Archive of Our Own ^beta

Cold

It’s cold, and it’s dark

His eyes are open, or maybe they’re closed, he can’t.

He can’t tell

Can’t tell anything, but the wet on his skin — the water, or maybe it’s the blood, there’d been a lot of both

It’d been warm, at first, but then everything had gone cold. Cold, and dark, and it’s been hours, or days. Years? And whenever he swims back up, it’s always confusing. The sudden rush of light and noise, and the memories, oh the memories

The memories are the worst part and the best part, and the part that makes him a wild thing, the part that brings the hard pressure around his wrists, his chest, his legs and the hot, bright pain in his brain, his eyes, sharp and stabbing in his ears and running through his nerves

A skinny boy, a short one, and he knows, because it’s all blond hair, the top of a head that fits securely under his arm, the feeling of sharp bones pressing against his side

Bright red blood and old bruises, oversized shirts, his shirts, wrapping a thin frame. Worn cloth and warm water

And a pretty girl, red lips and a soft sweater but behind her

An angry, palpable presence and sad eyes — blue eyes that draw him and keep him, even as a soft arm wraps around his waist so different

A hard chest, under his own; thin, bruised hands. Red again, and blue, and stained white.

Teeth, on his throat; lips gentle at his own. Rough green cloth, and neatly combed hair, and hot, yielding pleasure-pressure between his legs.

Shining metal on soft skin; hard, bruising, purple black and red and then

Then the cold

Cold lips on his own, cool and wet and is

Is it the water or his eyes, salt stinging

Ice down his throat and pain everywhere. His shoulder and in his chest, his heart —

His eyes are open and they’re closed, and he’s dreaming

Dreaming until he wakes, and wonders, and waits

Waits to be sent out, waits for his chest, his heart to wake up, for his eyes to clear

Natasha leans over the control panel, her slender fingers tapping almost lazily at the keys, and Steve has to fight to keep from yelling. It makes him absolutely nuts, the way she’s almost leisurely in the most high pressure of situations.

Particularly in high pressure situations where she was decidedly off mission.

“Natasha! What are you doing?”

“Backing up the harddrive.” She glances at him, quick and dismissive. “What are you doing?”

“What! What am I doing?”

He resists the urge to grab at her, to rush her. It won’t do any good, and he hates how his voice had risen, how it gets higher and more pressured when he’s stressed. An old habit, one that had come back when he’d come out of the ice. The well-modulated tones he’d been trained in during his days on tour are a thing of the past.

Summoning calm, he tries again. “Natasha, this is a hostage situation. We have people to rescue, our people to rescue.”

Natasha hits a few more keys, pauses. “That’s your mission. Mine is here.” She jerks her chin at the screen before disappearing a flash drive somewhere in her tac suit, along with the remnants of Steve’s patience.

“Come on.”

Natasha grumbles, but does something quick to the computer that causes a highly alarming amount of smoke to pour out of the back, and then they’re running through the ship, and begrudgingly, Steve has to admit they make a good team. Natasha effortlessly works around and with the shield, with him. Any communication issues they have disappear in the midst of a focused mission, a simple target.

Steve is actually starting to enjoy himself a little when it all goes to absolute hell, because, of course it does.

Screams from the opposite end of the ship are the first sign. Not the generic oh no, this is moderately frightening and somewhat unexpected screams that Steve is well acquainted with, but desperate, painful screams.

And then, the explosions begin. As the air fills with greasy, black smoke and the deck shakes beneath his feet, Steve realizes they are completely fucked.

“Well, that was embarrassing.”

Steve closes his eyes and leans his head back against the side of the small plane. Embarrassing, yeah, Natasha is right about that. Embarrassing and heartbreaking and just fucked up. And he’d like to blame Natasha, but really, he’d been screwing around too, arguing with her instead of attending to his own mission.

And the hostages? The people he was supposed to rescue? His people?

Gone, all of them. Some executed, the rest —

Steve sighs, deeply. He can feel Natasha shifting next to him, restless. They were both tired. Steve was dispirited. Natasha was — well, he wasn’t sure what. Despite her sarcasm, he’d seen the white lines of strain around her mouth, the — fear in her eyes.

Utter chaos had descended on the ship. Fire, and more explosions. The nauseating feeling of the deck giving way beneath his feet. The now unaccustomed feeling of helplessness, of a situation evolving utterly beyond his control. Ultimately, despite his efforts, he’d ended up in the ocean, somehow (thankfully) close to Natasha. Natasha, who’d somehow managed to get a message out before the entire ship had given up the ghost, even when their own comm equipment had gone mysteriously dead.

