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Who knew there could be that much blood in the human body? Or maybe there isn’t, and it’s only because it’s Steve, and that damn super-soldier serum that makes more of everything that is him.
No sound escapes Bucky’s lips when he falls to his knees beside Steve’s pale, unmoving, form. He knows even before he feels for a pulse that Steve is gone, the light missing from his once vibrant gaze. Carefully, gently, Bucky reaches out his metal fingertips to press them to Steve’s eyelids, sliding them shut forever.
The rest of the team stands behind him, but the only one speaking is Stark. “Barnes, I’m sorry, but we have to move him.”
Bucky doesn’t answer. In fact, he doesn’t realize the words are meant for him. His metal hand still rests on Steve’s cheek, but his skin is cold and radiates none of the heat Bucky has come to associate with Steve.
A heavy hand comes to rest on Bucky's shoulder, and he shrugs it off gruffly. "Don't fucking touch me." He knows he shouldn’t talk to Tony this way. Tony, who has only ever extended a hand in friendship towards Bucky. Tony, who had recalibrated and upgraded his arm for him, no questions asked. Who had let Bucky come and live in his home, for no other reason than that Steve had vouched for him. Tony, who is twice the man Howard ever was, even if Bucky will never admit it out loud.
But right now, the only thing Bucky can think about when he hears Tony’s voice is the confrontation between Stark and his best friend. The first time Steve had mentioned it in passing, it had taken every ounce of will power Bucky possessed to not hunt Tony down and tear his lying tongue from his head. Everything special about you came out of a bottle. After those words, Stark’s got no right to sound so goddamn sorry now.
Now, though, is not the time, and so he pushes all of that to the back of his mind. With a fluid grace one normally wouldn't expect from a man made of combat and death, Bucky slides both arms beneath the prone form on the ground, lifting the body bridal style. The Quinjet is close by, but it doesn't matter. Bucky's body is strong enough to bear this weight.
Ignoring the worried glances he receives from the rest of the team, Bucky Barnes carries the lifeless body of his best friend, his champion and savior, and doesn't shed a tear.
Once aboard the Quinjet, Bucky eschews a seat, sitting instead with his back against one of the aircraft's walls, Steve's head cradled in his lap. He knows the others are all expecting him to break. From Tony's tense, furtive glances to Natasha's open, waiting stare, he can feel their eyes bore into him. The truth is, if they weren't here, he would have fallen apart.
Sometimes, Bucky is certain that his teammates forget that he has a version of the super soldier serum running through his veins, too. They whisper their worries to each other, oblivious of the fact that his enhanced hearing picks up every word. All of it boils down to one thing. Why is the Winter Soldier so calm?
In fact, it's highly possible his teammates believe he's already lost his mind, because Bucky finds himself smiling as he cards his fingers through Steve's blond hair. If he doesn't think about it too hard, he can almost believe that it's the winter of thirty five again, and he's holding vigil at Steve's bedside. The pale, bloodless lips and clammy skin are a familiar thing to Bucky.
Later, he will not remember how he found his way to Stark and Banner’s laboratory, or if he was the one to carry in Steve’s body. All Bucky knows is that he is alone with Steve who lies on a metal table that is much too small for his body. Even in death, it seems the man is still larger than life.
The top part of Captain America’s uniform has been cut away. It now rests haphazardly over one of Stark’s infernal machines, having been carelessly flung away in an attempt to reveal the flesh underneath it. Tony has already removed the bullet that had lodged itself in Steve's heart.
A harsh, braying laughter erupts from his mouth, shocking Bucky in its intensity. And once he’s started, he finds he can’t stop. It’s just, how many times has he dreamt of ripping Steve’s uniform off when they are all alone? He used to think he’d give his left arm again for the opportunity, he just never imagined it would come like this.
He collapses to the floor in stitches, his hands clasped tight around his middle. Bucky laughs hysterically until he starts to cry, and he’s not quite sure when his body makes the transition, but before he realizes it, he can’t breathe, and he’s sobbing and his hands are beating against his own thighs.
The unfairness of it all is a bitter draught to have to drink. Hasn't he already more than paid his dues? To hell with his arm, Bucky had seventy years of his life stolen from him! He'd been turned into a killing machine, a blunt instrument with which to beat Hydra’s opposition into submission. Why did Steve have to be taken from him too, especially when they had only just found one another again?
Eventually, Bucky's sobs taper off, leaving him feeling hollow inside. No one has come in to check on him, but he entertains no notions that he isn't being watched. Stark's got this place wired better than the Pentagon. And Bucky should know, he's broken in there enough times.
Deciding that he doesn't care who's watching, Bucky hauls himself up off the floor and approaches Steve's body. Carefully, he nudges Steve over and climbs on top of the table, stretching himself out beside his best friend. The last time he'd lain next to Steve this way had been four nights ago. Bucky had woken from another nightmare, Steve's name on his lips as faceless, shadowy figures strapped him into the chair again, because he’d remembered the one thing he was supposed to forget above all others.
It had happened a few times in the past. The scientists were never quite sure what caused it, only that sometimes the Soldier would return from a mission with questions about blue eyes and pencil sketches on cheap paper. The wipes after such instances were always more brutal, and Bucky remembers them all now.
When the old horrors visit him in the night, Bucky usually comes back to reality terrified and screaming. Steve's apartment is on the same floor in the Tower, and he is the one who crosses the hall, slips into Bucky’s bed and holds him until he calms down. Bucky falls back to sleep with his head pillowed on Steve’s chest, the sound of his metronomic heartbeat an anodyne to Bucky’s terror. Usually by the time he wakes, Steve is gone, another chance to confess his feelings having slipped through his metal fingers.
Now though, the weight of all the things he never got to say is crushing. Confessions don't mean much to a corpse, but Bucky needs to say these things now or they'll fester and rot within him. If only he’d found the courage to say them when Steve was alive.
Bucky takes a shuddering breath, and closes his eyes. He speaks haltingly, mumbling against Steve’s chest. “I love you, Steve. Not like my friend, or my brother… You’re… you’re everything that means anything to me. And I should’a told you a long fucking time ago. That first winter you got pneumonia and your ma and me took turns rubbing your back all night long, and I begged God to make me sick if he’d only make you better. Or the night before I left for England… instead of giving the time to Connie I should have been telling you how much you meant to me... still mean to me."
The floodgates have opened, and Bucky couldn’t stop the words now if he wanted to. “After you came for me in Austria, on the march back to our side of the border... When we lay back to back on the ground, and you reached behind you and twisted your fingers around mine. I almost said it then. But I was a coward.” He sniffs loudly and wipes at his eyes savagely. “I’ve always been such a fucking coward. You were always the strong one.”
“And then I died, and you brought me back to life. I know I ain’t the same guy you knew before the war, but the one part of me that was still the same was how much I loved you. And I never said a fucking word. Before, I was scared you’d be disgusted if you knew how much I wanted you. If you knew that every time I had some doll on her knees in front of me, I could only ever see you. And after, I figured you would never want to be with someone who’d done all the things I had, someone who had that much blood on his hands."
“And I’m sorry. I’m just so fucking sorry…”
He is rambling now, he knows it. He doesn’t care. Bucky talks until he runs out of words. When he finally stops speaking, the silence is smothering. The hand made of flesh and blood reaches out, slides up Steve’s bare torso and comes to rest above his heart. The bullet hole in Steve’s chest looks so small, it’s hard to believe the damage was significant enough to have ended his life. Bucky traces the outline of the circle with trembling fingers, and sighs brokenly before closing his eyes.
