Archive of Our Own ^beta

Bucky didn’t remember much before Hydra, leading him to wonder just how much of him was human and how much was their echo.

His therapist had said they’d created the Winter Soldier from the husk of the naïve kid who dreamed about soulmates. He wasn’t sure that was the case, though. Because at some point, hadn’t he chosen to comply?

And even though he’d scrubbed his hands a thousand times, the blood still stained the creases around his callouses where he’d held his gun. Atonement—that word seemed important—a driving force for why he’d changed his ways. A monster hunting monsters. It was the least he could do.

The desire for redemption—the need to make sense of it—had led him to accept the offer to join the Avengers and move into Tony’s tower. A group of misfits—people with their own demons banding together. And surprisingly, it worked better than he imagined it could.

And despite Hydra having stripped his social skills, leaving him with what Tony called his Murder Stare, they all managed to become friends, sharing details about their lives, though Bucky didn’t have much to share about life before Hydra. Those memories were more like smoke slipping through his grasp.

He’d learned that Natasha and Clint were platonic soulmates, while Pepper and Tony were not just romantic soulmates but a dynamic force to be reckoned with. Both incredibly stubborn and hot-headed at times, and anyone who would try to tell you they weren’t—well, they didn’t have a clue.

As for Bruce, he was a mystery to him, though maybe because Bucky wasn’t one to pry. The others had offered details freely, while the quiet scientist had always excused himself when the conversation turned to soul bonds.

And Thor’s race didn’t have soulmates—or so he said—something that seemed to make them all a little wary.

Which left Bucky—the ex-Hydra weapon—the man without a soul. Or so he thought. Though if he did have one by some miracle, he imagined it was in tatters, stained and charred by his sins. Because even if he’d been guided by Hydra’s hand, he had still been the last face so many people had seen.

No—soulmates weren’t for him. The universe needed to be better than making that mistake. Because even though murderers and criminals had to end up with someone, he was so much worse than them.

Besides, if he’d ever had a soulmate, it would have been a lifetime ago—back when the dance halls were filled with music and Bucky’s feet still knew how to dance. Now the gunshots were too loud for him to hear the beat, the armor too heavy to let his body move. The man—boy—who’d courted every guy and gal had died long ago, and so had any soulmate tied to him.

It was for the better, he told himself at night. He’d been the Soldier longer than the boy from Brooklyn. He’d learned to survive alone a long time ago.

But sometimes, things didn’t go as planned, and for better or worse, what you deserved wasn’t always what you got. And, fuck, did Bucky never see it coming.

How long had he pushed the niggling tug in his mind away, not wanting to chase the thread?

Maybe he’d always known how easy it could all unravel, which only worsened his sins when it did.

They’d been on the way back from the field, dealing with some stragglers from an earlier mission. Only he, Clint, and Natasha were on this run. Everything should have been easy, but then shit happened, and Bucky got caught in an explosion. His shoulder got dislocated, but he popped it back in—also getting a gnarly gash to his right forearm. Nothing he couldn’t handle—nothing his Hydra training couldn’t get him through so he could complete the objective.

And all said and done, they’d stumbled back into the jet, Natasha fairing better than him and Clint, and headed home. And it should have been smooth sailing, debriefings and showers, a pile of junk food, and maybe running one-off, but then Clint slumped into his seat, eyeing Bucky’s arm with a wrinkled brow before saying, “How are you not crying like a bitch right now? Like, yeah, I know, Winter Soldier, I get it, but for real, dude, your arm looks like a can of busted biscuits right now.”

Bucky stiffened, the nebulous thing in his mind hard to ignore. It was always more substantial like this when he was injured, sort of pulling his pain away—almost like he was able to separate himself from it. Always Hydra’s best pupil. Probably the only good thing he learned from them was pain control.

“It’s nothing,” Bucky grunted, shoving Clint’s leg off his lap from where he’d tried using Bucky to stretch out. “Don’t even feel it.”

And he didn’t. All he felt was warmth—maybe the swelling—the way it throbbed—but not in a painful way. He could feel the tug and pull, the pressure, but the pain was dull, not really even there. More like an afterimage from looking at the sun.

“Honestly, man, it’s not natural,” Clint huffed, tossing his legs back over Bucky despite his protests. “I know you’re pumped full of super juice, but shit, your arm is flayed, man.”

“Do you ever shut up?”

Clint snorted, dropping his head to thump against the padded rest. “Whatever, dude, but if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were shucking that pain off on some poor fuck unlucky enough to be bonded to you.”

A little tendril of something Bucky didn’t like slithered through his mind, sending a shiver up his spine. He’d be a liar if he didn’t admit to having wondered once or twice if someone was still out there, but he’d always told himself it didn’t matter—as they were likely in a nursing home or would be soon. “I think I’d know.”

“If you were pushing out your pain?” Clint asked, peeking out one eye at him, then shrugging. “I mean, I’ve known you for a few years and never seen you wince. It just seems a little weird, you know? Maybe Hydra trained you to do a little more than fight, is all I’m saying.”

Something heavy settled in his stomach, making saliva pool in his mouth, nausea twisting his gut at what Clint was implying. He swallowed a few times, considering, thinking, fearing.

Fear wasn’t something he often felt outside of worrying for his teammates—and right now, it burned cold against his heart. As even though part of him wanted to look away, he could still see the truth in his mind—the truth maybe he’d always been afraid of.

“Hey, you all right?” Clint nudged his arm. “I was just kidding—didn’t mean anything. Just talking out of my ass like usual.”

Bucky glanced at him, brows pinched together, chewing his cheek. “I—I don’t know.”

And that was the truth. Because the more he let the thought turn around in his mind, the more it made sense, even if he didn’t want to believe it. He’d thought Hydra had stolen his soul, but what if they’d done something so much worse, and for how long had he been complacent?

His eyes fell to his right shoulder, swollen from where it had been dislocated, tacky blood coating his forearm from the healing gash. How often had he used his Hydra training to push aside his pain? How often had he thought he was using his willpower when he might have been forcing his soulmate to bear it instead?

Sharing pain wasn’t done without consent unless you were a monster. It could be a beautiful thing used to bond with each other—like sharing the pain of childbirth, or bittersweet, easing the suffering of a dying mate. But what Bucky had done—oh, god, what had he done?

Needing to know, he tried to reach for the place inside him—the one Hydra taught him to push his pain—and feel for anything real, human. And for a moment, he only found emptiness and thought he’d not been someone’s nightmare, but then felt the twinge of warmth—and he couldn’t put it into words, but it felt alive. Swirling and emotional and bright like the sun. A soul. His soulmate.

Horror washed over him as he choked on his breath, Clint sitting up beside him, his voice drifting in, telling him to breathe. But all Bucky could picture was some innocent person out there, damned to share his soul, suffering for him—because of him.

Because no matter how hard he tried to reshape himself, it seemed he would always be a monster, the weapon, the fool, that Hydra made him. How many times had his handlers laughed at his soulmate’s expense?

Desperately, sick with himself, he tried to break the connection in his mind, stop whatever he was doing, but it was too ingrained—like second nature.

Panting, his gaze went to his wounds again, hating that they were numb, making part of him instinctively want to tear at them deeper until he felt something, but he knew that would only hurt his soulmate more. What a joke his dreams of redemption had been.

“Shit,” he cursed, getting to his feet, shoving Clint’s legs to the floor, causing the man to shout, but Bucky wasn’t listening. The only thing on his mind was finding a way to stop his pain, or the pain he should be feeling. He tried to think back to what he knew about soulmates and their connections, an idea hitting him a moment later.

You need to consciously push the pain through the bond, so if he wasn’t conscious, the pain wouldn’t be able to go anywhere. He just needed to knock himself out then.

Eyes searching the space, he saw the medkit and darted over, Clint on his heels, keeping up a constant stream of worrying questions. Of course, he couldn’t blame him for the concern, it wasn’t like he was known for showing much emotion, and in the last ten minutes, Bucky was pretty sure he’d just cycled through everything from agony to horror to desperation.

“Just shut the fuck up for a minute! Alright?” Bucky snapped, fumbling with the kit.

Then a second later, Natasha’s voice carried from the cockpit. “Do I need to come back there?”

“No,” shouted Bucky, as Clint yelled back, “Not yet—I’ll keep you posted.”

“Well, we’re landing in ten, so try to hold it together until then.”

However, Bucky wasn’t really listening, too focused on finding his prize. And after a moment of tossing the contents around, he found it. A syringe filled with a sedative strong enough to be used on him.

Clint’s brows went up, taking a breath and holding it for a second. “Okay, um…”

Bucky pulled the cap off with his teeth, ignoring his baffled expression. “I need you to—you gotta do something for me, please.”

Clint nodded, eyes tightening. “Yeah, you know I got your back.”

Bucky got ready to inject it. “I—um, you know I don’t like being out around people, but it’s the only way. You gotta promise me you won’t wake me up until I’m all patched up, alright? You gotta wait until I’m healed.”

Nodding tightly, seeming to sense the seriousness, Clint said, “Okay, yeah. Yeah, I can do that. You got my word.”

Some of the tension left his shoulders. If there was anything about Clint you could trust, it was his word. “You gotta know I didn’t mean to do this to them.”

“To who? What are you talking about?”

Injecting the sedative, he rasped painfully, “My soulmate.”

Setting the phone on the cushion beside him, Steve enjoyed the giddy relief washing over him as his nerves settled. Finally, after years of struggling to make ends meet after his mother died, he'd secured a position that would more than pay the bills and hopefully give him access to his needed medications.

Because even though Steve was only twenty-five, his body was in rough shape, his immune system working against him.

He'd always been sickly—but the addition of rheumatoid arthritis around his nineteenth birthday had made things so much worse.

The first sign something wasn't right had been the swollen and sore joints of his fingers, along with the stiffness and pain in his wrists. He'd tried to ignore it for a while, but that only ended up in his fingers growing misshapen from the constant assault of his immune system.

Pain became his constant companion—both from his soulmate and his own immune system ravaging his joints. Cooking became an escape, and his YouTube channel garnered him a little fame. At least in his tiny corner of the internet.

But that didn't pay bills, so this job meant a lot to Steve. And he hadn't expected it to go this way, especially since he'd been so upfront about his health and limitations in the call, though he'd kept his problems with his soulmate to himself.

He'd never been able to go live making a video before just because he could never trust when his soulmate might hit him with something new. Because his soulmate was nothing if not consistent—constantly pushing off his pain onto Steve, seemingly with no regret since he kept doing it repeatedly.

The injuries ranged from searing sensations in his gut to tearing pain in his joints to what felt like blows to the head and sometimes even gunshot wounds. His soulmate never failed to surprise him with new and creative ways to hurt, which didn't paint a nice picture of who they were.

But as much as he wanted to hate them or shove back his own suffering, he couldn't—as deep down, under the constant nagging hurt, he worried about them. He wished he could be their white knight just once, protecting them from whoever or whatever was hurting them all the time.

Sighing, he went to take his afternoon meds, thinking about the interview he'd just had.

It all started three days ago with a comment left on his video of a meal his nana had used to make—fried up potatoes, onions, and hotdogs—a remnant of the Great Depression. At first, he'd thought the comment was from a troll, but then he thought about it and realized it wouldn't make much sense for someone to pretend to be the sender, Pepper Potts, the face that had graced People magazine last week.

So after a few stress-cooking-filled days—having made enough for the homeless nearby—he had decided to contact her. If reception didn't know him—it might make him look stupid for a minute—but life would go on. In fact, he'd fully expected it to happen.

So he'd been shocked when they immediately knew who he was, transferring him without another word.

And Pepper—as she'd insisted he call her—had seemed pleasantly surprised to get his call, almost excited, which helped him not focus so much on his racing heart. They'd chit-chatted for a while, during which Steve wondered more and more about her motives. But eventually, she'd gotten to the heart of the matter—why she'd wanted him to contact her.

The reason was two-fold.

For one, it turned out that the Avengers were terrible about feeding themselves, and she thought it might be time to hire a chef to help them eat more than Doritos and the marshmallows from the Lucky Charms.

And two, the reason that made her stumble a little, sounding a bit nervous, was that she was a huge fan and just couldn't get enough of his stories and watching him cook—secretly hoping for a chance to become friends through this.

Apparently, on days the board had her ready to commit a felony, she'd go to her office to sneak one of Steve's videos. She'd said he had a soothing presence that might be just what the team needed.

Steve had choked a little at that—not believing at first that someone like Pepper Potts would want to be friends with someone like him—but he couldn't deny how genuine she'd sounded.

So thanking god she couldn't see his beet-red face, he'd cleared his throat and began describing his condition and what that would mean if he took the job.

Because he'd need accommodations, and when he'd realized how hard the commute might be, she'd cut in to say, "Oh, no, you don't need to worry about that! I mean, the job comes with a suite in the tower—everything you could need. Full medical on-site for most things, but the position comes with an unparalleled benefits package." Then she'd hesitated before saying, "I don't want to cross any lines here, but I mean it when I say whatever you need. We take care of our people."

