Archive of Our Own

It all starts with Brussels sprouts.

It's a good day — Bucky managed to sleep through the whole night, they went jogging together, and he even offered to help cook dinner. It's a good day, and Steve couldn't be happier.

Then Bucky reaches for the small bowl of Brussels sprouts, spooning quite a few onto his plate. Steve opens his mouth to warn him — Bucky had always been very vocal in his hatred for the 'mutated mini-cabbages', as he used to call them — only to shut it. He needs to allow Bucky to discover things on his own.

Steve watches out of the corner of his eye as Bucky begins eating. He spears a Brussels sprout on his fork, face blank. He chews it slowly, showing no sign of disliking the taste. Steve waits till he's eaten two more, before asking.

"Do you like those?"

Bucky looks up. "What do you mean?"

"The Brussels sprouts. Do you like them?"

It's apparently a difficult question, as he considers his answer for a good minute, frowning deeply. "It's food," he finally says.

"Well, yeah, but do you like it?" Steve feels a bit like a broken record, but something tells him that this is important. It's been slow going, trying to show Bucky that those years of cruelty and dehumanization weren't the way things were supposed to be — but that's okay. He can take however long time he needs to; Steve won't abandon him.

"Hey, Buck," he says, as he slowly reaches out. Bucky's head is bent low, his long hair obscuring his face. Steve gently tucks it behind his ear, letting his hand linger in the space between throat and shoulder. "Remember what we talked about, the other day? It's okay to say if you don't like something, just like how it's okay to say if you need or want something."

Bucky nods once. "Yes, I remember."

"Good," Steve says, smiling. "So...?"

"I don't like 'em." His voice is quiet, and there's a moment where he stiffens beneath Steve's hand, almost as if he's steeling himself for a blow. It passes quickly, a note of frustration seeping into his eyes — Steve's seen it before. It's the same look he gets when he's flinched away from Steve's touch after a nightmare; a look of shame and anger, directed at himself, because deep down he knows Steve won't hurt him, yet he's unable to stop his body from reacting based on past experience.

It always hurts like hell to see.

"Thanks for telling me, Bucky."

He turns his head to meet Steve's eyes, looking uncertain and confused. "But it doesn't matter. It's just food. You eat to keep your body going, nothing more." The way he says it makes Steve suspect he's quoting something he's been told.

"That's not true. You gotta eat, yes, but it can — and should! — be something enjoyable; not a chore you force yourself through in order not to starve."

"Oh."

Not wanting to push him any further, Steve removes his hand. Bucky follows the movement with his eyes, an indecipherable emotion flickering over his face.

"Did... did I always dislike them?"

"Yeah," Steve answers, chuckling slightly. "You used to say that the only thing they'd be good for was throwing them at people. But you always bought them anyway, 'cause you knew I liked them."

"I don't remember that," Bucky mumbles. His hand tightens around his fork, knuckles turning white.

"That's okay. Hey, listen to me — maybe you'll remember it someday, and maybe you won't. Either way is fine with me. We can make new memories, alright?"

Bucky's silent for a long time, then, "Do you want them? I mean, you didn't make that many, and if you like them then you can have mine."

Something in Steve's chest constricts, at odds with the wide smile that he feels spreading over his face. He holds up his plate towards Bucky. "Yes, please."

Bucky pushes the Brussels sprouts off his plate and onto Steve's. He looks a bit relieved to be rid of them, prompting Steve's grin to grow even bigger.

"Thanks."

"Thanks yourself," Bucky replies, a bit hesitantly.

"Aha," Steve says, happy by the attempt to joke and eager to show it, "so you had an ulterior motive, you jerk."

Bucky smiles. And sure, it's both shaky and small, but it's still one of the most beautiful things Steve has ever seen.

----

After dinner they end up in front of the TV, watching the third Rocky movie. The first two had been on Steve's list, but both he and Bucky had liked them enough to want to keep watching. He's vaguely aware of the plot of the next one, though — he'll have to do some research first, to make sure it's not gonna make Bucky feel bad.

Bucky must be tired, as he soon curls up against the side of the couch and dozes off. Steve makes a halfhearted attempt at continuing to watch the movie, but honestly? He prefers looking at Bucky.

