Archive of Our Own ^beta

0.

The first time Bucky wakes up, there's construction work downstairs, loud drilling that starts too suddenly. The time on his alarm clock is a flashing 7:23 a full half hour before his alarm is supposed to go off.
It's a testament to how naive he is that he thinks this is the worst thing that could possibly happen today.

He can't go back to sleep, but he also doesn't appreciate having to deviate from his routine because some stupid building can't wait thirty minutes. In an act of defiance, he stays in bed, glaring at the ceiling and willing something terrible to happen to the stupid drilling machine below.

He gets bored of that very quickly.

Groaning in protest and muttering the most violent threats he can think up at seven in the morning, he rolls out of bed. He knows objectively, he'll feel less murderous after he gets some coffee so he enjoys the bleak anger while he has it.

By the way, purchasing a French press might be the best decision he's ever made. Everything else in his apartment is shitty, old, dirty, malfunctioning, but this new age’s obsession with coffee is something he throws himself wholeheartedly behind.

For breakfast he has a small container of strawberry and banana flavored yogurt and half a plum. The radio is droning on, some bass thumping pop songs that all sound the same. He doesn't really pay attention but the noise is nice, keeps him out of his own head.

He has to go shopping today. He's running out of plums and his milk carton is nearing its expiration date. He also needs another haircut and it might be the right time to switch to that fruity smelling shampoo he always sees on sale that promise sleek hair with a greaseless shine. There's a flea market a few blocks away that he's been eyeing the past few days.

It's maybe not the end of the world that he woke up so early because there's a lot he needs to do.

He mentally apologizes to the drill, and yep there's the coffee, brightening his mood exponentially.

He's halfway through his list of errands when he sees the newspaper and two years of building up a life, regaining a sense of self, getting to a place where he has a French press and can get upset about minor inconveniences like waking up early all comes crashing down.

He's on the front page, the prime suspect in the bombing of a UN conference. There's an international search for him, there's a reward being offered for information on his whereabouts. It's already too late and he knows it. He's been out all day and certainly someone matched his face to the one on the news. He's fucked.

Back when this all started he made a plan for the worst case scenario. He was even surprised when he didn't need to use it and weeks of freedom turned into months and years. He racks his brains for the finer details. There's a safe house nearby, but he's not sure if it's Shield's or Hydra’s or if it's safe at all.

It doesn't matter. He has to get out of here somehow.

Fuck, the emergency plan didn't include transportation for his French press. Okay, not the most pressing matter, but just another awful tick on the growing list of awful things.

The plan, or what he can remember of it, starts at the apartment, so he races back there. He’ll need to get his backpack from under the floorboards. The essentials. Maybe throw in whatever other valuables he can try carrying with him, maybe pack as much food as he can so he doesn't have to risk going into seedy restaurants or convenience stores.

He's already roughly put together a plan to get into the airport without being detected, and only has to decide where he'll possibly go next when he reaches his apartment. Even from outside he can sense something off. There's something in the air, the sense that someone's in the apartment. Missing, though, is the sense of danger, the feeling of wrongness. There's not a threat.

He can't leave without his backpack either, so he has to go in, but he doesn't feel on edge when he creeps into the room.

He doesn't need more than a glance in the room. Even without the ridiculous outfit, he'd recognize Steve anywhere, even from behind. (Especially from behind, his lizard brain offers unhelpfully.) If Steve's here, things must be really bad.

He had a plan for what he would do if he ever saw Steve again. It mostly involved running away as quickly as he could. He misses Steve every day, thinks about him all the time. Not a night goes by where he doesn't have a dream about summer nights in Brooklyn, his own wiry young body wrapped around Steve's thin and fragile one.

But he's something tainted now, and those memories are a slap in the face. He's not a bright eyed teen anymore, and Steve certainly won't fit in his arms like that, even if he wanted to be there at all.

Steve’s turning around suddenly, eyes landing on Bucky’s and widening. His mouth opens and he’s standing in between Bucky and his backpack and his French press and he’s standing in Bucky’s apartment. There’s no going back, the life he’s been steadily building up over the past few years was irrevocably destroyed the second he saw that newspaper. Not even, the second that building was bombed, the second someone else got the bright idea to blame him.

He can worry as much as he wants about his French press and other meaningless things, but those are the least of his worries now.

~~~

He’s sitting in a chair in a cage, and he’s done being angry about it, is mostly just annoyed and frustrated. And like a fool who’s just asking for something else to go wrong, he thinks his day can’t get any worse than this.

He’s thought so much about how his reunion with Steve would go, what he would say to make Steve forgive him, how Steve would react. Sometimes in his head Steve got mad, but Bucky could never pinpoint what he was mad about. Sometimes Steve would be quiet, just stare at him with his sad blue eyes like he was disappointed. And sometimes in the more absurd versions Steve ends up in his arms, warm, solid, and perfect. (He’s still not sure if they were ever like that before he fell, not sure if the flashes in his dreams are memories or fantasies, but he does know that those days are over either way.)

But he never pictured something like this, destroying his apartment, running across rooftops, standing down because Steve said to and ending up in this chair.

Despite all his plans from earlier, he knew that there was no real running away from this. It was one thing when only Steve was looking for him, but with the whole world searching, there was hardly anywhere on Earth where he would have been able to hide.

He tried anyway. He ran and fought and kept running, with his backpack of notes clipped around his chest and Steve behind him, protecting him from his own allies despite everything. Which still sends pangs of guilt through Bucky on top of the adrenaline and the fear of being caught again.

The fact that Steve would still stand up for him, still protect him after everything that he had done made something in his chest unfurl, and if he wasn’t so busy trying not to die, he’d probably let himself get swept up in those emotions, fall into the wrong sort of fantasies about Steve and him.

So of course when Steve told him to stand down, he did so without thinking, because Steve is giving up so much for him the least thing he can do is make this sacrifice for him. They shove him to the ground and Steve makes a noise of protest as they were all dragged off into the black vans crowded in the tunnel.

And that’s his reunion with Steve. So long thinking about it, worrying about it, hoping about it and this is how it ends up. He feels fairly confident when he decides not only is this the Worst Day Ever, but there is no way he can feel worse than right now. And then the lights are going out and that weasel of a psychiatrist opens his mouth and he has another thing to add to the shit list.

You would think that by now, he’d know things can always fucking get worse.

~~~

They’re staying at the warehouse overnight, him, Steve, and Sam, so everyone can settle and regroup. Bucky gets his own room that's grey and green and dark. He doesn’t like it at all, all it's cold and sharp edges. The cot that’s uncomfortable under his back and pressing into his spine.

The ceiling is grey and cracked, paint peeling, and he traces the lines to try and calm his brain down. He feels sick in his stomach, a typical aftereffect of brainwashing, the repulsion and guilt and hatred all boiling up and being directing inward and outward at the same time.

He can’t get the look on Steve’s face out of his head, the uncertainty, the hesitance, the fear. Steve didn’t trust him. He’s not sure why he thought Steve did before, after everything, and he’s not sure why it destroyed him so much after this.

He’s not dumb enough to think that Steve blames him entirely for what happened, but for some reason that’s not good enough for his lovesick head. He may or may not be about to vomit or cry.

For some reason, this is the lowest of all the lows of today. Steve staring at him, disappointed, hurt, eyebrows creased together, frown etched into every feature. It’s an image burned into his brain, even as he tries to distract himself with the stupid ceiling, even when he squeezes his eyes shut and waits for this godawful, cursed day to end.

One day was all it took for once again every single good thing he has to fall away all over again.

1.

He wakes up in the morning to drills coming from downstairs and his own off white ceiling staring back at him. He sits up slowly, looking around at his apartment, untouched, exactly as he woke up to it the morning before.

It must have been a dream. A vivid, horrifying, hyperrealistic dream that his brain pieced together from all his worse fears and nightmares. He swallows hard, unable to shake the uneasy feeling that’s settled over him. It all felt so real, the fighting, the code words, Steve’s face, but here he is, his apartment, with his mattress and his fridge and his French press.

He scrambles out of bed and rushes to his coffee maker. God, he needed coffee so bad after all that. He’s shaky, opening the fridge and noting that he still is low on plums like yester- like the dream… it was a dream. He has breakfast, not even bothering with the kitchen table or the radio, just curling up on the couch with his yogurt and waiting for the anxiety to pass. It was a dream. A terrible dream.