Tired doesn't even begin to describe what he's feeling. Exhausted, bone-weary, spent, he is all of these and more. Just once more, he thinks. Let me just sleep next to him one more time before they take him away...
The sound of wheezing wakes him, and Bucky blinks sleepily, rubbing his eyes with his fists. Looking around, he finds himself lying on the floor in a vaguely familiar room. The rug beneath him is threadbare and horribly old-fashioned, and the air in the room is frigid.
To Bucky’s right is a closed door, and it is from behind this door that he can hear voices. He only has to think it, and the world shifts, and he is standing in that room. And he knows now why the place is familiar. It's the apartment he and Steve shared in Brooklyn, back before the war.
There are two small beds in the room, pressed against opposite walls, but the space between is narrow. Bucky remembers the distance, outwardly so small, like the distance between the numbers one and two, but infinitely larger once you looked at it from a different angle. The only times he ever braved it was if the boy who held his heart was on the verge of slipping away.
This moment he's witnessing is one of those times. His breath leaves his lungs in a violent exhale when he sees his younger self sitting with his back to the headboard, knees tucked up, and legs bent. Stevie, skinny, sickly, stubborn, perfect, little Stevie rests in the space between Bucky's splayed legs. One of Bucky's hands forms a cup, and he makes small, but forceful presses against Steve’s sunken chest, using the technique Sarah Rogers had taught him to try and loosen the fluid in Steve’s lungs. The other hand, his left hand, grasps Steve’s hip, holding him firmly in place.
Far too entranced with the scene playing out before him, it takes Bucky several beats before he notices the dark shadow that looms at the foot of the bed. The figure is not solid; it's shape ripples, fades in and out of focus. Bucky tries to step towards it to chase it away, but his feet will not obey his commands. Instead, he is forced to watch silently, as the shadowy entity glides towards the boys on the bed.
Every time young Steve's breath catches, the figure darkens, becomes more corporeal, and moves closer. It retreats only marginally when his lungs clear and the frail boy is able to pull in a great gulp of oxygen.
Bucky's heart stutters when Steve whispers, "Am I gonna die, Buck?"
Lightning fast, the dark presence darts forward, until it hovers over the bed, just above the ill young man. Bucky wants to shout a warning, but when he opens his mouth, only silence pours out.
The other Bucky, the one who is still a whole person, who has no idea of the horrors that await him just around the bend, swallows convulsively. He leans to his left, brings up his shoulder, made of flesh, and bone, and blood, and wipes his eyes. "No way, pal. Ain't nothing gettin' close to you on my watch."
The shadow flickers, grows dimmer, pulls back. The Winter Soldier knows it for what it is, now. The dark spectre is death, and it waits for Steve.
“I’m here, punk, and I won’t let you die, you hear me? You can’t leave me. That old grim reaper shows his ugly mug around here, he’ll get a sock to the jaw just like anybody else ‘at bothers you.”
Steve smiles, and sits up a little straighter. His breaths come steadier, and his cheeks pink up slightly. The shadow all but disappears, and a spark ignites in Bucky’s head. The moment of clarity hangs just out of his reach, and his minds gropes for the answers.
Blinding, white heat sears his vision, and when it clears, he is standing on a platform above a roaring inferno. A steel beam stretches across the yawning distance between his current position and another platform. Picking his way carefully across the beam is his younger self.
With bated breath, Bucky waits for his other self to make it across, and even though he already knows how this will end, his heart leaps into his throat when sees himself jump, remembering the fear he had felt that day.
On the other side of the chasm, Steve is alone with no way to make the crossing. And it isn’t Bucky’s imagination, because the black shadow is there now, almost having achieved physical form. Two long appendages snake forward, stopping mere centimeters from Steve, who looks resigned.
“No, not without you!” the other Bucky shouts, slamming his hands down on the metal railings in front of him. A fierce pride wells up in the Winter Soldier’s chest at the words, recalling how he’d been ready to hurl himself into the inferno after Steve if he had fallen in.
Steve backs up uncertainly, before squaring his shoulders and charging forward, an eagle in flight as he soars over the smoke and flames. And the shadow disappears again.
This time, Bucky is expecting it when the world slides out of focus, feels the tingling pull, low in his gut and knows he is moving through time again, bullwhip fast, sharp cracks and sonic booms.
He sees Steve on the ground fighting Hydra soldiers and not noticing the one creeping up behind him. From his vantage point on a hilltop, young Bucky puts a bullet through the man’s eye. Steve turns and salutes him, and a black shape slithers away, a receding fog on a chilly winter day.
Now it’s a warehouse in the middle of Hydra’s nest. A firefight when they were pinned down in the Black Forest, a blitzkrieg of incidents, all with one thing in common. The shade that clung to Steve like a second skin, ever vigilant, the beast lurking in the dark depths for the unsuspecting traveller to step foot off the path. And the only thing standing between the predator and its prey is Bucky.
On the train now, cold rage takes hold of him, and he can feel the metal shield on his arm when his younger self lifts it to stand and protect Steve, who is defenseless and lying on the floor on his stomach. And this is what he was made for, the only purpose his life has ever held, keeping that blond punk breathing one more day. A step sideways, keeping Stevie out of the line of fire and the blast hits him, and Bucky crumples to the floor, landing hard on his ass, while his younger self is jettisoned out of the traincar like so much flotsam. He screams, because he knows what comes next. An agonized shriek pierces his eardrums in the same instant his stomach jerks violently and he knows he is falling.
The fall is much shorter than he remembers it, and Bucky lands, not on his back at the bottom of an icy ravine, but on his knees, thighs straddling Steve’s hips. No longer an observer, Bucky is in the thick of the action this time. His heart is pounding, a jackhammer in his chest that beats madly against his ribcage, left arm cocked back, unable to deliver the killing blow.
Shrieking, grinding noise precedes the impact when the helicarrier comes apart around them, and the ground gives way, and Steve falls. He looks almost peaceful, his eyes closed and his arms outstretched.
Hanging by his metal arm to a jagged steel beam, Bucky looks on, his fractured mind at war with his newly restored heart. An instant later, he lets go, another piece of debris hurtling toward the murky waters of the Potomac. The impact is jarring, but Bucky keeps his eyes open and reaches out, fingers closing around the collar of Steve’s uniform and tightening.
His legs kick, muscles pumping and pushing his body upwards. His head breaks the surface of the water…
And he’s sprinting down the middle of a ruined New York avenue. In the distance, Steve lies crumpled on the ground, his chest rising and falling irregularly. Bucky sees it now, the black shape of death. Solid now, its long, thick robes enveloping Steve’s prone form.
Bucky kicks into high gear, but Steve is dying a hundred yards away from him and he’s not going to make it. Death turns and looks at Bucky, and she is an impossibly beautiful woman. He can't really make out her face, but eyes that glow from within lock with Bucky’s, and she smiles tauntingly at him. She looks away, reaches down, and her fingers close over Steve’s.
Seventy yards. Steve stands, but it isn’t all of Steve, only the soul of him. His physical body is already cooling on the broken pavement.
Fifty yards. Bucky’s chest is seizing in a way that has nothing to do with exhaustion or lack of air.
