A prequel/sequel to Jumping, Falling, and Topics of Similar Gravity. I recommend you read that first. This chapter is mostly canon-compliant but the story will veer pretty far off soon. Steve/Bucky, Bucky/Tony, Bucky/Tony/Pepper.

So, well, it's been a weird day.

Earlier, Bucky Barnes's scrawny best friend Steve Rogers appeared out of nowhere looking like a star-spangled bodybuilder, and went all pulp fiction hero to save everyone's asses from a mad science Nazi base hundreds of miles behind enemy lines. Bucky has never been more grateful, to God or Steve or anyone else at all, to get out of there alive with his best friend and brothers-in-arms, especially after he sees a completely insane guy peel his face off and rant at Steve while the Hydra compound exploded around them.

Once they're back in camp, the medics do their triage and clean everyone up, the shock starts to wear off, and the reality sinks in - yeah, this is all real, what the hell, reality? Something is clanging around in Bucky's head as he lies down to recuperate. When he closes his eyes, it gets worse. Something weird and intense is rattling his brain like bats in his belfry, and he starts to wonder if maybe he's losing it. Or this rescue thing could all be a dream, actually, and he's still strapped down feeling like there's lead pumping through his veins in the rare moments when he's actually awake and not deliriously stuck halfway in memories of playing jacks with Flossie or having a staring contest with Millie or teaching Bobby a good boxer's stance, and Steve, fuck, he'll never see Steve again. This is all some fucked up hallucination and one blink will bring the Hydra facility back again, the gray, the dark.

On the other hand, it's a really detailed and consistent hallucination, not to mention that he's not sure he would ever even subconsciously turn Steve into a super-muscled hero out of the Boy's Adventure-type books no matter what someone injected into his bloodstream. It's disconcerting enough an idea in reality, he really doesn't want to consider why his brain would voluntarily present him with a Steve taller and more impressive than him just to pettily make him feel worse about being captured and experimented on.

"Bucky," Steve says, then, and he hesitates before opening his eyes. There Steve is; there's his stupid keen and worried and well-meaning face pasted on Captain America's body. (Captain America? Really?) "You got a clean bill of health?"

"Basically." Bucky sits up, then meets his gaze, and it's too real to deny, even with all the endless gibberish parading through his brain. That's his best friend. "They say I have a concussion. I know what a concussion feels like - mostly thanks to you - this isn't one." He doesn't want to talk about this. He doesn't want to think about this. "Those Hydra bastards - "

"Don't think about it. Not too much, not now. Just - rest." Steve stands cautiously there for a second, looking just like one of the still-lifes in the sketchbook under his arm, then when Bucky raises his eyebrows, he finally sits down beside him.

It's awkward. Really awkward, for reasons Bucky can't begin to think even in the safety in his own head. "So are you stashing a red skull under there, or you have any of the pretty nurses around here check?" he asks after a long moment.

Steve laughs, then he grins. "Can't say I have. But I brought something to show you," he says, and opens the sketchbook, flipping to a specific page. It knocks the wind out of Bucky in the best possible way before it registers exactly what he's looking at. There they are, the five of them, running around under an open fire hydrant like they're all a bunch of kids, with two of Bucky's favorite girls in there for good measure.

Like that, the volume of the rat-a-tat of endless evil Nazi drumming in his head starts to drop.

"Thanks," he says to Steve, and touches the sketch. He doesn't have to look at Steve to know the smile he wears. It's not a memory, strictly speaking, not something either of them could put a date or time on, but just the idea is an anchor to who they really are. And it's one of the first times he's felt like Bucky, actual Bucky, not just Sergeant Barnes, since he was shipped overseas.

Peggy Carter is a vision draped in red, like something out of the movies, and Bucky can't keep his eyes off her even before she talks to Steve, all crisp and flirtatious. He knows he doesn't stand a chance with her just by her expression, how it's just the two of them and the extras once she enters. But a man's got to try, otherwise what's the point?

