Chapter Text
Steve opens his eyes and blinks slowly in the mid morning sun. He can hear waves crashing against a sandy shore, a rushing, dragging rhythm, and Bucky humming, somewhere below him.
Out the window, blue ocean extends as far as the eye can see, eventually meeting with sky and puffy white clouds. In the corners, rolling green cliffs extend into the water like dark fingers. There’s no other houses on the cove, just theirs - nestled right in the center. He and Bucky own the property stretching down both sides of the coast - their nearest neighbor is ten miles away. So the view is just nature - trees and rocks and waves.
The window is one of the first thing he sees now, when he opens his eyes each morning. It helps on those days when reality feels too blurry to make out - when the crushing prison melds with a dark fortress or the belly of a plane or an expanse of years without Bucky. He can open his eyes and look out over the ever changing ocean, the clouds and the hills. It reminds him that he is far away from a dark cell.
He sits up slowly, feels his body stretch and pull with the change in position. Still in bed, he stretches forward, feels his back muscles extend as he reaches for his toes. He twists to the left, and then the right. His hands only have a little tremble in them this morning when he makes a fist. He presses his palms together, feels the tight muscles.
Then he swings his legs to the side and grabs the cane from where it's leaning against his bedside table. He plants his feet on the thick carpet and uses the support of the cane to lever himself up. His right leg gives a little in the knee and ankle, but he’s used to that now, and steadies himself easily.
It’s a beautiful cane: dark wood streaked with veins of something that almost looks gold in the right light. Tony had suggested something red, white and blue. But Steve had vetoed that one, much to Tony’s eternal displeasure. The handle is smooth and fitted perfectly to Steve’s grip and it doesn’t show the slightest bit of weakness when Steve leans his full weight against it. He’s grateful for the effort his friends took to find him the perfect cane. But he still despises its existence just a little.
The parasite burrowing in his insides would've killed a normal man, almost instantly. It's why Rumlow had been so desperate to get Steve, in particular, as a host. As it was, Steve had come very close to dying himself. He remembers the feeling of crushing weakness as the days with that creature inside of him had dragged on. He remembers the pain as the creature burst from him, being almost blind, just seeing the pale round of Bucky’s face bending close and thinking it was another hallucination. And, beyond that, he doesn't remember much until waking up in Dr. Cho's hospital after the surgeries.
His first clear memory of after (after the prison, after the snowy field, after a dark room with Bucky looking terrified above him) is seeing the sun reflecting a prism of rainbow colors on a clean white wall. He had watched the sun move across the wall for awhile and then, when he had turned his head finally, Bucky had been next to him, hand clenched around his, face lax in sleep. His head had been tipped sideways against the chair, mouth open as he snored softly. Steve remembers staring for a long time, just marveling at the way he could hear him breathe and the way metal fingers felt against his. After the years, just being in the same room with Bucky had been a luxury that Steve didn’t want to lose.
Finally, Bucky had twitched, mouth pursing. His hand had flexed around Steve’s and he’d blinked awake, yawning once. And then his eyes had locked onto Steve and his face had done something complicated. He leaned close, fingers stroking against the pad of Steve’s palm tenderly. “Hey, Steve,” he’d said, gentle and almost like he didn’t expect Steve to answer.
"Buck," Steve had whispered back, his throat and mouth feeling parched and unwieldy.
Bucky’s eyes had gone wide and he’d started crying then. He’d just put his head down on the bed next to Steve's side and cried in great gulps while Steve tried to get his arms to work so he could settle it on Bucky's shoulders.
"It's okay," he'd whispered, whole body feeling like a deadened lump.
Later, he had found out that he'd been in and out consciousness for a month. He'd found out that he'd almost died in surgery and that they'd been worried about brain death in the immediate aftermath. Natasha had told him that he'd woken up three times before he had said Bucky's name. The first two times, Steve hadn't responded and the third, he'd looked at Bucky but hadn't seemed able to speak. They'd been worried about how bad the brain damage was going to be and how fast it would heal.
