It's 1926. James is at the corner store, purchasing a box of brownies and a packet of candles. He's nine years old today, but the cake isn't for him. It's for his father, a "Welcome Home!" present of sorts. His ma thinks he'll be pleased, thinks he'll sit down to eat the cake with them and listen eagerly to all that's happened while he's been away. But father's never pleased, not even before he got sent away. James wishes she would realize that; he wishes she would stop getting her hopes up for a life that'll never be theirs. But ma hasn't been much easy to please these days either. So if she says she wants to throw a party, James'll throw her a party.
And gladly run to their landlord when his father inevitably starts yelling and hitting at her.
"That'll be $1.75", the man behind the counter says.
James reaches into his pocket, pulls out two scraggly dollar bills, and slides them across the sticky counter. The man grunts, hands him his change, and murmurs, "Best of luck" as James walks out the door.
It's cold out. The snow's up to his ankles, and the thin fabric of his pants does little against the wind biting at his skin. James pulls up his scarf and turns to begin the walk back home when the sound of a gate slamming startles him.
He clenches his fists and turns to look around him. No one's there, but there is the distinct sound of someone getting beaten up. And he should know, given that he's always someone's target for ridicule.
He should turn back around. He shouldn't get involved. He should leave this be because he's just a chubby nine year old that can barely protect himself, let alone some poor chap getting beaten six ways to Sunday. But James is always that chap, and everyday when the big kids come to collect his lunch money, he always wonders why no one's ever around to help.
This time, someone is around to help. And that someone is him.
James rounds the corner, and there they are. A pack of kids a few years his senior, punching and kicking at a kid curled into a ball beside a dumpster. James inhales; he balls his fists up and steps forward, the crunching snow beneath his feet giving away his presence.
The other kids look up from the guy on the ground. They look at James, and, instantly, he know which way this is going to go. But James isn't looking at them. He's looking at the kid, the guy on the ground.
He's a sickly looking fella. He's got bruises, old and new, covering every bit of his body that isn't covered up. His eyes, a stark, piercing blue, peer out from between the arms enclosed around his face. James bites his lip. He blinks and he thinks, if this is only going to go one way, he might as well make the best of it.
James lifts his fists, pulls a face like father showed him, and shouts, "Get the hell away from him before I kick your asses!"
It's an empty threat. He couldn't kick a snowman's ass, and, even if he could, he wouldn't want to. He and the older boys know it. But the guy on the ground, he's lowering his arms to get a better look, and James could swear the guy's watching him like he's some kind of savior.
A savior.
James walks closer until he's just inches away from the pack of boys. "I mean it", he shouts. "I'll-I'll do it! Folks won't even recognize ya when I'm done with y'all."
One of the boys narrows his eyes. He takes half a step forward, but it's in that minute that one of the women in the apartments above them steps out onto her balcony to water her flowers. Mrs. Hertz. Good ole, Mrs. Hertz.
The boy looks at James, and his face contorts into a snarl. "This ain't over, Porkster", he says, shoving his finger into James's chest. And with that, he jerks his head, turns around, and disappears down the alley with his cronies.
"Whoa", the guy on the ground says. He staggers to his feet, whips his head to look at the retreating boys, then turns back to James, his eyes wide and disbelieving. "You actually got 'em to stop."
James's eyes dart up to Mrs. Hertz before turning back to the guy's. "Uh, yup. What can I say? I'm kind of the Big Cheese around these parts."
"Yeah, no kidding." The kid smiles wide and extends a hand. James accepts it and gives what he hopes is a firm shake. "I'm Steven. Steven Grant Rogers. I'm, uh, not from around here."
"James Buchanan Barnes."
"Huh. Well, James, thanks for the save." Steve brushes his hair out of his face, and it's only then that James notices just how skinny the guy is. His cheekbones are pressing against his chin like they want to leap right on out, and his legs look like they can barely support him.
It doesn't make sense. Of all the guys to pick on, they chose Steve.
He knows he's not supposed to, but, sometimes, James really hates people.
"It's no problem", James assures him; he crouches to pick up his bag of items and nods at the boy, who's still staring at him as if he'd personally dove down from the heavens to save him from the hounds of hell. James blushes and looks away. "I, uh, gotta go. My ma's waiting on me and-"
"Right. Right, yeah." Steve scratches the back of his head and nods. He spits a red glob of spit into the snow, then swipes at his nose. "Well. I guess I'll see you around."
"Yeah. I'll see you."
Then the boy's waving and walking past him, taking a left where James usually takes a right, and that's that.
. . .
James gets jumped by those same boys a couple of days later, and he keeps getting jumped for months on end.
He doesn't regret a thing.
. . .
A couple of months pass, and James routinely finds himself bumping into Steve. Sometimes, he's with ma, sometimes he's with his sisters, but he's usually alone, and those times are the best because James gets to pretend he's everything he isn't without fear for getting called out on it. James worries that Steve will see through the act or get bored and leave like the other boys do. But he doesn't. Every time they meet, Steve's eyes widen in wonder, and he rushes up to him, eager to trade stories with him, like he's amazed that James could even bother to spend time with him.
June, the littlest sister, teases him about it, says he's caught himself a stalker, but James doesn't care. It's nice to have someone who listens. It's nice to have someone who enjoys being with him. Steve doesn't care that he doesn't like taking his shirt off around other people. Steve doesn't care that James sometimes gets a little moody and needs some quiet time. Steve doesn't care that James likes to write stories more than he does talking to people. Steve just likes spending time with him, and James likes that.
Father doesn't, of course. He says James is acting like a queer and that he needs to get into some "manly" things before people start getting the wrong idea. Ma tries to intervene, but he just yells at her, says it's her fault for having so many girls and coddling him so much. James says he doesn't care, but he doesn't protest when father gets him enrolled in boxing classes. He's tired of getting his ass kicked anyway.
That and Steve pretty much flips his lid when he tells him.
"You're already a fighting machine", Steve tells him as they're digging through the Salvation Army box. He tosses punches in the air and flashes James a toothy grin. "Just imagine how it'll be now that you're a professional. No one's gonna wanna mess with you now." He shakes his head in wonder and just smiles. "You'll be a real hero."
James flushes bright red and giggles. He doesn't tell him about the bullies. He doesn't tell him about the girls that point and stare and the boys that oink and pinch at his stomach and flabby arms. He doesn't tell him about the days when he's home alone, when he steals ma's corset and runs around the apartment, smiling and crying because, even if it's just for a little while, the fat's gone.
He doesn't tell him any of that because if he does, then Steve'll know he's not a hero. Heroes don't have problems like that. He just smiles, ruffles up Steve's hair, and says, "Yeah. I'll be a real chip off the old block".
James can admit it; he feels kind of bad about the lying. But he teaches Steve a few things about bobbing and weaving and figures that makes up for it. As he comes to find out, Steve has a bit of a penchant for getting into fights, and his frail body makes it hard to keep up with his opponents. He worries at first, but it's okay. Because the Barnes's move sometime late in the spring, and the move takes them straight to Steve's neighborhood. James isn't the greatest boxer, but he's better than most of the boys in the neighborhood, so he tries to stay at Steve's side whenever he hears he's earned someone's ire.
. . .
It's 1929. Steve has taken to calling James "Bucky". He doesn't know why, but, then again, he doesn't care either. "James" has always sounded a bit plain anyway. Father doesn't like it, doesn't really like Steve at all, but, gradually, everyone starts to call him "Bucky". Ma, the girls, his teachers. James becomes Bucky almost overnight, and almost no one seems to notice. Father's intent on calling him "James", but it's whatever.
