Work Text:
Bucky falls.
Steve listens to the platitudes offered to him. He tries to accept that Bucky’s gone.
He believes Bucky is dead for exactly a week. Then he doesn't.
———
“I want to look for him,” Steve says, as soon as the office door closes at his back.
Colonel Phillips motions for Steve to sit; he does. “Rogers,” he says patiently. “Nobody could have survived that fall. Barnes is dead.”
“I want to look for him,” Steve repeats, more firmly this time.
“I’m sorry,” Phillips says, not unkindly. “He was a good man, and a damn good soldier. But that’s the nature of war. Like life, it isn’t fair.”
“There were things I noticed,” Steve admits, slowly. “Bu — Sergeant Barnes wouldn’t talk about what Zola did, but he didn’t need much sleep. He couldn’t get drunk. Like me. Once, he got shot and it healed fast — too fast to be normal.” He pauses; he has to grip the desk to steady himself. “I think he might still be alive.”
“It’s been a week,” Phillips says. There’s a look of pity in his eyes. “Nobody could survive the cold that long. Not even you.”
Steve gets to his feet and says, “I have to try.”
Phillips sighs heavily. “I’d tell you there’s no use. But that didn’t work the first time, and something tells me it isn’t gonna work now.”
“You’d be right,” Steve replies, already reaching for the door handle.
“We’re this close to finding Schmidt’s base,” Phillips points out. “We’ll need you, Rogers. And your Commandos.”
“I’ll get Howard to drop me. And I’ll go alone. I won’t risk anyone else for this.”
Phillips frowns. He clearly doesn’t like this prospect, but he says, “Fine. Like I could stop you anyway.”
Steve manages to summon up a small smile before he leaves the office.
———
The Commandos don’t say a word when Steve tells them, but from their faces, he can tell they think he’s crazy. It bothers him less than it should — it’s not as if no-one’s ever thought that about him before.
Dum Dum is the one who speaks first. “Bring him back, Cap," he says.
“I’ll do my best,” Steve replies. There’s bile rising in his throat; he swallows it back.
He knows they’re expecting him to find a body. He isn’t sure what he’ll find, but whatever horrors await him, they can’t be worse than not knowing.
———
“Do you think I’m crazy?” Steve asks in the army stores, a coil of climbing rope in his hands.
“Yes,” Peggy answers, and passes him some ration packets. “But you always were.” Her smile is fond and sad at the same time.
“He’d do it for me, Peg,” Steve says. He slips the rations into his pocket.
“I know,” Peggy says. She touches his elbow; he can feel the warmth of her fingers through his shirt. “As long as you’re ready for what you might find.”
Steve isn’t sure he is ready for that, if he’ll ever be ready. But he’s had to come to terms with Bucky’s death once before; he’ll do it again if he has to.
“I’ll have to be,” he says grimly.
———
The ravine’s too rocky for a parachute jump, so Howard has to drop Steve on higher ground. Peggy doesn’t come along this time — she’s needed by Phillips for operations, and maybe it’s better this way.
“You radio as soon as you need me, okay,” Howard yells over the roar of the engine.
“Okay,” Steve shouts back. He jumps.
It takes him longer than it should to make his way down the mountain. His hands shake the closer he gets to the bottom. Once, he loses his footing and his stomach drops, his body caught by the rope as his feet dangle into empty space.
That must have been how Bucky felt all the way down, Steve thinks, shivering.
Finally, his feet hit solid ground. He checks his compass and map for the co-ordinates; he’s not far. His fingers are half-frozen as he hooks the carabiners back onto his belt and starts trudging through the snow.
In the distance, some rocks are sticking up. There’s a hint of blue—the same blue Bucky had been wearing the day he fell—and Steve’s pulse quickens at the sight.
He finds a torn scrap of a blue coat, frozen to a boulder, and flecks of red. Fresh snow has fallen since then, blanketing the ground with white.
Steve starts to dig with his bare hands, ignoring the way the cold burns him. Beneath it, he finds a layer of ice buried in the frost, and several long streaks of blood, preserved under the glassy surface. He searches the immediate area, but there’s nothing. No body.
He’s still kneeling on the ground; he can’t make himself move.
No body. He isn’t sure what that means.
———
The base is close by. Sheer luck (or lack of it) had led to Bucky falling not three miles from some kind of facility.
The building looks like it’s been around a while. The doors are reinforced steel; a high perimeter fence surrounds everything. There are soldiers dotted around wearing snow gear, red stars on their sleeves.
Steve frowns; he doesn’t remember the Soviets having any bases in the middle of the Alps.
The rest of him starts to shake, and he realizes he can’t remember the last time he ate anything. He hides behind a concrete pillar and fumbles in one of the pockets of the suit for a K-ration. The biscuit’s so hard it almost breaks his teeth, but it takes the edge off his hunger, allowing him to focus.
He straightens up, flings his shield at the nearest guard and sets to breaking into the base.
———
It doesn’t take Steve long to get inside. There’s hardly anyone here, only a few men in white coats he assumes must be scientists. It’s easy enough to take them out.
He moves through dark hallways, cautious all the while. Something unpleasant prickles on his skin; this place gives him the creeps.
In a musty-smelling-office, he examines a file. It’s all in Russian, but with a familiar red logo stamped onto the surface, and something clicks into place inside his head. He hadn’t known Hydra had links to the Soviet Union, but it’s not much of a stretch to imagine that Schmidt’s poisonous tentacles had reached into Russia, too.
In the back, there’s another door. Steve had taken keys from the last scientist; he fumbles with a few of them until at last, a key turns.
The door slides open with a clank. He takes a deep breath and steps forward.
———
At the back of the damp, dark room, Steve finds Bucky, shackled to a bed and very much alive.
Bucky's eyes are closed and he’s sweating, his skin flushed. They’ve left him in the undershirt and trousers he had on when he was captured. His shiny leather boots are still on his feet. They were brand new last week. Steve remembers Bucky complaining about the blisters; it seems like a lifetime ago already.
Steve realizes Bucky’s left arm is gone; the shock makes him sway a little on his feet. The stump is wrapped in a mess of bandages, and it doesn’t look too clean. No wonder Bucky’s running a fever.
“Bucky,” he says, voice trembling. “You’re alive.”
Bucky eyes snap open, but they’re blank. He tries to struggle up on his elbows before collapsing again. He might be reacting to Steve’s presence, but he isn’t really seeing him.
“Don’t, please,” Bucky says faintly. “Not again. I can’t.”
Steve drops his shield and leans over the bed. He carefully presses a hand to Bucky’s sweaty forehead and says, “Buck, it’s me. It’s Steve.”
Bucky screws his eyes shut. “No. Stop. Stop,” he says. He sounds tired, all out of fight.
“I’m gonna get you out, okay,” Steve says, a lump in his throat as he moves to unfasten the manacles one by one. He pulls Bucky into a sitting position and watches the fog clear from his eyes.
“Steve,” Bucky croaks. His lips are cracked, eyes unnaturally bright, but he knows him.
The relief hits Steve like a ton of bricks, but he doesn’t have time to think about it before Bucky passes out in his arms.
———
Bucky is rushed straight into surgery when they get back.
The doctors tell Steve that Bucky’s quick healing hasn’t done him any good. His skin’s closed over dirt and grit in the wound, allowing infection to flourish. They need to open him up again.
“The cut to the bone is clean,” Steve overhears someone saying while he’s staring into his fourth cup of coffee in the medical tent. “It looks as though he’s already been operated on. Probably without anesthetic.”
At that point, Steve has to excuse himself to throw up quietly.
———
“You crazy bastard,” Morita says in disbelief. He claps Steve on the shoulder. “You actually went and did it.”
“Bucky, though,” Dum Dum says, shaking his head. “The kid must be made of tough stuff. Guess we knew that from the first time he got captured.”
Gabe rummages under his bunk and produces a half-full bottle of whiskey. “Was saving this for a special occasion,” he says, grinning. “Guess this is as good as any.”
He pours it into tin mugs and they all drink to Bucky’s rescue.
“To Captain America,” they toast, and Steve ducks his head, embarrassed.
———
Bucky is kept sedated for his injuries. With each day that passes, his breathing grows easier. The pallor in his skin fades, some of the old color returning to his cheeks.
Steve can’t go to see him much—he’s kept busy with plans for their final attack on Schmidt—but he’s told Bucky is healing well.
At the end of one long day, he slips into the tent to see Bucky. His chest is rising and falling slowly; there’s a drip in his hand feeding something into his veins.
