Chapter Text
The Asset didn’t know where he was.
He wasn’t afraid.
Locations would be uploaded to the data port soon enough so long as they were necessary for the mission. Places of interest, back roads, zip codes, extraction points. He didn’t remember how he knew that - old missions were generally static between his ears - but he did. The machine would take away his old orders and replace them with a new imperative. That much was clear to him.
He was in the chair.
He wasn’t afraid.
He didn’t remember getting there, but he remembered the chair. The feel of it.
It should be different, the Asset thought, considering all the places he’d woken up in the past. Norway, Russia, Germany, he remembered that. How did he remember that?
The chair should be different. It was large and clumsy, but they insisted on moving it around along with a handful of other Hydra tech. Toys that couldn’t be replaced or remanufactured. Precious tech. The chair was precious.
The cryo-tubes were shifted too, but Hydra always had a few handy on sight. Hydra’s tentacles stretched far and wide, they had the resources to spare.
The Asset didn’t know where he was.
He wasn’t afraid.
The room was standard, dark, damp. He could feel an electric buzz in the air, the hairs on his arm prickled. The machine was close by, maybe only a few feet.
The Asset wanted to run. He thought he should. Something told him that he should be running. But his mind was sluggish, a cocktail of drugs drip, drip, dripping through his blood. He could feel the cold steel of the standard clamps around his arms, the Arm, his legs.
The Arm whirred automatically, assessing the strength of its restraints, checking for inconsistencies within the construction of the metal. Vulnerabilities.
There was nothing.
He was-wasn’t afraid.
The prickling got harsher. The Asset could feel the currents in the air, they shot into his skin like millions of microscopic needles. He could smell ozone. His nostrils burned.
Afraid?
The Asset gritted his teeth, clenching his fingers so hard that he was sure the bones would shatter inside his skin. He bowed his head. He wanted it to be over, he wanted it to end.
Then the machine activated and he no longer wanted anything at all.
It was a blessing, perhaps, that he didn’t remember the pain.
When the machine finally receded from the Asset’s skull with a dull, perfunctory whirr, his throat ached from screams he couldn’t remember. His mouth tasted like rubber. His head hurt – throbbing along to the pounding of his heart - but it was clear. A blank canvass ready to be painted.
But the paint came later. First the artist must sign their work. How else were people to know who it belonged to? How else would the art know who to obey?
Art, Asset. He wasn’t art. He was no masterpiece. The Asset was code. A network of messages and commands. Data. Stored. Compliant.
He didn’t want to comply. The Asset had no memory, but he felt the pain in his head, the clamps on his flesh. He didn’t need memories to know that he was a prisoner.
“желание.”
A voice, from seemingly everywhere and nowhere at once. It echoed around the room - Basement? Tunnel? It smelt like undergrowth. Cold and damp, the brickwork laced with mould.
The Asset spoke Russian, but his mind translated the word into English without a second’s hesitation.
Longing.
The Asset cringed, writhing under his shackles. He didn’t remember pain, but he remembered punishment. Ice crept up his back as the word lodged itself into his brain. It hurt. It fucking burned.
The voice continued, relentless: “ржaвый.”
Rusted.
The Asset closed his eyes, trying to block the sound. The words were intrusive, burrowing deep into his subconscious. Opening doors he didn’t know were there. That shouldn’t be there.
Why were they there?
“семнадцать.”
The Asset gasped. He couldn’t breathe. His mind screamed Seventeen.
The Asset could see the man behind the voice now; he popped into the Asset’s line of sight like an apparition, lank and spindly, a pair of oversized glasses worn crookedly over his nose. He wore a spotless lab coat. No mess. It was ridiculous to think that such a pathetic husk of a man was capable of dealing such critical damage. The Asset would have laughed had he not been in so much pain.
The man wasn’t a field worker, he was barely a handler. But he had the book. That red star bound in leather told the Asset everything he needed, without knowing how.
The Asset squinted through the pain in his head, the words searing imprints into his skull. It wouldn’t be long now… before they burned him out and put the Soldier back in.
