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“You’re going where?!”
“Steve,” Barnes said his name calmly, only a tinge of annoyance seeping into his voice. He knew there would be some pushback from his best friend, but he did not have the energy to deal with it, not after everything.
“No, Bucky, come on.”
They had already gone back and forth about whether or not James “Bucky” Barnes should flee the country, part ways so that Steve could be back in the public eye as a hero. Bucky took the affirmative, insisting he should leave, but Steve opposed. This was just a more decisive version of those conversations.
“This is ridiculous!”
Steve stood near the motel's desk as he spoke, a foot away from the closer of the two dilapidated beds where Bucky sat, head in his right hand. The motel they were staying at was old and cheap, rotting somewhere deep in Iowa, and run by an elderly couple who seemed to have not watched enough of the news to recognize them.
“Steve, this is the best option for me,” Barnes stated, dragging his left hand down his face, the metal cold against his skin sending a wave of chills over his face even though he had grown used to the feeling over the years. He could tell Steve knew that this was the best option, but something was stopping him from accepting it.
Steve shook his blond head, his eyes stubbornly taking in the ceiling, trying to dislodge a forming idea that could change their reality. But nothing fell into place. “I know, I know. It’s just… Wakanda. It’s so far away, Buck. I just got you back.” Steve didn’t bother to make eye contact, especially at the last sentence, which was softer and quieter than the rest.
Bucky’s mind was made up. After all his years of running without any control over where or why, he was done. Wakanda was a place that granted him asylum. A place that promised to help. Someplace safe. Someplace to rest, someplace to defrost. But Steve’s last few words made his defensiveness melt. They hinted at something deeper that was never said in their time. Maybe it never would be, but…
Bucky smiled softly. “You could come with me. Just for a bit.” He sounded softer than he had in a while, but even as he said those hopeful words, he knew his friend far too well.
There was no surprise when Steve solemnly shook his head ‘no’ and sank onto the bed, sitting beside Bucky. “I have to help. I can’t leave them there. Sam, Clint — I mean, Wanda, she’s just a child and spent her whole life locked up, I can’t just —"
“Then come after. We’ll get them out, then go. It’s not just safer for me there, but for you, too. They're calling you a war criminal, Steve.”
Steve finally looked up at Bucky with much more sorrow and regret in his eyes than before. “My responsibilities are here. I’m —” Steve felt stupid for the words he was about to say; it sounded ridiculous, but it truly was his identity. “I’m Captain America.”
Bucky didn’t laugh at the title. He was there when it started; he knew what it meant, which meant he also knew enough to protest the sentiment. “How much of yourself are you going to give to a country that clearly doesn’t give a shit about you?” The question came out far harsher than Bucky had intended, but he maintained eye contact all the same. It may have sounded harsh, but his words were in earnest.
“That’s not true,” Steve rebutted.
“Steve, I was there!” Bucky took Steve’s hands in his own as he urged, “When you were sick, when this country didn’t do a damn thing to help you or people like you. Or me, for that matter!”
Rather than taking his hands away, Steve gave a squeeze to emphasize his point, “I’m not fighting for the country, I’m fighting for its people.”
“The people don’t care.” Bucky kept hold of one of Steve’s hands but pulled the left one away to gesture around the room. “They just like that, they can sit back while someone else saves them.”
Steve attempted to capture the liberated hand in an attempt to ground Bucky. It wasn’t working. The man was far from receiving Steve’s struggle to bring him away from his fit of anger. “That’s not true. That’s just what’s left over from the Soviet brainwashing —”
“If they really knew you, what would they say?” Bucky cut him off.
Steve loosened the hold of Buck's hand, hardly holding on to it now. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” Bucky averted his eyes, looking to the side, his jaw tightly set.
“No,” Steve rose to his feet, face heating under the implication, “you meant something.”
Bucky stared at the television on the dresser across from him, remaining silent. It was large and black — flatter than should be possible. A remote sat next to it instead of dials, all sleek and shiny, not a trace of thick wood around the screen. Everything was different. Except for Steve.
Bucky sighed; he didn’t have the energy or the words. He finally settled on, “You're the best person I know.” he took a breath as he put together the rest of his statement, “You’re the most selfless person in the world. I hate that you sacrificed the life you have here just to — what, to save me? You give too much of yourself, Steve. This — this was crazy.” Bucky gestured to himself with his metal arm. “I don’t deserve saving.” His words were desperate; each and every one genuine.
Steve didn’t miss a beat before replying, “I couldn’t leave you like that.”
