to go to another base. Bucky wants to go home.

“You speak as if you have a choice, soldier.”

He has a choice. He's American. Americans chose their fates. 

“You are our prisoner. Это можно сделать как мы скажем, чтобы.”

“No,” he hears himself saying.

Zola sighs again. “Disappointing. But not unfixable.” He knows what will happen. He tries to pull away as the doctor fills the syringe with yellow liquid. “You must not move, soldier.” 

But he keeps struggling, twisting and pulling, but the needle buries its head in his neck and Doctor Zola's face fades.

^

Name. Rank. Number.

Bucky. No, James. James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557241. But, Bucky. He was Bucky. He is Bucky. He is a sergeant in the U.S. Army. He is from…New York? Yes, New York. Brooklyn. He is from Brooklyn. He is an American. Он солдат Гидры. Он подчиняется приказам. No, he is an American soldier. His superior is…was…

Orders. Повиноваться. Name. “James Barnes.” His throat feels dry and battered. Rank, he remembers. “Sergeant.” He swallows, but his throat stays dry. Number. “32…557…241.”

“Ah, soldier, awake already? Wonderful.” The doctor. Doctor Zola. He was the one with the needles and the instruments. He gave the orders. 

Он обработчик. No, he isn't. James Barnes…Bucky…he isn't Hydra's soldier. Who is he?

He is from Brooklyn. He is an American. He fights. He decides to tug on the straps he could feel on his chest, shifting his weight from side to side. It is too tight for him to break.

“Now, that will not work, will it, soldier?” Zola again. He is right. Обработчик всегда прав. No. Zola is not his handl− leader. He does not have a handler. He would fight the handler if he had one. He would fight…that little guy would fight too. They would fight together.

“Don't move,” someone instructs and he obeys. A hand on his forehead keeps him from moving his head. Then there is a needle in his neck, liquid cold being pushed into his artery. His mind starts to swim. The cold burns in his head. He yells. “Stop screaming, soldier.”

He stops.

“Good. Now, имя, звание и серийный номер.”

His head hurts, can he answer? What is it? The first part… “Ja…James.” The words start flowing better. “James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557241.”

He hears Zola sigh. The doctor is disappointed. He hears him speak to someone, not him, “Bring me another syringe!”

He feels wetness roll down his face.

Bucky has just enough mind to recognize that he’s crying.

^

Name. Rank. Number. Name. Rank. Number.

“James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557241…”

Name. Rank. Number. Stop screaming. Don't move. Orders. Повиноваться. Имя. Ранг. Серийный номер.

“James Barnes…Sergeant. 32557…”

“Bucky?” 

Bucky? 

His eyes widen in surprise. Someone had said his name. That was his name, wasn't it? Besides James Barnes, his name was Bucky. No one called him Bucky anymore. Even the people he was in the cage with. They either called him Barnes or Jimmy. He didn't like being called Jimmy. He preferred Bucky. 

Forcing his eyes to move, he looks up at the person that had called him by his name. 

"It's me. It's Steve," the person–Steve–said. A warm feeling started in his chest, triggering a wide grin. 

The name made him remember days laughing, finishing off fights, and seeing a movie, listening to the radio.

"Steve?" The person's face elicits more memories: Mrs. Rogers' apple pie, the best pie in the world, holding Steve while he was sick to share his warmth. The funeral, the tears. He remembers being the alleyway tough guy with a stubborn, little punk that always got into fights. 

He remembers being Bucky.

He remembers…dancing.

“Dance with me Steve,” he remembers saying and it felt like a lifetime ago. 

Soft music played, smooth, settled jazz and he remembers grinning down at the person in his arms. His hands wrapped delicately around the person's waist like they were the most precious thing in the world. And they were to him.

“Always, Bucky.”

And Bucky remembers that person in his arms being…

"Steve."

He smiles.

***

Bucky jolts awake when he feels something touching his shoulder.

Oh god, is all he can think as he tries to force his brain back to the present–he remembers what happened with Zola. Oh god. 

He’s back there, he’s strapped down, needles, pain, screams; his name is–

“Bucky! Wake up, you’re okay! It’s me, it’s Steve!”

Then he’s falling. He hits the ground with a thud and groans, hitting the floor agitates his bruised ribs.

“Jesus, Buck–“

Buck. He knew that nickname. It was Steve’s nickname for him. Steve was here. Steve. He was bigger, he saved him, and he wasn’t there anymore. Hands wrapped around Bucky’s arms and pulled him off the ground. Groggily he pries open his eyes, he was in his tent, and familiar blue orbs stared back at him with concern.  

“Steve?”

His friend smiles. “Yeah, it’s me, it’s Steve.” The smile falls as he rubs his hands over Bucky's arms, grounding him, Bucky winces. “God, Buck what did they do to you?”

Bucky blinks at his friend. 

“You’re hurt,” Steve notes as he looks him over. “I’ve been looking all over for you, we need to get to med–”

“No,” Bucky interrupts and pries himself from Steve’s grip, moving back to sit on his cot. No more doctors.

“Bucky–”

“Christ, pal, can’t a man get a few winks of shuteye,” Bucky jokes and tries to rub away the headache he feels. Steve clearly doesn’t take that as a sign to leave and let him deal with his shit alone, in fact, Steve plants himself on the cot right next to him. Bucky’s too scared to turn and look at him. 

“You were having a nightmare.”

Yeah. Yeah, he definitely was, a nightmare so bad that it was real. But then, Bucky feels a coarse yet warm finger trace the outline of his jaw. 

The touch is so tender, delicate, and familiar, a touch so achingly sweet and strange, it made him shiver. He knew he was touch-starved but couldn’t help but look up at Steve through his lashes. 

Steve looks so different, finally filling into his muscles and bone, yet at the same time he’s still the same Steve Bucky remembers - down to every last detail, though those details may be a bit exaggerated now - but those kind blue eyes still look right back at Bucky, the smile still the same, his voice.

Steve notices him staring and removes his hand from Bucky’s face. “Buck, everything alright?”

But Bucky heard the unspoken words, is it too much? Am I still your Steve? It’s me. 

Bucky wanted to say yes, say that nothing would ever change between them but that was a lie. Things had changed and suddenly Bucky felt an overwhelming rage run rampant through him. 

Christ, but at this moment he doesn’t think he’s ever been madder at Steve in his whole life.

Steve has made many damn punk fool decisions before, and Bucky’s tried to head off as many in the past, but there is no accounting for this Captain America horseshit. None.

Look, any fool with eyes will admit it’s a thrill to look at Steve now. He’s like a living, breathing Statue of Liberty, shining with inspirational vigor and light. And sure, Bucky’s glad that Steve’s free of his childhood maladies, that he has a big body to match his cockamamie ambitions.

But Bucky isn’t happy about it. 

Sure, Steve’s really strong and robust, but that means they’ll never stop throwing him at the front lines. Captain America isn’t invincible, and Steve will go down in a hail of bullets soon enough, like the rest of them.

He was safe back in Brooklyn and now Steve was just another guy out here waiting to throw their life down, not his Stevie. It couldn’t be. 

He was supposed to be safe.

Bucky knows their life will never be normal after this because he always follows wherever Steve’s headed. Everyone back home used to think it was the other way around—everyone but Steve, who knew differently. So really, Steve decided for them both.

Bucky understands that it’s selfish to be angry, to resent Steve the hero because now his best friend is actually here, with him, and it’s terrifying. He didn’t want this for Steve.

Yes, the man before him saved his life, but Steve risked everything for him. And that makes Bucky so furious he can hardly see straight. 

If he shuts his eyes he sees Steve jumping out of a plane into enemy territory on a suicidal mission to find him, Bucky seethes with unchecked rage.

But God had he missed Steve.

Bucky missed him so much it hurt, like an empty hole in his chest. But now he no longer misses the little Steve back in Brooklyn who liked to draw quietly by the window or listen to the radio, now he misses the man right in front of him. His Stevie. 

“I missed you,” Bucky whispers. Hot angry, tears roll down his cheeks without him noticing, and after days of bottling everything up, trying to be strong, Bucky breaks; he collapses forward into Steve’s strong waiting for arms and clings, desperate. 

Then he feels Steve’s shoulders shake and he pulls back a little in worry. Steve’s crying too and Bucky hardly ever sees him cry, especially after years of learning to hide that weakness from bullies. 

“Bucky,” Steve breathes. “I thought I’d never see you again, you went away, I knew you were here fighting and I tried, I had to—” 

In the seclusion of their tent, in the quiet remarkable silence and stillness, Bucky reaches his own hand forward to wipe the tears from Steve’s rosy cheeks.

“I know,” he whispers and leans forward so their foreheads are resting against each other.

Trapped in their own little moment, just for them, Bucky feels his anger ebb away. He could never stay mad at Steve and now he’d just have to accept that his friend was here, fighting alongside him now and Steve was Captain America.

Then Bucky laughs. It’s wet and rough with too much emotion. “I leave ya alone for a few months,” he teases, trying to hold back a sob. “Look at you. Christ.”

Steve had the body of every poster boy he’s ever laid eyes on.

That makes Steve laugh and press harder against him. Then when it quiets again, Steve’s staring at him, barely an inch apart and Bucky can see the worry dancing in his bright baby blues. “Are you…is this okay?” Steve asks warily.

Are we okay? 

“Well,” Bucky sighs and drops his gaze. “I’m not thrilled to have to see my best friend risk his life,” and Steve tries to protest but Bucky continues, “But…I am happy to see you, new muscles and all. You look good, Stevie.”

Steve’s gaze softens at the nickname. “Thanks, Buck. No more sickness either; nothin’.”

“Really?” Bucky asks in surprise and then Steve’s smiling, all soft and delicate just like Bucky remembers. “God, that’s great, Steve,” Bucky says and reaches up to cup his neck. 

He may not be happy about the danger Steve’s now putting himself in, but now his friend can handle it, can handle anything it seems, and if he’s cured of sickness - the goddamn sickness that’s plagued him his whole childhood and on, the sickness that tried to take Steve away from him, well then Bucky is fucking thrilled.

But now he has bigger things to worry about. Bucky was going to have his fucking work cut out for him keeping this punk safe now. 

“Superhuman strength too,” Steve adds after a minute. “The whole idea scared me to death but the serum worked. Hurt like hell.”

“I bet,” Bucky mutters before adding, “but I’m sure I could still beat you in an arm wrestle.”

“Pfft, not anymore pal.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah, and I can do a lot more than that now.”

“Well, I guess we’ll have to see then won’t we, hotshot?”

Steve chuckled. “Sure, Buck.”

Bucky grinned weakly but not before rolling his eyes. “I can’t believe you’re taller than me.”

Bucky’s only a little mad about it, and it was only by a mere inch lest that go to Steve’s head. 

Though Steve just shrugs, trying to seem indifferent. “Well, if the shoe fits.”

“You punk, your shoes never fit! You had to put newspapers in them!”

Steve smirks. “Honestly, Buck, it sounds like you’re being a whiner.”

“You know, this serum really changed your attitude, pal. You’re a little prissy. I might have to ask them to reverse it.”

Steve mock gasps. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me,” Bucky wiggles his eyebrows but eventually pulls away with a small smile. In all honesty, he felt like shit, like his bones weighed ten times heavier than they should and he could fall into Steve’s arms right then and there and sleep, but a small trickle of excitement erupted in his chest. 

Fuck, it was good to see Steve. Bucky’s mood was already shifting to something lighter now that they could finally talk again, Steve just had that effect on him.

But as he finally moves away Steve doesn’t seem like he’s ready to let go yet and Bucky nearly jumps in surprise when Steve’s warm fingers curl around his chin again, keeping him in place, keeping him from moving. Their eyes meet again.

Bucky feels himself shiver but this time it’s accompanied by a harsh throbbing sensation in his temple and he barely hides a wince. 

“Bucky,” Steve’s voice and posture soften. “Tell me how to help you.”

Bucky nearly averts his gaze ready to free himself from Steve’s grip, too stubborn to speak, until Steve tacks on a small, “please.”

Bucky sighs, having a hard time explaining how he felt. “Distract me,” he finds himself saying after a beat and sends Steve a pleading look.

‘Help distract me from the pain,’ goes unsaid.

Steve was looking at him with concern etched into his face, though he tried to disguise it. His warm baby blue eyes were open and inviting, trusting that Bucky would tell him what he needed.

Without consciously deciding to, Bucky threw his arms around Steve again, burying his face into the crook of his neck - desperate to steal some of his warmth again. Steve didn’t even hesitate to wrap his arms around Bucky, laying them both down on the small cot again, a bed certainly not made for two burly men.

Bucky found himself tucked against Steve’s chest, encased in his strong arms and he tried to fight the urge to shift closer and sleep, it felt so good and he was so cold.

“You’re shaking,” Steve whispered.

Bucky hadn’t noticed.

“Are you in pain?”

Steve sounded worried and Bucky didn’t want to lie to him so he nodded, and he felt all too much like a child, being coddled and cuddled in the middle of the night because of a nightmare, but he couldn’t deny that it was nice being held after so long. More specifically being held by Steve again, it was something he hadn’t realized he’d been craving. 

One of Steve’s arms was wrapped around his shoulders while the other dragged fingers up and down his back. Those gentle touches helped soothe him, but he could still feel Steve’s heavy stare and breath on his forehead. Bucky shivered harder and tucked himself closer into the comfort of his best friend.

Steve’s wide and warm hand came to a stop at the small of Bucky’s back, resting flat against his skin under his shirt.

He applied a little pressure and Bucky let himself be pressed in until their bodies were flush. Heat rushed over his skin like wildfire from where Steve was holding them together.

Bucky could feel every muscle along Steve’s mostly bare body and he felt safe in the protecting embrace of his strong arms. Even still, the rush of Steve touching the small of his back, their chests against the other’s without anything between, and their crotches fitted snugly together, lit a fire low in his gut.

If Bucky wasn’t rattled and trembling from pain or exhaustion, he’d have lost his mind over having every inch of his body being touched by and touching Steve’s. It was strange and unusual, back home he was so used to curling up against a smaller Steve but now he was the one being curled around. Bucky focused on steadying his breathing and shaking away the remaining fragments of his memory of the Hydra camp.

“Are you wanting to talk about it or are you still wanting to be distracted?” Steve asked quietly in his ear and Bucky didn’t think he had ever loved someone more.

Shit.

The revelation had Bucky barely stop himself from flinging his body out of bed but he tensed, ignored Steve’s piercing gaze and sighed. He was so tired, so cold, so fucking confused that he doesn’t want to think about it anymore so he says, “Distracted. Please.”

Steve pulled back and Bucky reluctantly loosened his arms so they could look at each other.

“If I do something, will you promise not to hate me?”

“Steve,” Bucky rolled his eyes and shot his friend a weak smirk. What a silly question to ask after everything they’ve been through. “There is nothing you do could make me ha–”

A pair of lips on his stopped him from speaking and Bucky froze for a moment while his mind caught up with what was happening. Steve…Steve was kissing him. Oh. Oh shit.

Steve’s lips were soft and warm and Bucky instantly melted into them with complete abandon, pushing his face up into the kiss without a thought. He sighed softly. It was better than he imagined - which was really saying something. Wait, he imagined this?

He’d always thought that if Steve kissed him, Bucky’s knees would go weak, but the way Steve was holding him and kissing made him grateful that he was already laying down. His mind was fuzzy and he was barely able to think, barely able to move except for his wandering hand which wrapped itself around Steve’s cheek. 

Bucky wanted to ask if it was real, but he didn’t want to stop if it was. He didn’t want to end it early, whether or not this was a dream - it was too precious of a moment for Bucky to risk ruining it. 

He didn’t know if he’d ever get to kiss Steve again, so he threaded his hands into Steve’s surprisingly soft golden hair and absorbed as much as he could.

He sure as shit didn’t want to waste this moment only to wake up strapped back to the table, screaming himself hoarse surrounded by Nazi doctors. He pushed away the bubbling fear just as Steve pulled away.

“Buck?” Steve breathed, hardly an inch of space between them. Bucky found his gaze dropping to Steve’s red lips. “Is this okay? ‘Cause I can stop and I can walk out of here right now if you’re uncomf–”

“Rogers, just shut up and kiss me,” Bucky interrupted Steve’s moment of self-righteousness by yanking his hair and pulling his face forward again. Their lips slammed together and it was about damn time.

Rolling Bucky over onto his back, Steve lay down on top of him, his weight pressing down along Bucky's body creating delicious friction.

His mouth opened and Bucky felt a tongue brush against his lips and he let himself fall open and pliant to what Steve was giving him. Which was his tongue pushing against Bucky’s, coaxing out a response.

And a response he got.

Steve nipped at his lip and an involuntary noise was drawn from Bucky’s throat. A brief image of every kiss he’s had with a dame quickly flew from his mind because all he could think was, how hot was this? 

Then another wave of reality passed through him. Shit. He was in love with his best friend and they were kissing. Fuck, how was Steve so good with his tongue.

Steve slid his hands from Bucky’s back and around his torso as one stopped on Bucky’s hip and the other on his ribs. His hands were like anchors, holding Bucky tethered while his mind lost any and all sense of direction.

Then Steve started to pull away and Bucky let out an involuntary noise of protest, following his lips with his own. Steve gave in for a moment and kissed Bucky again before drawing back. When he finally got his eyes open, Steve was looking down at him carefully, watching for his reaction, Bucky assumed.

“Better?”

Bucky felt like he was struck dumb, his brain felt even more scrambled than before but this time it felt good. No kiss with any dame ever made him feel like that. They should definitely keep kissing to see it it’s just a Steve thing, yep definitely.

Bucky’s whole body was practically buzzing, pain completely forgotten just like that and he stared at Steve, absolutely dumbstruck, which didn’t escape his friend's notice but it did make Steve’s expression fall.

“Shit, I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have done that.” Steve began to panic and pulled away like he’d been burned. “I wasn’t thinking,” he rambled on but when he tried to pry his large warm hands from Bucky’s body he began to protest.

“Steve–”

“Shit. I’m so sorry, Bucky. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I swear.”

“Steve.” He tried to pull away but Bucky grabbed him by his cheeks, holding his face hostage. “Steve, would you relax for a damn minute! I’m not mad.”

Everything seemed to halt. Steve stopped trying to flee and stared at him with his own dumbstruck look.

“You aren’t?”

Bucky shook his head. “No, believe it or not. That was…it was...I…I liked it.”

Steve’s eyes widened. “You liked it?”

Bucky rolled his eyes again but he didn’t drop his hands or move away. If he was going to be a goddamn fairy then he was going to be Steve’s goddamn fairy. It needed to be said and if Steve was too chickenshit to say it, then fine, Bucky would. “Yeah, I liked it. You’re surprisingly good for someone who’s never kissed before.”

“Hey!”

“Mhm, now shut up and kiss me. Again please.”

The apprehension dissipated from Steve’s face and he was pressing himself right back against Bucky’s body and he fought back a pleased groan. Fucking finally. Steve smiled that shit-eating grin of his.

“You like when I do that, Buck?”

Dammit, Steve was already developing such a complex. 

“Yes,” Bucky said without hesitation, trying not to melt into a puddle of bliss. “Please,” he whispered, feeling desperation begin to creep back in. Steve chuckled but finally swooped in and caught Bucky’s red lips again. 

The kiss was harder and more desperate than the others and Steve indulged him, meeting him with the same push that was shoved. The heat in Bucky’s gut was just starting to build when Steve pulled away again, already so soon, making Bucky groan in displeasure.

“Come back,” he coaxed but Steve stood his ground and kept Bucky’s torso pinned to the bed.

Fuck, but Bucky might be developing a thing for Steve’s everything.

“I want a real answer now. Is this okay?” Steve asked and propped himself up on his elbows alleviating some of that weight from pressing Bucky into the cot but he liked it. He liked it very much. Bucky’s hand shot out and curled against Steve’s shirt to keep him close. “Bucky?”

Right. Words. Steve asked him a question.

“Y-yeah, all good,” he muttered.

Steve didn’t look convinced. 

“Buck.”

Bucky felt the urge to tackle Steve in desperation. “Christ, Stevie, what do you want me to say? How about, I’ve been thinking about this for god knows how long and I didn’t even realize or maybe that I finally feel normal for once and ‘Oh hey my best friend is kissing me’ and his lips are a perfect shade of red and I just want to lick them and see all this new muscle you’ve been hidin’ from me or–”

Steve put his finger over Bucky’s mouth, halting his words. Steve’s pupils were blown wide, he looked downright hungry but of course, of course, he was still the same old Steve. Always being noble. “You’re not in pain still? I’m not hurting you anywhere am I, Buck? Tell me.”

Fuck, when did Steve’s voice get that low? Bucky felt a pleased shiver roll through his spine this time but he sighed and mumbled a small ‘no’ against Steve’s finger.

Steve stared at him for a few more seconds, just to make sure, before he removed his hand and dove for Bucky’s neck. 

“Oh shit,” Bucky shuddered, breathless as Steve moved along his jawline like a starved man and down his column of skin. He felt like he was being picked apart, little by little until he was laid out and completely and utterly exposed for Steve to see and lick. "St–" he gasped after a deliberate nip to the corner of his jaw. 

He could feel Steve's smile brush against his skin and he instinctively reached up to thread his fingers back through Steve’s soft hair he loved so much. Bumping his head into Steve’s, Bucky drew his attention from his neck and jaw to back up to his swollen lips.

Bucky continued to kiss Steve. Steve continued to kiss him back, and Bucky felt like he was in heaven. He didn’t even know how much time passed as they lazily made out and frankly, he didn’t care. He’d rather kiss Steve than sleep any day, he decided. Despite his desire to do this for the rest of the night, he soon found he could hardly open his eyes. From the tenderness of the kisses or the late hour or the hellish few days, he didn’t know.

His brain was finally winding down and he finally felt safe.

“As much as I like this,” Steve mumbled into his lips, “we should probably go to sleep. It's late, I know you’re tired, and we can talk in the morning. I promise.”

Though Bucky wanted to protest, the exhaustion rooted deep within him agreed with Steve. He didn’t want to give in so easily, so he pouted. Steve chuckled lightly and Bucky couldn’t even open his eyes to watch the crinkles at the side of Steve’s eyes he missed so much. He could feel his smile against his mouth.

