Today's advent fic is a Bucky/Steve number so I hope you all enjoy it and happy 7th December. As per usual, I own nothing to do with Marvel.
G: Ghost – Ella Henderson
Ghost
It was a hopeless cause.
Steve and Sam had been around the world about four times in the last six months searching for the Winter Soldier but to no avail. Natasha had been right – he was a ghost and if he didn't want to be found then Steve didn't have a chance.
It was difficult though sometimes, reconciling the Winter Soldier as he was now to his best friend and lover of the past.
He had faith that Bucky was still in there somewhere though. He very much doubted he would still be here if he wasn't.
Steve was under no illusions as to how the fight on the helicarriers had gone. Sure, he had won as far as getting the override chip inserted into the mainframe so Maria Hill could redirect the targets of the guns. But everything after that… getting out and starting to fix the damage that Hydra had caused within Shield was nothing compared to trying to get some kind of reaction – some recognition – from his old friend.
He could picture it now. That moment on the bridge where the Winter Soldier's mask had come off and there was no myth, no ghost, just his old friend.
Who didn't seem to have a clue who he was.
Then again, Bucky didn't seem to have any idea about his own identity either.
So Steve had done his duty, like he always did, and then cast his shield aside. He would much rather have his lover back, laughing and joking and living and, hell, even just remembering him, than he would stay Captain America. Being that person had never mattered as much to him as his friend. He wasn't even sure that Captain America had really existed outside of Bucky and the Commandos anyway.
In return though, Bucky had beaten him half to death, seemingly fighting against his own memories, before Steve had spoken.
"…'cos I'm with you 'til the end of the line…"
The soldier had paused, and Steve had fallen.
He didn't actually know what had happened after that point, but he knew that he was unconscious when he hit the river. He knew that he shouldn't have survived that day.
And he knew that none of his allies had been close enough to be the ones to rescue him, to drag him onto the banks of the Potomac, bleeding and broken, but alive.
It had to have been Bucky. It just had to.
So he had set off faithfully after his friend, following every lead, every hint that the file Natasha had given him included and every whisper of the Winter Soldier's presence.
He was always one step behind.
He and Sam hit up secret Hydra bases, only to find them burned to the ground, they tracked down old Russian operatives linked to the Red Room, where Natasha had hinted that the Winter Soldier spent some time – and don't think that Steve wasn't going to be questioning her more about that – only to find them sprawled on the floors of their hideouts, neat bullet holes in the centre of their heads, and they revisited old haunts of Steve and the Commandos in Europe, only to be met with towns and cities, where previously only shell-ridden countryside had lay.
There were several times they nearly caught up with him, only for him to slip away into the city as if he had never been there.
The closest they came was Rome. Sam had cracked after a long stretch of frantic travelling and had demanded a couple of days for them to just be tourists, especially as he had never been to Italy before. Steve, beginning to be ground down by the despair of not catching up to his friend, had agreed.
Maybe they did need a break to recharge and get themselves back on track. It was beginning to get dizzying how many circles they seemed to be turning in.
So they played at being tourists for a few hours, visiting the Colosseum and the Vatican (Steve's dearly departed Catholic mother would have been proud), before winding up at the Trevi Fountain. It was such a beautiful city. Steve's finger itched for a pencil and paper the whole time, wanting to record it all while it was still fresh in his mind.
A group of pretty Italian girls were throwing coins into the fountain and had roped Sam into taking their picture. Steve glanced around idly while he waited and…
There.
At the top of the Spanish Steps. Looking down at him and Sam with such an odd expression on his face.
Steve couldn't have stopped himself from calling out if he tried. "Bucky!"
Sam spun around at the noise and in a split second he was gone. Steve sprinted after him, taking the stairs four at a time, and veering left at the flash of his opponent's metal arm in the distance. It was too late though. By the time he reached the end of the road, Sam panting heavily after him, Bucky was gone.
That had been when they'd given up and come back to DC to regroup.
They needed a break, Sam had argued, a chance to get some perspective. Bucky clearly knew now that they were looking for him, that Steve had followed him halfway around the world to find him, and yet he had run. Which was why Steve now found himself back on the banks of the Potomac, near where he had been found. There was a gaping hole in the skyline now where the Triskelion used to stand, but all was finally calm and still.
And he was alone…again.
It hurt. Badly.
And it made him question his actions over the last half year. Maybe Bucky was too far gone to ever want to return to Steve again. Maybe they couldn't ever get back what they once had with each other.
It was the closeness Steve missed. Sure, he had friends now, but nothing like the intimacy he had once shared with his fellow brothers in arms or his childhood friends.
He missed going out into the field, know that his left side was covered. He missed having those memories, the ones he and Bucky had shared since childhood, that had cracked them both up every time they hinted at them while other people looked at them like they were crazy.
He missed drinks in Sally Dunn's bar and hot dinners with Bucky, Winifred and Rebecca when the winter swept in over Brooklyn. He missed the way Bucky was bold as brass when faced with new people or challenges, but would blush and stare at the ground whenever Steve got him to pose for one of his sketches.
He missed the way his friend would laugh, really laugh, head tilted back and hand clasped on his shoulder for balance. He missed the way Bucky just to cling to him during cold fall nights, even after the serum, the warmth of his chest heating up Steve's back through their clothing and banishing the chill from his spine. He even missed the fact that despite the warmth of his body, Bucky's feet were always cold and he used to wrap them around Steve's calves or tuck them under his lap when they were sitting together.
He missed his friend. He missed his lover.
He missed him in a way that time had not healed fully, but had been torn and made raw anew after recent events.
He had mourned his friend's honourable death. He now had to mourn his torturous descent into the Soldier, a prisoner and assassin.
Steve shoved his hands in his pockets and heaved a sigh, closing his eyes briefly.
It didn't do to dwell on the past. Natasha was right about that at least. He had to push past this, move on.
Except when he turned around Bucky was right in front of him.