Thirty yards and Steve begins to walk, hand in hand with the beautiful woman in black robes.
Twenty yards. Captain America turns and meets Bucky’s frantic gaze, his eyes full of words unspoken. Bucky is waving his arms wildly, and he opens his mouth to shout a warning, to beg Steve not to go with the woman who is not just a woman. Before he can get the words out, Death disappears, taking Steve with her.
And Bucky wakes up.
He’s still in the lab, cheek wet with tears and sticking to the cold, sterile floor. He must have fallen off the exam table while he slept. A rich, coppery taste lingers in Bucky’s mouth. He swipes his tongue over the inside of his lip, and feels the flesh there, raw and torn from his own teeth.
Leaving Steve’s body alone in the lab isn’t easy. In fact, it’s the hardest thing Bucky’s ever had to do, and considering the life he’s led, that’s saying something. But he has questions, and he needs to speak to the others.
Bucky heads for the communal living area situated halfway between the apartment floors. If the team is gathered together, it will likely be there. He is still not entirely comfortable speaking to the AI system that runs Avengers Tower; that's one of the things he usually leaves to Steve.
But Steve isn't here anymore, so Bucky grits his teeth when the elevator doors slide shut, opens his mouth, and says nothing. Frowning, he shakes his head and tries to speak again, and still he can find no words.
The disembodied voice of Stark's virtual butler interrupts Bucky's struggles. "Most of the others are gathered in the common room, Sergeant Barnes, with the exception of Dr. Banner, who is currently sleeping in his private quarters. Shall I take you to them?"
Bucky doesn't trust himself to speak, so he nods his head sharply, and wipes the tears that threaten to spill again.
The compartment glides smoothly, noiselessly towards its destination. The silence is stifling. Bucky leans back against the wall, slides slowly down to the floor, like a drop of condensation dripping down a fogged up mirror.
"If you would permit an old operating system, Sergeant, I offer my condolences on your loss. Captain Rogers was an extraordinary man, and his absence will be felt by all."
"I, uh, thank you. And yeah, he was, best man I ever knew." My best guy, thinks Bucky. And damn if that computer's voice doesn't sound almost human, sincere and honestly sorry about Steve.
"May I say the Captain held you in equal esteem, Sergeant Barnes. Your happiness and well being were always foremost in his mind."
"Um... I..," Bucky is saved from answering Jarvis by a soft ping, announcing his arrival on the common floor. When the doors part, Bucky can't escape the car fast enough. He stumbles forward, uncharacteristically tripping over his own feet.
He doesn't remember his legs carrying him into the wide, circular room, but he is standing there, his teammates eyes on him. All of the things he meant to say have vanished, dead leaves blown away on the chilly, autumn wind.
"James," says Natasha calmly. She steps away from the couch she had been seated on, and glides in his direction. Her movements appear casual, but Bucky knows they are calculated and intentional. Natasha is placing herself in his path in case he’s about to lose it, in case it’s the Winter Soldier they are dealing with now. Not Winter Soldier, the Avenger, Captain America’s right hand, but the other one. Hydra’s fist. Natasha is braver and more loyal than the world gives her credit for. She’s shielding her friends from a potentially dangerous weapon. Shielding. A shield. Steve’s shield. Steve!
A window opens up in Bucky’s head, and he blurts. “Did any of you see when it happened? Did you see Steve go down?”
No one answers him. They are all glancing uneasily at him, and he wants to shout at them. He doesn’t need their pitying looks right now. What he needs is answers.
“Barnes,” Tony begins.
Bucky cuts him off with a sharp look and a growl. He sees Tony’s face go pale, and he closes his eyes and thinks of fiery blue eyes and fingers stained with charcoal pencil, and he breathes deeply in an attempt to remain rational. Tries again.
"I need to know what you saw. It's important."
Stark isn't having it. "Look, Barnes, this isn't healthy for you. You recovery is ongoing, and I don't think Steve would want you torturing yourself this way."
The sound of mechanical whirring is the only warning before Bucky buries his fist in the wall behind him. "How the hell would you know what Steve would want for me? You don't know him, and you sure as hell don't know me!"
Small chunks of drywall come loose when he rips his fist free, plaster dust swirling like the powdery snow Bucky had lain bleeding out in seventy years ago. “Just, did anyone see a woman with Steve at the end?”
The looks he’s getting are becoming more wary, and if his teammates had any doubt as to whether or not he had lost his already tenuous grip on sanity, it appears they no longer do, their minds made up he is in the middle of, at best, an episode, or at worst, an extreme psychotic break. Well, all except for Thor that is, the Asgardian having found something outside the glass wall suddenly very interesting.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” Tony begins again before he is interrupted by Sam.
“Bucky, did you see something, or someone? Are you saying you know who fired the gun?”
“No, that ain’t what I’m sayin’,” Bucky’s Brooklyn drawl returning with a vengeance in his frustration. “I’m only askin’ if any of you saw a woman? Maybe near him, or leaving the area after?”
Natasha crosses her arms over her chest. “Why are you asking us this, James? I know it must be important to you, or you wouldn’t be doing it, but how can we help you if we don’t understand?”
“You can help me by answering my goddamn question!”
Black Widow remains calm in the face of Bucky’s outburst. “No, I didn’t see anyone. Boys?”
The men do not speak, simply shake their heads in negation.
Thor, though, raises his hands and cover his face for a moment, before turning to look at Bucky. “But you did see her, did you not?”
The Winter Soldier’s eyes glaze over, and his brow furrows. “No, I don’t think so… At least, not then.”
Sam looks about to speak, and Thor lifts his hand to ask for silence before gesturing to Bucky once more. “When did you see her?”
“I don’t know.” Bucky runs his hands through his long hair. “Maybe, in a dream… I don’t remember. All I remember is running. And by the time I got there, it was too late. But then, just now, in the lab…” he trails off.
Thor nods as if in understanding, and beckons the Winter Soldier over. “Come with me, Sergeant. I believe I may have the answers you seek.”
Bucky can feel the stares on his retreating back as he follows the God of Thunder to the elevator. It makes him angry, everyone looking at him like he’s taken ten steps back in his recovery. And hell, even if he has done a backslide, he’s just lost his best friend, and the man he’s been in love with since he was twelve years old. Can they really stand there and judge him for his actions?
Once in the elevator, Jarvis’ cool voice asks for their destination. Bucky realizes he has no idea where he is following the Asgardian to. He only raises his eyebrow when Thor requests the roof access platform.
The ride up is uncomfortable, and Bucky wishes he’d had the foresight to remove his kevlar. His flesh hand is sweaty in his leather glove, and the uniform is growing heavier by the minute.
Luckily the trip doesn’t take long, and before he knows it, he and Thor are standing on the edge of the roof, looking out over the city he once called home. Off in the distance, across the river, he thinks he might be able to see the neighborhood he and Steve once lived in, and the ache in his chest blossoms, deadly nightshade and monkshood.
Watching Thor from the corner of his eye, Bucky is surprised when the towering figure sinks down gracefully to sit on the very edge of the room, long, powerful legs hanging over the side. "Tell me, Sergeant."
He doesn't sit, instead stands on the precipice of the rooftop, toes edging out, body impossibly close to the drop. It would be so easy, just a few inches more, and he'd be in freefall. From this high up, he doubts he'd survive, knock-off super soldier serum or not. Would he feel it when he landed, or would the end be too quick for that?