“I’m sorry, Buck,” he says, voice wet, “I shouldn’t have listened to everyone telling me that you were dead. I could have gotten there faster.”
Bucky, of course, doesn’t reply. He sleeps on, calm and peaceful.
There’s a rustle behind Steve. He looks up to see Peggy watching him. She isn’t smiling.
“You’d do anything for him, wouldn’t you?” Her mouth is set in tight lines.
“Nothing he wouldn’t do for me,” Steve replies, a little defensive.
“It’s alright, Steve,” she says, very gently, and shame burns in his stomach as he realizes what she means.
The worst part is: she isn’t wrong. Steve’s been carrying this secret for years. He’s gotten good at telling himself all the things he feels for Bucky are nothing more than simple friendship, brotherhood.
Most of the time, he believes it, but then there are the times when he doesn’t.
In Brooklyn, short on money, they’d squeezed two beds into one small bedroom. Some nights, Steve would wake up hard and ashamed, assaulted by thoughts of Bucky’s hands and mouth all over him. He’d bury his face in the pillow and try to pretend he was thinking of some girl, but no matter how much he tried to deny it to himself, Bucky was always the object of his fantasies.
There it is. Maybe he can lie to himself, but he can’t lie to Peggy.
“I don’t want him to know,” Steve says, voice shaking.
“I won’t say a word,” Peggy says, patting at Steve’s shoulder. She sounds more resigned than sad. “He’s lucky to have you.”
———
It’s not long before Steve and the Commandos take down Hydra for good.
The vast, gleaming plane never gets a chance to take off: Schmidt meets a fiery end in the belly of the Valkyrie thanks to a few of Falsworth’s choice explosives. The tesseract is caught up in the blast — there's a brilliant flash of blue that lights up the sky for miles around, then nothing. It's gone.
Steve can’t help but wish Bucky was there to see it.
———
He gets back to find Bucky awake and charming the nurse at his bedside. There are fresh bandages around Bucky's left shoulder, bright white and clean. He looks better today.
“Don’t let me interrupt,” Steve says. He pulls a smile onto his face.
“Captain Rogers,” the nurse says, blushing. “I'll leave you to it.” She backs out of the room.
“You always did have to ruin my dates,” Bucky rasps, leaning back against his pillows.
“Jerk,” Steve mutters, but it comes out affectionate rather than sharp. He reaches for Bucky’s one remaining hand, stroking the skin where it stretches tight over his knucklebones.
“Heard about your hero turn with Schmidt. Guess you just had to have all the fun without me, right?” Bucky’s words are light, but he isn’t smiling; he looks very tired.
“You know me,” Steve says. He tries to grin. “Fight first, ask questions later.”
“Steve,” Bucky says. His grip on Steve’s fingers turns painfully tight. “You — you saved me. Again. I won’t forget that.”
Steve thinks about pressing his mouth to the skin on Bucky’s remaining hand; he pulls away before he can try.
“I’ll always save you, Buck,” he says. His breathing’s rapid and shallow; he tries to slow it down so Bucky won’t notice.
Bucky stares at the new distance between their fingers, his mouth turned down unhappily. “I know.”
———
Over the next few months, Steve leads his men from one daring mission to the next. After Schmidt’s death, Hydra is all but gone, and the rest of the Third Reich seems sure to follow.
He can almost taste the victory, but it seems terribly empty without Bucky at his side.
They’ve moved Bucky to a convalescent hospital in London. He’s okay, as far as Steve knows; he doesn’t get the chance to visit.
Steve keeps himself going with the thought that it’ll be all be over soon. They’ll go home, and everything will go back to normal.
———
They’re in London when V.E. day comes. The war’s over in Europe, and Steve can hardly believe it.
Thankfully, Bucky’s well enough to join him for the celebrations. The streets are thronged with people, all of them clapping and cheering.
“I can’t believe it,” Steve says, half-delirious from the singing and laughter all around them. He has an arm around Bucky. “It’s done with — the war.”
“How about that, kid,” Bucky says, distracted. He’s not looking at Steve, and Steve wonders what he's doing wrong.
———
He knows Bucky doesn’t blame him for any of it, but that doesn’t matter. Steve blames himself.
If he’d been quicker, he could have reached for Bucky on that train, and he wouldn’t be facing life without an arm. Probably, he should have let Bucky go home to Brooklyn rather than follow him across Europe with a sniper rifle and eyes that were sharp in a way they never used to be.
It’s all on Steve, and he’s going to have to find a way to live with it.
He isn’t sure how he can.
———
Steve and his Commandos get to leave the war behind. Demobilizing the army is going to take years, but being Captain America has its perks.
He would feel guilty—on the shores of the Pacific, the war rages on and men are still dying—but when he sees Bucky’s tired, haunted face, he can’t think of anyone who deserves to go home more.
They make it back. There are medal ceremonies and speeches that make Steve want to disappear into a hole in the ground. At least Bucky’s there at his side, enduring the accolades and handshakes with the same grim enthusiasm.
———
They get an apartment in Brooklyn, much bigger than their old one: two spacious bedrooms, brand new beds and heating that actually works.
The first days pass in a flurry of visits from friends in the neighborhood, sharing war stories and the sadder news of people who didn’t make it overseas.
Understandably, Bucky spends a good portion of that time with his family. Steve is happy to give him his space, even though he feels panicked every time he goes to sleep in their empty, rattling apartment. There isn’t a stick of furniture yet apart from the beds.
———
Despite the fact they have money now—courtesy of the US government—old habits die hard. They end up furnishing their place with an assortment of oddities from thrift stores and yard sales.
Bucky’s grinning when he turns up with a radio, a shiny contraption that likely cost an arm and a leg.
“Got it cheap from Joe Gable,” he says by way of explanation. “He’s moving out West; his old lady left him for a 4F.”
“Poor guy,” Steve says, bending down to examine the radio. It’s red and white catalin, in mint condition: a real find.
“You know what they say,” Bucky says, falsely cheerful. “One man’s misery is another man’s fortune.”
Steve lets out a pained laugh at that; it’s not like fortune’s been kind to Bucky, either.
“Thanks, Buck,” he says. “I guess we could use a little fortune in our lives.”
In the past, Bucky had always listened to the radio. He’d spend hours prattling on to Steve about the latest adventures of the Lone Ranger or the Green Hornet. Steve would grin and try to keep his eyes on his sketchbook, but Bucky’s earnest fascination always won out in the end.
“So what do you wanna listen to?” Bucky asks, placing the radio on the table.
“Anything,” Steve says. “Just as long as it’s not the Captain America Adventure Program.”
“Ugh, yeah.” Bucky scowls. “I still can’t believe they’ve turned me into a teenage sidekick with a domino mask. It’s embarrassing.” He sits down on the lumpy couch and gestures for Steve to join him.
They spend a pleasant couple of hours listening to the latest serials. By the end, Bucky almost looks happy.
———
A few days later, Steve’s putting up some shelves when Bucky asks:
“Say, whatever happened to your thing with Carter?”
Steve’s holding a nail between his teeth; he nearly swallows it.
“It wasn’t a thing,” he mumbles. He takes the nail out of his mouth and hammers it into place.
“If you say so,” Bucky says, and he doesn’t sound convinced. “She seemed like a swell girl, is all. What’d you do to scare her off?”
“I don’t want to talk about it, okay,” Steve snaps. And he can’t — not right now.
He turns around to find Bucky watching him, eyes narrowed.
“I’m sorry,” Steve says, feeling instantly guilty. It’s not Bucky’s fault that Steve can’t sort out his own head. “There’s nothing to tell. It just didn’t work out.”
“Yeah, I figured that one out for myself,” Bucky says quietly. He comes over and sits on the floor next to Steve. “Here, I’ll pass you the nails. Might as well make myself useful for something.” There’s a sharp edge to the words.
“You are —” Steve starts to say, and stops himself. “Thanks, Buck. That’d be great.”
———
It’s a particularly cold night when Steve shakes himself awake with a nightmare. He’d been dreaming of hard ground, the unforgiving rock and ice of the place where Bucky fell.
Sweating and shivering, he drags himself down to the floor with his blankets. The hard floorboards are more of a comfort than his soft bed could ever be.
There’s the sound of fabric shifting on the other side of the wall; it sounds like Bucky’s awake, too. Steve briefly considers going to his room. He feels frozen from the inside out, and Bucky would be warm, so warm.
