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Steve’s soulmark appeared when he was eight months old.
Average in size, location, and color, the only unusual thing about it is was it said. The Doctor tuts when he sees the blasphemy and the nurse comments on how unusual it is to have a name on you that isn’t even the one belonging to your soulmate, but Sarah doesn't care. Her baby is beautiful in every conceivable way.
He’s small and sickly, so they don’t expect him to survive past two, much less live to meet his soulmate, but Steve doesn’t die. By the time he’s reached seven, he’s in the class with all the other boys at school, learning about true love, babies, and waiting for marriage. His mark-patch is an old thing that had once belonged to his father; worn and too big, taking up a large section of his white, concave chest and ribs. Sometimes he takes it off, in the darkness of his room, and presses the old leather to his face. He imagines he can smell his father's aftershave.
He's eight and Steve meets the love of his life. He’s a year below at school; tall and skinny with dark brown hair and clear blue eyes. There are freckles on his button nose, but he punches Terry Lewis in the face and then grabs Steve’s hand as they run away, so he can't be too much of a fairy. “Run!” Steve calls, and, though Bucky doesn’t seem to hear him, they take off down the alley anyway, swerving trash and stray alley cats that hiss and scatter underneath their thundering feet. Steve feels free, like he could run and run and never need his asthma cigarettes again.
Still, a couple of blocks later, when his breathing starts coming in uneven gasps, the kid pushes Steve's head between his knees and strokes his back. “Don’t die on me,” he says.
Steve sucks in a sharp whistle. “I had ‘im on the ropes,” he gasps back, bracing himself against the dirty alleyway floor. He's smiling, though.
“Sure you did, punk,” the kid says.
“Thanks, though,” Steve says later, sat on the fire escape whilst his Ma's making them bread and jam. “Not that I needed help, but...yeah. ‘m Steve, by the way.”
The kid nods. “I’m Bucky.”
They’re on a train. It’s snowing but Steve is sweating through his uniform. There’s a man with a gun. He’s never seen anything like it before; glowing blue and shooting lights, not bullets. It doesn’t really matter, though - they hurt all the same.
Bucky grabs Steve’s shield from the ground and starts firing at the man, whilst Steve can only lie there and do nothing like a helpless idiot.
The light flashes and Bucky is thrown backward, out of the train and no -
Steve lurches to his feet and throws his shield, not even bothering to check if he hit his target or not. He throws himself out of the gaping hole in the side of the train, hanging onto the cold steel with his frostbitten fingers. The wind whips his hair, overshadows his rapid breathing, his racing heartbeat.
“Bucky!” he yells. “Hang on!” Steve shuffles along, not caring that the snow is burning his eyes or that he’s so cold he can no longer feel his fingers. He throws out a hand when he gets close enough, stretching to the absolute limit. “Grab my hand!”
But the metal is groaning and breaking and Bucky falls and Steve thinks he says something, hopes he did, but all he can see is Bucky’s terrified expression, and all he can hear are the screams as he falls, tumbling down into the mountains. Bucky disappears into the wind and - and -
Steve cries. Pressing his face against the ice of the train, he lets hot tears slip down his cheeks, freezing in the air, and all he can think is I should have told him.
He’s twenty-five and the plane is nose-down. Peggy is talking in his ear, false promises of dancing and dates, and he can’t hear anything she’s saying. His hand falls to his chest, gripping the thick material of his uniform over his soulmark. It’s still there, shining against his skin. He hates it, and, selfishly, Steve is glad he’ll never have to meet this girl, never have to lie and pretend his heart isn’t dead, lost at the bottom of a mountain.
He’ll never have to live with someone he hates because of the first thing they say to him.
Steve tips the plane forward and as the ice rushes up to meet him, he closes his eyes and pictures Bucky’s face; his boyish freckles gone, but his eyes as blue as ever. He holds out his hand, smiling, and Steve reaches for it. Their fingers brush.
“Don’t die on me,” Bucky calls as he falls away, slipping from Steve's grasp and into a bottomless void.
Steve jumps after him, and that’s the last thing he remembers doing for a very long time.
Tony Stark is arrogant, rude, and nothing like his father.
His soulmark is, unsurprisingly, bared for the world to see. His sleeves are rolled up to show it off, and Steve can’t help the way he automatically averts his eyes. Has so much changed in seventy years that people flaunt their words now? Your soulmark is meant to be private; between you and your match only. Not some fashion-choice to gawk at. It makes Steve irrationally angry - he and Bucky should've been able to show off their words, take off their shirts without having to wear a mark-patch. It's not...it's not fair.
“Big man in a suit of armor,” Steve goads him. “Take that away and what are you?”
“Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist,” Stark says without missing a beat. Steve grits his teeth.
"I know guys with none of that worth ten of you. Yeah, I've seen the footage,” he says. “The only thing you really fight for is yourself. You're not the guy to make the sacrifice play, to lay down on a wire and let the other guy crawl over you.”