Steve rolled them back onto their sides and folded Bucky into his chest, holding him close. He snuggled down into his embrace as a pair of lips brushed against his forehead.

“Y’know, I kinda like being the big spoon for once.”

“Oh shut it,” Bucky grumbled, then, “Just be quiet and cuddle me.”

Steve stifled a laugh against his hair. “I am you dope…Night Buck.”

“Night Stevie.”

I’ve missed this.

When Bucky went to sleep this time, it was to Steve’s arms and heartbeat enveloping him and the nightmares didn’t seem so threatening now that his whole world was finally here right beside him - protecting him.

^

“Would you look at that,” Dum Dum grinned. “The bands all back together.” 

Bucky walked over to the table in the corner of the pub where his men sat, intending on saying a quick ‘hello, I’m not dead, nice to see you again.’

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky sighed and clapped the closest men, Jones and Gabe, on their backs in greeting.

“Good to see you’re still kicking it,” Falsworth says and holds his beer up in the air. “Now you can open a tab for all our rounds, Sarge.”

The men holler in triumph. Bucky groans but jolts unexpectedly when he feels a hand brush against his shoulder, he turns to find Steve dressed in his uniform standing there behind him.

Bucky lets go of his men and turns to face Steve, a small pleased smile on his face and Steve grins back. “Gentlemen, this is Steve Rogers,” Bucky turns back and tells them, pulling Steve forward. The men all stare. 

“Steve, your Steve…is Captain America?” Jim asks.

“Je le savais,” Frenchie mumbles.

“Nice to meet you,” Steve says and nods to them.

Dum Dum narrows his eyes slightly. “I thought you were supposed to be smaller.”

Bucky notices Steve do a double take, blushing suddenly, he probably didn’t realize they knew about the ‘before’ him. “Oh well I was, but then I did the whole serum and…you know…” He shrugs, clearly uncomfortable.

But then Dum Dum smiles, grinning like a maniac and Bucky had no doubt that the men were going to get slammed tonight. “I’m just playing, Cap,” Dugan chuckles. “On behalf of all these gamps, we thank you.”

No shit, Bucky and everyone in that Hydra camp owed everything to Steve - to Captain America.

Dum Dum's words only made Steve blush harder though and Bucky smiled to himself, Steve never was any good at taking compliments. Bucky decides to take pity on him and flings his arm around Steve’s shoulders steering him away from the table and away from his men’s prying eyes.

“Well it seems you ladies got yourselves covered, Steve and I are going to get ourselves a drink,” he says and drags Steve towards the counter.

“You’re still opening a tab, Jimmy!” Dum Dum yells and then the table breaks out into laughs and hollers again. 

Bucky ignores them as he and Steve take a seat at the bar. “Two beers please,” he tells the man behind the counter.

Steve turns in his chair and looks at him with an all-knowing smirk. “Jimmy, huh?”

Bucky groans and folds his hand over his head. “Don’t even get me started. They’re all idiots.”

“How ‘bout you, Jimmy?”

Bucky turns to point his finger in Steve’s face. “Don’t start,” he warns and takes the bottle of beer handed to him. Steve takes his bottle and takes a swig, but then his face is scrunching up in distaste and he lowers the drink. Bucky laughs. “Alcohol still not your poison, Stevie?”

“Never was.”

“Well you might have to get used to it, doin’ this, you’re going to need it.”

“Uh huh.” Steve watches him take a couple of swigs himself before he added, “So have you decided if you’re ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?”

Bucky spares Steve a glance and sets his drink down. “Captain America? Hell no,” he states; the name still feels weird on his tongue. “That little scrawny kid from Brooklyn, who never backed down from a fight,” –he looks at Steve then– “that’s who I’m following.”

Steve smiles, bright and pure, and Bucky pushes down the urge to lean over and kiss him. Then he notices the posters on the wall of the pub. It’s Steve in the Captain America outfit and Bucky nearly chokes on his drink.

Steve sends him a worried glance before following his line of vision. “Ah dammit.”

“Language,” Bucky scolds but finally bursts out into unrestrained chuckles when Steve groans. “No, no, I like it, the tights look good - they do!”

Steve eventually laughs along with him before looking away from the poster. “Say what you want but it was kind of growing on me.”

Bucky reaches over to pat Steve’s shoulder. “Uh-huh, it was certainly doing something for you.”

“Oh, Buck, come off it.”

That just makes Bucky laugh harder, he sets his drink down before he spills it. “I knew you would make fun,” Steve sulks but he can tell that Steve finds this just as amusing.

An idea flows through Bucky, a dumb idea but at the moment it never seemed better. Bucky gulps down the rest of his beer before standing up from his stool. Steve’s eyes snap over to watch him, a question forming right on his tongue, but then Bucky rests his elbow against the counter and leans in close towards Steve’s head.

“I think the outfit works for you, pal,” he mutters making sure to breathe against Steve’s ear. He lets some of his Brooklyn accent soak into his words. “Those tights make you look real nice.”

Steve does his best not to shiver, his gaze heavy and interest sparks in his eyes when Bucky pulls away like he’d just whispered some secret to Steve. And it was, it was their secret.

“You’re a real charmer, Bucky Barnes,” Steve says, finally finding his words and Bucky gives him the cockiest grin. He winks.

“What? I gettin’ ya hot and bothered, doll?” He keeps his voice low and hushed.

Steve’s eyes widen. Bucky lays it on thick, the nickname seemed to fit at the moment, and judging by Steve’s reaction he’d say that he nailed it.  

Bucky moves away with a smirk, noticing how Steve had a damn near-death grip on the counter. He signals to the bartender before turning away, the weight of Steve’s eyes following him as he moves through the bar feeling every ounce of victory follow him as he goes.

Shit, he really just did that.

He walks back over to the table where his men are all laughing and leaning against each other. Beer and laughs fly everywhere.

“Aye, Sarge! You’re back!” Falsworth greets him and pulls out a chair not covered in beer. “Here sit.”

“Where’s Cap?” Dum Dum asks, slurring his words slightly. “He run off and leave you with us, rookies?”

“No, Steve’s–”

“Right here.”

Steve’s voice startles Bucky before he could answer and he turns around only to see Steve plop down into the chair next to him, his gaze never once leaves Bucky’s face, not even to acknowledge the others around them.

He stared, his gaze boring into Bucky’s and something in his eyes, in his expression made Bucky get warm all over. Steve looked downright hungry.

“You weren’t gonna leave me all alone, were you, Sarge?” Steve smiles and leans over to wrap his arm around Bucky’s shoulder, scooting closer and having unknown confidence in his demeanor.

Bucky hardly takes his eyes off Steve, trying to ignore the pressing want surging through him; the boys at the table have sufficiently distracted themselves again in conversation before Steve finally looks up. 

“Don’t worry, sir.” Steve winks. “I can keep up.”

Fuck. Bucky’s created a monster and it’s beautiful. He managed to stop himself from choking on his spit at the word ‘sir’ and from Steve’s growing grin, he didn’t cover it up as well as he thought. 

“Steve…”

“Yes?”

Bucky blows out a breath, the warmth of Steve’s hand around his shoulder distracts him and he uses every ounce of self-control not to succumb to the touch and lean in. Steve’s playing a dirty, dirty game but Bucky can play along too.

“You really wanna go there?”

And Steve did, in fact, want to go there. “I think I can take it,” Steve says and turns away to watch the table. Oh, he thinks.

Bucky feels himself smirk, noting Steve watching him from the corner of his eye, and he sweeps a look around the table - noting the distracted and fumbling men before leaning close to Steve’s ear once again. “I’m not sure you wanna do this, doll.”

He notices the way Steve’s breath quickens at the name but Bucky’s not quite done yet. Best teach the Captain some manners, he thinks.

“I don’t think you want all these fine men seein’ you all worked up and blushin’, by my do you blush so prettily. All red and pink from the cheeks down.” He leans in to trail a finger along the strong muscles in Steve’s neck while keeping a watchful eye for onlookers. “But I think you’d like bein’ watched, seeing me rile you up till you’re begging and squirming in your seat. You’d like that wouldn’t you, doll? Hm?”

Steve gasps quietly, his eyes pleading and desperate. “Buck–”

“No, not Buck or Bucky. You call me sir,” he corrects, and Steve gulps. “You started it,” he teases and presses his finger harder into Steve’s soft skin. Steve’s mouth hangs open for a minute before snapping shut, catching himself.

“Do want all these people to see you lose your cool, right here and now? See their Captain fall over himself at their Sergeant's mercy?”

Steve shivers, practically hanging off the edge of his seat pressed against Bucky’s side, his arm tightening threateningly around Bucky’s shoulder.

“No?” Steve doesn’t answer, but his eyes plead, fogging over. “Then I suggest you be quiet. It’s your turn to sit there and look pretty.” Bucky finishes whispering in Steve’s ear and pulls away slightly, Steve’s practically shaking like a leaf, speechless and Bucky decides it is probably time for them to retire for the night.

He stands up, pulling Steve by his arm, and he drags Steve from the table. His men are too loud and busy to notice them leaving, they slip out quietly into the cool night air, Bucky still guiding Steve by the top of his arm.

“You bastard,” Steve seethes once they begin to walk toward their tent.

Bucky flashes Steve another grin. “Don’t hate the rookie, hate the game.”

“No, no, I definitely hate the rookie.”

Bucky laughs and loops his own arm around Steve’s broad shoulders. “Sorry,” he says and peels himself away from Steve’s body.

But Steve has other ideas, and sides right up next to him. “Don’t apologize,” Steve murmurs and turns to look at him. “I liked it.”

Bucky, being the cocky bastard he is, says, “I know you did, doll.”

“Buck, if you don’t quit, I’m gonna punch you in the face.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“No, I’m gonna.”

“Steve–”

Bucky ducks and runs from Steve, trying to control his giddy waves of laughter as he runs back towards his tent, Steve hot on his heels–laughing along. Unfortunately, Bucky forgot to account for Steve’s new superhuman abilities and finds himself tackled to the ground as the gets within a few yards of their tent. 

“Shit!”

Steve pushes him to the ground and the impact is loud but then he’s using his entire body to push Bucky down and keep him immobile. He spits out grass that makes its way into his mouth and squirms. “Okay, okay, you win!” He practically yells and Steve laughs as he rolls off him.

“You’re too easy, Buck.”

He spits out more grass as he gets to his feet, grabbing the stray pieces off his tongue. He shoots Steve a glare. “Well I miss when you were slower, you cheater.”

Steve laughs and Bucky can’t help but stare at how beautiful Steve looks basked in moonlight and light from the lanterns. They were right back to their old ways, bickering and fighting and Bucky realized how much different his life would have been here without Steve in it.

“Come on,” Steve says and bumps him before walking towards the tent. “Let’s go Grandpa.”

“Call me that again.”

“Okay…Grandpa.”

“Steve!”

He narrowly misses the slap Bucky had aimed for his head. 

“You punk.”

“Jerk.”

“You’re sleeping on the floor tonight.”

“No, I’m not.”

Bucky sighs, knowing Steve’s right. “No…no you’re not.”

Dammit, he really was too easy for Steve.

^

Bucky and his men were chatting when Steve comes walking into the tent the next day. They all move to stand at attention after having waited for Steve to return from talking with the Colonel about a new mission.

The Colonel wanted to put together a real team but Steve decided that Bucky and the rest of the Howling Commandoes were all he needed.

They all wait patiently for Steve to talk but all he does is move forward towards their table and set a large, heavy object down, enclosed in cloth. Steve rips the material and a shiny, metal shield sits on the table. Red and white stripes circle around the outside and in the center was a bright, shiny, white star outlined in blue.

“Damn,” Jones and Sam mutter simultaneously. Everyone has their hands reached out, smoothing their fingers along the metal as they huddle together around it. Bucky hangs back, watching his men ‘ooh and awe’ over it - he looks up to find Steve staring at him, hardly looking at the new shield at all.

Bucky blows out a breath of air as Steve moves to stand next to him. “Who gave it to you?” Bucky eventually asks and looks back at the shield on the table. Well, he looks where the shield should be but the men keep hovering over it, blocking his view.

“It was one of Stark’s prototypes, he let me keep it.”

“Say, boss man,” Dum Dum announces without turning around. “What’s this made of exactly?” He rocks his knuckles against the metal.

“Vibranium,” Steve says. “Completely bulletproof and we’re hoping it’s able to withstand Hydra guns.”

“I’ll say.”

Bucky can’t help but feel conflicted. Worry gnawing at his chest. “I guess this means they got our mission lined up?” He guessed and turns to see Steve nod.

“Yep. Debrief tomorrow, Colonel says.”

“Shit,” Bucky breathes. He knew they had to get back out there eventually and a few days at camp seemed almost too good, the punchline had to come eventually, but now Bucky wasn’t just going out there with his men, he was going out there with Steve. Their Captain. And that scared the hell out of him.

Bucky moved forwards between the men gathered around the table, they moved out of his way as he moved to pick up the shield. It rested against his arm, surprisingly not as heavy as he imagined and he figured it had to move rather well through the midst of fighting. 

He turned, facing away from the table, and walked over to Steve, holding out the shield. Steve gave Bucky a once-over, searching for something in his expression before taking the shield. Bucky stepped back and stopped to smile; the shield looked right in Steve’s arms, like it was meant to be there.

“Tomorrow it is then?” Jones quires.

“Tomorrow.”

Dum Dum laughs, loud and rich. “Well, I don’t know about you fellas, but I can’t wait to get back out there and kick some Hydra ass. It’s been a long time coming.”

“Hell yeah!” The men chorus.

Bucky can’t help but feel more confident at the men’s excitement but only tomorrow would tell. 

Tomorrow, the real war begins. The fight to end Hydra once and for all. 

^

“Quit touching me, your feet are cold.”

Bucky hums a little laugh as he nestles further into the cot he’s sharing with Steve. It’s freezing in the French hellscape they’re in right now, somewhere near Soissons with another Hydra base only a dozen miles away. They’ll attack at first light.

Now though, they’ve set up camp for the night. The rest of the Commandos are huddled close in two other tents, but because he’s Captain now, somehow, Steve technically gets his own. Bucky doesn’t abide by that rule, never did, and Steve doesn’t expect him to. He didn’t want him too either. 

Plus it was warmer this way. Besides, Steve is used to Bucky’s weight on the mattress and his breathy inhales, so he sleeps better in his company anyway. Those weeks, which stretched into months away from Bucky were ones of fitful sleep, long nights, and vivid dreams. 

He won’t say that out loud of course, but the fact remains clear and unspoken between them, a topic never breached, but silently acknowledged. Steve knows Bucky sleeps better beside him too.

Bucky never did talk about what happened in the Hydra facility with Zola. All he alluded to was, “it was bad, Steve. A fucking nightmare, alright?”

It was a sore subject, and Steve would be a fool not to notice the amount of nightmares Bucky suffered because of it. But all he could do was wrap himself around the man tighter and remind him over and over that this was real.

It broke Steve’s heart.

Tonight is no different, they were both struggling to sleep, amped up for tomorrow, except that Bucky’s feet were freezing and Steve really is not accustomed to being on this side of the conflict.

“Buck,” he groans again, shifting his legs further into the tent wall to avoid the cold toes.

Bucky just chases Steve’s own, decidedly warm feet. “What, Rogers? You used me as a goddamn heater long enough, you could at least return the favor.”

“My feet were not that cold.”

Bucky snorts. “They were and you know it.”

With a defeated roll of his eyes that Steve purposefully exaggerates so that Bucky will see it in the near darkness of the woods, he shifts his legs back toward Bucky and the cold. “Just keep those icebergs away from any direct contact.”

Bucky grins triumphantly and thanks him, only to drive his icy feet right into Steve’s thighs. Steve curses.

Bucky laughs, loud and careless, and Steve can’t help but watch him for a moment, enthralled. It’s rare to see Bucky like this these days, after the war and the lab and the front lines. But Steve can still coax it out of him sometimes, this youthful, wholehearted joy. His heart swells.

Bucky calms down, catches Steve’s fond gaze, and startles for just a moment before matching it. “You good?”

“I hate you.”

Bucky grins again, then moves forward ever so slightly to plant a small, sweet kiss to his lips. Steve leans into it greedily, chasing that feeling he got every time they did this.

”How about now?” Bucky asked when they broke for air and Steve struggled not to haul him closer for a repeat.

”Mmm,” he pretends to ponder. “I don’t know, Buck…”

Then Bucky’s gaze narrows and Steve can’t help but grin in victory when Bucky climbs over him and lays messy, warm kisses around his neck and shoulder. He sighs into the touch and runs his hands along Bucky’s sides.

But then, all too soon for Steve’s liking, Bucky is rolling away back onto his side and turns so that his back is to Steve. He reaches behind him and catches one of Steve’s large hands in his own colder one to wrap it around himself. Steve already knows he’s smirking.

“Jerk,” Steve practically gasps, feeling a little disappointed but then Bucky is hauling him closer, wanting to spoon and he does so willingly. 

Almost on instinct, Steve shifts closer to press his chest to Bucky’s back and curl around him. He presses his warm feet to Bucky’s then.

Back in Brooklyn, back home, it was always Steve who needed to curl up close to Bucky, tuck himself under him, desperate for warmth but now as Steve cuddles closer to Bucky he can’t help but like the warmth that flows to his heart. 

Some things never change. 

“Thanks for always warming me up.”

Bucky hums. “You owe me a lifetime of this now, pal.”

With startling clarity, Steve realizes that he doesn’t really want anything more from life than this, than owing Bucky these warm, cuddly nights. He presses his face into Bucky’s messy, unwashed hair, not caring that they’re definitely at some level disgusting, and holds on just a bit tighter. 

The only thing missing was the sound of a little red radio that let the music carry through the air, lulling them to sleep, but Steve dreamed of songs–of dancing–of Bucky and he fell asleep thinking about their promise.

^

The cold wind of the Alps was brutal. It whipped and stung as snow and ice flowed through the air, unrelenting. Steve and the Commandoes stood just above the train tracks, freezing their asses off as they waited for the train to turn the corner. They’d been here over two hours.

“I hate the winter,” Jones groaned for what had to be the hundredth time.

“Moi aussi.”

“Yeah, I hear you,” Sam said. “We could be sipping a martini on a tropical beach or be saving the blooming world.”

“Ugh, shut up.”

“They sure as hell picked a great time to start a war. Fucking bastards.”

Steve listened to their conversations in amusement, staring out at the tracks below them, just past the canyon. The zip-line rope they had hooked up swayed in the wind.

He felt someone come and stand next to his shoulder, Steve turned to see Bucky there - looking out at the frozen cliffs.

“Ever imagined you’d be doing this?” He asks.

Steve snorts. “You mean zip-lining off a cliff, in the Alps, onto a moving train? Of course.”

Bucky chuckled before saying, “Remember when we used to go to Coney Island every summer and I made you ride the Cyclone.”

“Yeah, and I threw up?”

“This isn’t payback, is it?”

Steve turned to Bucky with a mischievous grin. “Now why would I do that?”

Just then, though, Dum Dum was announcing, “Cap, we have movement.”

And sure enough, just in the distance, coming around the first checkpoint - the train carrying Hydra personnel was approaching. 

“Confirmed,” Jim says, still tuning into the radio. “We were right. Dr. Zola’s on the train. Hydra dispatcher gave him permission to open the throttle, wherever he’s going, they must need him bad.”

Steve nodded and soon everyone was gearing up. Just to the side of him, Bucky secured his rifle to his chest, checking the strap and Steve walked over to where Dum Dum was holding the first handle attached to the zip-line. 

Steve made sure his shield was secure to his back before grabbing the handle. 

“Train just passed section two, nearing, approxi: less than thirty seconds.”

Steve tested his grip on the handle before moving forward, the train was coming around the final bend just below them. “Alright,” he said and prepared himself to go. “We’ve got about a ten-second window, if you miss that window, you’re as good as a bug on a windshield.”

“Better get moving bugs,” Dum Dum says.

“Now!”

Steve was the first down the line, the men followed just a few feet behind. The cold hadn’t much bothered Steve, he didn’t really feel it as much, but he couldn’t ignore the way his stomach lurched slightly as they passed over the deep, icy canyon before he dropped from the line. His feet thudded on top of the train roof and soon the sound of the others landing echoed around as well. 

He turned back to check that they all made it safely, they ducked down against the top of the train to combat the wind and when Steve gave the signal, they moved.

Opening the hatch and dropping into the train was the easy part. Steve and Bucky took the middle section of the train, moving towards the front. The rest would bring up the rear. Steve dropped into the train cart and moved as Bucky dropped just behind him. The cart was mostly empty, save for some boxes and cylinders and he grabbed his shield just off his back as Bucky aimed his gun. 

“Ready?” He whispered.

Bucky nodded.

Steve crouched down slightly as they moved to the next cart, silent and ready. Bucky moved in front of him sweeping the area, Steve stood behind. He couldn’t help but gaze over the German words written on the boxes, wondering what they meant. 

He had a clear view of Bucky, he had his six, but suddenly as Bucky stepped through the door of the next cart, it slammed shut before Steve could get through.

“Bucky!” Steve yelled and slammed his hand against the door. Bucky turned in surprise but then Steve saw a figure step through the doors across the cart and he shouted, “Behind you!”

Bucky barely dodged the shot from the helmeted enemy, Steve watched helplessly as Bucky fell to the ground and crouched against the boxes, firing back.

“Shit,” Steve growled and slammed his shield against the door with as much force as he could. He needed to get to Bucky. He needed to help.  

Seeing Bucky crouched down, concentration on his face, as he tried to fire back without getting shot himself, broke something in Steve. His hits increased in desperation and force, and the small door eventually gave way as it dented in the center, moving as fast as he could Steve moved back before kicking the door sending it flying across the next cart.

He flung his shield with his right hand, through the doorway and shots bounced off as it hit the masked person square in the chest and they fell. 

He rushed forward to help Bucky off the ground and he gasped out, “I had him on the ropes.”