Medical bills weighing on his mind, knowing he wouldn't be able to avoid his landlord much longer, he'd done what any sensible or desperate person would do. He'd cleared his throat, nearly tripping over his words as adrenaline made his heart stutter, and said, "Yeah—I mean, um, yes. I want that—I mean, the job. When could I start?"

The morning had started well.

Wearing his black compression gloves on his hands, trying to ease some of the aches in his fingers, he’d begun taping up boxes, pausing every so often to rub them and try to stretch his wrists, which were exceptionally stiff. Their range of motion had taken a hit over the last year or two, leading him to worry about the future, knowing the day could come when he might not be able to hold a knife.

Rolling his neck, he massaged his temples, then murmured, “You’re an idiot, Rogers, taking this job.” Then dropping his hands, he took a breath, puffing his cheeks out on the exhale, only to twist and cry out as sudden pain tore through his right shoulder and upper back. “Fuck!”

His soulmate. Again.

“Jesus, fuck,” he breathed through gritted teeth, hissing every breath. This wasn’t as bad as some of their past gifts of suffering, but it still wasn’t a walk in the park, leaving him to wonder just what the fuck his soulmate had gotten into this time.

God, just once, Steve would like a break from this shit. He already had enough of his own pain to deal with every day. His arthritis already had his left shoulder aching—he didn’t need his right shoulder joining it, too.

Ugh. It felt like it had been torn from the socket, sending painful, electric zaps down his arm to his fingers. Then to add insult to injury, it suddenly felt like something sharp had flayed open his forearm.

“Asshole,” he hissed, and if it weren’t for his experiences of worse pains and injuries, he might be worried for them, but this didn’t seem life-threatening as it was. More just a nuisance in their day—or maybe not since they weren’t the one feeling it.

Because same as always—his soulmate was shoving everything to Steve, making him just a little bitter as he slumped into the remaining chair and took stuttering breaths through his gritted teeth.

God, he hated this.

Instinctively, Steve rubbed his shoulder, even though it wouldn’t do anything to help as he imagined what could have caused the injury this time.

And despite his soulmate being a selfish jerk, Steve’s anger at them fizzled out, concern for them taking its place, leaving him to hope like always that it was worth it—that carrying their pain meant something more significant. Besides, it wasn’t like Steve didn’t already spend most of his life hurting—his joints swollen and sore. So what was a little more?

The unpredictability of his soulmate added to anxieties about his new job, though. It sounded intense, working around such big personalities, and sure, he was doing well lately, but he’d not been in a real kitchen for a long time. At least Pepper had assured him that it would be low pressure, and he didn’t have to supply every meal.

And maybe it was his weathered soul, but part of him thought he’d heard a hint of pity in her offer, and he wasn’t sure how to feel about that. After all, it had been in the video she’d commented on that he'd mentioned his troubles with rent and medications.

A growl slipped through his teeth as he pressed his fingers into his shoulder again, knowing if it didn’t let up soon, he’d need to take something, though he wanted to avoid it. The side effects were always so awful later.

Bond dampeners were like refined poison to the body, but sometimes, the pain from his soulmate just got too much. He’d been using them most of his life—ever since he’d been two—the youngest to ever need them—which had led to many problems with his growth.

It had caused nutritional deficiencies and brittle bones, leading to a failure to thrive—some of the specialists even argued it might have led to his autoimmune problems. But, unfortunately, there just weren’t studies on children—as it wasn’t expected that a child’s soulmate would be capable of sending that kind of pain frequently enough to need intervention.

At least now that he was older, he didn’t get as many side effects as he once did. Mostly, he just got a little hungover the next day—though it still sedated him, making him pass out soon after taking it. Something he didn’t want to deal with today. There was still so much packing left to do.

So arm throbbing and aching from his shoulder to the tips of his fingers, he grit his teeth and went back to packing his things—trying not to think about the pain, trying not to hate his soulmate.

He didn’t last long, though.

“Fuck,” he snarled, kicking the books he’d just fumbled and dropped for the third time. The pain was just so intense; even if his soulmate hadn’t dumped this on him, his body had already been reaching its limits for the day. It never seemed like he had enough spoons.

Working his jaw, he took shallow, frustrated breaths, knowing too well that he needed to take his bond dampeners, which meant that his day was a wash. He’d be lucky if he didn’t sleep for the next fifteen hours.

Rubbing his shoulder, feeling his arm thrumming in pain, he went to find his box of medication, but before he could get to the table, something weird happened.

As suddenly as it had started, the pain stopped. Completely. Even the dull aches in his left shoulder were suddenly gone, leaving him to reach up and touch it in disbelief. The joint had ached his whole life, but now…

The loss made his heart twist. Because a sudden break in the connection meant his soulmate was knocked out, had decided to give Steve a break, or had finally lost the fight against whatever he spent so much time battling.

Taking a breath, Steve sent a silent prayer to anyone listening—knowing which of those he hoped wasn’t true.

It had been two weeks since he'd realized about his soulmate, and Bucky had spent most of that time relearning how to manage his pain. As Hydra had made shucking it off to the void inside him second nature, as fluid and seamless as breathing.

And until he trusted himself a little more, he refused to do anything other than train—no more missions. He'd almost sent his lingering soreness from his stiff joints too many times already when he'd awoken in the morning.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, then tossing the towel to the bench, Bucky rolled his shoulders, trying to ignore the deep ache in the left. It seemed like a ghost of a memory, suffering from it, the feeling of wolves' teeth scraping wetly into bone, something that he'd been shifting to his soulmate for too long. It was almost like he'd forgotten how to feel—though he was being educated now.

And it was definitely showing in his attitude—it wasn't easy to deal with the chronic pain in his shoulder—the heavy guilt. It made it hard to sleep and never went away. So more often than not, he was snappy and short when talking with the team, though at least they seemed understanding.

It had been so hard to accept he wasn't the monster Hydra had forced him to be—but knowing now he'd been torturing someone meant to share his soul? Well, it left him sicker than when his father had made him smoke a whole pack of cigarettes in one go.

God, he could only picture some wrinkly, paper-skinned husk at the end of their life, probably breathing a sigh of relief at finally being free, rightly hating him for the pain he'd caused.

He'd beg them if he could to send something back—a penance of pain—but so far, nothing had come. And he didn't know how to feel about that. Looking back, he couldn't name a time he'd ever felt anything from them—and the idea that they'd purposely spared him—had him ready to puke.

So heading up to the showers and planning to take some pain meds, his cowardness won out, and he pushed away those thoughts, trying his best to ignore the little shimmering piece of soul in the recesses of his mind.

Steve had been living in the tower for a few weeks now, having spent most of that time in his new apartment, settling in, but today he’d be starting his new job, and his anxiety about it had him waking up before dawn just to prepare.

Pepper had given him preference sheets last week so he’d have time to go over them and plan, so he shouldn’t feel nervous, but that didn’t stop him from checking and rechecking his notes.

He’d toured the kitchen already, but the Avengers had been absent that day. According to Pepper, it had taken a miracle, but she’d been able to corral them all in medical for yearly physicals that morning—something they might not all need, but with their habits downplaying things, she’d said, it was good to keep an eye on them. And from how she seemed to eye him, Steve felt that if he was still around, he’d be included in the round-up for a medical exam next time it happened.

And thinking of healthcare, Pepper had already come through with everything she’d promised, and he finally had all the medications he needed, not even the generic versions. It had been too long since he’d had the options and care he had now, though he wondered how much damage had been done because he couldn’t afford better care in the past.

His joints were already slightly deformed, the pain was rough on a good day, and he got tired so quickly. The fatigue was always so bad that he doubted his decision to take this job just a little.

But despite his excitement about starting work, something else was still nagging at his mind. It had been radio silence from his soulmate, and not getting something from them for so long wasn’t normal, leaving him to hope that they’d just found a safe place to rest and not that something terrible had happened.

Because for as much as he’d cursed his soulmate, he’d grown fond of them in a bittersweet way.

Most of the Avengers filed in throughout the morning, perusing the variety of items Steve had prepared, each welcoming him warmly in their own way, making Steve feel at home.

And even though preparing everything had left him exhausted, watching them scrape their plates clean made him feel proud and accomplished—making the building fatigue worth it. He hadn’t had a chance to cook like this in years, and it felt terrific to be preparing meals for people again.

Once the last of the team had filed through, Tony gave him a pat on the shoulder, grinning as he said, “You know, I wasn’t too sure about this when Pep mentioned it, but after meeting you, I gotta say, you’re good at what you do. Great job this morning, kid.”

And despite the growing discomfort in his joints and his mounting fatigue, a proud smile stayed on Steve’s face for hours after.

Then sometime around noon, Steve rechecked the preference sheets, just to be sure, even though he’d memorized them, and started on the sandwiches he wanted to stock the fridge with. And as he worked through the list, making everyone’s favorites and labeling them, he got to a name that he realized he didn’t have a face for yet.

James “Bucky” Barnes—the Winter Soldier—or Mister Corned Beef on Rye with Mustard.

Huh, he thought to himself, wondering if he’d somehow missed him at breakfast, but Steve wasn’t the type to forget a face, so he was confident he hadn’t met him. And like everyone, he’d seen photos in the news during the man’s trial, and Steve was sure he’d remember seeing those pale, stormy eyes in person.

So wanting to make a good impression, he built the man an extra thick sandwich, brimming with corned beef, and then packed it differently than the others, including a slice of coffee cake from breakfast and a note with a smiley face on it.

Pleased with himself, he stuck it in the fridge, then went back to work, not bothering to watch the time, too zoned into his projects and enjoying the kitchen to care.

But eventually, the reality of his health pushed through and started to wear him down. His back, hips, and knees started hurting, and his hand kept cramping around the knife’s handle as he prepped ingredients. The discomfort was enough to cause a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead.

He’d had these issues long enough to know when to rest, but his stubborn desire to prove himself usually won out—just like it was now.

But one thing he hadn’t given much thought to was that most of the tower was monitored by JARVIS, which meant the AI was seeing the way his hands were starting to shake as he chopped the vegetables and explained why he heard heels clicking along the tile floor behind him, stopping just to his side.

“Steve,” Pepper prompted, something gentle yet wary about the tone. “I thought we said you’d take it easy on your first day?”

Pressing his lips into a line, Steve huffed through his nose, then set the knife on the table, straightening his back from his slight hunch with a wince and rubbing the stiffness from his hands. They were swollen and red—more than usual—and he wanted to hide them from her sight. But instead, he wiped them on a towel, shrugged a shoulder, then took a quick stock of his body.

“I’ve never been a halfway kind of guy,” he turned to her, brushing his hair from his eyes. “But yeah, maybe I’ve been overdoing it a little, I guess. You don’t get a second chance at your first impression.”

She pressed her lips into a smile that didn’t quite shine true, her eyes sweeping over him. Assessing. Then she sighed. “I could’ve hired anyone to slave in the kitchen. I hired you because my gut told me you’re one in a million, Steve—one of the good guys. You don’t need to make a full service or even three meals a day if it’s too much. Just having a fridge full of sandwiches and filling snacks would be great.”

He glanced at the chaos on the counter, then gripped the edge of it as the pain building in his hip started to overtake him. The last time he’d spent so much time on a hard floor like this was years ago. So taking a breath, he nodded, looking at her to say, “Okay, um, I guess I can try to be less over the top.”

She huffed a laugh, then frowned when she seemed to notice his pain. “Can this stuff wait for a bit? I think you should take a break. There’s no one in the living room to bother you if you want to put your feet up or need to stretch out on the couch.”

“No, I couldn’t—I’ll be fine.”

She shook her head. “I insist. Please, Steve, you’ve done amazing today, but no one wants to see you make yourself sick.”

And that’s how he ended up on the couch, pillows propped around him by Pepper, a throw over his legs, and left with explicit instructions not to go back to the kitchen for at least an hour, which was probably for the best. Because if he pushed himself too far, he was tempting fate, and a flare would be in his future.

So he took advantage of the downtime to pop some medication to take the edge off. Because working himself so hard was bound to lead to so many regrets tomorrow. He just knew it. If he was going to make this job work, he would have to be better about balancing his needs and limitations, but it wasn’t easy for him to accept accommodations sometimes.

Because more often than not, Steve struggled with feeling disabled enough to deserve help. Days when he hurt, he always tried to push through, telling himself others had it so much worse. And it even spread to the way he gauged his pain—never allowing himself to name it higher than a six or seven, though he’d expect other people feeling the same would call it what it was—a nine or ten.

Today, though, wasn’t that bad. The pain was holding at a steady four—maybe five—but the pain medication and short rest would bring it down.

Then, just as he started to drift off, he heard the elevator doors opening and heavy booted footsteps crossing through the open floor plan, heading toward the kitchen. Curious, Steve pushed himself up and peered over the couch, eyes widening when he saw the tell-tale metal arm that could only belong to one Bucky Barnes, glinting in the light.