He knows who he is.
. . .
He doesn't really have friends. Steve doesn't either, which, Bucky supposes is just as well. He's not sure how he'd feel if he found out Steve found another buddy. He likes being his only buddy. And, yes, he know how that sounds. He knows that people are starting to get "That Idea", but it's not like that. Steve's his pal, his good pal.
So what if he wants to spend all of his time with him? So what if he always washes his face and wears his best clothes when he knows Steve's gonna be around? So what if, while all the other guys are making fools of themselves to impress dames, Bucky's browsing the book racks, a sweating, jittery mess because Steve's been talking about this rare book about art techniques because Steve's eyes always light up so pretty when he does things like this, like he's surprised that anyone aside from his mother would want to do something nice for him.
And maybe, okay maybe, sometimes he does get a little funny feeling in his stomach when Steve gets real cleaned up for church or gets real pensive during a sketching or goes off on a tangent about the meatheads that he's always getting into fights with. And, yes, he knows how that sounds, he knows how it all sounds, but it's not like that.
He's not like that.
. . .
It's 1930.
Bucky can't squeeze into ma's corset anymore, and his moods are worse. Father got pinched for punching a cop a few months back, but he remains a dank presence within the Barnes household through his hateful letters that ma insists on reading. She's drinking and depressed again, which means Bucky and Jeanette have to take care of the house. Even with father's veteran's checks, they're the poorest they've ever been; what little money ma doesn't drink away, the two eldest mismanage and blow away within a matter of days. Bucky tries to make sure the little ones get enough to eat, but there's just not enough money, and ma refuses to go on welfare. Says their dignity is all they have left but even that, Bucky can't help but think, they're running short on these days.
"It's economics", Steve, the smartass, says one day while they're rummaging through a dumpster. "Wallstreet took a nosedive, and the world's been haywire ever since."
"Steve-o, I don't care about Wallstreet, and I don't care about economics." Bucky flicks a moldy can of mushrooms aside and wades his hand through the filth, desperate to find something. "I care about food. I haven't eaten in days, and the girls only have a few cans of Campbell's left before things really get bad."
Steve looks up from the other end of the dumpster, his eyes soft, concerned. "I'm sure we'll find something." His lips perk, and he huffs. "Not a lot of people are desperate enough for dumpster-diving."
Steve is twelve now. He's gotten taller, but he hasn't filled out. And with the Depression, he's looking more skeletal than Bucky could care for. His skin is taut and grey, like he's just crawled out of a grave, and his eyes are yellow with sickness. He looks bad.
Bucky wants to take care of him. He wants to take him home and fix him soup, brush his thinning hair out of his face, and look through them fancy artbooks Steve just checked out of the library. But Steve's got a mom, a real mom, one that looks for work and looks for food and always, no matter what, comes home to make him soup, wrap him in blankets, and listen to the radio; she's a real nice lady, and she's more than capable of surviving. He's more likely to survive in her hands, but, even still, things are rough for everyone, and Bucky just wants to help. In any way that he can.
"I know", Bucky says, willing a smile to his face.
To his relief, they come upon three expired boxes of Kraft macaroni. The third, they rip in half to pour into their pockets. When they're finished, they look at each other, smile, and giggle uncontrollably until the laughter dissolves into tears, and they're standing chest to chest, with their arms wrapped tight around one another.
Bucky has never been more scared in his entire life.
. . .
It's 1933. He's sixteen, and all the guys in his class have girlfriends. That word comes back, the one that always manages sends a chilling shudder down his spine: queer. He's heard it all his life. From his father, from his bullies, from his neighbors. But he's sixteen now, and there's a new, blossoming fear that arises every time he hears it because he's sixteen years old, and he's never had a crush on a girl before. Not even the ones in his father's old dirty magazines.
He told ma once, once and once only; he was careful, of course, made sure to just say girls were pretty but that he was too nervous to talk to any. Nothing that gave too much away or to arise suspicion.
She didn't take it seriously. Just said he needs to get his heads out of the clouds and "get out there".
Bucky's tried that. He's put aside the writing, and he's tried talking to girls. They never seem to show much interest, but he tries, he tries so fucking hard, and he just doesn't get it. They're just girls, pretty, sure, nice, sometimes, but he looks at all the ones in his school, all the ones in his neighborhood, and he just can't imagine settling down with them.
There's a word for men like that, he often finds himself thinking, but he never lets himself finish the thought. Because if he finishes it, then he's admitting that it's true, and it can't be true. Because if it is true, then there's another truth, one involving Steve, and that most definitely can't be true.
Steve is...Steve is special. He's not like everybody else. He listens, and he thinks, and he's the greatest friend a guy could ask for, but that's all Bucky sees in him. A scruffy, stubborn little dude he's been trying to be a hero for since they were kids. A muttonhead that gets the cutest, pinkest flush whenever he tries talking to a dame he's pining for. A tiny, sick thing that, nonetheless, always manages to make Bucky feel like the smallest guy on the planet.
Bucky presses his knuckles to his temple. "Stop it", he whispers to himself, feeling the sting of tears at the back of his eyes.
He's not a queer. He's not a fag. He's normal, he's just a late bloomer, that's all. Ma may be a nutcase, but she's right about a lot of things, and she's right about this.
He's in the bathroom, sitting in a tub full of freezing water. Jade's banging at the door, hollering for him to hurry up and let someone else in. Bucky just sinks further in the water and closes his eyes.
He's not one of them.
He's not.
He can't be.
. . .
Bucky's never really one for making friends, but Bobby just kind of happens. They're sitting in Home Ec one day, complaining as they tend to do (even though Bucky actually doesn't mind it all that much) when Bobby invites him over to his house to listen in on the Yankees that night. Bucky says 'maybe', partially because he has plans with Steve that night and partially because it's just a bad idea if he's being honest.
He's not like the other guys. Gals don't do it for him. They never have. But he's heard two guys going at it in an abandoned building before, and it's just like what he always hears father and the guys at school talking about. It's just like that, only it's not for a girl.
And it's not like Bucky's happy with being one of them. He knows what life's like for a queer. Forget the regular neighborhood bullies. He could get stomped within an inch of his life and be denied service to a hospital because it's not like he's human anyway, right? He's seen it. He's heard it. Those that are out, they're out and they're standing on a ledge with their backs turned, feet ground heavy into the ground but still no match for whoever might come up behind them and push them over.
So yeah. He ain't happy with it. But he figures as long as he keeps it a secret, the better a life he'll have.
Then Bobby, slick-haired, smart-alec Bobby, comes along and asks him over to his house. Bucky's noticed him. How could he not? He's got a presence that's larger than life itself, and he makes sure to flaunt it. He's the coolest kid in school, and Bucky's always wondered what it'd be like to be a part of his crew. He just never thought it'd actually happen. Because Bobby was cool, snazzy, just an all-around, upright fella, and Bucky was a weirdo that never got changed for gym and wore clothes that never seemed to fit him right.
"I mean, it's weird, right", Bucky asks Steve as they're munching on their halves of a Hershey's bar. "Why would he want to hang out with me?"
Steve wipes the back of his hand over his mouth and raises his eyebrows. "You're joshing me", he says, watching him curiously. "You're the coolest guy out there. Why wouldn't he want to be your friend?"