It's a little discouraging, being ignored that way. The way Steve glosses past everything this means, what's happened in the months between Bucky leaving New York and the escape from the Hydra facility, how much his life has changed, is worse, especially because what it says about how shallow and jealous Bucky's become even while facing true, insane evil.

(It's still not even a question when Steve asks. He's in. Wherever Steve goes, he goes.)

Anyway, Bucky decides to get really, really fucking drunk, or he tries. He leans on Steve, who props him up on his still weirdly bulky shoulder, telling dumb jokes as he hauls Bucky to camp. Bucky laughs at his old favorites - ducks saying "put it on my bill" will never not be funny - and tugs on Steve's shoulder. "Hey," he says, in what is probably not a whisper, but is the best he can manage. "I'm glad you got yourself a girl."

"Haven't really got her yet," Steve says wryly. "But I can try."

"You can do it. You're the best guy I've ever known. She's got to see that. Especially now that you're..." Bucky gestures, up and down, and raises his eyebrows.

Steve nods, and cracks a wary smile. "It's fine, Buck, I just… I can't think about that now."

"We're at war," he says, curling his fingers into Steve's uniform. "People are trying to kill us and we might be good at our jobs and harder to kill but we could still die. So we have to enjoy what we can."

"It sounds like you're giving me the 'could be my last night on Earth' speech the sailors pull on the docks, and don't we usually punch the guys who try that one on Millie?"

"Steve," Bucky presses. "She's no Millie. And you're not just a soldier. None of us are. You can take a break."

"I take breaks - "

"She's a modern girl. Look at her, she's in the forces. Just - " He's not even sure why he's so desperate at this point. "Why not go for it?"

The answer is clear on his face - the same answer as ever, the same insecurity and fears and stupid shit that really doesn't count into it now - but Steve says nothing aloud. "If it happens, it happens," is all he says. "You jealous?"

"More than I'd ever admit sober," Bucky says, and grins when Steve gives him a helpful push towards the barracks, laughing.

Things are shifting in his head. None of it is simple, or explicable, or anything normal. None of it is anything he can really say out loud. Bucky has never been a guy who talked about things overmuch with anyone except Steve, maybe. And yeah, Steve's right there but Steve's also different and not exactly Steve and sometimes the weird new instincts in his head go off like klaxons saying none of this could be real and he should wake up, wake up, wake up.

But it's more complicated than that. He knows that, but not much more than that.

Agent Carter and Colonel Phillips (who Bucky likes more than he'll ever admit) are due to show up at 0900 tomorrow, and the Commandos have spent all night celebrating the capture of a Hydra map. They're heading back to camp, Bucky's drunk and making the usual innuendo at a jokingly unimpressed Steve, and it's like someone's just raised the anchor keeping him from tilting, upending, and crashing into the sea. Steve laughs, makes a deadpan joke that Bucky doesn't quite hear, and pulls him away from the nearby woods as he stumbles. Bucky pushes him away playfully once they're closer to the woods where they've made camp. He shakes his head and goes to reach for the grounding bark of a tree, makes contact hard with a branch, and leans heavily against the trunk.

It's like words are pressing into the back of his head. He can feel them, looming, somehow. Something's happening.

It's more than just her.

"Buck," Steve says, and it's firmer than the casual verbal nudge he wants it to be, and his eyes open to meet Steve's. "You aren't that drunk."

Bucky shakes his head again. "No," he confirms. "I just want to…" Be here. With you. No. Not go back there. Not now. "We're gonna win this, right, Captain?"

Steve smiles, self-deprecating as he always is when Bucky brings rank into it, and says, "Yeah. I've got a plan. Come on." He tugs at his shoulder. "This way."

He doesn't budge an inch. "I don't get it," he says. "You're superhuman. You're in newsreels and everyone likes you, and there's a pretty girl who wants to 'snog' your face off, whatever, but all you do is work. I know you, Steve. You don't have anything to prove now, what's going on?"

"Why are you headshrinking me?" Steve asks, delicate but with a sharp edge. "You've been a little off lately yourself."

