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1936
The summer sun shines brightly as Bucky smiles at Steve, and for just a moment, the world becomes perfect.
1937
For as long as he can remember, time has passed by more quickly with each day. Tonight, as the moonlight filters through dinghy curtains, reflecting off Bucky’s skin, Steve swears that the earth has stopped spinning.
1938
A chill runs through every crack in the city, coating windows with a thin, sparkling layer of frost. Steve rushes inside the apartment after Bucky, stuffing rags into the gap underneath their front door as soon as it’s shut. Bucky makes it to their bed first, yelping in surprise when Steve crawls in after him and wraps his ice-cold hands around his waist.
1939
“Y’know I gotta get up, gonna be late for work,” Bucky mumbles.
“I know,” Steve replies, yawning. He clasps his hands together, stretching until his back pops, but Bucky tiredly pulls him back down as soon as he moves away.
“Few more minutes wouldn’t kill me, though.”
1940
When winter thaws into spring, Steve meets Bucky at the diner down the street from their apartment every Friday, and they don’t even need to order the cheapest food on the menu anymore. Neither of them ever call it a date out in the open, and sometimes the jealousy of looking at every other couple at the restaurant burns him like acid.
Bucky never lets it get Steve down for long, always looking for some stupid way to distract him. Today, he regales him with a story about one of the guys at the factory getting his sleeve caught in a machine, swearing that the man almost lost his damn arm but Bucky swept in and cut him loose just in the nick of time. Steve knows it’s bull, that he exaggerates every detail and makes most of it up out of thin air, but that doesn’t stop him from eating it up every time.
1941
They both register for the draft, and they both know that Bucky will be the only one with any chance of getting chosen short of a miracle. This eats at Steve, and no matter how many times Bucky tries to convince him that it’s for the best, he can’t force himself to change his mind. He’s just as valuable, just as useful, just as ready to sacrifice himself as any other man.
“Jesus, Steve, you’ve really got a death wish, huh?” Bucky spits at him one day late in August after he’s tried, unsuccessfully, to reason with him.
“What, you think I don’t have it in me to fight?” Steve retorts.
Bucky shakes his head, scowling deeply, and storms out the door, not returning until the next day.
1942
For the first time in Steve’s memory, Bucky is the one who catches a deathly cold as soon as winter arrives. He shoos Steve away as soon as he tries to get close, blabbering on about how it’ll be much worse if he catches whatever bug Bucky has, but he’s cut off mid-sentence by a coughing fit so violent that Steve doesn’t think anything could keep him from trying to help him.
He sits cross-legged on their bed for hours, pressing a cold washcloth to Bucky’s burning head and shushing him softly every time he starts rambling after a fever dream.
“Ssh, baby, you’re okay, you’re gonna be fine, I’m right here,” He says, pressing a kiss to Bucky’s forehead as he switches a hot washcloth out for a cold one. Bucky mumbles something incomprehensible, reaching for Steve’s hand, calming down as soon as Steve wraps his fingers around Bucky’s.
The fever breaks in the middle of the night, and sure enough, Steve wakes up the next morning sick as a dog.
“You never learn, do you?” Bucky asks him, but he’s smiling as he speaks.
1943
Bucky’s last few weeks with Steve fly by faster than Steve can keep up, and before he can catch his breath, Bucky’s getting ready for his last day in New York. He looks good in the uniform, and Steve would tell him that if his twisted up guts would untangle themselves long enough for him to get a word in.
They go out dancing - Bucky’s found himself a girl for each arm, and he takes turns with each one, guiding them through dances Steve can’t even attempt without tripping over himself. Bucky wants him to take a turn, even says it out right once, which is unusual because normally he won’t push it. But Steve won’t budge, would much rather wander off if it means he can get a moment to collect himself.
When he thinks he’s finally put enough distance between himself and the throngs of people pouring outside, he catches Bucky trailing him, frown plastered on his face. His face brightens when Steve turns back in his direction, and Steve breathes easy when he realizes that Bucky’s not going to force him back onto the dance floor.
That night they dance in their apartment to a slow song that Steve can’t quite place, pressed together so closely that Steve can barely breathe.
1944
Every night, Steve sleeps like a rock, and some part of him wakes him up earlier than the others every morning. Dugan snores, Falsworth talks gibberish in his sleep, and Bucky wakes up gasping for air like he’s been holding his breath all night. The pattern continues for months, and Steve knows that if he was able to comfort Bucky like he used to, wrapping him up in blankets and curling his bony limbs around him, he wouldn’t wake up so disoriented.
Moments alone together become a precious commodity, so rare that they’re practically clawing each other’s clothes off the second they get a few minutes to themselves. It’s frantic, it’s infuriating, and Steve spends many hours contemplating how he could possibly maneuver whatever situation they’re in so he and Bucky can pair up and snake away from the others.