“I know you did,” Steve said and gripped Bucky’s arm. He took a second to breathe, all they could spare, and when Bucky gave him the okay, they moved forward again. Steve moved to grab his shield, standing in front of Bucky.

“Incoming!” Bucky yelled before firing and Steve jumped to the side when he heard the familiar recharging sound of a Hydra gun. He couldn’t manage to grab his shield before the blast of the blue force raced past his ear and he ducked behind containers.

Steve decided to risk and jumped for his shield, bringing it up in front of him just in time as a blast hit it spare in the center, knocking him back. He slammed against the wall, losing his shield again, and forced himself up. A hole was blasted into the side of the train. 

A voice from above spoke. “Kill him! Kill him now!”

Steve wasn’t quick enough to recover before he saw Bucky dive for his shield, using it as a barrier to advance on the Hydra soldier before he too was hit with the blast and knocked against the open side of the train.

Steve felt his heart lurch so he moved forward, picked up Bucky’s discarded gun, and shot the Hydra soldier before his own weapon recharged. His shield was laying just a foot away on the ground but Steve ignored it as he rushed towards the open part of the train.

“Bucky!” He shouts and moved across the part of the train hanging outside as fast as he can. Bucky was dangling from the bar on the side and Steve blocked out everything around him, focusing solely on reaching Bucky.

“Steve,” Bucky gasped, the sound shaky, his eyes pleading and terrified. He’d never seen Bucky look scared about anything. The wind whipped around them. Then the metal bar Bucky hung from begins to squeak, Steve can see the resignation in Bucky’s eyes.

No, no, no, no—he desperately reaches out for Bucky as the cold winter air rushes past them and they dangle out of the moving train. The bar begins to disconnect on one side, the metal ripping apart.

“Bucky!” Steve yells, dangling himself off the train. “Hold on!” 

He just needs to get a little closer, just grab Bucky’s hand–

The bar breaks.

Steve feels all the air rush out of his lungs as the small metal rod disengages completely, faster than Steve or Bucky could move and all he can hear is Bucky’s terrified yell as he plummets into the cavern below, falling, just beyond Steve’s hand. 

“NO!” Steve shouts, and he can’t feel his limbs, his hand is still outstretched. 

Bucky’s scream echoes as he falls, the sound is like nails–it’s the most terrifying thing he’s ever heard. Steve feels his heat drop. He curls himself closer to the busted train opening, hiding the surprised gasps in his arm.

He can’t breathe.

He was too late, too late.

Oh god, oh god, oh god–no, no, no, no–

Bucky.

He can hear the sound of bullets and yells as his team moves in towards the front of the train but Steve can’t move, he can’t breathe. The train zooms past where Bucky fell but Steve stands there, ignoring the blistering cold, and he stares down into the frozen cavern in agonizing shock where Bucky plunged.

Bucky fell. Steve couldn’t grab him in time. No, no.

He can feel the cold marrow in his bones, the emptiness, the fear. 

Steve Rogers knows what nearly dying feels like.

It’s not this; not this.

Not nearly as bad.

It feels like he’s being split in two.

No–

Steve screams.

^

Zola had been defeated, captured, and brought to where he’d be imprisoned by the U.S. Military for the time being and the foreseeable future. 

The people at base cheered in small victories but Steve didn’t share the joy. He couldn’t. Instead, he hid. He hid from all the smiling faces, the people congratulating him - he hid from the people asking where Sergeant Barnes went.

Steve’s face gave them their answer and the faces of every Howling Commando who had to drag Steve off the train. 

“We’ll get them, don’t worry,” Colonel Phillips told him as he passed by the tent. His voice was heavy with pity and sorrow. “I’m sorry.”

Steve couldn’t speak, he was seconds away from crying in front of all those men, so he ran. 

He found sanctuary a mile or two away from the base where he sat in the rubble of a destroyed building for what felt like hours; he had planted himself at a small table that had yet to be destroyed, with nothing but a bottle of liquor and a glass cup in front of him.

They were useless though, nothing but an empty promise because now he couldn’t even get drunk.

He couldn’t feel anything except pain. He couldn’t hear anything but Bucky’s screams echoing around in his head, the moment Bucky fell replayed over and over in his mind. His face was red and achy from crying till he had nothing more to give.

Steve’s not sure how long he stares into the rubble, how long he breathes, how long he subsists after the heart of him gives out. He blinks, and the world focuses for a moment. He ignores the lingering presence of his team outside, he can feel their worried gazes. They found him.

Maybe he’s been here, sitting here as a shell, for a while.

“How long has he been there?” He hears someone outside finally ask, hushed and swift. Something normal human hearing wouldn’t be able to pick up.

“Hours,” the person responds dully. They sound upset.

Steve doesn’t make a noise. He feels cold.

He feels very, very cold. He didn’t think he could get this cold anymore. No freezing winds or snow could compare to this. 

“Cap?” And that’s Dum Dum, careful in a way just behind him to the side. “Look…I’m–”

“He deserved better.”

The words are out before Steve can stop them, and they don’t sound like they belong to him; it’s not his voice that rasps, that breaks, that makes Dugan wince in his peripheral vision.

“He did,” Dum Dum agrees, still hesitant, still careful but Steve can hear the sadness in his voice. “He was a good man.”

“He was a better man than I’ve ever known.”

“We know.” And that’s Agent Carter, that’s her telling him with steel and compassion in her eyes, that level-headedness that only she can bring at a time like this. “Steve, we know that.”

“Do you?” Steve’s mouth’s moving again before he can stop it; the defeat and emotion clear in his voice. Nobody knew Bucky as Steve had, nobody knew that every day Bucky sacrificed something for Steve: money, warmth, and love. And Steve took that for granted. 

Agent Carter’s expression doesn’t falter, her face doesn’t change, still compassion. Still steel.

“We came here to help,” Steve continues. “We had a plan, and we executed it, but Bucky…I didn’t see it in time, it was a trap, I should’ve known, I should’ve–” Steve’s saying, and whatever logic’s left in his mind recognizes it as fragments, as the pieces of all he is scraping together and making noise, tortured, endless noise. It can’t just be him that has to hear it, he can’t survive if he has to hold the whole of it.

He can’t; but then, he’s not sure he even wants to.

“I let him fall,” Steve gasps out, frantic now, heart pounding, lungs burning with his eyes as he grasps for something, for anything to lash at, to latch to so that he won’t split open, so that everything in his soul won’t be splayed wide.

“He…” Steve shakes his head and screws his eyes closed. “He’s gone.”

Steve feels someone approaching him–maybe Dum Dum, maybe Carter, maybe Jones, even, someone coming up toward his side and reaching for his shoulder but he’s too fast, too manic. He’s on his feet and pacing, avoiding eye contact as his chest heaves and he bites out, broken and strangled and filled with a rage he can’t name.

“He was just following orders,” Steve wrenches out, deep and jagged with the way that it tears. “He’s always there, going headfirst into battle with me, right by my side...”

He trails off, breathless. He trails off, and he stares farther than he can know, and his chest is so hollow, his world is so fucking blank and his heart just pounds.

Just pounds.

“This is my fault,” Steve feels the way his blood swarms, the way his head races and spins: “I should have caught him, I should have reached faster, god I should have–” 

And there is a voice in him, a logic, there is a voice that tells him he’s being unfair, unreasonable; there is a sliver of his consciousness that knows he’s coming undone, that his heart is aching in a way he can’t control. 

His world’s fracturing at the edges and the middle and he needs to blame someone, blame something - he needs to lash and claw and hurt because the pain in him is too overwhelming to keep contained, to hold in himself.

It’s just the hurting, the breaking, it’s so much louder. It’s so much more.

“I couldn’t save him,” Steve shakes his head, voice veil-thin, and cracking. 

“Stop.”

Steve turns and follows the eyes of those closest to him until he reaches the source of the command: Peggy.

“Stop,” she says again, and it’s steely even as it’s somehow small, and Steve can feel it - feel the way it quiets the voices, the vengeance and the reason in him - stalls their war because there’s something in that steel, in that smallness that is him. It is everything he’s feeling and it’s a resonance, it’s a selfsame pitch he can’t help but heed.

“James made a choice,” she tells him, approaches as she stares at him, and gives him truth and pain in the eyes she keeps fixed upon his own. “He chose to keep people safe. And we all knew him, we all cared for him, and he went on that train with his eyes open. You all did.”

And Steve’s breathing stutters, trips when she says it, when she sounds hurt for her own sake at the loss of him, at the past tense of his everything.

“But that was what defined him, Steve,” she whispers, soft and gentle, close to him now, close enough to reach. “Keeping people safe. His country.”

Close enough to reach, and she is, she settles a hand on his shoulder and Steve feels what’s left unbroken in him. What’s left starts to give way, starts to tremble as he starts to shake because what she means, what she really means, the real words: keeping you safe.

It isn’t a thing that needs to be said out loud. Steve reads it in her eyes and hears it where it echoes.

Bucky was always trying his hardest to keep Steve safe and he couldn’t, no matter how hard he tried, return the favor. 

“Don’t cheapen that by trying to make this about anything else, anyone else,” she says, and it’s not quite a reprimand, not quite a plea. “He fought beside you day and night, and you two together, this team together, accomplished more than we had in months. And Bucky helped in that and he’d do it again because he was a good man, a selfless man.” 

She smiles, small and sad, and her thumb presses into him, a fixed point.

“A better man than most,” she breathes, and Steve breathes, but it hurts. “I know how this feels,” she murmurs, low and so deep, for all it holds, all the depths that just can’t stand. “I know you want someone to blame but you can’t blame yourself, Steve. It wasn’t your fault.”

She shudders, and Steve feels something surge in him, a need to be steady, now–a need to push his own fractured soul to the side and put whatever emptiness he holds now to some use to steady her, to keep her whole because that is his job, that is his job and if he failed his heart, he can’t fail his team in the same goddamned go.

He can’t.

“You can’t blame yourself,” Peggy repeats, eyes overbright as she reaches, and brushes the line of his jaw, his cheek for an instant that speaks to some shared devastation that can’t be named. “It’s okay to hurt without there being anyone to blame, save your own heart.”

She bites her lip, and he watches her as she seems to dither, seems to sway before she straightens her shoulders and takes on more weight from the world than Steve thinks he can fathom, then Steve knows he’d be able to stand in her place, and she reaches, reaches. 

She settles a palm against his chest and looks at him with all the hurt he feels living there, beneath the surface–all the pain that’s already festering, already turning his insides heavy, black.

“Just,” her voice breaks, and she clears her throat, and breathes in deeply before she carries on. “Just don’t blame your heart, Steve. Let it hurt, but don’t blame it, not for this, okay?” 

Her eyes are kind and understanding. “That’ll hurt more, in the end,” she whispers to him, her eyes fixed on his face. “Trust me.”

She steps back, and he fills his lungs to the brink and lets the air out, slow. Slow.

Very slow.

“I followed orders,” Steve murmurs, eyes fixed on the ground as his pulse radiates outward through his limbs. “I followed orders when I should have protected him. Every time, every time, I–”

And he doesn’t expect it when his voice gives out and he chokes around the tightness in his throat; he doesn’t expect it.

He should have.

“I follow orders, and I lose him. What does that make me?”

Steve looks up, and if his eyes don’t meet Peggy’s, Dugan’s, or any other eyes, it’s alright, because he’s not asking them.

“I love him more than I…more than,” Steve swallows once, swallows twice, but the pressure in his blood, in his bones, doesn’t shift, and he deserves that, he thinks; he’s earned that weight.

And in that omission, he doesn’t care if his team looks at him differently for what is clearly more than love between two men. “But then I,” Steve shakes his head and screws his eyes against the way they choose to burn. “What does that make me?”

Steve doesn’t know. He just doesn’t know.

“I didn’t even say it,” Steve breathes before he can stop it, his tongue thick and his chest sore. “I didn’t have time, he was, it was–”

“He knew,” Peggy’s voice says, soft still, but sure.

“Of course, he knew.” And it’s Dugan, now, subdued but with the kind of stability, the kind of assurance Steve expects from him–a constant, and that makes his heart twist a little, makes him feel the sting in his eyes all the more.

“We all knew.” Jones nods as he says it, states it like a scientific fact, and maybe it was, maybe Steve can have that much, can hold on to that, at least.

“We all knew,” Peggy repeats pointedly, and Steve wants to thank her, wants to give way and fall to pieces then and there, but he can’t.

He can’t, so he breathes. Breathes, and slips into the guise of command that holds its own stability, steadying him by virtue of the post.

And Steve breathes; he simply breathes.

But he’s not sure how much longer that’s going to suffice, if at all. 

^

“Bucky wouldn’t want you to blame yourself, Steve.”

“He was the best damn sniper this side of the barracks. I’m sorry.”

“My condolences, Captain Rogers.”

“Wars not over yet, gentlemen. Not till we all go home.”

“We need a plan.”

“We need you, Steve.”

For the country. 

It’s not over yet.

^

Steve knew this was a one-way ride; a flight doomed to be his last. 

But in all honesty, he wasn’t scared. He had connected the radio and got back in touch with the base, and yet as they pleaded with him to try and salvage the situation—save himself—Steve didn’t.

Not only was the plane he was on carrying deadly bombs destined for America but there was a sort of peace Steve felt as the ocean came into sight and the plane nosedived. 

This plane was going down, and he was going down right along with it.

“Steve,” he heard Peggy beg from over the radio. 

“Remember, before, when you asked if I’d ever danced with anyone and I didn’t answer?” Steve found himself saying, buying time, though he could hear Peggy’s cries. “Well, there was someone. There was always that someone.”

Peggy would understand what he was talking about, he was sure of it. 

“Steve, please.”

Steve didn’t know how to respond, instead, he pulls out his compass, and on the top, a small picture of Bucky smiling, greeted him, and written in little scratchy writing below were the words: 

𝒮𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓂𝑒 𝒶 𝒹𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒 -𝐵.

Steve looked at the picture, at the words and he smiled. 

He smiled for the first time in weeks. 

“Always,” he whispered, one final time, into the eerie stillness of the plane cabin - knowing the radio would pick it up, and wouldn’t understand, but he didn’t much care. 

“Steve!”

“Captain–”

Then there was static.

The thud of the plane hitting the icy ocean was loud and rough and then it slowed to a startling halt, blackness swelled around him, a new kind of cold he had never experienced and Steve let himself drift. 

This was it.

^

The news articles came out in the following days:

War Hero Captain America Dies In Plane Crash Over Arctic Saving Thousands 

And then, not much later, the final news came out everywhere: 

The War Is Over

^

-2011-

The first thing Steve notices when he feels himself drift into awareness is that he’s somewhere soft and warm when all he remembers before is the shocking cold - so bad that he must have passed out.

He remembers the plane crash, he remembers doing it to defeat Hydra. And he remembers…he was thinking about someone. He doesn’t…

Soon Steve realizes that he’s probably lying on a bed, an inferred assumption. There’s a gentle breeze from what must be an open window to his right. He hears a voice from a radio. A baseball game is being broadcast by the sound of it.

“So the Dodgers are tied, 4-4.”

He can’t remember ever having slept in a bed this soft, he can’t remember the last time he slept in a real bed, period.

His lungs still work just like they have since the serum, he feels healthy.

But something is off. The first clue that something is definitely wrong with this present is that he is actually awake. Steve had accepted death, in the last few seconds on that plane which he could not place, the cold and the water creeping in, vaguely aware of the fact that he fell into a cold, lonely death. And it felt familiar.

He felt broken before, broken over what? But now all he felt was lost, and confused.

The second clue that something was off occurs to him as the announcer talks about some particularly interesting turn of the game on the radio. He knows that particular game. He’s been there. In 1941. The memory definitely counts as good stuff. To Steve, four years feel like forever ago.

Steve furrows his eyebrows and opens his eyes.

There’s a woman here, he doesn’t know her and everything is wrong. She moves all wrong for a nurse and acts wrong for someone in a field hospital. Most importantly, she's human, alive and normal, not an angel or a dead loved one to welcome him.

This is not heaven or hell, this is Earth, it's supposed to look like home.

Steve did not die on that plane on the ice.

Everything he knew was gone. Everyone.

Steve runs, trying to escape reality–knowing that he did, in fact, survive–only to find that the truth just outside the fake walls was a helluva lot scarier. It was loud, there were strange machines that resembled cars, bright flashing lights, louder noises.

Nothing like a Brooklyn city whose men had gone off to war. Was the war over?

A stranger named Nick Fury, a man wearing an eyepatch, stops him and during that explanation, Steve doubts he could've found a place further from what he knew. Oh god.

“You gonna be okay?” Fury asks. 

Like you haven’t just woken up after sixty-six years on ice. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I just…” He began to speak but paused. The words he felt like saying, that were just in the tip of his tongue, didn’t make sense.

‘I had a dance.’

A dance? With who? Where? 

Steve just looks back up at the large futuristic city in front of him, not bothering to finish his sentence. His brain felt scrambled, how was this real? He looked from the surrounding cars blocking him in, to people who crowded around. All he can think is, ‘This is not what I imagined the future to look like.’

Big, bright objects on the buildings flashed before him, catching his attention. He forced himself not to panic, to run and put this behind him.

Then hears the words in his head, clear as day, “Save me a dance.”

But for the life of him, Steve couldn’t place the voice nor understand the crushing wave of stabbing pain in his heart he felt upon remembering that phrase.

A phrase, that’s all it was. It felt like he should know who it came from, but he didn’t. Who was saving him a dance? 

It seemed special, it seemed important, he wanted to—no, needed to remember, but he just…couldn’t. He didn’t know who said it, why they said it, and it bothered him and he just didn’t know why.

Yet, remembering definitely wasn’t on his top list of priorities now. One giant problem at a time.

“Captain Rogers,” Fury spoke again, breaking his thoughts. “Come with me please.”

Steve shook himself from his stupor, past the crushing ache in his chest, and followed. 

*

We’ll meet again

Don’t know where

Don’t know when

But I know we’ll meet again

Some sunny day

Chapter Text

-1945-

Pain was something Bucky Barnes was frustratingly familiar with. 

He’d been in pain, he’d experienced the feeling as it consumed his person, eroded his thoughts and he dreamt of it over and over, but that pain—through years of life, could never compare to the pain now.

His first thought when waking up wasn't - where am I - when a scream was suddenly torn from his throat, hoarse and strangled and he nearly blacked out from the feeling, the pain everywhere. It was different from the worst of what he experienced with Zola. 

He could hardly get out a breath that was viciously knocked from his lungs as his broken ribs strained with the effort.

The train.

He had fallen.

A muffled yell escaped when he inhaled again and jolted his left arm.

There was no way to describe the pain now. Every nerve in his body was shot, every cell and limb was shaking and burning it felt like. He could hardly breathe, or move, and he was cold. So goddamn cold, he was past the point of shivering, but that wasn’t new.

Bucky pried his eyes open, forcing them not to close again in response to the agony. He pushed back the blackness creeping into his vision, knowing he couldn’t sleep now.

He was staring at the gray sky as snowflakes fell onto his wet numb face, leaving little water droplets behind.

He was alive, and very much hurt. 

He remembered the fall, the first impact with a rock that shattered his ribs and he remembered screaming as he fell, something snagged his left arm and he remembered being unable to do anything as he impacted with the ground.

Tears fell past his cheeks, they felt like rivers of ice and then he dared to move his head that pounded in time with his heartbeat.

He looked down at his arm.

The rest of his body, places where his clothes were torn, were littered with long, angry red scrapes; the skin was missing, but his left arm was pinned between two boulders, wedged down deep like it had been driven down when he fell. 

It was clear from his skewed viewpoint that his forearm was broken.

“S…Shit,” he whimpered.

Bucky’s first thought was to push down the panic. He needed a plan, a way out, and he…he needed to get back to Steve.

Several failed attempts at trying to free his arm merely made the broken bone worse and his throat aches from the pathetic cries he can’t swallow.

His arm was stuck.

A guttural groan escaped his chapped and cut lips when he reached with his right arm towards the buckle strapped to his pants leg. He prayed that the knife was somehow still attached and let out a sigh when his numb fingers grazed the hilt of it.

He was soaked from all the snow around him and fumbled for the knife, he unclasped the first buckle and pulled it sluggishly onto his chest.  

Either stay here, freeze to death and die, or man up and get free, he reminded himself. 

His vision faded but his right arm moved with its own accord until he felt the cold blade graze the tip of his left arm, just below the elbow where the bone had broken in two. There was just enough room to maneuver between it. 

Bucky steeled himself, trying to calm his breathing when his ribs throbbed harder in protest to the rapid movement of his chest. 

Just do it, Barnes. 

He moved his head to the side, and it was almost like having an out-of-body experience as he watched his hand wrap around the blade and begin to move; slicing through the remaining fabric revealing his pale, dirty, bruised flesh.

He could hardly feel his left arm–either from the pain or the cold but as the knife dug deeper, sawed back and forth, the pain flared up again. Harsh and overwhelming.

Before his brain had enough time to register what he was doing, the reality set in that he was actually about to cut his own goddamn arm off. Bucky couldn’t hold back the scream this time, and it echoed along the rocky landscape around him. 

Each draw and push of the blade left a sickening slicing noise, like cutting through tender meat, it squished until blood dripped from the exposed skin and onto the snow. 

He shuddered, sobbed, and small wounded noises ripped from his mouth every so often. He had to blink rapidly, the tears in his eyes threatened to freeze over.

He felt sick, but he didn’t stop.

He merely looked away as his right hand cut deeper and deeper and deeper.

Bucky could feel the tug and give of the knife through the skin of his arm, as muscle unraveled and blood splattered outward. He could feel it happening before him—but he was unable to take his eyes off of a fixed point, he would puke all over himself if he looked. 

Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth the knife moved. 

Each slice sent a new shiver of pain through him, each miss-cut, from his trembling hand, sent a wave of brittle agony up his bicep.

Bucky could feel tears track down his face and freeze there, crackling with each twitch of his facial features.

The cut was not clean, but he kept going, much to his astonishment and will, even though the knife often slipped and cut flesh above the elbow he hadn’t meant to harm.

“God-fucking-dammit,” Bucky swore, grunting as he made another deep cut.