It had been extremely unpleasant. They’d stayed afloat, mostly, clinging to some broken bits of the ship, and Natasha had made a lot of jokes he hadn’t understood about there being enough room for both of them. Steve had tried very hard not to panic because after drowning, going back into the ocean in unplanned circumstances is not exactly a cakewalk for his mental health. After what had felt like an eternity, they had been extracted and given warm blankets, and food, and Steve was ready to sleep for a lifetime, and then figure out what the fuck had —

“Steve?” He’d thought Natasha had dozed off, but when he peeled his eyes open, he saw she had rotated to face him. Her entire body was tense, focused, and he felt himself responding to her urgency, leaning in close, scanning the small, crowded interior.

“It’s just us right now.” He reassured her. The plane that had come for them appeared to be manned entirely by a nondescript pair of retired Shield agents who, after wrapping them in warm blankets and offering snacks, had retreated to the cockpit.

Natasha licked her lips. They were dry and cracked.

“Did — did you see him?” she whispered.

Steve shook his head infinitesimally. “Who?” he asked, matching her volume.

“A man, it was just one man, who did all of that. I saw him, and I know him Steve, I’ve seen him before. He’s called the Winter Soldier — most people don’t believe he’s real, but he’s killed dozens, usually high level assassinations. Today, this isn’t his usual kind of job, he’s more subtle, but this time I saw him —”

Natasha’s words went right through him.

Metal arm. Uncanny aim. Preternaturally focused.

Steve swallowed the ice rising in his throat, the chill in his bones that always came back when —

Slowly, hoping his face was neutral, that none of the hope-fear-pain that went through him every time he thought of —

Natasha was still talking “He’s legendary, Rogers. I didn’t even see him before — ” She fumbled at her shirt, pulled it up to show a small, dark scar. “He shot through me.”

And bless Natasha’s little ex-assassin heart, she sounded almost envious. “He killed my body! Right under my nose too, I never even saw him.” She pulled her shirt back down. “I fucking hate bodyguarding, more trouble than —”

She trailed off. “Steve? You okay?”

“Hm? It’s nothing.” Steve tried to make his face bland, neutral. Single brow raised, Natasha stared at him and Steve knows that he’s shit at concealing his emotions, and that somehow, this is going to circle back on him.

“Okay, bodyguarding is not your thing and this guy is a spooky asshole, what else?”

Mercifully, Natasha leaves it, and Steve lets her words wash over him.

Really, he already knows what she’s going to say. He’s a ghost story. He’s fast, strong, skilled. No one sees him, ever. No one knows him. He’s invisible, unknown, deadly.

But Steve — Steve knew him. And this, this might be —

This might be his chance, the one he’s been waiting for.

Because he’s known, and been waiting, hoping, wondering

Wondering when — if Bucky might surface

Because. Steve’s got a secret. Well, he’s got a few, but this is the big one, the one he holds closest to his heart, safe and secure.

Steve had died in 1945. Or at least, he had thought he did. Things get a little tricky, with the serum.

But, serum aside, regardless of what history says, when Steve had died, he hadn‘t been alone.

A clatter, a screech of metal, Steve turns and —

Bucky’s there.

Bucky’s there.

Steve gapes, his heart beating so fast he feels like he did a few short months ago. Before the serum, when just about anything could set his heart racing, rushing to work in the mornings, and confrontation of any kind, and hell, even too deep of a drag on a cigarette and —

Looking at Bucky.

Looking at Bucky had always set his heart racing, reminded him he was still alive even when his body was struggling.

After the serum though, his heart had been slow and regular. even when he’d catch a glimpse of Bucky out of the corner of his eye. The carefully styled hair, dark blue coat and pale eyes, and his heart hadn’t ticked up quite the same way, the serum smoothing him out even before he’d gotten started.

But now, he’d seen Bucky die, and here he is again, changed, different, but it’s him still and that’s apparently too much for the serum to correct for because his heart is flying, racing, thudding against his ribs.

FIngers nerveless, the thud of the shield against the ground as it slips out of his hands, he hadn’t even remembered lifting it as he’d turned and

And his breath had gone out of him with a hollow sound.

That too is like before the serum, when his air could leave him at the drop of a hat but

It’d never happened like this with Bucky’s fist in his gut, right up under his sternum and the weight of Bucky’s body is wonderfully, terribly familiar against his own but not this way, never this way

Horror dawning on him the joy draining away and he can see now how horribly changed Bucky is, the details that had slipped past him before

Thin, so thin, cheekbones and collarbone sharp and cheeks red, flushed. Hollows under his eyes. And oh, his eyes.

His eyes are like Steve has never seen, ringed in shadows and flat, utterly blank.