In the end, some parts of his brain had fared better than others. By the third day, he wasn't slurring his words any longer and he could say the date and how he had gotten there and recount the time he'd spent in Rumlow’s fortress. He could remember what he ate for breakfast that morning, what Bucky was wearing, and could rattle off lists of objects that therapists showed him hours before.
Gross motor skills were another ball park.
The working theory was that because the alien parasite had needed to control his limbs to use Steve's body, his own muscle control had suffered the greatest amount of damage. Communication pathways between Steve’s brain and his limbs had been disrupted and broken and it was taking awhile for them to come back online.
It had taken Steve another month before he could hold a spoon. He'd been frustrated and angry at his helplessness. After years of being a prisoner and then being almost shoved out of his own body, he couldn't even feed himself? It had reminded of being small and sick and a burden on everyone around him. The feeling had soured in his gut.
Bucky, though, had taken to the situation like it was an old pair of gloves he'd just found again. He hadn't let Steve wallow, hadn't let him mope. He'd brought in thick protein shakes with straws so Steve wouldn't feel dependent and had teased him like it was 1941. He was unflaggingly positive, pushing Steve through each painful therapy session and each moment of embarrassing weakness. At night, when the muscles in his hands spasmed with pain and curled up into ugly claws, Bucky sat beside him and massaged his fingers for hours and hours. When Steve had told him to go sleep, he’d smiled. “This serum has got to be good for something, right?”
So, despite the humiliation and the endless therapy and tests, Bucky had made Steve almost feel like he had come home for the first time in over 75 years.
(Much later, Sam would tell him that Bucky would leave his room and cry in the hallway, far enough away that Steve couldn’t hear. San would tell him that Bucky’d blamed himself and the world and that he had raged against the unfairness of if all. He’ll tell Steve how Bucky put his fist through a wall and how he wiped his eyes dry before marching back into Steve’s room with his shoulders back like he was going into war. But he had never showed that to Steve, never had been anything but strong and optimistic and Steve felt humbled in the face of his strength).
Three months after Steve had woken up, Steve had sat in a pretty therapy room next to a parallel bar and taken a deep breath. Then, with Bucky standing behind him and Sam across the room and the physical therapist by the door, he had pushed himself to his feet. His knuckles had gone white where he was holding on to the parallel bar and he’d felt the tremble all the way up to his shoulders. But, with Bucky’s steady hands hovering an inch away, he had let go. He swayed but held his balance and had managed one shuffling step forward before his right knee had buckled and Bucky had caught him, getting him back to the chair and kissing his forehead.
“You did it,” he had murmured and Steve had nodded into his stomach.
The therapist had come over and clapped his shoulder. “Guess this means you’re going home,” he had said and Steve hadn’t been able to stop smiling.
They boarded the plane the next day. He'd been in a wheelchair but he'd felt healthier than he'd had in years, since that last day he had walked out of that cabin a free man. Stark's private jet had taken them here, to a small town off the Oregon coast and the home Bucky had gotten for them.
Bucky had told him, whispered it on nights in the hospital where Steve's limbs had ached and twitched with a thousand pinpricks, that he'd picked it himself, that he'd found the perfect spot. He'd described it in detail, how Steve would never feel trapped because the windows were so wide and numerous, how the house sat on a bluff in a clearing so that the light was always perfect, how they owned the land all around it so it would always be theirs and they could hide from everyone. He told him about walking on the beach and how they could sit on the upstairs balcony and watch the storms roll across the Pacific.
And Tony has been busy while he'd been in the hospital. With Bucky's permission, he'd carefully designed and renovated the house so it could accommodate Steve upon his release from the hospital. Narrow hallways were widened so Steve's wheelchair could navigate easily and a small elevator was installed in the back. A rooftop greenhouse with a glass ceiling and a hot tub had been added and there was a steel safe room in the basement.
