Chapter Text
“You’re safe,” Bucky’s voice rumbles in Steve's ear, low and soft, a nice addition to the white noise of the apartment in the moonlight. It shoots through Steve’s bones and makes him instantly more relaxed. It's safe here. “C’mere, sweetheart. Hmm. I’ve got you, honey.”
The apartment is cold. It’s--yeah. It’s goddamn freezing.
Steve’s teeth are chattering, but Bucky tugs his small body into his warm, broad chest, and Steve curls up there, fitting perfectly, like their arms were designed for nothing but this; this comfort. Each other.
He presses his nose right into Bucky’s neck, inhaling the safe scent of his Alpha. A sense of peace washes over him, and Steve feels every muscle uncoil, the tension seeping out just at the mere presence of his Alpha.
Steve never could sleep when Bucky worked late--could never sleep until he got home.
He didn’t feel safe, at ease--not entirely, anyway--until Bucky was there.
He just isn’t used to being alone.
He’d met his Alpha so early in life, Steve had always had Bucky around. He's spoiled in that way, had never truly understood those around him who longed for their mates, who eyed him and Bucky with jealousy, seeing their natural closeness.
Steve spends his days revelling in the fact that loneliness is a feeling his heart will never have to know.
“S’cold,” Steve says stupidly, as if Bucky can’t feel his icy toes pressed against his calves.
Bucky’s arms squeeze Steve tighter into his chest, and he pressed his warm cheek over Steve’s cold ear.
“I know,” Bucky whispers, his voice full of guilt. “I’m so sorry, Stevie. You’ll warm up soon, just stay nice n’close.”
It isn’t his fault--it's never Bucky's fault. Steve is the one who can't work, given how sickly he is, and Bucky works so hard at the docks...but there just isn’t enough work to go around.
Heating is expensive, and they always have food and water and medication for Steve to think about first.
They can’t have it all--though Steve never feels like he's missing out, even on nights like these, when the cold knocks at his rib cage and makes his lungs rattle.
He knows he has nothing to complain about. His heart is full, even if his belly is not. This life had given him Bucky, and that is more than he could have ever imagined for himself.
Bucky radiates heat, and it's enough just to have him close. Hearing Bucky's guilty tone, Steve deeply regrets saying anything at all.
“You make it better,” Steve reassures him quickly, snuggling closer. He feels a roiling sense of guilt for even mentioning it, knowing what his misery does to Bucky.
Bucky--golden, amazing Bucky, who only ever wanted to give his Omega the world.
“Sleep, Stevie,” Bucky murmurs into his hair, like a lullaby. His calloused hands draw lazy shapes along the ridges of Steve’s spine. He smells like smoke, and ocean water. He smells like Steve's.“You’re warmer now, ain’t you, honey?”
Steve presses himself into the space of Bucky’s body, not wasting an inch of Bucky’s exposed warm skin.
“Yeah,” Steve sighed, his goosebumps beginning to fade, as the comfort of sleep began to take him. His eyes closed heavily. He feels himself being tugged away into a dream space, where he knows he'll find Bucky waiting, not knowing a moment of loneliness even in his sleep. “Yeah, Buck. M'warm now.”
***
“Steve?”
Steve blinks quickly, his eyes refocusing on the room around him, reality snapping back into place. That Brooklyn night, so long ago, slips away like water.
Natasha and Sam are sitting at his dining room table, squinting at him, their posture rigid. Steve's apartment looks nothing like home.
Sam's face is a mixture of concern and suspicion. Natasha is harder to read, but she looks vaguely worried. Perhaps a bit annoyed.
Steve swallows, a chill running over his body. He gets up silently, and shuts the open window, stopping the January breeze from entering the apartment with a robotic movement. He had heat, now, could afford to crank it to its highest setting and run it all day and all night.
But Steve had never been colder.
“It’s freezing in here,” He notes dully, staring out at the city skyline. His voice is flat, and sounds far away, even to his own ears.
“Did you hear anything I just said?” Sam asks incredulously. “Like, where the hell did you just go, man? ‘Cause you weren’t in the kitchen with us, that’s for sure.”
