Chapter Text
“I don’t want to die like this .”
The plane, again. The cold, again. Drowning, again.
Steve bangs on the glass, shouting into the dark water, begging the universe for help. The water pours in through the cracks, swallows him whole, and even as the cold steals the breath from his lungs, the weak plea slips from his lips.
“I don’t want to die. Please.”
The last of the lights on the dashboard blink out, and Steve closes his eyes, waiting for the cold to take him; before he can let go, a light blossoms behind his eyelids, tinging the darkness an eerie red. When he opens his eyes, it’s to a cabin bathed in blue light, not cold and frightening like the light Hydra used to destroy its enemies, but a soft blue, one that illuminates the water naturally.
He came back.
Blue eyes - grey-blue, as beautiful as they were on the dance floor - stare at Steve as he drifts in the freezing water, and red lips part to reveal a dazzling smile of pearl-white teeth.
A hand reaches out to him, cutting through the darkness, and Steve reaches back, disbelieving that the nightmare is over, and a promise whispered through tons of glass and metal was real. Their fingers meet, slip, and then catch, and with an unnatural strength, the figure behind the glass pulls Steve free into open water -
-When Steve sits up in his bed at 4:30 a.m. on Imbolc, his cheeks are stained with tears. For once, he doesn’t push them when until his feet are firmly planted on the floor, and instead lets them run their course, not knowing why an imagined savior with the eyes of the most familiar stranger he’s ever met could affect him so much.
Jarvis doesn’t chime in without invitation at his Brooklyn apartment, where he’d ended up after last night’s festivities, so no one’s there to ask him why he’s crying and staring out the east-facing window of his bedroom. The apartment is dark - uncomfortably close to the darkness of his dream - and Steve walks through it as though a guest in his own home. He can’t be more than three miles from where he grew up, but the Brooklyn of 2014 even sounds different in the early hours of the morning. There’s no comfort for him here, and the unsettling itch, the one that’s plagued him since he emerged from the ice that had imprisoned him for decades, reemerges in full force, signaling to his body that it’s time to move.
The sun is nowhere near the horizon when Steve laces up his shoes and heads out into the city. Brooklyn hums with an undercurrent in the soft, purple light of pre-dawn, and Steve heads through the market being set up along Van Brunt. He ducks his head as he passes Maggie’s stall - it’s not that he doesn’t want to say hello to the old woman, it’s that he’ll have to have a full conversation with the witch if he so much as waves at her.
Maggie remembers when Steve was small, is the problem. She was six when he went off to fight, is the problem. Her old brother, Tom, fought on the front lines with Steve, is the problem.
Maggie’s mother, Saorise, another witch, had the gift of foresight, a gift she’d passed on to her daughter. Tom did not, which is why he didn’t see the bullet coming until it caught him in the gut, and Steve had caught him in his arms as he choked and stumbled backwards. It happened five years ago and seventy years ago all at once, and Steve doesn’t like the way Maggie talks to him sometimes: it’s not like she blames him for her brother’s death, not at all, but like she likes to make odd comments about how much more life Steve has left, and his destiny as a savior, of the sacrifices he still has to make.
It makes him feel a little creeped out, so yeah, he avoids cute, little, octogenarian Maggie Riley, with her iron grey curling hair and twinkling eyes, who married a kid from the block and lived her life in the right order but has been cursed with seeing it a little before everyone else.
Steve makes it down the market without being spotted, and he lets his stride increase as he heads when he hits Prospect Park. He startles a few pigeons from their rest in the softening grey of the morning, and he grins despite the itch under his skin, the feeling in his gut that something is about to happen. He makes it through the park in record time and careens towards Ocean Parkway,
After a rousing argument with Fury - a seer who could learn a thing or two from Maggie Riley - Steve was forbidden from running down official highways, no matter how thrilling it was to race cars, so he sticks to the side streets as he winds his way south through a waking Brooklyn.
His lungs are beginning to burn in the cold air, and the itch is subsiding into an all too familiar ache as he spies the sky blossoming with pinks and purples, and the wind sharpens and grows heavy with salt as he approaches the water.
It’s when he hits Brighton Beach that he lets his feet stumble to a halt, and his breath is joyously ragged as he bends, hands on his knees, to suck in another harsh breath, filling his lungs with salted air that comes in strong off the sea.
The beach is abandoned at this time of day, even the more avid runners avoiding the brine and wind in favor of the paved streets and quiet parks he’s left behind him. Steve collapses in the sand, dragging the heels of his hands across his tired eyes, trying to leave the grit and ghosts of his dreams behind him, and the sound of the ocean offers him a tense sort of relief. He won’t touch the waves (hasn’t been in open water since the plane buried him below the surface for nearly seventy years), but instinctively recognizes the waves crashing as the lullaby that had helped soothe him as he waited in suspended agony.