It’s not like they haven’t done that before. As kids, they’d squash into each other’s tiny beds and stay up all night telling ghost stories. In the war, sometimes the wind got so biting they’d have to push their bedrolls together. Steve would wrap an arm around Bucky, his mouth pressed to the hairs on the back of Bucky’s neck, and they’d keep each other warm.
But things are different now. Back then, Steve could deny his feelings, could touch Bucky without that sick, terrible want rising up inside him.
Steve presses a sweaty hand to his thigh and curls his fingers into the muscle. He breathes, slow and steady. He doesn’t go to Bucky.
———
Steve stumbles out of his room the next morning to find Bucky already fully dressed, sitting at the table with the paper open in front of him.
“We’ll need jobs,” Bucky says, not looking up from his coffee. “You’re making breakfast, by the way.”
That’s not strictly true; courtesy of the US government, they have the money to manage for the time being. But they’ve never been used to idleness, and Steve has to concede that Bucky maybe has a point.
“Alright,” he says, heading toward the eggs Bucky’s left on the counter. “What are you thinking of?”
“Whatever I can get,” Bucky says. “Dunno how much work there is for someone like me,” he adds, unflinchingly honest.
Steve winces. Turning away from Bucky, he cracks the eggs into a bowl and stirs them, watching the brilliant yellow yolks split under the tines of the fork.
“You could always work for the SSR,” Steve says, looking around for a frying pan. “Peggy’s job offer to both of us is still open.”
“Why don’t you do that, then?” Bucky deflects, choosing not to address the fact he doesn’t want to take the job either.
Steve turns around, fork in hand. He’s grinning a little. “Because my version of work is probably being the human pincushion. Unlocking the secrets of Erskine’s serum, and all that.”
“Oh” is all Bucky says. A shadow passes over his face before he tamps it down and grins at Steve. “Hadn’t you better do that, then, Captain?” he teases. “Seeing as it’s a matter of national security.”
Steve huffs. “Don’t call me that,” he says, setting the pan on the heat. “And, yeah — I was planning on it eventually, but I thought I’d put off Senator Brandt a little longer.”
“That’s no bad thing,” Bucky agrees.
———
Before the war, Bucky did clerical work for a shipping firm.
He’s considering going back to it, but his dexterity exercises aren’t going as well as he’d hoped; there are some things you just can’t do with one hand. He doesn’t say it, but Steve can see how discouraged Bucky is by the limitations placed on him.
“I’m not your dame, okay,” he says to Steve warily, the first day Steve leaves the house wearing a pressed shirt and shiny shoes. “But I’ll keep the house looking nice. Guess that’s all I’m good for.”
“Buck,” Steve says, with a sigh. “You know that’s not true.”
“If you say so,” Bucky says, but his frown softens. “C’mere, you idiot.” He runs his hand over Steve’s hair where he’s made a hash of pomading it down. “There. Off you go, then.”
Steve stares at Bucky. “If you say something about little Stevie going off to make his way in the world,” he says, very calmly, “I’m gonna punch you in the nuts.”
Bucky’s laughter follows Steve halfway down the stairs.
———
Steve doesn’t mind the SSR so much. It gets him out of the house; it’s better than doing nothing.
There are a few murmurs in the office when Captain America turns up, but people quickly get used to Steve’s presence. His role is less guinea pig than he imagined — he only has to give a few blood samples before he’s shown the office. Right now, his role is no better than a file clerk, but there’s potential to move up. Privately, Steve finds it refreshing to be considered no different from anyone else.
“How are you, Steve?” Peggy asks brightly, perching on the edge of his desk.
She looks beautiful, and happy: it stings him, somewhere in those places inside him where he thinks he could have been happy with her.
It’s been months, but Steve still feels unaccountably awkward when he remembers the conversation they had at Bucky’s bedside.
“Peggy,” he says, clearing his throat. “It’s good to see you.”
“You, too, Steve,” is her genuine response. She takes a pen from his desk, tapping it on the wood before she looks back at him. “But that wasn’t what I asked. How are you, really?”
“Honestly?” Steve drops his voice. “I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t sleep. I feel like I’m still fighting. And Bucky, he —” he cuts himself off there. He isn’t used to talking about these things.
Peggy’s face is sympathetic. “You both need time.”
“Anyway,” Steve says, changing the subject. “How about you?”
She shrugs. “They let me take the messages.”
Steve sighs. He rests his hand on top of hers for a moment before pulling away — it wouldn’t do Peggy any good to start up more rumors about her and Captain America.
“You’re smarter than all the clowns in this place,” he says. “Wish I could tell ‘em where to go.”
She taps him on the head with her pen. “I can fight my own battles, Steve.”
He’s laughing now. “I know,” he says. “You could fight everyone’s, Peg.”
———
More and more, Steve starts gets the sense that Bucky’s hiding things from him: he says the same things he used to, but his jokes are strained, and the laughter that once came so easily to him now sounds hollow.
Steve watches and worries. Sometimes, he wonders if some part of Bucky hates Steve for saving him; if he would have preferred to die in that base in the Alps rather than live like this.
Prosthetics are getting better all the time, the SSR’s research scientists and doctors tell Steve. But whenever he tries to mention it, Bucky’s face goes very dark and his jaw tightens.
———
“We found instructions for a prototype at Zola’s abandoned lab in the Alps,” Howard says, his keen eyes flitting between Steve and Bucky.
They’ve been brought to one of the SSR’s labs to look at some classified Hydra research.
“Go on,” Bucky says, his tone flat though his eyes are glinting with obvious interest.
Howard spreads the schematics over the desk, and Steve can see he’s watching Bucky on tenterhooks, waiting for him to respond.
“How does it work?” Steve asks. It doesn’t escape his notice that Bucky remains silent.
“I’ll get into the details of it in a sec,” Howard says, waving a hand carelessly over the diagram, “but the point is, if I can figure out how to make it, this could give you a full range of movement, Barnes.” He looks at Bucky. “This’ll be stronger and better even than a normal arm, pal. It’s decades ahead of any of the prosthetics we’ve been working on.”
“It’s metal,” Bucky says, pointedly. He’s staring down at his flesh arm. “I’d be a cyborg.”
When they were kids, Bucky often had his head in a pulp magazine, devouring tales of distant worlds and robots. Steve doesn’t wonder that he’d make that comparison now.
“Buck,” Steve says, trying to smooth things over. “Not really. It’d still be you. One metal limb doesn’t make you a cyborg.”
“Attaboy,” Howard agrees. He claps a hand on Bucky’s back. “We’ll fix you right up.”
When he sees the look on Bucky’s face, Steve has the sudden urge to kick Howard.
———
“Can’t you at least think about it?” The words burst out of Steve.
They’re having a miserable dinner of overcooked meatloaf and lumpy mashed potatoes; Steve’s fault. He never was much of a cook.
Bucky’s been sullen since they got back, and the unappetising dinner hasn’t improved his mood any. He doesn’t answer Steve; he’s too focused on the overly-big piece of meatloaf he’s trying to cut one-handed with his fork.
“Here, let me —” Steve starts to say, reaching for the fork.
And then Bucky stands up and kicks his chair over.
There’s grudging respect in his eyes when Steve doesn’t flinch or move away. Bucky’s features tighten.
“Did I ever treat you differently when you were a shrimp and one cold winter might have done you in?” he demands.
Steve’s cheeks are hot. He doesn’t say anything, but he stands up, puts himself on Bucky’s level.
“Did I, Steve?” Bucky says, louder now. “Because I don’t remember tiptoeing around you like an invalid. You went out without your coat more than once, and you got sick, and I might have said ‘I told you so’ but I still let you be an idiot on your own steam. I didn’t try to coddle you.”
“I was just trying to help,” Steve offers, ashamed.
“I know,” Bucky says. He lets out his breath in a sigh. “God, I know, you’re only trying to help, because you’re a good guy. But it’s killing me, you pretending all of this is fine. Like I’ve still got two arms and all my marbles.”
“Bucky, that’s not —” Steve tries, but he’s cut off again by Bucky.
“I can’t even open a fucking pickle jar by myself, and you’re trying to tell me this is okay,” Bucky says, nearly yelling the words.
Suddenly, a memory hits Steve and he’s laughing, painful and rib-rattling. His laughter only makes Bucky angrier—he’s turning redder by the second—but Steve can’t stop. He’s wheezing by the time he’s done, almost as if his long-forgotten asthma had decided to return.