Soldat?
готовы соблюдать
Gotovy soblyudat'
READY TO COMPLY
He wasn’t ready.
“рассвет.”
Daybreak.
Fuck.
He was never ready.
“Печь.”
Furnace.
He felt sick.
He needed to resist. It was important. If he resisted he could…
He could…
“девять.”
Nine.
What could he do?
What was the point?
He had nowhere to go. He had no one.
“Доброкачественный.”
Benign.
He was no one.
“возвращение на родину.”
Homecoming.
No home. No one. He was a ghost.
Soldat?
Gotovy soblyudat'
READY TO COMPLY
No, not yet goddamnit. He still had time.
“Один.”
One.
Time for what?
He had time for… for…
Time for what?
Time for…
He was supposed to resist. It was important.
He needed to remember.
Remember what?
He was no one.
He had no one.
His time was up.
Time for what?
Soldat?
“Get him out. Now.”
Bucky jerked forwards so violently that he very nearly fell from the chair he was sat on.
It didn’t matter, because the next minute he was crumpled on his knees anyway, retching up everything his stomach contents could offer all over the floor.
It wasn’t much, thank God. T’Challa still had him on the fucking mystery smoothie diet. He’d been told his stomach needed time to ‘readjust’ after spending roughly ten months in cryo sleep. Not that it mattered, Bucky’s stomach couldn’t handle much these days. Especially not this fucking treatment.
His head throbbed, his scalp stung. That one ferocious movement from the chair had felt as though a tangle of cords and pipes had been yanked from the back of his skull, making mush of his brain.
Bucky retched again, his one good arm gripping uselessly into the white tile. He was shaking, but that was normal. He’d done this three times now; this was no different from the last two.
No wonder the fucking tech was called BARF.
Bucky stared widely outwards at nothing in particular. He could feel his heart pounding, his breath catching inside his chest. His vision was a sea of red mist, unfocused and wild, pooling into his mind like a thick fog. It pushed at his thoughts, tugging them from the front of his mind. He felt them fade. He hated that feeling.
Bucky was distantly aware of a door being forced open somewhere nearby, followed by a set of heavy footsteps that could have been cat-like under the right motivation. Of course, this was no time for stealth.
Bucky could hear another set closely behind the first, but they weren’t his priority. He could feel the red mist clearing, but it still lingered on the periphery of his vision, soothing the headache to background noise. The mist had a message, a clear instruction. Focus. Focus on something other than the memories. Other than the Soldier.
“Captain Rogers, please, I could very easily manage-”
“Thank you, but like every other time, T’Challa, I need to do this myself.”
Bucky’s breath evened as he closed his eyes. The red mist left him in one drawn exhale. A word formed around that exhale, quiet, but obvious. A word that sounded very much like Steve.
“It didn’t work,” a lightly accented voice said. She was stating the obvious, but Bucky supposed the others hadn’t just received a front-row seat to his memories. They didn’t know just how badly he’d fucked up. Again.
“Wanda,” Bucky gritted, clenching his fist against the tile. The room spun dangerously around him as he nodded carefully. “Thank you.”
An image of Wanda’s face, gaunt and guarded, appeared in his mind. Her lips curled as she nodded back. Out loud she said, “You don’t have to say that every time.”
Hah. Yeah. She could tell him that all she wanted, maybe one day it’d stick, but it wasn’t likely.
“Wanda, you can go back inside if you want.” That was Steve’s voice.
“I’m not leaving,” Wanda said. Just like every day. Bucky nearly smiled. The kid had heart.
Bucky felt a hand take his shoulder. The flesh one, ‘cause no one dared touch the metal stump if they could help it.
“What’s your name?” Steve asked, his voice guarded. Bucky felt Steve’s fingers dig tighter into his arm.
“Bucky,” Bucky said, trying his best to focus on Steve’s touch and very little else.
“Gonna need more than that, pal.”
