Not Anymore
This is for Steve's birthday. I'm sorry if it isn't very good, I'm tired and sick and on my period and also very emotional. Anyway – unedited, angst and fluff (?), Stucky (no slash mentioned but maybe if you squint and really want to see it), post-CATWS. My first fic involving Bucky!
Steve sleeps at ease.
Some days, Natasha calls to check on him. She tells her old man-jokes while he hears the sounds of fighting behind her, but her voice is light and careless. It makes him smile.
Some days, he visits Peggy and brings her flowers.
Some days, Sam drops by to pick him up and drives him somewhere in the city. Mostly places that has some kind of history since the 1930s, and he does some research before so he can tell Steve about it. Other days, Steve drops by at his place and takes him with to see places that he used to visit when he was young. Then he tells Sam about it, old memories part of the story of Captain America that cannot be found in any museum. The promise to go find Bucky hangs between them expectantly, but they don't mention it – Steve is happy to know that Sam trusts him to have a plan and tell him whenever he's needed.
Some days, he brings some paper and pencils and sits outside sketching absent-mindedly. One day, a package of professional coloring pens arrives at his door without a note. He smiles and contacts Fury, asking him to thank Natasha for him.
So the days pass, and Steve is happier than he has been in a long while. The air gets warmer and he stays out in the sunshine, sometimes grabs a beer at a club when the sky darkens. He keeps an eye to see if any women or men are uncomfortable with the attention they're getting, and comes to their aid if needed. He smiles at kids walking by on the streets, because even though the adults are the ones watching the news attentively, it's always the children which seem to recognize him.
He doesn't know if he's happy. He remembers being happy, but the memory is often accompanied by the ghost of a friend's laughter or the faint scent of the woman he loves. He's at peace, he thinks. He's not unhappy.
Not unhappy. It sums it up quite greatly.
He nails his sketches to the wall in his tiny living room. They're mostly of different buildings or parks in the city, but some of them picture a smiling man with dark hair and a uniform like the one he used to have. He uses the coloring pens he got from Natasha on all of the drawings except those ones.
The fourth of July comes closer, and the country celebrates. Steve smiles at the kids asking their parents why the windows to the shops are decorated with the American flag or why those old men were humming the national anthem. On the third of July, a little girl with her hair in braids steps forward to him and clears her throat shyly.
"Um, excuse me, sir, but why is the American flag everywhere?" She asks, looking at him through her lashes with curiosity in her eyes. "My mom said I could ask you. She said you of all people would know."
Steve looks up in surprise, glancing at the woman the little girl had nodded toward. She raises an eyebrow sheepishly as if to ask if it's all right, and Steve flashes a reassuring smile before returning his attention to her daughter.
"Well, it's a big day tomorrow," He explains, bending down with a kind smile. "It's the fourth of July. Many years ago, on the same date, America became a free country. That means it stopped being a part of the United Kingdom. That's why we celebrate."
The girl frowns.
"Was the United Kingdom bad to America?" She asks confusedly.
Steve chuckles.
"Not really, but America wanted to be free anyway," He says mildly. "And on the fourth of July, it finally got to."
"Oh, okay," She nods in understanding, but then her eyes fall upon the sketching pad and thin box of pens under Steve's arm, and new interest sparks in her eyes. "What's that?"
He follows her gaze and shows her the items.
"I like to draw," He tells her. "Do you?"
"Yes!" She exclaims. Then she shifts on her feet nervously, looking doubtful. "But I don't draw very good."
"Ah, I highly doubt that," Steve says, winking. He opens the box of pens and shows the astonished child, picking out the colors red, white and blue and extending them to her. "Here. These are the colors of the American flag. Use them and draw something pretty for your mom, huh?"
The girl's face lights up, and she accepts the pens, examining them in awe.
"Thank you, sir!" She says happily.
"No problem," Steve chuckles as she turns around and limps to her mother. Limps – he blinks in confusion, until he catches sight of something metallic where her leg should have been beneath her long skirt. His heart clenches.
He's not unhappy, but he's not entirely happy, either.