“Sorry,” Steve gets out when he’s able to speak. “I was just thinking about the time you poured pickle juice down Bobby Cavalero’s neck.” Bucky had played the long game and waited for the right moment, which turned out to be after Sunday School. He’d ruined Bobby’s best shirt and they’d laughed about it for days.
“Well,” Bucky says, still stone-faced, but the red’s fading from his cheeks. “He deserved it. After the bruises he gave you, that little punk was gonna get what was coming to him.”
As he says it, he throws a fist at Steve’s side; a friendly punch.
“If we’re gonna fight, Buck,” Steve says, amused, “I think I could take you. With the one arm and all.”
“Son of a bitch,” Bucky growls.
“You don’t get to talk about my ma like that,” Steve says primly, and that, at last, gets a laugh from Bucky.
Bucky stoops and picks up the chair. He sits back down, and they return to their sorry excuse for a meal.
Somehow, things feel a little easier between them.
———
“It’s not gonna fix my head, Steve,” Bucky says, downing the last of his beer. “Anyway, you saw what happened when Stark tried to make cars fly.”
They’re in the bar down the street, sinking beers that won’t have any effect on them. Sometimes it’s nice to pretend they’re still just like everybody else.
“Oh, come on, Buck,” Steve says, smoothing a hand over the sticky tabletop and immediately regretting it. “You’re not being fair. Look at all the stuff he designed for us in the war. None of it exploded.”
“Hm, maybe.” Bucky blows out a breath. His hair’s falling into his eyes, and Steve reaches out to brush it back without thinking about it.
There’s a pause where Steve wonders if he should have done it, then Bucky smiles and bats his hand away, saying, “Ease up, pal — you’re not my ma.”
It never used to be something he had to think about, touching Bucky. The old Bucky, who laughed freely and thought nothing of giving away little pieces of himself, he would clap a hand on Steve’s shoulder or pull him into an affectionate hug like it was nothing.
These days, they barely touch. But maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be, Steve thinks, unhappily.
———
Steve isn’t sure what makes Bucky change his mind, but he shows up to Howard’s lab one day and says, “Fine. Do your worst, Stark.”
The surgery to fit the prosthetic limb takes hours. The doctors install a neural implant to form a direct link between Bucky’s brain and the arm, and then get to work on fitting the prosthetic. Some of Bucky’s bones are reinforced to take the weight of the metal — Steve isn’t sure of the ins and outs of it, but it makes him feel pretty sick to think of it.
At least Bucky’s rapid healing serves him well; he’s up and about in a couple of weeks. When he’s on his feet, the new weight of the arm pulls his shoulder down, making his gait awkward, but they said that would correct itself in time.
“Guess that’s something I can thank Zola for,” Bucky says from his hospital bed. “The doctor said it would've taken more than double the time for the average person to recover from this surgery.” He stretches his new metal arm, flexing the fingers.
Steve shivers at the mention of the man. Arnim Zola is still in jail, but there’s been talk of letting him out. Many of the Nazi scientists and engineers have already been taken into American custody through Operation Paperclip. Steve knows they don’t want the Soviets to get them, but the thought of Zola being a free man — he doesn’t like to think about it.
“You look good, Buck,” Steve says, forcing his face into a placid expression.
“Just call me the tin man,” Bucky replies, wry.
Back in ’39, they’d seen The Wizard of Oz at least five times. Bucky hadn’t stopped singing the songs for weeks.
Steve smiles at the memory. He whistles a few bars of ‘If I Only Had A Heart’ until Bucky jabs him in the side with a metal finger.
For a moment, it almost feels like old times.
———
The first thing Bucky does once he comes home is shave.
He’d managed it one-handed, but it wasn’t easy, so more often than not, he hadn’t bothered. The stubbly look didn't really suit him.
Bucky’s never been self-conscious around Steve. He leaves the bathroom door cracked open while he lathers up the soap and lays it on with the shaving brush.
Steve watches idly from the couch: the new metal hand, cupped around Bucky’s jaw as he brings the razor down over his cheek. It’s slow, like he’s out of practice, but little by little, smooth, pink skin emerges from beneath the white. The metal is hard and unyielding, but Bucky's touch is careful, methodical. Steve thinks about how those careful fingers would feel on his skin, and for a moment, he can't breathe from wanting.
When Bucky’s done, he catches Steve coming up behind him in the mirror and smiles at the sight. It’s his real smile, open and devastating; it makes heat flare in Steve’s belly.
“Here,” Steve says, passing Bucky a washcloth to wipe off the rest of the soap.
“Thanks,” Bucky replies, and as he takes it, their fingers brush.
“You look good, Buck,” Steve says. His face is hot.
He exhales slowly and leaves the bathroom.
———
Steve jerks awake, pulled out of another dream about Bucky falling. His teeth ache, like he’s been grinding them.
There’s a knock at his door. “Steve?” Bucky’s voice is sleep-soft, but urgent. It obviously isn’t the first time he’s knocked.
“I’m here,” Steve rasps. He sits up and wipes a hand over his damp forehead.
Bucky comes in, wearing his undershirt and pants. Since the serum, Steve’s eyes can pick out detail even in the dark, and the flash of metal on Bucky’s left side is striking. Strangely beautiful, even.
“You were hollering up a storm there,” Bucky says, sinking down on the bed next to him.
“Sorry.” Steve looks down, embarrassed. “I thought the nightmares were getting better.”
“They haven’t for me,” Bucky says, though he doesn’t need to — he knows Steve’s heard him too, crying and shaking in his sleep next door. “So don’t worry about it.”
“Come on, then,” Bucky says, and shoves at Steve’s shoulder. “Move over.”
Fitting them both into a twin bed is a bit of a squeeze, but Steve rolls over, Bucky presses up against his back, and it’s like nothing’s changed. They’re still keeping each other warm.
Bucky rests his metal palm on Steve’s elbow and says, “Sorry if it’s cold.”
“It’s fine,” Steve says, and it is. The touch of solid metal on his skin is grounding; he feels calmer already.
“This used to be a lot easier when you were a coathanger,” Bucky says, yawning.
“Shut up,” Steve says, but he tugs Bucky’s arm closer around him.
They fall asleep like that, Bucky wrapped around Steve.
———
“I think we should get out of here,” Bucky says when they wake up. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, facing away from Steve. His shoulders are tense, almost drawn up to his ears.
“Where?” Steve asks, stilted. He feels like there’s ice creeping down his spine.
“Away,” Bucky says, and he sounds distant. “I’m sick of New York, Steve. Let’s just go.”
Steve sits up, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. “Alright, Buck,” he says. “We’ll go. Anywhere you want.”
“California,” Bucky says after a moment, thoughtful. “It’s hot. Let’s live somewhere hot for a change.”
———
Their plans progress quickly. Bucky’s family aren’t all that happy about him leaving New York, but he promises his mother and sisters that he’ll write often, and it seems to satisfy them.
The apartment’s on a short lease, and Steve and Bucky manage to find new tenants pretty quickly. To make things even easier, the SSR have recently set up shop in Los Angeles, and Steve’s transfer request is quickly approved.
Before they know it, they’re stepping off one of Howard’s planes onto the dry earth of California.
“Was this a crazy idea?” Bucky says, squinting into the sunshine.
“You’ve had worse ones,” Steve replies. Maybe it’s the warm weather, but he has the strangest urge to grab Bucky’s hand. Instead, he tucks his hands in his pockets.
Now Bucky’s looking at Steve, his gaze careful. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Guess I have.”
———
They decide on Malibu: it’s got the California weather without the hustle and bustle of LA.
It’s Bucky who finds them the house: a one-storey ranch home with a veranda, on a quiet street, a stone’s throw from the beach. An oak tree out front casts welcome patches of shade on the lawn.
The sun’s beating down on the two of them as they stand there in the driveway, clutching their cases.
“It’s really nice, Buck,” Steve says, impressed.
“They say Lana Turner’s building a house down the beach,” Bucky says with a small smile. “I was thinking about accidentally bumping into her sometime.”
“Alright, wise guy,” Steve laughs. He bumps their shoulders together. “Let’s go and get settled in.”
———
West Coast life turns out to suit both of them.
Here, Bucky seems different: lighter, somehow. The California sun agrees with him, tanning his skin and picking out highlights in his dark hair. Steve isn’t a fan of the heat, but he has to admit it’s nice to drive along roads flanked by palm trees.
They both sleep better than they ever did in New York.