He heads down to the nearest newsstand anyway, just in case. The dream is like a nagging in his head, and all he has to do is check the newspaper and just make sure, just in case, because certainly not, he can’t just live a day over again.

The headline is the same as the dream… as yesterday, which is today as well.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit, shit. He races back to his apartment in a rush of nerves and fear and anger. He doesn’t want to do this again. He doesn’t want to live this day again, doesn’t want to think about this day again.
He gets back to his apartment, and there’s Steve, standing tall and proud, in uniform. He turns around and his mouth is parting slightly like yesterday, except today, and the same words are coming out of his mouth, exactly the same, and Bucky doesn’t stick around for the second round of this conversation. He doesn’t even go for his backpack, he turns and runs out the door.

“Bucky?” Steve calls, alarmed. Bucky is halfway down the stairs, halfway to the door, and Steve is standing in the door of his apartment, but he keeps going. He doesn’t make it to the front door before Steve has caught up with him, hand on his shoulder, pulling him to a stop.

“Buck, what’re you-?” Steve asks, but Bucky shoves him away.

“I’m not- They’re coming, Steve,” Bucky hisses. “I’m not staying here, waiting for it.”

“What do you mean?” Steve protests. “Where are you going?”

“I know what comes next, Steve. I know what you’re going to say. I’m not doing this again.”

“Buck.”

He pushes away from Steve and towards the door, sprinting out into the street and heading off god knows where, just as far away from his apartment as he can get. Steve is right behind him after a few seconds, but doesn’t try to stop him, just follows wordlessly as Bucky desperately tries to think of a way out. He can’t head to the airport, not like this, not with Steve in full costume by his side. In fact he can’t go anywhere like this. He can only keep running and…. and then what?

Shit, there’s no way out. There’s nowhere to hide, nowhere to run, where someone won’t find him and dragging him, kicking and screaming into another chair. He has no options, no escape route, no plan with the slimmest chance of working. He can only keep running til he drops dead or until he’s caught.

He only makes it another three blocks, running, Steve next to him, running, breathing heavy for too many reasons, running and panicking and falling apart at the seams, and then the guy in the cat suit is tackling him, swooping down from the heavens in his skin tight jumpsuit with fucking cat ears.

He goes flying into midday traffic and Steve is shouting out on his behalf, charging towards the man with his shield raised and his eyes burning with fury. He lies on the ground, in the middle of the street until they’re surrounded by agents, and are facing down one of the Iron Mans, the one that’s not a Stark, and he’s being dragged back into the chair.

2.

Drilling downstairs. White ceiling. 7:23 on his alarm clock.

He doesn’t stop for coffee or breakfast. He doesn’t check the newspaper, he doesn’t have to. He just grabs his backpack and starts running again.

He can get out of the city. It’s only a couple of miles, and he can run it, hat down, blending in, until he reaches the suburbs and then the countryside where the houses are far and few between. People won’t see him, people won’t find him.

He tried to leave the world alone, but clearly staying in the city was too much. It’s harder to hide in plain sight in the countryside, but it’s easier to avoid people. It’s all he’s got.

He walks instead of running, to not draw attention to himself. He doesn’t look at anyone or anything, focuses solely on the sidewalk under his feet and the next turn he has to take.

He makes it to a bridge, climbs up the stairs to the walking path, when an iron suit suddenly descends onto the path in front of him, sending other civilians scattering away. The man has his guns drawn, a tight look on his face when the mask lifts up.

Steve’s not here and Bucky’s not sure what to do. He doesn’t want to hurt this man, he’s an ally of Steve’s, but he also doesn’t want to be brought in again. He’s tired of his head being turned to mush by the same cowardly bastard. He’s tired of the disappointed look in Steve’s eyes every night.

“Sorry, man, but I’m gonna have to take you in,” the guy says, stepping forward. Bucky steps back, hands tight on the straps of his backpack.

“Don’t let him interrogate me,” Bucky demands, fists shaking as he raises them in front of his chest. He’s not going to win this fight and he knows it. Not a physical one and certainly not if he tries to outrun this man or the entire army he has behind him. But he won’t let that man scoop him out and use him again.

“Who? Steve?”

Bucky barks out a dark laugh. “The psychiatrist. Don’t let him near me. He’s to blame for this. He did it last time. Don’t let him near me.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” the man says tensely, and Bucky steps back again.

“I don’t either. But every time, you take me in, you put me in the chair, he comes in and he knows the words. He knows the words and he uses them. Don’t let him near me.”

“Bucky?!”

And there’s Steve, taking the stairs two by two, shield strapped on his back. Bucky can see Sam flying overhead, unable to safely land on the small walkway.

He takes a step back towards Steve, only to have the man adjust his gun.

“Don’t move,” the man says, confusion gone, stern authority on his face. “You’re under arrest.”

Steve is next to him in a second, hand on his shoulder, pulling him roughly behind him.

“Rogers, you don’t wanna do this,” the man is saying, and Bucky is frozen. He’s spent the past three days not sure what to do, unable of finding a way off this one way trip to that cot in that stupid warehouse.

“Rhodes, I’m not backing down. You can tell Stark that, too. He’s innocent,” Steve snaps. And there are the copters overhead, there are the black cars about to whisk him off to that facility and him and the chair and the words and the warehouse. Dozens of armed men pour out of the cars, guns drawn, swarming around them like ants.

“Stand down, Captain,” A new man says, standing tall and smug like a pompous jerk. Steve grits his teeth and lowers his arms, staring down the entire group like he can knock them out by strength of will alone.

The group steps forward and Bucky panics.

“Don’t let them put me in the chair,” he begs, grabbing Steve’s arms with both of his hands. Steve’s eyes are wide and blue, and they ground him for half a second with their concern. “Don’t let them. They’ll put me in the chair and they’ll strap me down and he’ll come in and I can’t fight him, Steve. He knows the words, Steve, and I can’t get out of the chair and I can’t stop him from using the words and then I’m not me anymore. I’m it again, Steve, and I can’t- Don’t let them-”