Bucky blinks and looks away, staring at the smears of chocolate on his fingers. It's been seven years. Seven years since he "saved" Steve from those assholes and befriended him. He's long since eased off on the tales of grandor, but Steve hasn't forgotten. He still looks at Bucky like he's Zorro and thinks he's got the run of things. It helps that Bucky's years in boxing have made it harder for him to get jumped, but he's tired of keeping up the act. He's no hero. He's a loser pretending to be somebody important so that the one good thing in his life doesn't zip out and leave him all alone again.
"Just go", Steve says softly; he balls up their candy wrapper and pushes it into his pants pocket. "If it goes bad, you can just leave and ignore him for forever."
That's Steve. Everything's always simple with him. You can either do something or not do it. And if you do and it sucks, you walk away and move on. Bucky's never been able to do that.
But he really likes Bobby. And he thinks it'd be nice to see a face at school and know for a fact that it's friendly.
So he accepts. He goes home, takes a bath, and makes the walk over to Bobby's place. The Yankees lose, and Bobby gets a bit worked up over it, but he's nice enough.
After that, they walk over to the cinema to watch She Done Him Wrong. Bobby's got a hell of a crush on Mae White, so much that he spends the whole film talking about what a fine dame she is and how much he'd like to do her. Bucky goes along with it, and the evening, for the most part, is pleasant. If he tries hard enough, he can pretend that this is a date and that the filth coming out of Bobby's mouth is meant for him.
. . .
It's 1934. Father's home again. Jeanette's run off with one of her girlfriends after another fight with him about her being one of them flappers. Ma keeps the twins locked in the closet all day and pokes and prods at Bucky's fat until he cries; when that happens, she grins like a wicked crow and cackles, calling him a wet pig and pressing a finger to her nose. Her doctor says she's sick in the "other kind of way". Father says she's enlightened and that she's trying to help. If she doesn't, the twins will always be afraid of the dark, and Bucky will always be a fat slob.
Bucky never tells Steve, but, sometimes, when he sleeps over, he presses his face into Steve's back and just cries.
. . .
Him and Bobby are hanging out a lot now. Steve doesn't seem to mind; he's busy chasing dames, following all the rules that Bucky made up and always striking out. Bucky misses him an awful lot, but he never says so.
He keeps busy with Bobby's, who's become something of an adventurer, always up to something. First, it was the snow, but his folks caught wind, so he's kind of simmered down. He's gone out for sports, and all the coaches love him.
Bucky goes to all his games; he sneers at the opponents when he loses, pokes jabs when he wins, like he's supposed to. Bobby takes to him well, even introduces him to his teammates. Naturally, Bucky doesn't get on with them, but that's fine.
Father's happy. He thinks Bucky should show them the boxing center or join one of the teams. He thinks Bucky's normal ("finally") and doesn't want him to screw it up.
And Steve? Steve's worried. Says Bobby's a bad dude and that Bucky should be careful.
Bucky tells him he's being a worrywart.
"Guys that make fun of people should make you worry", Steve says, staring at Bucky like he's some sad, lost puppy.
Bucky doesn't like that look. He doesn't like Steve worrying about him. He doesn't like Steve knowing that his life isn't as great as he pretends it is.
"I'll be fine, Steve-o", he assures him, and they leave it at that.
Admittedly, Bobby isn't the nicest guy. Like everyone else, he's got a grotesque fixation on Bucky's weight, can't help but throw in a jokes, pinch, demand his exact numbers, the likes. It hurts, sure, but that's just how Bobby is, how most guys are. It's Bucky's own fault for getting used to Steve and thinking shit like that's actually normal.
Bucky's spent his whole life getting picked on. He doesn't like it, but Bobby's his friend. And it's okay when a friend picks on you.
. . .
It's 1935, and it's the year that Bobby Taylor calls him a disgusting pig in the locker room.
Bucky had thought they were friends, had thought that Bobby would listen and care when he told him to cool it with the "jokes". But Bobby just crawls onto that bench, calls the attention of their class, points at Bucky, and starts in about how the school's just made their good friend, Porky Pig, the new mascot.
The guys howl in delight, and Bucky leaves. Walks right out of the locker room, out of the school, out of the neighborhood, and just keeps on walking.
"It doesn't matter", he whispers to himself above the roar of the city. "Because they don't know. They don't know that I'm getting better."
He got the idea from a girl in his math class. Brittany something. Says she's been "dieting" for two years now and lost a ton of weight. Bucky hasn't known her long enough to know if it's true, but he didn't care. Boxing didn't help, pinching didn't help, quitting dairy didn't help. If she said starving herself worked, then it had to because what else would?
He's always been embarrassed about his weight; even as a kid, waddling around their little apartment and hearing ma's friends ask how a boy his age was so huge. But the older he got, the more weight he took on, and the more people started to notice. He hears it from father all the time, how he didn't spend all that money on boxing for him to turn out to be a lard. Sometimes ma joins in, saying how he'll never find a nice girl if he doesn't take a good look in the mirror and cut back on the sweets. Then there's the kids at school, who never miss an opportunity to torture someone. And after word gets around about the locker room debacle, Bucky can't seem to escape himself.
He doesn't go home that night. He goes to the abandoned foodmart three blocks over and locks himself in the bathroom. He leans over the sink, looks in the mirror, and pinches at his fat until the skin burns. Then he picks up one of the shards of glass from the sinkbowl. He presses it into his love handles onto a torrent of red pushes through and spills over his fingers and the floor. He keeps pushing until the bitter voice in his head goes quiet and the world goes dark around him.
It's 1935, and he awakes to Steve's lithe arms holding him, his tiny little body jerking with each sob as he shouts his name over and over again. Bucky blinks, looks up at Steve, and tries to say something, but Steve is crying and screaming, and he just doesn't know what to say.
"Bucky, Bucky, Bucky", he's saying, and there are sirens screaming right along with him.
He sleeps for a few days. Father tells him that when he awakes in the hospital, right before he launches into a tirade about all the money he's cost them. Then the nurses storm in to remove him, and he sleeps for a few more days.
When he wakes up again, his sisters, even Jeanette, are asleep in the chairs beside him, and Steve's standing at the window, pensively staring out until he feels the eyes on him.
"Steve-o", Bucky says with a smile as tired as he feels. "You came all this way to see me?"
Steve crouches beside him and pulls his lower lip between his teeth. "Figured I'd return the favor", he says through a cracking voice.
"Mm." Bucky leans his head back and closes his eyes. He can hear people roaming about outside his room, talking about baseball, Hitler, food stamps, and what all else. He licks his lips, and he thinks of Steve's blotchy face above him in that dirty foodmart.
"You're a great guy, Buck."
It's a whisper. It's quieter than Steve's ever been, and Steve's a real quiet guy. Bucky closes his eyes tighter and clenches his fist. He wants something to punch. And of course, all the things he wants to punch are things he can't even touch.
"There's nothing wrong with being fat", Steve continues, and he reaches out to hesitantly take Bucky's hand in his. "There's nothing wrong with being you."
Bucky takes in a sharp breath. He sniffles, and the tears are running freely now. "I didn't scare those guys off when we were kids", he says underneath his breath. "There was just an old lady watching us, and they didn't want to get in trouble."
"I know."
"I never was the Big Cheese, and I'm never gonna be. I'm just me."
Steve squeezes his hand. If he could, he'd probably crawl into bed with him. "You're a real swell fella", Steve says, his voice thick in that way that means he's about to start crying. "I wish you could see that."
Bucky opens his eyes to look down at Steve. And he knows, within that moment, that he never had a chance at being normal.
. . .