On long, lazy nights, they sit on their wide veranda, drink mint juleps that won’t get either of them drunk and talk about the old times: Brooklyn, and even the lighter parts of the war, the ones that don’t involve torture and death.
Bucky’s still vague about his career plans, but in the meantime he takes a job managing the accounts for a small food manufacturer. It’s similar to the work he did before the war, and he seems glad to be doing something again.
The SSR have promised Steve some field agent work, and he wishes he was more excited about it. Soldiering, he understands — espionage, not so much.
He tells himself things are better, and almost believes it.
———
The truth: they might be in a new place, but Steve still feels lost, adrift.
He’s been fighting for so long he isn’t sure what else to do with himself. Maybe he's forgotten how to be happy.
———
It’s not until he’s standing in front of an art supplies store that it occurs to him he hasn’t drawn in a couple of years.
His fingers itch with the memory of it, and before he knows it, he’s gone inside and bought a book and some pencils. The materials are basic; he could afford better, but it seems like an unnecessary extravagance to waste money on a hobby.
Afterwards, he goes to the beach and takes a walk. The ocean here is so blue; Steve doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it. He thinks about trying to capture it with paper and pencil, but he’s always been best at faces.
When they were kids, he’d driven Bucky crazy by making him sit still and pose for him while he tried to recreate the images he’d seen in art books.
In Europe, Steve still drew, using a tattered notebook and stub of a pencil that he carried with him across countries and battlefields. Sometimes, he’d sketched landscapes: snow-capped mountains, idyllic farmyards. But more often than not, he found himself drawing Bucky, shading in the lines of his face, the curve of his mouth.
Steve takes his purchases home and spends the evening drawing on the veranda, hunched over the small table and smudging his fingers with graphite. He’s rusty, but after a few attempts, he manages to render a passable likeness of Bucky. The hair isn’t quite right and the smile doesn’t look like Bucky’s, but it’s a start.
———
“Get in here, Rogers,” Bucky calls from the next room.
Steve enters to find Bucky sitting on the couch, brochures spread out all over the coffee table in front of him.
“What’s this?” He frowns.
“Art schools,” Bucky says triumphantly, pointing to his finds.
“This is kind of out of the blue,” Steve says. He settles on the couch next to Bucky and picks up a brochure, flicking through it.
Years ago, they’d talked about scraping up the money for Steve to go to art school in New York, but the war had put paid to that dream. He honestly hasn’t thought about it in ages.
“I beg to differ,” Bucky says. He reaches over the back of the couch for something, and comes up with Steve’s sketchbook in his hands. Steve’s heartbeat skitters; he must have left it out by accident.
If Bucky’s seen the book, then he'll have seen that he’s the subject of most of the drawings. Steve’s face grows hot as he thinks about that.
“Naturally, I’m flattered by all the drawings you did of my ugly mug,” Bucky says easily. “They’re really good — better than they were before, I think.”
“Thanks,” Steve says. His throat is suddenly dry. “Familiar faces are good for profile studies,” he adds, hoping the lie doesn’t come out as ridiculous as it sounds to him.
“That so,” Bucky says quietly, and he smiles. “So, what do you think? And before you say anything about money: you can afford it. The government’s giving money for ex-serviceman if they want to go to college.”
“But I don’t know if I—”
“Tell me one good reason why you shouldn’t,” Bucky says sternly, folding his arms. “Other than the fact you don’t seem to ever let yourself be happy.”
“Bucky that’s not —” Steve starts, then closes his mouth. Infuriatingly, he can’t think of a good enough reason to refute Bucky’s words. “I’ll think about it, okay?”
Bucky’s grin is so smug Steve has to punch him on the arm.
———
That evening, he reaches into the back of his closet and pulls out the shield.
It’s the same as it ever was: red, white, blue and garish. The vibranium is smooth under his fingertips as he touches it. He stares at it for a long moment, then puts it back.
He’s barely thought of it in months. Maybe he doesn’t have to be Captain America anymore.
———
Steve puts together a portfolio of samples, thinking nothing will come of it.
When he gets the acceptance letter from the Chouinard Art Institute in LA, nobody’s more surprised than he is.
“Nice work, Captain Patriotic,” SSR Chief Jack Thompson tells Steve when he gives in his notice. “I never thought you’d make much of a field agent, anyway.”
Steve’s too happy to care about the obvious jibe. At last, he feels like he’s heading in the direction he wants to.
He shrugs. “I’m a soldier,” he says. “But maybe I’ve had enough of fighting.”
———
Steve takes to the academic life like a duck to water.
Nobody on campus seems to show any interest in his previous persona, which is a welcome surprise.
He makes new friends, goes out with them to bars and gallery showings and politely declines their offers to attend political rallies (it’s not that Steve doesn’t agree with their views, but to the American public, he’s still Captain America, and he wants to avoid any headlines in the papers).
Steve tries out different disciplines. He likes sculpture and painting well enough, but he’s always preferred the simplicity of paper and pencil. Graphic arts classes turn out to be a perfect fit for him. He works hard at his craft and soon the effort starts to pay off.
He sells a few pieces, and then a publisher offers him some freelance work creating book covers. It’s piecemeal, but along with Bucky’s job, it brings in enough money to keep them going.
Bucky seems to be doing okay, too; he might be up for a promotion at work if he plays his cards right.
They’re doing the best they can, Steve thinks. If only it felt like enough.
———
Over an uninspiring automat lunch, Bucky says, “You should date.”
“What?” Steve splutters; he nearly spits out his soda.
“Look at this way,” Bucky says, and leans in across the booth. “Two handsome fellas living together, no dames. People are gonna start talking.”
“What’s there to talk about?” Steve says irritably. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. The government recently decided they needed more Captain America blood samples, and Steve’s just spent an hour being poked and prodded by doctors. He’s in no mood for Bucky’s teasing.
“Nothing, I guess,” Bucky says, and there’s something harder in his eyes now. “But the point still stands. You should take a girl out, Steve. Have some fun for a change. Don’t worry about me.”
Bucky’s words press at the sore spot inside Steve, that one that aches sometimes when Bucky looks at him for too long.
“What about you,” Steve forces himself to ask, mouth dry.
“I’m not exactly a catch, these days,” Bucky replies, casual as anything. He gets up. “I’m getting pie. You want a piece?”
“Apple, please,” Steve answers, without really thinking about it. He’d noticed the hard line to Bucky’s mouth as he spoke, the way he’d cast his eyes down rather than look at him.
Bucky comes back and slides a plate of pie over to him. He’s got cherry pie for himself, apple for Steve.
“Thanks,” Steve says. He can smell the sweet, tart apple—it's making his mouth water—but he doesn't make a move to eat it.
Bucky pauses, fork halfway to his mouth, and that’s when Steve realizes he’s staring. He blushes, but Bucky merely looks amused.
“You gonna eat that pie or what, Steve? Otherwise I will.”
Steve laughs, and picks his fork up. “No chance, buddy.”
———
Over the next few weeks, Steve decides to take Bucky at his word and date.
There are no shortage of pretty girls in the area, and it turns out it isn’t hard to garner their interest. At Bucky’s suggestion, Steve takes his dates to movies, out for dinner, for walks on the beach. He manages to make polite conversation and not make an idiot out of himself.
But it never seems to go anywhere. Steve walks or drives the girl back to her place, they get to the goodnight kiss stage and then he freezes up. He can't do it. He ends up stammering an excuse and then beating a hasty retreat, feeling like the worst kind of heel.
“How’d it go, Steve?” Bucky will ask when Steve comes in from another of his unsuccessful outings.
Steve always shrugs and gives a one-word answer, and Bucky makes a sympathetic expression. He could be imagining it, but sometimes he thinks he catches a hint of relief in Bucky’s eyes.
———
“I think you need to learn to dance,” Bucky decides one evening when they’re stretched out on their enormous rug listening to the wireless. “Girls like dancing.”
“If you say so,” Steve grumbles. He pushes himself into a sitting position.
“It’s not that hard, you dummy,” Bucky says. “I’ll teach you. C’mon.” He springs onto his feet and offers Steve a hand.
“What do I do?” Steve says.
“Wait a sec,” Bucky says, fiddling with the radio. He finds a station playing popular swing tunes and then turns back to Steve.
“Okay,” Bucky says, stepping forward. “One hand on my shoulder, one on my back. Not like a death grip — keep it loose.”
Steve complies. He gets an arm around Bucky’s back, feeling faintly ridiculous. “So I’m the dame, then?” he guesses, frowning.
