You Saved Me Every Day

by PromiseRuin

Over and over, he had failed. If he had stopped Hydra seventy years ago, all of those people would still be alive; if he had been faster on that train, maybe Bucky wouldn't be so lost. Maybe it would have been Bucky on the radio with him when he downed the plane. Maybe he would have told him the truth. Oneshot! Stucky. Bucky returns to Steve and begins remembering their past.

Several months after Steve Rogers had fallen into cold, black water and been pulled out by the ghost of his best friend, Captain America was on a manhunt for the living, breathing man that he had lost a lifetime ago. Even if he had long hair and cold, grey eyes, it was still Bucky; it was still him. Steve had followed up on lead after lead, chasing sightings of The Winter Soldier all over the world; Hydra bases ransacked and the agents massacred; weapons caches raided and arms deposited near police stations; a string of empty apartments and hotel rooms registered to a man fitting Bucky's description; a trail of breadcrumbs that seemed to lead nowhere.

But Steve saw the message clearly: "I was here."

So he searched; he followed every single tip that came his way from a variety of contacts throughout the world. He often followed leads with Sam when he wasn't busy with the Avengers; Steve had bowed out of several missions to focus on his search for the man who saved him, over and over; the man he had failed on that mountain seventy years ago.

He was scheduled to leave the following morning on a cargo plane to Chechnya, where The Winter Soldier had possibly been spotted three weeks before. Flying under the radar wasn't only for Steve's own safety but for Bucky's as well. His gallivanting across the globe had caught the attention of some and he knew what those left after the collapse of SHIELD would do if they found Bucky first. This tip had come late and the informant wasn't someone Steve trusted completely, but he had to go.

Any lead could get him closer to his goal. Any tip could be the one that led him face-to-face with Bucky. He had to go.

Until then, however, he slept and he dreamt of a train in the snow; of the scream that ripped his life in half. He felt the freezing cold wind and icy snow whipping his skin as he reached out but every inch that he moved closer seemed to be another inch that Bucky slid away. In the dream, the man holding on had long hair, dark eyes, and he gripped the train with a metal arm, but he held the same look of terror on his face.

His scream sounded the same when he fell.

Steve woke, shaking and breathing heavily; he wiped feebly at his eyes to rid himself of the tears. The others didn't know that he cried in his sleep; they only knew that he rarely slept through the night, especially after D.C. They knew that Bucky had been his friend, his best friend, but they didn't know that when he was small and sickly, when he had nothing, he always had Bucky. They didn't know that the ache he felt was from more than just the grief of losing a comrade; they didn't know that he had loved his best friend since they were kids.

No one knew, not even Bucky.

He lay in his bed, trying to get back to sleep and becoming more and more frustrated. After a nightmare, he could usually relax quickly by using some breathing techniques that Bruce had shared with him but they weren't working. He turned over in his bed, throwing the simple gray, cotton sheets off of his legs; something was gnawing at him and he couldn't put his finger on it.

With a huff, he rose and stalked across the dark floor to grab his sweatpants and pull them on; it was August and, even with the air conditioning, he always felt too hot at night. He left the bedroom and walked down the hall, into the open living room and dining area. This was his "apartment" in Avengers' Tower – the entire twenty-seventh floor – but he had only recently moved in, following the events in D.C. He was unpacked, so to speak, but it still didn't feel like home. Maybe it never would.

It came furnished with a light gray couch and matching arm chairs, and it was stocked with plain dishes, silverware, cups, and mugs. Everything about it felt sterile. The artist in Steve wanted color but he hadn't done anything to personalize it. The apartment he had rented in D.C. hadn't felt much better but he had lived in it long enough to stop noticing.

It was dark and the only light he could see by was the moonlight that shone through the large windows of the tower. He never understood why Stark was so obsessed with these floor-to-ceiling windows but he had been able to find some curtains that fit. After he had purchased them and hung them up, Tony explained that the glass was tinted on the outside, but Steve kept them. He often left them wide open but it made him feel better to have them; less exposed.

He walked around the white granite breakfast bar where three black barstools were tucked in and reached the sink. He opened the cupboard above it to grab a glass and turned on the tap until the water became cold. He filled the cup and took a large gulp, then returned the glass to the tap to refill it, but stopped.

Maybe he heard a sound like shoes on the enamel floor, or maybe it was the sound of someone taking a breath, or a shadow moved in his periphery. Whatever it was, Steve's body went rigid and defensive before he turned and threw the half-full glass. It smashed but not against an attacker's head; it was a clenched fist; a metal fist.

Steve's eyes went wide; the man across the room was sitting in the dark; he had long hair and gray eyes, made luminous by the light of the moon. He was wearing a dark brown jacket, blue jeans, and work boots; his hair fell in his face. His left sleeve was soaked and water dripped to the floor from the cuff. He stood up and walked, slowly, toward the kitchen area; he didn't seem to notice the glass cracking under his feet.

Steve hesitated only a moment longer before saying, "Bucky?"

He stopped in his tracks, shifting his eyes from Steve's face to the floor, then to the cupboards, to the windows, and then back to Steve's face.

"Bucky," Steve said again, "do you know me?" He could see the wheels turning; some recognition was evident but his expression remained wary, guarded.

Bucky stood, quietly, in that spot and Steve waited; he had longed for this moment since The Winter Soldier had been unmasked on that bridge but he forced himself to be patient. "I remember," he began and stopped, swallowing audibly; his eyes continued to dance around but each time they met Steve's, he could see the truth. He saw Bucky. He wanted to press him; he had been searching for so long and the object of his quest was mere feet away. "Your mom's name was Sarah," Bucky finally finished. "You used to…wear newspapers in your shoes." His face held an expression of amusement, but the words came out as both a question and a fact, as if he still couldn't trust his own mind.

Steve couldn't help the smile that spread over his face and he felt the stinging of tears in his eyes. "I've looked for you." It was all he could say; his breath was coming out fast and it reminded him of the asthma he used to struggle with but this was different. He felt afraid and exhilarated and so incredibly happy.

Bucky stepped forward again until his boots no longer cracked on the glass but he hesitated; their eyes met and, this time, Bucky didn't look away. He had begun to reach his hand out but dropped it back to his side. "I know," He said. "You got so close but I couldn't," he whispered, shaking his head. "Not until I knew I wouldn't hurt you."

Steve swallowed around a dry throat, took a step forward, and said, "You won't."

His voice was confident and, before Bucky could answer, Steve had rounded the island counter and was wrapping him up in his arms. It felt like hours before Bucky responded, burying his face in the crook of Steve's neck, breathing him in and clutching at the bare skin of his back with a cold, metal hand and a warm, flesh one.

The tears flowed freely from Steve's eyes and he held Bucky's head there, dropping his own face to rest on the jacketed shoulder. "Steve," the man whispered; his voice sounded lost, as if he hadn't really believed that this man was real until he felt him, alive and irrefutable.

"I'm right here, Buck," was all Steve could say as he held Bucky close for the first time in seventy years.

This time, he wouldn't let go.

In the days that followed the return of James Buchanan Barnes to the world of the living, he moved into Avengers' Tower and was given clearance to come and go, so long as Steve went with him. These directives came from Nick Fury and General Ross, to be enforced by the Avengers. Bucky had rolled his eyes but accepted the terms, nudging Steve's shoulder and saying, "You're pretty hot for a babysitter." Steve blushed and chuckled.

Initially Bucky was offered his own floor, but he declined and instead asked to stay on Steve's floor with him. Based on their history, no one was surprised by the request and he took the spacious bedroom across from Steve's own.

When they exited the elevator on their floor and Steve showed him around, he said, "I know that it's not a lot of space for two people but when you want your own place, you can –"

"Stevie," he interrupted, smiling. "We lived in much tighter quarters in Brooklyn," he chuckled, winking.

Steve blushed and laughed with him, rubbing the back of his neck. They continued the tour, starting with Bucky's bedroom. Steve turned to point out his own room, right across the hall, and then they walked to the sole bathroom at the far end of the hall. While there was only one, it was extravagant as bathrooms go; it was nearly as large as a bedroom. It had a large, glass walled shower with marble tile and a Jacuzzi tub that could fit at least four people. The vanity counter, across from the bathtub, was granite with two sinks and a large mirror, spanning the entire wall leading to the shower.

Stepping inside and looking around, Bucky whistled and said, "This," gesturing the floor. Steve cocked his head and furrowed his brown in confusion. Bucky chuckled and finally said, "This is the size of our first apartment."

As the first night came on, Steve worried that Bucky would feel unsafe in a home with such large windows and so few exit points (the elevator and one stairwell). He watched as Bucky sat in the living room, staring at the windows as if he was sure that they were about to be ambushed. Steve cooked an easy dinner – much to Bucky's amusement – and they ate, quietly.