And despite being raised better than to stare, Steve was transfixed by the man with the day-old scruff and storm gray eyes, watching as he rooted through the fridge, a not-quite smile on his pouty lips when he pulled out the lunch Steve had left for him.

The man looked like he had just crawled out of bed after a bender, clothes rumpled and slept in, leaving Steve to wonder if he’d been coming off a recent mission, making him feel even better about stuffing the sandwich like he had. Pepper had warned him how hungry they could all get after training or missions.

A frown touched Steve’s brow, though, when the soldier didn’t react to the smiley face on the note. Instead, he tossed it aside to pull the bread apart and inspect the filling. He sniffed it once, which made a little bubble of laughter escape Steve’s control, forgetting that he was trying not to draw attention to himself. Not that he was afraid of the man at all.

And he almost thought that the man hadn’t heard him, but any hope of that went out the window a second later when the man lifted his head, his face blank and eyes cold as he locked his attention on Steve.

Being the target of scrutiny was something Steve was used to, but this seemed more intense. He’d learned not to react to people when their gaze lingered on the electric cart he sometimes used in the store. But it was hard not to respond now. This man wasn’t shy about how he seemed to be cataloging his every twitch. The way he looked at Steve seemed to challenge his very existence.

But before he could consider his options and how to react, the man was slamming the slice of mustard-slathered rye back down and strutting over to him, stopping only a few feet away, his brows drawn together tight enough to etch a line between them.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Suddenly feeling very out of place, still covered on the couch and surrounded by pillows, Steve sent it all tumbling to the floor as he got to his feet, unsure if he should walk around and offer his hand or just apologize for existing from there.

“Um, I’m, um, Steve—Steve Rogers,” he stuttered, though his spine started to straighten as he stood there, remembering what his mother had always taught him, not to let someone give you less respect than you deserve. “I was told there was a meeting about Pepper hiring me.” But that only seemed to make him scowl more, so Steve itched his nose out of nervous habit, then added, “I’m the new chef?”

The man’s gaze moved over him as he rolled the shoulder of the metal arm, eyes tightening before curling his lips into a snide smile. “You don’t sound too sure. From here, you look more like some entitled punk—was a full day’s work too much for your delicate disposition?”

And if it weren’t for the ice spreading through his veins, anger burning so hot it was cold, Steve would have been choking on his shame, but right now, his chin was lifting, his jaw setting, and bony hands curling into fists. This wasn’t the first asshole he’d had to deal with and wouldn’t be the last.

Lip curling, Steve met his pale eyes, hating that he’d ever found them attractive. “You don’t know shit about me, dick head. So why don’t you go fuck yourself with that enormous shitbag personality of yours?”

The asshole just huffed, flexing his arm, clearly trying to intimidate. “Your work ethic says plenty, but hey, I’m not the one paying you, though don’t think I won’t be sharing what a fucking great fella you are—sleeping on the job and backtalking to the people you’re supposed to be working for.”

“I work for Pepper, not you.”

The man snorted. “Yeah, we’ll see about that, won’t we?”

And it took everything Steve had in him not to jump over the couch, arthritis be damned, and knock that smirk off his face. So instead of breaking his knuckles on his nose, he bit his tongue and watched as the man crossed back to the kitchen, pressing his sandwich flat with one hand, then picking it up to take a bite before saying with a wink, “Little less mustard next time, ace.”

Then taking it with him, the man went to the elevators and stepped inside, leaving Steve fuming by the couch.

Of course things couldn’t go smoothly—that was never his luck.

As soon as the elevator doors closed, Bucky wiped the back of his mouth with his free hand and sighed, falling back against the metal wall of the enclosure.

What the fuck had just happened?

“JARVIS, tell Tony I’m not meeting him today and take me to my floor, please,” he said, glancing down at the sandwich, seeing the mustard threatening to drip. He hated how good it tasted—he’d lied when he’d said it needed less mustard.

And as he stood, waiting to arrive on his floor, his stomach twisted around the bite of food inside it, his hunger from earlier long gone. He’d always let people believe he was an asshole, but he’d always tried to prove them wrong. Today he’d just been a straight-up dick, and there wasn’t an excuse for it—no matter how much he wanted there to be.

Because when he’d gone into the kitchen looking for something to eat, he hadn’t been thinking about the vague murmurings he’d heard about Pepper hiring them a chef. And when he’d found his favorite sandwich wrapped with a note, it had been confusing but also touching. And if he’d slept the night before, not had nightmares about his soulmate, he might have expressed that to the punk instead of snapping like he had.

Though in his defense, the kid shouldn’t have been lying around on the job. When did people stop caring about their work ethic?

God, he couldn’t wait to throw the fucking sandwich away, regretting he’d ever picked it up to make a show of it. It felt gross in his hand now.

Arriving on his floor, he headed for the nearest trash, his thoughts drifting to the ballsy little punk—a scrawny kitten with fangs—and despite himself, he smiled.

He’d always liked a spitfire, after all.

Staring at the ceiling, blankets drawn to his chin, Steve began to lose the battle against his emotions, and tears welled in his eyes. He hated letting people get to him—and typically, his walls were stronger—but the man’s words had mirrored his insecurities too much, making him regret having ever come here.

One day passed, then another, and Bucky hadn’t shown his face again—and he didn’t know whether he was happy or pissed about it. He liked to think that the asshole had tried ratting him out just to get an earful, though he’d prefer to handle this on his own.

At least he’d heard from his soulmate. That morning, he’d woken to the familiar bone-deep ache in his left shoulder—meaning they was still alive. Thankfully, it hadn’t been something more dramatic that required dampeners, making Steve wonder if something had finally changed for them.

He could drive himself insane thinking in circles about what it meant, though, so maybe it was just better to be happy they weren’t torturing him for a change and go about his day.

And speaking of discomforts and pain, so far, he’d been handling the new job better than he’d imagined, which probably had something to do with his access to better care—everything from doctors to medications to the private pools and acupuncture. Even the availability of healthy food was making a difference.

That didn’t mean he was pain-free, though. It was still hard to get moving in the morning, and he’d had to be late for work a few times.

And did it make him a little bitter, when nothing eased the pain, that he could feel the touch of the bond in his mind, tempting him but knowing he just couldn’t do it? No amount of sugar could lessen the tartness of the truth.

Because it would be so easy to push it all away—make his soulmate bear it for a change—but no matter how desperate he got, he just couldn’t. It went against who his mother and nana raised him to be—who he wanted to be.

Bucky looked around his living room, taking in the empty Cheetos bags, pizza boxes, and trash around the couch. It had been weeks since he’d eaten something other than take-out and junk food, but the idea of facing Steve had him unable to even visit the common floor.

The more time that passed, the more he’d turned things over in his head and the more regrets he had.

Today he needed to head down to see Tony as his arm needed a recalibration, which meant making himself presentable for a change. And he couldn’t put off going any longer since he’d been getting feedback that sent pain all the way up his neck—pain that he couldn’t push away like he’d done for so long, though he’d regrettably slipped this morning. Thankfully, he’d realized before torturing his soulmate for too long.

So after a shower, he went to Tony’s workshop, sitting and talking with the man as he worked on his arm, asking him questions as he went, a discarded plate of fancy-looking pasta and salad on the workbench at his side—Steve was obviously still cooking for them, then.

Working his jaw side to side, he floated a few questions about what Tony thought of the new chef—getting nothing but rave reviews in response—squashing his hopes for forming an alliance against Steve.

“Why are you asking all this?” Tony mumbled around a piece of wire held between his lips. “I didn’t think he’d be your type—though then again, I never gave much thought to what you got your jollies off to.”

“Fuck off,” he grunted, followed by a sharp breath through his nose as he averted his eyes. Then slowly, he began recounting the vague details of his encounter with Steve, which, much to his shock, Tony stayed weirdly calm and quiet during, not making a single snarky remark.

Then when he trailed off to a lame finish, Tony didn’t waste a beat, uttering flatly to his AI, “JARVIS, get me those feeds.”

Bucky turned back to him, jaw clenched. Maybe he should have protested, but the words caught in his throat. So instead, he watched the feed come alive as Tony narrowed his eyes, and by the end of it, his jaw was jumping.

Thick, syrupy silence coated the air, then finally, Tony snapped his gaze to Bucky. “You know, I never bought the asshole image, but that has me reconsidering.” He shook his head with a bitter scoff. “Fuck, Pepper will gut you if she sees that—honestly, I’m not sure I should keep it from her.”

“I didn’t plan it. My fucking shoulder was on fire, and then I just saw him lying there like some pillow princess. Look, Tones, I really didn’t mean to—”

“Just—just shut up, okay?” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I just need a fucking second to process this shit—because what I just saw? Shit, Barnes, even for you, that was fucked up.” Then after sucking a breath, Tony dragged his hand over his mouth and added, “You more than anyone else should know not to judge a book by its cover. Fuck, maybe I should be sending you to HR for some disability awareness classes.”

And that caught Bucky’s attention, making him sit up straighter, his defenses and curiosity warring for the forefront. “Why would I need some fucking awareness shit?”

Tony just scoffed. “If you’d gone to the meeting about him, you’d know—Pepper had made sure to touch on it lightly.” Another measured breath—another head shake. “I should be calling Pep and revoking your access to the common floor, but I just—” He raked his hand through his hair, huffing dryly. “Always the fucking mechanic.”

Brow wrinkling, Bucky ran his tongue over the back of his teeth as little tendrils of worry slithered in the spaces between his ribs. Because they might have only met once, it might have been ugly and wrong, but there had been something about the punk that lingered in his mind. “Is there—is there something wrong with him—the kid?”

Turning his gaze to him, Tony pursed his lips, seeming to consider something. “Pep’s told me more stuff than she should,” he confessed. “The two of them are pretty close, you know? Honestly, it’s good for her—probably good for both of them—but that doesn’t mean I’m breaking her confidence, so anything you want to know, you’ll have to figure out for yourself.” Then he stabbed a finger into Bucky’s chest. “And don’t apologize until you do. He deserves more than empty words. Because that kid, he’s been through some shit—goes through more shit each day—than most people ever have to deal with.”

Throat too dry to swallow, he almost choked on his tongue, struggling to say roughly, “I really fucked up, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, you really fucking did.”

“You said your nana taught you this, right?” Pepper asked him, flour up to her elbows and dusting the front of the AC/DC shirt she wore—one he assumed she’d stolen from Tony.

They were making a mock apple pie—something that Pepper had always wanted to try.

And even though the recipe they were using didn’t originate from his nana, it was still something she’d made so many times, it might as well have been. She’d lived through the Great Depression and carried many of the recipes and thrifty habits she’d learned to the end, and he considered himself blessed to have been taught so much of her knowledge growing up.

So passing on the same recipes, teaching Pepper this one, spread warmth through him.

And as he watched Pepper turn out the pie dough, a smile bent his lips. “Yeah, I mean, you’ve seen my videos, so you know—I’m always talking about her—but yeah, this was something she liked to make. So we had it more than real apple pie, I think.”

Pepper glanced over at him, a gentle smile on her lips. “She sounded like an amazing woman. I wish I could have met her—we didn’t have any real cooks in our family. I think she’d be proud of you—you’ve got to be pretty special to teach me something like this.”

A bittersweet ache settled in his throat, just like it always did when he remembered that he’d never be able to call or visit her again. He hadn’t had many people in his corner growing up—just his mother and her—his father and grandfather dying before he could ever form a memory of them.

Trying not to choke on the lump in his throat, he cleared it and said, “She practically raised me, you know—not that my ma didn’t want to be around—but she was always taking extra shifts at the hospital just to afford my meds. Because unfortunately, insurance didn’t—doesn’t—cover bond dampeners.”

Pepper’s hands stilled from where she was rolling out the dough, her lips pressing into a frown when she turned to him. “So your soulmate….”

He just shrugged, pushing away from the counter to get the pie pan. “Please don’t—don’t spread it around—but, um, yeah. The soulmate thing has never been so great for me.”

She took the pan from him, folding the rolled-out dough in half, then sliding it into place before unfolding. “So, do you think they’re sick— or is it something else?”

And Steve could understand her confusion, as bond dampener use wasn’t typical. He fiddled with a package of crackers that would become the filling, flicking the plastic back and forth. “Uh, pretty sure it’s something else. They, uh—” he cleared his throat again. “It’s, um, been on and off since birth. Uh, pretty intense kinda stuff, you know? Things like broken bones and things.”

Her eyebrows raised and eyes wide, her expression had him wincing and ducking his head, moving to the center island to close up the flour, waiting for the inevitable.

“Wait, you can’t mean—” The disbelief was thick in her voice, slowing her words. “Please tell me you haven’t been on dampeners that long—that they didn’t give them to a child. I mean, I used them once and felt it for days.”

And maybe it was her reaction, the brighter shock coupled with the dingy notes of pity, but suddenly he felt uncomfortable standing under the kitchen lights, her focus entirely on him. Because the last thing he wanted was for people to feel sorry for him—his mother and nana had taught him to be proud for surviving, but this kind of reaction made him feel ashamed for some reason.