He's been trying not to do it too much, knowing it's bound to make Bucky feel self-conscious or like he's being studied. But it just feels so good, looking at Bucky — seeing him there, alive, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm as he breathes. And maybe he's a bit broken, but that's okay. Steve will make sure he heals, no matter what it takes.

A sharp sound from the movie makes Bucky twitch, a tiny frown appearing between his eyebrows. Steve fumbles for the remote and sets the TV on mute. The frown soon disappears, replaced by a peaceful calmness.

He looks so very young.

Forcing himself to turn away lest he do something foolish, Steve gives the movie one last chance. But it's a lost cause — the montages really lose something without the music — and he soon turns the TV off.

Getting up from the couch might wake Bucky, so he reaches for a book instead and settles in.

A few chapters later, he sees Bucky stirring in the corner of his eye. Steve turns his head, and almost drops the book.

Bucky is looking at him with sleepy, somewhat dazed eyes, and there's fond curl to his lips that Steve hasn't seen in seventy years. "Heya, punk," he says softly, affection clear as day in his voice, "I told you not to wait up."

Steve doesn't know what to say. Bucky doesn't seem to mind, however, as he scoots closer and then lies down, placing his head in Steve's lap.

Eyes prickling, Steve reaches up to bury his hand in Bucky's hair, gently massaging the scalp. Bucky lets out a contented groan. "Feels nice," he mumbles. "Sorry if I smell like fish. I should go clean up, but I'm so damn tired."

And Steve should say something, should carefully try to bring Bucky back to reality, but he just can't. It'd be too cruel, he can't do that too Bucky, and — and he doesn't want to lose this moment.

Because he remembers this, remembers this with enough clarity to make his heart ache. All those late nights he'd stayed up reading, while waiting for Bucky to come home from his work on the docks. Bucky always told him not to; to be more careful with his health and get a full night's sleep instead. So Steve always made up some lie about the book being too exciting to put down, and Bucky just shook his head, lips curled in that fond smile Steve loved more than anything else. Then he'd sink down onto the couch, next to Steve, grunting and grimacing as he stretched out. Steve would put his book aside as Bucky's head landed in his lap, silently requesting Steve's touch.

And Steve would give it, gladly. He'd run his hand through Bucky's short hair, petting and rubbing until his breathing evened out. Sometimes, when he felt really bold, he'd allow his fingers to wander. Down the side of Bucky's face, cupping his jaw as his thumb skirted the outlines of his mouth.

Once, he'd leaned down and pressed his lips to Bucky's.

Just once. But it had haunted him ever since. And now, the past is repeating itself — Bucky is in his lap, sleeping. It'd be so easy to just bend his head and steal another kiss.

Steve tips his head back and screws his eyes shut. He won't do it, however tempting it is to relive one of his most cherished memories. It would be wrong on so many levels, and he knows he'd never forgive himself for it.

So he stays still, until he feels confident enough to reach out again. He runs his fingers through the strands of Bucky's hair until sleep claims him.

----

Steve wakes to the realization that someone is puttering around in the kitchen.

Bucky is nowhere to be seen — and certainly not stretched out in Steve's lap. What is there, however, is a blanket. Steve grips it tightly, a sting of warmth blossoming in his chest.

He walks to the kitchen, uncertain who he'll find there. There's a small part of him that wishes it'll be the old Bucky, the Bucky of last night with bright, unshadowed eyes and an easy smile. It makes him feel terribly guilty, and he does his best to smother it.

"Bucky," he says, and if there was any lingering doubt as to Bucky's current state, it's quickly dispelled when he turns around. It's with the efficiency of a soldier, one quick smooth movement, all stiff back and at full attention — like he's just waiting for Steve to bark an order, any order.

The old Bucky would've just looked over his shoulder, a languid grin on his face as he teased Steve for sleeping later than him. And it's not fair for Steve to still make comparisons — Bucky is Bucky, end of story — but he can't seem to stop.

He hates himself for it, especially when it's plain as day to see how Bucky struggles to regain even a modicum of his old self. It's right there, in the way he squeezes his eyes shut for a second, as if concentrating his entire willpower into getting his body to relax.

He succeeds after a moment, blue eyes sliding open once more, though he's far from being at ease. But he's trying, God, he's trying so hard. It breaks Steve's heart.

"Hi," he says, softly. "Morning, Buck."

