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James looks out at the scene of Moscow. It’s night, the city’s alive, cool wind blowing his hair behind him, the long barrel of his rifle in his hand and the butt against the snowy ground. He breathes in. Scents of greasy fast food, someone’s cologne, and city pollution fill his nostrils. All of this is both familiar and not.
Familiar because he’s been here before, many times, both in this city and in this position. HYDRA higher-ups settle themselves in Moscow, relishing in the luxury of the city and the protection it provides, not thinking that one day a large provider of their protection would break conditioning would come after them. So, he’s been here before, on missions to protect people with big brains and bigger pockets, but today he’s here for himself. He’s never felt this calm wave of completion running through his veins and across this bones. He’s never felt finished with this city, never felt okay with the blood on his hands. Even as the asset he felt some sort of guilt after each kill, a nauseous rolling in his stomach that he couldn’t put his finger on, but now knows was the sliver of Bucky he still had in him.
Still has.
He killed people today. Took them out with one shot to the head, no remorse, none of that nauseating feeling. Nothing. He didn’t kill someone on the orders of another, with payment or request to HYDRA, no, he did this for himself. He did it within his own free will, with memories coming back to him rapidly every day, like a stream flowing into the ocean. He did it with the knowledge of what he was doing, that he’s taking lives, taking God’s will into his own hands, maybe leaving a spouse in grief and children without parents. But the people he killed, the scum he wiped from this earth, didn’t deserve to live this long. They watched as he was repeatedly hurt, they let a human be turned into a machine, they funded his cryostasis and turned a blind eye when he knew who he was, asked for Steve, asked for help, and was shut down with electricity or ice. He knows damn well what he did, what he killed, who he’s leaving alone in the world.
Over the last six months he’s been taking out said scum. Leaders, scientists, deep pockets, anyone with the motivation, power, or money once affiliated with HYDRA- that he remembers- that could have the intentions to rebuild what was destroyed. No more of that “cut off one head and two more shall grow” shit, not on his watch at least. And now, after stationing himself in Moscow for two months- two long months of keeping his head down, lurking in shadows, stealing ammo- he feels like it’s time to go home.
He gives Moscow one last glance, takes his mask off to see it in it’s full nighttime glory, and takes in one more breath. His mission’s over. His mission’s over, and unless Steve or the Avengers need his help, he’s planning on not having a mission ever again. He releases his breath, it puffs out in the cold air, and steps away from the ledge.
Time to go back to Steve.
He knows, in reality, he shouldn’t just show up at the Tower. He should probably do the creepy, more level headed thing, of finding Steve at a park or something, and come to him one on one. But it’s been over six months since he dragged him out of the Potomac, it’s been five or so since Steve last caught his trail and they had a stare off before James booked it because he wasn’t ready to face it. It’s been weeks since he completed his mission in Moscow, and he’s damn ready to just be Bucky again, to let someone take care of him, to have that love that he knows is mutual from the memories that wash over him. He’s ready to let himself go and put himself in the hands of one Steven Grant Rogers.
Since Moscow he’s gotten sloppy. He doesn’t check for security cameras, instead walks in front of him like he’s not wanted by HYDRA- and probably the American government, let’s be real here-. He goes out in the streets without a layer of kevlar under his clothes, not because he doesn’t care about his safety, but if someone’s going to try shooting him in a crowded New York diner then they deserve his wrath at it’s fullest potential. He lets people see his face, lets his presence be known, pays for a hotel room instead of holing up in some abandoned warehouse. He buys his own toiletries instead of stealing them from a gas station, and even got his hair cut by a barber in Florida while on the way to New York. He’s sloppy, and he doesn’t really care who knows he’s alive and who doesn’t.
James takes in a deep breath, looking up at the massive building, before moving off the sidewalk and into the revolving doors of Stark Tower. He gets through the doors without a problem but stops at the receptionist’s desk before trying to navigate the tower on his own-slash-getting tackled by security because he has a weapon literally attached to his body. Not like the security could take him, but he wants to show Steve that he’s not that guy any more. That he’s not rabid or bloodthirsty- not that Steve thought that- but basically sane and ready to stop fighting.
“How may I help you, sir?” The lady says with a polite smile when James walks up to the desk.
James smiles at her and refrains from clearing his throat, “I’m here to see Steve Rogers,” he says, easy like you do, like he’s not a once-brainwashed-assassin, like he didn’t almost kill Steve twice.
The lady nods, typing and clicking a few times before asking, “Name?”