And Bucky’s arm fuck his arm, he must have — hurt it in the fall, and Steve would laugh at such a minimizing term for a whole new fucking appendage, but the hard metal of the new hand is curling around his throat, and Bucky’s legs are as strong as ever in a vice grip around his ribs, even as he feels the hard bones of Bucky’s knees grinding into him.

“Buck, Bucky, what —”

“What’re you doing?”

“What —”

His voice has gone weak and raspy and Steve can barely get the words out, but it doesn’t matter. There’s not even a flicker of recognition in Bucky’s blank, pretty eyes, and his hand continues to tighten on Steve’s throat. Steve realizes if he doesn’t fight back now he might never have the chance to figure out what’s going on with Bucky, why Bucky doesn't — know him, how Bucky is even alive to begin with, what had happened to him.

Steve plants his feet and he pushes and fuck Bucky is strong, so strong despite his fragile appearance. And even though Steve is fighting for his life, he’s furious, because wherever Bucky has been, whoever has had him, it’s clear he hasn’t been cared for properly because he should not look like that, with hollows under his eyes and his bones sharp, his muscles carved against skin. Even the bit of softness under his chin that Steve had loved is gone, the cords of his neck standing out in stark relief as Bucky’s grip continues to tighten inexorably.

Steve has never remembered the rest too clearly.

There’d been sharp pain, Bucky’s fist cracking against his face, and a few more blows to his gut. Steve had been grateful that at least Bucky hadn’t been sent out with a gun. He’d have been a goner for sure, what with Bucky’s aim and usual skill at being unseen. The Valkyrie had dipped, and there’d been a brief, frantic scrabble, Steve trying to get to the controls, and Bucky doggedly fixated on keeping control of Steve.

There’d been an almost eerie silence, punctuated only by Steve’s gasped pleas to Bucky, the occasional grunt or gasp, the sound of their bodies, struggling

The static of the radio. Peg’s voice, desperate.

The popping in his ears.

How he’d managed to throw Bucky off, finally, and he’d pulled frantically at the controls but it’d been too little, too late. The pain of a knife sinking into his side.

The water, rushing in, and the ice, and how they’d slowly, slowly sunk. Steve had continued to fight, feebly, getting too cold, too slow. When the water had closed over his head, he hadn’t been able to fight anymore, and it’d been — almost a relief. To feel his eyes shut, for his body to go heavy.

To let go.

Steve pushes for a little extra speed on his bike, trying to leave unpleasant memories behind him. Post mission, he had presented himself to SHIELD, ready to make an accounting of himself. Instead, he had found more chaos. Fury gone, Alexander Pierce firmly ensconced in his place, STRIKE operatives crawling all over the facility armed to the teeth. Pierce had never been anything but cordial to Steve but —

Something about the man made his skin crawl, made him feel uneasy. Fury hadn’t been a pushover by any means, and he and Steve had clashed more than once in their short time working together on how to do things, on SHIELD’s role in the world, acceptable boundaries. Ultimately, though, they had been able to work together.

Pierce had made it absolutely clear that there was a new order in place, and that Steve would be expected to fall in line.

Steve had made his excuses — something lame, about his plants needing attention, laundry, too much time spent away from home on this latest mission. Pierce’s bluff geniality had shattered, and Steve had known Pierce hadn’t wanted to let him go, wanted to hold him there. For what exactly — a symbol or a trophy, or just another tool — Steve hadn’t wanted to find out. Hadn’t wanted to test the new shadows on Pierce’s face.

He didn’t think he’d like whatever it was, and anyways, he’s done being a symbol. He’d gone into the ice done with all of it, and when he’d woken up to find that his — legend, such as it was, had gone on without him.

Well, he’d been shocked on his first visit to the museum, back when he’d first woken up. He’d thought — he hadn’t really thought, at first. All of the things he’d done, the actions he’d taken during the war, none of them had seemed that large at the time. And truly, he had just been one small part. A part of the Howlies, a part of the effort against the Nazis, and later, against the supernatural element, Hydra. It’d been surprising to learn about his ‘exemplary’ military service, his ‘brave’ sacrifice.

Hell, he’d been retroactively written into a wartime romance with Peg, and, probably most surprising of all, there was Cap merchandise in the giftshop, a fact which disturbed him in a way he could not articulate.

All of these things aside, when he’d come out of the ice, it’d been apparent, very quickly, that Bucky was not there, but it’d been just as apparent to him that asking any questions might draw dangerous, unwanted attention. After all, they had not parted on auspicious terms and Bucky had clearly not been himself. His eyes had been cold, empty like winter, and his hands — Bucky’s hands had never, never touched Steve with anything but gentleness. Just as clearly to Steve, Bucky had not been acting under his own volition.

