A/N: Spoilers for Infinity Wars. Just filling in some missing pieces with what I choose to believe happened.

~Part 1: Past~

"Hey, Buck?"

Bucky let his eyes open and had to smile at the sight in front of him. Steve stood at the window, his bare skin glowing golden in the early morning light. His back was to Bucky, one arm braced on the wall above his head as he looked out at the fields of Wakanda. He was a beautiful man—all muscles and fine lines.

"Mmm?" Bucky hummed in acknowledgment, his eyes tracing the path his tongue had traced up Steve's spine the night before.

His shoulders rose and fell. "Have you ever wondered what would have happened if we hadn't died when we did?"

That jolted Bucky out of the warm, fuzzy headspace. He studied Steve's profile, thinking back a literal lifetime ago. His lip twitched. "You mean what would have happened if we had to come home from the war...after everything?"

Steve shifted, crossing his arms over his chest and turning to the side so he could glance at Bucky. He ducked his head. "I know it's a moot point. I don't even know why I thought about it."

"I've thought of it." Bucky got up and crossed to Steve. He splayed his hand wide over his back and kissed his shoulder.

"Have you?"

"Yeah." He stepped behind Steve and wrapped his arm around his waist. "You would have married Peggy, Steve."

Steve's back stiffened. Bucky stroked his belly. "We were products of our time, kiddo. Can't get around that. We would have told ourselves it was war. That kind of thing happens when you share the kind of experiences we went through, the things we saw and did." He snickered, pressing his lips briefly to Steve's shoulder blade. "Just like we told ourselves that knucklehead kids fooled around all the time. Teenagers, right? Too many hormones; that was all. Yeah, when the war was won, we would have trotted back home to do what every other damn soldier did: find ourselves a wife, knock her up, and buy a home on a nice street."

He moved around so he could pinch Steve's cheek and look into his pretty, conflicted eyes. "And you know what, pal? At some point in whatever picket fence, apple pie existence we'd carved out for ourselves? We would have snapped. Again."

There was that furrow between Steve's brow that Bucky always wanted to smooth out with his thumb. This had always been Steve—thinking too hard about all the injustices in the world. He ruffled his hair. "It's not that you didn't love Peggy. Your love for her was honest. She was a hell of a gal. And hell, who knows? Her whole life was covert operations. She'd have had her secrets from you, and you would have had me." He shook his head. "I had you first, Rogers. That's just how it is."

Steve's troubled eyes gentled and he put a hand to Bucky's waist, squeezing possessively. "Who do you think you are, anyway? Some wise old man?"

Bucky snorted, walking backward and Steve pressed forward. "Wise? Yeah, right." He sat down on the bed and Steve quickly straddled him, taking his face in his hands. Bucky rubbed his hand up and down his back. "I'm not wise, old man." He tilted his chin up, letting Steve steal a quick kiss before he spoke again. "I'm just not ashamed. Not of this, anyway."

Steve stopped short and drew back to look in Bucky's eyes. "You think I'm ashamed?"

Bucky's lip twitched. "I think there's still a pretty big part of you who thinks the world would stop loving you if they knew you had your pretty lips wrapped around my cock last night, Captain America."

Steve narrowed his eyes. He moved to stand up, but Bucky grabbed his wrist before he could get away. "Why do you think you kissed Sharon when I came back to you? Sam told me you'd been dancing around each other for years." He reached up to stroke Steve's hair. "And there was all that weird energy around us.

"You fought it, and you know what? I was happy to let you. You fought it until after everything—after you'd become a criminal for me. After you'd lost Tony and the others. You fought it until you had to watch me go under again." He pressed his hand over Steve's mouth, hiding the scowl there. "It's okay. I already told you. You're a product of your time."

"You're from the same time, Buck," Steve said, exasperated. "What is it, you're just more enlightened than I am?"

Bucky snorted. "No." He got a good grip on Steve's waist and, quick as a flash, had him pinned on the bed beneath him. He smirked at the surprised look on Steve's face, and reveled at the fact he was one of the only people alive who had the ability to manhandle Captain America. He leaned in, brushing the tip of his nose against Steve's. "I have to live with the things I've done every day of my life. Kind of puts things into perspective. Compared to all that? The fact I want to kiss boys ranks pretty low on my disgust meter just by default."