When Steve had first seen it, he had been speechless. Even now, as he goes from their bedroom to the hallway, leaning heavily on his cane, he feels in awe at the amount of care and hope that had gone into this home. His right leg drags just a little and he huffs in annoyance. At the top of the stairs, he pauses, weighing his own ability to navigate down them safely and the indignity of taking the elevator. Experimentally, he tests the weight on his right leg and sighs again before moving to the elevator. It’s not worth Bucky’s anger if he falls.
The first time he had fallen down the stairs, Bucky had been white with fear and anger. He’d called Stark and they’d had been on a private jet to South Korea for exams before he had been able to say “Buck, you’re overreacting. I’m totally fine.” His ankle had been twisted and he’d bruised his left side quite badly - but the serum had kicked in, as normal, and he’d been just as healthy as ever by the time they landed at the hospital. He’d gotten a lecture on not pushing himself and some additional exercises to improve his dexterity going up and down for his troubles.
At least he’s been able to use the cane lately. He goes through periods, changes in the weather, mood, whatever, when the cane is even too much and he ends up back in the dreaded wheelchair. Even now, the chair sits in their closet, waiting for him. It’s not weakness, it’s just sometimes his brain seems to forget how to tell his legs to move. It’s frustrating and Steve thinks that he would’ve given up a long time ago if it hadn’t been for Bucky.
The elevator opens up to the wide living room, light pouring in from every side. Thick couches line the walls and ring a wide stone fireplace with his shield above it. He pauses, reaches to rub two fingers over the star like he does every morning.
"For you," Bucky had said, when they had first arrived after that long flight and Steve had seen it there. "Whenever you want it back."
The official story, from SHOC and repeated on all the news channels worldwide, was that Captain Rogers had bravely infiltrated a Hydra stronghold after he had been ransomed and thought dead. He had fought from the inside to bring the organization down once and for all, dismantling the forcefield that had been protecting Hydra. The morning they had left D.C., the Patriot missiles had successfully destroyed the U.S. Capitol. Really, it was still a mystery how Hydra’s shield had come down. The popular thought, among those in the know, was that somehow the parasite that had invaded Steve’s body had possessed the ability to project it. When it had been killed, the force field had vanished. Steve remembers the wide, prickling sensation of power and thinks that this explanation makes sense.
So all the news channels had proclaimed Captain America was a hero! Stark Industries had released a PR statement, that was repeated ad nauseam through the subsequent days and weeks saying that Steve Rogers had been critically wounded in battle and had been taken to recover quietly in an undisclosed location. The nation, and the world, wished him well. The President have even issued an official statement thanking him for his service. Steve hadn’t been able to read the words without tasting bitterness on his tongue.
SHOC hadn’t bothered - they had too much to do anyway. After the Capitol had been destroyed, Stark had managed to triangulate the location of the base in the North Pole. SHOC units had stormed the base three days later, Wanda leading them. It had been bloody but successful. As far as Steve knew, they were still cataloging all the technology they had found there.
In the immediate aftermath, SHOC had sought an interview with Steve, a debrief they had called it. Stark had been adamant in his refusal to share their location. Last Steve had heard, SHOC had quietly backed down from that battle. He was officially listed on the Avengers’ roster as taking an indefinite medical leave of absence. Bucky was taking a leave of absence too. He’d point blanked refused the first time SHOC had contacted him with a mission. After a brief but vicious argument, Bucky had kept his spot on the team but had been moved to inactive for the foreseeable future.
So, the shield on the mantle is his. He is Captain America. Even if he still didn’t feel it in his own skin. On some dark days, he wonders if he will ever feel strong enough to take up that title again. He has nightmares frequently. Most often, they’re of the prison, of being trapped in a small, cold space with the walls closing in and screaming and screaming, but no one ever coming. He dreams of being trapped in a box, a narrow hole his only connection to the outside world, and watching his friends forget about him while he starves slowly in a dark space. Less frequently, he dreams of that dark red feeling when the parasite had overwhelmed, trapped him in his own head. Often, the dreams merge and wind together, being trapped in prison and his own body and constantly searching for a way out, only to be suffocated. He wakes up screaming from those dreams and Bucky is always there, warm hands on his face and soothing voice in his ear. Sometimes, the only thing that helps is standing on the upstairs balcony, feeling the wild sea breeze and smelling the salt and knowing he’s the furthest place possible from the small, dark spaces. He’ll sit in the hot tub, feel the heat and bubble of the water and the night air on his face and let himself drift and forget.