Frigid nights camping out in the wilderness make him nostalgic for the month his apartment heater was broken, because at least he and Bucky had an excuse to be even closer than normal. Now he spends entire days with numb, blistering feet stuck in mud-soaked boots that never quite dry. Time slips away as the war continues but the end is closing in, Steve can feel it, especially when they’re finally able to zero in on Zola’s location.
When Steve blinks awake the morning after Zola’s capture, Dugan snores, Falsworth talks gibberish in his sleep, and Steve waits for a waking gasp that never comes.
2014
He doesn’t remember exactly how it happened - only that one day, he was alone in his apartment, and the next, Bucky was there.
A violet bruise has bloomed across the skin on the left side of Bucky’s chest, a phenomenon that seems to scare Steve much more than it scares Bucky. His expression remains neutral, vaguely empty, unless something startles him badly enough to snap him out of the perpetual trance.
“You’re scared of me,” he utters after a few days staying with Steve, voice hollow. It’s not a question, it’s a statement, and Steve’s blood boils to think of the people who twisted Bucky up to make him think something like that could even be possible.
“I could never be scared of you,” Steve tells him.
Bucky’s stoic expression drops, giving way to something pained and confused, lost. “I tried to kill you,” he says slowly, sounding out the words as if he doesn’t know if they’re true or not.
“But you didn’t,” Steve says, and he closes the distance between himself and Bucky, cupping a hand around his chin.
“You didn’t,” Steve repeats.
2015
Almost every night, Bucky takes Steve to some part of the city that he didn’t know existed. A fire escape torn part way off its hinges leaning in an empty alleway, a rooftop covered in a maze of wood palettes, a tunnel to an abandoned subway car, a bar that they can only get inside because Bucky won a game of poker against the owner six months ago.
Steve wasn’t quite sure what to call these outings until Bucky asked him one afternoon: “Hey Steve, are we still on for the date…for our date tonight?”
Every night is a date night from that point on, Steve insists on it and Bucky smiles at his enthusiasm when it’s hard for him to be excited himself. They explore the city, turning over every corner, discovering new landmarks for themselves, showered by the frozen galaxy of streetlights.
And when something triggers one of Bucky’s memories, leaves him terrified and confused about what year it is, Steve brings him back as best he can, talking him down until he remembers his name again. Every time Bucky comes back to himself Steve has to steel himself, tamp his emotions down, because every time he’s reminded that Bucky is here, Steve is here, they’re both here, he’s barely able to keep himself together.
Steve’s walls come crashing down when he sees Bucky with his dog tags for the first time, staring at the engraved letters as if they’re encrusted with diamonds. Watching him ponder the identifying information as the sun bounces off the surface of his arm, casting a blinding silver glow, Steve sobs.
Bucky rushes over to him, holds them together, kisses the tear tracks running down Steve’s cheeks.
2016
There are few things that have hurt Steve more than the vacant look on Bucky’s face when he realizes that the code words HYDRA implemented still work. Bucky comes back to himself so quickly after attacking Steve and the others, with absolutely no memory of anything he did. Their separation is inevitable for the time being; Steve will do anything in his power to make sure Bucky can get his mind back, even if it means parting ways again.
This time, though, their departure is bittersweet, lined with the knowledge that they will see each other again soon.
For a long time, Steve keeps up that hope in his mind: the promise of soon.
Days turn into weeks.
Weeks into months.
Occasionally Steve receives reports of rigorous tests, brain scans that are incomprehensible to him. He never stays anywhere with an Internet connection long enough for much else, and the thought sometimes crosses his mind that his separation from Bucky may be much longer-term than he had imagined.
There’s a silver lining to all of it; now that he’s no longer Captain America - that Captain America doesn’t exist anymore to the public, he doesn’t have to pretend to hold himself together. He’s exhausted and everyone in his circle is as well, and they do everything in their power to keep themselves from falling apart at the seams.
He would rather be anywhere else.
2017
Steve calls Bucky, and it’s always too short. The line gets cut, or Nat tells him they need to leave, or a building explodes, or the call is dropped.
Today, he’s carved out an hour for himself and he’s going to call him, he’s going to make sure nothing happens, and it’ll be over video.
While he waits for Bucky to pick up, he gets nervous like it’s 1936 again and he’s asking Bucky out for the first time ever.
And finally the screen stops lagging, and finally Bucky is there, and…
“You have a beard!” Steve exclaims. Probably should’ve led with something else, but it’s too late to take it back and Bucky looks even more surprised than he does.
“ You have a beard?!” Bucky says, incredulous. They both laugh, and Steve knows that Bucky’s smile in this exact moment is one of the best things he’s seen in his life.
