Brooklyn; 1940's; pre-serum

If you were to ask Steve Rogers if he was happy, he would smile weakly and nod; 'Yes,' he would say, rather quietly. 'Yes, I am happy.' You wouldn't have to look too closely to see that he was sick; he was pale and far too skinny for someone his age, and every so often he would start wheezing and shuddering. There was only a handful of people that knew the person behind the skin and bone, and they were proud to know him. A lion's heart trapped in a mouse's body, his mother would say fondly, when she wasn't bent over him worrying herself grey over his latest illness. Intelligent, kind, brave, and wise beyond his years - but there wasn't a whole lot of self-preserving in him. The new bruises he came home with every other day proved that.

If you were to ask Bucky Barnes if he was happy, he would grin wholeheartedly and sling an arm around Steve, who was usually by his side whether he liked it or not. 'Of course!' he would say. 'Why wouldn't I be?' even though he was surrounded by obvious signs of why he wouldn't be; of why he shouldn't be: women crying over dead husbands, letters of confirmation of killed or lost soldiers, the grimy remnants of the occasional gun breakout. Bucky, of course, was with Steve during this; what choice did he have? He'd known Steve since they were three, and he'd be damned if he could just leave his best friend out in the literal dust that got kicked up from angry, grieving people that wandered the streets looking for a fight with someone a quarter their size. Namely, Steve.

It wasn't a good time; hell, it was far from it, but the two had each other. And that went without saying.

Brooklyn; 1940's; after Bucky's mother's death

If you were to ask Steve if he was happy, he would glare at you defiantly and turn his back on you, leaving to go back to Bucky's apartment - if you could call that closet an apartment. They shared it, because Bucky's mother had just died and Steve's had been dead for at least a year, and neither had enough money to live on their own. There was one bed that was meant for one person, but fit him and Bucky because of Steve's tiny frame. It was necessary, even though they were both close to grown men, because there wasn't a couch and Steve was always cold at night and Bucky was always somehow warmer than a fresh loaf of bread. It made sense. It was probably the only thing that did, though. Steve was sick of it. Sick of the war, sick of pretending to be asleep while Bucky cried silently, sick of the big, stamped, red, NO that always wormed its way on to his letters from the army just because of his ailments, sick of the girls Bucky kept trying to set him up with...

If you were to ask Bucky if he was happy, he would feign a grin that was so fake it made Steve wince. 'Course!' he would say, even though his eyes were red from nights spent crying as quietly as possible next to Steve so that he wouldn't wake him - and so Steve wouldn't see him like this. His mother hadn't deserved death, hell, she hadn't deserved anything bad that had happened; her husband, her dead daughter, her failure of a son that couldn't even afford the damn rights to a proper funeral. Bucky hated everything in his hellish world, and just to add to the bargain, he was beginning to like Steve, not just as a friend, but in the sick, horrible way that had men touching each other for pleasure in dark alleyways - just the thought made Bucky slightly nauseous, and yet he couldn't deny the fact that he wanted to kiss those thin, chapped lips just once, before Steve could freak out and call the police on him.

It was two months that tore Steve and Bucky apart, but also roughly patched them together; uneven stitches just barely holding them together 'til the end of the line.

Howling Commando's base; 1940's; after Steve found Bucky

If you were to ask Steve if he was happy, he would set his jaw and stare you in the eye. 'Happy?' he would say, dubiously. 'I'm not really sure.' Then he would be whisked off by Agent Carter, to help strategize for the war. War was really the main word in Steve's vocabulary these days. And death. Bucky almost died. He'd thought Bucky had been dead for a while. Then he discovered HYDRA, the horrible people who had tried to steal the serum, had kidnapped Bucky and tortured him and done all sorts of gut-wrenching things that Steve almost wished they had done to him instead of Bucky so that Steve wouldn't have to watch Bucky be quiet and still and silent and just so un-Bucky it was almost gruesome. Bucky had scars - deep, long ones on his back and short slashes on his upper arms and shoulders that were swollen red and looked so terrible that Steve wanted to snatch Bucky away and run into a private room somewhere and dress his wounds and comfort him and hold him (because he'd caught Bucky shivering in 80 degrees, for god's sake) but he couldn't, because he wasn't even supposed to know about these scars. He'd seen them when Bucky had been getting ready to go shower - he'd always wondered why Bucky had become so self-conscious all of a sudden - and he'd just taken a peek and bam, scars everywhere.

The point was, no. Steve wasn't happy, but he was worried. For Bucky.

If you were to ask Bucky if he was happy, he'd smirk, a flashing ghost that would make Steve wince (because he was on the other side of the room keeping an eye on Bucky - he always was) but the smirk wouldn't reach his eyes, which weren't quite that same shade of electric blue - no, now they were slightly darker cerulean circles that darted around like he was trapped. Trapped in what, no one knew. He had stubble - which he had never had before - and wore the grimy clothes that Steve had found him in. He didn't like being smaller than Steve. He hated it; hated that he had to look up to look his friend in the eye, because he'd never had to do that before, it was always Bucky protecting Steve with no other option. Now, it was Steve protecting Bucky with the other option considered stupid and unnecessary. Which was unfortunate, because Bucky had been counting on fessing up about... it, and then leaving to go off to war and dying heroically in the process. But then the punk had to get super muscles - which didn't help at all - and stay in the army, and it was a lot harder confessing an illegal love for a person who considered Bucky a brother when said person was half a foot taller and completely different from the small, thoughtful boy back in Brooklyn. So he just stayed quiet and kept his scars hidden and didn't say anything when he saw Peggy and Steve making goo-goo eyes at each other, because Steve deserved a dame that was cunning and beautiful even though the mere thought hurt like an effing stab to the heart. Captain America didn't deserve a shitty, secret boyfriend that was scarred and stupid. It hurt more than Bucky cared to admit to know that Peggy and Steve were probably going to run off after the war and get married and have a dozen perfect babies right after crushing Bucky's heart into a million, scattered pieces.