He’s grabbed by his backpack and shoved towards the ground, but he kicks out, swings out, desperation fueling him. He can’t go back in the chair, can’t, can’t, can’t. He won’t see that look on Steve’s face again. He kicks and he punches, but he’s sloppy, uncoordinated, thrown off by fear and nothing like the fighter he should be. He’s swarmed by faceless men, in the same helmet, with the same gun, and they grab at him and hold him back, and Steve is shouting from miles away, and then everything goes black.

~~~

He expects to wake up in his bedroom, staring at the ceiling.

When he opens his eyes, he’s in the chair, in the cage, in the room, across from the table and the one way mirror and the camera. His heart is beating too fast and he throws himself against the restrains desperately, because he knows he can get out of them, if he can just do it sooner than he’ll find Steve and-

They’re stronger than the ones he’s used to. His arm feels bruised and sore as he throws himself against them. They have no give, they don’t move an inch as he thrashes out, presses against them, fights and claws and shouts, feeling ragged and crazed with fear.

He can’t get them to budge.

The door opens but he doesn’t stop, just presses against the metal binds until something gives, but it’s not the chair.

A horrible screeching sound blares throughout the room, and Bucky looks up. And there he is, the fucking weasel, looking smug and calculating, grinning at Bucky like he knows that Bucky knows, and it’s some cute inside joke between them.

He almost cries.

3.

Drills. Ceiling. 7:23.

He decides to try heading south today, instead of north. He also decides he has time for a fucking cup of coffee.

6.

He tries the airport today. So far just walking hasn’t worked, but maybe if he can catch a flight, head to Svalbard or some other obscure as fuck country where everyone will let him mind his own damn business…

He barely makes it to the security gate before white, searing hot pain rips through his side and he falls to the very dirty, tiled airport floor.

Apparently, the international warrant with his name on it includes shoot-on-sight orders.

They detain him, quite hilariously, and he continues to bleed out steadily in the airport’s security office, while some burly security guard shouts at him in Romanian. He can’t even apply pressure to his side with his hands chained behind his back, can’t even break the flimsy cuffs, because everyone in the room has a fucking gun and it’s trained on him.

Everything goes fuzzy around fifteen minutes into the “interrogation”, and the hot pain becomes a startling cold in his chest. The guards are still waiting for a call from the higher ups of the higher ups, are tense and scared of him, which he gets, are shouting and trigger happy and not at all concerned that he’s gone dangerously pale.

He dies around five minutes later, faintly hearing Steve shouting outside, only he’s not sure if Steve’s really there or if it’s just his head, trying to send him off with a last bit of comfort.

It’s the first time he dies.

13.

He finds himself on the bridge again. He’s not sure why he tried this route again, not sure why he thought running this time would make a difference, but he tries it anyway. And he’d made it to the center of the bridge this time before Rhodes had dropped down, guns a-blazing and Steve had come rushing to his aid, shoulders tense, itching for a fight he can’t win.

“He’s innocent,” Steve is saying, and Bucky lets his forehead drop to Steve’s shoulder and he’s so, so tired. And then there’s backup and copters and soldiers staring him down. And Steve is glaring, but Steve is standing down.

Bucky places a hand on his shoulder and a kiss on his cheek briefly, before he turns and vaults over the railing. He hears Steve shout his name, hears bullets go flying, but he closes it out.

The water feels like cool, blessed relief on his skin. He hasn’t gone swimming since the Potomac.

25.

11:50. The clock is nothing like the one at his apartment, but it tells a time he assumes is accurate so he’ll put up with the glaring green light and the ugly clunkiness of it.

He’s exhausted from a long day of running and being brainwashed, of all three weeks of long days just like this one, over and over. But he’s determined to stay up all the way til midnight, see what would actually happen when today became tomorrow.

11:52. Would he just teleport to his apartment? Would life continue instead? Did he only have to stay up this entire time in order to break the cycle?

11:53. His eyes are heavy, but he keeps them open, ignoring the burning and the black creeping in around the edges. He’s keeping them open no matter what. He has to make it to tomorrow somehow. He has to see what’s on the other side, what a new day looks like.

He barely sees the clock turn to 11:54 before his eyes are slipping shut in a blink, only a blink, and then everything is going black and he feels weightless and goddamn, he can already hear the drills.

36.

They end up in the tunnel again, somehow. Bucky has been trying a million different ways of getting out of this city, of getting as far away from his apartment as possible, and sometimes the paths tend to overlap. So they all end up in the tunnel again, him, Steve, Sam, Cat Man who’s deal he still doesn’t know, Rhodes and the faceless mob that’s come to bring him in.

He’s so very tired of this. Because as much as he can alter and change how he tries to escape, he always ends up back in that chair, back with him, and then back in the warehouse. Rinse and fucking repeat.

It’s like the rest of the day is set in stone. He gets caught and he has a choice: get taken in and ride the same shitty ride, or die and wake up the next morning to try again.

He’s sick of it though. He’s so sick of it. So when Steve tells him to stand down, and slides his shield onto his back, Bucky does. For a moment. But as soon as the soldiers are in front of him, he’s grabbing for their guns and knocking both of them away, shooting them once he gets the guns situated in his hands.

The others swarm, and Bucky shoots, doesn’t stop, keeps shooting.

He hasn’t snapped. He doesn’t enjoy it. But he’s desperate and afraid, just enough to do this and not feel as much guilt as he probably should. They’re probably won't even die. They’ll probably wake up tomorrow like he will, not even knowing that this happened, not even know that he’s been living this day for a month now, not even knowing that they hunt him down and cage him every single day and he is powerless to avoid them.

He’s not powerless to stop them.

There’s a hand on his shoulder, pulling at him, trying to stop him, and he knows it’s Steve, because his body always knows when it’s Steve. But he reaches back and shoves him down anyway, only realizing what he’d done when he hears the grunt of air escaping Steve as he crashes to the ground.

He freezes, turning around, staring down at Steve, beautiful, perfect Steve, on the ground in a heap, knees and hands stained in blood, not his own, but from the bodies around them.

The look on his face is the worst thing that Bucky’s ever seen in his life, worse than his face in the warehouse, worse than the pain of falling out of that train, worse than the hurt and guilt in his soul when he remembered Steve for the first time and realized what he had done.

There’s disappointment and anger, fury and disbelief and disgust and a million things that he’s always feared seeing in Steve’s face. But that’s not the worst. No, what kills him is the emotion Steve is trying to hide underneath the anger and the resentment. The worst is the the thing in Steve’s eyes that Bucky has only seen once, wind whipping at his hair and metal shaking beneath him.

Steve is afraid.

And Bucky opens his mouth to protest, to beg Steve to not look at him like that. Steve doesn’t know what comes next, he doesn't know that Bucky has done this a million times. If he could just explain. They won’t stay dead. It’s only temporary. Bucky isn’t-

He lets the guns drop from his hands, lets the remaining men cuff him and drag him into the black vans. Steve doesn’t make a sound when he’s shoved to the ground.

When he wakes up in the warehouse, he’s alone.

He vows never to try that again.

44.

He gives up.

It's been a month and a half of the same day, a constant loop, a never ending cycle. He hasn't had a moment of rest in a month and a half, and he can’t even say he’s made any progress.

So he gives up. Maybe if he sleeps all day, he'll wake up tomorrow and it'll actually be tomorrow.

The drilling is annoying, but his bed is warm. He's hungry but the fridge is so far away and he's tired of moving and running so he doesn't.

Steve shows up forty five minutes later than he usually would, and Bucky swears under his breath.

He hasn't left his bed. They already know where he is every morning, doesn't matter where he tries to go or how careful he is, they know he's here.

"Buck?" Steve asks, voice hesitant, shield halfway up, just in case. Steve still doesn't know that this day has happened a million times, that he's had dozens of chances at this reunion and he's screwed it up every time.

He debates telling Steve to go away. But he doesn't want that. He wants Steve to climb into bed with him, maybe run his fingers through Bucky's hair, like he could possibly deserve it. He wants Steve to wrap his arms around him and hug him tight and tell him it'll all be alright, tell him he's been doing the right thing and that it's almost over.

He constructs a perfect fantasy where Steve does just that, his warm body presses against Bucky's side, his lean fingers twisting in his hair, his mouth leaving light but sure kisses on Bucky's forehead, temple, cheek.

But of course that will never happen. Steve's here because Bucky bombed a building, Steve's here to tell him the entire world is after him.

He could ask. Beg Steve to put that aside for a few minutes and just hold him because he knows, he knows he's in deep shit, and he's been in said deep shit for over a month, the same shit over and over again.
But why would he ask? How could he ask? After everything he's done, it's a miracle Steve even bothers to drop by today at all instead of leaving him to just be dragged away by a bunch of nameless, faceless agents and back to the chair. He can't ask for any more than Steve is already giving him because he doesn't even deserve this.

Yeah, it's gonna be one of these days.

"Bucky?" Steve repeats, stuttering forward towards the bed. He just lets out a halfhearted sigh, rubbing his hands over his face. He doesn't want to have this conversation again. He just wants to wallow here forever, let the world keep moving.

Steve's legs hit the edge of the bed and Bucky squeezes his eyes shut like that will make him go away. There's a light thud, the sound of Steve kneeling next to his mattress.

"Bucky, are you alright?" Steve asks, sounding minutely panicked, reaching out, pressing at Bucky's forehead, running his hand over Bucky's chest like he's checking for injuries.

"Fine," he chokes out, pulling the covers up, hiding himself from Steve's burning stare.

"What happened? Are you hurt? Are you sick?" Steve prods, voice quiet but frantic.