Steve thought of so many ways to begin a conversation but each time he looked up to speak, the sheer weight of Bucky's presence struck him. He was there, at the breakfast bar, eating a slightly burned pancake at eight-thirty at night. He was wearing a red t-shirt and his dark jeans, with his hair loose around his face. Steve knew we was staring but he couldn't stop – didn't care enough to; wanted to memorize everything he could. Bucky looked the same with minor hints of the years on his face; his eyes were still those beautiful, big blue eyes and his lips were still full and gorgeous.

Steve had always loved those lips; he'd sketched them over and over until he got them right, but they still weren't the same. He'd never shown Bucky those sketches, of course, and they were long gone. He thought about buying a new sketchpad and suddenly remembered that he hadn't drawn since before he crashed into the ocean.

Bucky looked over to find Steve staring at him, and he asked, "What is it?"

Steve shook his head and said, "Sorry." He blushed a deep crimson, feeling even his ears burn, but ignored it. "I'm just glad you're here, Buck." It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth of it; he turned back to his dinner and ignored that Bucky had begun throwing glances his way instead of the windows.

When they finally said goodnight, Steve closed his bedroom door and he waited there, listening as Bucky went into the bathroom and started the water in the shower. He rested his head against it, trying not to imagine that Bucky was undressing next door. He was so close, yet still so far away.

Steve turned and slid to the floor, wiping the tears from his eyes fruitlessly. He felt ashamed of himself; Bucky needed a friend, now more than ever. He wanted to be that person, of course; they had been through so much already and come out on the other side. He knew that he would always be here for Bucky through anything and everything… he just hadn't expected it to hurt so much.

His sleep was uneasy, as usual, but he awakened in the night to find Bucky sitting in the corner of his room with a loaded handgun. Without having to ask, Steve knew that Bucky had been there watching over him.

Steve carefully went to him and led him back to his own room, but the same thing happened the following night, and the next and the next. As the months went on, it happened less and less until, at last, Bucky remained in his room each night.

Steve knew that, like himself, Bucky wasn't sleeping but, at least, he had begun to believe that they were safe – or, at least, that Steve was safe – in their home.

Their home.

Steve tried not to think of this place in such terms. No matter how much Bucky needed him then, Steve was sure that Bucky would eventually want his own space. But, for now, the reassurance that Steve brought him was necessary.

Steve had held onto an item for more than seventy years and decided that it was time to return it to Bucky. He knocked on his bedroom door and waited for it to open. Bucky had very few belongings but what he did have was precious to him: several journals that Steve didn't dare look through; a photo of The Howling Commandos that seemed to have been printed off of a website; a photograph of his sister, Rebecca, that Steve had seen on display at the Smithsonian; and Bucky's mom's wedding ring. It was a gold band with a small pearl setting that Steve had always loved looking at when they were kids.

Steve stood in the doorway and held the ring out to Bucky. He seemed unsure for only a moment before he said, "That was my momma's." Once again, his tone was both confident and questioning, as if he had long wondered if his memories of this item were real.

Steve looked at the ring in his hand and nodded. "Yeah, Buck," he said, smiling as Bucky took it. "You, uh, left it with me when you shipped out." His cheeks reddened at the memory but he pushed it down.

Bucky looked at the piece in his flesh hand, turning it over to examine it. "I gave it to you," he said, this time, with more confidence.

Steve smiled, even brighter, and nodded. "Yeah, you did." He felt the blush on his cheeks and neck but he ignored it. "I asked you why you didn't want Rebecca to keep it. Do you remember what you said?"

Bucky looked over Steve's shoulder as he tried to remember. His eyes became unfocused for a moment and then, it seemed as if a light came on. He nodded his head, smiling conspiratorially at Steve, but he never answered.

After that, something between them changed, shifted; it was subtle at first, could even be considered accidental, but it didn't feel that way. Steve began to notice that Bucky would crowd close to him, touch him in some way, over and over, throughout the day. While standing in a debriefing before a mission, Bucky's shoulder would press against Steve's; when sitting at the counter for breakfast or while out to dinner with the team, his knee would press against Steve's; their hands would touch when Bucky was handing things over often enough that it couldn't be an accident.

Could it?

At first, Steve imagined that it was because he was the only thing that Bucky knew; the reality of everything else he saw and heard could be negotiable in his mind. He remembered Captain America from the 1940s; he remembered the blond boy that had been short and thin, sickly; he recognized the sound of Steve's voice; and he seemed to relax in his presence.

But these touches continued to occur even after Bucky began to spend time with the rest of the team. He spent time meditating with Bruce; he worked on his arm with Tony; he shot targets with Clint; he sparred with Natasha; he drank with Thor; and he worked with JARVIS to unlearn the version of history he had been taught; he even spent some time with Sam, though they didn't get along all that well.

Once or twice a month, the team would do something together; they would go out to dinner or watch a movie at the tower. Wherever they went, Bucky made a point to sit right next to Steve, pressing into his shoulder or thigh. These simple touches made his heart race and he felt himself flush, but he knew that Bucky didn't mean to elicit that response. He would focus on his breathing to calm himself down, quickly, so Bucky wouldn't notice the way he blushed or how his voice quivered.

If the others noticed anything about these occurrences, they said nothing to him or, he assumed, to Bucky. So, they continued on in that way for months until one night, things changed again.

Steve awoke to the sounds of someone crying; he got out of bed and hurried to Bucky's room, but found it empty. He went to the living room, looked in the kitchen area, and then went to the bathroom. The door wasn't locked but he knocked anyway, saying, "Buck?" The sound coming from within stopped or quieted, he wasn't sure which. "Buck, I'm comin' in."

He stepped inside the large room and found Bucky lying in the Jacuzzi bathtub, on his side with his knees bent. Steve walked up to the tub and stepped over the side, being careful not to step on Bucky. He got to his knees and then laid himself down on his side, behind Bucky and wrapped his arm around his waist. Bucky continued to weep and Steve just held him for a long time, his arm tightly wound and pressed over his heart.

After some time, Bucky finally spoke. "I see them, Stevie. When I close my eyes, I see them all." Steve didn't need to ask; he already knew what Bucky meant and he held him tighter, pressing his nose against Bucky's spine.

He felt despicable; he had wanted this for so long, this intimacy, and he was getting it at the expense of Bucky's sanity. He was a shameful, disgusting excuse of a human and he needed to stop this. With a deep breath, he whispered, "Come on, let's get you to bed." After a moment, Bucky nodded and they stood up together, awkwardly in the dark; Steve stepped out of the tub first and offered his hand to Bucky. He took it after a moment of hesitation.

They continued to hold hands as they walked down the hall. Bucky moved toward his room but maintained the tight grip, though Steve couldn't be sure whether or not he even realized he was doing it. Steve hesitated for a moment, thinking. They had shared a bed before, many times, and he knew that it had made Bucky feel better, more comfortable back then. Could it help him again?

Steve steadied himself and pulled on Bucky's hand, saying, "In here," and led them into the opposite bedroom. He hesitated for a brief moment before looking back, looking for a sign that Bucky was unwilling or uncomfortable, but saw none. In fact, he saw a small smile.

That night was the first time they had slept through the night since before the war.

The next night, Bucky tried to go into his own room for a while. Steve listened to him pace restlessly across the hall. He tried to ignore it and removed his shorts and t-shirt to get ready for his own sleepless night, but moments later, he heard a soft knock on the door. Steve opened it and Bucky looked him over; Steve was wearing just his briefs and blushed when he realized, but he made no attempt to close the door and cover up.

Bucky stared, fascinated, at Steve's body but, quickly, cast his eyes down, chewing the inside of his cheek. The expression wasn't one that Steve could easily identify; shame, maybe, or just embarrassment. Steve gestured for him to come inside with a wave of his hand. Bucky hadn't asked or explained why and Steve wouldn't question him. He assumed that Bucky simply felt safer when he wasn't alone.

They walked over to the bed and Bucky pulled his own shirt and sweatpants off. Steve forced himself to look elsewhere. He turned and sat on the edge of the bed as Bucky crawled onto the bed and lay down behind him.

Steve knew he could do this; he could be Bucky's friend. He'd done it for years and ignored his desires, reprehensible as they were, and no one ever found out. He could not understand why, now, after ninety years of being in the closet – as it was called in this century – he felt nearly powerless against them.

His heart was pounding so loud that he was sure the entire tower could hear it. He reminded himself that this was no different than any of the other times that they had shared a bed, though he wasn't sure why he was lying to himself. He took a deep breath and lay down on his side, facing away from Bucky and trying to maintain some space between their bodies.

"Steve," he whispered and his breath ghosted over the back of Steve's neck. "How come you don't draw anymore?"

Steve tried, and failed, to suppress the shiver that erupted; he thought for a moment and finally said, "I don't know."

Bucky whispered, "You…used to draw me," though it was more of a question than a statement.

Steve nodded and said, "Yeah, Buck, I did."

"I… I liked it," Bucky said and Steve could tell that he was expected to answer.

"Sometimes," he replied, smiling. "Sometimes you didn't."