It was a horrible time for Steve, and even worse time for Bucky, because neither really had each other's back. If one cared to look, they could see the irregular stitches rupturing one seam at a time.

Base; 1940's; after Bucky fell

If you were to ask Steve if he was happy, he clench his jaw and smile tightly at you. 'Not a whole lot of time for happy in a war,' he would say, then leave to do God knows what. He hurt. He'd thought that bullet wounds and paper cuts and punches hurt, but this was a whole new kind of hurt. The serum didn't protect against this kind of hurt. It felt like his very soul was being consumed until he was just a hollow, numb shell, and he didn't care if he was being dramatic; he had no one to tell him so, at least, because Bucky was gone.

Dead.

Well and truly gone from this world, never to come back and take care of a bruise Steve got in a fight or loudly chatise Steve about something stupid he'd said or look at his drawings with a look of awe on his face or skim his hands along Steve's bare waist and Steve hurt so badly he didn't even stop to think about where that last one had come from, maybe he'd known it all along, that he had been falling for his best friend and brother and fellow male, but he didn't care; it didn't matter, because Bucky was gone.

If you were to ask Bucky if he was happy, he wouldn't respond, because legitimate hollow, numb shells don't respond.

He was thinking, though.

Steve will come and get me. I'll tell him I want to spend eternity with him, because I love him.
Steve will come and get me. I'll tell him I love him.
A man will come and get me. I'l tell him I love him.
A man will come and get me. I love him.

The Arctic; 1940's; in the crash

If you were to ask Steve if he was happy, he wouldn't be able to respond out loud. But his thoughts were enough, really.

The room was bright, sunlight floating through the stained windows, and Steve was spinning, spinning, spinning - dancing, his brain corrected him. Dancing with Peggy, who looked as beautiful as ever in a mostly black dress with white splashed across the chest. He was dancing with Peggy - the exact dance he'd promised her in the plane, which seemed like it had been a thousand lifetimes ago. Everything was irrelevant, everything other than him and Peggy - but something wasn't quite right, and when Steve looked back at Peggy, it wasn't Peggy. It was Bucky, in a suit and looking more handsome than Steve thought possible. He was dancing with Bucky, spinning around a colorful room, with his hands clasped around Bucky's neck and Bucky's hands resting lightly on Steve's waist.

"Hello," Bucky said, his blue (the electric blue that sent little shocks down Steve's spine) eyes shining, and Steve couldn't tear his eyes away, couldn't speak; his tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth. "You look good."

Steve glanced down at himself, surprised to find a suit identical to Bucky's on him, except he had a small red flower pinned above his heart. "Uh, thank you." Bucky smiled at him, something that made Steve's heart melt.

"You're welcome." A pause. "You said you weren't good at dancing."

"I did?" Steve said haltingly. He was having a hard time processing all this.

"Yes. You also said," Bucky tipped his head to the side, "that you're bad at kissing."

"I said that... to you." Steve suddenly found it somewhat hard to breathe.

" 'parrently. Wanna test it?" And then Bucky's lips were pressed against Steve's and for a moment time froze, and it was just the two of them in this room, and later Steve wouldn't remember anything other than the fact that Bucky's lips were soft and warm.

If you were to ask Bucky if he were happy, he would scowl and ignore you, because it wasn't in his coding to respond to anyone he didn't know. And because the Winter Soldier didn't know what happiness was.

New York; present; after the fight

If you were to ask Steve Rogers if he was happy, he would shrug and nod slightly. 'Almost,' and the word tasted like blood on his tongue.

Almost lived.
Almost died.
Almost found him.
Almost lost him.

He couldn't believe it. Bucky was alive. Brainwashed, angry, no, scratch that, livid, but alive. And even though the logical part of him was screaming, shouting, wrong! Impossible! Bucky Barnes is gone! he wanted so, so badly to believe the boy from Brooklyn was still there. He had to. Years of being best friends didn't just vanish, just like that. And a fraction, a part Steve wanted squished like a grape, loved Bucky, and just when he'd come to terms with that specific part of himself, this happened. Another piece of Steve that probably came from the skinny, weak kid that was still there, no matter how strong Steve was on the outside, was doubting everything. There was no way Bucky could reciprocate, no way he wouldn't look at Steve with a laughable amount of disgust and leave him - but at least Bucky would know.

If you were to ask Bucky if he was happy, he would smile tightly and nod politely and then leave as quickly as possible, because the Soldier was still there demanding that he stay inconspicuous. He wasn't happy. Cold, hard floors and living off of scraps did that to someone - then again, so did heartbreak, and the hunger and sleep deprivation and sadness and anger and the mere hopelessness of it all just blended together until the edge of Bucky's vision turned all sorts of colors - mostly red, he noted - and he tried to curl in on himself, like that would stop it all, like if he just were small enough he would be able to evade all of life's problems. The first one: he was still in love with the man whom he'd tried to kill. Even Steve had his limits; Bucky wouldn't blame Steve if he hated him, after all, Bucky usually hated himself.

Neither of them had no way of knowing that the other was no less than two miles away, silently wishing the other was with them.

This might be more than an angsty one-shot if I get enough reviews...