He swallows, eyeing the security scattered around the floor, “James Buchanan Barnes,”
She types his name in before her fingers stop over the keyboard, she looks up at him with a tight smile- James knows where this is going- before pressing at her ear with two fingers, “There’s a James Buchanan Barnes here for Steve Rogers.” She says it softly like James is going to bolt out the doors if her voice is an octave higher and James wants to roll his eyes. He was brainwashed, not yelled at, Jesus Christ.
“Mister Barnes,” she says, looking up at him, her smile not as genuine as before, “the first elevator on the left is ready for you.”
James nods and smiles at her, “Thanks, ma’am.” He taps the counter twice before heading to the elevator, ignoring the not-so-subtle guards tracking his every move with their hand almost on their guns. Stark really needs to get better paid muscle.
Sure enough, when he stops in front of the elevator it opens for him. Glassy and modern like everything else in this building, he really shouldn’t be surprised. James steps into the elevator, hands in his pockets, looking at the lack of floor buttons but small tablet instead. Fingerprint necessary, he could almost roll his eyes.
“Sergeant Barnes,” an accented voice says, obviously AI.
James looks at the corner of the elevator and smiles, “Hey, there.” He knows there’s a camera tucked into the walls of the elevator. He knows he’s being watched, and he doesn’t give a damn. He’s got nothing to hide.
“I will be escorting you to your destination.”
With a look behind him through the glass, into the lobby, he sighs, “You’re not taking me to Steve, are ya?”
The AI makes a humming sound before answering him, “I am afraid not.”
“Figures,” James leans back against the glass and waits out the ride.
James steps out of the elevator hesitantly. He’s not scared- no- but he is worried about what he’s going to encounter on this detour.
“Down the hall Sergeant Barnes.” The AI says, making James jump. He forgot about that guy for a moment.
With a deep breath, he makes his way down the hallway, memorizing each step he takes and door he passes by as he goes. Calculating which way would be the best if he needs to get out quick, if he has to go back in hiding once more.
“To your left, Sergeant.”
James goes into the door on the left, as he was told, and could almost roll his eyes at the sight. He’s wanted to do that a lot today.
In front of him stands Anthony Stark himself, with Iron Man gauntlets on, hands pointing at him.
“If I wanted to kill you- and I don’t- I wouldn’t have came in through the front door and announced my presence.” He’d have scaled the building, moved through unguarded passage ways like smoke in the night. He’d have come in through windows or watched his target through their window from outside. He’d have done it silently, without a trace. Like the ghost people say he is. He definitely would not have came in and talked to a receptionist. That’s not how assassinating someone works.
Stark shifts, his hands still in the air, “Even if I believed you- which I don’t- why come here, huh?”
James does roll his eyes this time, “I told the lady I want to see Steve, doesn’t that sum up my reason for being here?” Can’t people get a hint that he just wants to see his best fucking friend from way back when? If he was on a murderous rampage he’d have gone at Stark already. All he wants is to see Steve and be Bucky again, that’s it, that’s all.
“Why do you wanna’ see Cap? Gonna’ finish what you started, huh?”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” James groans, looking at the ceiling for some divine intervention because he doesn’t want to kill anyone but his temper and patience is a short thing, “no, I’m not here to kill anyone-”
“Then why are you here?” Stark interrupts, gaining himself an icy glare.
“Well, if you’d let me finish then maybe I could tell you,” James puts his hands on his hips, “you gonna’ let me finish?”
Stark waves at him with a gauntlet clad hand, motioning for him to go on.
“I’d just like to see Steve, my best friend, okay? That’s it. Just wanna’ see him s‘all.” And if Steve doesn’t want him- which he doubts, so so much, because then why’d he go after him all those months ago?- then he’ll leave. He’ll go settle down in a small town and take care of people’s dogs or something. He’ll be out of Steve’s hair, easy as you do.
“You just want to see Steve?” Stark asks, narrowing his eyes.
“I just want to see Steve,” James says with a sigh.
“Not gonna’ kill him, just want to see him?”
“Isn’t that what I just said?”
“Do I need to put you through a polygraph?”
James rolls his eyes again, he raises his left hand, “Scout’s honor,”
Stark snorts, “You were never a scout- and I know this because history drilled your history into my head.”
“Well I was a soldier,” James drawls, resisting the urge to roll his eyes once more, they’re gonna get stuck that way if he does, “and that’s basically a Boy Scout on steroids.”