"No, I," Bucky started and then took a breath. "I always did, Stevie."

Steve thought about that for a while, trying to correlate that statement with his own memories of Bucky complaining and arguing while Steve asked him to stay still for just a few more minutes. He finally replied, "I can get a new sketchpad," and then reached up and clicked the light off.

After that night, it wasn't unusual for Steve to wake up in the morning to find that their limbs were wrapped around one another. This morning was no exception.

It was March and Bucky had been living at the tower for seven months; the air remained cold at times but Steve always woke up warm. His eyes opened, slowly, and he took a moment to recognize which limbs were his and which belonged to Bucky. Even after all this time, he still blushed at the feel of Bucky's flesh arm around his waist and the bare skin of his chest pressed to his back or vice versa. He tried to extricate himself, carefully, so as to not wake Bucky and he sat on the edge of the bed. He had never been a morning person but he always wanted to wake up before Bucky to ensure that he never noticed how the closeness really affected Steve.

When he looked down at the Bucky, he remembered the time before the war, when they had slept in the same bed too. Bucky had demanded they share after the year that Steve had contracted a serious bout of pneumonia and nearly died. He was already extremely thin, but he lost so much weight because he couldn't hold any food or fluids down, and he could hardly breathe. It had gotten so bad that Bucky's sister told him to call a priest to perform Steve's last rights. His own family had been dead for several years, but momma Barnes had only passed away a few months before.

The priest arrived to their tiny, shabby one-room apartment and wrinkled his nose in disgust. Watching as the clergyman walked into the apartment as if he would get an infection from the floor. Steve hated hypocrites but he was too weak to do anything about it. The priest approached and offered him a cup of water; his lips were so chapped from thirst and breathing through his mouth, but he shook his head, just being stubborn.

Their life in that apartment wasn't much, but it was theirs and Steve had always been proud of it. He lay on a small cot nearest to the radiator, which Bucky had demanded, so any heat that it produced would warm Steve first.

The priest introduced himself, but for the life of him, Steve could not remember his name. He was probably dead now, anyway. He said his prayers and, as he left, Steve watched him put his hand on Bucky's shoulder and whisper, "You should prepare yourself."

After the priest was out the door, the fear in Bucky's face had hurt Steve more than the struggle to breathe or the hunger pains ever could. Bucky rushed to Steve's bedside and wept; his face transformed into a mass of anger and hopelessness. He gripped Steve's right hand and buried his face in Steve's shirt, begging and praying for him to pull through.

"You can't leave me like this, Stevie," he'd whispered, "Don't leave me."

Steve had wrapped an arm around his shoulders to comfort him through the sobs. Eventually, Bucky's breathing leveled out and he seemed to fall into a fitful sleep, with his head lying on the Steve's chest, lulled by the rhythmic beating of his heart and the crackling of his lungs. Only then did Steve allow himself to move his arm up and run his fingers through Bucky's hair; it was so soft even though he worked in the salty air of the docks. He had always wanted to feel it. A small sound escaped Bucky and Steve halted his movements, waiting to make sure that he fell back to sleep.

Death could be a powerful motivator, Steve learned; there were so many things that he had wanted to do and so many things he wanted to say. He had wanted to hold Bucky's hand and kiss him over ice cream. He wanted to whisper in his ear that he loved him, not because they could get in trouble for saying it, but because it was more intimate to whisper it. He had wanted to feel Bucky's skin on his and to know what it felt like to be loved, physically.

But Bucky could be imprisoned, or even murdered if people even suspected that they had seen him do such things with a man. Even if Steve was scrappy and stubborn, he couldn't protect Bucky.

Steve had truly believed that he was dying; his vision was blurred and fading and his lungs were struggling even more. He jutted his chin out as he would if he were facing down a creep twice his size and he said, "I know I won't get another chance to say this, Buck, so I'm gonna say it." His voice was hoarse and dry, but he took a deep, crackling breath and continued, "I love you; I've loved you since I was six years old and you pushed that big kid down, the one that had cornered me." He smiled at the memory, even though it made his lips burn; he continued running his fingers over the Bucky's scalp. "You were it for me, Buck. You were always it for me." His hand had begun to shake and tears fell, freely, down his cheeks. "I know you never… I know that. At least I got to have you in some way."

That memory brought Steve back to the present with a whoosh of air and the pain of unshed tears. He stood up and grabbed his clothes, before hurrying to the bathroom, rinsing his face and brushing his teeth. He pulled on his sweats and t-shirt and looked at himself in the mirror for a time, noting the major differences between his current state and the one he had remembered. He could breathe, freely and painlessly; he never got sick; he was quite a bit taller and he didn't have a hint of scoliosis; but he knew he could never tell Bucky the things he had told him then.

He rubbed his hands over his face, roughly, trying to scrub the emotion from his expression. Even if he had been that brave again, Bucky didn't need to be saddled with that, especially now that he was working to put a life together for himself. Steve knew that the future was much more accepting of individuals of his sexual orientation but learning that your oldest buddy had been madly in love with you for nearly a century, that he'd pined his years away for you, and crashed himself into a freezing ocean to be with you again – that was different.

He had felt so much joy that day on the bridge when it had been Bucky under that mask; but also agony. If he could make him remember, his friend would be alive but Steve would return to a life of wanting and never having.

He knew that his feelings were selfish; he was ashamed to think of what he was doing to Bucky with this longing inside of him. Staring at himself in the mirror, he decided to never tell him the truth; to never let him find out. He promised himself that, no matter what, he would step aside and let his best friend have the life that he wanted now that he was under no one's control but his own. Steve believed that the worst thing he could do would be to make his friend feel trapped by these unwanted feelings.

Steve grabbed his gym bag from the closet and pulled on his sweats. He took the elevator down to the full gym on the seventeenth floor of Avengers' Tower. It was empty at this time of the morning and he took a deep breath before walking straight to the punching bags. He never used his full strength on this equipment because the first time he punched the bag off of its chain, Tony banned him from it for a month.

He didn't really use his full strength on anything, he realized. With other people, with objects, with everything, he had to be careful. He had never even tried to touch another person, beyond using his fists. Having been small for so much of his life, he had gained an appreciation for life and possessions that translated well into this form. When he was small, he recognized that he could hurt or damage things; with his hands, with his feet, and with his words.

In that same way, those same things could destroy him – super soldier or not.

Recalling those memories of his illness, of when he had nearly died, had been painful and dredged up that old fear. What if Bucky found out about his feelings? What if the others found out? Would they pity him? What if they thought he was disgusting?

Attitudes had changed in the last ninety years, sure, but he wasn't naïve. He saw the hatred and bigotry on every channel, heard it on the street, and read it all over the internet. As he thought of these things, he threw a particularly hard punch that sent the bag swinging higher than it should and causing the chain to creak loudly.

Just then, the elevator door opened to the gym and Sam stepped out, carrying his own duffle. He spotted Steve immediately and walked over, smiling at the bag and shaking his head. "Hey man," he said.

Steve was sweating some but his breathing was normal. "Hey Sam," he replied, trying to smile. "How's it going?"

"I'm good," he said, watching the bag swing dangerously with one eyebrow raised. "Things going okay with your boy?"

Steve looked at him, wondering why he would call Bucky 'his boy,' but he didn't ask. Instead, he replied, "Bucky's fine. I think he's still sleeping."

"Not a morning person?" Sam asked, chuckling.

Steve smiled but said, "He, uh, he used to be. It was me who always slept late."

Sam stopped and looked at him, obviously considering his words carefully. "Steve, are you, uh, can I ask…" He stopped, looking unsure. "Never mind, man." Steve just looked at him, waiting for him to ask what he clearly wanted to. Sam looked down for a moment, taking a deep breath. "I'm not asking because it bothers me or anything like that, alright?" Steve nodded and he finally said, "You're gay."

Steve's eyes widened and all of the anxiety from ninety years of avoiding that word, of pretending to like dames and enjoy going on double dates, of keeping his eyes off of men he found attractive, erupted in his brain. He couldn't answer; he was stuck.

"Man, it's okay," Sam said, smiling and putting his hands up. "This isn't the forties. Marriage equality is legal in this state and no one on the team –"

"The team knows?" Steve asked, quickly.

Sam's expression turned sad but he nodded. "Yeah, man, they, well, we've known for a while. And it's okay, man. It has no bearing on how we view you as a man, a leader, or a friend."

Steve chewed his bottom lip, avoiding Sam's gaze, and then answered, "You practice that speech?"

Sam laughed and nodded, "Been trying to figure out how to do it for a couple months."

Steve looked him over before finally meeting his eyes. "I am. I'm… I'm gay." The word felt strange in his mouth, but not wrong, like he always imagined it would.

Sam smiled, brightly, and said, "I'm happy for you, man."

Steve wondered if he meant that because he was finally, actually admitting it out loud for the first time in his long life. So he asked, "What do you mean?"