Trying to force his thoughts to calm, Steve hangs his head between his knees and waits for the sun to rise fully before he returns to an empty apartment that only offers a little more light in the daytime.
For a long time, the only sounds are the waves, and the gulls, and his own already slowed breaths, but a faint splash registers in his mind, cutting through his attempts to clear it. Assuming it’s a leaping fish or plunging bird, Steve doesn’t lift his head, but he soon hears something moving through the sand, almost too quiet to be footsteps.
He looks up when he senses someone standing over him, and immediately he startles, his eyes widening in surprise as he races to get to his feet.
The man from last night, his mysterious dance partner, stands there in the early morning light, his thick, dark hair weighed down by salt water which runs in rivulets along his sharp jaw and elegant neck; it settles into his shirt, staining it until it’s translucent, and Steve’s throat goes dry at the way the material clings to his muscular torso.
It takes him a second to realize it, but he notices before he’s stumbled all the way upright: the man is dressed in the same tight-fitting pair of pants from the party, and his shirt is the same as well. He’s missing the well-tailored suit jacket, but it’s clear that he never went home to change after the festivities.
“Good morning,” Steve says, his brain on auto-pilot and relying on the manners Sarah Rogers had drilled into him at a young age. “How are you?”
The beautiful man stares at him, eyes mournful again, his expression one torn between agony and common frustration. He opens his mouth, but only makes an irritated noise, and he throws an arm out from his lithe body demonstratively. Steve’s eyes catch on the dark, sleek coat he’d handed to him the night before; it’s now draped over the man’s arm, but when Steve looks at it, the man’s expression shifts from irritated to frightened, a fear that needs no translation written clearly on his face.
Steve holds his hand out and smiles nervously, wanting to relay his lack-of-threat to the man, and when he smiles, the man shifts his stance in the sand, his eyes softening, before smiles back.
It’s dazzling, and Steve’s shocked at how well it matches the smile he’d seen in his dream last night - it has to be a coincidence, or his brain searching for a connection where none exists.
When the sun breaks past the thin layer of clouds on the horizon, the other man turns and scowls at it, huffing irately before glancing at Steve through lowered lashes. He lifts an eyebrow, clearly waiting for Steve to say something, and he clears his throat if only to shake his heart loose - if they found each other on this beach on Imbolc of all days, he shouldn’t ignore the coincidence.
“Wanna grab breakfast?” No response, not even a nod or a grimace. Steve winces and tries again, hoping that he was misunderstood and the idea of getting a meal with him wasn’t simply met with stony faced apathy: “Would you like to get something to eat?”
He pantomimes eating something, feeling foolish about it half a second later, but the man’s expression brightens even more before he nods, a shy and tentative movement.
“Alright.” Steve holds his hand out. “I’m Steve Rogers, by the way.”
The man stares at him, something like amusement in his eyes, as his head cocks to the side. It looks as though he already knows this, and the idea strikes Steve like lightning. Of course he already knows this. He’s --
“Right. Captain America.” He huffs a self-deprecating laugh. “Guess that’s pretty obvious, huh?”
A soft noise, almost a croon, escapes the man’s pretty mouth (and the fact that he’s thinking of this man’s mouth as pretty speaks for itself, and yeah, maybe the idea of getting food with him is a little too enticing because not only would they spend more time together, Steve might also have the chance to fondue or whatever the fuck it is kids are calling it these days), and Steve realizes the man isn’t going to take his hand anytime soon.
“Uh.” He pulls his hand away and puts it awkwardly on his hip for something to do with it. “What’s your name?”
The man stares at the sea for a long time, hissing under his breath with a scowl, and Steve’s about to apologize when he turns to face him again, an impossible grief in his eyes.
“You don’t have to tell me.” Steve shrugs and smiles hesitantly. “If you’re - if you’re worried about something?”
Pierce could be involved in something horrifying, maybe the man is afraid of legal repercussions, or is under deep cover, and Steve has a strong sense that the man is half a second away from startling and disappearing forever.
But, the other man steels himself and stands up straight before holding a hand over his heart. “Buadhach,” he says in a hoarse voice, and it all starts to fall into place.
Steve feels the ground give way beneath him - and it could be that he’s a grandchild, or a distant relative who bears the same name, but not with those eyes, those eyes couldn’t happen more than once in a millenia, could they?
“Buadhach?” He whispers, taking an involuntary step forward. “What - I - I had a friend with that name.”
