AUTHOR'S NOTE: right after tws is set
steve finds bucky in an abandoned train station a week after the incident with the helicarriers. he takes him back to his apartment. there's like no plot it's just vague h/c and lots of fluff
When the Winter Soldier wakes up, he's lost. Every single one of his senses is on overdrive and he doesn't remember much of anything. The first thing he notices is the person (target ) sitting a few yards away. They're asleep, head lolling onto their chest, breathing slow and deep. He isn't sure where he is-an apartment, maybe ( fire escape on the east side, goes all the way down the building, front door on the north side, locked, three doors off the main room, bathroombedroomstudy)-or how he got here. The only thing he remembers, aside from his name, is pain.
The other person (threat must be eliminated) jolts awake, as if he knows that the Soldier has come to.
The Soldier half-rises, supporting the majority of his weight with his left arm (it's metal and cold and he can feel but not feel). Pain shoots through his shoulder and he falls back onto the couch cushions with a grunt, arm buckling. The person-a man, the Soldier thinks to himself, all lean muscle (handsome, whispers a part of him buried just out of sight; he ignores it)-stands, a strange look on his face.
"Are you okay?" he asks, worry obvious in his voice. "You, um, dislocated your shoulder, but I think you just popped it back into place yourself. The, um, pain should just be a residual ache. I had Sam look at you, and he said you'll be fine. Do you, ah, remember...anything?"
The Soldier's eyebrows knit together while he thinks. "I...the bridge-who are you? Why do I know you?"
The man looks unbearably sad and something deep in the Soldier's chest aches. "You're my best pal, Buck," the man says finally, voice breaking. He clears his throat several times before continuing. "My name is Steve Rogers. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes, but you hate it, so everyone just calls you Bucky. We've known each other since we were kids."
The Soldier can't breathe; his mind is so foggy, has been foggy for so long. "No," he manages finally. "No, you're wrong, I'm a soldier, I'm the-the Winter Soldier."
Steve's eyes are like shattered glass. "You're my friend."
The Soldier doesn't know what to believe (eliminate the threat kill him kill him now) or what to do so he shoves the palms of his hands into his eyes hard enough to see stars.
They're all red, like the emblem on his cybernetic arm, like his vision, like his hands when he kills. "What am I?" he asks finally.
Steve looks broken and he looks like he's about to protest, to insist that the Soldier is a person, not a thing, but he can't help it. He doesn't feel entirely there, entirely human.
"Sorry," he intones dully. Steve looks at him hard.
"There is nothing," he says slowly, "nothing that you need to be sorry for."
And he reaches out and his hand brushes against the Soldier's bio-hand, tentative, so light that he can only just feel it. The Soldier isn't expecting it and begins to jump away, but he's hit without warning by an onslaught of flashing images.
One in particular sticks out and he latches onto it for dear life. He and Steve, his arm slung loose around the latter's shoulders speaking in a voice that is his but not his. They're laughing.
The memory is swiftly replaced, but it's still them, wearing the same clothes, nighttime falling around them like a curtain. SERVE YOUR COUNTRY-ENLIST NOW! proclaims a banner behind Steve, who is much smaller than the man in front of him now, scrawny to the point of being gaunt.
"You're a punk," the Soldier (but he isn't the Soldier, he's Bucky) says, a smile in his voice.
"Jerk," Steve replies without hesitation. Bucky the Soldier pulls him roughly into a hug, and he's startled by how willing Steve is to let himself be pulled into the embrace.
"I'll miss you," Steve says, voice tight with something.
The Soldier almost says I love you, I miss you already, I want to kiss you so bad I can't breathe. He doesn't. "Me too. Take care of yourself, kiddo."
Steve looks almost disappointed for a millisecond and the Soldier feels a scary sort of heat in his stomach but still doesn't say anything.
When he says goodbye, he forces down the urge to kiss Steve senseless, to tell him not to worry; he leaves behind so many unsaid things that he feels like he's going to suffocate.
It fades and the Soldier reels back, standing up and moving away, away from Steve. He's terrified and his eyes keep darting unconsciously from exit to exit, but he stays where he is, chest heaving.
"Who-I-" he says, stilted, eyes creeping over to meet Steve's. "Why did he look like me? Who-am I-are we-"
Steve furrows his brow, standing up slowly so as not to frighten Bucky away.
"What did you see?" he asks, voice steady.
"I-we-it was so vivid-was that me, was that my-my memory?" the Soldier runs a hand through his hair, panic bleeding into his voice, unshed tears shining in his eyes.
"What did you see, Bucky?" Steve repeats.
"We were-talking, you-you were trying to enlist-"
"April 13th, 1941," Steve murmurs, half to himself. "Is that what you saw?"
"Am I-am I Bucky?" he asks and Steve is nodding, he's saying yes and stepping closer, they're only a foot away from each other now, and he's scared, he's so damn scared.
"That night," Bucky rasps, "I-I wanted to kiss you, wanted to-so many times, I wanted-" he breaks off, unsure, panic rolling through him.
"Do you still want to?" Steve asks, something like hesitation in his eyes when he moves his gaze to Bucky's mouth.
Bucky nods, turns the distance between them into inches, and Steve is there, forehead resting against Bucky's. It's stiflingly hot but neither of them moves.
They stand like that for a long moment, both scared (Bucky's eyes search instinctively for a weak spot to strike, but he stays).
Bucky makes up his mind first and kisses Steve, hard. He feels like fire is spreading from his fingertips to his feet, his heartbeat thrumming against his chest.
Steve responds in earnest, gasping softly, and Bucky cannot breathe, cannot think, cannot do anything but continue to kiss his best friend. He's out of practise; he hasn't done this in seventy years. It's more tongue and teeth than Steve likes, but he's not pulling away, not hesitating. Bucky pulls him closer, one hand (cybernetic), at the small of Steve's back, the other tangled in short blond hair.
He isn't sure how much time has passed when they pull apart-seconds, minutes, hours, days.
Steve is looking at him like he can't believe his eyes, and Bucky's scared that he's going to tell Bucky to leave and never come back or something worse, but he doesn't.
"Bucky," he breathes out, and Bucky wants to memorize the way his mouth forms words, the way he speaks, the way his lips quirk up at the sides when he says Bucky's name.
"Steve," Bucky answers, half-smiling. Steve beams at him like he made the damn sun rise, and he feels something in his chest ache.
"Jerk," Steve says, and he has to swallow twice before it comes out steady.
"Punk."