Bucky rolls his eyes. “Does it matter? I’ve gotta lead if I’m the one who knows what he’s doing.”
Steve keeps his eyes on his feet as Bucky takes him through the particulars of a waltz. As he always suspected, he’s not a natural, but Bucky leads confidently. It’s easy to see why so many girls sought him out as their partner back in the dancehalls of Brooklyn.
He thinks he’s just about got the hang of it when Bucky says, “Eyes up here. A girl doesn’t want you looking at her feet.”
“Sorry,” Steve says, and snaps his gaze upwards. Bucky’s smiling. Some of the pomade’s melted off his hair in the heat and a few strands are flopping over his ears. He looks good — relaxed and happy, the way he often was before the war.
“Look in my eyes, then,” Bucky says, starting to steer them around the floor again. “Make me think I’m the prettiest girl in the world.”
Heat rises up Steve’s neck. “Bucky,” he says warningly. “Don’t be stupid.”
“Who said I was being stupid?” Bucky says. His hand is firm and warm at the small of Steve’s back as he pulls him closer. “You’re doing fine,” he adds, his voice sounding strangely hoarse.
Steve stares at a spot over Bucky’s shoulder and tries to concentrate on the movements.
After a while, Bucky concedes that Steve isn’t an entirely hopeless case when it comes to dancing. They decide to leave the jitterbug for another night, and Steve’s glad of that.
He’s not sure he could take any more of Bucky’s teasing, or his hands touching him.
———
That night, Steve wakes up with sweat pouring off his skin and his cock hard against his belly.
When he slips a hand into his shorts and starts to stroke, he’s thinking about the way Bucky had pressed close to him earlier, the easy sureness of his touch.
It doesn’t take long for Steve to come, shaking with want.
In the bathroom, he cleans up then splashes water on his sweaty face. He stares at himself in the mirror; he doesn’t feel any different. Bucky wouldn’t know what he’s just done.
———
Steve had thought leaving New York would solve all their problems.
To some extent, it has: Bucky seems happier with himself than he has in a long time. He’s back to his usual warm, affectionate self.
Steve feels better, too. He just wishes he was free from the constant guilt that haunts him every time he catches himself staring at Bucky.
He’s never kept a secret like this before, and he’s perpetually afraid Bucky will figure it out and realize what he really is. Every time Bucky throws an arm around him or digs him in the side, it raises heat on Steve’s skin, the sort of fire he knows he shouldn’t feel for his best friend.
So he starts to look away from Bucky, pull away from his touch. Bucky looks confused at first, then hurt, but Steve knows it’s the right thing to do. It’s better than trying to pretend Bucky returns his feelings.
———
Weeks later, Steve gets some not-so-good news from Peggy: Zola’s in California.
He’s helping the SSR with a fusion research project, and has been entirely compliant so far, but that doesn’t reassure Steve.
“That snivelling little coward,” Bucky says when Steve tells him. His eyes are cold. “I bet he’s up to something.”
Bucky is hardly objective about the situation, but Steve finds himself wondering if that’s true.
———
Steve lets himself in after an evening with some of his art friends. He’s taking off his coat when he hears a shout in the distance. It came from Bucky’s room.
He pads down the hallway and knocks.
“No, don’t, please,” Bucky says. Steve recoils, shocked, before he realizes Bucky’s still dreaming.
He knocks again, louder.
“Bucky?”
“Steve,” comes the faint reply. “It’s okay.”
Pushing open the door, Steve finds Bucky curled into a ball on the mattress.
“You alright?” he asks, though Bucky clearly isn’t.
Bucky raises his head. “We never talk about it,” he says, bringing his arms up to wrap them around his knees. “Any of it.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Steve admits, a little desperately. He takes a seat on the bed, being careful to give Bucky space.
“I know.” Bucky sighs. “I just wish you’d stop blaming yourself. Anyone else would have left me there to die — or whatever the hell they were gonna do to me.” His breaths are coming sharply, his chest heaving with every word.
“I’m sorry, Buck,” Steve says. He swallows back a sound caught in his throat; it might be a sob. He’s never said it out loud to Bucky before, admitted his failure like this.
Bucky lets go of his knees and then he’s unfolding, moving to take Steve’s hands in his own. He’s inches from Steve’s face now, and Steve can’t help the soft sound that escapes him.
“Don’t say that,” Bucky says, slowly. “Just tell me something. The way you used to look at me — did you mean it?”
And Steve is tired, so tired of pretending not to want this. “Yes,” he says.
Bucky lets out a breath, and it feels like the longest moment of Steve’s life. Then he’s leaning in to kiss Steve, soft and tentative.
“Is this okay?” Bucky murmurs.
“Yeah.” Steve wraps a hand around the back of Bucky’s neck and pulls him back in. This time Bucky groans, opening his mouth a little so Steve’s tongue can slip inside. His lips are warm and the metal hand is cool where it rests on Steve’s cheek; it makes Steve shudder in the best way.
He’s breathing shallow and quick by the time Bucky’s flesh hand slides down his body, fingers pausing at the waistband of Steve’s shorts. But Bucky doesn’t touch him — instead, he shoves Steve onto his back with a hand.
“Bucky, what are you —” Steve says, sitting up on his elbows. Bucky answers by tugging down Steve’s shorts.
Then Steve is incapable of speech, because Bucky’s mouth is on his cock.
He tries to stay quiet, but Bucky’s tongue darts out to lick along his length, warm and wet, and Steve can’t suppress a moan. It’s kind of sloppy at first—Bucky’s saliva dribbling down Steve’s cock, and the occasional scrape of teeth—but once Bucky figures out what to do, it starts to feel good. Insanely good.
It’s not long before Steve comes, hips jerking into Bucky’s mouth. He expects Bucky to pull off, but he licks him through it, swallowing back everything.
When he's done, Bucky climbs back up Steve’s body and grins. “I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” he says hoarsely, and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.
“God,” Steve says, staring at Bucky in wonder: at his sleep-mussed hair and red lips. His hands are as hungry as his eyes — he wants to touch Bucky everywhere, hear what sounds he could draw out of him.
But when Bucky takes Steve’s hand and guides it into his shorts, Steve is stricken by sudden panic.
“What do you want me to do,” he says, uncertain. As good as what Bucky just did to him felt, he feels like the standard’s been set and he can’t possibly live up to that performance.
“Just do it how you do yourself,” Bucky says roughly.
Steve can feel himself going red, but he reaches for Bucky’s cock; it's warm and heavy in his grip.
“Lick your palm,” Bucky instructs, and Steve does, tasting a hint of Bucky, sweat and something sharper. “Not like that.” Bucky’s laughing now. “Wetter.”
He grabs Steve’s hand and draws his tongue over it, a wet, sloppy lick that makes Steve’s cock twitch in his pants even though he’s just come.
Steve’s hand is shaking when he starts to touch Bucky, but Bucky doesn’t seem to mind. He encourages him with quiet moans and sighs, and it doesn’t take long before he’s tensing in Steve’s arms and coming all over his belly and Steve’s fingers. Bucky's got his jaw clenched shut, but a soft noise slips out anyway.
“Steve,” Bucky says afterwards, already moving out of Steve's grasp. “We're alright, aren't we?”
Steve wants to answer, to say yes, but the words won't come out. He lets go of Bucky, then tugs off his undershirt and gives it to him so he can clean up.
“I'll just —” Steve tries. He gets up. “I'll let you sleep.”
Bucky's already rolled onto his side. He gives an exaggerated yawn. “Night, Steve.”
“Night, Bucky,” Steve whispers back.
He goes back to his room, but he doesn't sleep right away. He thinks about the way it felt to have Bucky shaking and coming apart in his arms, and doesn't know if he'll ever forget it.
———
It's still early when Steve wakes up. He yawns, rubbing at his eyes; his broken night of sleep has left him tired.
He finds Bucky in the kitchen, piece of toast in hand.
“There’s coffee,” Bucky says, neutral. He’s looking at his breakfast, not at Steve, and that makes something ache in the pit of Steve's stomach.
“Uh, thanks,” Steve says. Grabbing a mug from the dish rack, he sits down and pours himself some coffee.
They engage in some bland conversation about last night’s baseball game, but it rings false — there’s clearly something hanging in the air between them.
Steve watches Bucky leave for work and wonders why he’d expected anything different.
There’s no time to dwell on it, anyway. He’s got class this morning, and he’s on the way to being late already. Grumpily, he drags himself to the shower, trying not to think about Bucky’s hands, the heat of his mouth.