Sam replied, "You're out, man," and he clapped Steve's shoulder. "That, and…" he said, gesturing toward the ceiling. "Your boy."

The blood drained from Steve's face. "He's not – we're not –"

Sam's eyebrows knitted together and he said, "He doesn't know?"

Steve looked away and swallowed around a dry throat. "Sam, it's… It's not that easy." He felt the tears stinging his eyes but he ignored it. "I mean, the world has changed, yeah, but he – we grew up when it was, you know, dangerous to be."

He rubbed the back of his neck, stretching it. He hesitated to continue, feeling like he was moving in a direction he couldn't control. But these words, these thoughts and feelings, had been stifled for ninety years. He'd lied to everyone he cared about – his family, Bucky, Peggy, Sharon, and especially himself – for so long, the truth felt like it had a power over him, suddenly.

"I wasn't like this," he said, gesturing to his body and hearing his voice change as he considered the things he was saying. "I was small, Sam, and weak. If – if someone even thought they saw us, even just me, they'd – he'd – and I couldn't –"

"Okay," Sam said, holding his hands up in surrender. "Okay."

Steve relaxed his fists when he realized that they had clenched so tightly, it felt like his knuckles creaked when the joints finally moved. He tried to push all of those feelings back into the tight box he had kept them locked in for so many years, but he knew it was getting harder and harder to force them back inside. Ever since Bucky had come back, it was like they were just behind a thin curtain, waiting to be exposed – or maybe, waiting to be set free.

Sam put his hand on Steve's shoulder. "But you have feelings for him."

Steve didn't even hesitate before he nodded his head; he'd kept this all secret for so long, it should have surprised him that it would be so easy to admit to it. "I've loved him for most of my life."

Sam nodded his understanding and said, "So, what are you going to do?"

He looked up at Sam, feeling tension throughout his body. He knew exactly what he would do, knew what was right, but it hurt. He took a deep breath and said, "Nothing, Sam."

His hand dropped to his side and he asked, incredulous, "Is that what you want, or what you think he wants?"

"Doesn't matter, Sam," he said, turning back to the bag. "I can't tell him how I feel and let him take it on… and make him feel… obligated. He's had enough of others forcing him to be things he isn't. I won't – I can't be one of them." He looked at Sam over his shoulder and finished, "I can't do that to him."

"I get it, man," Sam said and, though Steve wondered how anyone could understand what this felt like, he appreciated the support. Sam seemed to consider his words more carefully, adding, "I'm here if you need anything."

Steve nodded once and said, "Thank you."

He positioned himself to begin throwing punches again but he heard Sam whisper as he walked to the changing room, "Even if you're wrong."

Steve's first hit knocked the bag from its chain and it flung across the room, smacking into the far wall. For the life of him, he couldn't be bothered to care that he would be banned again.

Steve heard something strange in his sleep; it sounded like pounding and rustling, like something heavy was smashing into something else. He opened his eyes to pitch black darkness and realized that it was still very late or very early; blinking the sleep away, he sat up. He felt around, realizing that Bucky wasn't in the bed and he immediately began looking around, worrying that he was in the bathtub again. Then he heard it again – a hard, knocking sound.

His eyes were beginning to adjust and he was able to locate where the sound was originating. He slowly crept out of the bed and walked, calmly, to where Bucky sat with his face to the wall. His metal hand was clenched in a fist and he pounded it against the wall, experimentally, several times.

"Buck?" Steve whispered, kneeling nearby but giving him space in case this nightmare was as bad as it looked.

Bucky turned to Steve and his eyes seemed distant, vacant, and cold. The eyes of the Winter Soldier. But he saw Steve and, after a moment of hesitation, he whispered, "Stevie?" It was as if he couldn't believe that he was real, as if these last few months had been a long dream. "Are you here? Or are you just a trick?" The way he asked it, disappointed, as if he was sure it was the latter, made Steve's stomach clench.

"I'm here, Buck," he said, lifting his hand. Bucky flinched as it neared his face and Steve's chest ached at how afraid he looked. Slowly, he pressed his warm hand against Bucky's cheek, holding it there as Bucky pressed into it. "I'm real," he whispered.

Bucky's eyes were wide and frightened now and Steve knew that he had had a nightmare; a bad one. He didn't answer but, after a moment, Steve felt wetness on his skin as Bucky began to cry.

"I'm real," he said again, "and I'll never let you go again. I can't lose you, Buck. You're my –" he stopped himself and finished, "I'll be here as long as you need me."

He felt breath on his hand as Bucky tried to control his sobs and said, "Oh God, Stevie, they told me you were dead; they said you crashed into the ocean." He cried, reaching up and pressing the metal hand against Steve's, holding it on his face. "They told me you were dead but I didn't want to believe them. They tried and tried to make me you, better than you. They could never get it right and they knew it." His sobbing breaths were steadily easing but the tears continued to fall. "I was never even close to as good as you.

"They kept telling me you were dead, frozen in the ice, but they chose Pierce as my handler because they thought he looked like you. But his eyes were all wrong; they were cruel and you could never be cruel, Stevie," he whispered and the tone of his voice suggested to Steve that Bucky was still asleep, maybe walking and talking in his sleep. Bucky's metal hand left Steve's and reached out to him. He pressed it against Steve's cheek and whispered, "You could never hurt me like that." The pressure that the metal was exerting against his face was almost so frantic that it would hurt someone else, but not Steve.

He began to cry too, tears of helplessness and anger; tears he had shed in private a lifetime ago. He knew that Bucky had been tortured; of course, he knew. But the extent of the mind games, of the humiliation, degradation, and emotional pain Bucky had endured knocked the air from his lungs. To know that, even after he had failed him, Steve was still used to hurt Bucky – for so many years, he was used to hurt him – it was too much.

"I'm so sorry, I – I should have saved you, Bucky," he wept, knocking heavy sobs from his lungs. "I couldn't just save you one time, after you had saved me over and over, and I… it's all my fault."

Bucky's other hand reached up and began wiping tears away, along with the metal one. "No, it's not, Steve," he said with so much confidence. "You did save me." Steve tried to shake his head in the grip of two hands that didn't seem to remember their own strength. "Yes, you did. I – I dreamt of you, I think. When I was… you know, I dreamt of you. But I forgot me. For years, there was a voice in my head and I didn't know who it belonged to.

"I… the Winter Soldier didn't have a voice or thoughts, but someone was in there." He scooted closer to Steve on the floor. "But after a few times in the chair, I blocked it out. Or they did. Until the helicarrier. I heard it for the first time in decades, Stevie, and I knew whose it was – it was my voice, screaming at me to stop, screaming at me, Stevie, and I broke through because of you.

"You did save me – you got through the – the programming and the haze and you saved me."

Steve's tears were falling heavily now and he couldn't help the sobs; he didn't care. He hadn't felt anything beyond duty, beyond emptiness in so long and the feeling crawling up his throat was unfamiliar after so long: hope.

"You saved me every day after that," Bucky whispered with so much certainty it caught Steve off guard. "Every day, I remember a little more," Bucky said, smiling a bit. "I'm still remembering."

"I know," Steve finally said, reaching forward to touch Bucky's face, to wipe his tears away too. "I know and I'm so proud of you."

The look in Bucky's eyes was something that he couldn't describe; he'd seen it before, but not directed at him. His eyes looked lazy and tired, seemingly unable to choose a spot on Steve's face to focus on; he was smiling, cheerily, and contentedly.

"You're so patient with me," he said in a whisper, stroking his flesh hand over Steve's forehead and along his cheek. "You don't push… you never did, though. It was always me dragging you into stuff – the cyclone, the war, those meaningless dates when we could've –"

He paused, blinking, and his eyes became clearer. Steve was sure that he was waking up and would pull away any second, ask what was going on, and then they'd go back to sleep and he would pretend he hadn't prayed that this was something else.

But Bucky didn't do those things; instead, he said, "The world sure is different now, Stevie. So different. You know, fellas…they…" but he didn't finish that thought. His eyes moved all around, as if he were truly waking up. Steve waited for Bucky to stand up and return to the bed but he didn't do that. Instead, he asked, "Steve, do you see me?"

Steve readjusted himself so his back was pressed to the wall and his knees were bent, but he kept his eyes on Bucky. "See you?"

"You know I'm not… the Bucky you knew, right? He's in here," he said, pointing to his temple. "But I'm… not the same."

Steve nodded, "I understand." He lifted his arms and rested them on his knees, then leaned his head back against the wall, considering, before he said, "We've both been through so much. I'm not the same person I was seventy years ago." He turned his head back toward Bucky and asked, "You see that?"

He nodded his head and said, "Yeah, I do." He reached out his flesh hand and touched Steve's bicep, as if it were the first time he'd really noticed it. "You… you were smaller. You were sick a lot," he said, slowly, as he processed the memories.

Steve nodded but his eyes were on Bucky's hand, reveling in the intimate feeling. "Yeah, I was."