Sometime between his morbid musings, Bucky starts to talk. He tells Thor about the strange dream not dream he had while he lay next to Steve's cooling body.
He describes the woman in great detail, recalling things he hadn't even realized he'd noticed. "Her face was shrouded, at least the top half was. It might have been some sort of mask, or, shit, I don't know..."
"Even without seeing her face though, you could tell she was beautiful, but cold, too, you know?"
Thor's reply is so quiet it would have been lost on the wind had Bucky not been gifted with enhanced hearing. "Aye, I know well..."
It is like a cattle prod has been pressed into Bucky's back, and his body gives a jolt. "You know who I'm talking about, don't you?"
"I do, my friend. The woman of whom you speak is known to me, and all of Asgard. She is a powerful goddess, and ruler of an entire realm. It is almost unheard of for her to reveal herself to a simple mortal. Though perhaps, you are more than just that, no?”
Bucky’s throat works furiously as he struggles to articulate his thoughts. “Who is she? What does she want from me? Is she the one who killed Steve?”
“Have care, Sergeant. Hela is no murderess. She is my niece, and the goddess of death. If you saw her leading the Captain away, it is because he likely now resides within her realm.”
The words are a bucket of ice water raining down on him. This Hela was a goddess. More specifically, she was the goddess of death and a relative of the Asgardian prince. The knowledge makes the situation real. Steve is dead, and nothing would change that.
“By revealing herself to you, my niece was issuing a challenge. She has deemed our shield brother worthy of life, and as his loved one, you are the one who holds the power to bring him back.”
Bucky sways on his feet, on the tipping point of going over the side, and Thor rises and tugs him away from the edge. The Winter Soldier falls to his hands and knees on the hard ground, and almost cries. There’s a chance to get Steve back, and it’s up to him to make it happen. He knows he will do anything, stop at nothing, give all he has, which isn’t much, but still, he’ll gladly give it, to see Steve’s bright, sunny smile again.
“How?” he croaks, as he pushes himself upright again.
“When my… when Loki passed, I waited for Hela to come to me in a dream. Why would she not? Loki is her father after all. Hela and I have not enjoyed the best of relations, but I didn’t believe she would wish her father to remain dead simply to hurt me."
“Weeks passed and still she did not come, so I took matters into my own hands. I used my brother’s talisman to travel to Niflheim, and sought my niece out at her fortress. She laughed at me, toyed with my grief, before telling me my brother was not in her realm.”
“I knew then he must have gone to Valhalla, and there I could not follow. He died in battle, defending me, and earned his place within its hallowed halls. That knowledge has helped me to continue living, even when the worlds are absent the one I still love more than any other."
Metal plates shift, Bucky’s hand clenching into a tight fist. “Why are you telling me all this? What does it have to do with Steve? And if warriors go to another place, why is he with her?”
“Warriors of Asgard go to Valhalla. Others do not gain admittance so easily. If your desire to bring Steven back is true, you must move swiftly. Once he has travelled through Hela’s realm and found his way to Valhalla, you will not be able to follow him there.”
No hesitation. “What do I need to do?”
Explaining things to the rest of the Avengers, however, isn’t so easy. Despite all that they have seen and experienced, they are still reluctant to believe.
“Let me get this straight. You’re gonna, what, touch some magic rock, or say a few bibbidi bobbidi boos and, presto, you are now in the land of the dead. You have to pass Hela’s test, who by the way, is Thor’s niece? And then you have to travel Hell and find Steve and bring him back with you? Back to life. Is that about right?”
Bucky grits his teeth and bites back a growl. “Yeah, Stark, that pretty much sums it up.”
“And it is not Hell, it’s Hel,” Thor adds unhelpfully.
Tony throws up his hands in an I give up gesture. Sam looks physically ill, and Natasha’s face is a mask, giving nothing away.
Surprisingly, it is Barton who speak from his perch on the bar. “I don’t know if I could trust in a plan that involved the offspring of Loki. Sorry, buddy,” he offers to Thor, who accepts with a gracious nod.
“But I believe the big guy if he says there’s a way to bring Cap back. And I believe Bucky can do it.” He looks imploringly at the team. “We gotta let him take the chance.”
“I ain’t asking for anyone’s permission. I’m doing it.” Bucky glares defiantly around the room, daring anyone to try and stop him. “Stark, do you still got the stuff Steve and Sam found in the bank vault when they went looking for the Winter Soldier?” It’s strange, how sometimes he still disassociates himself from the weapon he used to be, and other times he embraces that identity completely.
“What stuff? You mean the… the cryo unit? What the hell do you want that for?”
Internal barometer rising, Bucky answers as calmly as he can. “Yes, the cryo unit. I need you to put Steve’s body in there.”
“Why would I want to do that?” Tony almost shouts.
“The Captain will need a vessel to return to when Sergeant Barnes successfully retrieves his soul,” Thor answers matter of factly.
“Oh, yeah, of course. Stupid me not to have thought of that.” Tony rolls his eyes and pulls out his StarkTab, muttering under his breath about suicide missions and self sacrificing idiots. “There, it’s being brought out of storage as we speak.”
“Thanks,” Bucky forces out.
“Yeah, whatever pal. It’s your funeral,” Tony says glibly, and then winces. Because right now, it isn’t Bucky’s funeral, it’s Steve’s. And if this insane, hail mary pass doesn’t connect, they’ll be losing two members of the team, no, two friends, in one day.
That's why it's almost too soon when the large, heavy tank and the rest of the cryo freeze system arrive. Between Bucky, Thor and Tony in the Iron Man suit, all the components are hauled up to the lab.
Tony busies himself setting the system up. It's not as antiquated as it looks, having been designed purely for function and not aesthetics.
Bucky glares at the tank balefully the entire time, having no trouble imagining himself trapped inside it. He hasn't regained all of those memories, only bits and pieces, shards of broken glass that will never fit together fully again. But what he does remember is enough to terrify him. The idea of placing Steve inside, of sealing the door and initiating the system sickens him. He knows what it feels like when the frost invades your body, burrowing deep inside of you, flash freezing hot blood and warm muscle. The only consolation is that Steve will not have to feel any of it.
Once the system is connected, Tony runs a few diagnostics, and declares the all green. Tenderly, Bucky lifts Steve from the exam table and carries him over to the tank. The procedure calls for the body to be naked, but hell if Bucky's going to strip his best friend. He debates for a few seconds, and then removes the boots, leaving Steve in pants only.
Leaning down, Bucky pressed his forehead to Steve's, and murmurs, "I'm coming for you, punk. Don't you go leaving without me."
Shoulders squared, jaw set, heart steeled, Bucky turns to Thor. “I’m ready.”
A small squeak of protest comes from Tony’s direction, but at a black look from Bucky keeps him quiet.
“Very well, Sergeant. I wish you success, and next I see you, I trust you and the Captain shall be reunited, as I was not able to be with my brother.”
The metal exam table is cold and unyielding when Bucky climbs up onto it. Thor presses a small, hard, object into Bucky’s flesh hand, who brings it up to eye level to inspect it closely.
It is made of smooth, black, obsidian, flecked with tiny, white, spherulites. There is deep magic within the item, enough for someone even as inexperienced with it as Bucky to be able to tell. He switches it over to his other hand, disliking the feel of it against his warm palm. The sensation isn’t any more pleasant, however, and only his immense, all consuming love for Steve allows him to continue with his mission.