Bucky snorted. Of course he did. “Alright, James Buchanan Barnes. Born March tenth, nineteen seventeen.” Bucky grinned despite himself. “Lemme see, ninety nine years old, but lookin’ good. Serial number: three, two, five, five, seven, oh, three, eight. Current status: pretty damn fucked up.” Bucky glanced upwards, his vision spiralling. “That all?”
Steve squeezed his shoulder. “How you feeling?”
“Status didn’t cover it?”
“Buck.”
Bucky shrugged his one good shoulder. “It didn’t work.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Yeah, he knew that. “Just gemme off the floor before this vomit smell makes me sick all over again,” Bucky muttered, rolling his shoulder against Steve’s hand. After a few tense seconds, Steve relented, sliding his arm gently around Bucky’s back, offering him the best chance he had at not tripping face first into his own vomit.
Bucky appreciated that.
Bucky stared apprehensively through the observation room’s one sided glass. It overlooked a small, white tiled room. It was clean now, no vomit in sight.
The room didn’t have much in it, just a single chair at its centre. In Bucky’s head, that chair had been a perfect carbon copy of the chair. But here, in reality, it was just a standard metal contraption. No arm restraints, no leather. Just a chair.
The illusion had melted away like sodden tissue paper the second Wanda had pulled him out, but it didn’t stop Bucky from seeing every detail of that tunnel every time he so much as blinked. Hydra bases were always so dark, so cold - a bi-product of setting up underground or inside some kind of abandoned warehouse.
Hydra really was reptilian at its core, hiding beneath the surface of the earth, relishing in the sewage of its prey. Bucky looked away, the musty scent of that tunnel still clung to his nostrils, making him nauseous all over again.
Instead, he reached up with his only hand and pressed his fingers against the device on his ear. It was relatively small, built like a businessman’s earpiece. Maybe because it was designed by a businessman.
Bucky didn’t understand half of what it did, but how T’Challa had explained it, it targeted the hippocampus – the memory centre of the brain. It took his traumatic memories and brought them to the surface, forcing him to relive them in a manner where he was given the chance to change their outcome. He had control inside his head, like experiencing a lucid dream. He could stop them from controlling him.
Yeah, it could, if he could.
Bucky smiled ruefully at the white tiled room. T’Challa had made it special, designed it so it’d give just enough sensory triggers to pull Bucky back into the chair. Wanda did the rest, guided his head to the right memories, then she just watched, made sure he never got too far into his own mind. If he heard that last trigger word, there was no telling what he’d do when he snapped outta it. Last time it had taken getting his head caved in by a helicopter’s windshield to break the spell; he didn’t want to have to go through that every time they tried to make a breakthrough. Mostly, he didn’t want to put Steve through that.
The sound of the door opening brought Bucky’s attention back to the present. He half turned his head, only relaxing when he saw Steve in the doorway.
Steve was wearing civilian clothes, just like every rag-tag vigilante T’Challa was currently harbouring. His hair was mussed slightly, his eyes bruised with exhaustion. Bucky felt a pang of guilt clench his stomach.
Steve had been supporting him through this ordeal for over a week now; during all the prepping, all the medical reviews, right down to when Bucky had been put into the chair for the first time. Wanda might have been the only one who was allowed in the room when the procedure started, but Steve had been as close to Bucky as T’Challa’s legion of scientists would allow. He was always first on the scene when Bucky came out of it too. Not like it ever ended with something to celebrate about. In fact, the first time he’d been pulled out, Bucky had puked all over Steve’s shoes. He still felt shitty about that.
“Hey,” Steve said, closing the door behind him. “How you feeling?”
Bucky shrugged his good shoulder.
Steve was next to him in the time it took for Bucky to turn away. They stood together in respectable silence, staring through the one-sided glass. Bucky tried to pretend the room didn’t keep phasing between decades of Hydra cells before his eyes, but it didn’t fool Steve.
Bucky felt a warm hand fit against the small of his back. He closed his eyes, letting the feel of Steve cloud some of his old memories.
“It’ll work, Buck,” Steve said suddenly, staring resolutely through the window. “You just gotta give it time.”
“Yeah,” Bucky said dismally. “Third time’s the charm, huh? Oh, wait.”