His hand was shaking so badly that he was afraid he would drop the knife and lose it in the snow.

Soon, though, as the wind whipped and his back was completely soaked through with blood and snow, everything slowly went numb. He didn’t look down again but the pain faded the slightest bit even as the noise of the hacking still echoed around him. The sickening sound of cutting his limb off.

He could almost pretend, for a split second, that he was cutting something—not his arm, but the reality wasn’t so kind. He was going to lose his arm, fuck, fuck. 

But he remembered that it was necessary to live. To get back to Steve before he died of hypothermia. He had to.

Bucky took a deep breath and forced those thoughts out of his head. He needed to focus, he couldn’t afford to panic. Instead, he honed in on his heartbeat, thundering with adrenaline in his chest, he could hear and feel the echo of it in his pulse points.

Sweat trickled down his forehead despite the cold and it itched something fierce. 

It seemed to work. His thoughts faded and faded until it was but a whisper, a hint of pain. After what seemed like an age, he hit the remaining shattered bone. Bucky only became aware of this when the knife's metal squeaked and the push and slicing became a lot harder. He wheezed out a sob.

“Gotta get back to Steve,” he mumbled to himself through his pain. Delirious from it. Over and over. 

The snow around his fallen body was saturated with red, he knew that and he still refused to look. He never did like blood all that much.

Bucky forced himself not to take a break, just kept sawing and hacking around his broken bone. If he stopped he’d lose more energy, he’d get weak and he’d die. It was, once again, not a clean cut and Bucky nearly blacked out more often than not.

After the first time, his vision swam and bile rose in his throat, he was forced to pause slightly and suck in icy breaths in short, frantic gasps before continuing. 

The wet crunch of brittle bone edges snapping, and the snick of steel through muscle, echoed in the quiet air and told him he couldn’t stop yet—he couldn’t stop.

The only break he took was when the smell of so much blood made him gag and in doing so he nearly passed out again. He sagged back against the rock and snow and took a series of shallow breaths when he did so.

“Almost there,” he muttered to himself. No one else was around to hear it. “Almost done, please.” 

And without looking he prayed he was right. It was better to finish, he had already done most of the damage. His muscles, flesh, and bone were open to the world.

“I just…wanna go home,” Bucky pleaded brokenly after the last short-second break. Not caring if he sounded weak and pathetic, wishing for what he couldn’t have.

He became desperate as it went on, the knife trembled uncontrollably in his grip. 

He was crying again. His mind was sluggish and loopy.

Bucky raised the knife back up and chopped at his remaining flesh. The pain had dulled–the cold numbed him further, yet he still winced and shuddered.

He needed to find Steve who probably thought he was dead.

But soon his mind seemed to go numb along with his body and his last thoughts were of dancing in the living room, before his knife went through the last of his flesh, and his right hand thudded to the ground in exhaustion.

He couldn’t move much anymore, his energy had faded, and he lost feeling in everything as he bled out. 

He breathed before his gaze landed on the stump again that had been his arm and he began to sob harder, ignoring his ribs. 

With a ragged gasp, Bucky began to drag himself away from the rocks and what remained of his arm. He had no other supplies that fell with him and his gun got knocked off when he was hit on the train, that much he could remember. 

All he had now was his blue jacket, and he knew he was going to bleed out long before help arrived before he could move more. Nobody would come. Not in time. 

He can’t bleed out. He needs to get back.

Bucky leaned over into the snow and awkwardly lifted his blood-soaked knife again. He ripped and cut the bottom of his coat until he had a strip of cloth long enough to wind around his wound, and then tucked the knife away.

He began tying the cloth just above the wound, using his teeth and his trembling fingers to secure the numbing limb.

Bucky knew the hard part was over, what could possibly be harder than sawing his fucking limb off, and that spurred him to move out of the puddle of blood.

He dragged himself across the snow, hands, and fingers turning blue from the cold.

No animals were around, hidden by snow banks. It was as if he was truly alone in the world. He couldn’t hear any of his men calling for him or Steve - they had to be many miles away from him by now.

He crawled, dragging his battered body behind him, using only his right arm until he glanced up in the direction he was trying to head and saw, heart-dropping, a band of serious-looking men with fur hats and thick coats making their way toward him.

He couldn’t have made a better target if he tried. Bucky tried to move away faster, he tried to reach for the knife but collapsed, he had lost too much blood, now, and his eyes were drooping.

No, don’t you dare pass out, he told himself. Move. Move–

But he couldn’t.

The men, on the other hand, were in possession of both hands and considerably more blood. They overtook him quickly, their gloved hands gripped his limbs and while he tried lashed out and cursed at the first one who approached him and grabbed his knife, it wasn’t hard, in the end, for them to subdue him.

He could hardly see straight, his vision finally fading and he gave in. 

I’m so sorry, Steve.

The last thing he saw as they dragged him by his remaining arm was the familiar red embroidered octopus and skull symbol on the man's coat. Hydra.

A fear like any he’d ever known gripped his chest.

He couldn’t struggle, couldn’t do anything. Bucky let the pain and cold consume him, knowing that after everything, he’d rather never wake up again than face Hydra. 

Please, he couldn’t. Not again.

Please, no.

^

Bucky woke up.

It was to pain and cold.

Despite everything, he woke up, despite wishing he never would. 

He’d lost track of how long it had been since opened his eyes, found himself immobile, splayed flat against a table, tilted at an eighty-degree angle with each limb, even his stump, strapped down. 

The reality set in. Seized his lungs. He felt like he couldn’t breathe. 

His head was clogged like he’d been dosed, pain swarmed him and it was inescapable. He was back…Hydra got him. It wasn’t some sick twisted dream. He had fallen from the train, back in the hands of the people who fucked him up the first time.

Oh god. His breathing speeds up despite the pain everywhere; his ribs, his head, his missing limb. He can’t breathe, can’t breathe—

No, Barnes. Get it together. This is what they want, you can’t, you can’t…

He passed out eventually. 

Bucky’s woken again by the pain, the curdling stabbing sensation coursing through his body, with no alleviation in sight. The pain from the remains of his arm was the worst.

When it wasn’t aching or sending him into fits of cries it itched weirdly, like his brain couldn’t comprehend that it was gone. He noted that his broken ribs had healed wrong and he was starved. 

Then the soldier-looking men came. Hydra. They yelled words in Russian that Bucky could not understand, and spat in his face even though he was too weak to talk or move. 

They carried with them a bowl of small pale tablets, like medicine, his supposed meals from now on. It tasted like dirt, doing nothing to fend off the pains in his stomach. The ‘food’ was shoved down his throat, he nearly choked when his jaw worked faster to chew it.

Hydra would not care if he choked and died, but apparently covering his hacked up arm was important. And they certainly weren’t kind enough to dish out food more than once a week it seemed.

They wanted him weak, malleable.

Bucky got water, it was murky and smelly and if he didn’t drink fast enough the guard would dump it over him and he’d be forced to sit in the cold, shivering till he passed out from exhaustion, pain, and dehydration.

They stripped him of his shirt and he was left in nothing but ripped pants as he sat on the metal examination table.

His left arm had been dressed and bandaged, but the doctors took an innate liking to it each time they’d come in and see if he was still alive. The first few days he spent were in a delirious fever when his wounds became infected, he couldn’t stay conscious through the pain no matter how hard he tried.

The worst of all was when he finally had the energy to talk. His first words were something along the lines of, “Don’t fucking touch me!” 

But the guard had merely laughed before another came in with what looked like a whip. 

Bucky received three lacerations for each word, but he was a stubborn bastard and spoke again anyway.

“Goddamn sleazes,” he growled weakly to the guards, his chest bled slowly from the quick, sharp snap of the leather. It stung. 

The next moment, the sound of the whip cracked in the small tiled room and Bucky screamed as it made contact with his flesh again.

One of the men grinned. “Be quiet, soldier. Your cries will reach no one here. подчиняться.” 

Obey.

Bucky learned the hard way, hit after hit, slice after slice, punch after punch as they rebroke his ribs and cut his skin–he didn’t talk back anymore. One man even grabbed the remains of his left arm in anger and Bucky had blacked out almost immediately.

Refusal to comply meant pain. Sleeping meant pain. Talking meant pain. If he’d pass out he’d be woken with pain. 

“You must learn to take the pain, солдат. Do not bend so easily.”

Learn to take the pain, soldier.

Each day, or maybe it was every few hours, they’d come in with their cart of devices, whether it be a whip, knife, electric shock, or flame, they’d start all over again. Fucking bastards knew how to get creative.

“How much can you take?”

Bucky screwed his mouth shut. 

“How quiet can you be?”

He hardly made a sound anymore. The Hydra soldier with crooked teeth had a dark gleam in his eyes when Bucky was able to withstand thirty lacerations without making a sound.

He’d retreat into the recesses of his mind, block out everything and wait until it was done. It was the only way to cope, the only brief escape, but then again, Hydra made sure he felt every hit regardless.

“Listen. Do not speak.”

If he was quiet, they let up sooner or they’d go till he eventually cracked when the pain became too much. They’d find his limit and it would start all over again the next day until that limit stretched and stretched till he had no voice left to scream.

Bucky noticed, as well as the doctors with sickening glee, that he healed a lot quicker than normal. The burns and scars were gone within a few days, it just made Hydra all the more determined.

Time went on, how much–well, of that, Bucky was unsure. All he could do was sit and wait. He’s been attuned to snap to alertness, even during sleep, when the sound of the door opens.

Eventually, though, the smell of the room was finally getting to him, the blood and piss especially. He’d be allowed one bathroom break a day and they'd haul him over to the small can at the end of the room and watch, always ready to strike if he dared to run, but he hadn’t fought back in days.

“I wanna go home,” Bucky mumbled into the barren room, his mind fogged as he lay out on the table. His voice was hardly above a whisper, still shot from screaming himself hoarse. 

He didn’t even know who he was talking to or if anyone could hear him.

A door opened behind him, and he could tell by the lighter footsteps that it was one of the doctors. 

“Ah, James Barnes. Sergeant, 32557421,” said the person, and Bucky waited for them to walk around the table. He remained still. 

The man was short and pudgy with square spectacles and the beginnings of a beard. He was dressed entirely in black, though on his shoulder a patch with the Hydra insignia had been sewn on. 

“You had been holding out for weeks now. I’ve been watching, and your stubbornness still surprises me, soldier.”

It was Zola. He was back. Their mission on the train was all for nothing, maybe he was imagining it, but still, Bucky glared. A feeling bubbled inside him he hadn't felt in a long time and he dared to speak finally. “Go to hell you fuckin’ snake,” he rasped.

Zola tisked. “That is not the answer I was hoping for, but it did always take you a few tries to get it right.”

“That's the only answer you’re gonna get,” Bucky sneered, his voice was lost and weak. 

Zola smiled, a terrifying curl of his thin, bloodless lips. “Так вы думаете.”

So you think.

Zola’s stupid smile was just like before when he had captured Bucky all those months ago, and it was like he had never escaped. Right back at the man's mercy. Zola walked in a wide circle as he spoke, and came to rest just behind him. Bucky tensed, the terror rolled through him when he couldn’t see the man anymore.

Suddenly Zola leaned in closer to whisper, “You have nothing to fight for anymore, soldier.”

Bucky gritted his teeth. “The hell are you talking about?”

“It is what I know,” Zola corrected. “You realize, do you not, that you will soon fight for Hydra? Вы будете нашим самым большим успехом.”

You will be our greatest success.

Bucky rolled his eyes, tugging at the leather strap over his chest for the hundredth time despite the burns on his busted-up skin. “That’ll never happen, chucklehead.”

“Oh?”

Bucky said nothing, he only had one arm, and he was weak from lack of sleep, food, and water. The yellow light of the room burned his eyes but knew full well the only way he could plausibly escape was if someone came to rescue him or if death claimed him.

He hoped each time he fell asleep that he’d never wake. No one was coming. No one knew he was even alive.

Bucky was well and truly at the mercy of Hydra but he’d still fight ‘till the bitter end.

He could take the pain. He had to.

“Are you thinking about your daring and imminent escape?” Zola asked, sounding bored out of his mind. “Because no one is coming for you, Sergeant. Your good Captain is dead.”

Bucky froze and Zola walked back to where he could see him. The doctor looked gleeful now. “Oh yes, I forgot. You do not get the news down here. Nearly two weeks ago, Captain America crashed a plane into the Arctic. He is gone, Sergeant, the only man who would look for you is gone. No one will come. Ты один.” 

You are alone.

“You’re lying,” Bucky croaked. He began to struggle weakly, tears welling up, though none fell. “You’re lying!” He bellowed.

Steve can’t be dead. No, no, no, not Steve.

“I am not,” the doctor said and showed Bucky a newspaper clipping he had folded in his pocket.

War Hero Captain America Dies In Plane Crash Over Arctic Saving Thousands, it read.

There was a picture of Steve at the top, the face Bucky fought to remember, all big and strong. 

Oh god. Steve. Bucky remembered, even as he bled out into the snow, as he had no hope to live, he knew he would fight to get back to Steve or die trying. He remembered the person Steve had been, who he was buried under all the propaganda and duty. 

Memories of it all, their first kiss, their first dance, Steve’s rescue mission, his drawings, all swept over Bucky like a tidal wave he was unprepared for. His Stevie.

Bucky’s eyes carefully read each word, over and over, as if that could change their meaning. He felt sick, gutted.

It had to be a joke. Some kind of mind trick.

“No,” Bucky said quietly, voice cracking. Zola, however, could probably see the horror spreading across his face, the panic in his voice. “No, no, it can’t be!”

He began thrashing harder, using the last of his strength as a few tears trickled down his cheeks. “You’re lying!” He screamed. “You made that up, you son of a bitch! Steve isn’t dead!”

“Did you really think he would last long without you?” Zola asked and lowered the paper. “I had heard of you two, you know. Your team. I had heard that you looked out for him in your home and on the battlefield. The Commandos, the SSR…they are not his family, not like you. Just as he is your family, no?”

“He isn’t dead,” Bucky whispered. His lips were chapped and flaking, bleeding slightly after his outburst had split them open. His body shook. 

“He is,” Zola promised. “The sooner you accept that the easier this will be for you.”

Bucky just stared, shocked and desperate, until Zola turned on the electric current attached to his limbs and he jolted, his back arches from the pain but he didn’t cry out. His mind was elsewhere.

He failed to notice Zola staring back in surprise until the current stopped altogether and the doctor said, “It seems you are finally ready, Soldat.”

“No…” Bucky repeated, unaware that the doctor had left. His heart beat erratically. Steve can’t be dead.

Bucky was left in the room, alone and he cried endlessly. He wailed until one of the guards came in, took pity on him, and began the beating earlier. Bucky was almost thankful. 

The lashings ground him and kept his broken mind occupied from his spiraling thoughts. 

Pure despair crushed his bones and heart, he couldn’t seem to catch his breath when that pure smile was everywhere in his mind. Memories swept him away from reality.

His pure, bright, good, and brave Steve, was gone. Dead. He can’t…

There was no reason to fight.

Steve became his everything–friend, family, lover–and yet…the reality of Steve being dead left a gaping hole in his chest. It left him feeling untethered and lost.

Bucky never even got to tell Steve, I love you. 

He remembered their last night curled together at the camp they set up. He remembered looking into those baby blues, the center of his world, seeing past the persona his Captain displayed for everyone, but not for him, and smiling as he kissed Steve’s rosey lips. Held him close, desperate for warmth. 

Their small moments of peace made him feel like they could take on the world just him and their band of misfits. 

He’d go anywhere with Steve but Bucky never realized it would be the last time for all of that. He lost Steve all over again.  

Every single terrible, bitter, agonizing, haunting, burning moment of his life, every knife to his gut and scar to his body from Hydra, happened all over again at that moment. 

Echoes of ghosts past would come back for him, to take everything he had all over again in one excruciating phrase. 

“Captain America is dead.”

With one single word, one death, one loss, one less light in this world - Bucky had nothing.

Without giving himself proper time to grieve he shuts down, just like blocking out the torture, but now he blocked out everything until he was nothing but numb and malleable for Hydra. 

Their solider.

His time spent on the table after that all passed in a blur, until one day, Zola returned this time with two guards and another small doctor in a white coat. 

Zola looked at Bucky, then to the guard at his shoulder. “Отчет.”

Report, Zola told the man and the guard replied in Russian. But Bucky still couldn’t understand shit, he didn’t care to. “He’s been docile. Like a cat. Hardly scratches or fights anymore. He hasn’t spoken or moved in two days.”

Zola smiles in Bucky’s peripheral. 

“Excellent.” 

The other doctor moved then to stand next to the table Bucky was strapped to and beckoned one of the guards forward.

The guard held a large case and placed it on one of the carts.

“We must get you ready,” the new doctor said in a heavy accent, his tone pleasant. “This will make you better.”

Bucky didn’t have the words to speak as the doctor picked up what looked like a saw from one of the carts. Fear finally sparked within him as the doctor placed the blade directly above his left shoulder without further delay.

Oh no, no, don’t fucking tell him they were–

Zola laughed. “This is only the beginning, Soldier.”

The machine switched on. Bucky couldn’t contain his scream, he could hardly move as it was, and the doctor began to saw at the rest of his left arm, cutting it off completely at the shoulder.

Then it all went dark. They had found his breaking point, his tolerance and he could not escape the void. 

The sounds of slicing, metal grinding, tools picking, and prodding at his arm, couldn’t be blocked out. Scalpels and blades dug in, deeper and deeper. His entire left shoulder was nothing but a playground for the doctors.

When he woke again he was no longer in the same yellow, grimy room. There was no tile this time, just concrete walls and a flurry of white lab coats skittering around in front of him.

“He’s waking, doctor.”

Bucky was laying on a different table but this time only his chest was strapped down, leaving his legs and arm…

He noticed the weight immediately. It wasn’t necessarily heavy, but it was mildly uncomfortable and cold. He looked down to see his entire left arm had been replaced by a shiny, silver metal and it eerily resembled a human arm. 

He lifted the offending limb, and it took no extra effort, like it was his real arm and he stared; transfixed. He didn’t know what to think.

The metal whirled with noise and he made a fist, the same as he could with his real arm and the metal digits curled. 

Bucky had been staring at it blankly, unresponsive, until he noticed one of the doctors lean closer as his fingers bent and flexed and he grabbed them by their throat, squeezing.

Nothing but a blind rage flowed through him. Hydra had forced this onto his body, this foreign metal like it would replace his real arm. It was like a brand and he hated it. The metal arm whirled again and the doctor’s eyes were panicked but Bucky’s face betrayed nothing and his torso strained against the restraints.

They experimented on him, made him some kind of machine– 

“Enough,” Zola said and gripped his metal wrist. Suddenly, he lost control of his arm and it spasmed as electricity rang through. 

He groaned and let go.

“Start the chair, we need to wipe his mind now. It seems Mr. Barnes is ready to get moving.”

Bucky struggled in earnest against the straps on his chest, his new metal monstrosity was now a dead, heavy weight at his side and he snarled when the guards came closer.

“At ease,” the one demanded. What looked like a metal baton in his hand was raised and ready, should he not comply. 

Something was injected into his neck, a needle, and his struggles soon ceased, his body falling limp just like the metal limb and the doctors and guards moved in. Zola stood off to the side, watchful and eager.

“Добро пожаловать на Гидру, солдат,” Zola said to him. Welcome to Hydra, soldier. Then Bucky was lifted from the table. “Try to remember your name, rank, and number. Surely, you can do that again, right?”

They’d played this game before, Bucky’s tongue weighed as much as rocks and he couldn’t speak but he ran through his name, rank, and serial number just like before. He wouldn’t forget this time, he wouldn’t forget. He promised Steve.

James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557421. James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557421. James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557421.

Not again, not again. 

He’s lowered onto a chair, hardly having time to look at the machine behind him before his right arm and the monstrosity fused to his left side were trapped down, along with his ankles, before something large and noisy lowered over his head and left eye. 

No, no, no, no–

“At ease, soldat,” he hears someone repeat, a small rubber guard is shoved into his mouth right before the electricity starts. 

“Steve!” Bucky’s muffled scream was blocked by the mouthguard before he couldn’t remember or voice his thoughts and resorted to just screaming long wails that echoed horribly through the room.

“This is just the beginning.”

^

“Repeat after me,” Zola says to Bucky who’s tied down to a chair, bleeding, on the verge of passing out.

They’d been teaching him Russian and some German for what seemed like hours. Each time he messed up he’d receive a hit from the metal pole. If he made the same mistake twice his kneecaps would be re-broken. 

“Вы солдат Гидры. Вы будете подчиняться.”

You are Hydras soldier. You will obey.

Bucky wets his lips to speak, trying to block out the mind-numbing pain. “Вы с…cолдат Гидры. Вы…будете подчиняться.”

“Хороший. Снова,” Zola demands. 

Good. Again.

But Bucky was so goddamn tired, he fought every second not to close his eyes and let his mind fade into oblivion. He muttered a small, “Go…f-fuck yourself,” instead. 

Zola sighed and the guard stepped forward. Bucky held back a whimper.  

They dumped a bucket of ice water over his head when he passed out. Blood, sweat, and water dripped down his torso and metal arm. 

“Он готов к стулу,” Zola told the guard. “Я не хочу слышать ничего, кроме его криков, прежде чем мы начнем сначала.”

Bucky, fighting with everything he had, understood what the man had said but he was helpless to do anything.

He is ready for the chair. I want to hear nothing but his screams before we start over.

^

Bucky fights. He fights with every goddamn bone in his body that hasn’t been broken yet. Even when he doesn’t remember who he is or where he is most of the time.

He spits in the guard's faces and turns away when they try to speak to him. He takes the punishments without noise, he refuses to comply. His efforts are swiftly met. They look forward to his screams, they do not mind a challenge.

Sometimes he passes out. Sometimes they drag it out and he feels the pain in his waking and unconscious moments. The hurt never stops.

The worst, though, is when he wakes in the yellow room, unaware. So completely knocked that when his metal arm whirls with noise as the gears shift it startles him, and it startles him badly. The first time he was left alone he tried to rip the damn thing off.