He’s happy.
The call is supposed to last for an hour, and they manage to stretch it out to three by bouncing off one another, rambling about the most random topics Steve can think of. A red and blue spider that Steve found under his bed last night, pot roast, Vegas, the herd of goats Bucky is taking care of.
Neither of them stop smiling.
2018
It never ceases to amaze Steve that Bucky remains unfazed no matter the threat, always ready for a fight, odds be damned.
He’s not exactly at his happiest when Steve finally gets to meet him in Wakanda, but he’s not backing down either.
Three hours later, he is dead.
Steve isn’t sure whether his heart explodes or collapses the second that Bucky disappears into dust, it’s over so quickly that he doesn’t have time to process what’s going on.
This is different from all the other times he’s lost Bucky, all the other times he’s died right in front of Steve. This time, the entire world comes to a screeching halt at the exact moment his mind melts from the inside out.
He hasn’t reached any semblance of normalcy in his life in decades, and now no one in the world has anything to hold onto anymore. There’s a sense of community that comes from something as horrific as half of the population being wiped from existence, but more than that, there’s a profound loss that clouds every aspect of life.
He writes Bucky love letters like he’s still alive, and the torment of keeping them chews at him so much that he burns them all to ash. He sees Bucky in those ashes, fading away so quickly Steve can’t even run over to him before he’s disappeared into dust.
It takes weeks for the streets to be cleared well enough to be remotely driveable, and in the meantime, Steve goes on walks along lanes that used to burst at the seams with life. Now, the only remnants of life are the thousands of cars blocking every exit, wrapped around lamp posts, crashed straight into buildings that will remain vacant indefinitely because there’s no one to fill them.
He’s spent his life adjusting and re-adjusting as every circumstance around him changes rapidly, and he’s grown accustomed to always waiting for the other shoe to drop, eventually figuring his way around every new situation he’s been thrust into.
He cannot imagine adjusting to this.
2023
Exhaustion has settled itself deep in Steve’s bones, an old friend he’s grown so accustomed to that he hardly registers its existence unless its weight is lifted off of him.
He needs to take a break, maybe permanently.
Bucky agrees with the sentiment.
Everything happened too quickly for Steve to register - everyone in the world being brought back in an instant, the whiplash of losing his two closest teammates in one day.
So he takes a day for himself, and that day turns into a week, and that week turns into a month, just him and Bucky alone together. Steve staying in bed for days on end, Bucky waking up in a cold sweat.
Bucky talks to him about HYDRA as more of his memories surface. He’s frustrated every time there’s something he can’t quite articulate, the wispy shadows of a memory buried so deeply he can’t piece together exactly what happened. Sometimes, the opposite happens and a memory far too vivid pulls him so far into himself that even Steve can’t reach him. So Steve waits like he always has, like he always will if he needs to, and he rests a hand on Bucky’s shoulder or talks to him about all of the positive memories he can think of.
“I don’t think this is ever gonna get easier, Steve,” Bucky remarks one night after a particularly jarring nightmare wakes him up and keeps him frozen in place for an hour.
Steve shifts to a sitting position and maneuvers both of them so Bucky’s head is in his lap, threading his fingers through Bucky’s vibranium ones.
“I think it will - I think it has to,” Steve says.
“You sure about that?” Bucky mumbles.
“I’m sure.”
2024
Every morning, Steve wakes up when Bucky untangles himself from him, throws on clothes, and climbs through the bedroom window to sit on their fire escape and watch the sunrise.
Today, Steve decides that he’s going to join him.
They sit together in the dark, Bucky staring out to the east, Steve staring at Bucky. The city is never silent, but this is as close as it gets, most of the noise distant enough that Steve can tune it out.
Slowly the sun rises over the horizon, casting a golden glow across the glass buildings patterned across the skyline, glinting off of Bucky’s arm, glittering on the gold ring on Steve’s finger. He memorizes everything about this moment, and he can tell from the way Bucky’s eyes are darting around that he’s doing the same thing. But the more he looks around, the more frantic his gaze becomes, his chest rising and falling more rapidly with every breath.
“Hey,” Steve says, resting a hand on Bucky’s thigh.
“You’re not gonna forget this,” Steve reassures him, cupping his cheek with his other hand. “You’re not gonna forget anything.”
Bucky breathes out slowly and rests his chin on Steve’s shoulder. He leans his weight on Steve, wraps his arms around his waist, and kisses his neck. He slowly moves up to his jawline, kissing a trail up to his mouth, and Steve presses them closer together, feeling the tension evaporate from Bucky with each passing second. Their breaths synchronize, and the world around them drops away. When Bucky eventually pulls away, he gazes at Steve wide-eyed.
“I’m not gonna forget this.”