Steve's look softened again, and he brushed Bucky's hair out of both their faces. He rubbed a hand at the back of his neck, looking into his eyes. "You're not disgusting. You—"

Bucky kissed him then, silencing his words and the weird, painful well of emotion that rose in him. He didn't want to hear Steve forgive him again.

He didn't want to have to think about how lucky he was right then, in this moment in time. Free of his shackles. Left in peace after so many long years of endless running and fighting in death. The fact this man, this good, beautiful man wanted to kiss him, that he'd given up everything—his good name, his own freedom, his family and his home—for Bucky, it seemed like too much to believe he could love him.

They didn't talk for a while after that. Not in words. They talked in touches. In kisses. In the slide of their bodies together.

~Part 2: Peace~

Shuri had gifted Steve with an artist set—brushes that were also pens, so he could sketch fine lines and fill in the spaces with blended colors. Because this was Wakanda, he could mix the color he wanted right in the ink of the pen.

She'd neglected to give him anything to draw on. Steve had always been resourceful. Over excited, he'd pushed Bucky onto his belly and was using the expanse of his back and shoulders as a canvas.

"Stay still," Steve admonished, pressing a hand to Bucky's side in warning. "You're going to mess me up."

"Do you know how much that tickles?" Bucky clenched his butt cheeks, trying not to wiggle.

Steve grunted and then straddled him. Bucky laughed. "You really think this is the best way to make me sit still?"

"Aren't you supposed to be a super soldier?" Steve leaned down, using the end of one brush to push Bucky's hair back. He ran his tongue along the rim of his ear, and Bucky sucked in a sharp breath. "Stay still for five more minutes, and I'll make it worth your while."

Bucky groaned, shifting his hips and his very interested cock against the bed. He crooked his arm, and rested his head there. "What are you drawing anyway?" he asked as Steve got back to work.

"You don't want to know."

"Steven Grant Rogers. Are you drawing something dirty on my back?"

Steve laughed. "Would I do that?"

"You're right. If you did something like that, I would think an alien had come to replace you. Don't make me kick your ass of my own free will." He sighed, his heart giving a pang. He kidded about it, but he hated that he'd hurt Steve. He'd shot him, for fuck's sake.

So much of Bucky's life had been spent protecting Steve.

"So what are you drawing?"

Steve was quiet for a few more beats, the sound of his brush over skin the only sound in the room. "There's this moment when I'm flying here, when I think it all has to be a dream. This place, Buck. People who were born after we should have died couldn't think up a place like this. When I come, and I see only trees, I think I've imagined all of it." Another beat. "And I think maybe I dreamed you too. That I made it all up—you coming back."

Bucky's heart began to pound hard, but he scoffed. "What the hell did I do to you that you would imagine me coming back to you the way I did? I was trying to kill you. I did kill you." If he hadn't come to his senses soon enough to pull Steve out of the river, he would have died. "Haven't you heard? I'm a nightmare."

"Not you." Steve's hand was warm on his shoulder, squeezing. "The thing they made you is a nightmare you have to live with." He resumed the stroke of his pen on his back. "I feel selfish sometimes."

"Selfish?"

Steve put down his pen and blew lightly against Bucky's back, drying the ink. He swallowed hard. "I had you back. I'd have taken you no matter what condition you were in."

"Don't make me do this," Steve had begged when he faced Bucky as an enemy. When Bucky pressed the issue, intent on completing his mission, Steve had only attacked him long enough to save lives. Then, he'd stopped. He'd rather die than let Bucky go again.

"It doesn't seem fair," Steve continued, tracing his fingertips over his work. "I felt...better. Knowing you were still out there. Alive. No matter what you'd become, there was a chance now. It was selfish," he said again. "I hoped I could help you find yourself again. But what did it cost you to survive that fall? The things you went through. What they made you do. All the running you did even when you wanted to stop, even when you were you again."

Bucky rolled onto his side. He traced his fingertips along Steve's side, up to curl under his chin. He raised Steve's head until his eyes flicked up to him. Steve always tried so hard not to let his vulnerability show. Not when he was facing down a pack of bullies. Not when his mother died, and he was left an orphan.

And not now, when he was saying, "I love you," with every word he could find except those three.