Maybe it was just another one of those things, unspoken, that had worked its way into the collective conscious, like his supposed heterosexuality, and July 4th birthday, and so maybe it shouldn’t have been a shock to walk into that museum and see Bucky’s face all over it, to see that he was billed as the only Howlie who’d been — lost. It had been shocking though, had brought back that day on the train with a fierce, sudden ache, despite the knowledge that hadn’t been the end.

And once Steve had woken up, Bucky’s lack of active will and his preternatural strength during their last moments together had eaten at him. Haunted him. Convinced him that there was still a player on the board, unknown,and the lack of accuracy about Bucky’s death had been just one more point of suspicion.

So, he’d kept his mouth shut about Bucky. And he’d waited, and he’d tried to look, a little, on his own. But then the Chitauri had come, and then there’d been the Avengers, and he was supposed to be in charge of the whole kit and caboodle, and it’d been one thing after another, and none of it had been what he’d wanted to be doing, but he hadn’t really been sure what he should be doing.

Because sure, Bucky was lost, but not in a grave, as SHIELD and the rest of the world thought.

Steve had always had a feeling, a sensation at the back of his neck and deep in his chest that said, Bucky. And he’d still felt that, even after Bucky had fallen, and it’d been screaming at him when Bucky had come after him in the Valkyrie.

And when he’d woken up in this century, he’d felt just the same. It was faint. A prickle of his skin, just a bit of tension, a stuttering in his heart. And it’d been getting stronger, but it had been so long, and he’d been so uncertain — until Natasha’s words had affirmed every suspicion.

Every hope.

Every fear he’d had, because oh if Bucky had still been in thrall. Still been a captive, for all these years. What kinds of things had he been forced to do? What had been done to him?

Shaking his head at himself, Steve parks his bike. These thoughts are not productive. He will find Bucky. And he and Bucky will deal with — whatever has been done. Together. And somewhere in there, he will figure out what is going on with SHIELD, if his time there has run out.

Taking the stairs to his apartment two at a time, Steve stopped only briefly to chat with his neighbor. When her door closed behind her, he felt the smile melt off his face as he turned back to face his door. When he’d first touched the knob, he’d felt it. The looseness, the lock broken.

His apartment was still dark when he’d eased the door open, stepped in quietly, all senses on alert. The quiet music, the familiar melody had washed over him, leaving hope, fear all mingling together and sending his heart beating faster, eagerness making him move faster and faster until —

“Captain, you’re late.”

Steve stopped, disappointment rushing through him as Fury turned in his armchair, face illuminated by the single soft lamp.

“No disrespect intended, but I hadn’t been expecting company.” Steve replied dryly, leaning against the doorway and crossing his arms.

“Weren’t you?” Fury asked, raising an eyebrow. “You know how it is, the wife kicks you out, gotta find friends to stay with.”

“We’re friends?”

“Depends on you.” Fury replied,

Steve sighed. “I don’t have time for cryptic spy games. I know you and Natasha love the cloak and dagger routine, but I need you to go.”

Fury rocks back in Steve’s armchair with a creak of leather. “You’re awfully eager to get me out of here. I’d thought you’d be more — understanding.”

Steve pushes off the wall and moves across the room. Unable to feign casual body language anymore. The skin at the back of his neck is crawling, and he’s got a feeling of events sliding beyond his control.

“I’m just —”

“Just what?” Fury pushes to his feet, leaning in close to Steve.

“Busy.” Steve finishes, somewhat lamely. “I’ve got — things. To do. If you’ll excuse me, sir.”

“Soldier, I don’t care how full your dance card is.” Fury turned his phone to face Steve.

SHIELD COMPROMISED

Steve’s mind raced, fitting the pieces together — Pierce. Fury’s presence here. That mission. And his own suspicions. His own secrets. His certainty that —

“Get out!” Steve surprised himself with the intensity of his outburst, but Fury remained unmoved, immoveable, infuriating. Steve can practically see the roots growing into the floor through the man’s boots, his ears pricking up at the thought of a secret, of knowledge previously unknown. “Soldier, you got something you should be telling me?”

And Steve hates that, hates being called Soldier, Captain, all of it, but there’s no more time to argue.

“I can’t tell you, but you’ve got to get out of here, you’ve got to leave.” He’d seen how strong Bucky was, even back when he’d looked more like the walking dead.

And he’s not sure

He can’t guarantee that he won’t help Bucky to the detriment of everyone around him. This building, and everything around him is full of SHIELD, or what had been SHIELD, according to Fury and if Bucky does come to him, if he needs to get away, needs to escape —

Well, Steve can’t guarantee he won’t burn the whole building down if that’s what is needed to help Bucky. He’d do more than that. Even if Bucky’s — different. Even if he’s changed, because Steve, his heart, his feelings, those haven’t changed one bit.