“This talisman was fashioned by my brother to serve as a means of transportation. It is made from obsidian obtained in Hel, and hand carved, and dipped in Loki’s own blood. You only need place a drop of your own on it, and it will transport you, for lack of a better word, to Niflheim.”
Now Bucky understands why the thing is so disagreeable to touch. He has heard that blood magic is powerful, and oftentimes dangerous.
“You must enter Hela’s Great Hall, and ask her permission to enter the realm and search for the Captain. I do not know how she will test you, but rest assured that she will. Hela is much like her father in that regard.”
Fear isn't an option; Bucky is getting Steve back, regardless of the price he has to pay. He lays flat on his back on the table, rests the stone on his stomach, and pulls one of his many knives from a side pocket.
“Be ready, we’re coming back,” he tells Stark and Thor before slicing the blade along his palm, skin splitting easily and blood welling up. A deep inhale, and Bucky is grasping Loki’s talisman, red hot fire entering his bloodstream and shooting up his arm, his veins carrying the searing heat throughout the rest of his body.
The room spins, water circling down a drain, pulling him down, down, and down. His surroundings fade in and out, reality bleeding in patches, and glimpses of things he doesn’t want to see or even think about peeking through the thin spots.
The sensation of falling lasts an interminable amount of time, the minutes lengthening, silken spider threads caught on the breeze. Until finally, Bucky’s knees hit the ground, and he is kneeling on hard, cold, stone in the middle of a large room.
In fact, the room is so large that he cannot see the edges of it, only the door directly behind him, the walls flanking him, and in front of him, two towering, square columns with torches affixed to them. The light doesn't reach far, and the rest of the hall is shrouded in a blackness so deep it makes Bucky think of the freezing recesses of space, like in the dime store novels he had been so obsessed with as a boy.
Not being able to see the exits gives Bucky an uneasy feeling. Military training isnt easy to overcome, and one of the things he and the rest of the Commandos had prided themselves on was never getting into a situation they couldn’t get back out of. It was also one of the things Hydra hadn’t needed to program into the Winter Soldier; Bucky had carried that over all on his own.
There is a moment when he feels he’s going to be sick, but he forces himself to relax and focus on Steve, which really isn’t hard at all, it’s blinking and breathing and a hundred other things he does without thinking about.
Light in the form of a glowing ball begins to grow in front of him, rising like a balloon. More of the hall is illuminated and Bucky can now see a massive stone dais, on which rests a throne of black metal and bone.
Hela smiles at him from her elevated platform, sitting sideways on the throne, legs thrown over one arm of the chair insolently. The goddess of death is just as Bucky recalls from his dream. Her face is moon pale, half covered by a mask of black fabric, and her eyes blaze like lighthouse beacons in the darkness of the Great Hall.
Full, wide, red lips curve upwards at the corners, smugly, all too aware of the fact she holds all the power here. Her elegants hands smooth down the fabric of her snug fitting robes of black and emerald green, her father’s colors. “My, my, what have we here?”
Bucky deems it safest to come to the point. The longer he dallies here, the longer Steve is left wandering the land of the dead. Effortlessly, Bucky pushes himself up on one knee, bows his head. “I’m James Buchanan Barnes, the Winter Soldier, and I come here to find someone who’s been taken from me. Thor, the God of Thunder, showed me how to use a talisman to get here.”
The goddess spins in her seat, legs coming to face forward. “A friend of Thor’s, you say? If you think my Uncle’s name will earn you any special favors in my realm, you are sorely mistaken. In fact, just the opposite is true. Perhaps better not to have mentioned it all, don't you think?"
Bucky allows himself a small grin before drawing himself up to his full height. “Don’t see the point in tryin’ to hide something from you that you already know. Figured if I didn't say something, you would've found a way to hold it against me."
Hela purses her lips in annoyance. "How dare you speak to me in such a manner? I demand respect at least, if not reverence."
"You invited me here, doll, not the other way around. Your uncle just gave me the directions." And it's a dangerous game he's playing, shooting the breeze with a goddess, daughter of a power hungry maniac, and talking to her as though she were any dame in any dance hall in the world. But something tells Bucky that Hela wants him to be himself, cocky and confident. And honestly, he doesn't know any other way to be. So he throws caution to the wind and plunges onward.
"I respect you, and I'll still respect you even after you give me what I want. Steve Rogers, Captain America, is here somewhere, and I intend to take him back with me to the land of the living. Maybe that's what you intend as well, or you wouldn't have shown yourself to me."
Hela claps her hands gleefully, and laughs out loud. "Bravo, bravo! Well done, my boy. What a performance! But what makes you think your friend is still here? Has it occurred to you that perhaps he has found his way out of Hel and made it to my Grandfather's table?"
Pale, blue, eyes harden, an iced over river in the middle of winter, deadly for what runs beneath. Emotions have never been easy for Bucky to master, anger least of all, and he knows he must tread carefully now. He tries unsuccessfully to maintain a blank facade, and is only further irritated when the queen of the underworld laughs at him again.
“Oh my pretty one, you make it so easy to toy with you!” Hela is clearly enjoying herself, and Bucky almost feels sorry for her. There must be so little to keep her amused in this forsaken place.
“But, to brass tacks, as it were. Your beloved Captain is indeed wandering my realm as we speak-”
“He’s not my Captain, he’s my friend,” Bucky interrupts her. No sooner has he spoken, than he knows he has made a grave mistake, crossed some invisible line in the sand.
“Your friend, naturally, but what else?” Hela’s voice is tight, and clipped, not quite threatening, not yet, still more cautionary.
“I… I don’t understand.”
The goddess’ answering smile is sharp and wicked, holding promise of blood. “What I mean, you impertinent mortal, is did your friend ever know how you truly felt about him? Did he know how you lusted after him, even when you were both barely out of boyhood?”
“I. Know. Everything. How you dreamt of him at night, awakening with his name on your tongue and your belly sticky with seed. I know you almost cried the first time a girl wrapped her lips around your cock, because it wasn't his mouth on you."
"And I know how you've wanted him since your miraculous return, since you remembered what desire was, wanted him so badly you thought you'd die-"
Shaking in anger, trembling with rage, Bucky denies the death queen's words. "Shut up! That's enough! It wasn't like that!"
"Not the way you're making it sound," he finishes brokenly.
Triumphant, Hela demands," Then tell me how it was."
"I loved him."
"And what would you do to get him back?"
His voice is a pained whisper. "Anything. Even travel to Hel."
"What price would you pay?"
"Please," Bucky sobs. "Please."
Hela leans back in her chair, crosses her long legs, and folds her arms across her chest. "Very well, mortal. What if the price for your man's life is his love? He might be returned to you, but never, never love you. What if you had to watch him fall in love with another, make a life with them and leave you behind? Would you be willing to endure that pain to see the one you love restored to life?"
Unrequited love is something Bucky has learned to live with. He could easily go another hundred years not knowing the taste of Steve's lips, or the feel of the body that was always perfect, no matter the size, beneath his. And Steve had loved Peggy during the war, and though it had broken Bucky's heart, left him raw and bleeding, he'd survived.
"You think that's new to me, darlin'? You think I ain't felt that way for the better part of my life? Do your worst, all ready. Just give Stevie back to me."