Steve swallowed hard, and caressed Bucky's hair with a gentle touch. "Sorry. That wasn't what you asked. What I'm trying to say is, there's this moment, every time I fly here, when I think maybe I've gone crazy. But then the land shimmers, and there's Wakanda." He pressed a thumb to Bucky's lip. "And you."

Bucky closed his eyes. He kissed Steve's thumb, his heart pounding hard against his ribcage. He cupped a hand around Steve's neck, drawing him down as he lay back. "I'm glad I'm still here, Steve. With you." He smirked. "I'd say how else am I going to keep you out of trouble, but it seems like I'm much better at getting you into it now."

Steve scoffed and leaned in for a soft kiss. "I was always good at getting myself into trouble."

Bucky hummed and kissed him again, teasing his tongue along his lip. Steve leaned onto him, stroking a hand up and down his chest. They stayed like that for ages, just kissing and touching. "Steve," Bucky murmured, his lips still brushing along Steve's.

"Hmm?"

"I love you too."

~0~

When T'Challa sent word that Bucky was awake, that his mind was and would remain his own, Steve had dropped everything to rush to Wakanda. Bucky always looked so tired, shoulders stooped, these days, but, as always, when he saw Steve, he'd smiled—a grin that had lit his features.

A grin that was only Steve's.

And Steve was just done. He was done making excuses for the intensity of what he felt for this man. He was done telling himself it was just a passing thought that he wanted to kiss him and hold him. He was done denying what he wanted. He'd gone to Bucky in that field, on a Wakandan farm, taken his face in his hands, and kissed him.

"I...I missed you," Steve had said between ragged breaths when he could be bothered to pull away from Bucky. His mind was muddled because he knew he shouldn't have done what he'd done. Not that Bucky had protested, but probably it was more polite to ask the pertinent questions. How had he been? How was he feeling? Were there any lingering effects from whatever Shuri had done to cure him? But caught up in the moment, with Bucky holding him tight with his one arm, Steve was having trouble with his words.

When he said he missed Bucky, part of him knew he was talking about so much more than their latest separation. He'd missed kissing him, having him like this. He'd missed what they'd found on a battlefield in World War II, and what he'd been without since then.

Nothing had ever felt as good as kissing Bucky did.

Steve opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He found himself weirdly shy and discombobulated, even though Bucky didn't let him go. It was strange, because Steve had always found the right words when he needed to. When he had soldiers—or S.H.I.E.L.D Agents—to inspire to the fight. When he was facing an enemy or even a friend. He'd been able to tell Tony exactly why he couldn't stand with him on the Accords. But situations like this, when he wanted to be smooth, maybe even romantic? He was suddenly a stuttering fool.

But Bucky had never needed his eloquence. It had always been a foregone conclusion that he'd follow him, no inspiration necessary. He didn't need an explanation or coy words. He'd just laughed and kissed him sweetly. "Come on," he'd said, taking his hand. He'd led him into the hut T'Challa had gifted him, and they'd done...well...not a lot that included talking for the vast majority of that first visit.

It had been two years and eight visits since then. They never really got better at talking. Not about them. Conversation always flowed easily between the two of them, though. Anything and everything. Just, these days, their conversations tended to end with one or the both of them naked.

Once, when Bucky had taken him to a peaceful place by the river, when they were laughing about old times and the trouble they'd gotten into, Steve was wistful. "Wouldn't it be something?" he'd said. "If we could go back to Coney Island? Like old times, except just you and me?" None of the girls Bucky always picked up for them.

Bucky had snorted. "Steve, I did take you there. You think it was an accident it was always a double date? Or that I always ended up going home with you instead of them?" Bucky sighed, playing with his fingers.

Sometimes, Steve wondered what they could have if they weren't who they were—both outlaws and super heroes. Super villains, depending on who you asked. He wondered sometimes if he really had buried the desire for something traditional—a home, maybe some kids—as deep as he'd thought. It was a paradox. He'd given up that dream entirely, thinking he would never quite fit in with this time and place. Yet he and Bucky, the only human being on Earth who could possibly understand what it was like to be him, could never have been together in their own time.

He sat on the edge of the bed, conflicted as usual. He wasn't even surprised when he felt Bucky's warm hand on his shoulder.