Steve moved his hand to Bucky’s waist, drawing the two closer. “You said it yourself, this was never gonna be easy.”
Bucky rolled his eyes. “Quit using my own words against me.”
“I will when you quit making sense.”
“Hah.” Bucky pressed his cheek into Steve’s shoulder. He wanted to close his eyes, fall asleep stood up like a fucking horse and forget about the rest of the world for a while, but he was too wired. Adrenaline fuelled his blood, leftover from the horrible things he’d experienced inside his own head. But it wasn’t just him that experienced them anymore, not with Wanda…
Goddamn, Wanda Maximoff. He barely knew the kid. She was what the big wigs today were calling enhanced; she’d fought on Steve’s side against Stark and the Accords. She’d saved Bucky’s life. She was continuing to save him and she was just a kid. Bucky thought that the war had ended when he’d been made into a pawn for Hydra’s cause, but it turned out that it hadn’t, it’d just changed. Enlistment was still expected from anyone with the right kind of power, duty was the demand of every vigilante. Children, fighting a war all over again.
“The longer it takes, the longer she suffers,” Bucky muttered, turning his face into Steve’s arm.
“Wanda?”
Bucky’s lips twisted. “Who else?”
“She chose this,” Steve said steadily, “she volunteered.”
“Doesn’t mean she knew what she was getting into.” Bucky sighed, exasperated. “She’s been through Hell from what I’ve been told. Lost her family, lost her brother, she probably thought she’d been up shit creek enough that nothing else would faze her.” Bucky laughed bitterly. “Bet this was a surprise.”
Steve shook his head. “She’s strong, Buck, stronger than you know.”
“Yeah, but she’s a kid, Steve.”
“I know that.”
“Then quit acting like it’s okay!”
“I’m not!” Steve pulled away, running a hand through his hair. “Christ, Buck, none of this is okay, but that doesn’t mean we give up!”
Bucky blinked, recoiling. “I didn’t say-”
“But you wanted to.”
“No!” Bucky said, louder than he anticipated. Adrenaline churned inside his gut as he looked to Steve uncomprehendingly.
Ten months ago he’d been ready to give up on all of it, even the chances for a cure in favour of a dreamless, potentially endless rest. But today? After all they’d been through? - All they’d discussed? Steve knew that Bucky wanted this now. He had to. He must know.
Bucky was fighting for this, not just for Steve, even if it might have started out that way. No, Bucky was fighting for himself, for the chance to be free, to feel comfortable inside his own skin. He didn’t want to waste away inside a cryo tube, and damn it, it fucking hurt to hear Steve talk about him like that. Making the decision for him like it was so obvious. Like he was ready to give up. After everything. It was insulting.
Bucky tore the earpiece from his head, shoving it harshly into Steve’s chest. Steve’s fingers locked around it instinctively, his expression immediately softening into regret.
Bucky didn’t care, not now, not when he was this wired. His head was killing him, his heart was beating too hard and too fast inside his chest. Suddenly, the observation room felt way too overcrowded, like being under the eyes of twenty lab coats all at once.
Bucky shuddered as he turned on Steve, stalking towards the nearest exit. T’Challa had given him clearance on all but a few levels of the building and suddenly Bucky wanted nothing more than to exploit that for the chance to get as far away from everyone as possible.
“Buck,” Steve said, but Bucky had already slammed the door.
Bucky found his solace on one of the balconies that overlooked Wakanda’s expanse jungle.
On his first full day of being conscious in the building, Bucky had planned out the structure floor by floor, making a mental note of every possible exit, and every space that hardly ever saw personnel of any kind. The main balcony on the second floor was a popular smoking spot for medical and science staff. Military personnel preferred the third floor, but that was only because it was closest to the training rooms.
Bucky realised very quickly that the best chance at not running into anyone was to keep close to the living quarters. Every guest room had its own personal balcony, so it was rare to find anyone on the one that swung right on the corridor, poking its head out between an empty guest room and a stairwell that was in heavy disuse.