No one is pressuring him to take up the shield though - and the Avengers are doing fine without him. He watches them on the news sometimes and feels so much pride that these are his friends. They’re okay without him. Tony and Sam and Natasha come frequently for visits and the others send cards and letters when they can. Steve keeps them all in a drawer by his bed.
The last time Sam got injured in a firefight, he’d come out to stay with them to recuperate. Nothing major, he’d insisted, just a broken arm - and then he had arrived with both arms in casts and a set of broken ribs. Bucky had gotten him set up in the downstairs bedroom while Steve had fed him soup at their kitchen table. Sam had been hopped up on pain meds and half asleep, drowsing between bites.
“I miss you,” he’d told Steve, quiet. “But I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad you feel safe here.” He had looked up, squinted as though he was looking down a long tunnel. “You’re okay right?”
“I’m okay, Sam,” Steve had said.
Sam had smiled, sweet and tired. “It’s nice here,” he’d said, voice almost slurring with the exhaustion. “It’s warm and happy. It’s like being home.”
Steve had patted his shoulder. “You’ll always have a home here.”
Sam had stayed until he was completely healed. He’d joined them on their beach walks and gardened on roof and, when he’d gotten his casts off, joined Bucky in his awkward beginning attempts at surfing. The waves in their little cove were terrible (at least that’s what Bucky said with conviction every time Steve asked) but that didn’t stop them both from dragging massive long boards into the cold northern Pacific waters and paddling out to try and catch the sloping waves that came in slow sets. Steve joined now and then - he didn’t feel confident enough in his legs to actually try and catch waves, but he liked straddling the board, far enough out that the waves were just gentle swells, and watching the way the water foamed just a little at the top.
Afterward, they would lay in the sand, towels forgotten, until the sun started to set and the chill sent them inside.
It’s late fall now and the surfboards are stashed away but Steve is hoping Sam will be back next summer and they’ll be able to do it all again.
In the kitchen, Bucky is standing in front of the wide window, dressed only in sweatpants. He’s swaying to soft jazz music coming from the speakers above the stove as he fries bacon on the thick bottom skillet. His hair is pulled back and his arm is shining in the sun. He’s beautiful.
Bucky must hear Steve behind him because he turns. His smile is brilliant. “Hey, I made pancakes and bacon. And coffee.” He puts the spatula down and walks over, wraps his arms around Steve’s middle and leans close.
Kissing Bucky always feels like coming home. His hand slides and hooks in the back of Steve’s t-shirt, tugging down just a little, his lips tease just a little at Steve’s mouth, before he pushes them fully together. It’s not a long kiss and after, Bucky tips his forehead so their faces are bent near each other. They’re so close that Steve can see the tiny, darker flecks in his eyes, can see the tiny freckles on the sides of his nose. He can hear his heartbeat and smell the soap he used in the shower that morning.
“Good morning,” Steve says into the space between them and Bucky laughs, clear and happy like this is everything he always wanted. His hair tickles the sides of Steve’s cheeks where it’s pulling loose from the hair tie.
“Your legs okay?” he asks, fingers dropping down to touch Steve’s hand where it’s heavy on the cane.
“Little stiff, nothing some stretches won’t cure.” He huffs at Bucky’s doubtful look. “I’m fine. I even took the elevator this morning just for you.”
Bucky kisses his nose, smacking loudly. “For that, you get an extra pancake.”
They eat breakfast on the patio, just off of the kitchen, He tries to help Bucky set the table - but Bucky shoos him out to the deck, sits him down in one of the thick wooden chairs. The morning sun is a smooth heat against Steve’s skin, soaking and spilling across like the softest brush. He thinks of the hot, claustrophobic heat of laying in the yard in the prison, tiled walls on either side and the pale sun reflecting hot on broken tiles. The feeling builds in his chest until Bucky takes his hands, squeezes their fingers together.