Bucky nods.

"Was this you?" Steve asks, holding up the blanket. It's an inane question, but he still needs to ask.

There's a glint of something in Bucky's eyes, like a fleeting urge to roll his eyes and say 'No, it was your fairy godmother.' He doesn't, though. Another curt nod is all the reply Steve gets.

"Thank you."

Bucky finally finds his words. "It was the least I could do in return," he says. "I should be the one thanking you."

Steve frowns. "What for?"

"Last night. I — I got lost. Somewhere in my dreams I just..." he trails off, a look of frustration flitting over his features. There's a bowl of cereal in front of him, and the spoon he's holding is quickly losing its shape under the force of his clenching hand.

"It's okay," Steve hurries to assure him. "You don't have to explain-"

"No," Bucky cuts him off, "that's not it. I just wanted to thank you. For letting me have that moment. It was — nice. I didn't know I could be like that, I guess."

"Oh." Steve swallows. He wishes he knew what to say.

"I remember things, sometimes." Bucky's voice is quiet, almost distant, as if he's talking more to himself than Steve. "But it never feels like it's me in those memories, y'know? Last night was different."

Foregoing words for action, Steve moves closer. He frees the spoon — nothing more than a distorted piece of metal now — from Bucky's death grip, tossing it into the trash before slowly interlacing their fingers.

Bucky doesn't pull away. That alone is a victory, but it's made all the sweeter when he actually squeezes Steve's hand.

Steve squeezes back. "Hey," he says, "I got an idea."

"Yeah?" Bucky's blue eyes are partly hidden by his lowered lashes, but Steve can tell that he's staring at their joined hands.

"Two birds with one stone. We eat out tonight, so that you can discover more food you like — or dislike, whatever the case may be. And we do it down by the docks, so you can see where you used to work."

"Okay."

"You sure? If you don't feel up to it, all you have to do is say so. I won't mind at all."

Finally, Bucky looks up and meets Steve's gaze. "I'm sure. I'd like to go."

Steve grins. He has a good feeling about this.

----

For a while, it seems like his hunch was right on the money. Bucky lights up when actually recognizing the old cannery, and seems to enjoy being at the docks. The restaurant they choose is nice, perhaps a bit on the fancy side, but the menu is thick and filled with plenty of things for Bucky to consider.

Then Steve looks up from the menu, takes one look at Bucky, and knows that their night is about to get turned on its head.

Bucky has grown utterly stiff. He's looking intently at something over Steve's shoulder, eyes narrowed and jaw working. Steve turns, trying to identify the source of his ire — but there's nothing he can find that ought to have provoked that sort of reaction.

"What's wrong?" he asks, turning back to face Bucky.

"That," Bucky replies, darkly. He inclines his head towards the aquarium.

Steve gives it a closer look, having passed it over earlier. There are no plants or rocks; just water and a bunch of lobsters huddled into a corner. Not really an aquarium, then — just a display of food.

"If you're gonna kill something, you should give it a clean death." Bucky's voice is steady and calm, but there's a storm roiling underneath. It reminds Steve of the way he'd sounded when he'd been under Hydra's control.

It's not something Steve had ever wanted to hear again, and it makes him grit his teeth. "I agree with you," he says.

"You shouldn't keep it locked up, just waiting — longing — for the moment it's finally allowed to die."

And fuck, but this is about so much more than just lobsters. "Bucky..." he starts.

A waiter walks by their table, stopping by the tank to fish out one of the lobsters. He heads for the kitchen entrance.

Bucky slowly gets to his feet, eyes fastened on the waiter. "Did you mean it?" he says, almost absently.

"Mean what?" Steve asks, as he hurries to stand. Wherever Bucky is going, he's going.

"That I should tell you if I want something."

"Yes, of course."

The waiter disappears behind the swinging doors, and Bucky turns his eyes to Steve. "Good," he says. "I'm gonna go get that lobster. You get the rest."

Steve nods. "I'm on it."

There's a brief flash of surprise, followed by gratitude, on Bucky's face. Both emotions are misplaced — there's nothing Steve wouldn't do for him, and it's not as if he wants anything in return. The quick smile that Bucky gives him before heading off after the waiter is reward enough.