Bucky used the stairwell too. There was always a guard on duty in the elevator, an extra safety measure to ensure that no one ended up on a floor they didn’t have the clearance to be on. The stairwell had a key card slot instead, fused to the wall on each floor that went beyond Bucky’s hacking comprehension.
Despite the mechanical part of his mind - the part he still called the Soldier – that liked the idea of a challenge, to gather intel on all departments whether he had orders to be there or not, Bucky dismissed it. He highly doubted he’d be punished the way Hydra had when he’d disobeyed orders, but he didn’t want to take the risk. Not when he was receiving enough pain through measures he’d given his full consent over already.
The balcony was of substantial size, jutting out about ten feet and decorated with black steel bars. The balcony areas were one of the few spots that weren’t entirely encased in bullet proof glass, though another key card was needed just to get outside. T’Challa had entrusted Bucky with one, though he didn’t doubt that there were cameras in place for ‘his protection’.
Bucky gripped the metal bar with his hand, squeezing it loosely as Wakanda’s humid air washed over him. He soaked in the feel of the outside world for a few more seconds before digging into his pocket for the pack of cigarettes he kept there.
Smoking was a good habit for him, not like many people this decade would agree. It didn’t matter; Bucky doubted they’d do the same damage to him as they’d do to someone without super soldier serum running through their veins anyway. A hundred cigarettes down his throat and he’d still run laps around Wilson, and honestly, that was all that mattered. He grinned around his cigarette as he slipped it between his lips, though he damn-near bit through it when he heard the screen doors slide open behind him.
“You know, those things probably won’t kill you.”
Bucky relaxed minutely, casting his gaze towards the jungle. Speaking of the Devil…
Sam Wilson was stood in the doorway. It was so typical of Steve to bring back-up for his back-up. As if Wanda wasn’t enough, Sam was along for the ride too. For what, Bucky wasn’t sure yet; he wasn’t sure he even cared.
“What d’you care?” he asked, digging in his pocket for his lighter.
Sam shrugged, folding his arms. “It’s for the stress, right? I doubt you get a kick from the nicotine the way you’re built. It’s more about the feel of it, the excuse to get outside.”
Bucky produced his lighter, flicking it once, twice, three times before the flame ignited. Sam was only half right, not that Bucky had the mental energy to waste filling him in on the details.
The old Bucky… nineteen forties Bucky… Steve’s Bucky, he’d used to smoke. Never around Steve, God no, he’d have sooner gone to Hell than expose Steve’s asthmatic ass to the butt of his cigarette. Still, if he’d had a particularly hard day, working extra jobs, feeling the weight of the world was gonna crash and burn on his shoulders, he’d retreat to the fire escape. Take a few drags. Be at peace with the world for a few precious moments before reality kicked in again.
He’d smoked during the war, too. Steve hadn’t, probably muscle memory telling him not to. The same memory that had kept Bucky from lighting one within ten feet of the punk.
The Asset hadn’t smoked. Hadn’t been given the choice to. The Asset never had a choice, but Bucky did. He might not be the same man from seventy years ago, but he still had a choice and to Hell with it, it still felt damned good to have a cigarette between his fingers.
Bucky only glared in response, exhaling smoke through his nose. “Like you care.”
“Whoa, man, that’s harsh,” Sam said, a little more sternly than Bucky had anticipated. “Just ‘cause I- look, you’re Steve’s pain in the ass, right? Which makes you my pain in the ass by default.” Sam shrugged again. It was becoming a disturbingly familiar habit. “We’re practically family.”
Bucky nearly choked around his next drag. “I don’t-”
“You don’t what? Have a family?” Sam’s eyebrow raised. “Now both of us know that’s bullshit.”
Bucky sighed, shaking his head. “You here on Steve’s behalf?”
“Nah, I don’t pick sides,” Sam said, grinning, “not for shit like this, at least.” He considered something before adding: “I talked him down from coming to find you. I figure you’ve got about ten minutes.”
Bucky rolled his eyes, flicking ash from the balcony’s edge. “You’re right about one thing,” he said, slipping the cigarette back between his lips. “It’s definitely for the stress.”