The man - Buadhach - stares at him pleadingly, eyes wide, his lower lip trembling with some powerful emotion, and he doesn’t flinch away from Steve’s hand when he raises it to his face, but he holds off from touching him all the same.
“But that was 1936,” Steve continues, his voice as hoarse as Buadhach’s now, but from shock and not disuse. “That was eighty years ago. That can’t be -”
Buadhach sighs, and Steve’s shock intensifies when he tilts his head right into Steve’s outstretched hand; he rubs his face against his palm not unlike a cat, before leaning his cheek into Steve’s hand and staring up at him with a mixture of fear and hope.
“Buadhach,” Steve repeats. “But the night we met, I called you-”
“Bucky,” Buadhach whispers, and it’s like a punch to the gut.
January 15, 1936
Steve shivered because there was nothing left to do. His mother was beyond reach, swallowed whole by the earth she’d cared for so intensely in her thirty-eight years. No one was left for him to talk to; the priest had returned to his parish, his mother’s family in Ireland had cast her out years ago, and he didn’t have a friend in the world.
The sea churned beneath the trembling wood of the dock, and Steve’s misery wrapped around him like a blanket, blocking him from fully noticing the freezing air and spray that bit at his ankles while his legs dangled off the side of the dock. He sniffed once, then twice, using his thin, blistered hand to wipe his too big nose.
All the tears he would shed today were gone, vanished into the ocean, which had stood as an impassive judge to his grief.
Without warning, someone sat next to him on the dock; when Steve looked over at him, mouth open and ready to shout, ready to curse at whoeve had dared to interrupt his misery, he choked on whatever words he would have used.
The person who’d sat next to him was the most beautiful person he’d ever seen - a thought he best keep to himself, Steve realized.
But, the man’s eyes - the most spectacular shade of blue he’d ever seen, in his dully colored world - skimmed over Steve with unguarded interest, which brought much needed heat to Steve’s chest and core.
“Hello.” Steve held his hand out with a weak smile. “I’m Steve Rogers.”
The man didn’t take his hand - merely stared at it in confusion - but smiled back at him, a smile even brighter than his eyes, brighter than the sun that hung low in the horizon.
“Steve Rogers,” he repeated. “Buadhach.”
“Buadhach?” Steve smiled with more strength now. “Victorious.” He laughed, a little bitterly, and stared over the man’s shoulder towards the open sea. “Coulda used a little victory earlier this week.”
“ You are sad ,” Buadhach noted in oddly accented Gaelic, and Steve started at the use of his mother’s tongue. “ Why are you sad, Steve Rogers ?”
“ My mother is dead, ” Steve answered in Gaelic, throat tight as he said the words. Words had power, after all, and giving life to those words meant his mother was even farther away from life than before. “ She is dead, and she - I am alone .”
He ducked his head, ashamed to be mourning the loss of his mother for the sake of her company, but Buadhach tucked his cool, soft fingers under Steve’s chin and lifted it.
“ You are not alone, ” Buadhach murmured, words more like song in his voice. “ You called me here. ”
Steve frowned, assuming that he was mistranslating Buadhach’s intended statement; he couldn’t frown for long, wanting to see the smile return to the man’s face even here on the worst day of his life.
“I guess I’m not alone right now,” Steve muttered before sighing and pulling away from Buadhach reluctantly. He looked over his shoulder nervously to see if anyone had seen them leaning into each other - a brawl sounded tempting but perhaps it wasn’t the best choice right after burying his mother - before he turned back to Buadhach.
“Hey - why are you all wet?” Steve asked, suddenly concerned for the other man; it was freezing outside, and seawater was dripping from his hair and pooling under him on the dock.
Buadhach shrugged before standing gracefully, folding a sleek coat over his arm. “ Come with me, Steve Rogers, ” he said in that same musical Gaelic, “ Show me where you live. ”
“Uh.” Steve’s jaw dropped - he’d never been so openly propositioned before, but he supposed at the very least he could get this man’s life story to distract himself from the grief yawning wide in his chest. “Yeah. Sure. Uh. This way?”
He stood, staggering slightly, and Buadhach caught him, his strong arms bracing Steve with an alluring sense of security.
“ Like a pup, ” Buadhach laughed, wrapping an arm around Steve’s shoulders. “ I will help you. ”
“I don’t need anyone’s help,” Steve grumbled, shoving only half-heartedly at Buadhach’s arm. They walked up the dock towards land, and Steve hummed to himself. “Say, Buadhach, are you hungry?”
Buadhach hummed, and Steve took that to be a yes.