He stares at the metal. It is cold and the feeling seems to spread throughout his entire body. He is sick of being cold. Bucky reaches up with his hands to trace over the scarred flesh of his shoulder where flesh and metal meet, he runs a finger along the bumpy edge.

Flashes of the surgery wash over him. Metal, pain, pain pain, so much pain. There is a scraping noise, metal tools dig and prod, and he feels each slice and cut.

Too much pain. It was too much. The arm brought him pain, he hated it. 

“This will make you better.”

No, no, no. He didn’t want it, he didn’t want it, it was a brand - they’re trying to control him.

Bucky feels his fingernails begin to dig at the flesh of his shoulder. Pain explodes through the area as blood drips, he yells and digs harder, furiously. Off, off, it needed to come off, he didn’t want it–

Voices are yelling, “Stop him! Stop him now!”

He screams and tears viciously at the remaining skin. He doesn’t care that his fingers are soaked with warm liquid, doesn’t care as the red travels down the metal. Electricity rings through the arm, wanting him to stop, but he doesn’t care.

A needle goes into his neck, and at the same time, hands grip his flesh arm viciously, pulling it away. He falls limp, pushed onto his back and he sobs weakly, his body jolts and he cries till the sedatives bring him silence.

He wakes to an achy head, a pounding that wouldn’t stop. 

Bucky…no, not Bucky…Zol—no, his handler, called him something else. Asset, yes, or soldat. He had no name.

He had disappointed his handler. He recognized the mugginess of his thoughts due to the sedatives. He had done something wrong.

He couldn't muster the concentration to block out the agony coursing through his body. He managed to think, squeezing his eyes shut against what felt like knife stabs all over his head.

If the asset can't concentrate on anything but how much his head hurts, that means he can't think about other things.

Like the overwhelming numbness that was gnawing at his insides and arm, or the cause for it.

He had a sudden pang of guilt; he'd been dumped on the cold ground of the yellow room after disappointing his handler. He should not have done that.

He was made to obey and serve. Повиноваться и служить. Obey and serve. 

He bit his lip, a thought making its way through despite the blinding pain in his skull.

He curled into a fetal position, naked and shivering against the tiled ground. Blood and other bodily substances lay around him but he was too weak to move. His stomach gurgled at a constant rate from hunger but the asset was only fed through small tasteless tablets and he’d already had his share. 

Asset's who disappoint do not get food. 

The asset covered his head with his good hand, the other was unresponsive and pulled it over his eyes to block out all light and sound; the slightest bit of either seemed to make the pain worse, and he didn't really want that.

What he wanted was...

Sleep, oblivion.

Electricity rang through his metal arm and into his diaphragm every time he felt his eyes close. He didn’t scream but his muscles contracted and the pain in his head doubled. 

Asset obeyed. No sleeping. He will not disappoint again. 

^

“Get off me!” Bucky screamed at the guards pinning him to the ground.

His metal arm whirled with noise, ready to strike until electricity coursed through and it fell limp. 

Bucky spasms on the ground leaving the guards with enough time to push him against it. Every one of his limbs was held against the cool tiled floor.  

“You will behave, Soldat,” his handl—no, dammit, Zola spoke above him. He sounded disappointed. 

But he shouldn’t care, he shouldn’t. 

Bucky growled, blood seeped past his lips drooling on the ground below his chin till he was dragged to his feet. Four guards surrounded him, and at the wave of a hand, they released his arms and descended on him with their bats. 

“I do not wish to punish you, but behavior like this is not tolerated,” Zola said.

Bucky hardly registered the words. The constant hit of the rods against his exposed chest was like a spreading fire.

One after one they came. Never stopping, never slowing. 

The pain brought dark edges to Bucky’s vision but he knew he couldn’t pass out. He knew what the guards would do if he passed out, splayed vulnerable.

“Я представляю! Я представляю!” Bucky yelled. 

I submit! I submit! 

The hits stopped. 

Dress shoes came into his vision, he hardly noticed he had collapsed to the ground again. Zola spoke above him, “Ты подчиняешься, солдат?” 

Do you submit, soldier? 

Bucky whimpered. His body shook, he could feel the blood trickle from his skin; could feel the welts forming. “Да, я представляю. Пожалуйста,” he cried. 

Yes, I submit. Please.

But Zola simply sighed. “I’d believe you, soldat, but Hydra does not beg. You should know that.”

Bucky curled in on himself, letting out a defeated sob, until he was hauled up again by the guards. His vision blurred and he could hardly see the doctor's face.

“Take him to the chair.”

Bucky was barely lucid as he was strapped in, he couldn’t concentrate. All his mind could circle back to was a face.

A beautiful, familiar face he’d seen so many times. 

The person's name was on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to speak their name, beg them to come back and save him until electricity coursed through his brain, and that name was lost again.

^

“Солдат готов,” one of the guards spoke to the doctor. His handler.

The soldier is ready.

The asset remained still, poised, and attentive; listening but never speaking. Steady against the wall, waiting. He has been trained over months to stay this way. The conversation begins around him.

“Тренировка прошла успешно, солдат хорошо реагирует…но начал вспоминать.”

The training was successful, and the soldier responds well…but he has begun to remember.

The white coats and the guards stood around him as he was ready to be wiped again. One had their gun trained on him, always cautious in case he moved but he remained still, yet. Complying. He had made a mistake earlier, the asset did not make mistakes, he failed—showed weakness. 

He saw something, a flash, a memory. Плохой. Bad. He’s not supposed to think like that and his handler, the short doctor, was mad. 

He had already been reprimanded physically, with a metal pole this time ‘till he stopped squirming. Pushing away the tightness in his chest at the thought of the electric chair. It was one of the many punishments he did not enjoy; he could not find it in himself to block out the pain.

It hurt, more than the others, it was harder to ignore, but he stayed silent as he waited.

The asset did not show weakness.

“You do not have a voice here, soldat. Don’t make me say it again.”

The Asset had spoken about dancing earlier, a slip of the tongue. Asset did not speak out loud directly without being asked, nor did he dance. The doctor's eye twitched and he sighed before motioning for the other men to drag him to the chair after they explained what happened.

He settled down, fighting the urge to rip out the closest soldier's throat and the doctor who waited patiently for him to open his mouth to place the bitter rubber inside.

He opened and sunk back against the chair, waiting for them to strap him in. Stay still. Comply. At ease. Comply. The cold metal plate fit over his head. His handler walked over to switch on the machine and then it started.

Hot, white fire flowed through his mind; his handler, guards, and the white coats watched unblinkingly as he was reduced to screams. 

Pain. Familiar pain. Obey. Comply. Obey. Comply.

His mind blanked, and he heaved a shallow breath, his sweaty hair stuck to his forehead. The electricity stopped after a minute and so did his yells. His mind buzzed, short-circuiting. 

“Soldat,” the guard demanded.

The Asset’s expression was dazed, blank as he waited for instructions. The guard began to recite the activation words in Russian, “Longing. Rusted. Seventeen. Daybreak. Furnace. Nine. Benign. Homecoming. One. Freight car.”

He latched onto the words, the tone, which was calling him something, that could take away the emptiness in his mind. The asset needed to comply.

“Я готов подчиниться,” he replied back tonelessly and sat up at attention when his restraints were removed. The other doctor's hand shook as they undid the metal clamp over his left arm.

His response made his handler nod approvingly.

“Very good.”

The asset stood from the chair once he was released and the guard stepped back, hand itching for his gun.

The short doctor stepped forward, then, before saying, “Name, rank, and serial number.”

But the asset did not speak right away. He had no name, rank, or serial number. It was a test. He merely stared ahead and said in Russian again, “I am ready to comply.”

This made his handler's face split into a smile. “Now we can begin the programming.”

^

“Wipe him.”

He screamed. His mouth tasted of ash and blood, the rubber did little to help. Afterward, as the jolts running through his body dissipated, the asset remained silent and ready. His chest heaved.

The activation words in Russian came next, it only made sense.

“Longing, rusted…”

His handler asked once the machine on his head moved, “Name, rank, and number.”

It was a test. His handler was always testing but today the asset was slower on the uptake, his brain struggled to keep up because of the pain. 

“Re…ready to comply.”

He replied in English, his mind buzzed; wrong, wrong, wrong.

His handler's expression turned stony, clearly displeased. “Again,” his handler said. 

The guards pushed him back down in the chair, the rubber was shoved into his mouth and it started all over. 

^

The asset's flesh hand was burned the first time they let him pick up a gun.

The guards warned him that it would be much worse next time if he grabbed it without permission ever, a precaution, but he had only been doing as told.

Asset always asked for permission when allowed to speak. He did not enjoy the lick of flames against his delicate hand, nor the slicing of leather on his toughened skin.

He complied.

They did not deactivate his metal arm when he was allowed to shoot, he needed to practice with the new adaption. Short or up close, one-handed or blindfolded, he never missed.

The asset was not allowed to miss.

“Хороший. Снова.”

Good. Again.

Next came knives. They were small and easy to throw, and even as they cut and sliced his flesh hand during training when he slipped up, his metal one was durable and faster. It was the preferred arm. Agile and swift.

He did not complain about the constant ache in his shoulder for the first few weeks. 

It did not take him long to learn to move the arm without a blinding ache as it was connected to his body and nerves. He didn’t complain about the tearing of his shoulder muscles as they adapted.

Embrace the pain. Adapt. Comply. Obey.

He never missed the target. He got quick. The knives were easy and hideable, almost unnoticeable in the right spots against the enemy and he learned to throw multiple at a time.

Each moved in its own purposeful direction against the target, swift as they pierced through the air. Sometimes flesh.

His handler seemed proud as he stood behind the glass on the other side of the training room observing, watching, and jotting notes down on paper. The asset's skills improved, along with his reaction times, if they did not—Hydra would be displeased. 

They’d take away meal time and bathroom breaks, and he didn’t mind the pain anymore but still did as asked. Obey. Comply. Submit. That’s all he was made to do.

He did not want to face the chair.

The targets in the wall soon moved to strange people when it became clear the guards did not want to interfere with his hand-to-hand combat training. A cool, calm persona passed over his face when nothing ran through his head but obey, or attack. 

It was clear the guards wanted no part in it but sometimes they didn’t mind so much outside his time in the small yellow room.

“Well, haven’t you gotten good,” one of the guards purred in his ear. The guards didn’t often speak English. The man was an old Soviet who smelled of gun oil and salt. The asset stood still, eyes trained forward as the guard trailed a sweaty finger up his neck. “Такая хорошая собака.”

Such a good dog.

During training, the asset was instructed to practice throwing and shooting at strangers and prisoners who were brought in.

They screamed and begged in languages he did not yet understand, but their pleas for help were unmistakable.

He hardly blinked or twitched as the bound bodies were dragged in front of him and the guards told him, “начинать.” Begin.

Guns, whether big or small, fit comfortably in his hand; he preferred shooting with his right but it was more steady with his left. It was easy to pick up a gun, aim, and shoot. It came naturally.

The guards and his handler wanted the prisoners dead, so he complied, they were known enemies or spies trying to infiltrate Hydra. A gun to the head was quick, simple, but his handler sometimes wanted it to last. 

A knife to the pressure point below the ribs was painful, the person could bleed out in less than ten minutes and die.

Easier than all, a simple squeeze from his metal hand around the person's soft, delicate throat was enough too.

“Good. Again.”

Whether there were targets on walls or people, he complied. 

“You are made to serve Hydra, and Hydra alone. Failure to comply is not an option.”

The night before his first mission was spent in his handler's observatory room. The short doctor fitted a heavy, black mask to his face, grinning when he clipped it into place behind his ears.

It was strange to wear, and harder to breathe, but he carried the extra weight without any complaints. 

His handlers fingers are warm on his neck, brushing just under the line of the mask, over his pulse. Bucky can feel his heartbeat, can hear it in his ears; just a steady, rhythmic thud, thud, thud.

Sometimes his heartbeat speeds up when he's being placed in the chair, images of blood, chaos, smoke, ice, cold, scalpels cutting into his shoulder, sharp metal, and his pulse is loud in his ears then, too: but so is the sharp tat, tat, tat, tat of gunfire.

Soon though as electricity courses through his body, he forgets, mind mendable and blank without thought. Obey. Until he’s put back in over and over.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Like a whip cracking.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

It is familiar, almost hypnotic. Like gunfire.

Aside from the mask, Bucky is naked to the bone. His hair falls to his chin, longer at the back where it tickles the nape of his neck – it brushes where his handler's thumb presses over his pulse point, catching the hair, and shifting it out of the way.

The harsh lights in the sterile room illuminate his bare skin. Doctors and guards stood behind watching and waiting.

Bucky lets out a quiet sigh. It catches in his mask, the warm breath ghosting back over his own lips.

“You are ready at last,” his handler says, mouth pressing in a damp line. He steps away to admire. “Stealth is important, солдат,” his handler says, gesturing to the mask. His tone is joyful, intrigued with his work. “You have been very, very good for us.”

His mind swirls, challenging but he’s silent. Obey. Comply. But he is not good.

Memories, more often than not, come in snatches of fits and starts. Sometimes on the tip of his tongue, frustratingly out of reach when he cannot speak, and other times choking him, filling his throat with bile and drowning him. 

No good soldier would be distracted by so much nuisance. 

Some days he yearns for the chair no matter how painful and mind-numbing it is. It pleases his handler to start with a clean slate.

Asset can be good.

A hand from behind pushes his flesh shoulder and he falls forward a little bit, tilting on his knees as he avoids hitting the floor but then the hand pushes harder, wanting him down and he complies.

He falls forward onto his bare knees that knock harshly against the floor. “Down,” the guard behind him snarls and he moves. On all fours now, his hair falls over his cheeks, over the material of the mask, and everything is dim, bronze light and the sound of his handlers intaking breath above him. One hand was hot and firm on his shoulder. The floor is solid under his knees. “Good dog.”

He can’t help but shift slightly on his hands before his handler takes in a noise that catches in his throat, and he sees the man’s body tense disapprovingly and hears a sigh. 

“Can you stay like that, Soldat?” The doctor asks, and the asset nods, head ducking between his shoulders.

“Да сэр,” he replies. Yes, sir. There is no point in answering most of the time–he is trained to listen and follow orders without question. The orders make everything simple. Yes, sir.

There are no tough decisions, there is no pushing through one day to the next to fight orders. 

“Good,” his handler says. “We will see you tomorrow then.” And he leaves. The other white coats follow as do the guards.

The asset is often only left alone when in a locked room by himself for sleep or punishment, though he knows small mechanical devices watch from the ceiling. He stays put, on all fours–hands and knees, for hours. Obey. Silent. Comply.

It aches, but he welcomes it. The distraction.

He dozes every few minutes. He holds his position on his hands and knees, back straight as a board. He is present in his body, aware, but not exposed. He is naked, but not vulnerable when alone: just malleable. Ready to be formed to their inclination upon their return.

He breathes steadily, and deeply, eyes locked and a little defocused on the grimy floor between his hands and he waits. 

He hears–doesn't see everything except the narrow, dim field of vision stripped from him–guards move around his body. He feels something crawl down his spine, like insects under his skin.

A hand moves from his shoulder to stroke over the line of his back, settling in the dip just at the base of his spine.

“Какая хорошая сучка, такой хороший мальчик,” the same guard from earlier whispers.

What a good little bitch, such a good boy. 

He knows that the time for his first mission has come when they force him to stand and he slips on a dark, full-coverage outfit. The sleeve for his left arm is gone, leaving the shiny metal exposed.

The mask remains over his face. 

He breathes out, breathes in, and comes back to the stillness. His muscles strain after having to hold the same position for so long, and his knees shake slightly, but he ignores it as he’s marched out of the room. 

His handler is waiting for him just next door. He’s then armed with different knives, two guns strapped to his back and thighs, the guard's hands secure the weapons to him as he stands patiently.

The doctor moves forward to check the tightness of his mask before patting his covered cheek, completely unafraid to touch, unlike the other doctors.

“Our greatest success,” his handler says faintly before smiling and waving to the guards at his sides. “Take him to the chair.”

He grinds his teeth, hidden by the mask, and follows. He’ll be wiped. Start fresh. No doubt for the mission parameters and the instructions waiting in the little red book.

“Your purpose is finally becoming of use.”

Yes. He is here to serve, obey and listen. He will be good. A good soldier, for Hydra. This time, as he’s strapped in, the metal of the machine rests over his head and left eye and he bites down on the rubber, the doctor is kind enough to give him a countdown.

“Готовый,” his handler says. Ready. “Starting in three…two…one.”

White, hot currents zing through his brain and he screams.

^

The asset does not flinch the first time his eyes track over the flat landscape bathed in bright sun, but as he stares it is as if he is seeing it for the first time, the stillness of life outside the square room they confide him in.

There is so much more to look at.

“Eyes ahead, dog,” the guard snaps.

His eyes remained steady, turning away from the front window of the car as the land passed around him in a blur. He cannot taste the fresh air behind his mask. 

The guards have their guns loaded as they head toward their first mission, while he sits and waits in the back of the vehicle.

Body tensed and prepared. Obey. Comply.

But his mind wanders and he can’t help but become distracted; the sun was a lot like the yellow light he stares at every day, it was familiar almost, and in the short glimpse he got, the land was not bathed in yellow.

It was colorful and nice.

^

“I see our work has paid off,” his handler grins once the mission was over and they had returned. The asset is quickly disarmed, standing at attention before everyone. Mission complete.

But his handlers grin quickly falls when one of the guards speaks up. “Актив работал хорошо, но ему часто нравилась внешняя сторона. Он начал слишком много думать.”

Asset performed well but took a liking to the outside often. He has begun to think too much.

It is true. The asset could not keep his gaze from wandering. He complied, yes, but wondered elsewhere internally.

His handler sighed. “Well, that is too bad, Soldat. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to do this so soon.”

He wonders if his handler is speaking about the chair but his curious thoughts are quickly answered.

“Take him to the cryo chamber. He is of no use to us anymore at the moment.”

The asset did not know what they were talking about. The white lab coats quickly strip him of his combat gear and mask until he is left with nothing. He’s escorted out of the room, down the hall into another he is unfamiliar with. 

A large vertical chamber stands in the center and he’s pushed towards it.

The guards shove their guns at his back till he steps inside, turning around to face them right as the door is closed. He can’t help the sharp intake of air he takes.

The capsule is small, with no room to wiggle or move but he is not supposed to. Obey. Comply. Silent, he reminds himself.

The short doctor looks through the small glass window inside at him. A strange expression falls over his face before he smiles again. “Sleep well, Soldat,” he says before his form disappears.

The cold startles him. It is painful, shockingly so, but he does not scream. 

He knows cold, he knows pain and while it stung, shocked desperate gasps out of him as his body tensed unexpectedly, he did not scream.

It did not compare to the chair, though it was just as uncomfortable, he was not used to this. His breaths slowed. Ice traveled and spread up his body, it shook him.

In his last breath, a trail of white air traveled past his lips and he raised his metal hand, which burned the worst before it all went dark.

^

-1971-

“The Winter Soldier, that’s what they’re calling him. It is fitting, no?”

“Quite.”

The doctors whispered to each other before looking up at the recently defrosted, silent man with the metal arm and red star. His gray eyes are lifeless as they are piercing and calculating. His naked form shakes ever so slightly. 

The epitome of destruction and intimidation Hydra stood for. Their puppet. Winter was surely a fitting name for a man who kills so easily. A trained Russian assassin.

They begin to prepare his mission once the man if that, is paraded to the middle of the room. Trained to be silent even as the guards point their guns at him, ready.

***

-2009-

Pierce grinds his teeth as the asset tears through another regime of their men trying to restrain him. They have been having breakthroughs in memory wipes, but unfortunately, once a month at most, the asset fights back. 

The asset begins to think beyond his desired parameters. Pierce has seen him take pain, the beatings, the electric shock and he remains impassive, but there are times when it is clear the trained assassin grows tired of the chair and acts out. 

It is rare, deliberately trained out of him by the Russians, yet today, it is clear that it’s one of those rare moments. 

Pierce nods his head and Rumlock and Rollins walk up to the vicious assassin with tranquilizers and electrical rods. The asset falls to his knees as Rumlow hits him across the face with the rod and Rollins jabs the needle in his neck. They’ve deactivated his metal arm at least.

He didn’t mind the extra efforts when the results were much more promising. The asset is what they need to keep Hydra alive and fighting on a physical front. 

He remembers negotiating with the Russians about moving the asset to America, into his hands, their only request was that the mask remained on his face during missions, that Pierce could find reason in.

They’ve had a couple of test runs, small missions to test his efficiency, but to say that the legends of the infamous Winter Soldier were misplaced would be an understatement.

The asset was good, better than anything Pierce has ever seen. He could do anything, comply with whatever he needed after a quick mind erase. 

Even though the asset hasn’t been the most cooperative in the beginning, especially when put in cryo too long and shipped over, he has proven to be considerably better adjusted.

He watches as the two guards haul the asset up from the floor and restrain him in the electric chair, the nervous doctors come forward to prep him.

Pierce walks up to the asset, face impassive, and stares at the glaring, dead, gray eyes.

“You haven’t been very well-behaved, soldier.”

The asset spits and it lands on his cheek. Rumlow backhands the asset, but it doesn’t even faze the other. Pierce takes out a cloth from his chest pocket and wipes away the saliva.

He turns, not looking back at the bound soldier. “Turn up the voltage, and wipe him.”

^

-2011-

“Pierce, sir. There’s something you need to see,” his assistant approaches him as he walks through the doors of the newly instated SHIELD headquarters. He looks over at the petit girl and takes the tablet from her hands.

She has a news report pulled up. WWII Hero Captain America Alive After 66 Years Presumed Dead, it reads.

He stares in surprise.

“Well, shit.”

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

Pierce looks up at the voice to see Nick Fury approaching. He hands the tablet back to his assistant and holds out his hand out for the man to shake. “I take it you’ve seen the news?” He asks.

“Heard about it. Read it. Seen it,” Nick says before pinning him with a look. “You and I need to have a conversation. Now.”