Sam laughed – a silent chuckle mostly through his nose – and relaxed against the door. Bucky ignored the irritated prickle on his skin that only close proximity to other people gave him and instead focused his gaze on the endless jungle ahead of him.
They stayed like that in peaceful silence until Bucky was sucking down the last dregs of his cigarette. He wasn’t ready to go in just yet and quietly thumbed out another from the pack, keeping the smoking stump of his current one hanging from his lips. He dropped it from his mouth the second he had the new one between his fingers, crushing the ash into the concrete with the toe of his boot. It was oddly therapeutic.
Sam cleared his throat. Bucky ignored it.
“Where were you this time?”
The question caused Bucky to pause. He turned to regard Sam, automatically scanning him for inconsistences within his demeanour. Questions were rarely sounded out so blatantly to him, in fact, they were usually masked in the form of an interrogation. Sam had asked his question as though he was asking about something as common as the weather. Like he was expecting an answer, but he wasn’t bothered about whether he got it or not. Bucky’s lip curled.
“Hydra base, as usual,” Bucky said, testing the water.
Sam snorted. “Figured as much. But I also figure Wanda takes you back to different places each time. So, where were you this time?”
Bucky lit his new cigarette, basking in the feel of toxic smoke winding through his lungs. God, he could almost hear Steve tutting. He shrugged. “Madripoor, nineteen fifty six.” His lips curled around his cigarette. “Wanna know who I killed?”
Sam shrugged impassively. “Only if you wanna tell me.”
Bucky took that as a challenge. “British Ambassador by the name of Dalton Graines.” He’d been telling the truth when he’d told Stark he remembered every kill.
It was eerie how clear the missions were in his head now. The machine’s work unfurled a little of its veil every day, turning Bucky’s short term memory to shit and a lot of his childhood into incomprehensible noise. But the things the machine had taken deliberately… the things it had taken to protect the Asset from a gnawing guilt that would have eventually ended in his deactivation, those were the things that came back crystal clear. Bucky grimaced. It was a sick kinda irony if he’d ever heard of it.
Bucky took another drag as he thought back to the kill. The Asset had killed big wigs before, groups of them at a time in fact, but this Ambassador had been a pain in his ass.
The guy had been at some kind of gala event to celebrate the New Years; too many faces, too many hands being shaken. The Asset hadn’t had a clear shot from his sniper. Still, the mission imperative had been clear, so he’d made the shot. Six times. He’d taken out the people in the Ambassador’s vicinity, then taken him out. The panic hadn’t even started ‘til old Graines had been bleeding out into the expensive Persian rug. Champagne glasses broke, people screamed, and the Asset had been a ghost on the road before the cops could even start gathering info. He’d never been caught. Never been found. Hydra was very thorough.
Bucky tapped his cigarette with his thumb, a clump of ash falling to the concrete. “They’d called it acceptable collateral damage. I killed maybe six people that night. Only one of them was a target.” He blinked, unsure of himself. The memory was clear, and it ate him alive to know that he’d done it, but at the same time, there was a part of him that felt disconnected from it. From everything the Soldier had done. They were these two entities, two parts of the same body, the same mind, but different. Thoughts and actions often bled into each other, but still, as Bucky thought about the massacre, he didn’t so much as shudder. All he could feel was a cold pit inside his stomach, swallowing his emotions whole.
Sam watched him the whole time, unmoving. He was probably waiting for him to snap, maybe even cry. Bucky had done enough crying to serve a lifetime, and as for snapping? God, he just didn’t have the energy.
At least the smokes had done their job. Whatever adrenaline he had left inside of him was well and truly spent.
“You know if you ever want to talk about this properly-”
And there it was. Clarification on why Sam was here wrapped in a neat bow. Bucky killed the last of his cigarette, turning to face the ex-Avenger. “Thanks, but no thanks,” he said, taking a step towards the door.