Thankfully, a distraction in the form of a grease-covered genius walked into the kitchen before the conversation could continue, making Steve lift his head and turn, nodding to him as he tried to erase the stress from his face.

Tony wasn’t easily fooled, though. He seemed to know something was up—because his eyebrows lifted as his gaze flicked from Steve to Pepper, frowning a little at what he saw. “I can’t say that’s my favorite look, my sweet Pepper pie. Worry lines like those will stick around if you’re not careful.”

Pepper took a breath, then dusted off her hands on her jeans, a smile spreading over her face, making any previous tension seem forgotten. “Ah, there’s my soulmate, the charmer.” Then she abandoned the pie to meet him halfway, pecking him on the lips and not seeming too worried about the grease covering his hands. “I thought you had a meeting?”

Tony wrinkled his nose, shrugging, then followed Pepper further into the kitchen, stopping beside Steve. The man’s expression seemed lighter, but there was still something calculating—almost concerned—in the way his gaze swept over him—like he was looking for signs of something, though Steve didn’t know what. “So, how do you like things around here? Everyone treating you okay?”

Memories of his first and so far only encounter with Bucky flickered in his mind. Swallowing thickly, he dusted off his hands out of habit, then dared a glance at Tony. “Um, yeah, um, everyone’s great.”

Tony hummed. “Been making a lot of corned beef on rye—light on the mustard?”

“Honey,” Pepper said, “I know it’s hard for you, but please stop being so weird. I just got Steve—I don’t need you scaring him off.”

The man gave a short huff, then turned, searching Steve’s face for something again. “You seem like the type to add extra, though? Am I right?”

And suddenly, Steve’s heart was thumping against his ribs hard enough to bruise—all this stress would make him drop like a lead weight soon. His whole body was vibrating with it—and if he wasn’t trying to prove himself, he’d have excused himself already.

Because there was no doubt in his mind that Tony knew—someone—maybe JARVIS—had told him. They’d clued him into what had happened with Bucky.

Shit, he silently cursed, already worrying what the man might think of him. But Pepper didn’t seem to know, so maybe it all wasn’t lost.

Throat drier than the fucking desert, Steve tried to wet his lips, then dared another look at Tony before checking on Pepper, croaking as he passed, “Can’t say I’ve made many of those lately.”

Tony huffed a laugh, and Steve hoped it was a good sign. “Well, that’s probably for the best. From what I hear, the types who enjoy those are known for being ungrateful assholes—all in theory, of course. You know what I mean.”

Pepper finished pouring the liquid in, giving the pie a shake as she sighed. “I feel like you two are leaving me out of something important, but I’ve also known you long enough not to tempt fate and ask. So I’ll just assume you can all be adults about whatever this is.”

“Uh, um, yeah,” Steve said, trying desperately to wet his lips. God, his mouth was dry. “I mean, we’re all adults. Right. So there’s, uh, nothing to worry about. Scout’s honor.”

Tony scoffed, a playful glint in his eye. “Were you even a boy scout?”

Steve wrinkled his nose, enjoying the much-needed lightness the banter brought as he shrugged his bony shoulder. “Well, technically, I sat in on a few Brownie meetings, but I’m pretty sure that counts for something.”

“Why would that—”

“Boys,” she chided as she glanced at Tony, who just winked at her and said, “Don’t stress so much, mama. You know I’m a good boy—and he’s been to a Girl Scout meeting. So no need to worry.”

And like he was watching a tennis match, Steve’s gaze flicked between them, eyebrows rising and feeling like he was about to get whiplash from watching them.

Pepper snorted, rolling her eyes as she picked up the pie and tipped her head toward the oven. “Steve, can you get the door, and as for you,” she said, eyeing Tony, “I think we both know you’re rarely that good—you like being punished way too much.”

Ugh.

The cold mac and cheese had no right tasting so good, especially since Steve had made it. If the punk hadn’t been a good cook, it would have made the apology in his future easier to make. But no, this day-old shit Sam had dropped off this morning just had to taste like heaven straight from the container.

And sitting there, scraping the last of the cheesy goodness from the bowl and licking the spoon, his mind drifted to the flicker of hurt and shame he’d seen on Steve’s face before the kid had straightened his spine, baring his fangs.

He figured it wasn’t something Steve had meant for him to see—but Bucky rarely missed things like that. The punk’s eyes had flicked down and to the side, his lips pursing, the corners twisting downward, making him look frail and weathered—and tired. It was clear Bucky wasn’t the first asshole Steve had faced.

And as much as he’d like to forget his encounter with Steve, it wasn’t going to happen. Because every night since they’d met, the blond’s sharp eyes had sliced through his dream, making him jerk awake at night.

It hinted at something deeper he wasn’t ready to admit. That under his angry front, under his armor, something about the skinny blond made his chest ache, like a tender bruise trying to heal or a recovering muscle being used for the first time after an injury.

And maybe that was the sign of something he hadn’t noticed before—a flicker of something he’d mistaken—the shadow of the boy from Brooklyn trying to stretch from the darkness.

The container and spoon clattered when he tossed them on the cushion beside him, not caring about adding to his messy apartment. Then growling, he leaned forward and scrubbed his hands over his face, berating himself as he did. “You’re better than this, Barnes. Fuck. Just apologize and get over it.”

He’s too good for you, he didn’t say but felt all the same.

So confused, overwhelmed, and probably making the wrong decision, Bucky asked JARVIS to cue up Steve’s first video from his channel—something that Tony had thought would be enlightening.

It was nearly five in the morning when the last video finished—the slight blond’s smile and upbeat attitude had ensnared him within minutes. And in the last ten hours, he’d learned so much about him and yet nothing at all, though he now understood why Tony thought he should watch them.

While watching Steve mix up things even Bucky recognized—variations of meals his mother had made—he’d learned about Steve’s struggles with his health, though the man didn’t go into great detail. Words like autoimmune disorder and arthritis—chronic fatigue that he’d joked about, laughing as he’d described how much he’d wanted to lay down on the hard floor in the store and rest the day before.

Bucky didn’t find it funny at all. And the more he’d watched the videos, his critical eye taking in all the details, the more he could see how Steve favored certain positions and used aids in the kitchen to make things easier.

And when Steve had apologized for needing to sit as he’d been preparing a water pie, trying to hide his pain and exhaustion under a strained smile, Bucky’s stomach had dropped to his feet—understanding so sharp it split his flesh as it burst free.

A full day’s work too much for your delicate disposition?

Sure, he’d felt terrible about snapping at him before—but now his words felt like a cold, wet blanket dripping ice water regrets over his shoulders.

The last video he’d watched had been filmed in the tower—Bucky would recognize the layout and style anywhere—so it gave Bucky his first glimpse at Steve since their first encounter.

The kid had been all smiles and jokes, asking viewers to send in their worst family recipes, but he couldn’t fool Bucky—something wasn’t quite right. Or maybe he was just looking into things too much.

God, this punk was going to be his death—but first, Bucky needed to apologize and maybe something else. Because he’d never liked being called the neanderthal type, but after spending the night watching snapshots of Steve’s life, seeing glimpses of his good and bad days, Bucky found himself wanting to protect the punk, wrap him in soft things and take some of his pain away.

It made him wonder about Steve’s soulmate as he’d never mentioned them in his videos. Was it some stubborn point of pride, not wanting to give away his pain—or maybe his soulmate was dead? Did Steve not think he deserved a break—even if only for a few minutes?

Honestly, it seemed so unfair—the way the universe worked. People like Steve—who volunteered at homeless shelters and cancer centers—deserved better. They deserved soulmates who’d take their pain so they could heal.

He’d do that for someone—for Steve.

Jesus, where had that thought come from?

Maybe if he’d been less of a monster and more of a man—if he’d had the chance to know his soulmate before his soul was shredded—if he could have only been so lucky as to have Steve as a soulmate, he could ease Steve’s pain and prove himself better, though that was an impossible dream.

“Impossible,” he huffed as he scratched at the day’s old scruff on his cheek, thinking of the White Queen and her six impossible things before breakfast, the words he’d read as a child sharper than they should be now.

JARVIS had relayed that the various members of the team were all engaged in other activities or ordering in, so Steve didn’t need to prepare anything for dinner, which came as a relief since the syrupy feeling of fatigue was starting to spread through his veins. However, he still wanted to finish up some prep for the morning before turning in.

Was he pushing himself too hard? Probably, but he just couldn’t get that asshole’s words out of his head. They haunted him at night—made him feel like judgmental eyes were on him as he worked. Accepting accommodations just wasn’t easy. They tasted like pity—bitter and sour on his tongue. A poison of their own. Admitting defeat.

Pepper and Tony and everyone had been so great to him, even if sometimes a little weird, and being able to set his own hours and reinvent recipes had been great. Of course, it would be better if he didn’t have the thorn known as James “Bucky” Barnes stuck in his side.

God, that guy was an asshole. Just thinking about him raised his hackles, prickling his neck. Steve could hold a grudge like a scrawny street dog with a bone, not that he expected the man to apologize anytime soon.

Hands aching, Steve set down the knife and started pressing his thumb into his palm, trying to relieve the cramping sensation. Everything was starting to get sore and locked up, and as much as he wanted to prove he could put in the same amount of work as anyone else, he doubted he would last much longer.

So lost in a hazy daze of thoughts, staring at the cutting board, he didn’t hear the elevator or notice the super soldier in soft sweats, standing in the open space in front of the kitchen island, until the man cleared his throat sharply, making Steve glance up.

Standing in socks, his hair tickling his chin, Bucky noticed that even in the soft light of the kitchen, Steve’s eyes reflected crystal blue. So bright, so alive, they cut right through the shadows around him and cast new ones at his feet. They dared him to look away—but part of him knew that would never happen. Their hold was already too strong.

But then Steve’s eyes began to tighten and narrow, lips pressing together before his whole expression shifted to stone as he straightened, his chin lifting in defiance before saying, “If you’re here for dinner—you should’ve asked sooner. I was told no one wanted anything tonight, so I didn’t cook.”

His tone was challenging, but it also seemed like a front, a way to distract. Because now that he understood better, he could see the signs of soreness and exhaustion in the reddened joints of his fingers and the bags under his eyes.

“I didn’t—” Bucky cut himself off with a huff, his jaw working side to side, grinding his teeth. Apologies, emotions, people—they never came easy to him. “I’m not here for food.” Not what he meant to say, but maybe it was a start.

Steve’s bitter scoff, his twisting expression, and the way he started sweeping things into the trash all punched him in the gut, making adrenaline tickle his nerves. Flight or fight—and his body wanted to run. Hydra he could face, a gun to his head, but this skinny punk—hurt because of him—was where his fear lay.

He could only imagine what Steve must think of him.

Pans clanged as Steve threw them into the sink, making Bucky’s shoulders jerk like he wasn’t once the Fist of Hydra. Then, unsticking his tongue, his voice broke over Steve’s name, said so softly he wasn’t sure the man had heard it, unsure why it even needed to be a whisper, but any louder, and it might shatter the air.

Shutting off the water in the sink, Steve paused with his back to Bucky before finally turning, pain, shame, and anger flickering in his eyes. And he’d thought they were bright before. “So, are you just here to check in on me? See if the cripple is pulling his weight?”

And his words might have been serrated and cutting, but they also betrayed the man’s need to defend himself like second nature. How many people had hurt him before?

“I—” The words he meant to say fizzled and died in his throat as his hands curled into fists. His molars ground against each other, his mouth twitching and tight, refusing to open—the apology he needed to say stuck in his throat. He could only stand frozen and blinking as Steve’s eyes glossed over, turning red before angrily swiping at them.

A wet, bitter laugh broke from Steve’s throat. “Fuck. Nana was right. It’s always the pretty ones—should’ve fucking known.” Then he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes for a second before scrubbing his face and looking at Bucky, whose jaw was still welded shut. “Fuck, you know, I don’t even know why, but I made you another one. Fucking corned beef on rye—light on the mustard—thinking of calling it the Asshole Special. What do you think?”

Throat itching, he swallowed, a strange mix of feelings coming over him. “It was—the mustard was fine. I was just—” He breathed through the tightness in his chest, trying to loosen the belt that was binding it. “I’m an asshole.”

Steve huffed, raking his reddened fingers through his hair, then massaging them after. “No shit.”

“I can clean up,” Bucky found himself saying, taking in all the little microexpressions on Steve’s face, the hints at hidden pain, and he wondered how long he’d been on his feet. “You should rest.”

The lines around Steve’s eyes seemed to deepen at that. “You playing games with me now?”

“No, I just—” He looked to the windows, then back at him again. “Why can’t a fella just want to help?”

“Says the guy who was shitting on me for taking a break.”

“I didn’t know that—”

“What?” Steve cut him off. “Someone fill you in? So what? Are they talking about me, calling me a charity case?”

“What—no!” his eyes went wide, brows drawing together. This was getting out of hand fast. “No one is talking about you.”

Steve pressed a thumb against his eye, shaking his head, then sighed sharply. “Do whatever you want—clean up. I don’t care. I don’t fucking care. This is—I need to be alone. Fuck this shit.”