Father never lets him come back home. When he's well enough, he and Steve take their savings and move into a squat apartment in Williamsburg. Steve never asks about that day or what lead up to it, and he doesn't question when Bucky abandons the boxing center for a gym. He just watches him sadly and tells him to remember to take a canister of water with him.
. . .
It's 1937, and Bucky is different. He's eating again, but his trips to the gym have done wonders to his physique. If the guys from school could see him…
Bucky shakes his head, smiles. He drums his fingers against the sink counter and lifts up his shirt.
"Nothing but abs", he says, closing a fist and tugging it down.
From their bed across the room, Steve smirks and tosses a dirty sock at him. "Easy, tiger."
Bucky rolls his eyes. He pulls a rubber band from off the counter, puts his hair up in a rare ponytail, then turns to rush across the room and jumps into bed beside him. Always careful not to hurt him, Bucky wraps his legs around Steve and tugs him backwards, rubbing his knuckles against his skull as he throws his head back and howls.
"You're happy", Steve notes, elbowing into his stomach. He rolls away, then sits up; he's watching Bucky, eyes heavy with scrutiny like they have been these past few years. It used to bug Bucky something awful at first, but he doesn't mind so much now. He knows he just cares a lot.
Bucky shrugs. He tosses an arm over his stomach and stares up at the ceiling. There's a trickle of rain dropping in and gathering in a puddle beside their bed. He's gonna have to patch that up soon, what with winter coming so soon and everything. Won't do either of them good if they come down with something. "Yeah." His eyes flicker from above to his right, to where Steve, still so small and frail, is watching him like...not like a God but like a friend.
Oddly enough, it makes him feel better than he has in a long time.
"I'm glad you're better." Steve smiles and reaches over to give his shoulder a light shove. His smile wobbles then. He lowers his eyes and says, quieter, "I was worried".
There it is.
Two years and not a word about that night. Bucky didn't wanted to talk about it. He still doesn't want to talk about it. But for as much as he needs to take care of Steve, he knows the feeling goes two ways: Steve's never been able to sit idle when he knows Bucky's hurting; be it a scraped knee or rattled nerves from ma's mania, he's always been there, willing to talk but waiting for when Bucky's ready to talk.
He's not ready. But he needs to say something about it. Even if it's not the whole truth.
"I wanna uh." He scratches at his scruff before sitting up and tossing his legs over the edge of their bed. "I wanna thank you for, you know, finding me. And taking care of me after everybody left."
Steve sits up. "No need to thank me, Buck. You'd've done the same for me."
"Yeah but." Bucky chuckles, his throat constricting. "You shouldn't have to. You're not supposed to-"
"Not supposed to what?" He's mad. His eyes are narrowed, and his shoulders are drawn back, gearing up just like he does before a fight. But there's no fight here, only Bucky. He must realize that because the tension goes out of him, and he sloops over, all at once looking exhausted. He wipes a hand over his face and sighs. "Buck, I know you think you have to take care of me. And I appreciate it, all of it. But I'm not a little kid anymore. I can take care of myself." Bucky opens his mouth to object, but he just keeps going, a hand raised to silence him. "And just like when I sometimes need you to pull me back from the edge, you need someone to keep you from going crazy from all the shit that's in your head." Steve starts to say something else, then pauses, averting his gaze to his hands, which are fumbling as they grasp at one another. His face goes red, and he bites his lip, blinking rapidly as he says, "We need each other".
I need you, Bucky wants to say. And you need me.
But guys don't talk like that. Guys aren't supposed to talk at all. They're supposed to push and shove and laugh and move on from the shit that gets them down, pretend like they're happy, aloof, and carefree.
They're not supposed to talk.
But Bucky's not supposed to be a lot of things, and the same goes for Steve. They've always been a bit weird, and they've been an even weirder pair, rules be damned.
Bucky turns and pulls Steve into a hug. The first hug he's had in years. The thought makes his eyes water, and he pulls Steve tighter, tucking his face into Steve's shoulder as the tremors begin.
"It's okay", Steve whispers, wrapping his arms around him. He pats his back and with arms as thin as needles, squeezes him like a python. "You're okay."
What a sight they must be: a fat kid-turned-jock and an eternally-sick-kid clinging to one another, providing as much comfort as they need, holding on for fear of letting go and falling back into line.
Bucky loves Steve. He loves him like Steve loves him but even more. He loves him like Mickey loves Minnie, like Albert loves Pola, like Mrs. Hertz loves Mr. Hertz. He wants him in his ribcage, right next to his heart, where he can keep him forever and listen to him sing the Fields' Singing in the Bathtub as he hops about his ribs. He wants to kiss him like mad, confirm that his lips are as soft as they look. He wants to come home from work and go to bed with him, just hold him and listen to baseball as they tell each other about their days.
He wants to love Steve. He wants to tell Steve and not have to worry about losing the best thing he's ever had in his life.
"We're okay", Bucky says back, and they fall asleep that way, entangled in one another and souls yearning in a way that the other could never imagine but content that they'll always be together.
It's 1937, and they don't know their country's just joined the world in its second war.
. . .
He gets drafted. Steve doesn't. He's happy, for both outcomes, but Steve isn't. Swell about Bucky's draft but bitter about his rejection. Bucky doesn't understand why he wants to go, but, at the same time, he does. All his life, Steve's been a fighter. Against bullies, against death, against the odds. It make sense he'd want to go fight a war, to go fight for something bigger than himself.
Luckily enough, the guys at the R&I Center aren't sadists. Steve doesn't get greenlit.
Steve stays safe.
He's upset. And safe or not, Bucky doesn't like Steve being upset, so he takes him to the Stark Expo for a night out with Connie and Bonnie. It's 1940, and Bucky's gotten pretty good at pretending to be attracted to girls. Most of them are pretty nice, but it's nothing spectacular, nothing that really gets his heart going. Steve doesn't know that, though, and the twins don't know he's using them to boost Steve's confidence.
As it turns out, it wasn't a well thought-out plan. Steve's still a bit awkward around dames, and the girls are mighty turned on by a man in uniform. Bucky plays it off well, but he feels as awkward as Steve looks, and when Steve eventually drifts off to enlist again, he loses all interest in the date.
Steve's intent on fighting. Bucky tries to convince him otherwise, but Steve's always been stubborn. He leaves, and that's the last he sees him that night.
The twins have up and gone, having grown impatient and found a new interest in Stark's car. Bucky goes to leave, but someone calls his name and grabs his forearm.
Before he can yank away and storm off, he looks up and finds himself grinning wide and hard when he finds the person to be Jeanette.
"Jeannie!" Bucky laughs and pulls her into a hug. "Man, it's good to see ya!"
"Same to you, big brother." She takes off her hat and presses it to her chest. She then takes a good look at Bucky's suit and clucks her look. "Well, look at you. Looking like the Big Cheese."
He blushes, rolls his eyes, and shakes his head. "Ah, get out of here." He tosses an arm around her shoulder, then leads her to a bare space of sidewalk. Taking off his jacket and placing it on the ground, he then sits down beside her and watches the glowing, towering buildings surrounding them.
"Looks like we walked right into the future", he can't help but remark.
"Mm." Jeanette tilts her head to the side, then elbows him in his stomach. She's got a packet of Hershey's Kisses. Upon seeing his extending hand, she smirks, tips over the packet, and watches as he tosses them into his mouth. "How you doing, Buck?"
Bucky shrugs. "Better", he says with a smile. And he means it. Steve's about ready to give him a migraine, but Bucky's feeling good. He feels good. He takes out a handkerchief and wipes his hands clean, then turns back to Jeanette. "How is everyone?"