———
“Do you think Zola’s up to something?” Steve asks Peggy. She’s shopping for a new hat, and he’s taken the opportunity to accost her about his theories.
“How about this one?” she says vaguely, handing him a fuschia creation strewn with fake wildflowers.
“Looks the same as the last one you tried on,” he says, putting it aside. “I’m serious, Peggy. I just have this feeling, like something’s up.”
She turns around and studies him. “I’ve been thinking the same thing,” she admits. “I don’t see much of the man, but from what I hear, he’s almost too co-operative. I just can’t see Johann Schmidt’s right-hand man giving up on his dreams so easily.”
“What do you know?” Steve asks.
Peggy purses her lips. “Well, he shared a cell with Dr Fennhoff, the hypnotist. That man had links with Leviathan—the Soviet deep-science and spy division—and apparently Zola was very interested in what he knew.”
Steve turns the information over in his mind. “Should we talk to Howard?”
“I find wherever Howard Stark is found, trouble seems to follow,” she says, smiling. “Not that it’s his fault. But yes, let’s go and see him.”
———
“Mr Stark is indisposed right now,” Jarvis says delicately, standing in the doorway of Howard’s Malibu mansion.
“Oh, okay," Steve says. “We'll come back.” He turns around to head back to the car, but Peggy shoves in front of him.
“You’d better tell him to get rid of whatever girl he’s entertaining upstairs, because this is important,” she says.
“Very well,” Jarvis says curtly. “Do feel free to take a seat by the pool. Mr Stark will be out directly.” The door slams shut.
“This is why you make a better agent than me,” Steve says admiringly.
She flashes him a pleased smile in return, and they head for the garden at the back.
Steve catches sight of a flamingo scuttling across the lawn and frowns. Howard certainly has bizarre taste.
———
“What?” Howard says, picking his way across the poolside tiles. He’s in a bathrobe, disheveled and wearing an irritable expression.
“We’ve got something to talk to you about,” Steve says.
———
Howard’s connections are numerous, and his contacts in the seedy underbelly of LA prove invaluable in finding out more.
Steve and Peggy discover the address of a warehouse in Pasadena, supposedly unoccupied. It’s listed on the books as SSR, except for the fact there’s no record of it in any of the files. When they look, they find the entry was made by Zola: whatever’s there, it belongs to him. It might only be a hunch, but Steve had learned in the war that hunches weren’t to be ignored. Hydra’s long gone, of course, but he considers it no bad thing to be vigilant.
“We’ll have to get the SSR involved,” Peggy says. “I need to think of a way to get Thompson on side. He’s not going to want to investigate the place without a good reason. We’ll go together.” She nods to Steve. “But we’ll need to prepare first.”
“I’ll see what I’ve got knocking about in the workshop,” Howard says. “I’ve been working on a few new weapons prototypes. Just in case you run into any bad guys.”
———
As it turns out, Steve can’t wait a couple of days.
Maybe there’s no sense to it, but his gut feeling tells him that warehouse is important somehow. He’s sure Zola has to be involved, and they might not have any time to waste.
He dresses in dark clothing and slips out in the dead of night, hoping to go unnoticed. He doesn’t tell Bucky where he’s going. He doesn’t tell anyone, rationalizing that his own hunch isn’t a good enough reason to put other people at risk.
His shield’s too conspicuous, so he doesn’t take it, but he grabs a gun, just in case.
If he can find out some dirt on the man who tortured Bucky, it’ll all be worth it.
———
The warehouse is packed with large wooden boxes. It smells of old rust and soot.
Steve’s eyes widen when he sees the Hydra logo branded onto the box, his worst fear appearing before his eyes. When he looks at the other boxes, they all have the same markings.
He pries open a box with the crowbar he brought and finds it empty. That seems strange. He picks a few more boxes at random and they’re exactly the same; nothing at all inside.
There’s a clank from behind him; he wheels around to find a previously concealed steel door sliding shut.
The lights go out. Steve fumbles for his gun. “Who’s there?” he shouts.
There’s a click, and a strange, sickly smell fills the air. Steve claps a hand over his mouth and holds his breath, but it’s too late: he can taste the gas already.
He’s out cold before he hits the floor.
———
“You fucking idiot,” Bucky says when Steve opens his eyes.
Steve coughs. His head is killing him. He glances around: the room is white, there’s a potted palm in the corner and he’s hooked up to a drip. He’s in the hospital.
“What happened?” he asks.
“You walked straight into a goddamn trap is what happened,” Bucky hisses. He gets to his feet so he can stare down at Steve angrily. “What the hell were you thinking, going in there without backup?”
“You look tired,” Steve says, stubbornly refusing to rise to the bait.
“Yeah, well, you’ve been unconscious for a week,” Bucky says slowly, like the words hurt him. “Some kind of weird nerve agent. I thought you weren’t gonna wake up.”
He’s on the bed now, taking Steve’s hand, being careful not to touch the needle piercing his skin.
“Sorry,” Steve says, pointlessly.
“You can’t do that to me,” Bucky says. He drops Steve’s hand, and Steve immediately registers the absence of Bucky’s touch.
“Do you know what was going on with that warehouse?” Steve asks, changing the subject.
“You’ve missed a lot,” Bucky says, and a shadow passes over his face. He makes for the door. “I’ll get Peggy; she can explain better.”
———
‘Missed a lot’ is an understatement.
Apparently, Hydra isn’t gone at all. They’d already infiltrated the SSR, and were working on getting into the US government itself. Even the actions of Leviathan, a Soviet espionage organisation, can be traced back to Hydra. Finally, the Soviet base in the Alps makes sense: it was a Hydra front.
“There were agents in the SSR, in both the New York and California offices,” Peggy explains, on the edge of his bed. “Americans. We still don’t know how Hydra bought them, but this was part of their new strategy. Infiltration and chaos. Cases we couldn’t solve, evidence that went missing. Zola was at the heart of it all.”
Still reeling from the information, Steve asks, “And the warehouse?”
“Zola set a trap for you,” she says. “Howard thought it best not to tell you at the time, but at the base in the Alps, he found Hydra planned to create a superior assassin. Barnes was the original plan, but then you ruined that by rescuing him. Zola’s new plan was to kidnap you, Steve. It would have been the ultimate insult: America’s symbol of hope turned into Hydra’s weapon.”
Steve accepts this news with a shudder.
“You’ll want to thank Bucky for that,” Peggy says, nodding to where Bucky stands nearby. “He was the one who found you.”
Bucky’s looking out the window; he doesn’t turn around. “I didn’t do all that much,” he says, sounding bashful. “But the metal arm turned out to be pretty useful for beating up bad guys.”
“That it was,” Peggy says. She smiles, and pats Steve’s hand: he thinks he must be wearing a suitably stunned expression right now. “There’ll be time to take it all in, Steve. Right now, you need to rest.”
“Listen to the lady, Steve,” Bucky says. “Carter knows what she’s talking about.” He jerks a thumb at Peggy; she nods at him.
“How do you feel about a job with SHIELD?” Peggy suggests. “Howard and I feel that in the wake of all these security problems, we need a new agency. One filled with people we can trust.”
At that, Bucky turns around. “I’ll think about it,” he says, a half-smile on his lips.
Steve’s just so tired. He lets his head fall back to the pillow, his eyes already slipping shut.
———
It’s the middle of the night when Steve wakes to his hospital mattress dipping on one side.
Warm fingers are pressed to his wrist. It’s Bucky: he can see the shape of him looming out of the darkness, hear his breath.
“Sorry I woke you up,” Bucky murmurs. “Just had to know you were here. I went to sleep in that chair, had a bad dream. Woke up thinking you were dead.”
“I wasn’t,” Steve says, the words faint. His head’s still fuzzy, but the cotton-wool inside is gradually starting to clear.
“I thought you were, Steve,” Bucky says, face ashen. His grip tightens on Steve’s wrist. “When I found you, you were so cold. I thought —”
Steve shifts, raising himself up off the pillows. “Didn’t mean to scare you,” he says. It feels like there’s something caught in his throat.
Bucky wraps an arm around Steve and pulls him into his side. “Is that what it felt like for you,” he says, the words coming out stilted, “when I fell.”
“Every day,” Steve says. Bucky’s nose is pressed into Steve’s neck, his breath warming the skin there.
The blinds are drawn. Nobody’s coming in.
“Let’s just stay like this for a bit,” Bucky says, soft.