Stark stares coldly up at him. “I think I would just cut the wire.”
“Always a way out...“ Steve smiles like Bucky would when old Missus Turner tried to set them up on dates with her granddaughters. He feels nothing but emptiness. “You know, you may not be a threat, but you better stop pretending to be a hero.”
“A hero? Like you? You're a lab rat, Rogers. Everything special about you came out of a bottle!” Stark leans forward, a sharp little smirk on his face. “Did they get rid of your mark, too? At least now I know why you’re okay with waking up in the future. No one waiting for you back in nineteen-forty, eh, Cap?”
Steve can see Bucky’s impish smile and Cheshire grin. Can feel the arm slung over his shoulders and the leg pressed against his own. A girl appears at his side - big green eyes and shapely hips. She rests her dainty fingers on Bucky’s arm. ‘He’s mine,’ she says, fiercely possessive. ‘My soulmate, Rogers. Find your own.’ His own mind, playing tricks on him.
“You wanna say that again?” Steve challenges him, shoulders tensing. “Put on the suit, let’s go a few rounds.” Thor laughs at them, and for a moment Steve had forgotten they were being watched, consumed as he was with the need to tackle Stark to the floor, and tell him he has no right to talk about Bucky. Then he remembers and his chest hurts even more.
Steve has no right to talk about Bucky either.
“You people are so petty...and tiny,” Thor says, but what does he know? Steve’s heard that Asgardians don’t even have soulmarks.
Banner nods. “Yeah, this is a tee..."
Fury scoffs impatiently. “Agent Romanoff, will you escort Doctor Banner back to his -"
“Where? You rented my room,” Banner says, cutting him off. He looks annoyed and Steve automatically tenses, his hand going subtly for his shield before he realizes it's not at his side where it usually is. Bucky would've cussed him out for that big blunder.
“The cell was just in case -”
Banner explodes. “In case you needed to kill me, but you can’t! I know! I tried!” There’s a moment’s pause. “I got low. I didn't see an end, so I put a bullet in my mouth and the other guy spit it out! So I moved on. I focused on helping other people. I was good until you dragged me back into this freak show and put everyone here at risk!” He looks at Agent Romanoff, and Steve watches as her’s and Fury’s hands drift to their guns. “You wanna know my secret, Agent Romanoff? You wanna know how I stay calm?”
For the first time since he met the doctor, Steve feels like he understands him. Understands the looming presence at his shoulder, the constant knowledge that he can never make up for what he did. How he killed Bucky and ruined the lives (life together) of two people he’d never even met.
“Doctor Banner,” Steve says, his voice steady. “Put down the scepter.”
If shwarma is nice, Steve has no way of knowing. A brick would probably taste just as good to him. Or war rations.
“Think the subway will be open?” Hawkeye asks abruptly, breaking the silence of the restaurant. They all look up from their food and he pulls a face. “What? Just trying to lighten the mood a little.”
“Indeed. The day’s past events weigh heavily on my mind,” Thor agrees solemnly.
“We need to start focusing on what we’re going to do next,” Steve says, happy to have something to focus on rather than his own thoughts. “Clean up, dealing with Loki -”
“Calm your tits, Capsicle,” Stark says dismissively. He shoves a forkful of food into his mouth.
Steve bristles. Where does Stark get off being so crude? “Stark, I really don’t think -”
“He’s just trying to rile you up, Steve,” Agent Romanoff says. “Don’t let it get to you.”
“No, it’s alright,” Steve says. He focuses his gaze on Stark’s impassive face. “About what happened on the Helicarrier...Stark, what I said was uncalled for.”
Stark twitches. “No biggie, Cap. We were all hyped up on alien waves.” It was the closest Steve knew he would get to an apology, but he still felt the need to explain himself.
“My soulmate died,” Steve says. The other Avengers stiffen in discomfort, but Steve wants to say it. Needs to say it, really. “So I guess you were right. About...me not having anyone back in the past. Bucky’s dead and, well.”
“Heavy,” Hawkeye says after a moment. “But if this sharing time then I guess it’s only fair to say that Coulson and I are together.”
Steve’s chest seizes up. Has no one told Hawkeye about Coulson? About his soulmate?
“Fuck,” Stark says succinctly.
“Coulson’s dead,” Agent Romanoff says. Steve couldn’t imagine if someone had told him about Bucky like that, and they hadn’t even been soulmates.
Hawkeye stares at her, his expression flat and confused. “What? No. No, he isn’t.”
“Loki stabbed him through the chest,” Doctor Banner says quietly, speaking up for the first time since they began eating. “I’m sorry, , but he didn’t make it...Fury showed us his trading cards.”
I should’ve signed them, Steve thinks.
“No, he isn’t!” Hawkeye insists. He grabs the bottom of his sleeveless shirt, and pulls it over his head, revealing a neat line of writing.