The pleasantness in her face fades away. She takes the cigarette out of her mouth and tosses it into a nearby puddle of water, staring until the flame snuffs out. "Well, you know dad's gone. Something in his stomach."
Bucky nods. He heard it from his grocer. Even now, he can't find it in himself to be upset. "Ma?"
"She's in one of them asylums." She folds her legs and sits up straighter, shaking her head as she's no doubt recalling less happier times. "She fell asleep with the stove on. Nearly got the twins killed. She went into a fit, and they showed up with one of them jackets. Haven't seen her since." Jeanette tips Kisses into her mouth, then yawns, stretching her arms up and above her head. "The twins were with Child Services for five months before I found them. We live in Bushwick now."
Bucky gives her a sad smile. "Little Jeannie", he says in wonder. "Still taking care of everything"
She looks up at him, an eyebrow raised in question. She shoves her candy into her back pocket, then pulls her legs up to her chest, her dress billowing in the wind. She looks around her and, when she finds the crowd to be at a minimal, leans in closer to say, "I saw you with Steve earlier. How is he?"
"Ah, the same. Little guy with big dreams." Bucky licks some chocolate off his lips and thinks of Steve marching down to the R&I, demanding another chance of enlistment. A fond smile creeps on to his face, and he shakes his head, huffing at what a picture it paints. "He wants to go to the front lines."
Jeanette smiles. "And you don't think he should?"
"'Course not." He leans back on his elbows. "He's got heart, and he's got grit, I'm not saying he ain't. But you know Steve. He gets sick and he gets hurt easily. If those guys say 'yes' and put him out there…" He doesn't shudder. He just kind of freezes, absolutely stricken by the possibility of such a thing happening.
Beside him, Jeanette's still watching. And Bucky realizes, too late, that Jeanette's always been more observant than he's cared for.
He's careful. He says the right things, he talks to the right people, he's involved in "manly" things. He plays the role, and he plays it good. But for all his acting, Bucky's never been able to truly cloak his face, and he knows this is one of those moments where it could all fall apart.
"Dad always said you…" She trails off, bites her lip, then continues. "And I kind of wondered sometimes. But I wasn't ever sure."
Bucky stays quiet. He's a man. He's going to fight a war for his country. He's got a lot of nice gals waiting on him to come home. One of them, Lonnie, is talking about starting a family. He's playing his role.
And the role's playing him.
"Does he know?"
Bucky shakes his head. He looks back to Jeanette, removing his hat from his head. He places it in his lap and inhales sharply. "No. And he can't know", he tells her. "No one can."
She nods; she reaches over and takes his hand in hers, squeezes hard. "Okay", she whispers. "Nobody'll know."
Bucky turns back to the road. The Expo is bright and alive, tossing colors all about the sky in a luxurious nightshow. Around them, people are shouting and hollering, pointing at it all like children in an amusement park. It's a good night out, a time for cheers and celebration, for dreamers and believers, for starry-eyed yielders of hope to stare out and look up and just relish in all the fun and invention that's to come.
It's a hell of a night, and he knows Steve would enjoy it if he just slowed down to spend it with him.
. . .
The 107th ships out the next morning.
Bucky never gets to say goodbye.
. . .
They tell you it's an honor, that you should be proud and willing to sacrifice yourself for your country. They broadcast testimonies from veterans and current servers, saying how relieving and fulfilling it is to fight for their values. They pass out flyers, saying that they want you, how your people need you, and it all sounds so good.
But it's not good.
It's bloody and gory and scary, and, they go on these walks for days at a time, never stopping, and they never sleep, they just stay up, and it's fucking horrifying. Bucky jokes about it, says that, whenever he hears a loud noise, he nearly shits himself, but he is literally scared shitless. He kills people because he has to, because he's terrified to die, because he doesn't want to leave this life when he's just begun to live it.
He sees people die. Good people, bad people, he sees them all go, and the older, more experienced fellas, they say he'll get used to it, but he never does. Bucky wants to be numb like them. But he's not. It's like someone's taken a match to his every nerve, and his whole body's lit up like an electric chair, crackling and sparkling each time he hears or sees someone goes.
It's not honorful. It's not prideful. It's not fulfilling. It's insane. And it's horrible. It's life and death, with so much emphasis on death that, sometimes, Bucky isn't even sure if he's alive.
He writes. He writes all the time. To Jeanette and the girls, to Steve, to himself, to anyone to keep to the foreground quiet. He hasn't written in years, and, now, it all flows out of him, nonsense from the past, nonsense from the now, it just comes out of him like a dam that's collapsed. He gets letters from his sisters but never from Steve. And Bucky
Bucky just doesn't know what to make of that. Because that could mean either two things: one, he's dead, which doesn't make any fucking sense because he's healthier than he's ever been, and they live in a fairly decent neighborhood; two, those guys really are sadists, and he's off somewhere, feeling all the shit that Bucky's feeling, and honestly, he's not sure which is worse. There's a third option, the one that's lingered in the back of his head since that day in 1926: Steve's gotten tired of him and moved on. He's had enough of his shit and decided his friendship just isn't worth it, all the smothering, all the worrying, all the barely hidden self-loathing.
It's a possibility. But it's not plausible, so Bucky pushes it aside and keeps on writing, imagining their eventual reunion and all the horrible images he'll give to Steve to sketch.
It's a horrid time. And just when he thinks it can't get any worse, the 107th gets captured by HYDRA. Most of them get killed, but the ones that remain, they're forced to make the very weapons that'll one day destroy their people.
He's destroying his Steve.
. . .
It's 1943, and they were new guys: Denier and Falsworth. Swell, kind of cute. They took out the guy that was beating him. Bucky liked them well enough, but all that labor caught up to him, and, soon enough, he just couldn't work anymore. So HYDRA goes to work on him.
. . .
It's Steve that comes to rescue him. Steve, who's looking like something straight out of a comic book and a wet dream combined. If he notices the bulge in Bucky's pants, he does what he always does: pretends he doesn't see it and sticks to the situation at hand.
. . .
They call him Captain America. Because of course they would.
Bucky calls him Steve. And that night, when all the drinks have been served, and everyone's staggered off to their respective tents, Bucky takes him down to the river, wraps his arms around him, and chokes out a broken, "Steve-o".
Steve just hugs him back, one hand around his waist and another against the back of his head. He closes his eyes and whispers, "I'm here, Buck. I'm here".
. . .
The guys in charge, whoever those fuckers are, decide they've apparently had enough and allow Bucky and the POWs some time off in London. Steve joins them. He brings a friend. Peggy; a friend who's looking a little more-than-friendly at Steve. It's the first time Bucky's ever seen a girl look at Steve that way, and he can't blame her. Steve was quite the looker even before the super serum. Now, he looks as strong as he is, and everyone's got eyes for him.
Bucky kind of hates it, hates that people only notice and care about him because he's big and tall now. But if it keeps his dumbass from getting himself killed, he'll raise a glass or two because well fucking done.
He's on his third shot when Steve comes to him and asks him to follow Captain America into battle. Bucky jokes it off, says he'll follow the Steve Rogers he knows rather than some multi-colored asshat with a fancy shield. He doesn't tell him that supersolider or not, Bucky Barnes will always, always follow him into battle.
No matter what.
. . .
War sucks. Going after the guys that mean to both destroy and control the world? It still sucks, but he's got Steve's by side, so he automatically counts it as a win.