“Let’s see what we can do about that,” Steve said, mostly to himself. “And we can get you dry, too. You don’t wanna walk around like that Buadhach, you’ll get sick.”
Buadhach only laughed again, and when Steve looked up at his new friend in the dying rays of sunlight, he swallowed at the sight of the long, clean lines of his throat, prettier than a picture, and hopefully, not off-limits for long.
“ You are funny, Steve Rogers, ” Buadhach said happily.
“And you’re an odd guy yourself, Buadhach,” Steve countered, steering Buadhach through the more crowded part of the docks. “That’s a tough one though - was never practicing my Gaelic like I shoulda - how ‘bout I call you Bucky?”
“Bucky,” Buadhach repeated, tasting the word for himself. When Steve glanced at him over his shoulder, he saw a broad smile on the man’s face. “I like it.”
With an inexplicable grin on his own face, Steve continued to guide Buadhach, now Bucky, through the market and towards the small apartment he used to share with his mother, the apartment that would hopefully have another occupant for at least another night.
Imbolc 2014
Steve doesn’t have a doubt now: it is the same man - eighty years later, and like Steve, he hasn’t been aged by the past century.
“How is that possible?” He asks, heart pounding now. “How can you be the same man?”
Bucky snorts and lifts his eyebrow, gesturing at Steve. He doesn’t say a word, in Gaelic, or English, or Russian, but his expression speaks for itself.
I could say the same thing about you, pal.
“Fair enough,” Steve mutters, and Bucky laughs, a rusted but beautiful sound.
Steve doesn’t think he’s imagining that while Bucky doesn’t look noticeably older, he does look tired, and scared, and he remembers how they even met in the first place last night.
“Why didn’t you say something at the party?” Steve asks, and Bucky’s expression shutters. “And why are you with Pierce?”
Bucky spits into the sand, a sour look on his handsome face, and Steve has a very strong feeling that whatever answer he might get to that second question might inspire him to react a little violently, that is to say, snapping the Secretary’s neck.
“We can talk about that later.” Steve holds his hand out again until Bucky takes it, his movements tentative and slightly fearful. “Let’s - let’s get you somewhere so you can dry off, huh?’
Bucky laughs again, the sound looser this time, and he’s still giggling as they walk off the beach and start heading north.
“It’s a bit of a far walk,” Steve apologizes. “I, uh, got carried away running this morning. I’m a little more...y’know, since the last time you saw me.”
He’s met with a confused look, and he gestures with his free hand at his much larger, much more muscular body. “I - got some, er, help. So I could go fight. Wasn’t always this handsome, remember?”
Bucky glowers at that, his grip tightening around Steve’s hand, and he opens his beautiful mouth, clearly to give an opinion quite strongly.
A second later, Bucky’s pulling Steve hard, away from the curb of the sidewalk, panic in his eyes.
“Whoa!” Steve stumbles as Bucky pulls him for the nearest building. “What’s-”
A black SUV drives towards them with the sort of speed that shouldn’t be allowed at 6:30 in the morning, and especially not a sleepy, narrow street. Bucky keeps tugging on Steve’s hand, his breathing audibly shifting towards hyperventilation, and Steve steps in front of Bucky like a shield.
“Do you know them?” Steve asks, not looking over his shoulder to confirm Bucky’s still at his six; the back window of the SUV rolls down, and a gun emerges, and Steve realizes that there are much more important questions that need to be answered. “Get down!”
He pushes Bucky to the sidewalk, ignoring his mild squawk of indignation, and runs for the SUV.
“Steve!” Bucky shouts, panic lacing his voice.
Steve runs in a zig-zag, sprinting at the SUV, and before the would-be shooter gets a chance to lock on him, he leaps and punches the front of the SUV, sending it over his head in a horrific arc.
It slams into the street behind him - Steve ignores the throbbing of broken bones in his hand - and he doesn’t give whoever’s in there a chance to get out and start shooting. If he were by himself, he’d rip the door off the hinges and pull out the driver to shake him down, but he can see Bucky in his periphery, shouting himself even more hoarse, and the fear in his voice causes him to make a very different choice than normal.
“We’re getting out of here,” Steve decides, running for Bucky. He grabs him by the hand and tugs him towards an alley. “Run.”
“Gods, you’re still a fucking idiot!” Bucky shouts as they run, and Steve laughs and laughs and laughs because of course that would be Bucky’s first full sentence to him since the thirties.
“You bet,” Steve agrees.
And even though they’re running for their lives, even though Steve hasn’t even had breakfast yet and people are shooting at him, even though he’s got a very bad feeling that whoever that was back there wants something from the man running at his side, Steve realizes this is probably the happiest he’s been since he woke up from the ice.