Steve sits back down again, wrapping his arms around himself. It doesn't help, he's chilled to the bone.
“Sorry,” He says softly, not meeting his friend’s eyes. He doesn’t want to talk about the past. He isn’t strong enough. “--You were saying?”
“We got a hit on Barnes. Security cameras on the subway picked up this,” Sam pushes a blurry picture across the table towards Steve. “There, in the red. That’s him, right?”
Steve makes himself look, but it takes real effort, preparing himself to see a photo of a man who isn't his Bucky, a mistaken identity, yet another dead end. Hope is such a heartbreaking thing to have.
Reluctantly, Steve peels his eyes from his own lap and takes a deep breath.
The picture is blurry, and only the top of the man's head and a bit of his profile was visible, but--yeah.
Yes. It's him.
Steve's Alpha.
Steve would know the silhouette of him anywhere, his bulk, the shape of skull. It is as familiar to him as his own, even after all these years.
He stares at the picture for a few moments with longing, his heart stuck somewhere in his throat, and then it finally clicks.
“Wait,” Steve blinks up at Natasha, afraid to speak the words out loud in case they somehow jinx the delicate situation. “He’s here ? He’s in New York?”
“He’s in Manhattan,” Natasha corrects, arching a sculpted brow at him. She speaks carefully, as if she's also trying to micro-manage the amount of optimism Steve lets into his heart. “This image is him on the C.”
“Manhattan to...B-Brooklyn?” Steve swallows, the faint pang of hope sputtering in his chest. It isn’t possible--but? “What would he be doing in Brooklyn?”
Natasha levels him a knowing look, but speaks reluctantly, like she’s afraid to see Steve be let down again. Her shoulders lift and fall. “Maybe he’s stirring up old memories.”
“...Maybe,” Steve repeats, not wanting to let himself imagine such a thing. He stares out the window. The glass is frosted just a little, the hints of winter clinging to the sleeping city. “That would be something, huh?”
“It...would be,” Sam agrees carefully, collecting the picture back up into the folder they’d been using to store what little they’d collected on Bucky so far. “If he’s in the area, it’s gotta be a good sign, right?”
“That, or he’s coming to finish what he started when he tried to kill us all.”
Steve winces at the harshness in Natasha’ voice, trying not to let it get to him.
He thinks about that day often, the helicarrier, the explosion...of Bucky’s fists, the hatred in his eyes as he used every ounce of his strength to end Steve’s life.
The panic.
The confusion--the hope Steve had felt when he sensed that maybe, just maybe, his Alpha recognized him.
Falling. Water.
Bucky saving him.
Bucky leaving him.
Waking up injured and alone.
“Thanks, guys, for this. It’s. It’s good news,” Steve clears his throat, but he knows he’s already given himself up, his voice too thick to sound normal. “I just wanna be alone for a bit, if that’s okay. I’ve got a bit of a migraine.”
"Of course," Natasha clips cooly, getting to her feet. She gives Sam a look like are you coming? But he hesitates, regarding Steve with suspicion.
“Do super-soldiers get migraines?” Sam whispers to Natasha, as he pushes his chair away from the table and stands up.
"Sam--" She hisses, but Steve interrupts before she can say more.
“They do have enhanced hearing,” Steve rolls his eyes, trying to be a bit playful to ease the worried look that clouded Sam’s face. He didn't think he was doing a good job of it; it felt forced. Unnatural.
“Just worried ‘bout you,” Sam mumbles, as Steve uses his bulk to crowd them both towards the door.
Natasha is silent, watching him with a knowing look. She may as well have given him a twenty-minute long lecture. That look says a lot.
Steve does have a headache, and he feels a bit nauseous.
“I’m fine,” He mumbles. It feels like a lie. “Just gonna lay down for a bit, take it easy for the day. Thanks for everything.”
“You want to pick this back up tomorrow?” Natasha waves the file folder at him. Steve doesn’t want to look at it anymore. It hurts.
“Maybe,” He says, not wanting to commit to anything. “I think I just need...some time. To process. Him being here, being so c-close--it's a lot.”
It isn’t natural for Omegas to lose their Alphas. Steve's body is not built to deal with this grief. This loneliness.