Bucky's seen Steve fight his whole life, but, never, not once, has he ever seen him win. Now, it's all he seems to do. He kicks ass, flying through battle like an beastly Goldilocks, and it's, well, distracting to say the least. Bucky's still smart, still knows to be discreet, but it's hard to his secret a secret when the man he loves is fighting the fight he's wanted so long to be a part of. With his new body, there's no one Steve can't beat, no one he can't help. And Bucky knows, even before he sees his after-battle smiles, that it's all Steve ever wanted.
. . .
"I think we're gonna win."
It's 1945. He's said it a million and one times, but, now, he means it. It really looks like they're gonna win.
Steve, from his mat on the floor, looks up and snorts. He tosses a boot at Bucky, and it's amazing just how much nothing's changed. What a beautiful, beautiful thing.
"I mean it." Bucky leans off the bed so that his back rests against the floor and grins up at Steve. "I mean, we've got you, for one, Captain Badass. And we've got me." He flips his nonexistent locks and bats his eyelashes. "Sergeant Badass. How could we not win?"
Steve rolls his eyes. "I think it's gonna take more than a couple of badasses to win a war, Buck."
Bucky knows him. He sees the hope in his eyes, sees the lax set of his shoulders, and he knows that Steve's thinking it, too: this could be it; this could be their last mission; this could end the war.
They could go home.
Home. Would it even still be there? Doesn't matter, Bucky's quick to think. They've survived far worse than homelessness. They'll figure something out. As long as they have each other, they'll be fine.
And they do. They have each other.
Bucky looks over at Steve, and Steve looks back at him.
"See something you like", Bucky says, giving his eyebrows a half-hearted wiggle. He pulls his legs off the bed and rests them against the ground, his arms wrapped around himself self-consciously.
These last few months, things have been different. And it's a good different. Bucky flirts, and Steve flirts back. Bucky tells himself it's all joking, tells himself that Steve doesn't know what he's doing to him, but he sees the way Steve looks at him, and, damn it, it's the same way Bucky's spent his whole life looking at him.
Isn't it?
"Always", Steve says, dead serious.
The air of the tent is thick like it's filled with static. They're both staring at each other, and Bucky wants so much to think that that's lust within his eyes. But Steve's his best friend, and he isn't like Bucky. He doesn't think of guys like that.
"Bucky."
Steve's gotten closer. He's rolled onto his knees, crossed the space that's long been between them, and crawled on top of him. Just like that. If anyone should enter, they could always play it off like they're wrestling.
But this isn't wrestling. And Bucky's done playing a role.
"What are you doing", he whispers.
Steve just stares down at him. For the first time in a long time, he looks unsure of himself. He gulps and licks his lips. "I don't know", he croaks out. His arms are on either side of Bucky's head, encaging him between the ground and his body. They're shaking. "Do you want me to stop?"
Bucky looks up at him. He lifts a hand, grabs Steve by the back of his head, and pulls him in until he can press their lips firmly together.
He was right. They are that soft.
. . .
Bucky's gone to bed with countless women before, but that night, laying on the dirt floor of a tent in the middle of a warzone, is the only one that means something to him; his eyes rolling into the back of his head; his teeth cutting clear through his lip in an attempt to keep his moans quiet; the hands on his hips, his neck, his chest; Steve's face, contorted with pleasure and love, staring down at him as he rocks his hips backward and forward and dives deeper until he's reaching places Bucky's only dreamed of reaching; and that feeling, that feeling of something rising and rising within him, and looking into Steve's eyes and seeing it reflected back to him and knowing that this is what the guys in the locker room were talking about, this is what the movies are always crooning over, this is what he's been searching for his entire life, and it's been there, waiting and wanting, the whole time.
This is love.
. . .
Like many other nights, they go to sleep together. But it's the first time they sleep chest to chest, hands clenched, legs wrapped around one another, staring so deeply into each other's eyes like they're afraid that if they look away or close them, they'll be gone.
"I love you, Buck."
Bucky presses his forehead to Steve's and cries. "I love you."
. . .
It was 1930.
The world was starving, and Bucky was scared that Steve would one day go too long without eating. It was the scardest he'd ever been in his life.
It's 1945, and it's that time again. Because the man he loves, and the man who loves him, is going into battle, and Bucky's afraid he's not gonna be able to protect him.
But it's okay. Because as it turns out, Steve didn't need protecting.
. . .
He doesn't remember the fall. He just remembers Steve's grief-stricken face and his outstretched hand. The rest is a blur.
It's why, when Bucky goes to scratch an itch on his arm, he nearly faints upon seeing that it's no longer there.
. . .
The first few years, they don't do anything to him. They just keep him. Bucky doesn't know why, and he doesn't care. Time passes, and he never leaves his room. There's a toilet and a little hole in the wall for when he needs to not starve. Every once in a while, a man in an orange suit will come in and spray him with a hose. But that's it. That's his life.
He's certain he's been here for a decade, but he catches a guard once reading a magazine that says 1947 and quickly abandons his space amongst time.
At first, Bucky thinks he's just stopped caring and that he couldn't be bothered to remember things. But when he tries to remember things, when the screams of the other prisoners get to be too much, he finds that he actually can't remember. Memories start to drift away from him, like pages in a notebook left to deteriorate at the bottom of the sea. They're still there, but there are giant holes missing; holes that leave only room for the bad memories.
Upon this discovery, he makes a decision. He spends most of his time thinking of Steve and committing every feature of his face to memory. Thankfully, it's not too difficult a task, given that he spent twenty one years staring at him. It makes him both happy and sad, relieved to have finally gotten him but heartbroken that he immediately lost him. Somedays, it hurts to think of him. But Bucky always does. He'll forget about the world, he'll forget about his life, he'll even forget himself. But he won't forget Steve.
He was all Bucky ever had. If he goes, what'll be left?
. . .
It's whatever time later, and Zola's back. He says Bucky should have known better than to think he'd really gotten away from him.
. . .
They let him out of his room after that. They open the door, and Bucky curls into a ball, shivering and crying as he tries to keep the light out of his eyes. When he doesn't leave of his own accord, he gets dragged out, kicking and screaming until something slams against his temple and has him merely whimpering and hugging himself as he gets pulled into a much dimmer room.
There's a table here. At the other end, there's Zola, munching on a hot, steaming slice of pizza. Bucky's stomach grumbles, and he stands on two shaky feet, staring at the open box of pizza before him.
"Are you hungry", Zola asks, watching him amusedly.
Bucky darts his eyes up to him and stares, his hand trembling on the table. He nods, nods furiously, like he's never been more certain of anything in his life.
Zola sneers. He wipes his hands on a napkin, then pushes the box across the table.
Bucky takes one slice, then two, then three and doesn't stop until he's certain he's gonna throw it all up if he doesn't stop.
"We're going to make something of you", Zola says, but Bucky's not really listening. At this point, he doesn't really care what they do to him. As long they quit starving him, he's sure he'll be fine.
. . .
It's 1949, and they've been experimenting. Injecting him with needles filled with who-knows-what. Bucky never asks because they wouldn't answer anyway. He just sits there, and he thinks of Steve and wonders if he's gone back to that Peggy girl yet.
. . .
He's forgotten a lot of things. He doesn't remember father's name, but that's not really that important. He doesn't remember the name of that amusement park he took Steve to, and that's really important. There's no rhyme or reason to it. At first, Bucky figured it was the joys of isolation messing with his brain. But he's out and about now; he has doctors and such, and they're all very eager to discuss how much he's progressing. So these things he's forgetting, both old and recent, bad and good, they're happening at their hand. Bucky would get mad at them, but he's kind of scared of how angry he gets these days, so he tries not to.