The fluttering feeling in his head has escaped into his chest. "You're not in this alone."

Steve's starting to look aggravated despite himself. "I know that," he retorts. "Can we please just go?"

"Don't," Bucky hears himself say, then presses his forehead into the bark of the tree branch, sighing as Steve goes still. "No. Just listen." There's silence, but Steve doesn't go, as much as he couldn't blame him for just leaving out of annoyance. (He's even annoyed at himself right now, but he's confused in so many ways.) "Stopping bullies and fighting evil isn't all you are. You know that."

"So all I'm missing is the part with the girls?" Steve asks, dryly, but still cautious.

"Kind of." The pressure in his head is lifting, some. "Don't let the Hydra bastards take anything from you, for any reason. Have fun when you can get it, promise me?"

"I'm having fun when you're not getting all philosophical on me."

He shakes his head. "I'm following Steve Rogers," he says, finally. "Cap is great. I like Cap. But I'm following you. Even the stubborn you who I sometimes want to punch."

Steve touches his shoulder again, and at the contact Bucky tenses and relaxes both in an instant. He looks back at Steve, who's wearing a half-smile, and something clenches in his stomach like a fist. "I'm not the only stubborn one here," Steve says, wryly.

Bucky wonders how it's possible to know someone so well and still not be able to read a look in their eye, and then if his own face is as glass as it feels or if Steve is as puzzled by him. (He's not sure which would be better at this point.) "What fun would that be?" he deadpans.

"Don't make me order you back to the barracks." Steve's so much more comfortable being flippant. Then it's all clear. It's so much simpler than he wanted to think, and it cuts right through the confusion and the noise in his mind and heart. He snaps a salute, gaining a grin from Steve, and they head back. The dizzy distraction he wanders behind Steve with is new, tinted with faint horror and more self-awareness than he ever would have thought to ask for.

When he's lying in the dark, half-ensnared by dreams, it's not exactly a happy feeling. It's not exactly misery, either. It strikes a strangely satisfying balance, and makes everything in his life ten thousand times clearer than even facing down mad scientists and certain death had.

Take down Hydra. Save Steve. Survive, for Steve. Get back to Millie and Flossie and Bobby and tell them all the war stories he can remember and tell them his stupidest jokes and give them literally anything they want, at least for the first few weeks. Set Steve up with Agent Carter for good, then get a girl of his own, and be ready to go out dancing on Saturday nights.

It doesn't sound simple, but it is. This is what you do for people you love. You give, you give everything you have and that you can get your hands on, because you already have what you want and what you need. You have them.

Then he sobers up.

He's a sniper. His perspective's shot when it comes to Steve, his aim all skewed when he's too close to something. The noise in his head makes it impossible to focus, and it gets louder the more miserable he allows himself to get. But the further he pulls away from Steve, from everything, in one last try to stay cool, the more intolerable it becomes, unfairly enough.

Tonight, an incredibly amused Steve is explaining about Jones, Morita, and the story they both told him earlier, with as different interpretations as possible - both involving one, but not the other, dancing with three French girls separately - as Bucky cleans his rifle. He's only hearing half of it, and still knows when to laugh, or smile. The not knowing, now, is poisoning even this.

The not knowing is guaranteed suffering, but acting... could ruin everything. Everything. His entire life could fall apart with one touch. But they're alone, for once, he could die tomorrow, and Steve's just so brilliantly Steve, and he wants to be back home in Brooklyn, before Pearl Harbor, before all this. He wants to save them both from this, even if they can save the world, selfishly enough, to go back to who they were before, to be themselves, not the ranks they fought and risked their lives to earn.

In the end he's too weak to fight it. The need and the despair together, paired and fueling it all, win out. He takes Steve's face in his hands and kisses him. The conflict between them roaring in his head gives him a rush of elation even past the terror; it all seems to happen in slow motion. Steve is first frozen against him, then puts a hand to Bucky's chest, and in the instant Bucky is sure Steve is going to shove him away he doesn't, and takes his shirt in hand to keep him close. They kiss again, briefly, lingering; as the lust and impulse begin to cool in his head, Bucky thinks he understands now, what Steve's been holding back and why, and maybe Steve has realized the same of him.