They were mated at 16, during Steve’s first ever heat, and they’d been inseparable both before and after they were mated. Best friends, then mates. Life partners.
During the depression, the hungriest, darkest nights, during the war--with the constant gunfire and the smell of stale blood...Steve had never been alone.
Not until the train.
After that, nothing mattered, least of all his life.
Why would he want such a long and ugly thing without Bucky around to hold his hand?
Nothing was funny if Bucky didn’t laugh with him.
They were supposed to be partners in life, until they died somewhere in Brooklyn, holding each other’s hand and remembering all their years in the sun.
Steve casts a tortured glance at the floor, trying to squash down the broken feeling in his ribs. He had to be strong until his friends left. He couldn’t let them worry.
Sam’s jaw tightens, watching Steve like a hawk, seeing through Steve’s facade. “Okay. I--we'll go. We'll go, alright? But listen man, if you need me, no matter what time it is, or anything--”
Steve blinks out of it, and claps a hand on Sam’s shoulder, trying to force himself to be convincing. “I know,” He offers a small smile, or at least, he hopes it resembles something of a smile by the time it reaches his lips.
“Thank you both, really. It means a lot, what you’ve been doing.”
“Yeah, alright. Don’t mention it, okay? Just--take it easy. Night, Steve,” Sam surrenders, looking over his shoulder as he leads the way out.
Natasha hesitates a moment, letting Sam get ahead of her before she speaks.
“Steve?” She murmurs, craning her neck to meet his eyes.
“Yeah?”
“Lock your windows and doors tonight,” She looks towards the window that had been open only moments ago, to let in the cold winter breeze. “If Barnes is in town, I suspect he may want to pay you a visit, and perhaps now isn’t the best time. Not until we know what his mental state is, anyway.”
The idea runs a thrill through Steve’s body, making him feel more awake, more alive, than he had in weeks.
Bucky--coming here? Bucky, being in his space? His apartment? Close enough to smell, and….and touch? To hear his voice?
“Right,” Steve nods, trying not to look like the idea thrilled him. He didn’t want to lie to her, so he didn’t make any promises. “Thanks, Nat,”
She turns silently on her heel, and leaves, no doubt noticing his lack of agreement to do as she asked.
Steve shuts the door behind them, waits ten seconds until he hears the elevator ding to signal they had gotten on it, and then he bolts to the sink and throws up twice.
***
Steve dreams that night.
It’s more of a nightmare, really.
It’s 1944 and they’re back on the train, only this time, Bucky’s not Bucky, he’s the Soldier, and he’s angry.
“I’m so sorry,” Steve sobs, ducking behind his shield as Bucky fires at him.
“You left me!” Bucky shouts, poison dripping from his tone, “You didn’t care!”
“I cared!” Steve protests desperately, but his voice is lost in the wind and the roaring train engine. He knows, he knows he's about to lose Bucky all over again, he can never save him. “Buck, god, please, listen to me. I was lost without you!”
“You could have saved me,” Bucky growls, approaching with hard, sure steps. It’s not the walk that Steve remembers him having. He is afraid.
“I know,” Steve cries violently, his shoulders forcefully trembling with his sobs. “I let you down. I failed you--”
“And now you're going to do it again,” Buck hisses, and steps towards the edge of the train. The snowy alps race past them.
“Don’t,” Steve pleads, dropping the shield and rushing to his Alpha’s side. “Please, don’t.”
“You’re going to lose me all over again. And it’s exactly what you deserve.” Bucky drops his gun, and opens his arms, he tips backwards, and just like that, he’s gone, falling from the train.
“Bucky!” Steve howls, like a wounded dog, collapsing to his knees. His shield clatters to the ground. His voice echoes off of the mountains around him, as if they are mocking his grief. “Bucky! No--"
**
[ 2:34 AM ]
UNKNOWN: WAKE. UP.
[2:35 AM]
UNKNOWN: Wake. Up. NOW.
Steve gasps awake, bolting upright in bed, immediately taking his surroundings in with a panicked glance.
There are no immediate threats in his bedroom. The apartment is quiet. The lights are still off.
He listens for a few moments longer, then realizes the sound that woke him up was his phone, it's screen still lit up on his night table, awaiting his attention.