"You almost died," he said, suddenly moving closer to Steve and looking him over as if the time he was recalling had happened yesterday. "You were so sick, they told me you were gonna die," he said. "I stayed up with you all night 'cause I was so afraid you'd be dead when I woke up."

Steve's eyes were wide; he remembered that night, but Bucky had been asleep. He couldn't possibly remember what Steve had said. He pulled his bottom lip into his mouth and broke eye contact, letting his head rest on his knees. His heart was pounding and he didn't know what to do if Bucky said the words. Should he deny it? Laugh it off? Lie? Tell Bucky he wasn't remembering it right?

"It was pneumonia," Bucky finally said.

Steve wondered if he had remembered and was going to pretend it hadn't happened. Steve couldn't blame him, even though it hurt. "Yeah, I got locked out of our apartment in the rain and, by the time you got home, I was in a bad way."

"Did I –" Bucky began but stopped himself, furrowing his brows and concentrating. "I protected you," he finally said without a hint of a question.

Steve looked up at him, smiling and feeling so happy to have this, even just this with Bucky. "Over and over, Buck, even after the serum."

"You still…needed me," he said, slightly less assured.

"I always will," Steve replied and tried to ignore the quiver in his voice. "And I'll be here as long as you want me to be."

Bucky nodded, looking away; they sat for several more minutes of silence before he said, "Let's go back to bed, Stevie."

Steve nodded and they stood up, crawling back into the bed. There were no blankets, only the sheet, and they hardly slept with that over them. They were both warm enough on their own, but lying together, they could barely even stand that. Bucky's temperature wasn't quite as high as Steve's, but it was still significant.

As they laid down, Bucky turned his back to Steve and, as he began laying the opposite direction, Bucky took his wrist. "No, don't," he whispered and pulled Steve's arm around to his chest. "Please, hold me," he whispered and Steve felt his entire body blush but he complied.

As they were drifting off, he heard Bucky whisper, "I remember this."

The following morning, Steve woke early as usual and went to the bathroom, then dressed in some sweats and a white t-shirt. He felt hungrier than he had in a long time, as if he was really awake. On his way to the living room, Steve peeked in his room and checked that Bucky was still asleep. Then he closed the bedroom door, quietly, and walked down the hall. He entered the kitchen and pulled the coffee out of the cupboard to start a pot and then began working on breakfast.

He had already made a dozen pancakes when he heard Bucky coming down the hall toward the living room. He looked over his shoulder and his body went rigid; his face flushed and he bit the inside of his cheek. Bucky was wearing a pair of light grey sweatpants – period – and they hung low on his hips. Steve had seen him in varying states of undress all his life but it never got easier for him. His long hair was pulled up into a messy bun and his broad chest had a light dusting of dark hair that led down his abdomen. Steve turned back to the pancakes on the griddle to avoid following that trail any further down.

"Morning," a gravelly voice said from nearly right behind him and he almost jumped. Bucky's metal shoulder was pressing into his back as he reached up to grab a coffee mug. "Do you want some juice?" He asked and, when Steve shook his head, Bucky asked, "Coffee?"

Steve turned slightly and nodded, "Yeah." He made a point to return his gaze to the griddle as quickly as possible.

"Black, right?" Bucky asked, setting a second mug on the counter.

Steve turned to him, fully, and nodded. "You remembered?"

Bucky nodded, smiling shyly, and said, "Yeah, I, uh, made it for you when we could afford it." It was a statement, not a question and Steve couldn't stop the grin that spread across his face because of it. "I've been working on recovering my memories with Banner," He said by way of explanation as he poured coffee into both mugs.

"And it's working for you?"

Bucky moved his head side to side to suggest 'yes and no' and replied, "Some things come easier than others."

Steve continued smiling and said, "I meant it when I said I'm proud of you, Buck."

As he was about to turn back to the pancakes, Bucky's right hand reached up, passed over his shoulder and pressed against the side of Steve's neck, then slid up to the his cheek. The shock of the touch had him in a daze and it was all he could do not to press into it. In all the time that he could remember, he had never felt himself blush so deeply or over so much of his skin. Bucky had touched his shoulder or his back, even hugged him in the past, but this was something entirely new. Bucky stepped forward and leaned, resting his forehead against Steve's.

"Buck," he whispered without knowing what he could or should say.

Bucky's voice was quiet as he began, "Steve," but then, JARVIS' voice came over the speaker system.

"Sirs, Mr. Stark requests you to come to the briefing room. There has been an attack."

Bucky had been cleared to accompany them on missions but they had not approved him as a part of the team. Steve could tell that he wasn't too concerned about the semantics, so long as he was involved. They were on the Quinjet, heading somewhere that he knew he would have never even heard of seventy years ago to take on a group of Hydra agents.

He was wearing the uniform, all star-spangled and blue; he had the helmet on his lap and was resting his head against the wall with his eyes closed. There was only ever slight turbulence in the Quinjet, so his head sat comfortably in one place.

The others were talking; strategizing and arguing about how to approach the mission. He paid them barely any attention but he knew that he should step in and add his input, end the disagreement with a swift judgement, but he suddenly felt too tired. Even after they had gone back to bed, he had struggled to sleep after what had passed between them.

He noticed that there was a weight on his left shoulder and he cracked one eye to glance over. Bucky had scooted down and laid his head there. "Buck?" He whispered.

"Hmm?" But Steve realized there was nothing he could say. He let his eyes fall shut and, suddenly, it didn't seem so loud anymore.

The mission had been difficult; the fight was in the middle of a town and he chose to focus his efforts evacuating families. He was outside of a small home, ushering a family of seven out the door and toward the emergency services. As she ran by him, a little girl with dark hair and gray eyes pointed and shouted, "Look out!"

But it was too late; he had missed the danger right behind him. A Hydra agent caught him, hitting the back of his head with the butt of a rifle. He fell to his knees, shocked; he shouted at the girl to run and she was off. Then another agent – short but stocky – was in front of him and landed three consecutive punches to his nose and chin. Before he could even get back to his feet to respond, someone was leaping over his head, slamming into the first attacker.

The second attacker stood, slack jawed, and shouted, "зима!" Steve knew it was Bucky behind him – of course it was. He'd heard that word used before; even Natasha sometimes called Bucky that – it meant 'Winter.'

While the agent was standing, unable to comprehend that The Winter Soldier was attacking them, Steve planted his foot, jumped up, slamming the shield into the agent's face, and sending him flying backward several feet. Steve touched his nose, feeling wetness, but he heard a pained grunt and swung his torso around, looking up as Bucky lifted the other attacker over his head and slammed him into a wall.

Then Bucky crouched down by Steve and touched his cheek with his metal hand, checking him over. After a moment of assessment, he seemed satisfied, but he didn't move to go. Instead, Bucky's eyes were so intent on his, Steve had the stifle the shiver that raced up his spine. The metal on his skin actually felt warm and he had to fight the urge to lean into it.

Instead, he pulled away, stood up, and ran to the next home. Bucky didn't call out to him and he could hear the voices inside the buildings. He told himself that he had to get back to the evacuation but he didn't really believe that. Many of the civilians had already evacuated the area on their own and the few that were left hardly needed a super soldier to tell them where to go.

If he was honest with himself, he knew he was afraid; he knew that these touches and advances were Bucky's confused mind trying to make sense of all of the information that was coming to him. Once his memories stopped being questions that he couldn't answer, once he was able to see a sequence to his life – no matter how many pieces were still missing – Bucky would be able to really have a life.

Steve was sure that he would pick his life up, in some way, and move forward.

Without Steve.

He knew it and he accepted it; Bucky deserved to have a life.

Back at the tower, Steve had gone straight to their floor from the Quinjet. He immediately made his way to the bathroom and shut the door behind him; he stripped out of his uniform and opened the glass shower door to turn the water on. Once it was thoroughly hot, he stepped onto the marble tile and beneath the spray, waiting for the heat to ease the tension in his shoulders.

So many lives had been lost that day, civilians – men, women, and children – and he couldn't shake the feeling of failure that had latched onto his neck. Over and over, he had failed. If he had stopped Hydra seventy years ago, all of those people would still be alive; if he had been faster on that train, maybe Bucky wouldn't be so lost.

Maybe it would have been Bucky on the radio with him when he downed the plane.

Maybe he would have told him the truth.

Steve scrubbed his face in frustration before grabbing the soap and beginning to wash the sweat, dirt, and bits of his own blood off. His minor wounds were already healed and his nose had stopped bleeding almost immediately after it had started. He had already started rinsing the soap off when he heard a knock on the bathroom door.

He listened for a moment and then said, "Yeah?"

Bucky's voice came through the door, slightly muffled by the shower. "Can I – can I come in?"

Steve hesitated for a moment; they had seen one another naked many times before, but did Bucky remember that? He hated the way his stomach fluttered at the idea of Bucky seeing him this way. He finally said, "Yeah," then shut his eyes tight and began washing the dirt out of his hair.