"I'm fine, Steve," he repeats. He doesn't look over at Steve. He can't look at him, it'll hurt too much. Just hearing him is too much already. The little sigh of relief, the way he shifts slightly, placing a hand on Bucky's shoulder.

"I-uh, it's good to see you, pal," he sighs, and Bucky doesn't need to be looking at Steve to see that heartbroken look in his eyes, the shared wish that these weren't the circumstances. "But there are, uh, there are people that think you did something-"

"I don't care," Bucky sighs.

"It's bad, Bucky."

"I know. They think I bombed that UN building. I didn't."

"I know!"

"I don't care."

"But Buck, they're-"

"Coming, I know. They'll be here in twenty seven minutes. Maybe more. I don't care."

"Bucky-"

"Please don't," Bucky insists, eyes opening. Steve looks confused, frustrated, a little terrified under all of it. "Let them come. Let them try to take me in if they want. I give up. I tried caring, but I don't anymore. I'm done fighting, I'm done trying. There's no way out Steve, I've tried every way I can think off. Just let me rest."

Steve lets out a single broken sob, but doesn't try protesting. He runs his hand through Steve's hair once, grinning softly at him.

"Thanks, punk," Bucky breathes, and lets Steve bury his face in his shoulder.

"I just-" Steve starts, but Bucky shushes him.

"Not now. Let's just sit, Steve," he pleads. "Just rest okay. I have the worst headache."

Steve nods again, more reluctantly, and like a miracle, starts running his fingers through Bucky's hair. Like he knows, like something above knew what he was asking for and decided to be kind for once.

Maybe his luck is turning around. Maybe all he ever had to do was stop fighting.

When they break down his front door and crash through his window, he doesn't startle. Steve does, jumping to his feet, raising his shield automatically. Bucky doesn't move from the bed even as the armed men swarm into the room, guns up and pointed.

"Buck, come on," Steve pleads, hand on his shoulder. "Come on. Please don't do this. We can fight. Please, Buck."

"Captain Rogers, sir," one of the men, probably a leader and not one of the smug ones, says, a little awed, a little terrified. "We ask that you stand down and let us take the Winter Soldier into custody."

Ew. He hasn't been called that in a while, it makes his skin tingle in a bad way.

He wants to tell them all to fuck off, that he's not their Winter Soldier, that he didn't do anything, and he's not going anywhere. He hasn't hurt anyone and he doesn't plan to, just wants to lay here, maybe have Steve lie down with him and forget about the world.

Instead, he throws an arm out from under his knot of blankets and very casually, flips off the entire room. He heard about a dozen safeties click off.

"Put your guns down," Steve orders, voice certain to anyone else, but Bucky can hear the slight tremor in it. "He's not a hostile, and he shouldn't even be a suspect."

"Captain, we have orders to treat the Winter Soldier as an active and dangerous target, and to treat you as such if you refuse to stand down," the same fucking annoying guy continues.

"Don't be stupid, Steve," he pleads, under his breath, probably too quiet for Steve to even hear him, but he's pretty sure he's not asking Steve. He's probably asking God himself to please finally grant Steve the gift of common sense and self preservation that he's been so seriously lacking all these years, and while he’s at it maybe let Bucky stop living this day.

"Well then, consider this my official refusal," Steve declares venomously. And because he can't do anything in halves, he keeps going. "If you want to arrest him, you'll have to go through me."

"Fuck," Bucky grumbles. "You're a fucking idiot."

He opens his eyes, and the ceiling is off white, like it always is. He spared a second to wonder if he'll be doomed to stare up at this ceiling every morning for the rest of his life as this day keeps going and going.

He sits up.

Maybe he moved too fast, maybe it was the cursing. Maybe everyone in the room has the same shoot-to-kill order as the airport security from all those weeks ago. All he knows is one second he's sitting up, ready to scold Steve for the millionth time about being a dumb punk, and then the room explodes with noise and movement. Over all the chaos though, he can still hear the startled little moan Steve makes when he gets shot.

He staggers for a second, standing golden and defiant as ever, hiding Bucky completely from the rest of the room, protecting him, body and shield. And then his knees buckle and he falls.
Bucky doesn't remember moving, but he tumbles out of the bed, catching Steve in his arms, and holding him against his chest. They click into place like they always have, like puzzle pieces, like magnets, Steve's head on his shoulder, his arms around Steve's waist.

"Steve," Bucky breathes, heart suddenly pounding with an all consuming, world ending fear like he hasn't felt in years. "Steve. Oh god, Stevie. Don't do this to me. Come on, pal."

Steve coughs, wet and weak like he used to a million years ago, the way that meant danger, maybe pneumonia, maybe something worse. This was something worse than all of that combined.

"Buck," Steve gasped, hand flailing weakly before settling on Bucky's cheek. "Don't- don't jus'... Deserve better, Buck. Wanna... Protect you."

Bucky nods, even though he can't barely begin to fill in the gaps in Steve's words.

"Shhh," he breathes, pushing his hair off of his face, turning paler by the second. "Shhh. Just stay with me, Steve, okay? Don't- don't..."

The front of Steve's suit is staining red, too fast and Bucky chokes on a sob. He pressed his hand down on Steve's chest, an attempt to stop the bleeding, but it's not enough, and it wasn’t just one bullet.

"Deserve everything, Buck," Steve mumbles, eyes fluttering. "Never wanna..." He groans, squeezing his eyes shut, and Bucky tightens his grip, like he can hold Steve with him by sheer force of will. He coughs again, harder, his mouth staining red, redder than ever.

"Bucky," Steve gasps, chest heaving.

He presses his mouth to Steve's forehead forcefully. He closes his eyes, but it doesn't stop the tears from spilling down his face.

"Shhh," he breathes, voice breaking, tripping, cracking. "Shhh, Stevie. I've got you. I- fuck, Steve, I've got you."

Steve coughs again and again, and Bucky holds onto him. Steve smiles softly, mouth bloody like it's been a million times in back alleys in Brooklyn, on the front lines in Italy. He buries his face in Bucky's shoulder and Bucky can feel it in his soul, feel it in the break of his heart when Steve slips away.

The room is silent, frozen in place, and Bucky hides his face in Steve's hair, struggling to breathe in. His face is wet, but he can't feel the tears. His chest heaves and hiccups, but none of it registers. He's numb to everything except Steve's body in his arms, a disturbing absence of his heart beating that makes Bucky want to throw up.

One of the agents steps forward, gun hanging loosely from his hand, and a broken growl rips itself out of Bucky's chest. He pulls Steve in closer to his chest, like he could hide him from the men in the room. A few guns are raised with shaking hands, but Bucky could care less. They might as well shoot him too. Either to get this day over with or put him out of his misery, because he refuses to stay in any world without Steve.

But they don't shoot him. He struggles briefly when they pry him away from Steve, kicking and clawing and thrashing, but weakly, numbly. He doesn't care about the handcuffs they slap on his wrist (like that'll actually hold him). He doesn't care about them taking him in at all, not about the chair or the words, because none of that fucking matters, nothing will ever matter without Steve.

He just wants five more minutes, wants to beg for just one more moment. Hell, he'll take five more seconds, to hold Steve and cry, to hug him close and kiss his forehead again.

But they drag him up and out of his apartment, away from Steve, while a few of the soldiers throw up in the sink and someone else makes frantic calls to higher ups, probably trying to decide who will take the fall. (It's not too hard to guess who it'll end up being.)

He doesn't care. He doesn't care what they pin on him, or what they do to him, or whether or not any of them give a damn. He doesn't care as he dodges Sam's heavy gaze. He doesn't care when T'Challa attempts to kill him. (He almost embraces it.)

He doesn't care when they strap him into a chair or when they start questioning him or when the lights go out and that fucking weasel starts speaking in Russian and grinning like he's won the lottery.

He's already an empty shell. He doesn't need those stupid words to hallow him out. He's already a cold inside so the triggers barely register. But everything still fades away with the last words, and this time the Soldier takes over and there’s no warehouse to wake up in.

45.

When he wakes up his face is dry. There's drilling downstairs and his apartment is empty.

Hope like a white hot flame erupts in him, that the universe which has hated him for weeks is throwing him one blessing. He shuts it down quick. The last thing he needs is to get his hopes up that Steve is...

He gets out of bed slowly, the ache in his chest still present and deep. He pulls on a pair of boots and skips the coffee this morning. He doesn't deserve it, not after...

He makes a beeline for the nearest newsstand and prays, prays, prays like he hasn't in years, decades. Prays that it's his face on the cover, his supposed awful deeds, and not a tribute, not filled with Steve's beautiful, perfect, noble face in black and white.

By the time he reaches the market he doesn't even think he can go through with it, thinks he should just turn around and bury himself in his bed and never leave. He doesn't think he can live in a world where Steve is really gone.

But he gets a strange look from one of the vendors. His heart skips a beat. He sprints the last few steps to the and sure enough it's a picture of the UN building on the cover. His knees give out for a second and he finds himself curled over on the pavement, chest heaving, fave wet again, but not from the same devastation as yesterday. Yesterday which never happened and will never happen again.

He pulls himself up off the ground and closes his eyes for a second, thanking God and whoever else is up there for a second chance. He'll take as many days to get this right as long as he never loses Steve again.
Speaking of Steve... He races back to his apartment, heart beating wildly, brain swimming with thoughts of seeing Steve in just seconds. He almost lost Steve. He almost lost the one good thing left in the universe and he never told him how he felt, he never...

Bucky doesn't bother being quiet, he all but kicks down the door, storms into the apartment. Steve's standing in the kitchen like he has been every morning, sunlight streaming in behind him from the window.

He spins around, eyes widening, and Bucky almost falls to his knees again.

"Steve," he chokes out, half breathless gasp, half desperate plea.

