AN: Translations at the end ;-)

Keep Me Warm

The Winter Soldier woke, as usual, to a dimly-lit room and the sound of hushed voices. It isn't long before those voices are addressing him, giving him orders, information, and their grim blessings. "Vy poydete v Sankt-Peterburge…"

He stood on the thin bridge, taking a moment to assess his surroundings; to his right, the golden griffons were watching him, imperial and majestic, faces forever carved into angry, teeth-baring snarls (he knew something of that). Lights from the buildings and roads either side of the canal gave light to their wings, making them shine almost too-brightly and giving one whole street the impression of being painted gold; only the ice, partially covering the canal's water, remained an icy blue and silver, reflecting the deep twilight sky above. The black of the railings and the grey of concrete and stone should have looked out-of-place in this gold and blue land, as did the multitude of slow-moving cars packed tightly against each other, and the smudge-like people hidden beneath dark coats and hats going this way or that way, eyes downcast, lips sealed tight. The Winter Soldier looked just like them, a small shadow under the blaze of the griffons, but he was different; he was neither labourer nor politician, though he had work to do and a country to serve.

"Vasha tsel'rebenka." He looked young and innocent in the photo, American, with neat dark hair and bright, burning eyes; a boy whose excitement and pride were obvious to anyone. The Winter Soldier felt like he knew him, the way his laughter would bubble up until it spilled over, warm and carefree and infectious, or the way he'd take things oh so seriously, as if trying to make up for his lack of experience…

It was time. He left the bridge, striding between its golden guardians without batting an eyelid. There was a plane to catch, a job to be done, and another enemy to strike off the list. Ideas and plans were already formulating in his mind, varying in choice of weapon, timing, place, efficiency, sending a message, or just getting the job done – but either way, this boy was dead.

"Kak yego zovut?"

"Foma."

Bucky woke, as usual, with a full-body jerk, and for a long, confusing minute all he was aware of was the bed, darkness, and his pounding heart. He was breathing heavily, trying to unscramble his thoughts and get rid of the images behind his eyelids, and after some time he could finally begin to make out familiar shapes in the gloom: the wardrobe, the door, the desk, the chair, Toro. He appeared to still be sleeping, but whatever relief Bucky felt was overshadowed by the guilt knotting itself in his chest.

Every inch of material seemed to be stuck to him as he tried to inconspicuously slip out of bed - his pyjama pants clung to his legs unforgivingly, and the sheets didn't immediately leave his back. It was a clear sign that he'd been sweating something awful, but as he made his way out onto the balcony Bucky didn't feel particularly warm. If anything, he was shivering, and that was before he opened the sliding doors and stepped outside into the still morning air. A breeze stroked his damp skin as he stared unseeing at the city, and it made him feel colder. Folding his arms over his chest didn't help – the metal limb was not the best thing to press against bare skin right now, not when he was still breaking free from his memories and feeling like... like...

Ice. It was the only word his brain could supply. The last thing Bucky wanted to feel like was ice, because he knew too well the touch of ice on his skin, holding him in place, stopping his lungs from working with its weighted press, forcing his heart to beat slower and slower...

Bucky gripped the railing tight. There might be marks in it tomorrow, but he was sure Toro would sweet-talk Tony into fixing it without questions being thrown around. Damn metal hand; the only blessing was that, unlike his real hand, he couldn't feel the surface's temperature on his palm. Didn't stop the shaking, though, and his shoulder ached like a bitch. Always did when he was cold. He massaged the joint as best he could, but it was one of the few times the conflicting sensations of pliable muscle and unyielding metal seemed unfamiliar and alien, rendering his efforts futile. He could go inside and get a jumper, but that would mean potentially waking Toro up.

How ironic that the Winter Soldier couldn't handle the sensation of being cold, he ended up thinking. The Red Room would've hated that as much as they would've laughed at him before drilling such a weakness out in a matter of minutes. While he was under ice, of course. Because it was always there waiting for him, waiting to grip his bones and shake him, to remind him of everything he lost, and to flaunt his dreams in his face.

"Buck?"

Bucky closed his eyes. Toro had woken up after all. Before S.H.I.E.L.D had deemed him fit for service (i.e. mentally intact and trigger-free) he used to hate waking up alone, the disorienting sensations of colliding memories and reality too much without someone to ground him to the present. Since moving in with Toro that had changed: now he resented waking the other up, for making him see the trembling mess he turned into whenever his dreams twisted into something else. It wasn't fair – that wasn't what Toro had asked for, nor did he deserve it. Bucky mightn't have asked for it either, but he wasn't sure he didn't deserve it.

"You 'kay?" Toro asked behind him, voice still sleep-heavy.

Swallowing, Bucky nodded. "Yeah." He wanted to tell him to go back to bed, but didn't trust his voice not to waver and give away the truth.

A pair of arms snaked round his midsection as Toro moulded himself to Bucky's back, cheek resting against his good shoulder. Bucky cursed himself inwardly for being too damn easy to read, but stayed where he was, trying to repress the shudder that ran across his skin at being touched. He focused on breathing, steady and calm, until it began to register that Toro was warming him up; slowly, the ghost-ice was melting, taking with it the tension in his muscles and the clamour in his mind. It was a while later that Bucky unclenched his fists on the railing, closing his eyes again and letting his head drop forward a little with a tired sigh.

"Better?" Toro asked in a soft murmur above the whisper of the wind.

"Kinda," Bucky admitted. "Shoulder's not quite there yet."

He felt a smile against his back. "Maybe we could sort that out in bed, hmm?" Toro's hints, Clint had once said, were as subtle as Thor purposefully changing the phrase in a game of Chinese Whispers. Bucky never really cared – it was just another thing to tease the human flamethrower about, another aspect of his character that nearly always brought up the deepest sense of fondness.

As Toro moved away to give him space to turn round, Bucky caught hold of his wrists gently and leaned in for a kiss. He kept it slow and tender, savouring the taste and feel of Toro's lips on his until they needed to breathe, but the hot breath that replaced them once they parted wasn't entirely unwelcome. "Thanks, Toro."

Toro smiled, gaze full of understanding, love, and – most importantly – warmth. "Anytime."

AN: Had to get some fluffy Bucky/Toro feels out of the way. Although, looking back, there's not really that much Bucky/Toro at all... :S

Anyway, description of St Petersburg inspired by this picture and Russian translations (according to the not-so-trusty Google Translate) are:

"You will go to St. Petersburg."
"Your target is a child."
"What's his name?"

And 'Foma' is apparently the Russian equivalent of Thomas. Yes, I'm cruel, but so was the Red Room...!