He heard the bathroom door open and footsteps, and then he heard metal hit the tile. He wanted to turn around and look but then the shower door opened. He meant to protest, to tell Bucky to get out, but then a metal hand was pushing his out of the way to take over shampooing his hair. The massage felt so relaxing, he nearly groaned, or maybe he did, but he could do nothing about it. Sparks shot up his spine and he felt his knees go weak. When the flesh and metal hands left his hair, he leaned back into the spray.

He opened his eyes and found Bucky watching him; it was at that moment that he realized just how close they were standing. Steve tried and failed to keep from looking him over and he knew he was blushing but he hoped that it could be blamed on the water temperature. His eyes ran over the spider web-like scars that marred the skin of Bucky's left side around the metal arm and then he dropped his gaze to the tile. He cleared his throat and handed the soap over.

"I'll, uh, I'll step out," he said, bowing his head to keep his eyes from wandering more.

The look on Bucky's face changed; it seemed almost sad for a moment but then he simply took the soap and stepped under the spray himself. Steve had opened the shower door when Bucky said, "You used to wash my hair for me too, Rogers." No question.

Steve turned to look back at him and swallowed. "You remember that?"

"Yeah," Bucky said with a grin, "I remember a lot, Stevie."

The way he said that – his tone, the cocky grin, the way his eyes moved over Steve – made him shiver. He always loved when Bucky called him that and he had only let that slip once. They had been twenty or so and getting ready to go on a double date with a couple of girls that Bucky had met. Steve knew it wouldn't go anywhere – not for him. He didn't care though; it was the time he got to spend with Bucky that mattered, even if there were dames hanging all over him.

"You just gotta try," Bucky had said as he fixed his hair. "Just have a good time."

"That's easy for you to say, Bucky," Steve replied, looking himself over in the mirror as well. "Girls just... you're you and, of course, they like you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Bucky asked, affronted, turning to Steve.

For the life of him, Steve could never understand why Bucky pretended to not know that he was hopeless when it came to women. But the real reason why was his closely guarded secret.

"You don't know what it's like," he finally replied, trying to cover his frustration.

Bucky watched him and considered what he was saying; he put his hand on Steve's shoulder and said, "It's like you're always waiting, Stevie." The combination of the touch and that name had made him blush. He tried to move away but Bucky held fast, pulling him back, looking in his eyes. It looked like he was blushing but Steve knew that was a trick of the light. Bucky was facing Steve dead on and asked, "What are you waiting for?"

He shut his eyes, tightly, fighting the words in his throat but something popped out, "I like when you call me that." He looked at Bucky, eyes wide, and said, "S-sorry, I –"

"Stevie?" Bucky asked, pulling Steve back to the present.

He took a deep breath and stepped back toward Bucky, grabbing the shampoo from its spot on the shower wall. He watched as Bucky wet his long, dark hair and Steve stepped forward and rubbed the liquid in his hands. He looked on as the water poured over Bucky's shoulders, down his chest and abdomen, and he felt his mouth drop open as his eyes roamed further down. Bucky stepped out of the spray and Steve snapped his eyes back up. He began to reach up but he caught sight of Bucky's face; his expression seemed… nervous. Steve waited a moment and asked, "Are you sure?"

Bucky shut his eyes and nodded, turning around and letting his head fall back. Steve's hands lifted and began lathering the shampoo over his scalp and through the strands. He picked a spot on Bucky's shoulder and he kept his eyes there. He massaged, used his fingernails a bit, and then scrubbed with his fingertips. He moved to the back of Bucky's head, then his neck, slightly massaging there, and Bucky groaned.

The sound went straight to Steve's cock and his eyes dropped to Bucky's naked ass. Drops of water and shampoo slid over the flesh and he pulled his hands away, stepping back. Bucky spun back around and began rinsing his hair as Steve watched; the water trailed down his chest and abdomen; his arms were up, running his hands through his hair and his mouth hanging open a bit, completely relaxed.

He looked fucking delicious and Steve wasn't used to thinking of people in those terms. Gorgeous, yes; beautiful, handsome, even sexy, but right now, he wanted his mouth on Bucky's entire body. He'd start with his neck, of course, and then along his shoulders, down his toned chest and abs, and finally hear Bucky moan his name.

Steve licked his lips, completely unable to stop his eyes from wandering over Bucky's body. He could follow the trail of water droplets further down and he needed to stop. He needed to leave the bathroom before Bucky saw him, but it was too late; Bucky had already finished rinsing the shampoo out of his hair.

Steve watched, helplessly, as Bucky opened his eyes and his gaze dropped, immediately, to Steve's growing erection. Steve's hands still had shampoo on them but he grabbed the shower door handle, muttering, "S-sorry, I'm sorry," as he desperately pushed the door open, suddenly feeling like he was trapped in a steaming cage. He forgot to grab the towel he had set out but he didn't care; he rushed out of the bathroom, reached his bedroom door, shut, and locked it.

His breathing sounded like it had when his lungs struggled with asthma, when he was small and much braver than he ever would be again. Far braver than Captain America could ever be.

His lungs ached for the first time in more than seventy years. He tried to sit on the edge of the bed but missed it, toppling onto the floor. He knew he was crying but it was incidental; he was trying to slow his breathing but it wasn't working. He was terrified but not because of lack of oxygen.

Bucky saw him; he saw.

Steve wiped the tears away but it was fruitless and his breathing was so loud, he didn't hear the knocking at the door. He did, however, hear the voice.

"Steve?" Bucky said in a loud voice, knocking hard and trying to open the door. "Steve, let me in."

He gasped a breath, "No," but he was feeling too fuzzy. An asthma attack? It couldn't be. What was happening?

"Steve," the voice was sterner now. "Open the door."

He tried to say 'no' again but instead he was just shaking his head, over and over. No no no no no. He saw.

"Steve, I'm fucking coming in," and there was no stopping Bucky when he sounded that way. It reminded Steve of all of the times assholes had been beating him down in alleys and suddenly, he'd hear that voice. He realized that his eyes were closed and, when he opened them, the door knob was busted and Bucky was touching him with his cold metal hand. "Breathe, Stevie, breathe with me."

He tried. He tried.

Bucky took Steve's hand and placed it against his naked chest – he hadn't bothered to get dressed either – and pressed it there as Bucky took deep breaths. "Come on, Stevie, feel the way I breathe," he begged. Steve looked up and met his eyes; focusing there, he took a shaky breath, then another. "Good, good, baby," Bucky whispered, absently, and Steve didn't even notice his lungs anymore. "Let me help you get in bed," he said, wrapping his arm under Steve's legs and the other behind his back, lifting him like he weighed nothing.

"Buck –" he protested but it was fruitless. Bucky shushed him and laid him down on the bed, then moved to lay behind him.

When he woke up, he was lying in bed and it was dark; he glanced at the clock and sighed. He tried to sit up but a heavy weight was holding him down. An arm, metal, was wrapped around his waist. "Stevie?" A voice asked but it didn't sound like Bucky, not quite. He turned, looking over his shoulder slightly, only to confirm who was there. "Stevie, you… fuck, you sounded like…" Bucky sniffed and Steve realized why the voice had sounded so wrong.

Bucky was crying. Not the quiet tears he had shed the other night, no, they were the heavy ones that accompanied helplessness. Like he had cried when Steve was dying.

The shame he felt before was nothing compared to this. "I'm sorry," was all he could say. "I'm… I didn't mean to –"

"Stevie –"

"No," he said, shutting his eyes. "I know you don't – I know and I'm sorry."

He pushed himself up on the bed and realized that he was still naked. He covered his face with his hands, completely embarrassed and defeated. He had never wanted Bucky to find out; he had decided that he would keep it from him. He heard Bucky sigh, heavily, and he looked at him over his shoulder; he was lying on his back staring at the ceiling; he looked frustrated and hurt but Steve couldn't do anything about that. Maybe Bucky would want to leave after this; maybe he wouldn't be able to handle this information.

The pain from that thought knocked Steve into action. "I'll, uh, I'll get dressed."

Bucky grabbed Steve's wrist as he tried to stand up. "Stevie," he whispered, "wait."

"We don't need to…talk about this, Bucky," Steve's voice was desperate.

Bucky sat up and grabbed Steve's shoulder to hold him in place, "I want to."

"Buck –"

"Steve, I've remembered so much," he said, interrupting Steve, speaking quickly as if he had planned this speech for some time but never had the nerve to say the words. "I know that it's not the same as it was but… isn't that alright? I know you've been… holding back and giving me time, but you don't have to anymore." Steve turned around, his eyes wide and confused. "We can, you know, move forward."

"Bucky, what do you… what are you talking about?" He asked, trying to keep his voice level.

Bucky released Steve and sat up, pressing his back against the headboard. "Us," he said, as if it were obvious. "I'm still figuring things out but I trust you. I want to move forward. I'm ready now," he said.

"Bucky, do you think we – do you think we were a couple?" He asked, shocked.