And before Bucky could think of something to say, the skinny blond was already heading into the elevator, not even looking up when called out for JARVIS to take him to his floor.

Then like a punch to his gut, it hit him. The whole reason he’d come to the kitchen. He’d never actually said the words. He’d never said, “I’m sorry.”

Once the dishes were put away, Bucky went to his room, tried and failed to sleep, and when morning came, he threw himself out of bed and took the coward’s way out. Too afraid to face Steve again, he called SHIELD and volunteered for the first mission they had available.

He’d be gone at least a week—and he hoped the distance would ease the tender ache in his chest that he felt every time he thought of Steve. Because it was clear the smaller man hated everything about him, and Bucky couldn’t blame him.

So as he met up with the STRIKE team, he tried to push his thoughts of Steve to the back of his mind. Moving on, putting distance—that was the best thing he could do. He’d been stupid even humoring himself—thinking Steve would even want to be his friend.

Who was he kidding? Friendship wasn’t all he wanted.

Because despite barely knowing him, there was no doubt that Steve was the sun, which didn’t just make him beautiful. It made him dangerous. Not just because staring too long would burn your eyes, but because the rays were so bright, they illuminated every crevice of your soul, baring things he wished to hide.

It meant that Steve had a power no one ever did—when his piercing blue eyes met Bucky’s, they saw his sins.

So distance—he needed that.

Because he needed more control—more defenses.

He needed to get a grip.

The chintzy plastic lawn chairs didn’t belong on the landing pad of the tower, looking like they came from a cheap box store rather than like the ritzy furniture that adorned the rest of the place, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t something comforting about them—and comfort? That was something Steve needed right now.

He’d been resting more than usual the last few days—days that had gone by without seeing Bucky once. In fact, it had been nearly a week since they’d bumped into each other again in the kitchen, which had been a colossal mess.

And looking back, Steve could admit that maybe he’d steamrolled the conversation a little, but really, could anyone blame him?

The guy was an asshole—plain and simple. Besides, it didn’t matter anyway. Not like he cared.

He didn’t care.

And the lie tasted a lot like the margarita he washed it down with—just a little bit salty.

Ugh. That asshole didn’t deserve his time and attention. He had a soulmate out there—granted, they might be an even bigger asshole—but the point still stood. The universe had already chosen for him—splitting his soul and giving the other half away. That should be his goal right now—finding them. Not thinking about some emotionally stunted jerk that clearly lived to cause him strife.

The pages of the magazine Pepper was reading beside him rustled in the breeze, reminding him of too much he didn’t want to think about. He allowed too much to show the other night with Bucky, leaving him feeling like he had an infected splinter under his skin.

When he’d taken the job offer from Pepper, he’d internally questioned her motivation and whether pity played a role. It didn’t make him regret taking the position, but sometimes, he bristled when he didn’t mean to at the mention of his health.

And maybe that was partly his mixed feelings about Bucky. Weirdly, he’d almost enjoyed his anger—like he wasn’t treating Steve with kid gloves. So the sudden change? The nicety? It had made him feel pitied, gross, and wondering who had clued him in.

Anger was always easier to deal with—both his crutch and guard dog. It was always simmering there, under his skin, though the burden of it made him tired. Sometimes it made him dream bitterly about his soulmate—wishing they’d come to stand sentinel, take his pain so he could put down his fists and rest.

That wasn’t going to happen, though, he thought to himself, finishing his margarita and licking the salt from his lips.

The last of the sun barely stretched across the concrete to their chairs, but the air was still warm, the residual heat radiating up from the landing pad. The cheap banded plastic supports under his ass and back had stretched and made a squeaking noise when he turned to the little table between him and Pepper to grab the pitcher.

The woman looked up from her magazine, tipping her head to see over her glasses. A scrutinizing brow lifted in judgment, or maybe it was amusement. “You want to talk about it?”

His nose wrinkled at the suggestion, his margarita mixture spilling over his glass and dripping down his thumb. He licked it off, then took a sip. “Why do you think there’s something to talk about?”

Both eyebrows went up this time, then a sigh and a little head shake as she returned to her magazine. “That being your fourth drink in half an hour is telling me there must be something on your mind.”

Steve sagged back into his shitty chair, taking a sip and licking his lips. He and Pepper had become pretty close since he’d moved in, so it shouldn’t bother him to talk to her, but he wasn’t sure he could put it all into words. It was easier for him to be the rock. “I used to be able to see things in the clouds.”

A beat of silence, then, “Christ, and I thought Tony was a maudlin drunk.”

He barked a laugh. Yeah, he couldn’t argue that. “Sorry, I just—sometimes, it’s just hard, ya know? Feel like all eyes are on me but for the wrong reasons. Don’t get me wrong, I love it here, but it’s a lot.”

“All you need to do is ask if you need some help.”

He snorted, glancing over at her to see how serious she was. “It’s fine. I can take care of myself.”

“Never said you couldn’t, but I just—I want you to be comfortable here—happy,” she said. “Believe it or not, making friends never came easy to me.”

Ribs aching as his chest expanded, he swallowed down the lump in his throat. “Me either—maybe that’s why we’re such a good match.”

She hummed. “You never did say what’s bothering you, other than not seeing bunnies in the clouds.”

And if it weren’t for his stomach starting to feel a little sour—the cold Chinese food they’d eaten before this not settling now—he would have gone to the bar and switched to something more potent, not that he should be drinking like this on his meds.

Finishing his drink, he rested the glass on his thigh and looked at the sky as it glowed orange from the sunset, chewing over his thoughts, then finally saying to his glass, “Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah, of course,” she said. “You know I’ll answer if I can.”

He hummed, rubbing his thumb through the moisture on his glass. Then taking a breath, he looked back at the sky, thinking for a moment that one of the clouds looked like a jagged star, glowing a little red in the light. “Why’d you hire me?”

“I told you,” she started. “I’ve seen all your videos—and our conversation went great on the phone.”

“Yeah,” he said, frowning. “But there are a hundred others you could’ve hired—people who don’t need accommodations and a midday nap. Why me?”

“I just—I guess I don’t understand what you’re asking?”

He grit his teeth, pressing his tongue to the backs of them. “Was I a charity case?”

The chair next to him creaked, and he looked over to see her turning to face him and pulling off her sunglasses. The way her face seemed contorted made him look away.

“Hey, no, you can’t just turn away after that,” she said. “Steven Rogers, look at me right now.”

Pressing the heel of his hand to his eye, he took a breath, then dropped his hand and turned to her. “Just forget I said anything.”

The way her lips pursed and the air left her in a rush, it seemed like she wasn’t about to let that happen. And that assumption was proven true a moment later when she averted her eyes, then said to the sunset, “Your talent and personality really were the number one reasons I wanted to hire you.”

“But?”

She sighed. “But knowing about your struggles—maybe they did play a role.”

A painful lump jumped into his throat, breaking free a little when his anger came to defend him even as tears pricked his eyes. He scoffed bitterly, getting to his feet, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Fucking knew it! That’s all anyone sees—the sorry fucking cripple that can’t do anything on his own.”

“Goddammit, Steve!” she said, nearly tripping as she got to her feet, and when he turned his gaze on her, she visibly drew back from its sharpened edge. “Steve, please,” she tried softer. “I never meant—I know you can take care of yourself. I just—you mentioned some of your financial issues, and I knew I could help.”

Nostrils flaring, he looked away, tears threatening to spill. His jaw was clamped shut, though, probably for the best. Because despite feeling like he’d been punched in the gut—Pepper meant a lot to him, and he didn’t want to say something he’d regret.

The feather-light touch of her hand against his back made him stiffen, seeming to unglue his jaw. “Sorry,” he hissed, then took a breath, looking at the lights below, her hand still burning against his back.

“Jesus—this isn’t on you, Steve. Not at all.”

His shoulder jerked up in a shrug, then he swiped at his tears. “I was taking out my own shit on you—I don’t always know how to accept people just being kind. Everything just gets all twisted in my head—start thinking that it’s pity—making me look weak.”

“I don’t know what to say—or if there’s anything I could do to make it better—but you don’t need to feel that way alone. I’d still like to be your friend.”

Mouth sticky, he swallowed as he nodded, then rubbed his eyes. “Well,” he croaked. “You already know I’m stubborn, but I’m also stupidly loyal, so it’ll take a lot more than this to make me walk away.”

Her hand started rubbing his back. “You gonna be okay?”

“Yes—no—I don’t know, though maybe all the drinks will mean I get some extra sleep tonight.”

“You can always come find me or Tony if you need someone—he’s usually up at the weirdest times. Later than I am. Besides, he’s taken a shine to you.”

He laughed wetly. “I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”

“No, sometimes not, but he means well.” Then her hand dropped away and moved to the railing. “You know, it took everything he had to just use his words when he found out about Bucky.”

Frowning, he glanced at her, the outdoor lighting casting a glow through her hair. “I didn’t think you knew about that.”

“You’d be surprised with what I know,” she said, “but I figured if you needed something, you’d come to me.” Then after a pause, she added, “I do think he’s sorry, though, for what it’s worth.”

“Yeah, well, he should’ve said it when he had the chance.”

“Hey, not arguing that, but Bucky has some... Hard edges. I think it’s a given with everything he’s been through.” She paused. “You’ve probably seen the media coverage these past few years, right?”

He made a noise of acknowledgment, feeling the effects of the alcohol mixing with his meds. If his mother was alive, she’d have kicked his ass for not taking better care of himself.

Just talking about Bucky, he got this weird ache in his chest—and as much as he didn’t want to have feelings about the man, they still stirred in his gut, leaving him anxious and yearning in the same breath.

“Well,” Pepper sighed. “It’s not my place to say—God, I should just quit while I’m ahead—but Bucky—well, he’s been going through some things.” And when he cast an incredulous look at her, she hurried to amend. “I’m not excusing him—he had no right speaking to you like that—but he’s undergoing an adjustment of sorts. He just recently discovered his soulmate connection is still active, which has been a hard pill to swallow, as you can imagine. I don’t think any of us expected that.”

Steve didn’t respond, just tried to ignore the little pang of something he felt too many times in regards to others, not wanting to believe that he was feeling it in response to that asshole, but it was—the air was pungent with the smell of his jealousy of Bucky Barnes’ soulmate.

And wasn’t it a stupid and childish thing to feel? He barely knew him. They were practical strangers. It shouldn’t bother him that the man had a soulmate. Why would it?

He should be happy for him. It was great—maybe the man would get his happily ever after. Everyone deserved that, right?

Taking forceful breaths to push against the pain under his ribs, he itched his brow as he cleared his throat to say, “Um, I hate to cut things short, but I’m starting to feel the drinks a bit too much, so I think it’s time I head in. I can grab the chairs or put away the drinks if you want.”

The smile she gave him looked wrong, reminding him of those ones the nurses give before they stab you with a needle. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll grab the drinks, and the chairs aren’t hurting anything tonight. Besides, Tony hates them, so it’s always fun to see his face when I leave them out.”

Fitful didn’t even begin to describe Steve’s sleep during the night, and the dreams he could remember were more like caricatures of his memories, reflected through the broken shards of a mirror—jagged, sharp, and disjointed.

And when his alarm finally went off, pulling him from his groggy half-sleep, it hit him just how fucked he was. He’d woken up like this too many times in the last few years—pain spreading through most of his joints, stiffness, swelling, fatigue seeping into his marrow.

Unsticking his tongue, he tried to wet his lips, but his mouth was too dry. His eyes were sticky and hard to open, forcing him to rub the lids to break them free.

He didn’t need to see the doctor to know that this was the start of a flare—something he’d hoped the new medication and lack of financial stress hanging over him would have helped to avoid. Guess he just wasn’t that lucky. Though if he were honest, he hadn’t exactly been living the stress-free life lately.

Letting Bucky get under his skin—into his head—had triggered Steve’s mile-wide stubborn streak, fueling his need to prove himself, even if it meant pushing too hard.

And now he was going to pay the price.

Shit. This was the last thing he wanted to deal with right now. It had the real chance of taking him out of commission for weeks or more.

At least living here, he wouldn’t need to call someone directly to notify them he’d be staying home. JARVIS could relay the message, and Pepper wouldn’t intrude on him—that much she’d proven. She’d allowed him to handle the Bucky issue on his own so far. That was more than he’d expected.

Because maybe it was his pride, but he didn’t like people seeing him when he was really down. There was a vulnerability to someone witnessing you at your weakest. Hobbling around like a ninety-year-old was bad enough when you were alone. He didn’t need an audience. So he had no intention of leaving his apartment until he was strong enough to keep his mask in place.

The last thing he needed was one of the team or Pepper to come knocking on his door to check on him. Maybe he should include that in his message to Pepper. No visitors, please. Perhaps he could tell her he was contagious—though that might make her send the medical team. Probably just better to be vague then.

Sitting up, a pained noise cut its way from his throat, making him wince. “Shit, somehow I always forget how much this sucks.”