Bucky knew. He always knew. Though Steve never came here with a set timeline of how long he would stay, Bucky always knew when he was about to leave.

Their last time, before Steve left, was always the most intense. He closed his eyes as Bucky knelt on the bed behind him. He tilted his head forward so Bucky could press a kiss to the backs of his shoulders. He tilted his head to the side when Bucky began to suck on his neck. He reached a hand back, tangling his fingers in Bucky's long hair, rubbing a thumb against his scalp.

Bucky's hand rested low on his stomach at first, as he kissed and nipped. Slowly, his hand slipped upward, under the shirt he wore. He caressed, tracing the shape of Steve's front, the lines of his muscles.

Steve let it all fade away, everything except this moment. This now. He shivered at Bucky's touch, the cool spots he left as his tongue ran a line up to his earlobe. He breathed in the scent of him, of them—sex, and sweat, and the clean, sweet air of this place.

"Buck," he whispered. A plea or a promise as Bucky's fingers brushed lower again, teasing the hemline of his pajama bottoms.

"What?" Bucky kissed his shoulder with a gentle touch, his fingers pressing with the slightest pressure as he circled around to Steve's thigh. "What do you want?" he whispered with his lips against Steve's ear.

Steve huffed and licked his lips. Bucky had pressed the side of his head against his, and Steve tilted in, nuzzling. "You want me to beg?" he asked, voice ragged.

"I just asked you"—he cupped Steve ever so briefly through his pants so he gasped—"what you want."

He would have begged. He had before. Begged Bucky to do all kinds of filthy things to him. But not now. Now wasn't the time for fast, hard, and filthy.

Instead, he slid forward off the bed and stood, turning around. Bucky looked up at him, eyes intense as Steve felt, lips turned up in a tender smile. Steve cupped his cheek, and Bucky tilted his head against his hand, pressing his own hand against his.

Then, Steve put a hand to the center of Bucky's chest and pushed him back on the bed. He crawled over him and kissed him. It was a slow kiss, thorough. Bucky moaned into his mouth as Steve savored the taste of him.

When he'd had his fill of his lips—for the moment—Steve trailed kisses down his chin, his neck. He tugged at the robes he wore, peeling him out of his clothes as he kissed down, down, down. Bucky sighed, his stomach contracting under Steve's tongue. His fingers brushed through Steve's hair and around the shell of his ear. He hissed and gripped his hair when Steve took his cock in his mouth.

"Steve, Steve, Steve," Bucky murmured, hips rising to meet Steve's movements on him. He stroked his neck, his back, his hair. Steve never felt as adored as when Bucky was touching him.

"Come up here," Bucky said breathlessly, some minutes later.

Steve obeyed, shedding his own clothes as Bucky sat up with his back against the wall. Steve straddled him again, wrapping his arms around his neck and kissing him. He lifted up, letting Bucky guide his hot, wet cock deep inside him. Steve tensed and moaned long and low into Bucky's mouth, panting hard with their lips still pressed together.

It was so good. It had always been so good.

The frantic energy between them calmed into something smoldering. Their kisses became languid. They let the taste of each other roll over their tongues, savoring. Bucky's hand squeezed at his side, and Steve rocked over him.

I love you.

I miss you.

I need you.

Each touch was a whispered line—everything Steve never had the words to say.

Goodbye.

Desperation tinged the taste in Steve's mouth, brought on a note of frenetic movement to his rocking. Bucky thrust up into him, meeting him, understanding; speaking. Steve cupped his face in his hands but threw his head back. Bucky instantly attacked his neck, scraping teeth along skin.

"God. Oh, god."

Bucky reached between them, taking Steve's cock in his hand, stroking even as he began to grunt and pulse within him. The whole world went white.

Panting and spent, Steve rested his forehead against Bucky's. Bucky cupped the back of his neck, his ragged breath hot on Steve's face. Steve's eyes were closed.

Ask me to stay.

He almost said the words out loud. He'd thought of it on occasion. Especially when he was far away from Bucky and lonely.

It would be a nice life, he thought. Here on this farm, with Bucky's goats and crops. With Bucky. T'Challa often consulted him on matters of state. Okoye had offered to teach him how to fight like a real warrior. Shuri had even tempted him with the promise of a new shield. He could come home to Bucky every day. Maybe they would even adopt a child. Even in Wakanda there were unwanted or orphaned children.