After a moment of hesitation, Bucky said, "Yes, of course we were."

Steve turned fully toward him, bringing one leg up on the bed, and said, "No, Buck, we weren't. You're straight, you dated women. A lot. You dated a lot of women." That old jealousy tinged his words, but he tried to push it down.

Bucky looked confused and said, "We went on dates."

"Double dates, Bucky, but," he looked away to mask the resurgence of those old emotions: the hurt and sadness, the knowledge there would always be something that made him not right or good enough. Steve could be small and weak or big and strong, but he would always be a man. "Mostly they were your dates that I just… tagged along on."

Bucky shook his head, "No, Steve, we – we lived together, we bathed together, I… I fed you and held you. We… we shared the same bed."

Steve licked his lips, letting his head rest in his hands again. How badly he had wanted this exact moment for so long and, yet, it felt cheap. This was wrong. He looked up and said, "Bucky, we shared a place because we were poor. Same reason we shared baths and food."

"We slept together," he argued, glaring.

"I got really sick, Buck," Steve explained. "I almost died and, after that, you said we had to share body heat. You said it was too close a call."

"No, no, Steve, I… I remember that. I remember what it was like when you were sick, how I felt."

Steve's lips were quivering but he shook his head, "Bucky, I can't – I can't let you believe these things." He covered his eyes again and took a deep breath. He would break his promise; Bucky already knew and might leave after tonight. Steve could at least tell him the truth, finally. "I wanted all of those things; I wanted you to want them the way I did, but you didn't. You don't – not with fellas, Buck, and I can't – I can't take advantage of you like that. You've been through that enough."

Bucky was furious; he got up and rounded the bed, pacing the room. Steve watched him, helpless in the face of what was happening. How could he have led Bucky to believe these things? How could he not see that Bucky was thinking this way?

Bucky suddenly stopped pacing and pointed at Steve. "No, you told me, Steve. You told me you loved me, you said… you said I was it for you."

His eyes widened and he dropped his head in his hands to hide the warring emotions on his face. Sadness and hope; anger and desire; love and heartbreak. "No, Bucky, I – I thought you were asleep. I thought I was dying… I would never have told you that if I knew you were awake, I –"

"You thought I was –?" He interrupted, shouting. "You're telling me that you, the bravest, scrappiest, most stubborn little punk I ever met, you were in love with me and never did anything about it?"

"Bucky, if people saw me, if they even suspected you were like me, they would have –" he stopped, unable to complete the sentence, trying to not imagine the things that people would do to Bucky if they had found out. "I wouldn't have been able to protect you."

Bucky didn't seem to have heard him; he spoke in a confident tone when he said, "I gave you my momma's ring."

Steve felt the tears trailing down his cheeks; he wanted this to end. It was so hard to hear that Bucky remembered these things this way. It made him feel even more ashamed. "It wasn't like that, Buck," he said, having given into the pain. "You told me to hold onto it for when you found a girl to marry."

"No, I didn't," he said, kneeling in front of Steve, who was sitting on the edge of the bed; he was trying to make Steve look at him. "No, I said 'This is for the person I'll spend the rest of my life with,' Stevie."

His head was still in his hands as he said, "You didn't mean me."

"Don't tell me how I feel, Steve," he replied, angrily. "I did mean you," he added, assuredly. "I remember you kept it in your compass behind the photo of Peggy."

Steve gasped, looking up at Bucky suddenly. "N-no one knew that," he said, shaking his head. "I never told you that."

"I used your compass, too, punk," he said, smiling. "I found it in there."

He was shaking his head back and forth. "Bucky, I can't – I can't do this to you," he begged. "I – I love you too much to do this."

"Steve," he said, raising his metal hand and pressing it to Steve's cheek, "I love you, too. I remember loving you back then and missing you when I was away. When I gave you the ring, I knew what I was doing."

Steve breathed in a sob, trying to calm down enough to speak. "And what if you realize you don't want this – or me?" Even hearing the question come out made his chest ache but he had to give Bucky every opportunity to change his mind. "Because I would rather have you as a friend and watch you… find someone else than… than take advantage of you."

Bucky shook his head and leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together, and holding Steve in place with his metal hand. "I've always wanted you, Stevie," he said without any question.

Steve let his eyes fall shut again and, finally, after nearly a century of fighting it, he leaned into Bucky. He reached up and took Bucky's face in his hands, feeling the heat of his skin and the remnants of the tears he had shed.

"So, what now, Rogers?" Bucky asked in an amused tone.

Steve laughed for the first time in what seemed like months and he couldn't help the tears that accompanied it. This was everything he'd ever wanted and everything he'd ever been afraid of. This was everything.

Steve replied, "I don't know, jerk, I've never done this before."

Bucky's eyes went wide and he asked, "You've never – never been –?"

Steve felt the embarrassment rise up, flushing his skin. He swallowed and tried to cover his face but Bucky swatted his hands away. "No," he whispered.

"Never?"

Steve shook his head, keeping his eyes closed. "No, I couldn't, not... you were gone and there was no one," he stuttered. "I cared about Peggy and Sharon but I'm not – and they're not – it wasn't fair of me."

Bucky chuckled and whispered, "My fucking angel."

"I'm not an angel," he laughed. "In my defense, you're not easy to get over."

"Stevie?" He whispered.

"Yeah?"

"I'm gonna kiss you now."

Before he could respond, Bucky was leaning forward with his hands on either side of Steve's face. He gasped at the feel of those lips on his; it was nothing like kissing Peggy or that woman at the base, or Natasha. It was electric. Steve was inexperienced and fumbled but Bucky didn't seem to notice or care. As the kiss went on – lips, tongue, and even some teeth – Steve felt brave enough to reach up and grab Bucky's shoulders, pulling him closer. Bucky took Steve's knees and pushed them apart, moving into the space he made; his flesh and metal hand moving over Steve's skin freely.

All of the fear and shame held no bearing on this moment – Steve couldn't even remember why he should feel that way. How could this, something so wonderful and happy and fulfilling, be wrong?

He felt Bucky's tongue slide against his own and he bit down; Bucky groaned, yanking Steve's hips toward the edge of the bed and pressing harder against him. Steve moaned at the contact but sitting on the bed had his hips at the same height as Bucky's belly button. He slid his hands down Bucky's shoulders, over the curve of his back, and stopping at the ass that he had stared at in the shower. He gripped it and pulled Bucky up as he laid back; they landed somewhat awkwardly and they laughed together as they readjusted.

Bucky reached beneath Steve and gripped his supple flesh, squeezing it. Pushing with his knees against the bed, Bucky pressed their erections together. The feeling sent fireworks up Steve's spine and he broke away from the kiss to moan, loudly. "So pretty, Stevie," Bucky whispered, his breath hot against Steve's neck. "So pretty for me."

"Bucky," he groaned, "I – I –"

"I know, baby," Bucky moaned, repeating the motion, "Trust me, baby, I know."

The sounds being ripped from Steve would have embarrassed him if he could think but he was already so close. He'd never had sex but he had experienced orgasms in his life – usually in the short moments he could when Bucky went to the store after work or if he had a date with a dame who didn't have a friend. That thought sent a wave of jealousy through Steve and he wrapped a hand around Bucky's head, pulling him into a heated, passionate kiss.

Bucky stopped moving and Steve whined into the kiss. Bucky whispered against his lips, "No, baby, I know what those sounds are."

Steve gasped, "What?"

Bucky wrapped both of their cocks in his flesh hand and began pumping. "Oh yeah, baby," he growled, "I remember the sounds you made when you touched yourself. You really thought I didn't know why you wanted me out of the house so bad?"

Steve moaned, ignoring Bucky's words, and looking down to watch his hand on both of them. "Buck, I – I'm, oh God, I'm gonna," he gasped.

"For me, baby," he groaned, pumping his fist faster. "Come for me." Steve threw his head back as white light blinded him and wetness streaked his stomach and chest. Nothing had ever felt like this; nothing had ever felt so right. "That's it, Stevie, like that," he heard Bucky whisper, "Fuck, just like that."

Steve came to and realized that Bucky had stopped moving his fist; he blushed when he realized that Bucky had stopped as Steve was coming so he could just watch him. He looked down and saw Bucky's cock turning a deep red color and he said, "What about you?" He'd never heard his own voice sound that way but Bucky clearly liked it.

"I was thinking of something else, darlin'," he whispered, leaning down to lick Steve's earlobe.

"Oh, oh," he replied, realizing what he was suggesting. "I think… I –"

"Only if you want to," Bucky said, leaning back.

Steve smiled up at him and said, "I've wanted to for the better part of a century."

Bucky chuckled, "Punk," and sat back. "I've got some lube in the other room."

Steve rolled his eyes and said, "Of course, you do, jerk."

Without a moment's hesitation, Bucky was up and rushing out the door, across the hall, and into the spare room. He returned just as quickly, carrying a bottle and a towel. He tossed the bottle on the bed and used the towel to wipe Steve's chest off, gently.