He blinks down at it with watery eyes, his nightmare abruptly over, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. He can still hear Bucky's echoing screams in his ears. His accusations, the words Steve is sure he'd say if he had the chance--if he could remember all the ways Steve let him down.
He read the message wearily: wake up.
Steve stills.
It isn't often he gets texts from unknown numbers, let alone in the middle of the night, telling him to wake up after just having a nightmare.
His phone number isn't an easy one to find.
He instantly snaps into alert mode, flicking on the lights and grabbing his shield. He breathes hard, listening for any sounds in the apartment. Was someone after him?
He checks his security system, but finds it hasn't been tampered with or disarmed, meaning no one had been in the apartment with him to know that he had been thrashing in his sleep. Someone would have to be watching him then, remotely. Surveillance, with audio bugs or perhaps even video. He squints around suspiciously.
A few minutes later, his phone dings again.
[ 2:41 AM ]
UNKNOWN: You’re safe.
[ 2: 43 AM ]
UNKNOWN: Didn’t mean to scare you.
Steve swallows hard, his hand gripping the phone with white knuckles. Impossible.
He gently puts down the shield, sitting down hard on the edge of his bed.
His mind is reeling, both from waking up from the nightmare so suddenly and to the mysterious messages coming in through his phone.
Although he wants to believe he already knows, Steve has to ask.
[ 2: 56 AM ]
Steve: Who is this?
He waits, chewing at his bottom lip. The hope is already swelling in his chest, despite the logical part of him wanting to squish it down, to stop the hurt that would come from disappointment, if this doesn't turn out to be him.
If it is him, then he's watching Steve. Perhaps he'd seen Steve thrashing in bed. Calling out his name.
He turns his ringer on loud, not wanting to miss another text.
He waits for 15 more minutes, but his phone doesn’t go off again.
Steve scrubs a hand over his eyes and climbs back into bed. He keeps his phone clutched to his chest. He closes his eyes and lets the past wash over him like a wave. It soothes his tired heart.
“Sorry,” Bucky hummed, pressing a kiss to Steve’s forehead, his lips lingering there as he breathes Steve in. Steve can feel the relief coming off of Bucky just as much as he feels relieved to have him home. He hates their separate schedules, and nighttime is the only part of the day they get to curl up safe together. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Well then maybe you should get into bed a little quieter,” Steve yawns, moving over to make room for Bucky. The soothing scent of his Alpha fills the space now that Bucky is home, and Steve felt impossibly sleepier because of it. "Ya big lug."
There is a sense of safety that comes with Bucky’s presence that makes it somehow so easy to fall asleep, even if he’d been wide awake before.
"Mm. You call me the sweetest things, doll," Bucky chuckles into Steve's hair, his breath tickling there. "Ought to be careful or you're gonna start givin' me a big head."
"Jerk," Steve grumbles, though he's hiding a smile by pressing his face into the pillow. "Go to sleep. You got an early mornin'."
"You'll dream of me?" Bucky asks around a yawn, settling in behind Steve and wrapping his arms around Steve’s skinny chest, flexing them to tug Steve tightly against him.
Steve lets his eyes flutter shut. "Of course I will," He breathes, "I always do."
“Me, too," Bucky murmurs. "Night, kitten,” He purrs in Steve’s ear, “Sweet dreams. See you there.”
“Goodnight, Buck,” Steve whispers to his empty bedroom, before drifting off. “Miss you.”
**
Just two miles away, The Soldier takes the earpiece connected to the bugs in Rogers’ apartment out of his ear. He sets it down beside the laptop he’d been using to research his own file and stares at the screen, trying to process the information he found there.
Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th.
The man he once was--now a stranger--staring back at him from under the brim of an army-issued hat, with mischievous eyes. The eyes of a man who belonged firstly to himself.
Barnes wasn’t sure he was still that man. He wasn’t sure he knew how to be.
He puts down his brand new cell phone.
He presses his face into his hands, his large shoulders hunching over. The body is tired, the mind needs rest.
The eyes are wet.
It had been a long time since the Asset had cried.
He doesn't ever want to hear Steve’s nightmares again.