Time, whatever that is, passes weirdly now. Somedays, he looks out the window, and it's summer. But he'll come back the next day, and it'll be a raging blizzard. Then there are the times when he sees a newspaper and realizes five years have passed since the last time he saw the date, which he could have sworn was just two days ago.
. . .
They've made him a new arm. It's heavy. And it's cold.
He hates it.
. . .
The first time they have him kill someone is in 1969. They say he's a terrorist and that he needs to be taken out. There was a time when Bucky would have questioned, would have asked for details, names, explanations. But now, he just feels rage surging within him and an unyielding desire to right this wrong. The People, they give him a sheet of paper, a motorcycle, and they tell him to go.
So Bucky goes. And he shoots the man while he's at the beach with his two young daughters, not even staying to listen as the oldest shrieks and drops beside him to cradle his body in her tiny little arms.
Zola calls in that night and congratulates him on job well done. He sends him a cake, and Bucky eats it, even though it tastes like sandpaper and ashes. He smiles, thanks Zola and the People, and goes to his room, where he can think of Steve and cry at the disgust that would no doubt be heavy in his eyes.
. . .
His name is Bucky. Bucky, no last name. Maybe a last name at some point, when he was younger. But he doesn't have one now. He's not supposed to have a first one, that's just him being disobedient. If the People could hear what he calls himself, they'd be upset, very upset, and that would upset him, and then they'd all just be upset. So he keeps his name to him himself, holds it close to him like a child holds a toy to their chest, like he once wanted someone, Steve, STEVE, to be close to him.
"Fuck." Bucky clenches his hair in his fist. He almost forgot him. He can't forget him. It hasn't even been that long. It's...it's 1971 and
1971. Steve would be, is, he's not dead, Steve is 53. But that's not right. Just yesterday, they were at Coney Island, slurping on ice cream and trying, and failing, to pick up dames. And last week, they were in London, telling each other about their life since they'd gotten drafted.
That doesn't make sense. Bucky isn't sure how time works anymore, but he knows how it's supposed to work, and it doesn't work like that. And if it doesn't work like that, maybe Steve didn't work at all. Maybe Steve didn't exist.
Because Steve doesn't make sense. Bucky spent his whole life pining for him, and the day before they went off into their last battle, Steve confessed his love for him and went to bed with him? It sounds like something out of the soaps his ma and his...sister, his oldest sister, used to listen to.
"Steven Grant Rogers", he whispers. "He was born in 1918, and he was my best friend, my-my lover. He loved me, and I loved him, and we were gonna go home." His forehead wrinkles, and he frowns, thinking and thinking and thinking but never remembering. "Why didn't we go home?"
. . .
It's 1973, and he doesn't remember.
. . .
He doesn't feel much of anything. He read some of his file once, and, apparently, he used to have quite a temper, and, before that, he was very, very afraid. He doesn't know what a temper feels like, and he doesn't know what it means to be afraid. He likes to imagine it's what his assignments feel just before he kills them, but he wouldn't know. The Person, the nice one with the circles in her ears, she says that it's empathy, and that he doesn't have that. He thinks she's right, but then he'll see one of the other Persons yelling at her, and he thinks maybe she's wrong.
He doesn't like maybes. Things are supposed to be certain, absolute, with no room for doubt.
The People take him to an ice room, and that is good because maybes are very troubling.
. . .
It's warm here. He neither cares for nor dislikes it, but it is warm, and he is certain that is different.
The people here are different, too. They look at him, at his arm, at his eyes, like he's a bad thing, and he doesn't understand that. He's a good thing. He helps people. He gets rid of the bad things. These people just don't understand. But that's okay. Because it's his job to make people understand things, and he is very good at his job.
. . .
The People make him tuna. He thinks he knew someone that made it better, but he's not sure. It's so hard to remember things. Is he supposed to remember things? No, no, of course not, that's a silly question. The People say that's okay, that he's not supposed to remember, so of course he's not supposed to remember.
. . .
He's assigned a couple this time. He doesn't know them, but he's not supposed to. He does his job and arranges it like an accident, like he's supposed to. Then he goes back to the People.
. . .
There are others now. He doesn't like them very much. He's supposed to train them, but a lot of them are stronger than him, and they are very mean. One day, they start a riot, and the People decide they are not like him, and the others go away. He would be happy if he knew what happy was.
. . .
There's a Person, and he has yellow hair and blue eyes. He thinks "Steve" and tells him he's pretty. The Person spits on him, calls him a faggot, and tells him fuck off. It makes him cry because he's still thinking "Steve", and, whoever "Steve" was, he'd never talk to him like that. At least, he likes to think he wouldn't.
. . .
He hums sometimes. The People don't mind. The Person with the circles in her ears says it's good, that it keeps him calm. He doesn't know about that, but he likes it more than he likes his assignments. It's a song. Singing in the Bathtub. It's a silly song, but it makes his lips go up, and he likes that. Someone used to sing it to him before bed. He used to have someone.
He's been out of the ice room for sometime now. He's remembering things. A Person says that's bad, but he doesn't send him back to the ice. Not for a good time.
So he just hums. He hums until he does go back, and then he and the song both go away.
. . .
It's 1999, and he doesn't know why his eyes leak every time he's assigned a yellow-haired male.
. . .
It's 2014, and he knows they're leaking because he knew him.
He knew him.
. . .
The ship went down a while ago. The People are gone, but there are other people now. They don't tell him what to do, even when he asks.
He doesn't know what to do.
. . .
It's easy enough to find him. Deciding to stay, that's hard, so he doesn't decide. He just leaves, ignoring the archaic ache in his chest in favor of focusing on which car to steal.
. . .
His name is Steve. That's what it says in the museum, and that's what his heart screams when he goes to sleep. He knew him, but he doesn't know how. Then he looks further down, and that's the guy he sees in the mirror.
He was his friend.
He never knew he had a friend.
. . .
He wants a friend, so he goes to be with Steve again, but Steve has a new friend, and he doesn't like that, he doesn't like Steve having friends, so he leaves again, only to return a couple of days later because his heart's been weeping for him.
. . .
He's feeling things again. Anger, frustration, loneliness, sadness, paranoia, lots and lots of paranoia, but a lot of sadness, too. He doesn't like it. But sometimes he feels other things, things like affection and amusement and curiousness, and he thinks they could be okay.
He could be okay.
. . .
He holds someone at gunpoint and makes them teach him to use this thing called the Internet. He feels bad, Steve wouldn't want him doing stuff like this, but he's doing it for Steve, so he thinks he'd understand. That and he doesn't kill her, and he thinks that's good.
Steven Grant Rogers. Born 1918 in Brooklyn to Sarah and Joseph Rogers. Best friend to James Buchanan Barnes. He joined World War 2 and became Captain America after being injected with some drug or another. He died in 1945 (no) but was found and revived (oh) in 2011. Since then, he's joined a team of weirdos to save the world from destroying itself.
Steven Grant Rogers.
. . .
He starts writing. He doesn't know why. He just sees a notebook in the store and decides to buy it. He's a little nervous to actually write in it, but, one day, he picks it up, and he can't seem to put it down. He just just picks up the pen and writes. Silly stuff, really. Like that asshole lady in the checkout line earlier. Or those fluffy ducks he saw by the pond yesterday. Or how much he hates that he forgets to eat sometimes. Stuff like that. Silly. But he likes being able to write it all down. He used to like doing this. It's nice that, even though he doesn't know anything about anything, he still knows how to do this.