Well then. He squares his shoulders and contemplates his course of action. He could simply buy all the lobsters; they are for sale, after all. But that wouldn't solve actually anything. The restaurant would just buy in a bunch of new ones, doomed to the same miserable fate. No, Steve needs to deal with the root of the problem.

He starts to look around the restaurant, trying to find someone who looks like they're in charge, but before he can decide on any one person a young woman hurries up to him. She looks nervous, and her eyes keep darting towards the kitchen doors.

"Sir, is there a problem?" she asks.

"Would it be possible for me to speak to the owner of this restaurant?"

Her face turns pale. "If something has been unsatisfactory, for you or your companion, I sincerely apologize," she starts, and Steve resists the urge to wince.

"No," he says, forcing himself to give her a reassuring smile, "it's nothing like that at all. I just have something I'd like to ask, and the owner is probably the only one who can give me an answer."

"Okay, well, um..." she glances over her shoulder, catching the eye of another waiter. She gestures towards the bar area and mouths something to him, before looking back at Steve. "Right. If you'll just follow me, then."

"Thank you," Steve says.

They walk over to the bar, where the other waiter is standing. There's a woman next to him, a frown on her face. It turns into a polite smile when she spots Steve, and with a little flick of her wrist she dismisses the two waiters.

"What can I do for you, Captain?"

So she recognizes him. Good. That'll make things easier. He debates how to best phrase his request, but decides to be as direct as possible. She looks like a no-nonsense type of person. "I'd like to buy your lobsters."

She gives him a pointed look, pursing her red lips. "Your waiter could've arranged that for you."

"All of them, I mean. And the aquarium itself," he adds, realizing how difficult it might be to carry them all otherwise.

For a moment it looks like she's about to refuse him, and Steve silently swears. Even if she says no, he's walking out of there with the lobsters. Bucky had asked — the very first thing he's asked for — and Steve's not gonna let him down.

If worst comes to worst, he'll call Tony and ask him to recommend a good PR agent. Tony has experience with handling scandals, after all, even if they weren't quite on par with Captain America stealing an aquarium filled with lobsters.

"Very well. I'll sell it to you, if that's what you want. I'm not about to turn down the request of a superhero," she says, smirking.

"That's good," Steve says, "because I have one more thing to ask of you."

"I kind of suspected there was more to this, yes."

"I don't want you to replace them. Scratch lobsters from your menu — live ones, at least."

She nods twice, slowly. There is a calculating glint in her eyes. "And in return...?"

"Name your price."

"That's a dangerous thing to offer."

"Not if you mean it," Steve says, baring his teeth in a cold smile. He wishes he could hurry this up, so he could go check on Bucky.

"You'll get the lobsters, the aquarium, and the removal of relevant menu items in return for an endorsement — a commercial of some sort. Not for TV, I can't afford that," she says with a slight scoff, "but YouTube is another story. Talk about the potential of going viral. Of course I realize that superheroes don't make ads, so I'm sure you're not inclined to agree. That is, however, my price."

Steve feels like laughing. Clearly she has no idea of just how Captain America got his start. Oh, he knows how to sell things, alright. This might not be war bonds, but that'll make little difference.

He extends his hand. "Deal."

Her eyes widen in surprise, before she rapidly — as if afraid he'll change his mind — reaches out to shake his hand.

"Let's take this to my office, shall we? We can discuss the details more in depth, and draw up a contract."

Steve really, really doesn't have time for that. He fires off his most charming smile and takes a step back. "As far as I'm concerned, a handshake is as good as any contract. Perhaps even better, as it signifies a level of trust between us, Mrs...?"

"Miss, actually. And if we're going to have that level of trust between us," she says, somehow making it sound awfully personal, "we might as well be on a first-name basis. I'm Lily."

She doubtlessly knows his name, but it seems only polite to introduce himself in turn. He opens his mouth to do so, when Bucky's voice comes from somewhere behind him.

"I can't leave you alone for a second."

It's something the old Bucky would've said; teasingly accusing him of being a flirt. But the inflection is all wrong — there's no amusement, no obvious affection. It's just toneless. Cold.

Steve turns around. Bucky is standing there, his eyes and body language as lacking in emotion as his voice. No, wait, that's not right... There's something akin to annoyance, maybe even anger, in the stiff set of his shoulders.