The fourth of July comes, and Steve decides to go outside to see the celebration. Natasha calls him just as he's frying himself some eggs.
"Happy birthday, Rogers," She greets him. "What's your plan for the big day?"
Steve smiles, even though she can't see it. There are faint voices screaming and noisy sirens somewhere in the background.
"Nothing special," He says non-committedly. "But thanks. You?"
"Just defending the world with my buddies," She jokes casually. "The everyday-business."
The booming sound of a something crashing makes Steve flinch.
"You should go," He tells her hurriedly.
"Yeah, well, Barton isn't much good without me," She says, and he can picture her smirking. "Anyway, happy Birthday, Cap. You got the pens, right?"
"Yes, they were lovely. Thank you," Steve says.
"Good. That was your birthday gift. Came a little early, but whatever. Hold on," A distant gunshot is heard before she comes back. "Okay, really gotta go. Don't do anything stupid until I get back."
Steve's chest suddenly feels very tight.
How can I? You're taking all the stupid with you.
"No," He breathes. "No, I won't. Be careful."
"Always," Comes the answer, and then she hangs up.
He shakes off the creeping sadness skirting at the edges of his mind, waiting for an opportunity just like this to throw him in to the pit. He eats his eggs hurriedly, grabs his sketching pad and pencils and then finds himself blinking in the sudden sunlight.
People are being louder than ever, the colors of the American flag are seen everywhere, tourists and children stand slightly confused and some people are already drunk. Steve doesn't know what to think, really, but then he sees a couple of children in front of an ice cream-stand. A boy asks the seller if he could have vanilla, raspberry and blueberry, and then turns to his older sister to proudly say that the ice cream would make the colors of the flag. Steve smiles.
He spends the day aimlessly walking around the city, sketching absent-mindedly while sitting sipping coffee. It becomes quite an unproductive but very peaceful day. Toward the night, fireworks are heard, and more and more young people huddle around pubs and clubs, celebrating with bottles and glasses in their hands. Steve decides against joining them to grab a beer, even when three young, attractive women drunkenly flirt with him.
So he's home around ten o'clock, takes a shower and sits down on the couch, turning on the TV. Fireworks and laughter is still heard outside.
The familiar ring of the doorbell pierces the air, and Steve frowns. Cautiously, he glances at his shield, lying in the corner of the room, and slowly approaches the door, pressing down the handle hesitantly.
As it opens, Steve blinks and forgets how to breathe.
Long hair, scruff, grayish eyes, clad in a simple hoodie and sweatpants, hands buried in pockets but a sliver of metal visible by the wrist.
"I remember you," He says immediately, voice raspy and hoarse but still so heartbreakingly familiar. "I knew you."
Just like that, something inside of Steve snaps, and he sucks in a shuddering breath, hands itching to reach out but mind telling him not yet, not yet, and he blinks again, as if to see if this is a dream he will wake up from.
"Yeah," He says breathlessly. "Yeah, you knew me."
Bucky looks at him sharply. Steve swallows.
"Come in," He hurries to say, stepping aside so he's not blocking the entrance entirely. Bucky hesitates, but then slowly steps inside, standing awkwardly in the hallway. His eyes trace the room, his expression not changing.
"Do you want anything? Food? Drink?" Steve asks, making his way in to the kitchen and rummaging through the fridge desperately. "I-Bucky?"
He raises his head and sees Bucky standing in the living room, staring at the uncolored sketches of himself. He reaches out, touching the delicate paper, recognition flashing in his eyes.
"Bucky," He repeats. Steve's stomach churns as he suddenly remembers the last reaction he got to the name – who the hell is Bucky?
"That's… Me?"
He turns around and stares at Steve, his eyes like shattered glass.
I will fix them, Steve thinks. I'm going to fix him.
"Yes," He says softly. "Bucky Barnes. You're my friend."
Bucky stares at him dimly.
"You're my mission," It's an echo of the words he spit in Steve's face when they were fighting, but they're hollow now and so is his voice.
"I am," Steve agrees, swallowing with difficulty.
Then Bucky's eyes clear, coming back to focus, something harsh occurring in his gaze.
"Not anymore."