Steve's lips are pursed, shoulders tense, but his eyes, locked on Bucky's, are concerned and relieved at the same time. Steve's still living this day for the first time, ready for a fight that they will never win, not knowing the million other ways this day has played out. Steve doesn't know that there's a world where he dies today, or a world where Bucky grieves him today.

But Bucky does know, and he won't take this day for granted. Not when he knows.

"Steve," he says again, more certain, and charges forward the few extra steps until he's close enough to touch. Bucky ignores the way Steve tenses and raises his shield, just pushes it aside and yanks off his stupid helmet before running his fingers through Steve's hair.

He presses his lips to Steve's neck, right over his pulse point, feeling Steve's heartbeat thrum beneath his mouth. Steve makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat, but Bucky just places two more loud kisses over Steve's neck, praising and grateful.

"Buck?" Steve breathes, eyes wide, looking a little like he got hit in the face with a frying pan. Bucky reaches up, skimming his thumb across Steve's cheekbone.

He's not afraid.

For the first time in weeks he's not afraid. Not of Steve's reaction, not of anything he knows is coming. He has this moment. He has Steve, breathing, alive, a work of art beneath his fingers. He might even have a million chances to get this moment right.

"Can I?" Bucky begs, leaning forward, pressing his chest to Steve's. "Stevie, please, can I-?"

"Yes," Steve exhales in a rush. "Bucky-"

He closes the little space between them, pressing his mouth to Steve's, sucking Steve’s lower lip between his. Steve's hands grip at his hips, holding him tight and in place while his own stroke along Steve's back. The suit is bulky and stupid, keeps him from feeling the warmth of Steve's skin, and Bucky decides to get it off him as soon as possible.

Steve kisses back eagerly and sloppily, a little too wet and a little too much tongue, but it's still perfect through sheer determination, passion, and willingness. It's all Steve. It's unreal how absolutely Steve the entire thing is.

Steve breaks away first, seeming to snap back into the moment, remember that the whole world that’s still out there. His eyes are so blue in the midday light, amazed and confused and scared and so fucking hopefully it makes Bucky's chest ache.

"Bucky?" he asks, a heartbroken little sound, like he has no idea what to do. Bucky can't look at him directly too long, he'll go blind. He leans forward instead, lavishing attention on Steve's face, sucking at the line of his jaw, biting at his earlobe. He presses his lips to every part of Steve's face, his temples, cheeks, eyelids, soft and gentle, everything he's dreamed of doing, everything he almost lost.

He doesn't realize he's crying until Steve's hands are on his shoulders, pushing him back, before shifting up to wipe gently at his cheeks.

"Bucky?" Steve asks, sweeping his hair behind his ears. "Buck, what's wrong?"

He doesn't know how to answer without telling Steve everything and sounding crazy. He doesn't even know where to start responding to a question like that.

But he does know that it does matter. Yesterday, tomorrow and any other iterations of today can wait.

"I love you," he says instead of answering, cupping Steve's cheeks and pressing their foreheads together. Steve's breath hitches, hands shake against Bucky's cheeks.

"P-promise?" Steve whimpers. Not upset, not disgusted, not angry or any of the things he's feared in the past. All of those concerns feel so stupid now. Bucky nods, leaning in to catch Steve's lips between his own again.

“I promise, Steve,” he says. “I love you so much.”

“I-I love you, t-too, Buck,” Steve says. “More than anything.”

They have twenty minutes before it all falls apart. It's not enough time. Not for everything he need to do, so much time wasted he needs to catch up. He might have a chance tomorrow, but he might not. He may only have the next twenty minutes with Steve before everything gets thrown to hell again.

But twenty minutes. He can make them count.

“Buck, there's… I'm sure you've seen by now… They're saying you,” Steve is stammering, struggling to articulate, but Bucky cuts him off with a kiss.

“I know,” he says. “Don't worry. Don't think about it.”

“But-” Steve protests, concern flickering over his face like a dark cloud.

“Shhhh, it doesn't matter right now,” Bucky insists, pulling Steve toward his mattress. “Nothing but us matters right now.”

This time Steve leans in, kissing Bucky like he knows their seconds of peace are numbered, desperately, relentlessly. Bucky returns the sentiment, one hand gripping Steve's hair, holding him close, the other groping at the back of Steve's top, searching for the zipper.

“Stupid… Fucking,” Bucky grumbles into Steve's mouth. “Liked your old one better.”

It earns him a laugh, bright and vibrant, as Steve guides Bucky's hand to the zipper while he peppers kisses along Bucky's forehead. He fumbles for precious seconds yanking the zipper down and unclasping the rest of the suit’s top. He throws it to the ground as far away as he can get it, running his hands along Steve's white cotton t-shirt, the soft warmth radiating from him.

Steve shoves Bucky's jacket off, gently pulling his shirt up over his head, with a teasing smirk. “Was that really all that hard?”

Bucky scowls, shoving him back onto the mattress and scrambling on top of him. “Oh so you wear the most ridiculous getup of all time and it's my fault I can't find the stupid zipper.”

“Sure, blame the zipper, Buck,” Steve teases, and Bucky steals whatever stupid comeback he has left in another searing kiss that leaves Steve gasping instead of snarking. “Bucky,” he breathes, looking so beautifully wrecked.

Fifteen minutes.

He licks into Steve's mouth with an urgent ferocity, sliding his hand along the hem of his undershirt. Steve moans and grips Bucky's shoulder blades, back arching up from the mess of sheets. He slips his hand under Steve's shirt, his fingers tracing along his stomach and waist and moving up, memorizing the warm hard line of muscle beneath him. Steve throws his head back with a groan and rolls his hips up into Bucky's, desperate for friction.

Steve looks wonderfully blissed out, eyes wide and face flushed. He has a little over ten minutes to make Steve fall apart even more so he doubles down his effort. He sucks a hickey on the underside of Steve's jaw, biting and licking desperately at his skin.

Steve's undershirt ends up on the floor somewhere in the same area as the suit top, and Bucky leaves another love bite on Steve's collarbone. He stares for a moment, at the broad expanse of Steve, laid out underneath him and he knows he won’t have enough time to memorize it all, do everything he wants.

At least not today.

Steve's hands come up and seek purchase in Bucky's hair, clinging for dear life as Bucky starts kissing, licking, nibbling and sucking across the golden planes of Steve's chest. Steve lets out a high pitched whine and his eyes are rolling back in his head. His fingers dig into Bucky's back. He's flushed and breathing heavy, eyes glazed over and head thrown back against the pillow.

Four minutes left. Four minutes to set this image, Steve wrecked and gorgeous, into his brain in case this is all he gets. He runs his fingers along Steve's face, memorizing the feel of him.

Four minutes isn't a lot of time, but it's enough to run his lips along every available inch of Steve skin. Enough to run his hands through Steve's hair over and over so he won't forget it again.

And Steve lets him, eyes half lidded, mouth parted and red and slick with spit, hands running over Bucky's back and shoulders slowly.

He hears feet touch ground on the roof and outside the apartment with thirty three seconds left on his internal clock. He kisses Steve again, for as long as he can before sitting up.

Steve seems to come back to himself, eyes opening fully, focusing on Bucky for a moment before glancing over at his shield across the room. When he looks back at Bucky, it's sheepish, almost embarrassed, like he just realized everything they just did when he was supposed to be warning Bucky.

“Shhhh,” Bucky says, running his hand along Steve's forehead. “Stay here.”

“What-?”

“Stevie,” he says solemnly. “Just wait here.”

He climbs off the bed, picking his shirt off the ground and tugging in back over his head.

“Buck,” Steve whines in protest, struggling to sit up. “What’re you-?”

“I'll be right back,” he says, pushing Steve back down gently, who lays there and stares as Bucky gathers his things and walks towards the door.

He has nothing on him but a small knife, and there are exactly 27 men waiting outside with machine guns and helmets and tac vests. But he pushes the door open and closed it gently behind him, facing the 15 of them on the stairs. He can hear Steve stumbling in the apartment, scrambling up to his feet, rushing to get his shield.

Bucky manages to take down 10 of them, but it's different defending the apartment than running away from it. There's less space and he has nowhere to go, but he keeps fighting, as nonlethal as he can afford, but it's after the tenth guy he pushes down the stairs that a pain explodes in his chest and he goes down hard, a bolt of heat right through him before everything starts going cold and numb.

He wonders if this was his last chance, if all he was supposed to do to get out of this was tell Steve how he felt and now things will stick, now he'll stay dead and the days will go on for everyone else.

It might be nice, dying. Finally catch a break, finally be left alone. No Steve, hopefully for a very long time, but his parents, his sisters.

And today's a good day to go out. He did things right today. At least if this is it, he'll leave having told Steve everything, having experienced heaven for a few miraculous seconds.

Everything blurry, but he hears Steve’s anguished cry from behind him. (He should have stayed in bed.) Everything is numb but he feels Steve's hands on his cheeks, his arm slipping under Bucky's shoulder. (He's going to blame himself. He's going to get himself killed.) Everything is slipping away but he has this last blurry image of Steve above him. (He always knew this is how he would go out.)

46.

The sound of these drills has been a lot of things: annoying, relieving, frustrating. He's not sure what these ones are. He's maybe grateful he's not dead, at least it means he can watch Steve's back for longer.

He's kind of disappointed that he has to start this day all over again. He's kind of excited because he gets to tell Steve he loves him all over again. He's kind of frustrated that Steve won't remember, Steve won't know, he’ll have to do the whole thing over and over again, maybe forever and never having more than a half hour to get it right.

On the other hand, he has maybe a million chances to get this confession right, to make it perfect. Steve deserves perfect.

Bucky knows what they say about gift horses.

49.

“Steve, I love you,” he breathes, front row seat to the best damn show on earth, watching his blue eyes light up, his breath catch in his chest, his heart skip beneath Bucky's fingers on his chest. The raw, desperate hope that sweeps over his face like he can't hold it back. The hesitant joy, the love, the pure adoration that Bucky can't believe he'd never noticed before, flitting across Steve's face, every emotion another sentence in the open book of Steve's face.