They travel up to Fury’s director's office. The man with the eye patch, his oldest friend, pushes a button that tints the glass window looking in, and sits on the corner of his desk.

Pierce can’t get a read on the man’s body language and shoves his hands into his pockets as he waits for the flare of dramatic effect.

Fury just stares, and Pierce finds that he doesn’t like the mistrust in the man’s eyes. He breaks the ice first. “So you met the fossil?”

“Captain America. Not face to face yet, he’s still under observation in Brooklyn, out cold.”

“But you’ve already told the press?”

“No, it seems they did a little digging of their own.”

“I see.” Their conversation is getting nowhere. Pierce checks his watch before sighing. “Nick, I don’t read minds, you brought me here for a reason I presume.”

Nick tilts his head slightly. That cold eye never once loses its alertness. “Your project. The one you’ve had for years, shipped in from Europe you never got my permission for. Is that still going well? I take it so ‘cause I haven’t had to interfere yet.”

Pierce barely holds back a snarl. “The soldier is responding well.” 

“James Barnes,” Fury supplies and folds his hands across his lap impatiently. “Your soldier is another fossil from the same goddamn decades as Captain America.”

Pierce nods. “I’m well aware.”

Fury’s right eye twitches. “You don’t think that if Captain America, who we hope will work together with SHIELD, is going to be happy we’re keeping his army buddy docile and locked up in the basement?”

“The man you speak of is not all there, Nick. So no, I don’t imagine the Captain would take that all too well,” Pierce grounds out. 

“Great, I’m glad we’re both on the same page,” Nick says. “So explain to me this: You’re little project, a mind-fucked Russian assassin, previously a U.S. soldier, who still has yet to prove his use to SHEILD or go out on SHIELD-approved missions, might still stand a chance when we have Captain America; still a U.S. soldier–who has just woken up from being a frozen popsicle and doesn’t know his buddy is alive. Why would I continue to support and fund your science experiment, Alexander, when I see every reason not to?”

His fists clench in his suit pockets. “My soldier has his uses and I’m happy to show them to you, Nick. As for your Captain, who has yet to know his friend is alive, I’d say for the sake of your job and responsibility as his new caretaker, you make fucking sure he doesn’t find out.”

Nick climbs off his desk and turns his back on him, moving to the window above the busy streets outside, but Pierce barrels on. “They both will have their uses, sir. As your friend and as your colleague I fail to see the downside to this situation. It’s the best of both worlds, two heroes working against a common enemy. This is exactly what SHIELD needs - you’ve said so yourself.”

It’s quiet for a moment, Fury keeps his back turned, his stoic posture closed off but Pierce knows his gears are turning.

If his friend wants anything more it’s to see SHIELD prosper and keep Captain America tucked in their little pocket.

“You want me to erase him from history,” Nick states matter-a-factly.

“It can be done, we have the technology.”

“To erase him from Captain America’s past?”

“It’s for the greater good,” Pierce adds. “Nobody, especially a newly awoken super-soldier, would want to see their friend like that. It would avoid risk. He’ll have no reason not to stay. Think about it.”

Pierce was nothing if not a persuader. Nick finally turns around, a decision clear on his face. 

“Fine. We’ll have it your way. I’ll take care of Rogers, prove to me that the ‘soldier’ you hide is worth my goddamn time.”

Pierce excuses himself and heads out of Fury’s office. The turn of events with Captain America is not what he had as part of the plan, but it would keep Fury and the whole world busy for as long as Pierce left the man breathing. 

Hydra would prosper again, destroy SHEILD from the inside out and he would be fucking exhilarated to wipe that assured look from Nick Fury’s face.

***

-2013-

From the moment Steve Rogers had been pulled out of the ice, and reinstated in the new world, people had tip-toed around him as though he was a time bomb bound to explode at any second. 

A poor old man lost in a new century, poor Steve—the man out of time, the man without a clue. 

It wasn’t as though he couldn’t see where they were coming from. Look at it rationally and you had a story dripping in confusion and pity, because while the world might see him as strong and brave Captain America - the face of liberty and a voice for justice, he was still just a twenty-six-year-old kid (ninety-six if you chose to look at it that way).

But he was also a man lost in a very new strange new world.

It wasn’t just the century drop that left Steve in an stress-fueled confusion either, it was also having to relearn how to live. What people often forgot was that before the ice, he was still just a fresh recruit to the army, new to war, new to the world, new to his own body.

The fighting came naturally enough; after a couple of hundred back-alley brawls, it better have. 

Bony fists raised in defense against your average everyday bully turned to a vibranium shield raised in defense against a raging war.

A small but determined frame turned into a muscular and capable shell, just another twenty-something kid fighting the good fight while the whole world looked on in anticipation.

Now, about 70 years later, nothing has changed. Sure, the world was brighter—if only because more city lights and satellites were hovering up in the sky. 

But at the same time, it all changed. Nothing was the way Steve remembered it to be.

Everything was a bit shinier and life moved a bit faster, and distance had sort of lost its meaning because no matter how far someone got, you could call them up or send them a text–or hell, an email if you were “old fashioned.” 

Steve could stare, enthralled for hours, at all the quote-on-quote ‘outdated’ pieces of history he missed out on, at the first cell phones and the ‘ancient’ computers, at the first TVs without antennas, and all the new cars.

The world had already moved on, these great works of innovation tossed aside for the next great thing, and Steve was sprinting to catch up. 

Even now, used to these interactions as he was, he didn’t know whether to laugh or sigh. His new team, members of SHIELD, didn’t mean anything by it, he was sure of that much.

If anything, they were overly compassionate, careful about even the slightest things that might disturb him. Like refraining from using references he wouldn’t understand or ranting on too much about history before first explaining to him what had happened. 

Still, Steve knew what they were doing, and he appreciated it. Even now, with several months under his belt, Steve found himself endlessly frustrated at the world. 

There was a reason he kept destroying the facility punching bag collection, and he couldn’t deny that on more than one occasion, the holes left in the walls were from his fists and not something else. 

But Steve was nothing if not stubborn. It would be easy–was easy–to let his team cater to his ineptitudes and play his varying teachers along the way. 

Truth be told, he could use the help, and it wasn’t like he was alone; every day, even when there were no missions, SHIELD was knocking at his door to pester him with new ‘world-exploring assignments’ and lessons. The attention, the care, made sense, was necessary even.

It was nice to return to some semblance of normal; fighting that was. Helping in ways he could.

There was one day, one Steve had been waiting for some time now was a Wednesday, his official-unofficial day off. 

Finding out that there was a whole exhibit in a museum made by him was a little startling but he made sure to visit. He remembered everything from before his time on the ice. 

Living with his ma, joining the army through sheer determination, being experimented on, becoming Captain America, and fighting Hydra. 

The exhibit talked about all of that. There were no videos or pictures except one taken when he was small and skinny.

There was a plaque with all the Howling Commandos’ names: Timothy Dugan, James Falsworth, Jim Morita, Sam Sawyer, Gabe Jones, and Jacques Dernier. And himself.

Steve smiled, tight and strained. He visited the room where a documentary about Peggy Carter was playing and his smile fell when he saw her face, heard her voice and it was like it was just yesterday she was yelling at him not to infiltrate a Hydra base to save some soldiers.

He tried most days not to let himself dwell too much on the past, on what he left behind but seeing her made it hard.

Peggy Carters was still alive, and Steve had made a promise to visit whenever he could. Her surprised face hurt him each time he showed up and it was as if she was seeing him for the first time each visit.

Steve remembered the first time he visited her.

He had stood for a long time on the unfamiliar street corner with his arms loose at his sides, dressed in civilian clothing. He watched the cars pass in front of him without seeing them. 

People passed him by too, without seeing him. That was okay because he didn’t notice them either. 

He was trying to get used to this strange, hurt emptiness inside. Because he hadn’t expected her to be so different.

“Steve.” Peggy pulled him in and wrapped one arm around his neck in a pleasant, friendly hug. “It’s good to see you.”

Changed, of course, but not different. Not unrecognizable. Steve licked his lips and looked around him, the buzz of voices and the shuffling of footsteps registering in his ears once more. He pulled his hat down further.

The sun was bright today, maddeningly cheerful and hot. England was supposed to be rainy, wasn’t it?

The room smelled dusty and looked spotless. Light streamed in from a window, illuminating a thin red carpet, and a tiny yellow bird blinked little black eyes at him from its cage in the corner.

Of course, why shouldn’t it have changed? Why shouldn’t the environment have morphed so much that England was now the perfect tropical getaway?

What to say? What was appropriate? He wasn’t able to decide before the automatic name slid from his mouth. “Hi, Peggy.”

They talked. She made him give excessive details about his life now, his job at SHIELD. He asked, curiously, about hers.

She showed him photo albums. They had tea.

Deciding to come here made perfect sense at the time. He’d known she was alive, and he’d known she would be different. But it was wrong to not go and see her. If for nothing else than friendship. 

He didn’t know how much time he had, and he knew he’d regret it if he never went to see her.

No matter how strange, it would be nice to see her again. And he thought it would help. 

His throat stayed dry through their whole visit, because, looking at her, an extremely elderly woman in a nursing home. He couldn’t stop thinking about how it had been two years since he’d last seen her, and it had been over seventy years since she had seen him.

So much had happened.

She wasn’t the same person, at all. It had been too soon.

Steve remembered Peggy Carter too clearly, and this wasn’t her. This was Peggy Johns. 

After he died she had moved on with her life, and he was only sad that he wasn’t there to see it or support her. They had been close friends after all.

By the time she’d gotten married, in her thirties, the Peggy he knew didn’t exist anymore.

Peggy Johns was wise, and she’d seen much. Almost a century’s worth. She had three daughters, one son, five grandchildren, and sixteen great-grandchildren.

They talked for a long time, and Peggy Johns told him all about what she’d seen, and he kept asking.

“Thank you for coming, Steve.”

He smiled. Took her small, delicate hand and tried not to cry.

It was good to see her.

^

Steve woke up in the middle of the night. The lights in his room at his apartment SHIELD paid for were dimmed.

Rolling his neck with a sigh and reaching for his phone on the nightstand, shielding the light with his hand. How did you turn this thing off again? 

He pushed several buttons with unfamiliar symbols and the phone let out a happy, startlingly loud ding.

His fingers tightened around the phone, and the screen let out a buzz and blanked out. Uh oh. He set it back down having caught a glimpse of the time. 4:13 AM.

Steve sighed and rubbed a hand down his face. It was hard to fall asleep most nights. The bed was too soft, being this high above the city made everything quiet; he wasn’t used to the quiet.

He blinked and turned to look at the unopened envelope that sat on his nightstand.

Just days after visiting Peggy again he had been too scared to open it. 

His finger traced the corner of the envelope, wondering what it could contain. He finally pulled it out, with a little stagger of his heart when he saw his name written across it in fluid cursive.

Most people couldn’t even write in cursive anymore.

His heart pounded as he slid a thumb underneath the flap and opened it. He pulled out a folded sheet of yellow, crackling paper, and a smaller, white, clean note fell out of it and landed on his lap.

He picked it up first.

        Hello, Steve. This is a letter I wrote to you sixty-seven years ago, untouched, unmodified, and still as true as the day it was written. The only thing new is the last few lines, which I hope you will pay great heed to.

Steve blinked, and his chest and throat tightened.

He glanced around at the quiet room, then sat up in bed and stared at the unfolded paper, holding it at an angle so that enough light from the dim orange bulb to his left hit the words. 

        𝒟𝑒𝒶𝓇 𝒮𝓉𝑒𝓋𝑒 𝑅𝑜𝑔𝑒𝓇𝓈,

𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒’𝓈 𝑜𝓃𝓁𝓎 𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝐼 𝓇𝑒𝑔𝓇𝑒𝓉. 𝐼 𝓁𝑜𝑜𝓀 𝒷𝒶𝒸𝓀 𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝐼 𝒸𝒶𝓃 𝓈𝑒𝑒 𝓈𝑜 𝓂𝓊𝒸𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝐼 𝓌𝒶𝓈𝓃’𝓉 𝓈𝓊𝓇𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓃.

𝒴𝑜𝓊’𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝑜𝑜 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝑜𝓌𝓃 𝓌𝑒𝓁𝓁-𝒷𝑒𝒾𝓃𝑔. 𝐼 𝒹𝒾𝒹𝓃’𝓉 𝓉𝑒𝓁𝓁 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓃, 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝐼 𝒹𝒾𝒹𝓃’𝓉 𝓈𝑒𝑒 𝒾𝓉, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝐼 𝓌𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝓈𝑜 𝒷𝒶𝒹𝓁𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝐼 𝒽𝒶𝒹.

𝒟𝓇. 𝐸𝓇𝓈𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑒 𝒸𝒽𝑜𝓈𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝒶 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓈𝑜𝓃, 𝒮𝓉𝑒𝓋𝑒. 𝐻𝑒 𝓈𝒶𝓌 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒾𝓃 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓃𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝓊𝓈 𝒹𝒾𝒹. 𝐼 𝓈𝒶𝓌 𝒶 𝑔𝓁𝒾𝓂𝓅𝓈𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝒾𝓉, 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒𝓈, 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝑒𝓃𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽 𝓉𝑜 𝓂𝒶𝓀𝑒 𝓂𝑒 𝓊𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓃𝒹. 𝒥𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝑒𝓃𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽 𝓉𝑜 𝓂𝒶𝓀𝑒 𝓂𝑒 𝒸𝓊𝓇𝒾𝑜𝓊𝓈. 𝐼𝓉’𝓈 𝓉𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓃 𝓂𝑒 𝒶 𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝒻𝒾𝓃𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝒷𝑒 𝒶𝒷𝓁𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓅𝓊𝓉 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑜 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹𝓈 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒾𝓉 𝒾𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓈𝑒𝓅𝒶𝓇𝒶𝓉𝑒𝓈 𝓎𝑜𝓊.

𝒫𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓈𝑒 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝑔𝒾𝓋𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝓅𝑜𝓉𝓈 𝑜𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓅𝒶𝓅𝑒𝓇. 𝐼’𝓂 𝒸𝓇𝓎𝒾𝓃𝑔, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝐼 𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹𝓃’𝓉 𝒷𝑒 𝒶𝓅𝑜𝓁𝑜𝑔𝒾𝓏𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝑜 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝓃𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝑔𝑜𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝑒𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈.

𝐼𝓉 𝒽𝒶𝓈 𝑜𝓃𝓁𝓎 𝒷𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝒶 𝒻𝑒𝓌 𝓂𝑜𝓃𝓉𝒽𝓈 𝓈𝒾𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒹𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝒾𝓉 𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓌𝑒𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓈 𝑜𝓃 𝓂𝓎 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉. 𝐼𝓃 𝒶𝓃𝓎 𝒸𝒶𝓈𝑒, 𝐼 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒻𝒾𝓃𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝒻𝒾𝑔𝓊𝓇𝑒𝒹 𝒾𝓉 𝑜𝓊𝓉. 𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒶 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓇𝒾𝑜𝓇'𝓈 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉, 𝒮𝓉𝑒𝓋𝑒.

𝒯𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓈 𝓅𝒶𝓇𝓉𝓁𝓎 𝓌𝒽𝓎 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝒿𝑜𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒶𝓇𝓂𝓎 𝓈𝑜 𝒷𝒶𝒹𝓁𝓎; 𝒾𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓈𝓃’𝓉 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝑔𝓁𝑜𝓇𝓎, 𝑜𝓇 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓈𝓉𝓇𝑒𝓃𝑔𝓉𝒽, 𝓉𝑜 𝒹𝑒𝒻𝑒𝒶𝓉 𝓂𝑜𝓃𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓈, 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓈𝑒𝓁𝒻-𝒹𝒾𝓈𝒸𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎, 𝑜𝓇 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓇𝓎-𝑒𝓎𝑒𝒹 𝒹𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓂𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒷𝑜𝓎𝓈 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓌𝒶𝓇 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒷𝒶𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒𝓈.

𝒲𝒶𝓇 𝒾𝓈 𝒷𝓁𝑜𝑜𝒹𝓎 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝑔𝓇𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓎 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒾𝓈 𝓃𝑜 𝒽𝑜𝓃𝑜𝓇 𝒾𝓃 𝒾𝓉. 𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒾𝓈 𝓃𝑜 𝒽𝑜𝓃𝑜𝓇 𝒾𝓃 𝓀𝒾𝓁𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔. 𝐵𝓊𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒾𝓈𝓃’𝓉 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝑔𝒾𝓋𝑒𝓈 𝒶 𝓈𝑜𝓁𝒹𝒾𝑒𝓇 𝒽𝑜𝓃𝑜𝓇. 𝐼𝓉’𝓈 𝓈𝑒𝓇𝓋𝒾𝒸𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓇𝒶𝑔𝑒.

𝑀𝑜𝓈𝓉 𝓈𝑜𝓁𝒹𝒾𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝑒𝓇𝓋𝑒, 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝓌𝒶𝓈 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝑒𝓁𝓈𝑒 𝒹𝒾𝒻𝒻𝑒𝓇𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊. 𝒲𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝓂𝑒𝓇𝑒𝓁𝓎 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝑒𝓇𝓋𝑒, 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒽𝒶𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝒶 𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑜 𝒶𝓁𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝓎. 𝒜𝓈 𝒶 𝓈𝓀𝒾𝓃𝓃𝓎 𝒶𝓈𝓉𝒽𝓂𝒶𝓉𝒾𝒸 𝓌𝒽𝑜 𝓌𝒶𝓈𝓃’𝓉 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃 𝓆𝓊𝒶𝓁𝒾𝒻𝒾𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝑒𝓇𝓋𝑒, 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒹𝒾𝒹𝓃’𝓉 𝓈𝑒𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓈𝑒𝓁𝒻 𝒶𝓈 𝒶 𝓈𝑒𝓇𝓋𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓉𝒽 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝒾𝓃𝑔, 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹𝓃’𝓉 𝓉𝒶𝓀𝑒 𝓃𝑜 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝒶𝓃 𝒶𝓃𝓈𝓌𝑒𝓇 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹𝓃’𝓉 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒾𝓉.

𝒮𝑜 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝒸𝑒𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓈𝑒𝓁𝒻 𝒾𝓃, 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝓂𝒶𝓀𝑒 𝒾𝓉, 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹𝓃’𝓉 𝒷𝑒𝒶𝓇 𝓉𝑜 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝓉𝓇𝓎 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓀𝑒𝑒𝓅 𝓉𝓇𝓎𝒾𝓃𝑔.

𝒯𝒽𝒶𝓉’𝓈 𝓌𝒽𝓎 𝒟𝓇. 𝐸𝓇𝓈𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑒 𝒸𝒽𝑜𝓈𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊. 𝐵𝑒𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒹𝑜𝓃’𝓉 𝒻𝑒𝑒𝓁 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓉𝒽𝓎 𝑜𝓇 𝒸𝒶𝓅𝒶𝒷𝓁𝑒, 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓅𝓊𝓈𝒽 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝓌𝒶𝓇𝒹 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒸𝒶𝓃 𝓈𝒾𝓂𝓅𝓁𝓎 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓂𝓊𝓈𝓉.

𝐵𝑒𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝒹𝑜 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒸𝒶𝓃 𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓈𝑒 𝒶𝓇𝑜𝓊𝓃𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊, 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒹𝑜𝓃’𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝓀 𝒾𝓉’𝓈 𝑔𝑜𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝑜 𝒹𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓂 𝒶𝓃𝓎 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝒹; 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒷𝑒𝓁𝒾𝑒𝓋𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊’𝓁𝓁 𝒷𝑒 𝓃𝑒𝑒𝒹𝓁𝑒𝓈𝓈𝓁𝓎 𝓀𝒾𝓁𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓈𝑒𝓁𝒻 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝒸𝑒𝓈𝓈.

𝒜𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉’𝓈 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝐼 𝓇𝑒𝑔𝓇𝑒𝓉 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝓉𝑒𝓁𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓎𝑜𝓊. 𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝒸𝒶𝓃 𝒹𝑜 𝓈𝑜 𝓂𝓊𝒸𝒽 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒹𝑜𝓃’𝓉 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓁𝒾𝓏𝑒 𝒾𝓉. 𝒟𝒾𝒹𝓃’𝓉.

𝐸𝓋𝑒𝓃 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓈𝒶𝒸𝓇𝒾𝒻𝒾𝒸𝑒𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓈𝑒𝓁𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒹𝒾𝒹𝓃’𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝓀 𝒾𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓈 𝑒𝓃𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓅𝑒𝓇𝓈𝑜𝓃 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒𝒹 𝓂𝑜𝓈𝓉, 𝓌𝒽𝑜 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓁𝓁𝑜𝓌 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑒𝓃𝒹𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉𝒽, 𝓌𝒶𝓈 𝑔𝑜𝓃𝑒. 

𝒜𝓃𝒹 𝐼’𝓂 𝓈𝑜𝓇𝓇𝓎 𝒮𝓉𝑒𝓋𝑒. 𝐼 𝒶𝓂 𝓈𝑜𝓇𝓇𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓌𝒽𝑜 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒿𝑜𝒾𝓃𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇, 𝒹𝑒𝓈𝓅𝒾𝓉𝑒 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒽𝑜𝓁𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒷𝒶𝒸𝓀, 𝒾𝓈 𝑔𝑜𝓃𝑒. 𝐼’𝓂 𝓈𝑜𝓇𝓇𝓎 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝑒𝓇𝑒𝓃’𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝓅𝑒𝒶𝓀 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹𝓈 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹, 𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒 𝒹𝒾𝒹 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝒹𝑒𝑒𝓂 𝒾𝓉 𝓈𝑜. 𝐼’𝓂 𝓈𝑜𝓇𝓇𝓎 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒹𝒾𝒹 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝑔𝑒𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓁𝒶𝓈𝓉 𝒹𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓂.

𝐼 𝓉𝑜𝓁𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝐼 𝓊𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇𝓈𝓉𝑜𝑜𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓅𝒶𝒾𝓃, 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝒮𝓉𝑒𝓋𝑒 𝒾𝓉 𝒷𝓇𝑜𝓀𝑒 𝓂𝓎 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝑒𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓈𝒾𝓉𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓈𝒽𝓇𝑒𝒹𝒹𝑒𝒹 𝒷𝓊𝒾𝓁𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓁𝑜𝑜𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒻𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓃𝒹 𝐼 𝒽𝒶𝒹 𝑔𝓇𝑜𝓌𝓃 𝓉𝑜 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒. 𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝓂𝒶𝓃 𝐼 𝒻𝑜𝓁𝓁𝑜𝓌𝑒𝒹 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑜 𝓌𝒶𝓇.