Fury’s eye is narrowed now, appraising him in a not-entirely friendly way. “Rogers if you have information, if you have some insight into what is happening here — ”

Steve shoves at Fury’s chest, not hard, but with deliberation. “Get. Out.” His words come out bitten off, sharp, and he can feel the pressure in his chest and at the back of his neck and it drives him on.

Fury stumbles back a step, shock painting his face. Steve goes after him, pushing him again “Go! Fury, damnit, there are things here — things I can’t explain.” He’s breathing hard, panting.

Fury looks at him carefully, from head to toe. Steve has the feeling that Fury is seeing him properly for the first time, seeing Steve instead of a soldier, instead of a captain, instead of another piece in his Avengers Initiative. He softens his voice deliberately. “Nick, you have to go, please. Take your agents. I’ll.” He’s not sure what exactly he’ll do, but he’s got to get Fury out of here.

“I’ll check in, I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that. We’re going to need you.”

And, to Steve’s astonishment, Fury turns and goes. Not properly, of course. But Steve’s apartment isn’t too high up, and Fury is surprisingly agile as he clambers through the window.

Steve waits.

His apartment had clearly been searched, clumsily, probably a calling card of sorts, SHIELD WAS HERE. He puts it to rights, picking up scattered papers and closing drawers. When he begins putting away dishes, he stops himself, realizing he’s puttering aimlessly. He hardly thinks Buck — anyone stopping by is going to be concerned about the state of his apartment. Briefly, absurdly, he mourns the empty state of his fridge what if Bucky is hungry and forces himself to leave the kitchen.

His stomach is starting to leap, twisting, and he can feel his hands shaking. Fury had left the record playing, and Steve turns it down, dimming the lights further. His apartment feels softer in the dark, more welcoming, the soft music drifting through the air. It’s good. It feels right. His head feels hot, heavy, and he’s surprised to realize he’s still wearing his helmet. Pulling it off, he runs his fingers through his hair.

The uniform he leaves on, hoping it will help Bucky remember him, remember how they’d been together in the last few moments.

Practically speaking, as Steve decidedly remembers how their last moments had gone, the knife in his side, he’s not going to turn up his nose at body armor. The helmet though, he doesn’t need that. Wants Bucky to see his face.

Steve lowers himself slowly into a chair.

And waits.

He’s not sure how long he waits. Long enough for his head to droop forward. To enter that soft, hazy place between waking and dreaming. Each minute drifting into eternity.

The sound of the door being eased open.

Light from the hallway, harsh and fluorescent, shattering his reverie.

A step, and then another — smooth, assured. Confident.

Familiar.

“Bucky.”

A quiet, sudden inhale. Not quite a gasp.

Steve smiles. It feels odd on his face, an unfamiliar pull.

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

A raspy huff of laughter, like when they’d sit together in another lifetime. Smoke curling around them as they’d passed a cigarette, heads bending together close. Their legs, just touching.

“Do you have a death wish? You know what I’m here for.”

Bucky’s words dropped into the air. Laden with menace and precious feeling. Bucky’s words. Bucky, talking to him again. Steve swallows. He feels like he’s going to laugh, or maybe cry. His emotions feel too big for him. Too big for this quiet moment. He swallows again, convulsively.

“What I know is that this isn’t you.” He can hear the creak of leather, Bucky shifting from foot to foot.

“Bucky.”

Steve waits a second. Softening his voice, he tries again. “Bucky, I know you. I’d know you in any lifetime, and in every bit of my body. It doesn’t matter what’s happened, what you’ve done. I still know you, I’ll always know you.”

The door closes, and then, suddenly, wonderfully, Bucky is right in front of him. He’s right there. Close enough for Steve to touch.

Bucky’s changed, of course. Impossible not to, after the serum. Although —

Steve narrows his eyes. “What are you wearing? Is that a grenade launcher?! Bucky, what the hell!”

Bucky is completely in black leather, thick straps crossing his chest, enormous boots on his feet. Except his arm, which is shockingly bare, metal plates laid bare in the dim light. He’s covered in weapons, except the grenade launcher, which he has casually placed on Steve’s kitchen table. It’s not a bad look, perse, but Steve can see the shadows under his eyes. Wants to tug down the mask and see the rest of Bucky’s face.

And then it’s like Bucky is reading his mind. He crouches in front of Steve, and Steve drinks in the details of his face as he pulls his mask off. His cheekbones, sharper. His stubble, the same. The muscles that twitch in Bucky’s cheek as he clenches his jaw, his eyes roaming hungrily over Steve’s own face.