Bucky simply shrugged in response. He had nothing to say to that. Steve could’ve. He just didn’t. And now here they were in the middle of nowhere, his best friend's life was ruined for the foreseeable future, and all Steve could do was stress over Bucky’s safety.
“And I’m not selfless,” Steve continued, smoothing a hand over the bed before taking a seat on the mess of sheets, now facing the blank TV screen as well. He took a deep breath before finishing the explanation, sounding almost defensive, “I needed you. I was reckless. I put people in danger, good people, because I needed you!”
Bucky didn’t even notice when their hands rejoined in a tight grip again; the presence slowly dawned on him as he stared deep into the serious blue eyes he knew so well. This man was ridiculous, too devoted to friendships that he should leave in the past for his own good. Bucky wanted to say something in return, but his mouth felt dry.
A digital clock sat on the dual bedside table. No ticking, no winding up, just glowing red lights and a built-in alarm.
Everything was different.
So much felt the same as it did when they were younger in the 40s. So much was the same. Fear of whatever was to come next, the way Steve always tried to grasp onto any of the good he could find or come up with. The small, cold hotel room was like their living room in Brooklyn. But in that moment, everything felt different. Except for Steve.
The way he looked at Bucky as if he were the only person to ever exist, a look that he could not remember the origins of, but had been ingrained in Bucky’s memory from their childhoods. The way Steve’s blue eyes occasionally dipped to look at his lips during intense moments like these, which he used to brush off and push from his mind. The way Bucky’s heart hit his chest far too hard when they sat this close.
What was new was his awareness of Steve’s heart doing the same. He supposed that might be part of being a super soldier, the hyper awareness. What had changed was that Bucky Barnes finally gave in to the urge to do something.
Bucky let go of one of Steve’s hands, this time not out of retreat. He acted quickly so that his nerves would not get the better of him. Just shy of Steve’s jawline grew a beard that made him unrecognizable to outsiders. His warm hand softly cupped Steve's jaw, and he closed the distance between them with a light kiss. It was timid; the confidence to do so came only in moving forward and quickly disappeared when they made contact.
Then came the second of worry. The second in which every signal he thought he’d picked up suddenly seemed like lies, moments lost in translation. The second he made to move away. But that second hardly lasted. Every doubt in Bucky’s mind melted away when Steve placed his hand firmly on Bucky's cheek to ensure he did not move away from the kiss. It slowly ended, chaste, innocent, and closed. The breath they shared for a second led into another kiss that was less chaste — open, but still slow, soft, and shy.
Everything was different. Everything was new. And all-consuming.
Bucky could not remember the last time he had felt so content. The contrast between the softness of Steve’s lips and the stubble around them. The scent of his cologne, the most traditional scent he could find in this day and age — citrus and amber with a light musk. The feel of the hand that Steve did not have slipping into his hair, resting gently on Bucky’s leg. The proximity that made him hyper-aware of the rise and fall of Steve’s breath. All too perfect, too lovely. Too bitter-sweet. All this time, this could’ve been their reality.
Every chance to break away between each breath was ignored. Every chance for a conversation was pushed away in favor of letting their lips and tongues have a conversation that had been put off for years. When they finally pulled away from the kiss, they didn't break contact, instead wrapping around each other in a tight embrace. Their hug lasted longer than their kiss, arms wrapped tightly around the other in a celebration of something new, and a farewell to what could've been if they hadn’t been too afraid to express it before. Bucky buried his face into the crook of Steve’s neck, breathing in the same smell of his longest friend and that damn cologne that smelled like every older gentleman he'd ever met in the 21st century. Lavender, rosemary, citrus, and roses. It all felt like roses.
Bucky prayed this wouldn't be the last time they held each other like this — the first and last time they kissed, but he knew what he had to do and what Steve had to do. As much as Bucky wished for a repeat of the kiss, the hug was all they needed. The friendship. The love. The farewell. The ‘see you soon.’
Beautifully soft like petals, sharper than thorns, the inevitable ‘goodbye’ hung above them.
“I missed you. So much.” Bucky whispered against Steve’s neck. “And I didn't even know who you were.” It was hard to tell if he had said it in his mind or out loud; the words were so soft and hidden, the only way he knew they had left his mind was the way Steve ran his hands soothingly through Bucky’s hair in response.
Steve took a breath and then moved away from their hug. His eyes were soft when he smiled, but there was sadness — a resignation.
“You could stay here,” Steve offered, retaking Bucky’s hands. “There are people willing to help.”