And the dizzying fatigue and flush to his cheeks told him he already had a low-grade fever. Unfortunately, this was going to be a bad one.

“JARVIS,” Steve prompted hoarsely. “Can you tell Pepper I need the week off? And no visitors—can we do that?”

“I can relay the message, but the residents of this tower tend to only hear what they want, so I suggest not answering your door.”

He groaned, curling forward until he felt the pull of pain in his spine. “Wow, super helpful there, but yeah, I guess that works.”

“I endeavor to be of service, Mr. Rogers.”

This wasn’t his first rodeo. Now he just needed to call his doctor, get some meds, and hopefully sleep for the next few days. Unfortunately, acupuncture and massage—something he’d used before—wouldn’t be enough to cut it this time.

He just hoped that his soulmate behaved for the next week—because he couldn’t take steroids and dampeners simultaneously. And those weren’t things he wanted to choose between.

The lights above the breakfast bar were deeply dimmed, casting a brownish-yellow glow below, making it look like an oasis in the otherwise dark space. And sitting on one of the stools with his back to Bucky was Clint, his messy blond hair and shirt with the ripped-off sleeves giving him away. On the counter were his hearing aids.

There was a distinct sound of metal clicking against metal, then seeming to sense him, possibly JARVIS having sent a buzz through his watch to notify him. Clint turned on his stool, revealing a can of green beans in one hand and a fork in the other. In front of him was a plate with a smeared pile of ketchup.

Clint held up a finger, then stuck the fork in the can so he could put in his aids. "The prodigal son returns. Babysitting still as fun as ever?"

Then Bucky wrinkled his nose as Clint dipped some green beans in the ketchup and popped them into his mouth. The man had some weird tastes from his time in the circus, formed by poverty and desperation—something Bucky knew a little about.

"Extracted and escorted—no injuries."

Clint nodded, returning to his meal as Bucky took in the rest of the kitchen. The place was a disaster—back like before Steve came to work at the tower. Because since he'd started—claiming the kitchen as his own—it had become his temple and was always clean and organized.

But right now? It looked like a bunch of drunk raccoons had been set loose to raid the cupboards—something Steve would have never allowed.

He flicked his gaze back to Clint, a silent question in his brows.

"What?" Clint asked, lifting a forkful of wet, dripping greens beans slathered in ketchup to his mouth. The heathen hadn't even drained them. "Is there something on my face?"

He tried not to let his worry get ahead of him—it could be nothing. Probably was. So licking his lips, he said carefully, "Did I miss something?"

Clint wrinkled his nose, then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, setting the can and fork down. "Uh, no? I mean, I don't think so, though I'm usually the last to know. I think it's my face, you know? Natasha says it doesn't instill confidence or something. So, I don't know."

Bucky lifted a hand, expression twisting a little—undecided. "Your problem isn't your face. It's that you never shut up, but I'm talking about the kitchen—the mess. Where's Steve?"

"Oh, Steve, yeah. Do you still have a thing for him? Natasha thought you did—but we know how she can be, am I right?"

"What? Steve and I aren't like that." He didn't have the energy for this, but at least it didn't seem like something terrible had happened. Clint could be an idiot, but he wouldn't hold out on something like that. "Can you focus for one fucking minute? I just want to know if Steve's okay."

"Um, depends. I don't know, man. I guess he's kind of sick—Pepper didn't give details, but he'll be out for at least a week, and before you get any ideas, we aren't allowed to bother him."

An icy claw reached into him and twisted its nails into his heart—fear—worry for Steve. It felt foreign to him—the uncertainty of it.

Now, if he just knew what to do about it.

Clint was talking, saying something about Pepper being serious, but Bucky tuned him out as he headed back to his floor. Part of him wanted to go to Steve, but another told him showing up at midnight, still wearing his gear, wouldn't do him any favors.

Tomorrow. He'd go home, devise a plan, and then in the morning, check on Steve—whether he liked it or not.

Not expecting company, Steve stood in his kitchen in a blue bathrobe that covered his white undershirt and Iron Man boxers—a surprisingly soft gift from Tony—buttering his toast with aching hands.

It had been a few days since the flare had made itself known, and so far, he still felt like shit. The doctor had prescribed some steroids, though, and advised him to take it easy until this passed, giving him the typical suggestions—light yoga, massage, warm baths, compresses.

Suddenly, the pain in his hand and wrist became too much, causing the butter knife to slip and clatter against the granite countertop. He grimaced and rubbed at his fingers, hating that a simple task could be so hard.

He needed to eat, though. He hadn’t been taking good care of himself at all—despite knowing better. So when his stomach rumbled, he grabbed the half-buttered toast and jammed the corner into his mouth, taking an angry bite.

He was just dusting the crumbs from his t-shirt when he heard a sharp knock at his door, making him sigh, knowing that it had probably been a miracle no one had come to bother him yet.

Another set of hard raps on the door made him groan. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I fucking hear you.”

His sore hands fumbled for the tie of his bathrobe, then once secured, he headed for the door, trying not to growl as his visitor was already knocking again.

Annoyance tickling his nerves, he didn’t pause to ask JARVIS who it was or look through the peephole. Instead, he just unlocked his door and yanked it open, jaw tightening as he came face to face with the person he least expected.

The asshole he’d spent way too much time thinking about.

Bucky’s expression seemed to pinch as his gaze flitted over Steve, probably seeing the messy hair and rumpled clothes, the flaring of his nostrils making Steve cringe. It had been days since his last shower. No doubt his ridiculous senses were picking up the lingering fever sweat clinging to his skin.

Suddenly, he regretted opening the door, the bathrobe not enough armor against this kind of scrutiny. Silently, he tugged the blue flannel robe tighter around his middle, latching onto his old friend—his anger—and letting it defend him. “Pretty sure you’ve got the wrong apartment—unless you’re here to approve of my sick leave, too.”

Bucky exhaled heavily like he’d been holding it—maybe he had. Then his mouth twisted a little before his throat bobbed nervously as he said, “Would you please just—I’m sorry, okay? I came to tell you before, and I just—I don’t know what happened. It got all fucked up like everything else in my life.” His eyes were fixed to some point over Steve’s shoulder but then drifted back to him as the man shifted the paper bag in his arms, clearing his throat. “So, um, I wanted to—I heard you were sick and picked up some things that always make me feel better. Thought they might help you, too—or maybe not.”

Steve looked at the bag, then glanced at Bucky before closing his eyes and groaning. “Of course you couldn’t just stay an asshole—of fucking course.”

“Maybe I should go,” Bucky said, the bag crinkling as he tried passing it to Steve, not that he could even hold onto it right now if he wanted to. “You look like you should rest—and I’m just making things worse.”

Ignoring the bag being pushed at him, Steve pressed his fingers into his eyes, growled, then dropped them to look at Bucky. “Just stop, okay? Stop. I didn’t say to go, okay? I just—it was just a lot easier to hate you when you were being a dick—not that I’m saying I like you. Don’t get any ideas.” He did not like him—he didn’t.

With surprised eyes, Bucky shook his head. “Oh, um, no—yeah, of course not. I don’t like you either.”

A ding to his flimsy armor, so he crossed his arms, his teeth grinding against each other, followed by a twitch of his nose. “Good—I’m glad you don’t. Like me, that is.”

Something flickered through Bucky’s eyes—too quick to pin down—then pressed his lips into a thin line before exhaling sharply. “So now what?”

Truthfully, despite having every reason to hate the man, he didn’t want him to leave. It almost felt like something was tugging at his gut, trying to pull him closer. He’d never felt anything like it before.

There was no way he wasn’t going to regret this, but it tumbled out of his mouth anyway. “Look, you can come in if you want, but I need to sit down.” Then he turned and headed to the couch, not looking back to see if he was followed but calling over his shoulder. “Either way, shutting the door would be appreciated.”

The layout of Steve’s apartment wasn’t much different than his own—open and modern—though Steve’s already had more small touches than his. A colorful afghan slumped over a chair, pictures lined the shelf near the window, and a few cookbooks as old as Bucky were stacked near the TV.

With the door shut behind him, he clutched the bag tighter, then crossed to the kitchen. Across the open space, Steve was already getting up again, seeming to have changed his mind about sitting.

The stiffness in Steve’s movements didn’t go missed by him, but he suspected making a comment about it wouldn’t be received well, so he just started unpacking the bag onto the counter.

When he glanced up, Steve was standing a little hunched, arms wrapping around his middle. A frown painted itself on his brow. At least he didn’t look angry.

“Cheetos, saltines, and—is that a tub of spreadable butter?” Steve asked, his brows at his hairline. “Why? Just why.”

His stomach swayed from the unfamiliar tides of his insecurities—uncertainties about how to be human. And despite himself, he felt himself flush, the embarrassment at his choices choking him enough he needed to clear his throat. “These were just—they’re things I remember always liking—that made me feel better. I just thought—you know what? It’s stupid. I’ll put it away.”

And as he started putting the items back in the bag, Steve surprised him by reaching out and grabbing his metal wrist, the soft touch so powerful it seized its movement. “Look, I think we can both agree we got off on the wrong foot—and I’m sorry. I guess I can be an asshole, too.”

A dry swallow, then a nod, his eyes drifting to Steve’s hand, delicate fingers wrapped around his wrist—though they looked more swollen than he’d seen them before.

“Oh, shit,” Steve said, his hand jerking away. “I’m not usually like this—I mean, just intruding on personal space like that. Fuck. It won’t happen again.”

He acutely mourned the loss of his touch—something that didn’t make sense. “I didn’t mind—I mean, it doesn’t bother me.” A partial lie. It bothered him when other people touched his arm, but Steve was the exception for some reason.

Steve seemed to consider something, then nodded as he grabbed the butter and said, “So, butter, huh? Do you, um, just eat it by the spoonful or…” His brow lifted as he trailed off, a tiny smirk twisting his lips.

It set the sea inside Bucky at ease, his expression mirroring Steve as he lifted the saltines. “It’s probably a little weird, but I like them with a smear of butter when I’m feeling shitty.”

“Huh.” He set the butter down, picking up the Cheetos. “And these?”

“Something I missed out on—came out after the war.” His eyes fell to the bright orange bag, then he shrugged. “I’m not really sure why—but I just like them. Somehow eating a bag can make you feel better and worse at the same time.”

A soft snort made Bucky glance up to see Steve smiling, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You know, if I didn’t know you were an asshole, I’d almost think you were cute.”

“Uh, thanks, I guess.”

Steve hummed, taking the Cheetos with him as he turned toward the living room. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Bucky settled across from Steve in an oversized chair. His instincts were at war—demanding a retreat and a push onward in an attempt for answers at the same time. He needed to know why this scrawny punk had the power to tie him in knots.

“Are you just going to sit there and stare?” Steve asked, licking the cheese from his thumb, then tossing the bag on the table. “Most people bring soup, you know—not that I’m complaining. Those actually hit the spot, so, uh, thanks.”

His chin jerked tightly. Steve’s movements seemed stiff, his cheeks a little flushed, but it wasn’t enough to tell Bucky what was wrong, leaving him to wonder if this was connected to his illness. His questions must have shown on his face, though, because suddenly, a heavy sigh came from Steve.

“What?” Steve scrunched his face, motioning in circles at Bucky. “What is that face about? If you want to know something, I’d rather you just ask, alright? Worst case scenario, I don’t answer—or maybe I don’t answer and throw something at you. But you’ve got good reflexes, right? So nothing to worry about.”

He pulled an unsteady breath into his lungs, then gathered himself—because fear didn’t rule him—he was a soldier. The Soldier. A conversation shouldn’t have his adrenaline pumping, readying him to fight or run. “What’s wrong? Can I ask that?”

Steve dragged the afghan over him, squeezing the knitted fabric and wincing faintly before lifting his gaze to Bucky—and god, those eyes. Even now, dimmed by illness, they were still bright. “Don’t worry, I expected that one. It’s called a flare—when my immune system goes nuts, attacking multiple joints at once. Means feeling like the walking dead for weeks—but it’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”

Brows knitting together, he swept his gaze over Steve again—maybe a little desperate to see something he could mend. A wound on the battlefield would be more straightforward—something he could put his hands on and fix. It might scar, but he’d heal. This disease—this thing—it wasn’t like that at all—but rather a sleeper cell, playing the long game.

“Does it—” He had to pause to breathe. “Aren’t you in pain?”

Steve’s expression changed—mouth twisting, brows carving deep lines, his eyes turning hard. “Everyone’s in some kind of pain.”

Not liking the answer, Bucky pushed back. “I looked up some stuff about it, you know—on the internet.” Then he rolled his eyes at the brow Steve lifted. “Yeah, the old guy can use the computer—impossible, right?” Steve snorted, averting his gaze to the row of photos on the shelf. “You just seem like the type not to ask for help, is all.”

Steve’s eyes flicked back to him. “I’ve been in pain my whole life. I don’t need anybody now.”

He frowned. “Shit, you had this growing up?”

“Nah, the RA came when I got older, but I guess you could say my soulmate is a bit of an asshole, too. Must attract them. Spent most of my life on dampeners because of it.”

