The sky was overcast, thick grey clouds hanging above him in a way that made Bucky feel claustrophobic as he made his way down the busy D.C. street, the world around him dim with faded color as he periodically looked around for possible tells of danger. He was antsy, he knew that, on edge to the point that there was visible relief in his shoulders and back as he entered the apartment building, making his way to the elevator as if he were a tenant or something of the like. He knew where he was going, had done the research before he arrived, knowing that he could only spend so much time out in the open with such little cover, only the grey sweatpants and white t-shirt he'd had to stop and wash three times now with borrowed quarters at laundromats. He didn't even have shoes.
There was no one else in the elevator as it climbed to the top floor, a cheery little tune playing from the speakers in the ceiling before it was interrupted by a ding, announcing that he had arrived at the top floor. It didn't take him long to find apartment 940, an unassuming door painted a pristine white, with neat numbers printed on the plaque above the key hole. Bucky knocked, three short taps with fingers that didn't shake nearly as much as he thought they should.
What answered the door wasn't exactly what he'd expected, though that wasn't to say that it was a disappointment. It was Steve, he was just, well, taller – taller than Bucky, and boy was that weird – with muscles that looked like he could crush you with an enthusiastic hug – Bucky took a quick peek into the next few seconds to assure himself that that wasn't one of the options waiting for him – and no more dorky haircut. His blue eyes were wide with surprise, and just as beautiful as Bucky remembered. He probably looked like such a mess in comparison, his hair greasy and nearly hanging down to his shoulders, with bags dark and purple under his eyes. Even when Steve was younger and smaller Bucky could never compare to beauty of his delicate features, - even if he hadn't thought so – but this was just ridiculous.
There was a moment of silence where neither of them moved, Steve too shocked by what he was seeing, and Bucky too busy drinking in the sight of his best friend. The dark haired man was the one to finally break it though, offering up a smile that was nothing more than a slight curl at the edge of his lips. "Hey." It was tentative, hesitant, but hopeful.
The small word was enough to break Steve from his trance, a shaky, "Bucky?" falling from his lips before he was lunging forward, and large hand curling around Bucky's bicep and pulling him inside, the door slamming behind them with a well placed kick. The blond waisted no time in gathering his friend up into his arms, embrace warm and strong as he created a mantra of the other man's name, a constant, "Bucky, Bucky, Bucky," murmured into his shoulder.
He could do nothing but reciprocate of course, arms wrapping around the blond's neck with a broken, "Hiya, Stevie." He could feel wetness on his shoulder, and honestly Bucky wasn't too far behind, tears gathering in his own eyes because god had he missed this. Sure, Steve was bigger – much bigger – but it as still Steve wrapped up in his arms, making him feel like he could face anything. God he had missed Steve.
"Buck," Steve started after a few minutes of just staying wrapped up in each other, pulling away slightly and placing a hand against Bucky's cheek. It was larger than he was used to, with more callouses than he remembered, but still held that tacky smell of pastels that seemed permanently rubbed in. "where have you been? It's been years – god, we all thought you were dead." He sounded so broken as he said this, years of lonely suffering bleeding into his words.
Bucky couldn't help but give a small laugh, though it was as warped and wrecked as he was. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
Blond eyebrows rose, challenging. "You can try me. But- later. Let me feed you or something first, I can feel you ribs under your shirt." The hand that wasn't against Bucky's cheek ran up and down his side in indication, brushing along the bumps of bones there. "Is there anything else you need too? A shower, change of clothes?"
"Yea, all of that sounds pretty good actually." Were it any other time Bucky would have picked on Steve for being a mother hen, but at the moment he was too grateful, too tired and sore to come up with something witty.
Steve's apartment was small, though with only himself he didn't need much space, only one bedroom and bathroom, with a cozy living room and kitchen. There was lots of dark wood finish, and sketchbooks scattered everywhere. The blond lead him into the blue tiled bathroom, indicating to where the extra towels were, and explaining how to turn the knob so that he didn't kill himself accidentally with scalding hot water, all the while always keeping Bucky in his peripheral vision if not head on, as if he were worried that the blue eyed man would disappear if he looked away for even a moment.
He had good reason to, Bucky had been gone for nine years. Most days he feared that everything had simply been a dream, and he would wake up to sterile rooms, and sharp needles, and white lab coats.