. . .
He's on his way back, shopping for groceries, when he gets mugged and takes a knife to the stomach. He lets them get away and staggers back home, tends to his wound until he's certain there's no immediate danger. He goes to the mirror to examine the damage, because he can now, and finds himself drawn to his stomach. He knows about that. It used to be one of those things he didn't like about himself. He still doesn't like himself, but there's an entirely new reason for that now.
He lets his shirt fall back down, then turns and crawls into bed.
He likes his bed.
. . .
His memory's coming back to him. Piece by piece and often at the most inopportune times but it's coming back. He doesn't need a mirror and a museum picture to know that his name is James, or Bucky, and that he was best friends with Steve.
He remembers eating peppermints on the stairs and somehow always ending up with the last piece. He remembers looking over Steve's drawings and shyly asking if he could write stories about them. He remembers Steve yelling at bullies and getting jumped more often by James's bullies than his own. He remembers waking up on a dirt floor, with a blanket around him, and, underneath that, Steve's arms because he remembered just how easily he gets cold.
It's 2015, and he realizes America had a hero long before their First Avenger was born.
. . .
It's 2016, and someone's blaming him for their own shit.
It doesn't bother him. He's more annoyed than anything else, but he'd be lying if he said he isn't a little worried that Steve thinks he's still a monster.
He's brought his friend. Sam Wilson.
He still doesn't like him.
. . .
They all get arrested. James gets sent to a prison in Germany, and, surprise surprise, people still want to use him for bad shit. The coding wears off, and Steve and Sam somehow clear his name, but James can feel it. He can feel it lurking beneath the skin, waiting to lash out like a snake awaiting its prey.
He goes back on ice.
But not with the People. No. It's with that cat guy, T'Challa; he's a lot nicer than Zola and his cronies, and T'Challa tried to kill him. James supposes that says a lot but before he can ponder the thought more, he and time itself is freezing solid.
. . .
He awakes, and it's still 2016. He wants to freak out, wants to ask whose shitbrained idea was it to let him out so soon, but there's a child staring at him in wonder, and he doesn't know what to do.
"Do you prefer 'Bucky' or 'James'", she asks, her shoulders drawn to her shoulders and her eyes narrowed in suspicion.
James frowns. "Um. 'James'."
She beams. She has a device, a tablet, in her hands, and she's tapping it rather aggressively. James sits up and presses himself into the back of his bed.
"Oh, am I freaking you out?" She brushes her braids over her shoulder and beams, bouncing up and down on the spot. "I'm Shuri, head of the Wakandan Design Group." She extends a hand, and he shakes it, staring at her with disbelieving eyes. "You're a child. How are you the head of anything?"
Shuri scoffs. She turns her back to him and walks over to the massive wall of windows beside them. "And you are pushing a hundred years old. How are you alive?"
James gives a tilt of the head. "All right, I'll give you that." With a surprising amount of balance for someone who's been in a coma, he swivels his legs over the bed, hops off, then walks over to join her at the windows.
"T'Challa will be joining us shortly", she says, her eyes back on her tablet. "He has matters to attend to."
Sweat beads at the back of his neck. James wraps his arms around himself and asks, "What kind of matters?"
"Looking up 20th century slang and media." When James raises an eyebrow, she grins wide and wiggles her eyebrows. "He's trying to be savvy."
"Uh...okay."
True to her word, T'Challa does join them afterwards, but he doesn't use any slang. He just assists Shuri in explaining the success of the treatment and what his options are now. James tunes most of it out, but he gets the gist of it. If he kills anyone, it'll be of his own accord, and Wakanda is kind of the only country he's allowed to go to without sending that country into a mass hysteria. They look at him like they suspect this will be an issue, but James is actually pleased with the outcome. He can't hurt anyone anymore, and Wakanda is probably the one of the few countries HYDRA was unable to taint with their "influence". It's like a fresh start.
And in more ways than one, it actually is. T'Challa offers him a place to stay in the palace, but James chooses to live in the Fields of Bashenga, where he can look in one direction and see nothing but mountains and sky, then look in the other and see a towering castle. It's a lot. It's so much that, somedays, he worries that it'll become too much and he'll revert back to how he was in those early days after HYDRA's Fall.
But the day never comes, and, eventually, James stops worrying.
. . .
He has goats now. They're a small herd, a group he's gathered after roaming the plains for so many months now. They're not afraid of him; he thinks they might even like him. He asks T'Challa about it, and he tells James about some grains a few miles south from his cottage. Soon enough, he finds himself sleeping at the center of the herd and sleeping better than he has in years.
He writes about it in his notebook. He has so much to write about now, and he couldn't be happier.
But some nights, he'll leave his cottage look to the skies, thinking of Steve saving the world from disaster after disaster, and find himself transported back to that night in 1945, when all the both of them wanted was to just get back home and start a life together.
He dreams of Steve.
. . .
It's 2017, and Steve's standing up on the hill.
James starts running, and he doesn't stop until he's tackled him and sent them both tumbling back down the hill.
. . .
They talk a lot because there's a lot to talk about.
It's a new world, and Steve looks like he could cry when James assures him that he's not the only one lost and confused.
"They're so different", Steve says; he's got his arms wrapped around James, and he's carding his fingers through his hair, seemingly mystified because he's apparently never let it get this long before. "They're so...accepting. And loving. It's-I'm almost afraid to believe it." His fingers still, and his voice catches in his throat. "I'm afraid I'm gonna wake up, and it's all gonna be gone."
James has his face pressed to his chest, just breathing in his scent and telling himself that, yes, he is real. They are real. "I know what you mean", he whispers, and he lifts his eyes to stare at him.
"I know it's not all great", Steve continues, almost to himself. "I know there's been a lot of blood spilt, and I know it sometimes looks like nothing's changed. But it has." He squeezes him, and there are tears streaming down his face. "And I just, I can't have it go back to how it was. But at the same time, I think of our friends and all the stupid shit we used to do and I-"
"Shh." James reaches up and takes hold of his hands, pulling him closer and closer until Steve's panicked gaze at last settle upon his eyes. "It's okay."
"It doesn't matter sense", Steve grits out. "I can't have both, and I know that world is gone so why do I still want it?"
"I don't know." James lays his head against his chest. He doesn't let go of his hands. "You're right, it doesn't make sense. But it's never had to."
Steve wraps his legs around him. He tucks his chin into James's head and breathes like he's coming up for air. He breathes, and he breathes, and he breathes, and James tells him he survived and that it's okay.
They're gonna be okay
. . .
They make love underneath a misty-colored night sky; there's dewy grass beneath their trembling bodies, and there are tiny little insects chirping and trilling, like nature's orchestra to their passion, to their grief, their love.
Afterwards, they don't go to sleep. They stay awake, in each other's arms, watching one another and just being so content because after it all, they've finally gotten here, to the space where they can know, without uncertainty, that they will forever be each other's.
. . .
It's 2018, and it's the third time this month T'Challa's come to visit.
James smiles and goes to meet him. The air is grave, and T'Challa speaks as if remorseful when he asks for James to join the fight. James can't necessarily say he's eager to do so, but this is his home now. These are his friends. He'll help in any way that he can.
. . .
He gets a new arm.
It's heavy, and it's cold. But it's kind of nice.
. . .
"After this", Steve whispers, kissing the back of his hand. "I'm coming home."
James kisses him, sweet and tender, and nods his head, "yes". Bucky believed it, and James does, too.
He's so ready to go home.
. . .
It's 2018.