This time Steve lunges forward, nearly braining Bucky with his helmet. Bucky's laughing when Steve kisses him this time, chest shaking. His smile gets in the way, their teeth clacking together almost painfully.
Steve huffs at him petulantly, scowling, eyes furrowed. But then he's chuckling too, shaking his head and pulling Bucky closer.

For a single second, Steve and him in his apartment, warm, alive, laughing and happy, it feels like everything is going to be okay.

58.

From the moment Steve arrives in his apartment to the second his doors and windows get kicked down, Bucky has exactly thirty three minutes and twenty seven seconds. He rations it out, tests a million different ways of getting the pleasantries over with, so he can stop reiterating the same things every day.

Not that he ever tires of telling Steve he loves him, over and over, but there's so many things he has to cover, so many fears to assuage, so many questions to answer, so many things that Steve forgets every time the day restarts.

He cuts it down to six and a half minutes. He could go shorter, but his Stevie deserves better than a half assed loved confession, so he takes the time to do it right every day, phrasing it different every day, but always meaning every word.

Around two minutes before that to tell Steve, yes, he knows the world is out to get him, yes, he knows Steve believes him and wants to protect him, no, they do have enough time for this, promise, Steve, and fuck the world, this is more important.

And after all the talking, they stumble their way to the mattress. Frankly, Steve deserves better than his dirty mattress and balled up sheets. But there's literally no way for Bucky to replace it what with the day resetting, so dirty mattress it is. (Bucky suggests they try couch cushions once, for sentimental reasons and also because for a full week, Bucky has ended up with the same spring digging into his spine when Steve flips them over and he’s going to explode. The cushions keep slipping out from under them though, and the floor is even worse than the stupid mattress.)

He has a little under 25 minutes to make up for seventy years worth of lost time, including the five minutes of warm up kisses, the two minute cool down before the door gets kicked down, and the whomping eight minutes of collective banter and teasing they manage to squeeze in. He refuses to cut out any of those, but it leaves with barely enough time to do anything significant with Steve, at least not the way he deserves.

But while he doesn't have the time to do much, he still makes use of the time he gets. One day, he spends the entire time, making out with Steve, hot and heavy, desperate to soak up every second that he could especially since it wasn't going anywhere. Another day, he challenges himself to see how many hickies he can leave on Steve's neck in the time they have. Another, he runs his mouth and hands over every inch of Steve's warm, golden skin.

For one day, he lets Steve take the lead, lets him tenderly pull off every item of clothing and press Bucky down into the mattress, lets him wrap Bucky up in his warmth, lets himself feel safe and protected underneath Steve’s solid line of muscles, lets Steve lavish him with attention and kisses. But that's too much, too raw and too good. He almost forgets about the rest of the world, caught in this bubble where it's only him and Steve and the moment can last forever.

He doesn't let it happen again.

Today though, after the talking, the heartfelt confessions, the first kiss he gives Steve every day-- and that's something else entirely. He's perfected kissing Steve so well, he deserves a goddamn PhD in it. He knows exactly how to glide their lips together, the perfect amount of force to bite down on Steve's lower lip, just the right amount of tongue, where to place his hands (one cradling the back of his head, the metal one on his waist, holding him close). He never tires of it, and he gets better every day, but never too polished or practiced, always them-- today, he pulls back and takes Steve's hand and guides him to the mattress. He can feel Steve's pulse thrumming with excitement, anticipation, but today, he unzips the top of his suit (without a single fumble thank you very much) and pushes him down to the mattress gently.

He climbs on top, straddling Steve's thighs, but doesn't surge down to kiss him, just settles down next to him on the mattress, and presses his face in Steve's neck.

“Bucky?” Steve says breathlessly and Bucky can feel his heart speeding along now, feel the rise and fall of his chest.

“Shhh,” Bucky says, running his hand down Steve's arm. “Not today, not right now, just lay down with me a little while, pal. I'm tired.”

Steve nods, smiling softly and earnestly. He moves his arm to wrap around Bucky's waist, tangles their legs together and goes quiet. They stay there, cuddled up and pressed together everywhere, listening to each other's breath. Steve doesn't question it once, just occasionally presses kisses into Bucky's hair, into his forehead.

It's twenty five minutes of the first real peace Bucky's had in awhile, maybe even seventy fucking years. He can pretend that it's just him and Steve. That he never has to leave his apartment, that the rest of the world has forgot him, that Steve put down the shield and the suit for him for just a little while, and they can stay here, together, at peace, for as long as they want.

A little under twenty five minutes. And then the door’s kicked down and the bullets start flying.

61.

The perfect confession goes like this, pieced together from almost two weeks of different speeches and millions of words that still can't even begin to cover how much he love Steve:

“I know,” he starts, cutting Steve off gently, stepping forward. “I know about all that Steve, but it doesn't matter, okay? None of that matters. Screw everything else for a second, pal. We need to talk. I need to tell you something.”

And Steve stammers, hand fidgeting, and he goes from sternly concerned to confused and anxious. Bucky moves closer again, placing his hand on Steve's bicep.

“I missed you,” Bucky continues, trying not to get too choked up. “And I'm sorry for everything I did-”

“It wasn't you,” Steve protests immediately, without fail. And Bucky nods, can't help but grin at him because it's so Steve.

“Shhh,” he says softly. “I'm sorry either way. But Steve, I can't do all this again. I can't go into everything that's coming now, and do the same thing all over again without going mad. I can't hold it all to my chest like I always have, can't push it all down anymore, or hide it and wait for something else awful to happen. ‘Cause, Stevie, I already tried that once, thinking like an idiot that I had all the time in the world to work up the courage or get over it, that I couldn't risk losing you over it because you were, you are the only good thing I've got. But I lost you anyway, I lost everything and you without even saying anything. I died without saying anything and I can't do that again. I've got a second chance here, Steve, and that alone is enough. I can't do this again without telling you how I feel about you.”

And Steve is standing in front of him, eyes wide like he's terrified, eyebrows raised like he doesn't believe it, hand shaking ‘cause he knows what's coming next.

“H-how do you feel about me?” He stammers, eyes pleading, always hopeful, always desperate because he's been waiting for this just as long, he's the one that had to keep going thinking that they'd never get a second chance while Bucky only had to fall.

“I love you, Stevie,” he says, always soft because it lands on Steve like a blow, always reverential because he doesn't know any other way to say it. And Steve whimpers and cups Bucky's face in his hands. “I love you so much. You have to know by now. I've loved you since you were a little runt getting beat up in a back alley, for every single second after that. Even when I didn't know myself, Steve, I knew I loved you. With everything I've got, with every single molecule in my goddamn body. And nothing has ever taken that away, no amount of brainwashing or trips to that fucking chair could erase it because it's written in my bones, Steve, in my soul. I love you. And I almost never got to say it, so no matter what happens, and no matter how you feel about me, now or after anything that comes next, I'm gonna spare each extra second I get to tell you, to show you, to make up for all those times I was a schmuck in Brooklyn, in war, for not recognizing that every moment I had with you was precious and numbered. Never again, Steve. I won't be that idiot again.”

And Steve kisses him, knees weak, eyes squeezed shut, begging him in a wordless confirmation to be telling the truth, and Bucky pours his soul into it, proving every statement, expressing every ounce of adoration he has into the one moment.

“I love you, too,” Steve replies, voice cracking, breaking, shaking. “Bucky, Bucky, I-” His eyes are wide, a little wet, but he looks so happy, so full of joy and life, so warm and beautiful and everything. And Bucky can do this a million times, a million days of this, just to relive this beautiful moment with Steve, looking as awestruck and bowled over every time.

65.

“I love you, Stevie,” he breathes, and Steve shakes.

68.

“God, Buck, I love you, too. I love you, too.”

70.

“Screw everything else for a second, pal. We need to talk.”

73.

“How-how do you feel about me?” Steve stammers, gorgeous, wrecked, disbelieving.

And Bucky opens his mouth to answer for the millionth time… and he finds himself on the floor, hands digging into the ground, chest heaving, pulse racing, panicking, panicking, panicking.

“Buck? Buck?” Steve is saying, warms hands on Bucky’s back, soft voice shaking with concern. He can’t breath and he’s not sure why. He’s dry heaving onto the floor and he’s shaking and falling apart.

Steve arms are around him and are holding him close and are rocking him slowly and are stroking along his back, warm and steady and grounding. His eyes are blue and shining, scared and wet and maybe a little hurt, but concerned above all else and- fuck, he ruined the moment. He ruined Steve’s beautiful moment, the one he’s been waiting for, the perfect one Bucky’s constructed for him. He ruined it for Steve and- oh God.

“I love you,” he rushes out, desperate to redeem himself, to fix it, to make things right for Steve because he fucking ruined it. “I love you, Stevie.”

“Buck, are you alright?” Steve asks, hand cupping his cheek. “What happened?”

“I’m fine,” he chokes out, even though it settles over him like a lie. “I love you, Steve.”

“I love you, too, Buck,” he replies, but it’s not right. He’s still concerned, not happy, not blown away, not anything he should be because Bucky ruined this moment. “What’s wrong?”

“Noth-” Bucky chokes on a sob. He’s not sure where it came from, but another one follows soon enough and he can’t keep them down. His chest is tight and his heart is pounding and all of a sudden he’s crying into Steve’s shoulder, ugly, heaving crying, gripping his shoulders tight and pressing himself into Steve’s warmth.