“Yeah,” Steve agrees. He turns his head and burrows into Bucky’s warmth.
Right now, there’s nothing that matters more than this: the two of them together, alive.
———
The impact of Hydra’s sabotage is far-reaching. There are investigations of the SSR, witch-hunts in the press. Senatorial committees are set up to oversee the creation of a new intelligence apparatus.
The latter turns out to be fortuitous for Peggy. She gets the approval to form SHIELD, and with it, the remit to make the world a better place.
Steve can’t think of anyone who’d do a better job of that than her.
———
Gradually, things go back to normal — as normal as anything can be in Steve’s world, anyway.
Bucky starts his training for SHIELD. He passes the initial assessments with flying colors, and he’s working towards gaining field agent status. He seems happy, anyway, and that’s the most important thing to Steve.
At the same time, Steve finishes a few cover art commissions, so they both go out to celebrate. There’s a new jazz club downtown, a classy joint with soft lighting and great music. It’s the kind of place they’d never have dreamed of visiting before the war.
Despite the dancing lessons, Steve manages to step on the feet of all the women who have the misfortune of being his partner. After a few dances, he gives up in favor of drinking at the bar.
He can’t help but watch Bucky as he dances: his cheeks red from the exertion of movement, his eyes and smile bright as he whirls various girls around the floor. Bucky’s beautiful like that, in his element.
But when Bucky looks at Steve over his partner’s shoulder, his eyes are dark — dark enough that Steve has to look away.
At least Bucky doesn’t go home with any of them. That’s something.
———
The evening air is warm when they stumble out of the club. It’s late, almost morning.
They take a shortcut home, down a side street. There’s not a soul out here, no sound except for the clicking of cicadas.
The quiet makes Steve reckless. Before he knows it, he’s reaching for Bucky’s hand.
Bucky doesn’t say anything at first, but he curls his fingers into Steve’s palm. “I didn’t think you remembered,” he says at last, very quietly.
“Was it real, Buck?” Steve asks. He’s aware how needy and pathetic he sounds, but he has to know, one way or another.
Bucky stares at him. Framed against the glow of the streetlight, half his face is in shadow. Steve doesn’t know what he’s thinking.
And then he’s walking Steve backwards into the brickwork, kissing him like his life depends on it. Bucky’s stubble is rough on Steve’s skin and his mouth is hot and wet; Steve’s already hard by the time they come up for air. He watches Bucky’s eyes dart around, fearful.
“Not here,” Bucky says, voice low. He pulls his hand away from Steve’s slowly, like it takes great effort.
———
Later, Steve won’t remember the walk home. It passes like a dream, every nerve under his skin humming with anticipation.
Once they’re inside, Bucky’s on him, kissing him desperately, one hand on Steve’s back and the other in his hair. He tastes of bourbon when Steve licks into his mouth, biting at his lip.
They trip over the sofa and laugh. Somehow, they find their way to Steve’s bedroom, landing on the rumpled blankets on his bed.
Bucky’s sitting on the end of the bed, his shirt half-unbuttoned when he notices Steve staring.
“Something you like?” he ventures, a funny grin on his face.
“Always,” Steve says wetly. His heart feels like it's about to beat out of his chest. Before he can think about what he's doing, he’s reaching for Bucky’s belt buckle, unfastening his belt and kneeling at his feet. His palms are sweating when he presses them to Bucky’s thighs.
“Steve,” Bucky rasps out, “you don’t —” and then he stops, because Steve’s taken him into his mouth.
Steve licks at the underside of Bucky’s cock, slowly at first. He hasn’t the faintest idea what he’s doing but he breathes through his nose and sucks, and Bucky makes this strangled noise that goes straight to Steve’s neglected cock.
The fingers of Bucky’s flesh hand find his jaw, stroking at his cheek where it hollows out. Steve keeps going, reaching a hand up to grip him at the base.
Then Bucky hisses out a slow breath and comes in Steve’s mouth, a bitter flood on his tongue. Steve swallows what he can and wipes a hand over his mouth to deal with the rest.
“You look pretty pleased with yourself,” Bucky says, laughing.
“Shouldn’t I be,” Steve says, smiling as he gets to his feet.
Bucky takes Steve by the shoulders and pushes him down onto the bed. Then he's leaning over Steve, undoing his pants and sliding them down his hips slowly.
Steve raises himself up on his arms; he has just enough time to catch his breath before Bucky puts his mouth to his cock.
“Bucky,” Steve says, low. Christ, it's hot, and Bucky's swallowing him down deeper — “God, Bucky —”
Bucky laughs around him, and Steve can feel that; he groans.
He doesn’t last long after that. He comes with one hand in Bucky's hair and the other clutching the sheets, shaking as he spills himself down Bucky's throat.
———
They’re on the bed. Steve is lying with his head on Bucky’s stomach while Bucky strokes at his hair.
“I didn’t know you wanted this,” Steve forces himself to say — he doesn’t want to shatter the peace, but he’s got to know if Bucky’s serious or not.
“I did,” Bucky says, a sober note in his voice. “I do. But I wanted you to be happy.”
Steve rolls onto his side, gets up on his elbows so he can look Bucky in the eye. “I wouldn’t be happy, Buck,” he says, the words coming out slowly. “Not without you.”
Bucky’s answering smile is so bright it makes something in Steve’s chest seize up.
“Tell me it’s not wrong, Steve,” he says. “The way I feel about you.”
For the first time in his life, Steve has to agree. He twists around and stretches up to kiss Bucky, letting him feel all the joy that’s bubbling up inside him.
“It’s not,” Steve says, and tries to mean it.
———
By the time Steve wakes up, it’s the afternoon.
There’s a note on the bedside table:
At work. Broad Beach, 8pm.
A smile plays across his face as he reads it.
———
Following Bucky’s cryptic note, Steve heads for the beach. The sun's setting, orange and pink over the surface of the water — it's beautiful, and would normally hold his full attention if he didn't have something better to look at.
Bucky’s standing there in shorts, holding a surf board, his hair wet and curling behind his ears. It’s an equally arresting and odd sight.
Steve blinks in surprise. “Since when did you learn to surf?” he says.
“I’ve been doing it for months,” Bucky says. “Some of the guys at my old job had a club. The arm did get me a few weird looks at first, but I think everyone up and down Broad Beach is used to the metal-armed surfer by now.”
“Oh,” Steve says. “I didn’t realize.”
“What did you think I was doing while you were out with all your art school buddies?”
“I dunno,” Steve admits, feeling a little foolish.
“Maybe I wasn’t dating,” Bucky says, waving a hand for emphasis, “but I wasn’t exactly sitting at home pining like a wallflower. You’re not the only one with a life, you know.”
“Point taken,” Steve says, and Bucky grins.
“Strip, then.”
Steve obliges by unbuttoning his shirt. The early evening sun is warm on his skin, and this stretch of the beach is deserted. He gets down to his shorts and leaves the rest of his clothes on the sand.
“C’mon, I’ll show you how,” Bucky says, taking Steve by the elbow and tugging him towards the water.
“I’ve never surfed,” Steve protests, but he’s laughing already, caught up in Bucky’s enthusiasm.
“You can’t be any worse than you are at dancing,” Bucky tells him.
“Shut up,” Steve says, and Bucky shoves him. A wave comes in, breaking over their feet; the sudden shock of cold seawater makes them both shiver.
“I meant it last night, Steve,” Bucky says, meeting his gaze. “All of it. It wasn’t a one-off.”
“It wasn’t?” Steve says. His heart’s beating like he’s just run a mile.
“I’ve wanted this since we were playing stickball on the schoolyard,” Bucky says, still looking at Steve. “You know all that mawkish stuff people say: you’re it for me, the only one, all that nonsense. That’s you, Steve.”
Steve is too stunned to say anything at first.
“Sap,” he says once he recovers enough brainpower to speak. “You’re it for me, too. If that helps.” He reaches out, puts a hand on Bucky’s shoulder.
Bucky turns his head, and then he’s kissing Steve, his mouth warm and his metal palm pressed flat to Steve’s chest.
“It won’t be easy,” Steve says against Bucky’s mouth. “I’m not sure the world’s ever gonna be ready for queer Captain America.”
“Look, pal,” Bucky says, very deliberately. “We’ve survived a world war, Hydra kidnappings and medical experiments. I think we’ve earned a little something just for ourselves.”
“I guess you’re right,” Steve says. He’s grinning when he picks up the surfboard and grabs Bucky’s hand. “Let’s do this.”