"Or if you can't, or won't do that, then let me stay here with him. The Avengers might miss me for awhile, but they'll find someone else to take my place. But for me, there won't ever be anyone else but Steve Rogers. He and I, we made a deal. 'Til the end of the line.' That's a promise not even the ice and Hydra and all the brainwashing in the world could break. His life ain't yours to take, not without mine, too anyway."
Naïveté has never been one of Bucky's flaws, but he can see now what folly it was to come to the goddess with nothing to offer her in return for Steve's life. Of all the different ways this mission might have gone, never once has he allowed himself to think it might end in failure. And if that ain't naive, well then, what is?
“So be it.” The queen of the dead is through playing with him, it would seem. “We shall dispense with the formalities. I had planned to let you wander about, shouting your friend’s name to the four corners of the realm, but you’ve begun to bore me. Take your Captain, and be gone.
A victorious smile spreads across Bucky's face swiftly, and it's all he can do not to shout.
"So be it," Hela repeats, and there is a loud clap as though of thunder.
Bucky's eyes widen and the smile drops from his face, mouth opening to form a perfect "o" of surprise. Trying to move towards Hela is harder than slogging through the bloody, muddy fields of war ravaged Europe, but he tries anyway.
The spinning sensation is returning, and this time he is certain he's going to vomit, because she's sending him away. The lying, scamming, daughter of a trickster bastard is sending him back without Steve!
***
Noise. An endless cacophony of voices and movement is the first thing Bucky becomes aware of as he slowly returns to himself. Spots and bursts of multicolored lights dance within his field of vision. It is several seconds before he realizes his eyes are squeezed painfully shut, and that is the cause for flashes.
When he opens them, Banner is standing over him, shining a light in his face. The good doctor's mouth is open, but Bucky's sluggish brain is having difficulty processing the words.
"St... Steve... Where's Steve?" His limbs feel heavy, like they’re all made of metal. It takes a monumental effort to sit up, and when he slides off the exam table, his legs buckle beneath him and he spills to the floor.
“Tony shut down the cooling unit as soon as we detected brain function. He’s back. You did it Bucky.”
Bruce tries to help him but Bucky shrugs him off angrily. Movements halfway between a walk and a crawl, Bucky drags himself towards the cryo unit, booted feet slipping against the tiles.
“Get… him… out of there.” It’s only been a few minutes, and already he is recovering, the serum doing its work in his body. Once he is upright, ripping the door clean off the tank is an easy task.
Steve collapses, a dead weight in Bucky’s waiting arms. The Winter Soldier takes Steve, maneuvers him back and onto the table he only recently vacated, before being brushed aside by the two scientists.
Most of the words Stark is speaking make no sense to Bucky, and he feels like a hindrance. Here and there, he picks out a phrase, and he understands they need to warm Steve’s body before waking him up. Part of him is morbidly fascinated with the scene unfolding before him, wondering if this is what it was like everytime Hydra pulled him out of deep freeze. Were his lips that blue, his flesh that hard and unyielding?
Though he is unable to be of immediate use, Bucky will stand vigil beside his best friend. Numerous monitors and an IV are affixed to Steve, and Tony and Bruce rush around calling out information and readings back and forth.
At some point during all the commotion, the rest of the Avengers have made their way into the lab. Everyone stands by anxiously, their faces displaying various degrees of worry and fear. Bucky jumps when he feels a large hand come to rest on his shoulder, and almost slams his fist into Thor’s face.
“Apologies, Sergeant. I did not mean to startle you. It appears you have been successful.”
Tony snorts from the other side of the room. “We still need to make sure everything is working as it should be. No brain damage would be a good thing, but hey, hopefully that serum is good for something.”
Bucky resolutely ignores Stark, much like he had been apt to do with his predecessor. “How long was I out?”
“Not long, my friend. A few hours at most. How are you feeling?”
Before Bucky can answer the question, he hears a tired moan, and quickly turns to see Steve beginning to shift on the table. He rushes forward and grasps his best friend’s hand tight in his own. “Steve? Hey pal, you all right?”
“Bucky.” A small smile graces Steve’s handsome face, which has already regained most of its usual color.
Stark calls for more readings, with Jarvis answering almost immediately. From what they can tell, Steve is more than fine, considering the fact he was dead only a few hours ago.
The entire time the scientists are questioning Steve, Bucky never lets go of his hand, knowing this may be one of the last chances he will ever have to hold it. Hela’s words had stayed with him, having taken up residence in his heart and mind, a very unwelcome tennant.
Soon, Steve is deemed healthy enough to sit up. Natasha is the first one to cross the lab and stand in front of Captain America. She punches him in the arm. Hard. “You idiot. That’s for getting yourself killed.” And then she puts her arm around him and hugs him. “I’m glad you’re not dead,” she whispers.
“Me too, Nat. Me too.”
And then the rest of the team swarms him, all of them wanting to welcome Steve back to the world. Sam is crying when he hugs him, not even bothering to hide his relief. Steve bears it all as good naturedly as he can. He smiles at them, accepts their embraces graciously, returns them even with genuine affection. But his eyes constantly dart back to Bucky, who stands a mute witness to the spectacle.
Finally, Tony decides enough is enough, and orders everyone except Steve and Bruce out of the lab. “Cap needs rest, and there’s a few more tests I’d like to run.”
Bucky is reluctant to leave, but he can tell Stark isn’t playing around. He waits until the other Avengers have made their way out, and then trails after them.
He is almost out the door when Steve calls out. “Bucky?”
One hand, the metal one, comes to rest against the doorjamb. Not turning around, he murmurs back softly, “I’m glad you’re back, Steve.” Then he practically darts from the room, running straight into Thor’s broad back.
Stumbling, Bucky feels strong arms grip his shoulders. Focusing is difficult, and it’s only now that he realizes how exhausted he truly is.
“Sergeant, are you well?”
Bucky tries to respond, he really does, but his tongue is thick in his mouth and his vision is blackening around the edges. The last thing he hears is a voice that sounds like Steve’s shouting his name.
*****
Later, Bucky will learn that it is Thor who carries him to his apartment, changes his clothes, uses a cloth and bowl of warm water to cleanse him of blood and the remnants of the morning's battle. Steve had argued stubbornly for the right, until Natasha reminded him he had just come back from the dead, and that carrying a two hundred twenty five pound super soldier around the tower might not be the best idea.
Travelling to Hel and back all in one day is the perfect excuse to stay in his room and not come out and face reality. Bucky is no fool, and he takes full advantage of the opportunity. When he wakes hours later, though, it is to Jarvis’ insistent prodding.
“Sergeant Barnes, you have a visitor that has refused to leave, and has fallen asleep outside your door. I do not believe I need tell you who it is, but he is most insistent upon seeing you.”
Bucky groans and flops back onto the pillows. He throws his right arm over his eyes and makes a tight fist with the left. Might as well get it over with. Can’t exactly hide forever. “Fine. Give me thirty minutes and then you can let him in.”
Get out of bed, that’s the first order of business. Groggy and cranky, he shambles to his closet, reaches in and pulls out clothes, not even bothering to look and see what he’s found. He’d told Jarvis thirty minutes, and he has no doubt the door will slide open to admit Steve in exactly that amount of time, regardless of whether Bucky is ready to greet him or not.