"Stevie, if you change your mind, just say so and we can do something else." Steve nodded his head. "Say it," Bucky urged, kneeling between Steve's legs. "I wanna… I wanna hear it."

Steve licked his lips, looking up as Bucky leaned over him, his erection against Steve's belly. "I want you – I want –" He tried, biting his lip and taking a deep breath. "I want you inside me."

Bucky's pupils flared and he kissed Steve, hard, slipping his tongue into his mouth and sucking his lips before he moved on to his chin, jaw, neck, and shoulders. Steve realized that he was getting hard again and Bucky's breath was hot on Steve's skin as he whispered, "You can go again, right? Two times is nothin', sometimes not even four or five."

Steve nodded his head and gasped, "Y-yeah."

As Bucky kissed his way down, Steve's gasps and moans increased in tone. Bucky dipped his tongue into the lines of Steve's muscles and paid special attention to his nipples, which turned out to be exceptionally sensitive. Steve's skin quivered and he reached his hands up to grip the edge of the bed, trying to hold on to his sanity.

"Oh my God, Buck," he gasped when Bucky's tongue found his hips.

"I love how loud you are," Bucky groaned, running his hands up and down Steve's thighs, purposely blowing air on his now fully erect cock. It twitched and Bucky lowered himself down bringing his face mere inches from it.

Steve was desperately trying to keep his eyes open; he knew what Bucky was about to do but he couldn't believe it. He couldn't believe any of this. "Buck – I – please," he gasped; his voice sounded almost panicked and turned into a harsh moan when Bucky wrapped his lips around the head, swirling his tongue, giving it a gentle suck. "Where did you learn –" he began to say but threw his head back, gripping the bed hard enough to make it creak, and nearly screamed, as Bucky took him all the way into his mouth.

Steve felt himself hit the back of Bucky's throat and he felt tears rolling down his cheeks; never, in his entire life had something felt this incredible. He was absolutely sure that, with anyone else, it wouldn't even compare. This was Bucky; Bucky, who he had loved for most of his life; Bucky, who could make a man living without an ounce of color in his life see the stars.

"Bucky, you –" his words were cut off when he moaned, loudly, throwing his head back. "Oh my God, you're gonna make me come," he moaned, trying to hold onto his sanity but Bucky wasn't slowing down; in fact, he was moving faster, sucking harder. "Oh – Bucky, Bucky, Bucky –" and then he was coming again. Somewhere in his mind, he was aware that he was coming in Bucky's mouth and that made his stomach clench with heady desire.

His limbs felt like jelly as he came to. "That's it, baby, come back to me," Bucky whispered, touching Steve's cheek and leaning down to kiss him. "I've wanted to make you come for so long, Stevie. I can't get enough."

"It's your turn, now," Steve whispered. "C'mon, Buck, I want to feel you."

Bucky nodded, sitting up between Steve's legs; he grabbed the bottle of lube he had tossed on the bed and popped the cap, spreading some out on his right hand. With his left, he lifted Steve's leg and kissed his ankle. "You have to tell me if I hurt you, okay?"

Steve nodded his head, "I will."

Bucky leaned back, looking down at Steve's ass and he lowered his flesh hand between his legs. Steve flinched in surprise when he felt the cold, wet touch, but he nodded at Bucky again. "Take a breath, baby," he whispered and swirled his finger tip around Steve's ass, over and over, letting him get used to the sensation before he pressed inside.

Steve gasped at the intrusion; it wasn't painful, just strange. Bucky held Steve's gaze and kissed his ankle and calf, giving him time to get used to it before he pushed in further. Steve had experimented with this when they lived in their tiny apartment in Brooklyn but this was much better. He lifted his hips and pushed them against Bucky, whispering, "More."

Bucky nodded and slipped a second finger inside, waiting a moment before pushing in all the way. Steve's head was thrown back and he felt the tears again – not from pain, but from everything. Bucky was inside him; Bucky was touching him; Bucky loved him.

"More," he whispered again.

"We can go slow, Stevie," Bucky whispered, still pumping two fingers in and out. "I don't want to hurt you."

Steve understood that Bucky was trying to make this good for him, trying to ensure that he felt good, but he huffed a breath and lifted his hips to shift the angle and gasped, "Oh, oh, Bucky, there" and that was all it took. Suddenly, three fingers were pumping in and out of him, fast and hard, slamming into that spot, over and over. "Oh my God, Bucky –"

"You wanna come again?" Bucky whispered, not letting up on the speed. "You're already hard."

"N-no," Steve gasped, "I want to…with you inside me."

Bucky groaned and slipped his fingers out completely; the sensation was odd for Steve, but not unpleasant, especially knowing what was coming next. "Look at me, baby," Bucky whispered, using his metal hand to bring Steve's face back down. "Look at me." Steve forced his eyes open and smiled at Bucky, trying to show how much he loved and trusted him. Bucky's long hair was in his face and he wore that familiar cocky grin. "Watch me," he said, grabbing the bottle of lube again. He popped the cap and coated his fingers, then began to slick himself up. He couldn't help but groan and he bit his lip so hard that Steve could see the flesh turn white. "Are you ready?"

Steve nodded, wrapping his other leg around Bucky's waist, pulling him in. "Please," he whispered and with that, he felt the head of Bucky's cock pressing against him.

There was a little pressure and then a little pain. He felt so full; it was the most incredible experience. He kept his eyes open, watching the way Bucky's face changed; his brows were furrowed, his eyes shut tightly, and his jaw slack.

"Oh my God, Steve, you feel –" he cut himself off with a moan as he pressed inside more. "Baby, you're so… oh," he groaned.

Steve's mouth had fallen open, just watching the ecstasy on Bucky's face; the fact that he was causing that nearly made him come. Finally, Bucky was all the way inside, and the grip he had on Steve's thigh with his metal hand was nearly painful. Very nearly. But Steve wasn't noticing the pain or the fact that his cock was leaking on his belly; all he could see, hear, and feel was Bucky.

And it was what he had always wanted.

"Fuck, Stevie, I love you," Bucky groaned, leaning over and pulling Steve's legs with him, bending his body in half, to kiss him, passionately. "I don't know how I'll do anything else, now that I know how you feel," he whispered against his lips.

Steve chuckled though the way his body clenched made them both moan. "Back at ya," he whispered.

"Fuck, Stevie, do you feel good too? Am I hurting you?"

"I feel so full," Steve moaned. "Please, I want you to move now."

Bucky nodded, kissing him one more time before leaning back and grabbing his hips. He slid almost all the way out and pushed back in, moaning helplessly as he did. He did it again and again, steadily increasing his pace. But it wasn't enough. Every few strokes, Bucky would hit that spot but not every time and Steve was getting desperate. "B-Bucky, I need – I need – please," he begged and Bucky nodded his head, using his hold on Steve's hips to lift him and leaning forward just enough to adjust the angle, slamming his metal hand into the bed.

The very next thrust hit whatever it was and Steve nearly screamed; he grabbed Bucky's metal arm, trying to find something to hold onto, something to keep himself grounded but he kept seeing white. He was very nearly overstimulated but he had never felt so amazing. "Buck, you're gonna make me come, I'm gonna – I'm gonna –"

It didn't even cross his mind to be careful because he could freely use his strength with Bucky. He didn't have to hold himself back, he didn't have to pretend or worry. He grabbed Bucky's other shoulder, digging his fingers in, and gripped his metal arm tighter.

This was perfect; they were two halves of one whole. This was how it was meant to be.

"That's it, baby, that's it," Bucky groaned, thrusting harder and making Steve's back arch off the bed. "My Stevie," he groaned, "Mine, mine, mine," he repeated with each thrust.

"Yours," he moaned out, feeling that coiling in his lower stomach and he knew he wasn't going to last much longer. "C-come inside me, Bucky."

Bucky practically growled when he heard those words and his thrusts became harder, more savage. Steve was arching his back off of the bed and Bucky was thrusting faster, hitting that spot with every thrust, and he was sure he was crying again, so close.

"I'm gonna come," Bucky groaned and that was all it took for Steve; he felt the wetness hit his belly and chest and he felt Bucky coming undone inside him, and everything went white.

After what felt like hours, Steve began to resurface with the feeling of Bucky's metal fingers running through his hair. "There you are, Stevie," he whispered, leaning down to kiss his lips.

"Buck," he whispered as if it were still wholly unbelievable.

"I'm right here," he whispered. "I love you."

Steve smiled and looked up at Bucky. "I – I love you too."

Bucky slowly pulled out of Steve's body, causing them both to shiver. "Do you want to go shower?"

Steve nodded and said, "Then, we should eat."

Bucky nodded in agreement and used the towel he had brought in to wipe them off. "I was thinking," he said as they stood up. "I want to paint, or something."

Steve chuckled and said, "I was thinking the same thing."

"And I want to get you a sketch pad," he added, reaching for Steve's hand as they walked out of the bedroom. "I want you to draw me again."