Steve closes his eyes. It’s too much, too real. Too close.

“Steve, shut up.” It’s gentle. As gentle as the fingers that touch Steve’s cheek. Linger over his lips. Ghost up over his hair.

Steve can feel Bucky’s breath, hot on his throat, right under his ear.

“Steve, it’s you, it really is. I wasn’t sure, I’ve been so —“

A crash. Shouting. Flashing lights.

When Steve opens his eyes, he’s surrounded by STRIKE. There’s no sign of Bucky. Steve stays seated, not seeing or hearing the chaos around him, the agents screaming in his face, his home being torn apart.

Calculations run through his mind, scenarios reviewed and discarded. He’s going to have to be fast, faster than he’s ever been.

Because Bucky had whispered to him, right before he’d disappeared. No sweet words, or plans to reunite, but they’d struck Steve like a dagger nonetheless.

Hydra is here.

Steve stepped out onto his balcony, intending to enjoy the morning sunshine before getting ready for the day.

Instead, he immediately tripped over two bound and gagged men left inconveniently close to the door. Cursing, he pokes at one of them with his bare toe. The man shifts, and begins to writhe frantically.

Steve sighs. “Hydra?”

Ignoring the subsequent frantic nods, he turns away to get his phone. He’s assigned an informal rotation to who he notifies, and this morning it’s Sam’s turn.

Got 2 more

The response is immediate.

It’s too early for this shit. Go back to sleep

A second passes, and Steve watches the dancing dots of Sam typing. Someone will come out to collect, you don’t need to be there. ETA 2 hours

Steve nods awkwardly at the Hydra agents. “Someone will be with you soon.” Like his balcony is some kind of waiting room, and he’s placating impatient customers. It’s become a disturbingly frequent situation. Steve likes to think he deals with it more rationally now than he had earlier in the year, where he’d stood out in the alley and screamed “You could take them in yourself you know!” into the dead air, before collapsing into frustrated tears.

Going back inside, Steve goes through his morning routine. Coffee, food. A hot shower.

When Steve had left SHIELD, he’d had some half-formed, vague idea that he would find Bucky, or Bucky would find him. They would get therapy, because Christ knows they could both use it. Maybe they would continue to be superheroes, maybe not, but regardless they would deal with Hydra once and for fucking all. Steve had kind of imagined it’d be nice to have the domesticity they’d always wanted — breakfast together in the morning, and fucking properly in their own bed at night, and hell, holding hands when they went out. Maybe they would both get hobbies that did not include weaponry of any kind.

He had realized real quick that there were some flaws in his plan. The first of which had been him, his regrettably public persona as Captain America, and his just as public departure from SHIELD.

Wandering into the bathroom, Steve leans in close to the mirror, inspecting his roots. They’re not quite in need of attention yet. In the past year, his hair had grown out a little, and his beard had grown out a lot, and he’d dyed the lot of it into a softer, more nondescript brown within a couple of days of leaving DC.

First go around he’d made a shitty job of it, and had spent a week or so with stained ears. Panic had seized him when the dye had emerged in a vigorous burst all over his head, his ears, and the cabinets. The end result had been stained skin, ruined towels, and a hefty bill from the hotel room when the fumes had induced mild panic, causing him to end up wrapped in the shower curtain, and ultimately tearing it from the rod.

Either way, Captain America was a bright blonde blond, with bright, white shining smiles and government sponsored, tight fitting athletic wear, and Steve is a tired looking man in a thrifted hoodie and worn jeans, and it’s enough to keep most attention from him.

Except Bucky’s. Bucky’s maddening, infuriating attention, that reminds Steve of nothing more than some of the cats he’d known. Lingering, just out of reach. The briefest moment of affection, and then a lightning swipe of claws. Absolutely maddening. And to Steve, at least, totally irresistible.

And from the few, elusive glimpses he’d gotten, Bucky had changed too.

Steve had been — concerned, when he’d seen Bucky, really gotten a good look at him back in DC.

In the past, whenever possible, Bucky had taken care of himself. Kept his hair trimmed, and styled. Short and clean nails, clothes in good repair.

In DC — Bucky had not looked himself. Hell, people change, Steve knows that. But Bucky’s hair had looked like someone had gone at it with a pair of dull scissors, his beard had been at a particularly rough stage of grow out, and if anyone had ever told Steve that Bucky would be running around in a one armed bondage-esque jacket, he’d have laughed.