Sam didn’t step out of his way immediately; instead he gave him a look that Bucky couldn’t quite decipher. Sam made a clicking sound with his tongue before taking a step back into the hallway. “Look you might have thrown my ass off a hellicarrier-”
Bucky frowned. “That wasn’t-”
“I know.” Sam raised his hands, smiling lopsidedly. “Dude, I know how it went, doesn’t mean I won’t give you Hell for it though, I’m sure you understand.”
Bucky only rolled his eyes.
Sam clapped a hand on his back, right around the metal shoulder. “Look, all I’m saying is, shit like this eats at you, and I doubt this stuff gets discussed over your pillow talk with Steve.”
That made Bucky blush, Sam snorted. He patted his back before retracting his arm. “Just keep it in mind, alright?”
Bucky frowned, but nodded. He wasn’t sure what to make of Sam Wilson. He spoke his mind, that was for sure and he didn’t seem afraid of anyone, their past be damned. He was… sincere though, in a way, and he didn’t hide anything. After seventy years of spy work, that was a damned Godsend.
Bucky made a move to leave, but Sam called out to him again, causing him to stop.
“One more thing,” Sam said, making a theatrical roll of his eyes. “I know I said I wasn’t gonna get involved, but you know Steve didn’t mean anything by what he said, right? He loves you, man, he’s just not always that great about expressing it. ‘specially with everything that’s going on.”
Bucky’s lips quirked. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Yeah, you better.”
Bucky really did leave this time, waving offhandedly. “I’ll see you around, Sam.”
Bucky nearly stopped outside of Steve’s room.
T’Challa had provided rooms for all his harboured convicts, even though most of the time, Steve spent his nights with Bucky. On occasion, Bucky needed his own space and Steve accepted that with little word on the matter. It was one of the infinite things that made Bucky wonder how the fuck he’d been so lucky to get someone like Steve. Someone who was so endlessly patient, even at times when Bucky couldn’t stand being touched, let alone share his room.
Bucky nearly knocked on Steve’s door, but eventually, he pulled himself from the thought, trudging hazily to his own room.
The fight he’d had with Steve was bullshit and he knew it. Barely a graze in the grand scheme of things, but he felt shitty about it regardless.
The fact of the matter was simple. They’d spent a week working with Stark’s BARF tech with little to no positive results and they were both exhausted, frustrated and sometimes that ended up accumulating into argumentative behaviour. It didn’t matter what Bucky thought of it at the moment, anyway, because he was too tired to think straight about it.
A silver tray stacked with protein bars greeted Bucky as he entered his room. They’d been placed on the table by the window, with a note that read:
YOU HAVE BEEN UPGRADED TO SOLID FOOD, I HAVE INFORMED THE KITCHEN TO MAKE NOTE OF THIS ADVANCEMENT.
- T’Challa
Bucky grinned despite himself. For a king, T’Challa wasn’t half bad. He tried to cater for everyone, even if ‘everyone’ included damaged ex-assassins with problematic eating habits. He’d not only extended his country to them, but his friendship as well. It was strange to feel cared for, especially by people who weren’t Steve. Bucky was still having trouble adjusting.
He’d just torn the wrapper of one of the bars off with his teeth when two solid knocks reverberated from the front door. They were familiar knocks, without a pattern, but music to Bucky’s ears all the same.
Bucky wasn’t surprised to find Steve on the other side of his door. He looked downtrodden, like a kicked puppy. Bucky leant his one good arm against the doorframe and waited.
“You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to,” Steve said immediately, his gaze locking with Bucky’s. “I crossed a line, I said something I should have never said, I knew it as soon as the words came out of my mouth… I-” Steve was struggling, Bucky could tell. “I’m so sorry, Buck, I should have never-”
“Shut up,” Bucky said, a half smile playing across his lips.
Steve blinked, unsure. “Buck-”
He sounded so helpless, so utterly lost. Bucky knew that because it was the same thing he felt every time he put Steve out of his way.