“Oh, Buck,” Steve says, sounding heartbroken as he clings to Bucky, holds him close and tight and warm. “Bucky, what’s wrong?”

“I-I-” Steve smooths a hand down his back, kisses his forehead.

“Steve,” he whimpers.

“I’m here. I’m here. What’s wrong, Buck?”

“I can’t do it anymore, Stevie,” he says, barely recognizing the words as the tumble out his mouth. “I can’t. I’ve been through this too many times to count and I can’t- It won’t stop, Steve. I’ve lived this day a million times and everytime I wake up, back here, just to do it all over again. It’s driving me mad, Steve. Everyday, you show up and the world thinks I bombed that building and there’s nowhere I can run, no way I can fight, nothing that I can possibly do to make it stop. I either get caught trying to run and get put in a fucking cage and some asshole who can barely even speak Russian knows some of my fucking trigger words from decades ago and I can’t get out of the stupid chair and no one can stop him and I fight, but then I can’t, and I wake up in a stupid warehouse and I can see in your eyes, Steve that you don’t trust me anymore, that you can’t trust me anymore, and it kills me. So I can stay here. I can stay here and wait for you to show up and I can confess to you for the millionth time that I love you more than anything, that I always have and always will, and I can kiss you and hold you close for twenty fucking minutes before they find us and I die defending you or you die protecting me and I beg them to send me right after you. And nothing I do makes a damn lick of difference.”

“Buck,” Steve breathes, hands cupping his cheeks, thumbs stroking along his skin. “God, I- I don’t know where to start.”

“I know I sound crazy.”

“I believe you,” Steve says, immediately, and he does, he truly does. “I just… Bucky, never, I’d never not trust you. No matter what happens, especially not because of something like that. I always trust you, and if I ever say that I don’t, you should punch me in the jaw because I’ve either lost my damn mind or I’ve been replaced by an alien.”

“It’s sad that that’s an actual possibility,” Bucky mumbles, and Steve snorts.

“We’ll figure out a way to stop this,” Steve promises, with that look in his eyes that means come hell or high water he will get his way. “It’s gonna be okay.”

Bucky’s chest heaves again with a silent sob because he’s been needing to hear that from Steve for far too long.

“You know what kills me the most, Stevie,” he says, exhaling sharply. “It’s that every day, I stand here and tell you that I love you, and I do, I always do, but I never get the chance to show you. I never get more than thirty fucking minutes to tell you what you mean to me, to hold onto you for a little while, before it’s all over and you forget it ever happened. And it kills me. Because there’s nothing I’ve ever wanted more than to spend the rest of my life with you, to build a life with you where we’re happy and together for once, and I finally know that it’s a possibility, and all i get is the same stupid day.”

“Bucky,” Steve sighs, frowning, hugging him close. He wraps his arms around Steve’s waist, hugs Steve tight and knows it won't be for as long as he wants but maybe it will be soon enough.

74.

The drills have become such a hallmark in his life, he wonders if he'll miss them when they're gone. Because they will be gone. Because today will be the last today.

He knows what he's been doing wrong, maybe what this entire thing was meant to teach him. He's been selfish. Horribly so. In such a way that it's embarrassing, almost humiliating. He's had an infinite amount of times to get this right and he still managed to make every iteration of this day about himself, either about him getting away or about him getting Steve or about him being exhausted and pitying his misfortune.

But no more. Today is not going to be about him. And he's going to stop beating himself up about it too, because he has work to do.

He's writing a new script today, the perfect speech, but not for him to give to Steve, but for him to give to Steve. Not what he needs to say, but what Steve needs to hear today.

He doesn't have nearly enough time to do it justice, but he doesn't want a million chances to get it right. He wants this to be the end. He can see the light on the other side, almost feel the taste of tomorrow, not today, a brand new day that’ll start, a million new opportunities that he won't take for granted again. No more goddamn drills in the morning.

When Steve shows up, he's not ready, but he has enough. He's a man on a mission for the first time in years and he's determined.

“Bucky-” Steve begins, and Bucky, like every other day, cuts him off. They're still on a schedule and they have a lot to cover.

“I know. They're coming for me because they think I bombed that building. I didn't. We both know I didn't, and thank you, for believing in me, Stevie,” he prefaces, gearing himself up for the next part. “But you've got to turn me in anyway.”

“No,” Steve says immediately, face hardening, eyebrows scrunching together in a way that means he's itching to fight. “No way-”

“Shut up, punk, and trust me on this one,” Bucky continues. “I know what I'm talking about. I know way too much about what I'm talking about, so shut up and listen. This is what you've gotta do. You've gotta turn me in. It's not gonna be fun, but I'll be okay. You've gotta talk to Stark. Don't be stubborn. The Accords aren't perfect, but you gotta compromise, you gotta try. You can change more from the inside than you can from the jail cell you'll end up in. But before you do that, I need you to do me a favor. The psychiatrist they're gonna try and send in to interrogate me, don't let him anywhere fucking near me. In fact, Steve, punch him in the jaw for me, pal. He probably framed me for the UN building and he's definitely planning something else shitty. I'll tell whoever’s in charge anything they need to know, promise. Think you can remember that for me?”

Steve is gaping, confused, bewildered, and Bucky can see his braining working to try and piece it all together.

“Buck, how did you-? What was-? Why-?” He struggles.

“Would you believe me if I said I was from the future?” Bucky teases, running his fingertips along Steve arm.

“I won't do it,” Steve decides, face scrunching up. “I won't turn you in.”

“Steve, I know better than probably anyone in the world that underneath all this muscly goodness, you're still a 5 foot nothing, punk, too stubborn for his own good, too feisty to stand down from a fight, always wanting to fight against injustice, stand up for the little guy. And I'm gonna tell him what I've been saying for years: stop picking fights you can't win. You can solve this with your head. You're so smart, Stevie, you can do it. And this is where you have to start. I've tried this a number of ways and this is how it'll work. Please. For me?"

Steve's face falls, crumbles like a house of cards. Bucky moves closer to him, letting Steve fall into a hug, fisting his hands in Bucky's jacket.

“Just- just once,” Steve chokes out. “I wanna be able to save you just once. I wanna protect you, instead of letting you fall for me. Will I ever get to? Or do I have to keep failing you over and over again, ending up in the same place no matter what I do?”

“Steve,” Bucky says, with a huff that's too watery to be an actual laugh. “God, don't say that. You save me every single day, just by being you, in ways that you can't understand. In the face of all of this, of all the shit this world keeps throwing at me, of all the fucked up things that have happened to me, every time I look around at the shitshow I'm in the middle of and wonder what it's worth to keep going, to keep doing the same thing over and over again and not getting anywhere, think for a second what it would be like to give up entirely, I just have to think about you for a moment Steve, about how good you are, about how in the face of all this, you're still you, pure and good and light. And I can't stop fighting, not while you're still so you.”

It seems to do the trick, gets the tightness and the frustration seeping out of Steve's shoulders, even if he still looks devastated.

“I'm sorry,” he says, hand reaching up to stroke along Bucky's cheek.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Bucky assures him. “Not to me. Never to me.”

Steve nods, but he doesn't look happy about it. He pulls Bucky close again, and Bucky lets him for a few minutes, clings to Steve right back because while it's never hard to sacrifice everything for Steve, he knows he's taking a gamble today and for the first time in a while he has no idea what happens next.

“Call Sam,” Bucky says gently, placing a kiss to Steve's forehead. “Call Natasha or Tony, let them know you're bringing me in. I'll be fine, sweetheart, I promise.”

Steve hesitates when the time comes, but he tenses every muscle and places a pair of loose fitting handcuffs on Bucky when a moderately sized group of soldiers comes through his front door peacefully.
Bucky smiles at him the whole time, a silent reassurance for both of them that this is the right thing to do. He ends up in a chair again, but not the cage. When someone walks in the door to interrogate him, it's Natasha, who quirks a bitter smile and spreads some files out on the table, about him, about the UN attack. And he sits calmly and answers all her questions, trying not to smile too hard and have to answer for that. Somehow recounting his years as the Winter Soldier seems a whole lot safer than explaining he's relieved this day too many times to count.

When he falls asleep he's in a cell, behind a barred door, but unrestrained. He’s in the stuffy little cot in the corner, smiling up at the dark grey ceiling. Steve visited him a few minutes ago, smiling sadly, promising he'd do everything he could to get him out of the cell for tomorrow night.

Tomorrow night. God he could taste it. He did everything right today. He fixed everything, like he was supposed to. He looked forward to waking up in this smelly cot and starting a new day.

75.

He wakes up to drills. And he was so certain that for a second he questioned who was drilling nearby his jail cell.

But no. No, he's awake, in his apartment. To the sound of drills. Again.

“What the fuck do you want me to do?” He shouts at the ceiling. No response. Figures.

He's tried everything. He's sure if it. He's sure that there's no variation of this day he hasn't tried, no single option he hasn't tried.

Except…

“You know when I get up there, I'm gonna be pretty pissed,” he says to the ceiling again, shaking his head. He gets up, curses the drills downstairs and the uncaring creator upstairs and thinks back to the first day.

He had breakfast. Yogurt, plum, coffee. Then he went to the market. Then he comes back here and… Yeah, he can do this. His memory was pretty shit for a while but he can do this.

Because maybe, just maybe, if he does everything exactly the same he can trick the world into moving forward.

Is it stupid? Yes, but it's the only thing he hasn't tried before. He's desperate.

He settles down at the kitchen table and turns on the radio. He's not sure what else to do.