𝒲𝑒 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝓊𝒹 𝑜𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊, 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑜𝓃𝑒𝓈 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝒶𝓎 𝒾𝓉. 𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝒹𝒾𝒹 𝒾𝓉 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝒮𝓉𝑒𝓋𝑒, 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓁𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓉𝑒𝒶𝓂, 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒻𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝒶𝑔𝒶𝒾𝓃𝓈𝓉 𝐻𝓎𝒹𝓇𝒶 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓌𝑒 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓈𝑒𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝒹𝑜 𝓌𝒶𝓈 𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓉. 𝒯𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒻𝒾𝓇𝑒 𝒾𝓃𝓈𝒾𝒹𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒽𝒶𝒹 𝒷𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝓃𝒾𝒸𝓀𝑒𝒹 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝐼’𝓂 𝓈𝑜𝓇𝓇𝓎 𝓌𝑒 𝓌𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓃𝑒𝑒𝒹𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝒽𝑒𝓁𝓅. 

𝐵𝓊𝓉 𝒹𝑒𝓈𝓅𝒾𝓉𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒶𝓁𝓁, 𝐼’𝓂 𝑔𝓁𝒶𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒻𝑜𝓊𝓃𝒹 𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓉, 𝒮𝓉𝑒𝓋𝑒.

𝐼 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝒹 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓈𝓅𝑜𝓀𝑒 𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓇𝒶𝒹𝒾𝑜 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝐼 𝒿𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝑒𝓁𝓁 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝐼 𝓊𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇𝓈𝓉𝑜𝑜𝒹. 

𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓈𝑒𝓇𝓋𝑒𝒹 𝓊𝓈 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓌𝑒𝓁𝓁 𝒶𝓈 𝒞𝒶𝓅𝓉𝒶𝒾𝓃 𝒜𝓂𝑒𝓇𝒾𝒸𝒶, 𝒶𝓈 𝒮𝓉𝑒𝓋𝑒 𝑅𝑜𝑔𝑒𝓇𝓈. 𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝒹𝒾𝒹 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓈 𝓇𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉, 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝓁𝓌𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝒹𝑜 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝐼 𝒽𝑜𝓅𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊’𝓇𝑒 𝒷𝑜𝓉𝒽 𝒹𝒶𝓃𝒸𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝓈 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝑒𝓁𝓎 𝒶𝓈 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝒾𝓈𝒽𝑒𝒹. 𝐼𝓉’𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓈𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒷𝑜𝓉𝒽 𝒹𝑒𝓈𝑒𝓇𝓋𝑒𝒹.

𝐼 𝓂𝒾𝓈𝓈 𝓎𝑜𝓊, 𝒮𝓉𝑒𝓋𝑒. 𝐼 𝓌𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓂𝒶𝒹𝑒 𝓂𝑒 𝓈𝓉𝓇𝒾𝓋𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝒷𝑒 𝒷𝑒𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇. 𝒯𝒽𝒶𝓃𝓀 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓁𝑒𝓉𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓂𝑒 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝓎𝑜𝓊, 𝒶𝓉 𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓈𝓉 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝒶 𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝓌𝒽𝒾𝓁𝑒.

~𝒫𝑒𝑔𝑔𝓎 𝒞𝒶𝓇𝓉𝑒𝓇

       
        You may not have gotten your dance, but do not think for a moment that your sacrifice on that plane was a mistake. I cannot imagine how hard it was on you. Steve, you defended the world when she needed you most, and even now, whatever may come, I know you’d do it again. Whatever is regretful, whatever is frustrating and heartbreaking, being reborn in the modern world is allowing you to be in the right place at the right time.

I’m forever grateful I got to see that face again.  

~Peggy Johns

Steve couldn’t bring it in himself to stop the heavy flow of tears.

Little tremors ran through his shoulders and was unable to stop the shaky breaths that accompanied the thin streaks of wetness on his skin. He cleared his throat, voice husky. He sheepishly touched his temple, trying to casually shield his damp face with his hand. 

Steve folded the letter and slid it back into its envelope. He leaned back against his bed and looked out of the dark window across the room.

“It’s okay,” he repeated to himself. Not because he was, but because for the first time in the modern world, he believed it might one day become true.

His mind swirls around the letter. 

Steve was so sure now that he was glad he had not died on that plane, but at moments like these, when his whole facade of semblance and purpose shattered - he was hit with reality and a longing for what he lost.

And he wasn’t so sure anymore. 

Some days, he couldn’t deny, were harder to get through than others.

But finally hearing from someone, one of his closest friends, after years of rest, say that he was still needed to make a change in this world, was enough. He still had a purpose here. 

Steve comes back from his early morning run to his empty living space, the calmness of his apartment building. The morning silence fills the place while he pours a glass of water from the shining, refitted vintage fridge. 

He runs his fingers over the countertop. Tap, tap, tap. The small sound is loud and strange in the room, accompanied only by the soft ticking of a clock.

Usually, he’d go to the gym at SHIELD and find an eager rookie agent to spar with him. A few hour-long run doesn’t often expel all his energy but today he couldn’t force his feet to move any further. The letter from last night still shook him.

He washes the glass in the sink and leaves it on the drying rack with his plate from the night before. He goes to the living room and plucks out one of the books Maria had suggested to catch up on the time he’s missed. 

He sits in a reading chair by the window, books open on his lap and stares out at the city below. Wishing he could hear the busy sounds. 

He goes still, breathing slowly and steadily, as the morning drifts away from him. Tick, tick, tick.

He watches the sun growing in the sky, the people below filling the streets as the day reaches its full brightness. The sky is a bright, cloudless blue.

The trees are verdant, darkening the sidewalks below them as people slip in and out of the shade. 

He thinks about trying to capture the city in a sketch, but he can’t seem to get up from the chair, to grab a pencil, much less try to channel the distant beauty. He hasn’t drawn in what finally feels like a lifetime, not a mere two years.

His stomach grumbles. He knows his metabolism demands more food than he has been giving it, but the thought of food is completely unappealing. 

Later in the afternoon, Steve’s stomach angrily begins to eat itself, giving him sharp hunger pains. He pays attention to the sensation for a while and it feels familiar, right in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time.

He had gotten so used to chronic pain before the serum; this was nothing, really. 

It is only the thought that he would be culpable if he allowed his body to be weak and potentially fail if he were called in for an emergency that brings him to open a can of beans. 

He hops onto the countertop, eating from the can with a spoon, then toasts half a loaf of bread. He rinses the can, places it in the recycling bin with the empty milk jug, and returns to the chair.

As evening settles in, the remnants of his day off, the hollowness in Steve that during the day had been a peaceful, dreamy passivity becomes an aching hole, impossible to ignore. 

He draws his knees up in the chair and closes his eyes, picturing the sounds of traffic and occasional shouts and honks. He does not remember. 

The faces of the Commandos, Peggy’s painted red lips; they’ve left him and in their wake, there is empty space. 

He doesn’t feel sadness; he just feels hollowed out. 

The apartment floor feels like an uncomfortable tomb, and he doesn’t want to sit there until the hollowness inside him eats him from the inside out. 

But he has nowhere to go.

*

The Asset stands at attention in the busy room as SHIELD agents scramble around him taking calls, his gaze travels to each and everyone but he does not move no matter how much his hand itches to reach for a blade to strike just to get some silence.

Pierce stands by his side, his handler, as they wait to be called into the director's office. A smaller woman signals for them to follow, her eyes casting glances at him worriedly. The asset steps behind his handler to walk in a line.

He lets a shallow breath escape through his mask, ignoring the stares of people as they trace the lines of his body to his metal arm, his weapon. 

“This is our chance,” his handler whispers. “Prove to him you are of use on this.” 

His handler’s tone leaves no room for argument, they have gone over this. The Asset does not respond, he knows he is not being asked to speak. He will do as his handler says. They’re led to an office room with glass windows and doors. 

The woman pushes the door open for them, averting her gaze and fleeing when they step through. He moves forward so he’s at his handler's side.

A tall blonde man and the one-eyed director look up at them. 

His stare travels between them. The blonde carries a shield on his back, a shield the Asset himself has seen in action; it is a lot like his arm, and he knows the capabilities. His gaze expertly moves to Director Fury, he knows the man carries guns on him at all times, and both are equally equipped. 

His handler speaks but he zones the words out. He is not supposed to be engaged in conversation he is merely there for the spectacle, seeing as he will be working with the other asset they call Captain America.

He is under SHIELD’s watchful eye. He has been preparing for this.

His gaze jumps from the two men to the outside behind them. The sky is clear, few white clouds are scattered across it in tandem. It looks warm.

Busy cars and civilians occupy the streets across the river. He has never seen so much life before, most of his mission takes place at night or in places out of the public eye.

He enjoys looking at the land bathed in the sun. It’s a far cry from the small room he is kept in for wiping and debriefing.

Yet, he notices the heaviness of the blonde man’s stare. Captain America.

The asset notes how the other solider has not looked away upon his arrival, it may be seen as a calculated stare or threat but the asset holds position.

The man is probably transfixed by his features. The arm and mask. 

He looks away from the window, making eye contact with the other super-solider. His handler and the director are in a heated conversation. He sighs through his mask again, trailing his eyes up the man's strange uniform and he knows the other is doing the same.

‘Are you like me?’

But he is not allowed to speak or ask. He does not question. He must obey.

Comply.

The blonde does not look thrilled. 

The asset looks away, back out the window. He does not know when he’ll see the outdoors again, but without guards around watching his every move, he looks freely, almost desperately as if it’ll be taken from him. He knows it will. 

This whole meeting will probably be wiped from his mind before the next mission.

He is made to serve and obey. Now he is being asked to do that for a new man, a new part-time handler, and he does not look forward to the chair or the pain that will come with it - yet he will comply. 

“Soldat, you do not complain, you have no choice here.”

His previous handler's voice still speaks to him. He will not disappoint. He will obey the new man.

He will fight for his handler and for Hydra, his home, but for now, he lets his thoughts wander, just for a minute. 

The blue sky is a lot like the Captain’s eyes.

*

Steve stands in Fury’s office reading over the file handed to him that read:

CLASSIFIED

Codename: Winter Soldier
Age: Unknown
Nationality: Russian

Recovered: Holding Facility, Russia 2008

Notable Attributes: Vibraniam extremes (left arm), bionic implants (chest, left shoulder).

Sniper assessment: 99.7% accuracy

Missions: 100% success (12 SHIELD field missions to date, 2011-2013)

Notes: Subject was recovered during the investigation into holding facilities in Russia. Subject was brought to America for rehabilitation under activities of SHIELD liaison to the World Security Council, Alexander Pierce in 2009. Appropriated for use by SHIELD since that date.

Extensive knowledge of weaponry, explosives, traps, fighting techniques, and battle procedures have been evidenced and this knowledge has been useful in supplementing our Agent training manuals. 

While subject displays signs of extreme mental conditioning, rehabilitation attempts have been unsuccessful, or detrimental. Subject easily pacified by following the exact procedural directions suggested in the file recovered in the same location.

Skillset has been deemed too important to risk further destabilization.

The Winter Soldier file suggests the subject has spent a significant proportion of time in cryogenic stasis, which may be the source of some behavioral instability observed. 

Subject is indicated to be a Russian volunteer test subject under mutual agreement at an indeterminate point.

Full documentation is classified (Level 10: Risk to National Security).

“Captain?”

Steve stares at the paper in the file for an absurd amount of time. “Fury, you…” he runs a hand through his hair, “You want my partner to be a Russian assassin? Am I reading this right?”

Fury sighs. “Yes, and I had hoped you would take it a lot better.”

He hoped. “Sir, with all due respect–”

“Captain Rogers,” Fury interrupts, coming over to stand where Steve sits with the file. “I understand your concerns, but the soldier has been cleared by SHIELD, he’s been through every test, every mission under the supervision of Pierce and he is a suitable partner, even for a seventy-year-old super-soldier, like yourself. He can keep up.”

Steve closes the folder, the fight draining from his shoulders. He wasn’t worried about anyone keeping up, he worked fine with the team assigned to him prior.

If he’d of known this was the kind of meeting Fury had in mind, he would have walked right back out the doors. “I’m guessing my next mission requires some pretty heavy backup then?” Steve finds himself saying. 

“Only the best.”

The door to Fury’s office opens then, and Steve stands in alert beside Fury as Pierce, and what Steve assumes is the infamous Winter Soldier, step in.

“Nick.”

“Pierce.”

Steve doesn’t bother introducing himself, his eyes are already glued to the shadowy figure standing stiffly by Pierce’s side. 

The man stands a few inches above Pierce, closer to Steve’s height, immediately he is drawn to the black mask that covers the soldier's face - making it impossible for Steve to discern much about him, as does the plain black leather jacket, and combat pants he wears. 

The shaggy long hair he has throws Steve off a little because, honestly, he doesn't look like any soldier Steve's ever known. 

But the metal arm is…strange. It looks almost human, from the bicep to the hand. A shiny red star is painted on the side and every so often Steve can hear the little plates moving.

The file talked about extensive body modification to his left side, but he honestly wasn’t expecting this.

Steve’s past the point of looking away to avoid being rude.

The man exudes calm, but his posture screams ‘ready to strike’ and it has Steve itching to grab his shield. 

He partially zones out the conversation between Fury and Pierce, he listens offhandedly - they’re bickering - he’s more concerned about the man Fury keeps pushing to be his ‘partner’ on missions.

The soldier's eyes dance dangerously from him then to Fury. He’s watching, calculating, the intensity of his stare makes Steve feel like needles are crawling up his spine.

And although he tries to surreptitiously get more hints about him with a few side glances, all he can really see is that he carries an overabundance of gadgets and knives about his person, like he's a walking toolkit, no more. He sees nothing else distinguishing.

What gets to Steve is that the man acts as if he's completely unaware of the presence of anyone else in the room after he looks away.

He just stands, perfectly still, conversation flowing in front of him. It hardly even looks like he’s breathing.

Steve stares even when the soldier looks away, dismissively, at something behind them. He follows the man’s stare only to find it leading out the window. Steve nods along with the discussion, but never drops his gaze as it returns to the man.

The soldier looks over at him again, and their eyes meet.

Dead, cold ones stare back at him; blue, dark, and lifeless. They travel up his body, taking him in again, observing a threat just like Steve had done.

He hears the man sigh through his mask, a soft, quiet expel of air.

The more Steve looks the better he can say that the mask over the soldier's face reminds him of a muzzled dog. The thought churns his gut.

“Captain Rogers?”

Steve finally looks away from the soldier after Pierce snags his attention.

“Yes?”

Pierce takes his distracted state in a stride. “You are okay with working with the asset, are you not?”

The asset? Steve looks over at Fury who’s watching him, waiting for the answer he never actually offered. He knows he could say ‘no’ and go about his day, complete the mission tomorrow just by himself, he could, but something urges him to say yes. 

Fury said the man could keep up, and Steve kind of wanted to see if it were true. He needed a challenge, someone trained enough to watch his six through the harder missions.

So he finds himself saying, “I’ll work with him.”

The soldier hardly bats an eye nor does he speak.

^

"I don't see how this is going to work," Steve says, shaking his head.

He presses his fingers over the schematics at the obvious weak points in their route of entry. "If this is accurate, we have no way to get through without being sniped out of play before we get any viable sort of visual. I should go in alone, find a more stealthy route into the building and clear the path first..."

"Getting in isn't the issue," Fury counters, with a tone of voice that tells him he's already thought the problem through and really doesn't have the patience to go into detail. "You might be able to get to the hostages, but not without tripping any one of a dozen hidden alarms. If you somehow got lucky doing it, extraction would be impossible."

"Can't we cut the power?"

The look Fury gives him is withering. "If it were that simple, we'd have been in and out already."

Steve sighs and purses his lips. "What's your plan, then?"

Fury moves to the window of his briefing room, the sole remaining eye roaming over the distant streets below. His breath is even and calm but Steve senses a level of introspection in his movements.

"The Winter Soldier,” he says simply but Steve tenses. “He’s an operative with some very specific skills as a stealth sniper and trap scout," he says after a moment. "The plant's generator is buried deep and they've got a lot of men on the ground down there, not to mention sensor trips. Stealth is going to be key. He will scout ahead, taking out threats, and neutralizing trips as quietly as possible.

Once you've blown through, you won't have long before you're buried in hostiles, but all the trips and sensors will be out so you can get in and out before they know their ass is being handed to them."

Steve decides to take Fury’s word for it, he’s read the file, Fury puts a lot of faith in this soldier, so why shouldn’t he?

“Okay,” Steve says, “but time is running out. If we're to have a chance of getting those people out, we have to move on to the situation now." 

He snaps to attention, the mantle of Captain America worn like a suit over his entire frame.

"Report to the helicarrier for dispatch,” Fury finally agrees. “The strike team will be going with you in case the situation goes downhill."

The words do not put Steve at ease but he nods, switching into readiness before he is brought back from his thoughts by an unexpected hand on his arm.

"A word of caution, Cap,” Fury offers. “Stick close to your partner, but don't try to engage him too much. You won't be able to get him on comms."

"Sir?"

"He doesn't talk really, if at all. But he also doesn't fail."

Steve doesn’t like leaving it at that. He gets that the soldier is good, stealthy, and a damn near perfect sniper, but going into a risky mission without knowing more about his partner than words typed on a paper, isn’t enough. It’s clear though that Fury doesn’t want to disclose any more information. 

Steve overhears the strike team referring to the man as Winter. Just that. Nothing more familiar or human. Presumably, they know no more about his name than whoever wrote that short memo did. 

Steve can’t help but feel a more than tense with the Soldiers presence in their midst being so intense and...still.

The asset is wearing red-lensed goggles along with his mask when he boards the plane. Conversation in the aircraft goes silent as they watch him sit in the chair, holding their breaths. 

It’s almost like they’re waiting for the next shoe to drop.

Just like their first time meeting, as everyone takes their seats, the Soldier acts as if he's completely unaware of the presence of the people around him. 

He sits, still, schematics flashing in front of him on one of the floating screens, flickering and bright. They bring the lenses of his goggles to life but it's the only thing about him that moves.

A dim prickle began under Steve's skin with the phrase, 'signs of extreme mental conditioning'. He doesn't know what that means exactly and has no clue what to expect from that ominous statement. 

On some level, he is confident that Fury wouldn't have given him this particular backup partner without good cause. He is sure that he can trust Nick, even if he can't trust the stranger in their midst. 

After a few hours, during which the strike team banter roughly with one another and Steve hangs back in contemplation, the plane begins its calculated descent over Southern Bavaria.

Someone hands him a parachute and, since they're nowhere near any major bodies of water which might otherwise break his fall, Steve accepts it and straps himself in.

Rollins hands the soldier his own parachute which he accepts methodically and begins to strap it in. The Asset, as they called him, moves forward then and Steve watches as he plants himself right by his side as the hatch opens. Waiting.

Rumlow agrees to set the plane set down at the agreed coordinates afterward, with an added command to get the medics ready in case of incoming casualties.

When he turns, he sees that the soldier has already made the jump. The night, filled with cool, misty air greets them. 

Steve loses sight of his ‘partner’ almost immediately after jumping out of the plane and the moment he kicks down he realizes he has no way to re-establish contact. 

He belatedly wishes he'd set up some sort of tracking system, or a way to communicate, but Steve hadn't anticipated his partner being quite so independent.

He has no choice but to press on alone, launching himself over an electric fence with great care not to touch it, partially using his shield as a bounce pad.

This gets him inside the perimeter of the remote former factory where the group of American political prisoners, who had been intercepted en route to peace talks, are apparently being kept, according to Fury's intel.

Steve dodges any security cameras he sees and climbs up some trellis to gain entry, silently, through an upper window.

The moment he lands inside, he knows that he is right where he has been anticipated to be.

Two dead guards are sitting by the doors to the room he is in, dispatched with no signs of struggle. There's also a shorted-out panel in the wall which Steve guesses must have been an alarm.

He creeps around them and looks out into the corridor, getting his bearings. Steve casts his mind across the map of the facility which he committed to memory en route to the helicarrier and proceeds along the route he chose to get to the generator room.

There is no sign of his backup visually but he keeps finding clues in his path, and distantly he is a little impressed. 

So far nothing tripped, no alarms, no traps, and he's come across three more dead bodies; three guards who did not live to tell tales.

The Soldier is brutal but effective.

Silently, Steve makes his way through the semi-gloomy and wet-smelling corridors to his targeted first stop; the power room. Here he is almost caught off guard by a man in a fur hat exiting a room across the way, and he silently slides in and gets the man in a chokehold.

He lowers the man's dead weight and creeps into the power room, stepping over yet another dead guard. 

It takes him a moment to get a visual of the Soldier who’s hanging onto a wall-mounted ladder near an opened circular skylight above them.

Still and silent, he is waiting. Like an animal, poised and ready to attack. Steve snaps himself out of his reverie to get to work. 

He takes out an explosive from his utility belt and attaches it to the generator's control panel. 

Before he can catch himself, he sends up some hand signals to the Soldier - move position, follow behind - but realizes belatedly that he's using US military signals; the ones he would have used back in the forties during the war.

However, the Soldier nods and follows his instructions perfectly.

With catlike grace, he launches himself down and lands squarely on his feet without so much as a grunt of pain, right beside him. They brace on either side of the door, moving in tandem.

Steve dips out first, looking for signs of company, he doesn't need to look back to know that his partner has his six.

In a snap, the Soldier suddenly grabs him back and holds him fast. 

Steve tenses but watches with curiosity as his partner creeps forward and locates a barely visible wall panel. After clipping off the front and doing something with the wires, Steve sees a flash of the security laser beam that he had almost tripped, before it stutters out and disappears.

With that obstacle gone, they can retreat to the junction to the route which will take them directly to the hostages. Steve takes out his scanner, does another hand signal instruction to brace and cover which is, again, somehow understood perfectly, and sets it off.

The explosion rocks them a little on their feet and the lights flicker...but they don't go out.

Instead, alarms begin to blaze, left, right, everywhere, whirring red and lighting up the entire base.

"Guess it wasn't enough," Steve grounds out and braces himself, the sound of boots stomping their way in a running formation coming almost immediately after.

