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Soulmates were something Steve never liked. The concept was nice and all, but in the truth of it, even as a young child, he hoped he never met his. Because he, like everybody else, had two sentences on his non-dominant arm. One sentence would say the worst thing you ever did to them, and the other would say the best. Nobody liked to accept the fact that they would do something bad to the person they loved, but it was written for everybody to see. Usually, they weren’t that bad. Sometimes they said things like “Show up late to the wedding,” or “Forget your anniversary,”.
And then sometimes it said things like “Murder [] with an axe.”
One thing was always true, though: The best thing would always happen before the worst thing happened. Sometimes the offense wasn’t directly related to the soulmate— sometimes it was something that happened to somebody they knew that would upset them the most. It could be “Call []’s mother a floozy in front of [them].”
Take Steve’s parents, for example. His father, Joseph’s, words read “Save [Sarah] from being hit by an automobile,” and “Die while [Sarah] is pregnant,”. In a way, it saved them the pain of his father’s death in the Great War, because they knew it was a risk the moment Steve was conceived. His mother, Sarah’s, words read “Give [Joseph] the son [he] always wanted,” and “Die while that son is still young.”
Of course, Steve didn’t know his mother’s worst words until after it came true. She didn’t want to worry him, so she’d never let him see. He couldn’t even be upset with her. He knew why she did it.
Steve had heartbreakingly known from the moment he met Bucky that they were soulmates because the blank space [] filled with the name [James] and the male pronouns. He’d also known he’d never let Bucky see what his arm said.
Because Steve knew he was different, of course, he was, he always had been— his words were in the wrong order. Everybody else had the best thing as something that would come first— it’s how they were written. They were in the order they would happen, and the best was always first.
Except for Steve, because on his left arm, the first sentence reads “Watch [James] fall to [his] death.”
After that read “Love [James] with all your heart.”
And it hurt him to know he wouldn’t be able to do that until after he’d watched him die.
Bucky tried to never get too close to Steve. It didn’t work, of course, because Steve shone as bright as the sun and if Bucky was a mere planet, it was hopeless to not get sucked into his orbit. He loved him so much, more than he ever thought possible— he had every reason to be ecstatic that they were soulmates. But really, he was terrified, because— the bond wasn’t complete.
Unlike everybody else, he had four sentences. Two per arm. His own ugly secret.
On his left arm, it read “Save [Steve’s] life,” and, horrifyingly, “Forget [Steve] ever existed.”
On his right arm, it read “Repeatedly attempt to kill [],” and, “Be happy.”
He hated them. The blank person, he hated them so much. How could he ever be happy with them if he forgot the one person that meant the world to him? And how could he ever forget Steve? How could he forget the sun in his solar system? The light in his life?
Bucky would freeze to death before he ever let himself forget the sun.
And after the train incident, as he was lying in the snow— he couldn’t feel his left arm, the one he treasured, the one with Steve’s name on it— He made sure he remembered Steve. He made sure Steve was the last thing he was thinking of as he quite literally froze to death. He pictured his bright smile in the darkness that swam over his vision. He would not forget. He just couldn’t.
The Asset didn’t have a soul, and so the Asset didn’t have a soulmate, either. He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew that was why the space on his right arm remained blank. It was blank because no name would ever go there. His handlers made sure of it.
When Steve woke up, he didn’t let himself break down. When he was alone, he didn’t let himself cry. When he visited the Smithsonian, he didn’t let himself look too closely at the misinformation regarding his and Bucky’s soulmarks. It was better this way. It was better that they never knew.
It was better that nobody knew that his heart really only ached with what must be love after his soulmate had died.
It was better that nobody knew how broken he was.
It was simply better.
A lot had happened. Bucky was alive. When Bucky finally let Steve find him, all he did was give Steve his right arm with a carefully blank gaze. Steve wanted to cry. This was the first time he’d ever let Steve see the words there. He reached out hesitantly, moving only when Bucky seemed unbothered, brushing a thumb over where it said his name.
Bucky’s was backward too. Steve knew what he had to do now. He had to love this man with everything he had and then some. He hoped, if he did that, Bucky finally would [be happy].
(And he could have sworn Bucky was right-handed, so he didn’t know why his words weren’t on his left arm. Perhaps they moved when he lost his arm? He didn’t think that was a thing that happened but he’d have to look into it.
He was just glad Bucky was alive.)
Bucky had most of his memories back now. Steve was glad about it. He walked into their living room, gingerly setting his coffee down and pecking Bucky on the temple as he sat on the couch next to him. Bucky was lost in thought, spaced out, staring at the plates of his new arm and lightly ghosting the pads of his fingers over seemingly nothing.
Steve didn’t say anything, just let Bucky gather the pieces of himself back together in peace.
“It feels like I’m forgetting something,” Bucky finally said.
And didn’t that hurt? Steve smiled sadly, even though his eyes burned with unshed tears, he forced himself to say, “You’re not forgetting anything.”
Bucky gave him a quizzical look but said nothing more. They were comfortable with that.
Curled into his side late at night, neither of them able to sleep again, they whispered small endearments and clung to each other like they had nothing else.
Bucky hummed and pulled his head back, “Steve?”
“Hm?” He peeked open an eye to look at the person he loved most.
“You being here, with me, it means everything,” Bucky said, sounding so small.
Steve pressed his nose into the other’s hair, pressing a kiss there, “I love you.”
He could feel Bucky smile into the bare skin of his chest, “I’m happy I have you, Steve.”
Then, and only then, did Steve finally let himself cry.
They were both broken, a tangled mass of jagged edges and missing pieces of themselves that no longer fit together as a whole person— but they found their pieces fit each other well enough. And sure, there were cracks, but, Steve figured, the cracks are how the light gets in.
Like this, his life had never been brighter.