This could ruin everything. Everything. His entire life could fall apart in one moment. But they're alone, for once, he could die tomorrow, and Steve's just so Steve, and he wants to be back home in Brooklyn, before Pearl Harbor, before all this. He wants to save them both from this even if they can save the world, selfishly enough, however they can be who they were before, to be themselves, not the ranks they fought and risked their lives to earn.

"I had to know," Bucky murmurs, so softly his voice almost breaks.

Steve nods, and looks him in the face again with a small smile. "You should have known," he deadpans; he doesn't seem to know what else to do. "Who else've I got?"

"For a start, an entire country or three full of women, you asshole," Bucky says, and smiles, in spite of everything. This feels real. Steve feels real. Even behind enemy lines, the world on the line, they can be people, free to do stupid things like kiss their guy best friend while at barracks, and isn't that the point?

(Probably the US Army wouldn't agree. Bucky is too high on this to care.)

It's easy enough to get time to themselves. Getting enough time, completely uninterrupted, with the least amount of suspicion before or after, that's the problem. They can't afford rumors or jokes. Bucky doesn't matter, not as much as Steve does. Steve could win this entire war.

At first, they're too scared to do more than steal the briefest kiss or let a touch linger too long; considering how long they've been holding back even the slightest feelings like this, that's doable, but it doesn't last forever. The time he drunkenly kisses Steve outside Augsburg (and does all but dip him), they neck for ten minutes like idiots, and that's when it starts to become a problem, all the time, randomly, like they're damn teenagers. Bucky hits his head against the showerhead, not on purpose, but doesn't mind, because he deserves it, with his cock and mind betraying him again.

As usual, four Hail Marys does the trick. Eventually. Almost. Dammit.

Steve. Right now, when he's not looking through a scope, that's all he wants. Steve's not a total innocent but he seems constantly surprised at how badly Bucky wants him when they're necking; Bucky's a stand-up guy, mind, but he doesn't tend to go for girls who are that straight-laced, or at least if they are they make a good show of not being so, and it's new how damn arousing it is to have Steve squirming happily against him. It's just new overall - the solid feel of a man's body crushed against his, no long hair for fingers to tangle into, just a neck, shoulders, a body to pull closer, and a clear damn indicator just how well or not the whole thing's going pressed right up against your leg.

"No time," Steve mumbles between kisses, presses a kiss to Bucky's neck, sighing as his head lolls back against the bark of the tree. "We should go."

"Not yet," Bucky persists, looking up slightly; God almighty, he's half-hard and Steve has to know it. "Please."

Steve hesitates for an agonizingly long moment, then Bucky pulls him into a kiss, and Steve shifts, angles, and presses his hips against Bucky's; the heat and feel of his cock against his own is fantastic. It's good that they're kissing, because he can't imagine what sound he might have made openly, or how loud. Steve pulls back only enough to stop the kiss, their lips close enough to brush, and Bucky informs him, in a low, dry tone, "You made it worse."

"I hadn't noticed," Steve says. Bucky smirks. Steve smiles, though, and it's a little bit evil, and he realizes, shit. Until now he thought he'd seen every possible look on Steve Rogers's face. God, I want to fuck you is a new one for him, though, and he can't say he has a problem with that. "Are we going?"

Bucky shakes his head and kisses him harshly, again, letting his hand slip between them and the incredible heat there. He palms Steve's cock through his pants, nips at his lower lip, and presses his cock against Steve's thigh, and Steve groans. This is usually the point with a girl that he has to make a choice about who's going to get off tonight, because it won't be both of them unless he's in way over his head with her and doesn't mind. But this is Steve. He made his choice a long time ago.