Guards begin to pour from the side corridors and Steve grabs the Soldier's metal arm to drag him behind his shield so they both avoid the haze of bullets. 

He did it without meaning to, wondering if he should apologize for touching later, when the Soldier merely pulled out two of his concealed guns and fired over the top of Steve’s shield. 

Steve uses the ricochet of bullets to get close enough to fight them in hand-to-hand combat.

He almost catches the graze of one of the bullets when it bounces off the metal of the Soldier’s arm, who suddenly appears again after taking out more guards.

There is a whizz as a grenade flies over his head and he is aware of it rolling down the corridor before them, sees it go off in a way that collapses a wall, and prevents more guards from reaching them from that direction. 

But after that, he realizes that his cover fire is gone and the Soldier has disappeared all of a sudden.

Steve refocuses and makes one of the guards bounce against the wall and knocks down two with his shield. The other two go hand to hand with knives but neither is as fast as he is and it's a fairly simple matter to use their own momentum against them to knock them out.

There's a sudden stuttering boom and a crackle in the air, like an electrical discharge, and he hears a faint cry of pain that stabs him in his gut for some reason.

The lights dim and then everything pops out, that massive monster of a generator finally blown out at last.

He smells the Soldier before he sees him; smells something burning, a mix of flesh and metal that he wishes he didn't recognize. 

It's not entirely clear but he can see wisps of smoke rising off the left side of the Soldier's jacket, and he's holding his right arm stiffly as he staggers out of the generator room.

Steve is about to ask what happened but the Soldier runs ahead before he gets a chance.

Once again he plays catch up with a scout who seems to have an innate ability to disappear from him, even when there shouldn't be a whole lot of places for him to hide.

He tracks him along the most logical route leading down into the long thin pit of an atrium that had Steve concerned before when he'd seen the initial plans. 

Even in the dark, he discovers his instincts had been spot on, as snipers are looking down from all sorts of hidden platforms and they are quick to take potshots at him, apparently unphased by the darkness. 

Fortunately, his own sniper, his new partner, seems to have him well covered, wherever he is, and each time one of the guards reveals himself to try and take Steve out, they are taken out swiftly themselves instead.

Three hostages. Three were rescued and escorted out without injuries.

Steve is somewhat surprised that the plan went down so smoothly. He considers speaking to the Soldier, thanking him or...something. 

He sees him standing in a corner of the helicarrier bridge and steps toward him, opening his mouth to speak even though he isn't sure what to say.

Abruptly the Soldier turns to an angle that leaves Steve standing cold at his shoulder, conveying quite clearly that he has no desire to engage in any normal sort of way.

The move kills Steve's voice dead in his throat and he stands there awkwardly for a second, not sure what to do.

The man's body language is screaming at him to go away and he almost does, but he is an observant man; he was even before the serum enhanced his senses to a superhuman degree. 

That burnt smell is still there, and when Steve looks closely, he sees that the man is not nearly as still as he was before the mission. 

He's actually shaking, the fist of his right hand balled tightly, the left curled inward to his side, his back arched forward just enough to tell Steve that he's probably in some severe discomfort.

"Hey," he murmurs softly, his concern overriding his own discomfort at the response given so far.

He reaches out, hoping to initiate some sort of understanding touch to set the man at ease, but the Soldier marches away from him before he can make contact.

Nearby, the strike team is watching and he meets their curious gazes uneasily. 

Rumlow chortles and shrugs as if to say 'that’s just how he is' and when Steve looks back, the Soldier is gone.

*

“Injury assessment,” his handler asks once he is escorted back into the subdivision room.

“3rd-degree burns, right shoulder. Left arm power module damaged. Mask joint damaged. Maintenance required,” the Asset responds with.

His handler hums thoughtfully before white coats swarm him. They remove his weapons, the mask, and the clothes covering his torso, peeling the infused cloth off his scorched skin. He does not move or speak.

Mission accomplished. Asset must remain silent. 

“You never get this injured. Explain,” his handler demands.

“Ordered to protect the Captain. Asset complied.”

The doctors begin to prod at his skin, while the others dissect and pull off the plates of his arm. The pain is minimal, and he sits there waiting for further instructions, but his handler does not speak again for many minutes. 

“Well, we’ll see how Captain Rogers felt about your performance then, won’t we? Take him to the chair.”

Asset knows he accomplished the mission. He did what he was ordered to do, helped when needed, and protected his handl—the Captain—but despite that, they felt he still needed the chair. 

Anger and defeat welled up inside him unexpectedly.

Asset did not like the chair.

His burns were covered, the plates of his arms were re-intact and he was pushed down into the chair. Waiting for the rubber and the pain.

He did not do as good of a job as he imagined. The asset had disappointed again.

Thoughts of a red, white, and blue shield swarmed his vision. Thoughts of those focused eyes, the orders that were not given so harshly. Thoughts of longing to taste the misty night air prohibited by the mask. 

More importantly, his final note was that the Captain was good at his job. Quick, focused, agile. 

Though he nearly got blown up and shot many times. The Captain was slightly careless but efficient, unlike the asset. Despite his failures, he hoped he made the Captain proud. He complied. Obeyed. Protected.

The electricity made his body seize. The pain from the explosion earlier made his ears ring but now his nerves felt as if they were set aflame.

He screamed.

But the images of Captain America never left his mind.

*

Steve doesn't forget the Soldier, even after he vanishes at the end of their mission which ended days ago.

It's like an itch under his skin, wondering about what happened to him. 

Some distant part of him is snapping its jaw like an angry wolf at the thought of any man being so clearly hurt afterward, while that distress is so keenly ignored by those around him. 

Something in the way the memo spoke of him - a subject, an appropriated item - and the way the strike team finds him amusing yet terrifying, just sits wrongly with Steve.

But he can only go off what he was given and what he has seen.

The Soldier was good. He executed parts of the mission almost flawlessly, and held his own in areas Steve knew some SHIELD agents would have struggled with.

He was fast, efficient, almost always three steps ahead and he could keep up.

Steve may not know much about him, but there was no denying that the Soldier performed well. He made sure to tell Fury and Pierce in the debrief, noting that the Soldier was strangely absent from the meeting about the mission he took great part in. 

But Steve did his part and left the headquarters without another word. Even if he slept fitfully for the nights to come.

The unknown agencies were the ones who made this 'Winter Soldier,’ he supposes - lost in his thoughts one night.

Now SHIELD is probably responsible for whatever injuries he was obviously left with, but Steve couldn’t help but worry or want to know more.

But there's no more talk of the Soldier anywhere for a while. The strike team doesn't have a whole lot to say about him and he knows Fury won't talk. 

The only bit of info he does gain, after the dust settles, is that a few of the scientists he sees in the cafeteria - the ones with yellow passes, are in some way involved with the Soldier's care, but he still can't exactly start striking up conversations about him.

Another mission rolls around, a real one, and Steve pipes up considerably when he discovers it's another infiltration mission. 

This time they're going to be in a race against the clock to verify rumors of plutonium proliferation with possible intent to supply unfriendly states. They need to get a location on the stash before the data is dumped and the owner heading for the hills. 

The strike team will be going in as his backup, which suits Steve just fine, but he is the one who asks for the Soldier.

"You want him as back up again?" Fury asks him, not hiding his surprise at all.

"I want him as my mission partner,” Steve clarifies, slightly curious as to why Fury seemed so surprised. He points out several weak spots in the exterior map. “He’s a good sniper and will make it a lot easier to get into position to breach the main entrance, given that there are no alternative points of entry according to the drone cameras."

It isn't a case of having to persuade Fury. He doesn't seem to mind much either way and is happy enough to authorize the use of the specialist operative for the mission going forward. 

"Understood Captain,” Fury concedes. “I’m glad to hear you work well, maybe it’ll get Pierce off my back. Departure will be o-seven hundred tomorrow."

There is no sign on the journey that the Soldier is aware of any of them, once again, but Steve begins to think that it’s an act. 

No one that is highly trained in the ways of scouting and sniping can be that clueless, so it's gotta be a defense mechanism.

Perhaps it's something to do with the talking aspect, he reasons, given that the Soldier doesn't seem to want to communicate, verbally or otherwise, with anyone. 

He can't see much of his eyes through the goggles but Steve would bet he's studiously avoiding looking at any of them still.

Since this mission relies on the entire team making the infiltration and then sweeping through the building in groups of twos - Rumlow and Khan, Rollins and Bishop, with him and the Soldier taking point. Steve takes a moment to give a pep talk about getting the job done before the plane lands.

This has to be a clean sweep and a lot of lives could be put at risk if they fail, he reminds them all.

His eyes trail to the Soldier. 

Then they're out of the gate and moving forward to a forested area which brings them all close enough to do a visual sweep.

Without being prompted, the Soldier takes up position in front of them and puts together his sniper rifle. 

Once ready and positioned, he does a visual sweep of his own through the scope and then quickly picks off two guards, one in each watchtower at the sides of the estate, followed by three more he happened to see on the grounds.

"Go!" Steve says and they all barrage forward, the clock now ticking on securing the building.

The interior is not as dilapidated as the exterior would suggest. Rumlow and his support go left and Rollins and his go right, and Steve can hear the Soldier breathing into his mask right behind him so he doesn't hesitate to sweep forwards. 

Intel has been patchy in terms of getting a decent blueprint of the place, so it's somewhat down to luck.

It's not long before he hears gunfire in the distance as at least one of his strike duos has to engage hostiles.

It's not long before he gets a message from Rollins reporting that the location of the plutonium stash has been retrieved from a computer console, "Coordinates being transmitted back to HQ now.”

Steve and the Soldier get an easy ride of it, coming across only a few guards in their search for the building's owner. 

As they hit a back staircase, Steve is surprised when the Soldier suddenly pulls him back and stops him. He cups his ear as if to tell Steve, ‘listen’ which he duly does.

He can hear the distinctive sound of helicopter blades starting to whir above them. They hurry upwards, following the noise, searching for a way out onto the roof. 

Rumlow chimes in with a frantic message about being pinned down amidst the echoing sound of gunfire. Rollins gets onto the comms immediately, saying he and Bishop are on their way to assist.

Steve looks to the Soldier, before telling them to hold as long as they can but to retreat if the numbers become overwhelming. 

"We're going after the boss," he says as they finally reach an exit door.

The helicopter is at the point of being almost ready to rise as they make it out, but there are still a few bodyguards in place who immediately turn and start firing in their direction. Steve ducks right, using his shield for cover, and the Soldier flips out of the way and takes cover behind some old storage barrels. 

He lays down some cover fire for Steve without even needing to be told, allowing him to make a run for the helicopter. Unfortunately, it has risen too high for him to jump up onto, though he tries his best.

A man appears at the side of the helicopter, a rocket launcher on his shoulder. Steve sees the Soldier has already broken cover and is aiming a smaller sniper rifle which he had been carrying on his back, preparing to take a shot.

There's no way to tell who gets in first, but Steve runs, all the same, to push his backup out of the way as the rocket explodes between them against the roof.

He feels a white-hot burst of heat and then the world flips.

Steve lands heavily, feeling at least one of his bones snap in the process, which doesn't make any sense to him until he realizes that he's fallen five flights, and landed on the concrete about sixty feet from the front entrance of the building, cracking it. 

He tests his body's ability to move and the pain is there, all fire and stabbing hurt; a few ribs obviously popped out too.

His ears are ringing and he can't seem to make his mouth work to speak over comms just yet. 

There's also the smell of burning flesh again and he knows his uniform hasn't held up too well against the blast that knocked him into the air.

Then he sees the doors swing open and more guards are pouring out, running at him, and Steve knows he's in trouble. 

He looks up to the roof, wondering if the Soldier might be able to take out a few of them for him and buy him some time.

To his surprise, instead of merely trying to pick them off from afar, the Soldier steps off the side of the building and lands down on the concrete with all the finesse of a ton of bricks, but displays no sign of pain whatsoever. It's a landing that should have blown out both of his kneecaps at the very least.

And then Steve watches, dumbfounded, as the man fights off guards who had been circling him with a level of strength, speed, and ability that makes him wonder if he's hallucinating. 

Sure, he's seen the Soldier's skills as a stealth operative, but this is a completely different skill set, requiring years of heavy training in several close combat disciplines. 

Steve tries to get up, to do his part, but he doesn't get far before the issue is settled.

After five of the guards have been dispatched, the remaining two simply drop their weapons and flee, kicking up the dust as they run, but then knives are being shot at them, planting themselves in the back of their heads and they fall.

The Soldier stands over him, breathing hard into his mask, fists balled, something flickering behind the darkened goggles.

Steve meets his gaze, watching as the Soldier reaches up with his metal hand and tears the goggles off his face.

Those same cold eyes stare at Steve before the Soldier crouches down and offers his right hand to him.

There is a loud whir as the helicopter goes higher and makes its getaway; the mission partially failed, but Steve’s attention is otherwise occupied. 

He reaches slowly, warily, grasping his other man’s hand, and groans when he is pulled up to his feet. 

Despite the obvious chaos around them, Steve takes a moment to breathe even when the Soldier drops his hand as soon as he is up. 

Their gazes are locked in a silent battle. 

“Thank you,” Steve mutters. 

The Soldier stares, but his eyes narrow, almost suspicious, then the moment is broken. 

The strike team comes running up to them from the building. They jostle the Soldier aside, Rollins moving in to examine his condition. Even as they fuss over Steve, he watches to the side as Rumlow grabs the Soldier's arm and drags him away.

Steve insists he will be able to walk back to the plane if they help him up, and promptly passes out in the attempt.

*

“He did what?” his handler snarls above him.

“The mission was compromised. Your Asset put the Captain in a direct line of fire. He’ll be out for a few days.”

His handler moves forward and slaps him across the face, his head snaps to the side but he does not otherwise move.

Asset failed. Mission failed.

A hand grabs his chin and he is forced to look in his handler’s angry eyes.

“You had one goddamn job, Asset, complete the mission. Not only did you risk Captain Roger’s life but nearly got him killed. You’re supposed to protect him and earn his trust!” His handler squeezes harder. The muscles in his jaw strain under the man’s hand. “Do you understand me?”

“Да сэр,” the asset replies.

Another slap. “I asked in English, you mindless fuck.”

The Asset responds, “Yes sir.”

He is further disciplined, his minor injuries ignored, but the white coats and his handler forgo the chair for which the asset is silently thankful for.

He knows he deserves it. He had failed the mission and their Captain.

His handler storms out of the room. The guards each take turns beating him with their fists and devices but he is silent. He takes the pain. It is the least he deserves. He will comply and obey.

“You cannot fail, soldat. Do you know what happens to Hydra soldiers who fail?”

His old handler’s voice only spoke to him in the bad moments, where his mind ran, his body buzzed and he wished to make the pain go away. He was dumped in the small, dark room meant to be his living quarters.

He is quiet and malleable on the ground. Breathing heavily through the mask that remained on his face.

Asset failed, asset failed, asset failed–

His metal arm wraps around his bloody, naked knees, pulling them firm against his chest. The metal is cold. He knows cold.

He failed. Asset was not supposed to fail.

The machine would have made him forget, because now, all that plays through his mind is the mission. Over and over.

He remembers firing at the guards trying to make it to the helicopter, failing to notice the rocket launcher heading his way before something big and heavy pushes him from the blast. He sees the Captain get knocked off the helipad as he takes the brunt of the hit.

The asset stares for a moment. The Captain had…pushed him to safety. Why?

Nothing but ‘go, go, complete mission’ rings through his head, but his body has other plans when he hears soldiers below, honing in on the man he just saw fall.

He launches himself off the roof, notes the distance, and lands on his feet against the ground, ignoring the slight pain that rockets up his body.

His gaze zeros in on the Captain who’s struggling to get up and the new wave of guards running at them. He knows what to do.

Each guard is taken out one by one, he deflects their bullets with his metal arm, kicking and punching his way through their forms effortlessly. Two drop their weapons completely and try to flee, but he throws his knives, hidden in the pocket of his gear - driving them into their skulls before they get a few feet away.

He turns and finds himself staring at the injured Captain, who was watching his every move.

Despite his mind urging him to complete the mission, take down the helicopter he hears starting up again above, he remained rooted in place - fists curling, unable to look away from the man.

He is injured, his mind supplied and it was true, the Captain was noticeably bleeding. Struggling for a breath. When the Captian fell it is clear he did not land on his feet.

A thought rang through the Asset’s head at the time he steps closer. Help. Help the Captain.

That is his mission. He must not fail that.

Without much deliverance, he had pulled off his goggles (wrong, wrong, wrong, his mind screamed) and crouched down to offer his human hand to the Captain, as if it’ll ease the discomfort. His body moved without preamble.

The man stared at it, as if it would bite him, but took it graciously and he hoisted the injured man up. The world was a lot clearer without the goggles, nothing was tinted red and the Asset could finally get a good look at the Captain’s soulful eyes up close for once.

He dropped the man’s hand, who swayed unsteadily.

A strange and curious expression fell over the Captain’s face before he said quietly, “Thank you.”

The Asset couldn’t help but frown behind the mask. There was no thanks, the Captain should know this, there is only complete the mission; Asset had completed the mission.

But he knows he hadn’t. The helicopter got away. The mission failed.

Voices rang behind him and he tensed before a hand firmly pushed his metal shoulder and he was moved away from the injured Captain. His mission. Rumlow grabbed his arm and drug him away.

“Pierce is gonna have your hide for this, soldier,” the man spat at him and released his arm, as he followed, like it was on fire.

Asset did not look back at the Captain. The man would be taken care of.

He boarded the plane and sat still and quiet in his seat as they returned to base, awaiting his punishment.

*

The Asset knew SHIELD would send him back out after the men who escaped.

He had failed the mission earlier, this was the only way to rectify it. They geared him up, strapped the essential weapons to his combat clothes and he was accompanied by Rumlow and Rollins to the jet. The Captain would not be part of this discreet mission. 

”Do not fail,” he handler warned him. “We will not repeat this mistake again, Soldier.”

He complied. Responding with, “Yes sir.”

The jet took off. His two backups were sitting across from him, they did not hide their sneers or their stares well. Headquarters had kept a bogie on the men that had escaped earlier. They had yet to flee the country.

“Hey, freak,” Rumlow called. “You gonna stop staring or are we gonna have a problem?”

He looked straight ahead, tensed and ready in his seat, but his eyes were hidden by his goggles. 

Rollins scoffed. “Hey, death-glare, enough.”

But Asset remained silent. 

Rumlow cursed and unbuckled his seat belt, pushing off the chair and stormed over to him. He saw the man’s arm reach out in a fury before he caught the man’s hand with his metal arm, “hey, what are you doing, hey!” and squeezed. 

“Ow, fuck! Let go you fucking freak, let go!”

He released the man’s hand and pushed, sending him sprawling backwards, hitting the opposite wall before falling back into his chair.

The pilot of the jet remained smartly oblivious, Rumlow cradled his bruised hand and gasped. Rollins stared over at him before avoiding his gaze, shifting over, his finger curled tighter around the trigger of his gun. 

The Asset could have squeezed harder but he might need them.

The rest of the flight had been silent. 

Complete mission. Do not fail. 

The pilot signaled the drop off point nearing and opened the hatch. The wind whipped and whirled, the night air was colder over the ocean and he could make out the stowaway ship in the distance. 

He stood and made his way over to the door. The two men behind him hovered a safe distance away as they strapped in their parachutes.

But the Asset didn’t care. 

He jumped.

Rollins stared at the space formerly occupied by the Asset. 

“Uh, Brock?”

”What?”

”The Solider wasn’t wearing a parachute.”

Brock looks up. Noting that said parachute was still hanging up. “No, no he was not, and do I look like I give a fuck? Let’s go.”

Down below the Asset climbs onto the boat with efficiency, uncaring that he is soaking wet and cold. He does not care that he has ruined most of his guns, he does not need them.

There are men walking the edges, he swiftly and quietly nicks the throat of each one, their bodies drop methodically as he makes his way towards the front. 

He picks the lock to the control room, no one is manning the ship save for a man sitting at the desk, reading over papers.

The Asset has already severed the man’s head before he can blink. Blood splatters across the maps. 

He moves below deck, where his real mission lies. Gun shots await him, he dodges the bullets, deflects them with his arm and throws his knife into the assailants head. 

It’s his favorite so he pulls it out right before the door to the next room opens and he throws it again with deadly accuracy before the next shot rings out. It lands square in the man’s chest, he falls but does not die.

The Asset steps forward and crouches over the wailing man.

”Please, please do not kill me! I have no money, none, I have none! Please!”

He blinks. Rips the serrated knife from the man’s chest, who yells - gut wrenching and thrashes wildly in desperation - before his metal arm wraps around the strangers throat, cutting off his air.

The man’s screams quiet until there is no sound at all. 

He looks around the ship for any more warm bodies before making his way above deck. The two men from the jet stand by the railing outside, motionless. 

Eight bodies lay around the exterior. 

“The hell…”

The Asset merely waits as the two take a look around and busies himself with cleaning the blade. He holds it over the railing and watches as the blood trickles away into the ocean water. 

The water is calm, despite the moon being full. It looks pitch black in the dark. He hears one of the men radio over to the jet to come pick them up and stands. His hand itches to unclasp his mask to breathe in the fresh ocean air, but all he can simply do is sigh behind the mask and tuck his knife away.

The world is pretty at night. Calm. But he misses the sun. He wonders what the ocean looks like in the light. What can you see? 

Mission accomplished. Handler will be pleased. 

His body still aches from the beating earlier but a certain weight is lifted off his chest knowing that he has not failed. He obeyed. The mission ran without disturbance. 

Now he wants to rest, but knows he cannot. Asset does not rest, is not allowed. The lights of the aircraft near in the distance. The boat rocks over the water.

But he is so tired. 

~~~

I know you, but we’ve never met. I’m with you, but I don’t know your name.

I know I’m dreaming, but it feels like more than that. It feels like a memory.

How can that be?

Is it you whom I’ve lived for, whose sweet smile I’ve come to love but have forgotten. Is it you who I’d follow till the end of the line, yet cannot remember why?

Have we danced to a soft melody over and over, a promised tune for our hearts. 

Maybe it is true, but I do not remember you.