‘Can’t say I was expecting that,’ it reads, the color a light slate-grey. ‘You don’t happen to have a gun, do you?’
It isn’t scarred or faded like a mark should be if your soulmate passes away.
“That sly fucking pirate,” Stark says.
Steve is nearly twenty-seven. He and Sam are, if not best friends, close. The other man hasn’t met his soulmate, but his mark is written in bright pink on his shoulder blade. Steve hasn’t asked what it says, and Sam hasn’t mentioned the mark that resides over Steve's own heart, still unfaded.
The man they fight on the overpass is skilled. His metal arm shines in the light and he fights smoother, better, and more experienced than Steve ever has. His only weakness is his lack of creativity, of forethought. He seems to attack in a specific way, the moves obviously drilled into his head. Steve fights back randomly, employing all of the techniques S.H.I.E.L.D. told him were unorthodox and needed to be unlearnt. It's paying off now.
But then the man rolls and his mask falls off and he’s standing up and - and - “Bucky?”
Bucky, because it is him, it's Bucky, straightens up and his face grows tense, oh-so-familiar eyes widening in fear. “Who the hell is Bucky?” He asks, and Steve’s chest hurts, but Bucky’s pulling a gun and he can’t fight back, can’t even move -
Sam swoops in and kicks Bucky to one side, then Natasha fires off a rocket that explodes a car and Steve instinctively spins to look at her. When he turns back around...Bucky is gone and Steve has never felt more alive.
Steve’s soulmark is silver. It shines when the light hits it right, but otherwise mostly blends in with his skin. It’s over his heart and when Steve was younger he used to think that meant something. That he and his soulmate would be best friends and always together.
...Then he met Bucky, his best friend who wasn't his soulmate, but, God, Steve wished he was.
Wished, wished, wishes.
Sam doesn’t say anything when Steve strips off his shirt and scratches at the glittering words on his chest, and Natasha averts her gaze politely. Steve thinks he sees fear in her eyes.
‘Who the hell is Bucky?’
He remembers the moment he saw Bucky’s soulmark. It was late and they shared a bed because the heating was broken and it was cheaper to keep warm on body heat, anyway.
Bucky slept in loose pants and socks, so when Steve was woken in the morning by his friend getting up to head down to the docks, he could see the broad expanse of his back. Somewhere deep inside Steve's chest, a fire began to burn. Not an asthma attack, no. It was...something else. Something wrong and taboo.
He watches as Bucky pads across the room to grab his work shirt from the chair it’s neatly folded on. His pants slip down and expose the swell of his ass, his muscles flexing. Steve’s throat goes dry.
Then he notices that Bucky’s soulmark is visible. Written in red at the bottom of his spine, it’s a small, lonesome word. Steve can't even read it, but he clenches the sheets in between his fingers anyway. He's jealous of some dame he's never even met, so jealous he can't even think straight. He's disgusting.
“Stevie?” Steve jolts in surprise. They lock gazes. “You okay?”
“I’m fine, Buck,” Steve says, his voice trembling in his throat. He sits up, hands clasped in his lap. “Just...feeling a bit woozy.”
Bucky walks over and perches on the edge of the bed, a frown on his face. “You want me 'ta stay home from work?”
“You’re such a worrywart,” Steve rolls his eyes. “I’ll be…” He trails off as Bucky reached out and touches the back of his hand. His pulse is thundering in his ears and Steve thinks he might be having an asthma attack. “...Bucky?”
“Steve,” Bucky replies. “‘Course I worry ‘bout ya. You’re my...my best pal.”
“Am I?” Steve asks. His eyes flicker across Bucky’s face and then settle on his lips. They look soft. Pink and plump and wet and kissable and -
“What’re you doing?” Bucky mumbles as his blue eyes slip closed. Their breaths are mingling and Steve licks his lips. He doesn't dare breath.
“Shh, Buck,” he says, and.
He’s kissing Bucky.
He’s kissing his best friend, his everything, his -
No.
Steve jerks away, but Bucky’s eyes are still closed. He squeezes his fingers into fists. Bucky isn’t his soulmate and he isn’t Bucky’s. It ain't fair to start something they won’t be able to finish and Steve’s not sure he’d be able to let Bucky go when the time comes if he lets this happen.
His fingers slide up to his chest, to ‘Who the hell is Bucky?’ and everything makes a lot more sense. Bucky’s bare chest is trembling as he breathes and his eyes are still squeezed shut with nerves. He’s barely moving and neither of them says anything, but they both know they just made a mistake. That this is something they'll never talk about again.
Steve looks at his best friend's mouth and pushes his urges away, into a deep, dark hole in the back of his mind where he keeps his ma's death, and the bullies, and his weak, sickly body.
And Bucky? Bucky tries not to imagine what ‘Run!’ means.