A normal life.

Bucky hummed and stroked his cheek lovingly. He laughed and kissed Steve once more. "This morning or this afternoon?"

Steve squeezed his eyes tighter shut, rolling his forehead along his. He took a deep breath and blew it back out. "Noon, I think. Sam—"

"Don't tell me." Bucky pressed his palm over Steve's mouth and laughed again. "If I have to hear whatever trouble Sam is about to get you into, I'll have to come with you." He scoffed. "I know he thinks he has your back as well as I would, but—"

Steve laughed and kissed him. "Yeah. Okay." He rubbed the back of Bucky's hair and raised his head with a sigh. "Don't worry about me."

"Ha." Bucky tilted his head, studying Steve's face with his eyes and the pads of his fingers.

"I'm sorry I have to go," Steve said because he felt he should.

Bucky rolled his eyes, grinning wide. "No, you're not." His smile softened. "And I wouldn't want you to be. I know why you have to go, Steve. You have soldiers in the field. The world is still full of injustice, and you'd never be able to sit still in this little paradise and be happy."

He wanted to ask Bucky if he was happy staying so still. But Bucky was wounded—a gash deep in his soul. Whether or not it would make him happy in the long term, he needed the quiet to heal.

Steve's musing was interrupted by Bucky's laugh. "You know what that makes me?" he asked, grin back in full force.

"What?" Steve took his hand and brought his knuckles to his lips.

"That makes me your best gal." His eyes danced. "Every soldier deserves someone keeping the fires burning so he has something to come home to."

Home.

That was it. Bucky was his home.

And the reason he would always come back.

~Part 3: Pain~

He was too heavy. His shoulders stooped under the weight. It crushed his lungs in his chest so each breath came out in a gasp. He wasn't even crying. Part of him wished he could. There was such a tremendous turmoil inside him. He was desperate for some kind of relief.

After.

After Thanos disappeared, stepping into the same cloud that had delivered him like a reckoning.

After half the world had come tumbling down.

After he'd watched Bucky, his Bucky, fall to his death for the second time in his too-long life.

Bucky. Bucky. Bucky.

Every beat of his heart echoed in his brain, screaming Bucky's name. His head was bowed; he hadn't picked it up in hours. He grasped his head between his hands and squeezed. Hard. Almost too hard. He held his breath.

He gasped, dragging in air when he kept living, when his heart kept beating. He writhed under the pressure, bent forward. He slipped off the edge of the bed, falling to the floor of the little hut. He bent forward until his forehead rested on the floor. Frankly, he was surprised the weight he felt didn't drive him right into the ground. He breathed in dirt—the scent of the Wakandan earth. The scent he'd breathed off Bucky so many times.

"Bucky." The word came out raw. Guttural. Dragged out of him. He'd been trying not to think of specific memories. He knew he needed to pick himself up. The others had looked to him. When the world ended, Nat, Bruce, the little Raccoon he hadn't even been introduced to, even Rhodey and Thor. They'd all looked to him, wanting someone to tell them what happened next. But it was too much this time. Bucky. Sam. Vision. Wanda. T'Challa. Half the damn universe. If he let his grief coalesce into memories, he would never get up off this floor.

His mistake had been sequestering himself here. Home. Their home. Where it smelled like him. Where the memory of being with him was tangible. Steve wanted Bucky back in his arms. He wanted his voice in his ear, his wry chuckle, his dark, dry wit. Memories assaulted him—each a jab to his gut or a knife stabbed through his heart.

Someone knocked on the door. There was a door if you knew how to activate it, which Steve did. He'd locked it too, and he had no intention of answering it. Not when he was like this. Not when he couldn't breathe or think around the pain.

"Steve?" a voice called. Nat. He knew damn well he was screwed. Locks didn't apply to Nat.

He squeezed his eyes tighter shut. Dread washed over him like ice water. The pain was too great, too much. It was already crushing his chest. He didn't know how he kept breathing. He didn't know why he kept breathing. For the first time in his life, he didn't want to be who he was. He didn't want to deal with whatever came next. He wanted to curl up in this bed and disappear like Bucky had. Just dust in the wind.