Steve lingered for a moment once it was time for him to leave, hesitating in the doorway and drinking Bucky in, as if he were something of exotic beauty and not the disturbed mess he was at the time. Finally the wall of a man muttered something about food and shut the door, leaving Bucky his privacy, though if he really wanted to Bucky wouldn't be opposed to sharing a shower – if Steve really wanted to, that is...
The blond was sorely missing out, as the moan that Bucky made when the hot water hit his sore flesh was purely obscene, his tension filled stance dropping, and head hanging low as water soaked through his dark brown strands. There were purpling bruises all along his arms and torso, though thankfully nothing more serious, most taken in effort to avoid more detrimental damage to his person. Making his way to Steve hadn't been easy, not when you were patient number 32557.
The air in the bathroom was heavy with steam when Bucky got out of the shower, a fresh pair of clothes waiting on the toilet lid for him. The boxers fit fine, the sweatpants only long enough to annoyingly find their way under his heels as he walked,and the t-shirt obviously stretched out by muscles too large for their own good, the collar just shy of wanting to fall off his shoulder. They were soft, smelling like lavender scented fabric softener and Steve. It was amazing, and really Bucky wasn't past just stealing the larger man's clothes from then on.
When he came out into the hallway he was greeted with the scent of tomato soup, and followed his nose into the kitchen where Steve was standing over a pot of the stuff, as well as a pan where he was making grilled cheese. The blond smiled when he came in, taking a place at the small table by the window. The polite thing to do would be to offer help, but Bucky burned water, something Steve had become acutely aware of in their childhood, so he didn't mind.
By the tine he set a bowl and plate down in front of Bucky he was salivating, finally confronted with his first real meal in who knew how long. "Just like mom used to make, back when I was sick all the time and could barely keep down water."
Bucky was at least polite enough to swallow his mouthful before continuing the conversation. "How is Sarah, by the way?" Sarah Rogers had been kind of the best person alive – besides Steve, of course – in Bucky's eyes. She'd played mother to a lonely orphan as often as she could, and Bucky had soaked up the affection like a sponge.
Steve looked down into his bowl before replying, stirring his soup so that it would cool in a way his counterpart had forgone for a scalding mouthful. He should have known better, but damn he was hungry. "She, um, she died. I mean – there's no doubt she's up in heaven with dad now, so I'm sure she's doing just fine."
It was then Bucky's turn to look down at his food, because god, he'd barely been there 20 minutes and already he was making Steve sad. "I'm sorry, Stevie."
"It's alright, I've had plenty of time to get over it. She got sick when I was 19, died about a year later." The dark haired man studied his friend – he might have been gone, but he knew Steve – and found that he wasn't lying, no pinch of sorrow to his face. "Talkin' 'bout my mom is great and all, but Buck, I wanna know about you. You've been gone for what, nine years now? What the hell happened? It was like you just disappeared off the face of the earth one day." Distress easily leaked into his tone the longer he continued, and Bucky could see nights spent lying awake, worried and so, so alone reflected in his eyes.
"That's pretty much what happened." Bucky agreed, voice grim as he made himself remember the naivety of his 16 year old self. "I was walking down the street, on my way back from visiting you, when these guys grabbed me and drugged me. There wasn't much I could do."
"But, surely you must have predicted it or something." Steve sounded so distressed as he said this, as if it were happening now, his empathy a beacon of light shining through, strong as ever.
Bucky smiled ruefully, "I did. That's why I was taking the long way back. Turns out they were targeting kids at the orphanage who could push. Figured there would be no one to care about them."
"Bucky-" Steve started, before being cut off by his friend, the words wasted breath.
"I know." The dark haired man's smile turned more gentle, blue eyes holding a soft, caring look. He didn't need to be told that Steve would do anything for him, because he was the same way.
"I looked for you, as best as I could." In the time spent away, it seemed Bucky had forgotten just how honest Steve's eyes were, and he had to avert his own baby blue's back to his food in hopes of preventing his heart from leaping out of his chest. "I started working out, thinking that one day if I ever could fight off what took you away from me then I would be able to. It's crazy how many sketchbooks I have with just different scenarios of me saving you in them."
"Yea, that would have been nice." Bucky murmured, and looking up again saw the silent plea in Steve's eyes for him to continue. "Hydra, the agency that had us, their goal was to create an army. 'For the upcoming war,' they'd always say, though I have no idea who that war is supposed to be between. Some form of anarchy I suppose. They took children and experimented on us, tried to make us better, stronger, soldiers. Of course, what they weren't expecting was that I would take the power they'd given me and turn it back on them in order to get out." Bucky looked up from lamenting to his tomato soup to gauge Steve's reaction, luckily finding only curiosity and small hints of sadness. He wasn't disgusted with him then, knowing he had been the equivalent of a lab rat.