Bucky shook his head. “To do what? Hide from everyone? From what I’ve done?” He maintained eye contact even though it felt impossible to do when facing the reality of his past. “Unlike you, I don’t deserve it. I can’t just not face it. I can’t take help from strangers. From people who need it themselves. Let’s be real, a lot of things these days are better than they were, but have you tried to buy ice cream now?”
“It’s fucking expensive,” Steve said at the same time as Bucky, both chuckling as their words overlapped. Then the moment of humor died.
“Now, imagine a normal person paying the cost of two fugitives. You deserve the refuge, Steve. I don’t.”
Steve didn’t agree in the slightest. In his mind, there was no one more deserving. Bucky had helped countless people before and during the war, and he’d changed his plans for his early adult years so he could live with and take care of his sickly friend. He was taken by an opposing government, tortured, and turned into a weapon. Treated like a subhuman weapon, a process that started before he had even fallen off the train. No one deserved refuge more than he did.
But he knew he would not be able to change Bucky's sense of self-worth. So instead he asked, “What makes Wakanda different?”
Bucky's answer was honest but clinical, as if he were presenting a debrief on a military operation rather than a painful personal decision: “It’s the only place that can make sure I won't hurt anyone else.”
Steve closed his eyes and sighed. The choice was made. He couldn’t convince his friend to believe the contrary. The expressionless facade Bucky had been trying to plaster onto his face broke away. His emotions were raw and desperate as he held Steve's face and put his whole heart into the words, “I’m sorry.”
Steve let out a small huff at the apology that was not required, his thumb brushing against his friend's natural hand. Eyes closed, Steve leaned into Bucky’s hands as their foreheads rested against each other. They stayed like that for a while, breaths matching breaths. Steve tried his best not to cry. It didn’t work, but each light trickle of salty water was quickly wiped away. Steve had the feeling that after all these years of whatever Hydra had put him through, Bucky Barnes had run out of tears to cry. And just like it was decades before, Bucky was the one comforting Steve, despite whatever hell he was going through.
Once Steve partially regained his composure — which he felt lucky to have not lost all of and just broken down — he pulled away and grabbed Bucky’s face to look the man straight in the eye. “Don’t leave forever, okay?”
Bucky’s smile spread quickly. “Okay,” he chuckled. Steve continued to look at him with big, pleading blue eyes, as if he were willing the image of the man before him to last.
“Hey,” Bucky said, still not removing his hands from Steve’s face for anything other than sweeping a wry lock of blond hair out of his face, “I’m not gone yet, Stevie.”
That worked. Steve smiled and shook his head, a light, nostalgic laugh dancing in the air. “I haven’t heard that one in a very long time.”
“Let me guess, hundred years?” Bucky deadpanned with a raised brow.
The two laughed together again, shaking their heads. What was this life they now knew as their reality? Steve's laughter lasted just longer than Bucky’s, who watched his friend. Steve’s smile was beautiful, his deep cadence enchanting. The comment was not as funny as the reaction entailed, but it was a release of emotions that were welcomed in that moment. A release of emotions that Bucky reveled in seeing play out across his friend's face.
Steve's laughter faded, but his smile did not; the comfort of Buck's presence was as if no time had passed. He ran his hand over Bucky’s metal one, looking kindly into his friend's eyes. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“It” being anything, really. Whatever Bucky heard it as, if he wanted to share, Steve would be there. Hydra, the kiss, Wakanda, hell, even the TV.
“No,” Bucky said quickly but softly, averting his eyes without even realizing it.
That was okay, too.
“Well,” Steve drawled, tilting his head to catch his friend's eyes, relishing in the smile spreading over Bucky's face as Steve spoke, “are you going to kiss me again or what?”
So he did. Again and again. The future would not change. The decisions would remain the same. But for a brief stretch of time, they could just be. And they were.
The daunting world of the outside seemed to fly away, and Steve just felt light. Weightless and free. His heart was pounding so hard it could take off and fly away with his fear, leaving him in the arms of his best friend. Hands on each other's faces and in each other's hair. Tongues intertwined. Pure and innocently beautiful and simultaneously urgent and needy. Rough and soft like lips and stubble, metal and flesh.
Bucky was about to rest his metal hand on Steve's cheek, but quickly pulled it away, replacing it with the other. His fingers on Steve’s cheek were light, extremely soft, brushing against his cheekbone too gently, fingers filled with trepidation.