Bond dampeners were familiar to him, something that Natasha had mentioned in her attempts at quelling some of his guilt over his soulmate. She’d suggested they’d likely had relief—at least in the second half of their life, as dampeners weren’t invented until about forty years ago.

From what he’d learned, they came at a price, though, leaving him with mixed feelings about his soulmate needing them—and turbulent ones about Steve having needed them since childhood.

What kind of asshole did he have for a soulmate?

“Why do you look like you just licked a lemon?” Steve asked, drawing him out of his thoughts. “Seriously, I don’t need your pity if that’s your problem.”

He ran his thumb over his mouth, nodding absently. “No pity from me. Asshole, remember?”

“I kind of like that part of you,” Steve said, then yawned. “Fuck, I hate to call this short, but my meds are sabotaging my sleep right now, so I think I need to nap, but, um, do you want to come by again tomorrow? Maybe we could argue about pizza toppings or eat some buttered crackers.”

His mouth opened, then closed, head tipping to the side before he nodded and said, “Buttered crackers sound great.”

Something almost bittersweet flickered in Steve’s eyes. “I don’t need a nursemaid or a nag. I can take care of myself, so I mean it. No pity.”

“I ain’t trying to tell you what to feel or how to see the world, but I’ve been through some shit of my own, and not everyone is out to look down on you—even if it feels like it sometimes. The good ones just want to see you back on your feet.”

“So what? You’re one of the good ones?”

“Is that so hard to believe?”

“Okay, buttered crackers are pretty good,” Steve said, finishing the last on his plate.

Bucky grinned. “Told you.”

Steve hummed. “So you got any other favorite foods?”

“Uh, let me think,” Bucky said, nose scrunching. “I can remember this pie—not pie—I don’t know if it was a pie?”

“Is that a question? It’s your favorite. Don’t you think you should know?”

“Shut up—I’m old, remember?” He tried to keep the twinge of melancholy from his tone. It wasn’t common knowledge that he didn’t have all his memories. “But yeah, I think it was a pie—just not made in a pie pan. It was a long time ago, but I remember it being dense and not having a real filling—tangy and sweet.”

And when he glanced over at Steve, the blond looked curious and a little sad. “They took that from you, didn’t they?”

Mouth going tight, Bucky could only nod. “Yeah, yeah, they did.”

“Goddammit, Steve!” Bucky barked. “Just let me help you already!”

Like a cornered, injured dog, Steve just snarled. “Why don’t you just leave?”

“Because for some fucking reason, I care!”

Then Steve pushed himself back to his feet from where he’d fallen. “See? Told you!”

“For fuck’s sake, you’re impossible,” Bucky growled. “I’ll just leave you to hobble around in pain, then. Call me if you ever pull your head out of your ass.”

“I’m sorry,” was the first thing Steve said when Bucky answered, followed by, “I can be an asshole when I’m in pain.”

“Good thing I have a high tolerance for assholery since I’m one, too.”

A breathy laugh from the other side of the phone, then, “Will you come over? Just to be clear, though, this isn’t because I like you.”

“Of course not, Stevie.”

He wasn’t sure where the nickname came from.

“You have a career in massage if the avenging thing doesn’t work out.”

He laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Why don’t you ever send some of this to your soulmate for a few hours? Give yourself a little break. From the sound of it, they fucking deserve it.”

A deep frown aged Steve’s face. “Because it’s just not who I am—who I was raised to be—and even though they haven’t been great, it’s still not right to dump all that on them.”

Bucky’s throat closed around his guilt. “You’re too good for them. You know that, right?”

“I don’t know. I like to think we’re made for each other—that when we finally meet, it’ll all make sense. The growing up in pain, wondering why they didn’t care—I’ll get it.” He took a breath, letting it out through his nose. “I need there to be a reason. Because I don’t know what I’ll do if there isn’t.”

Steve was still suffering despite trying everything from medications to massage to a hot bath. Things had been getting better—only for them to suddenly get worse.

Bucky sat on the couch, with the smaller man curled next to him, his head on Bucky’s thigh and his hand resting on his knee as Bucky dragged his nails through his hair, hoping to send him to sleep.

But just when Bucky thought Steve had started to drift off, a barely-there whimper slipped from his throat, breaking Bucky’s heart. Christ, how he’d come to care for Steve in the last few weeks.

“Shh, easy, punk,” Bucky murmured, still scratching at his scalp. “Just breathe through it.” Then, a moment later, the blond began pulling in slow, stuttering breaths. “There ya go, ace. Nice and easy.”

Then he started gently rubbing the base of Steve’s neck, knowing it had helped him before, and eventually, Steve began to relax, murmuring something about magic fingers, which made him smile.

“I wish I could take this away for you,” he said quietly once Steve’s breaths evened out from sleep. “It’s not fair—you can’t keep going like this.”

Then surprising him, a breathy whisper came in response. “Nah, Buck, you’re wrong. I can do this all day.”

By the time Bucky got to the door, dripping water, a towel around his waist, whoever had knocked was gone, but as his gaze swept the hall before closing the door, his eye caught something on the floor.

A brown box—recycled paper—with a folded note pinned to it by a little yellow smiley face sticker.

He frowned, rechecked the hall, picked it up, and went inside. It was oddly heavier than he expected, the bottom of the box just slightly warmer than the air, a faintly sweet scent sneaking from the seams, tugging at his memories.

Part of him wanted to ask JARVIS who had dropped it off, but he was pretty sure he already knew. Besides, he wanted to savor this moment a little—it wasn’t often someone surprised him with something like this.

So setting it on the counter, he forewent getting dressed to investigate this a little more.

‘Bucky’ was written in something that fell between print and script on the folded note—some of the lines strained and shaky as if they’d come at the price of pain. He swept his thumb over them, feeling the way some lines dug into the paper, frowning.

The note inside wasn’t much—just a simple, ‘It’s a vinegar pie. It sounded like what you were describing that day. Hopefully, it’s as good as you remember,’ and then the initials SGR written after it.

Warm tingles tickled his skin, and a grin lifted the corners of his mouth. “Huh, I’ll be damned.”

And when he opened the box, a bubbly, slightly browned pie greeted him, the slit in the top seeming to have allowed the inner contents to spill out and caramelize in the oven. It sat in a dark blue casserole dish.

It seemed vaguely familiar, but it wasn’t until he leaned closer and drew in a breath that his mind suddenly jolted. The scent hit him like a ton of bricks; the tangy sweetness and spicy nutmeg sent him tumbling back into his mother’s kitchen.

He could remember it all like it was yesterday. The sound of drizzling rain hitting the fire escape outside, the propped open window with water droplets collecting on the sill, his mother laughing as she set a skillet containing a pie on the divet he’d gotten her the year before. His sister—Becca—was at the table, brushing her doll’s hair, then saying something to him, but he couldn’t hear what. It must have been something teasing, though, because she stuck out her tongue and giggled after, right before the memory faded.

He pulled back to his kitchen, goosebumps prickling his skin as his nose stung and tears gathered in his eyes. Every memory he got back was a gift, and this one was priceless. He had so few of his family.

He wiped the tears from his eyes, noticing just what a sight he made, standing in a towel in the kitchen, hair dripping, and crying over a pie.

“Fuck,” he cursed, rubbing his hands over his face. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Then taking a breath, he carefully closed the box, resting his hand on it for a second, before heading back to his room to get dressed.

Later, after building some courage, he unsteadily held a knife over the pie, a comedy in itself, the Winter Soldier unsure with a knife. He wasn’t the soldier right now, though—he was probably closer to the boy from Brooklyn than he’d been in a long time.

A gift given to him by Steve.

His slice was uneven, and he felt a little bad for not making it look its best. But he just sat with his plate for a bit, fork clutched in his tight grip like a weapon—almost like he was afraid, though of what, he didn’t know.

Then he just moved, cutting into his slice and bringing the bite to his mouth, and just like before, time distorted and swirled around him.

Sweet and tangy—and just like his mother would make.

And by the time the last crumbs were gone, he had to wipe the moisture from his eyes.

Then after splashing some water on his face and collecting himself, he grabbed his phone and called Steve, waiting patiently, one, two, three rings for him to answer.

“Hey, Buck.” Steve’s voice was hesitant—unsure. “Is this about the present I left you? I didn’t—did I overstep? You can tell me if I did. I shouldn’t have—”

“Hey, hey, no. You didn’t overstep or anything—nothing like that. I was actually—well, I was calling to just say thank you. For the pie, for letting me get to know you—for the second chance. Just for everything, ya know?”

There was a breathy noise, then, “Was it the same as you remembered? The pie, I mean?”

“I can’t—it was like being back with my mama, just for a minute, and I don’t think I can ever thank you enough for that.”

“Well, you’re welcome,” Steve said, then added, “and um, I meant to say it earlier in the note, but, um, thank you for helping me out when I was down the last few weeks. You didn’t treat me less—even though I was sick. You didn’t focus on that. You still saw me, and well, that’s kinda rare for me.”

“Guess you could say I have some experience in that area. Most people see my arm first—the Winter Soldier—but Bucky Barnes? I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder if he’s even around to see anymore.”

Steve’s tone brooked no argument when he replied, “Well, then they need their vision checked—because I’m pretty sure he’s the guy who was spreading butter on crackers for me and reading the Hobbit to help me sleep.”

A knot formed in his throat. He didn’t deserve this punk, but that wasn’t going to stop him from wanting him more.

He huffed a laugh, scratching his neck. “You must bring him out in me.”

“Nah, I’m not bringing him out—he’s already there, Buck,” Steve said. “Just got a little lost, is all.”

Pursing his lips, he was thankful that no one could see him as he quietly breathed, “I wish I had your faith.”

Steve made a noise—an almost hum—then said, “Then I’ll just have to believe it enough for the two of us until you do.”

Bucky pinched the cigarette filter between his fingers, taking a drag and feeling the familiar warmth of the smoke fill his lungs before breathing it out through his nose and tilting his head up to look at the hazy darkness overhead.

Sometimes he liked to come to the roof like this and pretend he was back in Brooklyn on his fire escape, smoking a butt without a worry in the world. But, Christ, he’d been naïve back then. Always dreaming about soulmates and happy endings.

It hit him sometime after finishing the pie that he’d gone and done something he’d never meant to do—he’d fallen in love with Steve. A man who had a soulmate—asshole or not—that Steve was waiting to meet someday.

A bitter ripple of a laugh warped the air. “Stupid shit. Believing in fairy tales. Impossible things.”

Another puff, holding it in his lungs long enough it should burn, but the serum ruined that for him, too. It all came out in a sharp exhale through his nose as his thoughts turned to Steve’s soulmate, some dark part of him wanting to find the dickhead and kill him. It wasn’t like Steve didn’t deserve better.

People who shucked off every pain without consent were no better than monsters—something he was all too familiar with. So how selfish did it make him to want a chance with Steve when he was no better?

Chest tight, he finished his cigarette, flicking it off the building, then leaning his elbows on the railing, soothed by the still restless city below.

His jaw tensed, though, as he thought of Steve again. Because maybe he was still dreaming of impossible things, but he almost thought he’d seen a flicker of something more in Steve’s eyes.

But, then again, what did rusty old weapons know about love?

After the mission debrief, the team had just flopped onto their favorite padded surfaces in the common room—AIM had stirred up trouble again. They’d taken care of it pretty quickly, though, without any injuries, so thankfully, Bucky hadn’t slipped and sent anything to his soulmate. He’d gained a lot of control in the last few months.

As for Steve, Bucky had kept his feelings hidden, coming to terms with the fact that he had no claim to Steve’s love. The man already had a soulmate—one Steve wanted to meet. And as much as it hurt, Bucky loved him enough to step back, but not too far—just in case. Because if the fool made a single mistake, Bucky wouldn’t hesitate to step in and court Steve like he deserved.

Bucky looked up from his chair when Bruce excused himself to lay down, taking his tea with him. Natasha nodded to him, chewing a bite of her peanut butter sandwich with Clint draped over her legs. Tony was on the chaise with an ice pack over his eyes, claiming a stress headache from Fury’s voice.

The news droned in the background—and not for the first time, made Bucky wish for quieter times. But unfortunately, no one paid attention to the report on the screen.

The elevator dinged, making Bucky swivel his head, seeing a frazzled-looking Pepper sweeping into the room, barefoot with her heels dangling from her fingertips.

“Tony,” she called, walking over to the back of the chaise and petting the man’s sweaty hair.

“Yes, my love?” he murmured, reaching up to hold her wrist, rubbing his thumb over her pale skin.

She frowned at him. “Well, I came to complain about my day, but it looks like you might need a break. Is it a bad one? If you need to rest, you know I can take it for a bit.”

He waved her offer off. “Don’t worry about me. Just tell me about what’s made your day so gloomy, mama. Consider me your dumpster for complaints—come on, lighten your load.”

But instead of answering, her eyes went wide with shock, and she gasped, startling Bucky and the others alike. “Oh my god! JARVIS, turn that up—turn up the news.”