Most recently though, Bucky had been looking — good. His hair looked healthy. Clean, and shiny, and styled, he looked like he’d been sleeping and eating regularly. Even the arm was different — a duller, matte gray that Bucky seemed to carry more easily on his frame.

All this aside, the second flaw in Steve’s plan had still been Bucky. Because, for all Bucky had seemed to know Steve, to remember him in their brief encounter, it had quickly become clear to him on follow up that Bucky’s memories were not fully intact. There are times where it seems that Bucky barely knows him — that he gravitates to Steve out of a subliminal habit rather than true desire. That (mostly) free of Hydra, he’s reverted to some deeper programming that he doesn’t fully understand, and that Steve doesn’t get either.

Those are the times where Steve would despair of things ever improving between them. When Bucky would look at him, eyes cold and distant and seeing things Steve could only imagine. When their interactions were edged with hostility.

But most often, it’s a confused, jumbled up mess. Where Bucky pops up, at all hours, at all times. Comes into his apartment, and sits down across from him at the little diner he likes. Shows up in the middle of a fight, and then leaves without a word. Leaves Steve on edge and uncertain, and sure that Bucky himself is as just as on edge and uncertain.

Steve tries though. He leaves things for Bucky. Food that he thinks Bucky will like. Cigarettes. Notes and little drawings. And Bucky leaves Hydra agents. Trussed up, traumatized Hydra agents that are practically grateful to surrender to the retired Captain America. Maps to weapon caches. Intel.

In a gesture that Steve had truly treasured, Bucky had left him a knife once. And, almost as an afterthought, there’d been a wilted daisy left on top, signifying in no uncertain terms that it was in fact, a gift, and not just some untidiness.

One night — one night, Steve had thought that maybe they’d move forward. Bucky had shown up, and helped him with a small cluster of Hydra agents. And instead of disappearing, he’d — stayed. He’d leaned against the wall next to Steve, and he’d lit a cigarette, and it had been so familiar. So good. Bucky had been so close, and he’d smelled so good. The same, really, as he had, and Steve hadn’t been able to resist shifting closer. Closer than they’d been, in a long time.

He’d touched Bucky’s left arm gently, on the wrist. “Do you have to cut off all the sleeves?”

Bucky’d huffed in amusement. “Not all, but usually. Don’t want to get caught up in the plates.”

Steve had traced the said plates. The metal was cool, hard. “I thought you might ask —” Bucky trails off, the plates of his arms shifting under Steve’s touch, resettling.

“Ask what?” It makes Steve sad to think of all those discarded sleeves. To think of Bucky, his arm out, in the world, all the time. Bucky’s voice still sounds amused. “I don’t know Steve, people usually ask if it hurts. Or weird shit. Sex shit.”

Steve sighs. “I figured it hurts. Or that it did, at first. I don’t know how it couldn’t.”

“It did. Not so much now. I’m used to it.” Bucky’s tone was matter of fact.

“Do you — do you get cold?” Steve’s not sure why it matters so much — pain is a horrible thing in its own right, but when Steve had come out of the ice he’d never thought he’d be warm again. And Bucky had come out of the ice again and again.

“Steve.” Bucky’s voice had been strangled and harsh, and then flesh fingers had gripped his own hand, hard, and Steve’d squeezed his eyes shut, too afraid to breath, to move, to do anything, because he can feel Bucky’s hand trembling, the plates shivering under his own palm. Bucky had whispered his name again, with a hint of a sob this time. “The cold is the worst fucking part.”

“I know Buck, I know it is.” They’d stood like that for a moment, their hands tangled together, cold metal and warm flesh, breathing hard. And Steve had thought for a second that Bucky might finally come home with him, but he’d peeled off instead without another word. And in the morning, there’d been another Hydra agent at his door.

And Steve knew that really, it’d be a huge security issue. But, if he’s the first problem, and Bucky is the second, Hydra, and SHIELD, or what remains of it is the third problem, and it’s a pretty fucking huge one. When Steve had dug into the incident on the Lemurien, he’d found that the entire mission had been a plant. It’d been an elaborate ruse, an assassination attempt that he and Natasha had not been intended to survive. And once he’d started looking, well it’d been like a blackberry vine. Runners, in every direction imaginable, roots running deep and foul.

So, he gets that Bucky can’t just come live with him. Keep moving with him, because Steve doesn’t stay in one place for long. But these — these gifts, like a dead bird on his pillow or a fresh hairball, and these — moments with Bucky, where the very air between them hums with memories, with sorrow, with potential and possibility, and Bucky himself, how there’s more of him each time, more of the man he knew, and the man he’s becoming, all mixed up with the Winter Soldier and really good hair, really soft looking hair and it’s all making Steve just a bit on edge.