If Steve didn't know any better he'd say that Bucky looked jealous.

Any further thoughts about his mood are swept away when Steve notices what he's carrying. There's a plastic bag filled with water, gripped securely in his hand. The lobster he'd gone after is inside.

"You got it!" Steve exclaims, grinning widely. There's a warm burst of pride in his chest, nothing but sheer joy that Bucky has been able to accomplish this for himself. "Good job, Buck," he says, softly.

Bucky's gaze moves away. "Thanks," he mumbles. "Were you able to...?"

Oh, right. "Yeah, it's all taken care off. We're taking the whole aquarium, so you can put that one back in it." Steve turns back to Lily, still feeling ridiculously happy. Maybe it shows, because she looks a bit surprised. "I'll come in later this week, if that's okay?"

"Yes, that's fine," Lily says. "I'll take your word for it. After all, if you can't trust Captain America, who can you trust?"

Steve nods, giving her one final smile before walking over to the aquarium. Bucky is shoving the empty plastic bag into his pocket, a few stray drops of water glittering on the metal of his hand.

Either one of them could carry the tank on his own, but it's bulky — it'll be a lot easier to do it together. Bucky seems to have the same thing in mind, as he moves to grip it at the very end. Steve takes the other end, and then they're on their way.

"So, what do you want to do now?" Steve asks once they're outside. "Release them?"

"Yeah. We can borrow a boat down at the dock, and take it out. Then we'll let them go."

Steve pointedly doesn't ask Bucky to clarify the word 'borrow'. "Hey, by the way," he says instead, "we won't need to do this again. The woman I was talking to was the owner, and we made a deal. She agreed to not sell live lobsters anymore."

Bucky's head snaps up. His eyes are wide. "You did that?"

"It's what you wanted, isn't it?"

"Yeah," he murmurs, "it is."

Steve's not sure what to say. Bucky looks almost upset, but he keeps walking — so it's not like Steve can just stop, and try to get him to open up.

As it turns out, he doesn't have to. "Thank you," Bucky says. "I know it's stupid, because you've been nothing but considerate and kind to me, yet I... I didn't expect that."

"No, Buck, thank you. Thank you for asking; for placing your trust in me. It means more than I can say."

He gets another little smile in return, and Steve feels almost dizzy with happiness. He could live off those smiles, if it came right down it. His body disagrees, however, as evidenced by the loud rumbling from his stomach.

Bucky raises his eyebrows. "Hungry?"

"Uh. Kinda?" He glances around, remembering that they'd passed a hot dog cart on the way to the restaurant. And yes, there it is.

"Come on, let's set the aquarium down," Bucky says, already beginning to crouch. They carefully set it on the sidewalk, close to the side of the building so that it's not in the way.

Steve straightens back up, grimacing. "A hot dog isn't quite the nice meal I had planned for today, but I guess it'll have to do. What do you want on yours?"

Bucky snorts, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Isn't that what got us into this adventure in the first place? I have no idea, Steve."

"...Everything, then?"

Bucky shrugs. "Sure. But no Brussels sprouts!" he adds, vehemently.

Steve laughs. He gets them two hot dogs each, more toppings than actual hot dog. Ketchup, mustard, relish, onion, cheese, bacon, coleslaw — it's no wonder the vendor gives him a funny look, but Steve doesn't care.

They eat in silence, only interrupted by Steve's cursing when a gooey chunk of topping mixture drips onto his shirt. He wipes it off as best as he can, but it leaves quite a stain. He stares mournfully at what had once been his best dress shirt.

"I like it better this way," Bucky says around a mouthful of food. "More colorful."

"Gee, thanks." He shifts closer to Bucky, playfully bumping their shoulders together. It's a spur-of-the-moment thing, one he probably wouldn't have gone through with if he'd stopped to think about it. But Bucky doesn't seem to mind — he just deftly maneuvers the remains of his hot dog, avoiding getting splattered. It falls on the pavement instead, and Steve guiltily scuffs his foot over the mess. He'd feel awful if someone came along and slipped on it.

Makeshift dinner completed, they pick up the aquarium again and continue towards the dock.

"Hey, I almost forget," Steve says, "how did you get hold of your lobster? Were you able to pay off the waiter?"

"By the time I caught up with it, the cook already had his hands on it. I offered him money, but he said no."