"Okay."

Sure enough, Nat was inside. It wasn't that Steve didn't feel ashamed. He was destroyed—brought literally to his knees. It was just that everything else he felt was bigger. The grief alone was going to eat him whole.

"Come on, big guy." Nat braced her arms around his, trying to pull him upright. "Let's get on the bed, okay?"

He had no idea how she did it. He knew how strong he was. It wasn't an insult to Nat's own strength that he thought she wouldn't have been able to hold him up. He was proven wrong, though. Nat draped his arm around her shoulders, supporting him as she helped him stand. She guided him a few steps back to the bed.

"I'm sorry," he said, the words coming out as a gasp.

"For what?" Her hands were steady on his shoulder, keeping him from bowing forward again.

"For this." He swallowed hard, shaking his head. "I shouldn't….I shouldn't be like this."

She put a hand to the back of his head. "Steve, do you think we don't understand what you've lost here?" she asked, voice soft.

He sucked in a sharp breath. It was nonsensical. He was just used to it being a secret.

If he could have Bucky back, he would shout it to the world, but it was too late for that.

"Tony was the one who figured it out," Nat said, a note of humor in her tone. "He said Captain Fucking America doesn't commit treason against America for an old buddy."

In spite of himself, Steve scoffed. "I don't always agree with America," he muttered. He hadn't agreed with the Accords even before they dictated he couldn't be the one to go after Bucky. It was just what he'd been afraid of—that they would make the wrong call. Bucky lived then. His life had been well worth the black mark on Steve's golden boy record.

He shuddered, and Nat put a tentative arm around him. "The point, Steve, is that you don't have to apologize for losing it." She gave him a sad smile. "And you don't have to be alone. You're not alone."

Steve's heart twisted. He gritted his teeth against it. "It's not that I'm too proud to cry," he bit out, his words rough and thin. He'd let her hold him once before, when Peggy died. "I just…" He shuddered. "I don't think I would stop," he admitted in a shaky whisper.

For minutes they sat in relative silence—only the sound of Steve's hitched breaths. He grappled with his memories, wishing like hell it was Bucky beside him, holding him. He could hear his voice in his ear. His laughter. He could feel the tip of Bucky's nose as he tickled his skin. Bucky had liked that he could make him giggle like a schoolgirl, that he knew all his ticklish spots.

Steve laughed once, wiping a hand over his stinging eyes. "It's the wrong arm," he said under his breath.

"What?" Nat asked, rubbing his back with her left hand.

"Nothing." Steve closed his eyes tightly and shook his head. "Nothing." He breathed in and out deeply, and then, he forced himself to say the words. It was time to let the rest of the world in, all the loss. "Did you get ahold of Clint?"

"I did."

Steve raised his head then, a flash of hope dashed by the pain in Natasha's eyes. He swallowed hard and waited. Nat took a shaky breath. "He and Lila are okay." Another harsh breath. Steve closed his eyes again, hanging his head because he knew what was coming. "It's his wife and his sons. The three of them are gone. Clint was holding Nathaniel in his arms when it happened. They were playing, and he just faded away."

The enormity of that kind of loss knocked the wind out of him. He deflated again, head in his hands. "Whatever I lost…" he shuddered, and took a deep breath. "How does it hold a candle to something like that? His wife and sons... Shuri lost her brother—her king—her mother, half her people. But she's out there. Leading. And I'm just—"

"Hurting. Shuri doesn't get to hurt yet."

"She's just a kid."

"And it's not fair. None of this is fair, Steve. You get your minute now. Take it. Because there's going to be a what's next. There always is."

Steve breathed in and out. He heard Bucky's chuckle near his ear and shivered.

"I know why you have to go, Steve. You have soldiers in the field."

And one more time, no happy home to return to.

"I had my minute," he said resolutely. He stood up. "What's next?"

He'd have to learn to live with this weight. As long as his heart kept beating, he was going to keep fighting. That was how he was built.

And…

Once upon a time, he'd woken up in a world of science-fiction. He'd met gods and aliens.

Bucky had come back from the dead before.

He'd learned to believe in impossible.

A/N: Many thanks to MyOnlyHeroin, Packy, and Mina. And Betsy for beta even though she has no idea who these people are. Hahaha.