“Pep,” Tony asked, slipping the ice pack down from his eyes and sitting up. “What’s going on? I know the accident’s bad, but it’s not our area. The first responders don’t want us there unless they call us first.”

She choked on a sob, clearly upset. “You don’t understand. Steve is down there. He was there at the café by the market—where the—where the crane landed.”

That had everyone snapping to attention and turning to the TV, including Bucky, whose heart seized at what he saw. On the screen was a market nearby, one he’d gone to before with Steve. A nearby crane had smashed into the building and the outdoor market, sending debris falling and pining people in the streets.

His gaze snapped to Pepper, who was weeping. “Are you sure he’s there? Do we have a tracker on him—something?”

As Pepper nodded, wiping her eyes, Tony was already talking to JARVIS to confirm.

“We were going to meet an hour ago, but I got caught up, broke a heel, everything went to shit.” Then she grabbed Tony’s wrist. “Please, tell me he’s not there.”

“Pep, Pepper, I need you to hear me right now,” Tony said, his tone too severe, already giving away too much. “I need you to breathe. He’s there, but that doesn’t mean anything, okay? We’re gonna find him.”

It felt like he was watching a movie, a horrible, awful tragedy, and he couldn’t move to help. He could hear them, see them, see the news, but he refused to entertain that something could have happened to Steve because he would have known. It couldn’t all be for nothing.

Tony was still talking, trying to calm Pepper as Natasha connected with Fire Command at the scene through JARVIS in the background.

“They’re already on the ground searching,” Tony explained. “But we’re going to go down there and help, okay? And then we’re going to find him and make him bake us a cake for scaring the shit out of us like this.”

Mouth dry, lungs burning, his skin vibrating, Bucky clenched his hands into fists. “This isn’t real—this isn’t real.”

Natasha touched his elbow, making him jump. “Breathe, James. This is real, and right now, Steve needs you to pull it together so we can help him.” She squeezed his arm. “You with me, Soldier?”

He turned to her, meeting her green eyes and taking strength from the command he saw there. Pushing through panic and fear was something Hydra taught him, and now it was time to draw on those skills again.

A cool calm washed over him, clearing his mind and focusing on his one goal—bringing Steve home. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

The scene was organized chaos, and there weren't enough hands yet for all the destruction. According to Fire Command, more trucks were inbound.

He'd seen battlefields before—bodies in rubble—but knowing one of them could be Steve had his heart bruising itself against his ribs despite all his training.

Tony had arrived first in the armor, already helping other victims while searching for Steve—JARVIS probably scanning and assisting from the suit. Clint and Natasha were working with first responders because even though they wanted to find Steve, they couldn't ignore the other victims of the fallen crane.

The dusty air was gritty in his mouth as he crossed to the café where the Iron Man armor was now hovering, scanning an area of mixed debris—the awning from the market mainly covering it.

"I'm picking up his phone right here," Tony came through the comm.

Running to the spot, Bucky peeled back the torn canvas, exposing the remnants of a broken table—and a messy mop of blond hair attached to Steve's lax face. Most of his body was still covered but seeing the pink of his lips and the twitching strain on his features gave him hope.

And god, he needed that right now.

"Steve," he breathed, the remnants of the soldier melting away, leaving nothing but a worried man in love behind. He reached out and touched his cheek, trying to avoid the bruises already forming. "Hang in there, ace. I'm gonna get you out of here."

Then straightening, he went to yank off the rest of the debris covering him, needing to free him, but Tony was shouting at him and grabbing his wrist. The armor and forcing him to stop. "Don't—we can't move him yet."

"What are you talking about? He's hurt! He needs a doctor!" Then he flexed, his arm whining against Tony's grip. "Let me go, Stark!"

"Stop!" Tony snapped, his face plate snapping open. "Bucky, we can't move him. I didn't want to freak you out, but there's a piece of rebar skewering him like a kebab right now, and we need to be careful and plan this shit, or he's gonna bleed out."

The fight drained out of him, and he looked back to Steve, whose eyes were just starting to flutter open, looking around in a daze before landing on him. "Heya, Buck."

His throat sounded clogged by dust—it probably was. Then before Bucky could even respond, the pain seemed to catch up with Steve, making him gasp and sending Bucky falling back to his knees beside him, hands ghosting over his face.

"Hey, yourself," Bucky said, unable to keep the tremble from his voice. "You know, if you wanted to hang out, all you had to do was ask."

And despite the pain, Steve's mouth twitched like he wanted to smile, and it might have soothed some of Bucky's worry if it weren't for how wet his breaths sounded or the tinge of blood Bucky glimpsed in his mouth.

"Don't think buttered crackers are gonna—gonna fix things this time," he gasped between sucking breaths.

Next to him, Tony was talking, gathering personnel to help, but Bucky focused on the man who held his heart.

He'd seen enough to know wounds like these weren't ones that many survived, and as much as he wanted to ignore them, the signs were already showing that Steve's light was being snuffed out. And fuck, it hurt more than anything Hydra had ever done—he'd go through it all again in a heartbeat if it meant letting Steve survive.

"Shh, easy, punk," Bucky choked, dying a little at the pain he saw in Steve's eyes. "I think it's time you shared the burden, Stevie. What do ya think? I know you don't want to, but just this once, how about you pass it on? You don't need to suffer like this." To die in pain, he didn't want to say, but Steve still seemed to hear all the same.

Tears started running down Steve’s temples into his hair, leaving dirty tracks behind. "I always said I wouldn't."

Firefighters were at their side, moving around them. Talks of cutting the rebar were being floated. A paramedic moved close, checking him over, but neither paid her much attention.

Bucky stroked his cheek instead. "Well, I think it's time you did," his voice broke as Steve’s breathing grew more shallow, more strained. "Just let it go, Stevie. It'll be alright. I promise."

Then a few things happened all at once. First, acceptance seemed to settle over Steve's face, then his eyes closed, and a heartbeat later, the world turned on end. Steve fell slack as pain tore through Bucky, making him gasp and scramble to grab a piece of rubble to steady himself.

Oh god. It couldn't be! But the proof was in the pain he felt—the pain coming from his soulmate—from Steve.

Blinking as he tried to get a handle on it, he caught Steve watching him through drooping lids. "What's wrong, Buck? Trying to steal the spotlight?" A little blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth.

He forced a watery smile into place, ignoring the burning throb in his gut from where the rebar skewered Steve. "It's nothing, ace. Just forgot breakfast—I didn't have my chef to make me waffles."

Steve huffed, seeming lighter without his pain. "Someone should talk to that guy about slacking off," he trailed off, eyes drifting closed.

“Steve!”

"His pressure's dropping," the medic called. "We need to get him out of here yesterday. Let's go."

Chaos spread around him, and he looked around to see Tony using a laser to cut the metal. Then, they tried to push him away as they moved him to a board. But he didn't want to let go—he needed to keep touching him to ensure he was warm and alive. He couldn't die—not now.

Stumbling to his feet, he followed, grabbing Steve's limp hand that hung from the stretcher. It felt cold. "Don't leave me! You hear me, Stevie? Don't you fucking leave me!"

"Sir, we need to go," the medic said as Tony tried to pull him away. "Sir, please."

"Bucky, let him go," Tony said. "He's in good hands."

His jaw set, tears running freely down his cheeks. The soldier, the boy from Brooklyn, both allowed the world to see their tears. "I felt him," he broke. "He's mine, Tony—he's really mine."

"You mean he's your—"

"Soulmate." He wiped his eyes, already heading to the jet. "He's my fucking soulmate, and he's dying, and there's nothing I can do about it."

The last thing he remembered was falling into a blissful sleep, pain’s toothy maw seemingly finding another victim, as Bucky’s teary, red-rimmed eyes looked down at him in devastation.

Something about that didn’t add up.

Feeling returning to his fingertips, then spreading through him, he found his eyelids and concentrated, forcing them to open. Needing to know if he was alive or dead. Because something tickled the back of his mind, making him think he shouldn’t be.

His dry, sticky eyes peeled open to slits, and he was greeted with an unfamiliar room—white like so many hospital rooms he’d been in before, though this one seemed different. Until meeting Tony, he didn’t think someone’s style could be so unmistakable, but he knew better now. The room might as well have been stamped with the man’s name.

He didn’t have the energy to ponder it further, though, as his eyes slipped closed again, and he drifted back to sleep.

The next time he awoke was easier, and something was different than before. A dull ache sat in his gut, igniting a twinge of something in his heart as he connected the dots, realizing with a spreading warmth that Bucky had come for him—even if he wasn’t quite sure what that meant.

A calloused thumb moved back and forth over the back of Steve’s hand, daring him to look, even though he was afraid. Because maybe he was selfish, but he wanted it to be Bucky beside him.

As somewhere along the line, he’d fallen in love with his buttered crackers and asshole attitude and the smiles that made his crow’s feet wrinkle even deeper. And with his whole heart, he knew there was no one else for him—not even his soulmate. Bucky was it for him. The fates be damned.

So opening his eyes, he turned his head to see who held his hand, heart swelling nervously when Bucky’s gaze snapped to his.

“Steve,” the exhausted looking man said, standing and taking his hand more firmly. “Hey, there you are.”

He smiled, squeezing Bucky’s fingers, the action softening the man’s expression. It was like seeing the edges of jagged glass smooth away in seconds. “What happened?”

“A crane fell—and you got caught up in the middle of it.”

Steve tried to hum but ended up wincing. “It feels like the skin’s peeling off the inside of my throat.”

“Oh, hang on,” Bucky said, not letting go but reaching to the side table with his metal hand and pouring a cup of water, then sticking in a straw. He brought it to Steve’s lips. “Probably should go slow, alright? I’m not even sure you’re supposed to be having any.”

“It’s fine,” he rasped, then took a sip, immediately feeling relief. “Better. Thanks.”

Bucky set the cup down, then swept his gaze over Steve. “You’re at the tower. We had you transferred here after you were stable. Thought you might like the privacy.”

“Appreciated.” And it was. He’d been in too many hospitals over the years, and sharing rooms was never something he liked. “I get that a crane fell, but what happened to my stomach?”

“Why—does it hurt? They’ve got you on morphine, but there’s still some things we can do.”

Steve wrinkled his nose. “It’s not that bad.”

“Steve…”

He shook his head, squeezing Bucky’s hand again. “I remember some of it—like the part where I gave my pain away.” An ache that had nothing to do with physical injury swelled in his throat. “I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t have done it, but I think—it doesn’t matter to me anymore. I’m done waiting for them, Buck.”

“What are you saying?”

“That my soulmate never wanted me, so I’m done.” He lifted his chin. “They never even wanted me—and I almost died. I’m done with fairytales.”

Steve could see the emotion trying to twist Bucky’s face before the man took a breath and looked down at their hands. “Well, I think you’re wrong this time, Stevie. Because they’ve always wanted you—more than anything, more than life itself.”

A skeptical scoff. A shake of the head. “You don’t know that. You can’t know that.”

Bucky lifted his eyes to meet Steve’s, something soft and vulnerable showing. “I do, though. I know I fucked up at the start, but don’t give up on me yet. Give me a chance to treat you right now. I know I don’t have any right asking, but give me a second chance.”

And despite laying down, it still felt like his stomach had dropped to his feet as his mind raced, puzzle pieces all clicking together to form a picture he’d never imagined but had been so obvious all along.

He could only hold onto Bucky’s hand and swallow, trying to make throat unstick. Then, heart racing, he said shakily, “Say it—I need to hear the words.”

His heart on his sleeve, Bucky licked his lips, then squeezed his hand. “It’s me—I’m your soulmate, Stevie, and I’m so fucking sorry.”

Tears brimmed in his eyes, born of relief at finally having an answer, of sadness for all Bucky had gone through, and for happiness that he didn’t need to fight the fates for the man he loved because he was already his.

“Shit, I didn’t mean to make you cry,” Bucky said, trying to thumb away the damp trails on his cheeks. “Is it really so bad being saddled with me?”

“You stupid, asshole,” Steve huffed. “I don’t ever want to hear you apologize again—never.”

“Steve, I tortured you.”

He shook his head, pulling his hand away to push himself up with a wince, ignoring Bucky’s attempts at helping. Then once he was settled, he looked at Bucky again. “They hurt you, and you thought you were alone, but somehow, part of me got to be with you through it. All that time—it wasn’t for nothing. I got to shine a little light in the darkness for you. So don’t ever try to take that away. Because I’d do it all again—if I needed to—I’d carry it twice over.”

And instead of arguing, Bucky just looked at him, indulgent, eyes glossy, then nodded. “Okay, Stevie, but you’ve got to let me carry yours, too. I think you’ve earned a break, don’t you?”

A crooked smile quirked his lips as he tugged Bucky closer until they breathed the same air. “No promises, but a kiss would improve your chances.”

Bucky huffed, shaking his head. “You’re such a stubborn shit. It’s a good thing I love you.”

Steve smiled, nipping Bucky’s bottom lip before kissing him. “Well, just saying, but I’m pretty in love with you, too.”