"Oh?"

"He asked if I was the guy dining with Captain America. I said yes, and the cook told me he'd make up some story about the lobster having gone bad, if he could get a photo of you princess-carrying him and holding up a sign saying 'In your face, Andrew!'" Bucky tells his story calmly, like there's nothing strange about at all. Steve disagrees.

"Wha... Who the hell is Andrew?!"

"His ex-boyfriend. He had a big thing for you, apparently."

Steve nearly drops the aquarium. "And you said yes?" he splutters.

Bucky frowns. "You dislike gays?"

"What? No! You know I don't," Steve says, only to realize that no, Bucky probably doesn't know. He suppresses a groan, and tries to decide whether or not to apologize for his choice of words.

It doesn't seem like it fazed Bucky, however. He just nods, a look of relief flitting over his features. "That's good," he says. "I'm glad you don't."

Steve would've liked to say more, but they're at the docks and Bucky is moving to set down the aquarium, already looking around for a boat. "Uh," Steve starts, "I know you said we'd borrow a boat, but I think renting is the way to go. I can go ask around."

"We'll both go," Bucky replies. "But let's keep an eye on the lobsters at all time. Don't think anyone would be stupid enough to try to take them, though."

Well, fine. It's not quite what Steve had hoped for, but hopefully Bucky won't steal the first boat he sees. He'd handled the lobster acquisition with flying colors after all — even if Steve isn't exactly looking forward to upholding the bargain. He briefly imagines Bucky offering other embarrassing photo opportunities with him; maybe he could pose with an armful of nets and a sou'wester on his head, to promote the local fishermen. He cringes at the thought, and more or less starts running towards the man he's spotted mooring a sleek speedboat.

"Hello there," he greets. "I know this might be a strange question, but would you be willing to let me rent your boat? Just for a little while, say, maybe half an hour? I'll pay whatever price you think is fair."

The man looks Steve up and down, eyes finally fixing on the stain on his shirt. "This is my boat," he says, haughtily. "It's not for sale or rent."

"But..."

"No means no."

Steve grits his teeth and turns away. He glances over at the aquarium — still there — and then checks for Bucky. He's talking with someone, and oh, look at that, reaching out to shake hands.

Steve jogs towards him, unable to quell a grin. It's worth it, even if he has to pose for another picture, hell, it's more than worth it to see Bucky extend his hand in a thumbs-up.

"I struck out," Steve says once they converge, "but it looks like you didn't, huh?"

"Nope. We're borrowing that," he says, pointing towards a small fishing boat. It's clearly old, all flaked paint and rust, but it still floats, and that's what matters.

"Borrowing? Really? The owner didn't want any money?"

"I explained what we were doing and she had herself a good laugh. Said that would cover the cost, that and the look on her husband's face when she told him about it. He's been a fisherman his whole life, so she thought it was some fine irony to use his boat to release lobsters back into the ocean."

Steve looks over at the woman, lifting his hand in greeting. She waves back. "It's nice of her to lend us the boat, but she didn't have to laugh about it." He hopes it didn't make Bucky feel bad.

But Bucky just shrugs. He looks relaxed, at ease. It's good to see. "Nah," he says, "I get where she's coming from. 'Sides, she said it was cute."

"Oh, I see," Steve drawls. "You charmer, you."

They pick the aquarium up and get it aboard. Bucky seems to have a lot of experience handling boats, for he maneuvers it out without the slightest bit of hesitation. Steve keeps him company in the wheelhouse — they don't talk any, but the silence is companionable. It's nice, just to be with him. Steve doesn't need more than that.

They come to a stop pretty far out. "What do you think?" Bucky asks. "This a good spot?"

"Yeah, I think so."

They spend the next few minutes removing the strips of tape keeping the lobsters' claws closed, and then letting them go. Bucky stands leaning over the gunwale, staring into the murky depths, long after they've disappeared. There's a soft smile on his face.

"Feels good to save lives, instead of taking them." He straightens up and turns to look at Steve, smile fading. "I know what you're thinking," he mumbles. "It's just lobsters. And even if it weren't, it's not like any amount of lives saved could ever make up for what I've done."

"That's not what I was thinking, Bucky."

Bucky scoffs, a bitter, self-deprecating sound. "No?"