It was guilt, a horrible, churning guilt that clung to him like a parasite, reminding Bucky that he didn’t deserve someone like Steve, not after everything he’d done. A guilt that whispered to him at night, taunting him that one day Steve just wouldn’t be able to handle him anymore. Maybe that’s why Bucky had left the observation room when he had. Not because he was angry, but because he’d been afraid, afraid that Steve had finally given up on him, finally admitted to himself that he was a lost cause.
“C’mere,” Bucky said, grabbing Steve by the shoulder.
Steve walked into his embrace willingly. His face found solace in Bucky’s flesh shoulder as he let out a stricken breath against Bucky’s chest. Steve’s arms tightened around Bucky, a sensation that would have felt constricting had it come from anyone else. Bucky wrapped his arm around Steve’s back, rubbing comforting circles through the fabric of his shirt.
“I’m not mad,” Bucky said quietly as Steve’s breathing hitched again.
“You should be,” Steve said, quieter still. His face was still buried, but Bucky could hear his voice, could feel the vibration of it against his flesh. “I- Buck, what I said wasn’t right. I didn’t mean it, I was just tired, and I thought… I was so afraid that you were gonna-”
Bucky’s heart clenched. “Stevie-”
“That you were gonna leave me.”
There it was again. That moment of clarification.
Sometimes Bucky forgot just how much Steve depended on him. Despite everything, despite all that he’d done, Steve was still willing to help him, because he loved him; just as much as Bucky loved Steve.
Steve had plunged a fucking jet into the ocean and got his ass frozen for seventy years for the old Bucky, but even for this corrupted, mess of a second model, Steve had gone to war. He’d fought his own team to protect him. The man who couldn’t possibly deserve to be saved but was going to be anyway, because Steve Rogers said so. Because the star spangled man with a plan never gave up.
And he was so afraid of losing Bucky, just as much as Bucky feared losing Steve.
“I ain’t going nowhere,” Bucky said, squeezing Steve closer against his chest. “Not without you.” He chuckled, pressing his lips against Steve’s neck. “You got me ‘til the end of the line, pal.”
That surfaced a strained chuckle from Steve’s lips. “How the Hell are you real?”
Yeah, Bucky struggled with that every day too. Out loud he said, “I am. That’s all you gotta know.”
They stayed in the doorway for a while longer. Bucky closed his eyes, supporting Steve as much as Steve was supporting him. They held a semblance of balance that way, keeping each other from toppling to the floor. Bucky felt every strained breath that passed through Steve’s chest and tried not to remember how, a long time ago, those kinda breaths had scared the life out of him.
Finally, Steve steadied, his grip growing lax around Bucky’s back. When he pulled away, his eyes were wet. Bucky buried the urge to hug him all over again.
Steve rubbed his eyes, turning his gaze towards the hallway. “I can still get outta your hair if you want-”
Bucky shook his head incredulously. Even after all this, somehow whatever Bucky needed still came first. He grabbed Steve again, pulling him over the threshold. “Get in here ya punk.”
Steve fell awkwardly against the wall as Bucky pushed the door closed. He turned on Steve then, pressing his arm into the wall by Steve’s shoulder, locking him in place. They held each other’s gazes for a moment, Steve’s blue eyes softening with every second that passed. All his fears and regrets were so plain to Bucky, it was a wonder to him how no one else seemed to see them. He closed the last few inches between them, running his lips gently along Steve’s neck.
A calm breath passed Steve’s lips as he relaxed against the wall, grabbing Bucky by the metal shoulder. Bucky grinned, chasing his lips further up Steve’s neck, down his jawline, until finally they were kissing, gently at first, but growing hungrier, harder, until Bucky was pressing them both into the wall. If T’Challa’s rooms hadn’t been built to survive a nuclear blast, Bucky was sure they would have ended up crashing through to the room beyond. As it was, there was probably irreparable damage to the plaster.
Bucky’s flingers clenched into the wall beside Steve as he drew away, breath heavy, eyes blown wide. He kissed Steve again on the chin before pressing their foreheads together. “I was gonna have a shower,” he whispered.
Steve let out a heavy breath of his own, face flushed. “Okay.”
Bucky’s lips curled. “You’re coming with me.”
Steve grinned. “Okay.”