"Buck," Steve mumbles between kisses, as he undoes Steve's pants. "It's been too long, we should - "

"We should," Bucky agrees, and reaches into his pants, taking Steve's cock into his hand only to feel both his cock and his body stiffen against his touch. "We could."

Steve's eyes drift shut and he bites his lip and there's no going back from here, Bucky thinks. Before Bucky can do anything, Steve is decisive as ever; he pulls his pants down enough to free his cock and pins Bucky to the tree with a kiss and a hand to his shoulder, undoing Bucky's pants much more swiftly and with less hesitation disguised as teasing. This is what it is, and his heart is all dizzily syncopated like good jazz and a busy dance floor when they press against each other and kiss hungrily. It's amazing how it's such a rush and indescribable but how clear his head is when he's fucking his cock up against Steve's, his hand desperately wrapping around Steve's cock to feel the blood pulse through it, and Bucky's cock slipping in and out of Steve's eventually deliberate grip -

Steve gets there first, biting down hard on Bucky's lip and kissing him fiercely to stay quiet as he presses his cock desperately into Bucky's hand, then he comes all over; Bucky pulls away from the kiss, sees Steve panting, sweating, bereft, and pale, sees his Steve, and then that Steve squeezes his cock and works him harder, and he kisses him and the moment comes faster than he's used to it, the clench inside and shock of pleasure at his spine all happening at once. Steve kisses him languidly as he comes, and thank God they picked a tree to land on or they might have collapsed in a pile of military dress and come.

Bucky's the first one to laugh. Then Steve grins, and kisses him, and makes a crack about assigning cleanup duty.

It's fucked up. But it's fantastic.

(He sucks Steve off at the SRS when Peggy's on mission and he looks miserable, and they never talk about it again - but keep doing it, because holy hell. Steve fucks him, eventually, when Hydra's running scared, and they go back to their barracks. Bucky lies there, awake, for almost the whole night. The first round was nothing. This is the first time he's been truly scared of how he undeniably feels, and what it means. But they don't stop.)

Zola had to be bringing shit through the Swiss Alps from Italy to Nazi territory. Something like that had to happen, anyway; the details are unimportant, because, in the end, that's how Bucky Barnes dies.

When someone else tells the story, it'll be one event, one sentence phrased any way, noun-verb-preposition or whatever-noun. "Bucky Barnes fell from the train; he was killed in action; he was a hero." It's different when it happens to you. It's like moments captured in camera flashes.

one: Bucky's grip on the train is gone. He falls. All he sees and hears is Steve, the look on his face, his screams. He's failed.

two: Fuck. He almost regrets starting it all with Steve, because from night one it was obvious they'd be ripped apart no matter what they'd survived to that point, and Steve would be the one left behind.

three: His throat burns and he realizes he's screaming. The white swirling below him clears, and he becomes vividly aware of the rock rushing towards him.

four: There is no impact. Just after. Pain doesn't begin to describe it. He knows he'll die; he knows this is it; he knows that he's done all he can.

five: Steve can do it, he thinks. The Commandos can do it. It's not the worst way to go, thinking of family and friends, of victory or hope.

six: The snow is almost pink. It should be red; there's red on the rock. But the snow is pink, almost, and

he wakes up in hell.

hell is agony and torture and the color of blood and ice. there's no flames or cartoon devils with horns and tails. he's delirious but there's no way this is life. he is a dead thing; he knows that. he knows that, he has accepted it.

there's a man whose face he knows, pince-nez glasses perched on his nose (he wonders what he knows, how he knows the things, who he is that knows things like faces and cartoons). then the man's mouth splits into a nightmare smile of razor-sharp teeth of ice. "sergeant barnes," he says, in a voice that stutters like a bad radio signal. "what a pleasure it is to see you again."

It's

There's

There are instants. Instants where things coalesce. Moments in time where it's not the images in front of him, inside him, possessing him, the twitching of his eyelids, the impossible humming in his brain, but a realization of him, of a body and a mind and maybe even a soul, and then.

Then it stops, and it fades, and the brief flutter of life behind his eyes just ends.