So it’s with a slight feeling of annoyance that he rushes himself in the shower, only taking a few moments to indulge in the massaging spray of hot water against his tight back muscles. He quickly lathers his hair, and when he rinses the apple blossom shampoo out, the only kind he uses because Steve once remarked he liked the smell, the water circling the drain turns a dark pink, blood from the enemies he’d killed less than twenty four hours ago.
Dripping wet, he steps out of the shower and gropes for the thick, plush, blue towel he had left on the counter. Tony had allowed him to pick his colors when he first moved into the tower, and at the time, he had chosen the blue because it reminded him of Steve’s uniform. The choice doesn’t seem like such a good idea now. Black might be better, to match his mood.
Belatedly, Bucky realizes he’s forgotten to bring a t-shirt with him. The loose, grey, workout pants ride low on his hips, the waistband of his boxer briefs peeking out over the top. Cursing, he darts from the bathroom back out the the suite, yanking open the closet doors again with his metal arm and frantically drying his hair with his right. His fingertips close around a soft, white tee, and just as he’s pulling it free, the door hisses and slides open.
Sheepishly, he turns to find Steve tiptoeing into the bedroom, a warm smile on his face when he sees Bucky, arm still extended to toss the wet towel away. “Hey, Buck.”
“What do you want, Steve?” Bucky’s voice is weary, and subdued, nothing like his normal voice.
Steve looks confused for a second, before he answers. “I want to talk to you, see how you are. Everyone’s been fussing over me for the last few hours, and I figured it was about time for someone to fuss over you.”
His back turned to Steve, Bucky closes his eyes and steels himself. The shirt is thrown angrily to the floor. “I ain’t a kid Steve. Don’t need looking after. I’m the Winter fucking Soldier, for Chrissakes.”
“No, you’re not,” Steve frowns. “Well, I mean, of course you are, but you’re more than that. You’re still Bucky Barnes. You’re a man, and you’re my friend.”
“You know what I mean Steve-”
“Yeah, I do. God, I hate it when you do this Buck. You're so damn stubborn all the time. How many times do I need to tell you that you will never just be the Winter Soldier to me?" Steve's voice is getting louder, more accusatory, and Bucky can't help but respond.
Bucky picks up the tee again, and starts wringing it, balling it up, shaking it back out. It's a nervous habit, and he wishes he could make himself stop. "Fuck, Steve. Is that all you came up here for? To lecture me?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact, it is!" Steve's eyes are blazing now, so hot Bucky can feel their heat from where he stands on the other side of the room. "What the hell were you thinking? Do you have even an inkling of how dangerous what you did was? Do you? Shit, Buck, anything could have gone wrong. You might not have made it back!"
And God help him, Bucky laughs. "Kinda like jumpin' out of an airplane thirty miles into Nazi territory, with no back up, and a tin shield for a weapon, all because of one man."
Steve shuts his mouth like he's been slapped, several beats passing before he looks down, and then back up, shyly, blinking those baby blues owlishly. "Yeah, something like that, I guess. But let's face it, Buck, you've always been my weak spot, even back when I was ninety pounds soaking wet, and likely to get knocked over by the first strong wind. I don't know that I could go on living if something happened to you. Couldn't do it back then, sure as hell can't do it now."
Now it's Bucky's turn to look shocked. "What do you mean?"
"Jesus, Buck, I crashed a plane into the Arctic two weeks after you fell. Haven't you ever thought about why I might have done that?"
“What are you talking about, Rogers?”
Steve shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m trying to tell you I love you, you jerk.”
Bucky won’t, can’t allow himself to hope. Steve can’t mean what it sounds like he means. “I love you too, Steve. A fella ain’t ever had a better friend than you.” That’s safe enough. Safe is good.
“No, not like that.” Bucky is frozen in place, unable to move as Steve crosses the room towards him. Strong fingers tilt the slightly shorter man’s chin up, and he’s inches away from eyes he’s been losing himself in for almost a century. “Like this.” And his eyes slip shut as Steve presses their mouths together softly, chastely.
And it’s not falling Bucky feels this time. It’s more like drifting, floating along a serene lake, gently bobbing on top of the warm water. It’s sunshine in his hair, and on his face, being bathed in a welcoming glow, and having it thaw his lonely heart from the inside out.
This can’t be real. He must be dreaming. Bucky’s arms continue to hang loosely by his sides, even as he feels Steve’s hands come to rest on his waist, thumbs grazing the bare skin covering the bones of his hips.
“What are you doing?” Bucky mumbles when Steve pulls back.
The blonde looks uncertain, but he smiles shakily. “Something we should have done years ago. I don’t want to waste any more time, Buck. I could have died. Fuck, I did die. There’s no reason to hide how I feel anymore. The whole world should know how much I love you. You’re the other half of my soul. You couldn’t have brought me back if you weren’t.”
“Steve, I-”
“Please say you want this, too, Buck. Please.”
“But, Hela said… She told me the price for bringing you back was that you would never love me.” And his voice is a broken murmur. It’s all the years of longing and hoping and wishing for the impossible. It’s resignation and acceptance that he will never have the one thing he wants most in the world.
Shaking his head, Steve reaches out his hand and braces it on the back of Bucky’s neck. “No, no she didn’t.”
Tears fall from Bucky’s blue eyes, liquid drops of concentrated pain, and Steve leans down to kiss them away. “She asked,” a kiss to his eyelids, “if you’d be willing,” another kiss to his cheek, “to give up on your dream,” one to the corner of his mouth, “ of us ever being together.”
“She never said you had to do it. Only asked if you would. It was a test, Buck, and you passed it. I was there, in the darkness. I heard everything. And I never doubted you for a second.”
“But-”
“No, no more excuses. No more hiding. Tell me you want me, Bucky, tell me I’m not wrong about this. Say that you love me and that you want me as much I do you.”
“Yes,” Bucky whispers, “yes to everything. I love you, Stevie. I love you so goddamn much.”
Neither one of them wastes another second. They surge forward at the same time, mouths slotting against one another’s. Steve’s hand winds upwards, fingers threading through the strands of Bucky’s long, brown hair, the other powerful arm wrapping almost entirely around his slim waist.
The fabric of the shirt Steve is wearing rubs deliciously over Bucky’s bare chest when their bodies come together. He fists his hands in the arms of the garment, pulling Steve closer, closer, wanting to melt into that large, perfect form and live within its heat forever.
Muscle and sinew, strength and power, Steve presses the slighter man back towards the bed. His tongue is everywhere at once, licking Bucky’s lips, and sliding into the hot cavern of his mouth, running along his teeth, over his tongue, under, and for all the kissing Bucky has done in his life, he knows he’s never been kissed like this before.
The Winter Soldier feels a fleeting moment of jealousy towards whoever it was that taught Steve how to kiss like this, but it passes quickly, drowned out by the pure want and need in him. A moan escapes him when the backs of his knees collide with the bedframe, and he falls backwards onto the mattress, pulling Steve down with him.
Relief, gratitude, and elation; Bucky can taste all of those things in Steve’s kiss. This is a consummation in more ways than one. Steve was dead, and now he’s not, and Bucky is the one who gave him life again. It’s only fitting, since it was always the other way around in their youth. The only times Bucky ever felt like he was a part of the world were the times when he was with Stevie.
This though, is so much better. Steve is murmuring heatedly against the shell of Bucky’s ear. “Bucky, Bucky," his name whispered reverently. "Mine this time, mine forever..."