"What was it, the power they gave you?" Hints of concern laced the blond's words, though obviously not over his own well-being, as he leaned in closer in anticipation for the answer.
"Watchers are given visions, right? Predictions of the future that are susceptible to change due to the different decisions that people can make. I don't get visions anymore, but I can choose any point in time to look at and see the different possible outcomes. As the moment grows closer and decisions are made, the less possible outcomes there are, until only a few moments before hand there is one possible outcome. That's how I've perfected fighting, always keeping one eye on what the other person will do next, and that's how I fought my way out."
Once again the dark haired man expected to see some sort of disgust over just how far away from normal he had been mutated, but once again he was proven wrong. Instead, all he found on Steve's face was a curious awe. "Are there any outcomes that don't have different possibilities? That are going to happen to matter what?"
Bucky couldn't hold back his grimace, remembering the strict schedule of Hydra, and how most everything was certain. "Yes. Those are the scariest, because you know there's nothing you can do to change them."
They spent most of the meal in silence after that, the talk too heavy for them to do anything but process. Things loosened up later though, when they were sitting on the couch, shoulders and knees pressed together, sitting as close to the other as possible without being on top of each other. Bucky had grabbed one of the sketchbooks off of the coffee table, and was looking through it, still not asking for permission before snooping around Steve's drawings, and Steve still not caring as he looked as well over his friend's shoulder. He had grabbed the most recent one, looking through only partially colored pictures of a man in a very patriotic version of a soldier's uniform fighting a villainous character with deformed, red skin. Occasionally there were pictures of a younger Bucky, the way Steve had remembered him, carefully picking the lock of the cage he had been trapped in while his captor was busy fighting what was undoubtedly Steve's version of himself. Even in Steve's dreams it seemed Bucky wasn't exactly a damsel in distress.
"You always did have an overactive imagination." The slightly older man commented as he turned to the next page, finding a depiction of the villain pressing a button that caused explosions to go off behind him. "Did you ever fulfill your dream of becoming an artist?"
Steve gave a small laugh, shaking his head in the negative. "No, these pictures are for our eyes only." It was amazing really, how seamlessly he was able to slip back into the plural without even a thought. "I actually work for the government now, this division called SHIELD. We work to protect people, so, it's nice. I actually get to fight bad guys instead of just drawing myself fighting them. I get to make a difference."
Bucky hummed in acknowledgment, an overwhelming sense of pride filling him over the boy that he once had to protect from bullies that was now protecting others that couldn't defend themselves. It was so Steve it was unbelievable. "Good work for a telekinetic I bet."
The smile the blond gave was cheeky, and god, how glad Bucky was to see it again, how much he had missed it. "Oh yea. There's this cool thing with my shield I can do, I'll have to show it to you sometime."
Bucky snorted, he couldn't help it. "Of course you would fight with a shield."
"What's that supposed to mean?" He sounded indignant, offended, but it was nothing like that.
"Nothing, nothing, just poetic is all." Bucky offered a gentle smile, calming the larger man immediately.
"You know, what with you running away and all, I'm sure Hydra has to be after you. I can take you to my work, SHIELD can help you, Buck. They can be all over Hydra in no time flat."
Steve's words were meant to be assuring, hopeful and confidant for the future, but Bucky couldn't help the way his muscles seized up, fingers digging into the hard sides of the sketchbook. Panic crowded his throat at the thought of sterile white rooms, and too many bodies, and needles, and chairs with restraints that cut into his wrists, and there was no way, he wasn't just going to submit himself to one organization after having to fight tooth and nail to get out of the other. When he tried to say this the words didn't come out nearly as eloquently though, instead a jumbled mess of, "No, I can't. Steve, I just got- don't wanna- just found you, I can't- can't go back. They'll be the same."
As this had carried on Steve's eyes had grown larger, realizing what he had done, the panic attack he had set off. He was quick to correct himself, pulling the smaller man into his arms for the second time that day, embrace strong and comforting. One hand found its way into Bucky's hair, so much longer than he ever used to wear it, the other rubbing soothingly along his back. "It's okay Buck, It's okay. You don't have to go, It's alright. I'll be the one to protect you, I promise. I'll keep you safe."