~~~

11:58.

He's in the warehouse again, Sam in the next room over, Steve god-knows-where. Everything is exactly as it was. Steve doesn't trust him, or at least looks the part. Sam most likely hates him. His brain hurts from those stupid words and from crashing a helicopter again, but none of that matters.

He's exhausted beyond belief and this is the last straw. So he stares at the little clock in the room, waiting, because any second now he'll clonk out and wake up to drills, or he won't. Or all he had to do was relive this day from hell and know that there's nothing he can do to change it, know that today could be so much worse.

11:59 and he’s breathing too fast, just stares, not blinking out of fear. He can't do this again. This has to be the answer. He’ll go mad.

12:00. He's holding his breath now, like he can trick the world into not seeing, into not realizing what's about to happen. He counts the seconds out in his head, praying, pleading.

12:01. He almost shouts, almost screams for joy, before he catches himself. It's tomorrow. It's tomorrow and he's never been more grateful for another day. It's tomorrow and there's no way in hell he'd going to sleep tonight, just lay here and smile and get ready for tomorrow.

He’ll never take it for granted again.

But he can't sit still either. There's something he knows he has to do, like it's part of the thing that’ll make this stick.

He paddles out of his room, feeling oddly light and floaty with the feeling of a new day. The air feels different. He feels different. Good different.

Steve's on the first floor, sitting by the vice in the center of the room, arms crossed, knees pulled up to his chest. He looks golden and gorgeous even in the dull grey light, staring off into space, uncertainty etched in every muscle. He startles when Bucky sits down next to him.

“Buck,” he says, corner of his mouth quirking up almost subconscious. “What're you doing up?”

“Could ask you the same thing,” Bucky replies. “Guess I just… I dunno a lot of shit happened today and I'm waiting for it to settle. Not really good to fall asleep with this much guilt, ya know?”

“You shouldn't feel guilty,” Steve protests, turning toward Bucky abruptly. “You did do a damn thing wrong, Buck. If anything, I should apologize-”

“God, there you go again,” Bucky sighs, fond and exasperated.

“I should have fought more,” Steve insists. “God, I was just sitting there like an asshole, arguing with Tony and you were in there, locked up. I couldn’t even get to you in time when the power was out.”

“Steve, you did everything you could for me. I know you did.”

“And it still wasn’t enough,” Steve says, grinning tightly. “You should get some sleep. Tomorrow's gonna be a helluva day.”

Bucky sighs. “Shouldn't you be too?”

Steve exhales sharply, a pseudo laugh. “Yeah, I probably should.”

Bucky takes a deep breath, staring at the room, taking in the vice and the dirty floor and the crates. It's not optimal, but it'll do. It’ll have to, because even if Steve deserves better conditions, he needs it now and Bucky won’t ever wait like an idiot for a better moment.

Steve is standing, forehead wrinkling, back in whatever dark place he keeps going to in his head. Bucky stands too, stepping closer, placing his and on Steve's shoulder.

“Shit’s gonna hit the fan tomorrow,” Steve says, frowning. “I can feel it. It's gonna be bad.”

“Today,” Bucky corrects.

“Hmmm?”

“No more tomorrow, it's past midnight. Shits gonna hit the fan today,” Bucky explains, because this is important.

It's tomorrow. It's tomorrow and that means consequences and hurtling off towards an unknown future, another tomorrow and another tomorrow, all ones that stick and stay and mean something. He feels invincible.

“But it doesn't matter, okay?” he says, the words pouring out like second nature. “ None of that matters. Screw everything else for a second, pal. We need to talk. I need to tell you something.”