“Yes, Steve, oh God, yes… always…”
“After you fell," Steve gasps, somewhere between a sob and a prayer. “After you fell, I hated myself, because I didn’t save you, because I didn’t jump after you, but mostly because I never told you. I was such a coward..."
Bucky pulls in a hitching breath. "Not you, Stevie, never."
"And then, when I found you again, it was too good, so fucking good to have you back. I couldn't say anything because I was still scared to ruin everything."
"Shhh, it's ok, Stevie. I'm here, you're here, this is real..." And to prove it, he licks a searing, wet stripe along Steve's jaw, hears the answering moan.
“Never wanna let you go. No life without you, Buck. Nothing worth living, anyway…”
Their thoughts are only half coherent, the blood that is barely below a full boil burning the words up faster than they can get them out of their mouths. Straddling Bucky’s hips, Steve’s sits up to peel his shirt off and toss it away, and the sound Bucky lets loose goes straight to his cock.
Lifting his body up to meet Steve’s, Bucky tongues at the tiny scar just over his Captain’s heart, a pale, silvery, semi-round patch of raised skin against the rest of his creamy, golden, complexion. Steve shivers in his arms, but not from the cold, never from the cold again. His body goes momentarily limp, eyelids fluttering shut.
High, breathy, gasps fall from Steve’s lips, and he rocks back, bracing his hands on Bucky’s knees. He rolls his hips, and Bucky can’t stop the animalistic growl from escaping. He’s achingly hard already, and his lips travel up, to Steve’s neck, resting against his pulse point. He bites down gently, presses his tongue to the spot and laves at it, and the thrum underneath proves that Steve’s alive. Alive, thank you world, or all nine of 'em, really.
Steve continues to work his body above Bucky’s. He falls forward, his hands coming back up to cup Bucky’s face and raise it up. His palms are warm, so warm, and Bucky can feel the skin catching slightly on his stubble. He knows Steve must like the feel, because he gasps and seals his mouth over Bucky’s again.
Somehow, Bucky has managed to work the fly of Steve’s jeans open. He tugs roughly, feeling the fabric slide down, and catch over the swell of Steve’s ass. His metal fingers dig into the perfect flesh there, and Steve gets the hint. He lets go of Bucky and sits up just long enough to yank his pants and boxers down to his knees. Then he pushes Bucky down again and leans over him, toes off his shoes, and kicks the pants the rest of the way off.
“Now you.”
With a feral grin, Bucky shoves his clothing down to his thighs, and Steve doesn’t wait for an invitation before ripping them off fully. There is a moment where the two friends turned lovers stare at one another, the question hanging in the air.
Steve licks his kiss swollen lips, and breaks the silence. “Are you sure?”
“Never been more sure of anything. Want you so bad, Stevie. Don’t make me wait anymore.” He tries to unseat Steve, intending to tuck his knees up and spread himself out for the taking.
Steve stops him by leaning back and holding his thighs in place. “Mm hmm. Want you in me, Buck. Need to feel you inside me…”
Mouth dry, Bucky reaches behind him to the nightstand, pulls the drawer open, and rummages around, finally coming out with a small bottle of lube. He hasn’t even brought it all the way forward before Steve is yanking it out of his hand, and flipping the cap open.
Silently, Bucky watches as Steve tips the bottle over and squeezes some of the clear fluid over his fingers. His blue eyes are the color of midnight, and the blonde turns his hand over and around, the liquid sliding down and coating his fingers completely.
Then, he reaches behind himself and slips one, thick finger inside. He hisses as it slides in, and Bucky has to grab hold of the base of his cock to keep from coming right then and there. The brunette is mesmerized watching his lover ride back against his own hand, his perfect, pink, wet lips falling open, panting and gasping. Bucky can tell each time he adds another finger because his face scrunches up momentarily, brow furrowing before his body slams back down, and he grinds his hips in a tight circular motion.
Steve’s dick stands erect, and leaking, the drops of precome beading at the tip. Bucky reaches out a hand to touch, but Steve slaps it away impatiently. “Not yet, not till you’re fucking me…”
There’s no way this is going to last long, and they both know it. Too many years of pent up desire stand between them to let it be anything more than a wild, first release.
Bucky whines, actually fucking whines, when Steve pulls his fingers from his ass with an obscene squelching sound and wraps them around Bucky's flushed, weeping cock. His lover slicks him up, and then says, "Now."
Lifting his hips and sliding forward, Steve reaches behind himself and grabs hold of Bucky's cock, guiding it to his fluttering hole. He sinks down, body clenching around the thickness impaling him, and his breath stills, giving himself time to adjust.
Slowly, Steve starts to move, rising and falling in short, shallow bursts at first. Bucky doesn’t trust himself to move. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since Steve’s done this, and he refuses to cause him any pain. It’s not until Steve grits out, “Move, dammit,” that Bucky gives in and bucks his hips gently, testing out Steve’s body.
“Yeah, harder, Buck. Please, I need to feel you…”
So Bucky gives Steve what he needs. Using both hands, he lifts Steve, holding him firmly in place. Steve grunts and tries to bear down, but Bucky doesn’t allow him any movement, his super strength a perfect match for Steve’s own. Instead, Bucky cants his hips, and thrusts upwards once, slamming his cock home.
Low in the back of his throat, Steve keens. Bucky grins and thrusts once, twice, three times.
“Oh, fuck, yeah, right there, Bucky. So good… “
Captain America’s voice trails off, no longer able to form words as Bucky begins to pound into him, pistoning his hips up and down. He’s found the sweet spot, the bundle of nerves deep inside of Steve that turns him into a writhing, panting, mess. He is the perfect picture of debauchery, a thin sheen of sweat covering his body, glistening in the room’s low light, bottom lip caught between his teeth, eyes open and glassy with desire.
In fact, Steve is so fucking beautiful, so fucking perfect that Bucky is almost over the edge. Before he allows himself to tumble over the precipice, he takes his human hand, and wraps it around Steve’s leaking dick, using the moisture there to ease his movements, stroking hard and fast, a little flick of his wrist at the end of every upstroke, before sliding his hand back down, squeezing as he goes.
The only sounds in the room are Steve’s gasping moans, Bucky’s grunts, and the slick slap of skin on skin. Bucky can’t hold on much longer.
“Come for me, doll. Want you to let loose all over me, Steve…”
A few more deep, hard, thrusts, and Steve is crying out. His body goes rigid, and his cock pulses in Bucky’s hand, before he’s shooting thick, hot, white ropes of come over Bucky’s fist and across his stomach. The brunette strokes him through his orgasm, coaxing a few more spurts out of him, and then lifts his fingers to his mouth and licks them clean.
Steve tastes even better than Bucky always imagined he would, salty but not bitter, and as he swallows, he feels his own release surge through him, hitting him like the ocean with wave after wave.
And then it’s over, and Steve collapses onto Bucky’s chest, who is still kneading the flesh of Steve’s ass in his hands. “Yours Stevie, for the rest of our lives…”
Whatever they’ve done, it can’t quite be called making love - that'll come later. It’s not fucking either, really. So much more than the two things combined. But it’s good, and it feels right.
Tomorrow there will be questions to be answered, and decisions to be made, but they’ll figure that all out together, like they’ve been doing their whole lives already anyway. Right now, all that matters is Steve in Bucky’s arms, both of them more whole and happy than they ever thought they’d be. Yeah, tomorrow can wait.