Bucky could remember all too clearly being on the helicarrier, hitting and hitting and hitting until the skin on Steve’s face broke, until those blue eyes - so bloodshot they were indistinguishable from the shield discarded beside him - couldn’t focus. Bucky couldn’t get the image out of his mind, no matter how much he wished. It wasn’t him.
Still, he tried his best to apologize, an unvoiced apology in the way of lips moving on lips, metal fingers under a blue zip-up sweatshirt, carefully pushing it off of the blond man’s shoulder. Bucky didn’t even know he was telling his body to do so when he kissed the spot, now healed perfectly, the only evidence of the laceration being the memories.
The sound of Steve’s breath next to his ear was almost enough to make Bucky forget all about the fight. Hydra. All of it. He trailed his kisses along Steve’s jaw and down his neck, ensuring gentleness. He placed hardly any pressure behind the kisses, the touch feather light.
Bucky gingerly nudged the other side of Steve’s sweatshirt off his shoulder, helping to slide it from his arm, leaving him in his plain T-shirt.
No logos or writing. Just a void of navy blue. Less noticeable, less chance of eyes landing on him and trying to read the words, catching a glimpse of his face.
Steve’s hands grasped the sleeves of Bucky's shirt. He preferred long sleeves; preferred to have the metal arm covered as much as possible.
There was more confidence in the way Steve moved. He was sure as he slid his hand into the other man’s hair, using it to pull him back into a kiss. If the small noise that escaped Bucky was anything to go by, the confidence was incredibly attractive.
Bucky seemed to be the opposite. Steve knew why; it wasn’t a lack of attraction or Bucky being unsure as to whether he actually wanted this. It was a fear of himself. Of his strength, of everything he had done and could do if his brain fogged again, if those words ingrained into his being could activate the Winter Soldier without being said out loud. Steve was proven right when Bucky stopped everything altogether after he nipped at Steve’s lower lip, causing a slight flinch. Small, nearly undetectable, but to Bucky it was enough.
Steve’s hands rose instantly to brush against his companion's cheek. He could see the fear Bucky was trying to hide, his face emotionless to anyone else. But Steve knew him. And he knew that what he wanted to say wouldn’t help. “You can’t hurt me. You’re safe now. That is all over.” Because he couldn’t promise any of those things.
But it was unlikely to happen now. After years and years of waiting and wanting, Bucky was holding back out of the fear of a one-in-a-million chance.
“You've always done too much for me,” Steve said on an exhale, shaking his head with a light smile gracing his features. That caught Bucky off guard. It should be the other way around.
What Bucky wanted to say was, “You’ve done too much for me. You’ve thrown away your life. You’ve done so much that I’m not worthy of,” but he knew Steve wouldn’t hear it. It didn’t matter if Bucky deserved redemption; Steve would give it to him anyway, a million times over.
Bucky matched Steve's smile and tone and said, "I've messed you up enough, too. Consider it even.”
“You haven't begun to mess me up,” Steve muttered, slowly closing the distance between the two for another kiss, saying, “But I’m hoping you will,” before finally pressing his lips to Bucky’s. Steve could feel the other man suppress laughter, even though he returned the kiss with fervour.
“Shut up.” Steve chuckled, which only made Bucky laugh harder, his forehead resting against Steve's. The sound was almost indistinguishable from the sound of laughter that accompanied Bucky pushing Steve's underweight shoulder on a street in Brooklyn, or Steve's own belly-laugh as Bucky tripped over his own feet the first time he danced with that overzealous girl from their senior class, or when Steve laughed even harder after she stepped on Bucky's foot for the fourth time in a row. And just like that, all the nervousness, the sadness, and confusion that lingered in the room had dissipated.
“No, no, it was a good line,” Bucky said, attempting to force his smile into a line.
Steve rolled his eyes with an air of humor. “Okay,” he muttered, raising both his hands, making to move away, but the other man moved to grasp Steve's arms.
“C’mon, Steve, come back!” They both laughed as Bucky pulled Steve back to him. The laughter fell away as they regained their previous proximity, their eyes flashing to each other's lips then back to their eyes, squinted in genuine smiles. Buck's arms ran down Steve's arms, to his shoulders, then the back of his neck, his warm hand running through Steve's hair. “I liked it,” he muttered against Steve's lips, before the two were joined again, seemingly indefinitely.
The digital clock flashed on the bedside table. They didn’t have long. Natasha was coming back to break the others out of the raft. That’s what the encrypted text message Steve had received said, anyway. The phone sat next to the clock, charging at a quick pace. But the two men had a few days to themselves. Everything was different.