Steve’s phone rings, jarring him out of his deep contemplation of Bucky’s finer attributes.

It’s Natasha. And when he turns on the TV, as she instructs in a terse voice, he discovers new levels of profanity that he’s acquired in this century. And goes to find his tac suit.

Steve curses for what feels like the millionth time as he tugs at the side of his suit, feels the wind whip through his hair. He’s not worn the suit much in the past year, and he hadn’t truly realized how much maintenance SHIELD had done in the background on his gear. It’s ill fitting now, worn and not particularly comfortable. Still, it’s what he has, and at least it’s familiar. Sam is soaring overhead, Natasha’s voice is in his ear, and that too, is familiar. They’ve got a mission.

Take down the helicarriers. He’d been horrified when he’d seen that bit of propaganda, seen the videos Natasha had sent him. It was a whole new level of evil, of watchful malevolence wrapped up in protective patriotism.

As he begins to climb upwards towards his assigned section of the helicarrier, he feels — something. Shaking, from above. And when he cranes his head upwards, he can see a flash of black leather, a dull gleam of metal.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” The wind pulls his words from him, and he shakes his head and starts climbing faster. Once Steve reaches the top, the deja vu is even stronger. Sure, it’s a more modern, sleek ship, but still. That frantic feeling of trying to correct something larger than yourself, something hellbent on a mission of destruction. And, as he turns from deactivating the second control panel, something else familiar greets him.

“Buck. What are you doing here?”

Bucky stands in front of him. Blocking his path. He’s in what Steve thinks of as his Winter Soldier outfit, armed to the teeth. But his face — he looks uncertain. Worried.

“Steve? Steve?! Steve, what are — what are you doing here?”

“Hey, hey, Bucky.” Steve tries to make his voice soothing. “We can talk later, but we’ve just a few moments before we all go up, so just — ugh!”

He cries out as Bucky surges forward, grabs at his tac suit. “Steve I don’t understand, why. Why. What —?” His voice trails off, and up close Steve can see his pupils are a pinprick, nearly lost in the wide, pale gray of his eyes.

He pulls Steve closer, shakes him, hard, and his words are coming out in a confused, tangled rush, and Steve realizes that Bucky’s mind is being pulled in a dozen directions. Steve’s being jostled, Bucky is so fucking strong and mindless with fear and Steve does the only thing he can think to do.

He whispers into his comm that he’s been grounded. Hears Natasha and Sam recalibrate. He trusts them absolutely. Knows they will complete the mission.

And he wraps his arms around Bucky. He pulls the love of his life as close as he can. Feels Bucky’s terror go through him like a knife. And it pulls him under like a current.

Steve’s big, strong, running easily, and he’s small and gasping for breath; they’re in the Lemurien, and the Valkyrie, and their bedroom back home and Bucky’s sunk a knife in his side, and his teeth are sharp in Bucky’s throat. Bucky’s strapped to a table, and there’s a needle in his arm, a scope to his eye. And the serum is running through both of them, hot lightning lancing nerves tearing muscle

and their hearts

Stop

And start, sluggish, reluctant. Blood running like water, ice in the veins

Ice all around

Steve wakes, gasping and

Bucky’s in his arms, still and they’re falling

Falling, with debris all around them. Smoke, and explosions, and up high, if he squints, he can see the barest flash of wings, of red, white and blue

And then he closes his eyes, just as they hit the water

As they go under

And it’s cold; cold, and dark, and he’s panicking, because this too, is familiar.

Then — A hard grip on his shoulder, and his lungs are screaming for air but it’s getting lighter, lighter all around the pressure is less and then he’s gasping for air, water in his eyes

There’s hard ground under him, and another body on top of him, and it’s Bucky, and they’re separate again, Steve knows where he ends, and where Bucky begins, but then

Bucky’s lips on his, hard and bruising and stealing any breath he’d regained and the ice is melting all around him and in him and he’s finally, finally warm.

Steve waits.

Again, he's waiting, and sometimes he feels like he's been waiting for more than half his life. Frozen in time, frozen in a moment, waiting.

This time though, when the door opens, when Steve opens his eyes, Bucky is there.

Toeing off his muddy boots, dropping his bag. Watching Steve, with uncertain eyes, until Steve opens his arms.

And when Steve murmurs "I've been waiting for you." it's against Bucky's hair, into his ear, against his lips.

"You know what I'm here for." Bucky sounds a little shy but determined. "I'm here for good, this time."

Steve smiles, and it feels good on his face this time. Feels good to see it echoed on Bucky's.

"I know. This time, I do." When their lips meet, it's the start of something new. Something new, something warm and soft, and most of all, something together.

And the old program falls away.