"No. Very far from it. But I will say this — you have nothing to make up for. You were forced-"

"Bullshit," Bucky snaps, cutting him off. He starts pacing, looking agitated, angry. But it's not directed at Steve, no, it's all turned inwards. "Before you, I don't think I ever questioned it. I just did what I was told; no hesitation, no thought. Like a soulless machine, good for nothing but killing."

"It's not your fault," Steve says, walking forward. He does it slowly, telegraphing his movements. Bucky eyes him warily, but makes no attempt to move away, not even when Steve is close enough to lay a hand on his shoulder. He squeezes it, before letting his hand drift down Bucky's back.

It just takes one little nudge, and then Bucky is in his arms, letting himself be held. After a while he even lifts his arms and returns the hug.

"It's not your fault," Steve repeats, voice low but firm. "I know you can't believe that right now, but I promise it's not. You were the victim, not the perpetrator."

"The blood is still on my hands," Bucky says, voice muffled. His face is pressed against Steve's shoulder, hidden from sight. Steve desperately hopes he's not crying.

He grips Bucky's left hand, carefully lifting it. Bucky immediately takes a step back, eyes wide. He tries to yank his hand away, but Steve doesn't let go. He raises it into the air, palm facing up, before bending his head and pressing a kiss to it.

"No blood, Buck."

Bucky's hand is trembling when he pulls it back. There's a faraway look in his eyes, the kind he gets when he's remembering something.

"Bucky...?"

"I've been having this dream," he says, almost absently. "It's a strange dream, because in it I'm dreaming. Not to start with — in the beginning I'm lying on a couch, my head in your lap. You're touching me, combing your fingers through my hair, and I fall asleep. Then the dream begins."

There is a cold feeling in the pit of Steve's stomach, slowly working its way up. It spreads through his chest, squeezing his heart with icy claws; seizes his throat, making it unable for him to produce any sound.

"I dream that you kiss me," Bucky says, and the cold terror reaches his brain, making him stumble back, numb.

Bucky watches him, eyes narrowed. It's a thoughtful look, not a trace of disgust present. That realization doesn't help as much as it should.

"When I wake up you're sleeping, hand still buried in my hair. Just like last night. I sit up. The dream still lingers; it's all I can think about, all I can feel. And it scares me. It scares the hell out of me."

Steve has to say something. Anything. He wants to deny it, to salvage the situation, but he's not gonna lie to Bucky. "I'm sorry," he forces out. "I never meant for you to know. I never wanted you to feel like this, never wanted to make you uncomfortable. God, I'm so sorry."

Bucky starts. "No! That's not — that's not what I'm trying to say. It..." he trails off, swallowing and licking his lips before continuing. "It scared me because of how much I wished it had been real."

Steve stares at him. There's no way he's saying what Steve thinks he's saying, is there? "What?" he croaks.

"I knew it was a dream, but I realized that I wanted it not to be. And I thought that if you found out, then — then I'd lose you."

Unable to speak, Steve mutely shakes his head.

"It wasn't a dream, was it? It really did happen. You kissed me."

Steve holds out his hand, reaching out for Bucky in a silent offering — or plea, perhaps. Bucky takes it, pulling him in, and he goes willingly, inexorably drawn in. All those years, coming down to this one moment.

The kiss is as familiar as breathing.

Afterwards they stand close, close, foreheads touching. "I knew it," Bucky whispers. "Somehow I just knew it, from the moment I saw you. Knew I loved you, and always would. Knew you were mine." He chuckles, blowing a puff of air against Steve's mouth. It's an invitation as good as any.

When they break apart Bucky chuckles again. "What's so funny?" Steve asks, even though he's grinning like a loon himself. Kissing Bucky just does that to him, apparently.

"The cook," Bucky says, "he actually wanted a photo where you kissed him. I said no, perhaps a bit forcefully, so he amended it to just being carried. Then I found you talking to that girl..."

"You were jealous," Steve says, laughing. It's not even a question. He'd seen it, just hadn't been able to believe it.

"Don't laugh, you punk."

The old nickname makes something inside of Steve fall away. Maybe it's loneliness, maybe it's fear, but whatever it is it leaves him feeling young again. Like the future is open to him; bright and filled with possibility. Because he has Bucky, and Bucky has him, and together they can make it.