“Any funny business,” Stark says, pointing at him with a red, metal finger, “you’re dead, got it?”
“Got it, got it, shot to the head and all that,” he flicks his eyes to the door, “now can I see Steve?”
Stark sighs, lowering his hands, “I guess, but-” he points at him, again, “I’m trusting you here and I will kill you if you do anything seemly murderous or evil, got it?”
“Got it,” James says, nodding, “lead the way?”
The elevator ride is awkward, to say the least. Stark keeps side-eyeing him like he’s gonna throw him through the glass to meet his guests in the lobby via thirty story fall. The AI keeps a not-silent humming like there’s another person in the elevator. And James... Well, James is worried as fuck that Steve isn’t going to want him back in his life anymore. At least not the way James wants, but none of that matters right now. Not the glaring, not the creepy AI, not even his own feelings matter. He’s going to see Steve again- out of a war zone, away from fighting- and nothing matters more than that.
When the elevator door opens, James’ heart isn’t sure what it wants to do. Does it want to stop beating? Does it want to speed up? He can’t tell. He just knows that Stark is walking out of the elevator, yelling that Steve has company, and that James needs to get his feet and heart back on track because he needs to see Steve.
It’s been too long since.
James pushes himself out the elevator- doors still open because of the helpful AI- and stops behind Stark. He doesn’t see Steve but he can hear him yelling from some other part of his floor.
“Tony, I thought you said you were going to stop barging into my floor without warning first.”
James can smell something in the air- chilli? Like something from the hotdog stands but better- so he’s going to assume Steve’s in his kitchen. Cooking.
“Well,” Stark eyes him for a moment, “you have a visitor.”
“A visitor? Who--”
James tries to smile when Steve enters the living room but he knows it’s watery and small and nothing bright and big like it’s supposed to be. Steve stops in his tracks when he sets his eyes on him, and James wants to make himself smaller. Hide his arm and run a hand through his freshly cut hair. But he doesn’t do any of those things, he just stands, spreads his arms out a little, and says “Hey, Stevie.”
“Buck,” Steve says, taking a step closer, dish rag still in his hands.
James lets out a shaky breath, watching as Steve steps closer and as Stark moves himself to the elevator, probably watching the scene play out from his cameras in case he needs to intervene. “It’s me.”
“Buck,” Steve says again, but this time it’s full of emotion. It’s happy and sad and hopeful at the same time. It’s like the clouds are parting before the rain but the thick scent and humidity is still in the air. It punches James in the chest, both metaphorically and literally because Steve’s just tackled him into a hug.
James wraps his arms around Steve, holding him close to his body, “M’sorry it’s taken me so long to come home,” he says, quiet, just for the two of them to hear, “but I had some things to finish, some ends to tie.”
“I know,” Steve says, nodding into the crook of his neck, “I know, Buck, I know, I’m just happy you’re here now.”
“Yeah?” James asks, because he needs to know. He needs to know whether or not he’s something temporary or if Steve really wants him back because he’s here for the long haul. No matter what.
“Buck,” Steve says, pulling away to cup his face, dish rag at their feet, “you don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for you to come home, and now that you’re here,” he smiles, it’s that sad-happy mixture again, “there’s not a damn thing in the world I want more than this.”
James presses his forehead against Steve’s, “But I’m not the old me, I ain’t that kid from Brooklyn anymore, I’m-” he licks his lips, “I’m something in the middle, between the old me and this new me, that okay?” He prays that Steve says it’s okay. He prays, just for the moment, just once more, that Steve won’t kick him out for not being his old self. He knows it’s irrational to think that way, to think that of Steve, but he needs to be sure.
“You’re still Buck, right?” Steve’s hands are warm against his skin, like nothing he’s felt in the longest time, “You’re still my Bucky?”
“Of course,” James- Bucky, he’s Bucky again, and it’s like a breath of fresh air- says “who else would I be. And-” Bucky licks his lips, leaning into Steve’s personal space a fraction more, their noses almost touching, “and you’re still my Stevie?”
“Always,” Steve says, like it’s common knowledge, and leans in, closing that fraction of space between them.
The kiss isn’t groundbreaking, it’s not life-altering or world-shattering, but it is breathtaking. It’s their lips touching, their noses brushing, and hands moving up to cup faces and run through hair. It’s close mouthed, but intimate. It’s new territory but like an old memory. It’s fluttering eyelashes and held breath. It’s everything Bucky- Bucky!- could ask for and more.
It’s Steve and he’s Bucky.
And that’s all that matters.