“C’mon,” Bucky says, teasing when Steve tries to get up to help again as he dishes out the pancake and bacon. “I did all this work. At least let me take all of the credit.” He smoothes Steve’s hair back with his metal hand.
Steve leans into the touch, closes his eyes when Bucky tugs gently at the short hairs at the back of his nape. Bucky’s thumb presses the thin skin behind his ear, ghosting over the delicate place where Steve knows he still has a thin white scar from that last surgery that has never gone away. He open his eyes and looks up.
The ocean spreads behind Bucky’s head and the water matches his eyes and, when he smiles, Steve feels like he could never be cold again.
Later, Steve will go to his studio at the side of the house, where every wall is a window, and work on the latest sculpture he’s been attempting. He tried painting and drawing when they first got to the house - but his hand-eye coordination still doesn’t feel steady enough for pencil work or oils. All of his work came out sloppy and imperfect and endlessly frustrating.
It was Natasha that had suggested clay - and Tony who’d had a potter’s wheel, a kiln, what seemed like a metric ton of clay, and all the tools he could possibly find on the internet shipped out to them. Steve hadn’t been sure at first - but dragging his fingers through clay feels solid and right. He can push slowly against the wet stone until it moves into the correct position - and, if he doesn’t like it, he can reform the entire thing into a ball and start over.
His first pieces were bowls and plates and paper weights, whorled in blues and greens and whites. Bucky has them all through out the house. Then came the mugs and the vases and wide dishes to hold sea glass and sea shells or even just pretty rocks that they found by the shore. He did a wide, heavy jar in golds and creams and crimsons, filled it with sea glass, and carefully packaged it up and sent it to Tony. He’d never gotten a reply, but, a week later, Natasha had messaged him a photo of it sitting in Tony’s living room, in the center of the dining table.
Now, he’s been working on a tree, forming a thick trunk, whorled with age. He’ll add branches, long and reaching and sheltering, and then tiny leaves. He wants to twist the branches and the trunk and show the tree at the height of the storm, standing strong against whatever the world throws at it. He plans to give it to Bucky for his birthday.
That evening, he and Bucky will go for a walk along the bluff. Well, Bucky will walk. After a long day at the potter’s wheel, Steve will be sore and shaky and Bucky will insist that he take the wheelchair. Steve will protest but he’ll acquiesce because he doesn’t like making Bucky worry. They’ll walk the bluffs and then wind their way down to the beach and watch the sun slowly burn itself out in the ocean, the sky going pink and orange and purple with its departure. Bucky will bend and kiss his forehead, he’ll run his hand through Steve’s hair, they’ll breathe the same air while the waves crash. The breeze will be cold and salty and Bucky's lips will be warm.
When the stars and the moon come out and dinner has been put away, Bucky will lift him from the chair and carry him to bed and they’ll lay together in bright moonlight, like two halves of a whole, two stanzas of a poem.
And, then later, much later, the world will need saving again. And Steve will take up his shield from the mantle and stand tall on his own two feet, steady and strong. Bucky will be next to him and his team will be behind him. Steve will march into battle and think of a World Fair and a flying car and the years that stretched in between them. He’ll think of getting out of a black SUV and walking up a long white staircase and the handcuffs around his wrists. He’ll think of a snowy field and Bucky’s face and waking up in a hospital with Bucky’s hand in his. He’ll think of this moment, now, by their home, Bucky smiling at him with the blue ocean behind him, wide enough to hold all of their future, wide enough to hold all of their dreams.
He’ll think of how his heart beats to the rhythm of Bucky: when they’re laying on a big bed, pulses and breaths intertwining; when they’re walking down a long sandy beach with the waves lapping at their feet and salt in their hair; when they’re standing back to back in a battlefield, together and never parted. He’ll know that this rhythm is what has always guided him home.
And, he’ll know that the battle has already been won.
The end.