Author's Note: So I'm in the Marvel fandom now? Yeah, and because of this, I give you my first contribution to the Stucky fanfiction archive. Hopefully you'll enjoy it.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters nor the plot event depicted in both "Captain America: The First Avenger" and "Captain America: The Winter Soldier."
Spoilers: Mostly for "The First Avenger," but there are slight ones for "The Winter Soldier" at the very end.
The first time Steve Rogers ever came into contact with James Buchanan Barnes, the boy was dragging Lewis Pearson off of him and punching him so hard, Steve himself got whiplash.
"Who the hell do you think you are?" The boy barked, the thunderous sound of his voice having the effect of lightning as Lewis stumbled to his feet and took off with a heavy scowl and ugly black eye, "Get outta here and pick on someone your own size! Like a bull!"
When the massive sixth grader and his goonies finally faded out of sight, the boy's tightly clenched fists loosened along with the tension built up in his shoulders. He glanced down at Steve and offered his hand, pulling the smaller boy back to his feet and intently inspecting his bleeding nose and busted lip.
"He really did a number on you," The boy murmured under his breath, the blue flame of his eyes burning bright with concern, "What'd you do to deserve a beatin' like this?"
"He was talkin' bad about people," Steve told him, chin taut with tension as he stared at the ground, "You don't do that, no matter who they are. It's disrespectful."
The boy's dark eyebrows shot up to his hairline as he replied incredulously, "You picked a fight with a bull just because he wasn't polite?"
"If nobody stands up to him now, just think about how he'll grow up." Steve pointed out stubbornly, forcing himself to raise his head to stare defiantly at the older boy.
The boy scoffed and ran a hand through his messy dark hair, "And you thought you could actually hold your own with that guy?"
"No," He admitted, "I knew I couldn't hold my own with that guy. Doesn't change the fact that I'd do it again in a heartbeat."
The boy studied him raptly for a minute—his eyes narrowed and lips pursed—before he broke out into a wry grin and shook his head, chuckling as he threw an arm around Steve and declared, "You're crazy, you know that?"
Steve didn't reply, though the sheepish smile on his face said all it needed to.
"Bucky," The boy told him, "They call me Bucky."
"Steve Rogers," Steve responded as they began walking, "It's nice to meet you, Bucky."
"I like you, Stevie," Bucky declared firmly, "I can tell we're gonna be good friends."
And they were. Best friends, in fact. Best friends that promised to be there for each other until the end of the line.
From then on, everybody around them regarded the two boys as a single entity—for wherever one was, the other wasn't too far behind. They were inseparable; no power on Earth could isolate them from each other. No broad or bully or even their parents could tear the two apart even if they tried (and try as they did, to no avail).
So they grew up together, attached to the hip and so in-tuned with each other, it sometimes made people wonder just how close they were. It made many wonder yet few were brave enough to confront either about it, for Bucky was known to beat the tar out of anybody that so much as took a swing at his best friend. Though when Hugo Thomason had the guts to taunt the two about it in eighth grade, it planted a seed in both their minds that grew just as they did.
They never mentioned it, of course. Neither did they mention the several instances when their touch lingered on the other more than what was considered platonic, or how their eyes always seemed to be drawn to each other even from across a crowded room. And they never mentioned that one summer evening before tenth grade—when they were tangled together in the sheets of Steve's bed, talking aimlessly and trying not to get caught up in the other's warmth.
"I think Sarah wants me to take her to that dance," Bucky brought up, his voice flat with an undertone of what almost sounded like—if Steve would ever let himself entertain the thought—dread, "Probably expects me to get her flowers and everything." He then canted his head to the side thoughtfully, wondering aloud, "What use do girls have for flowers anyway?"
"I dunno," Steve replied, staring blankly at the ceiling and trying to quell the jealousy that plagued his heart, "Besides, what's the point? They'll only wilt in a couple days anyway."
"Exactly!" Bucky exclaimed exasperatedly, "So why do I have to spend money for somethin' that'll not even last a week?" He sighed and scrubbed a hand through his damp black hair, continuing lowly, "Damn, Stevie, sometimes...sometimes I wish you were a dame. It'd make life a whole lot easier."
"I wouldn't be the dame," Steve protested with a weak grin, turning to him and declaring, "You would."
"No way," Bucky argued, smirking, "I mean, look at you. You're all thin and delicate-like, just as a girl is. And you got those features that are just as pretty as a dame's."
"Screw off, Buck." Steve laughed uneasily, shoving him half-heartedly and pretending his words didn't rattle him to the core.
"Just saying," Bucky muttered with a shrug and forced smile, "If you were a broad, I'd have married you by now."
"Well, I'm not a broad," Steve pointed out sharply, "So I guess you gotta shape up and buy Sarah all the flowers she wants."
Bucky sighed and nodded, "I guess so."
It was quiet in the room after that, before Steve's mother finally broke the tension by telling them dinner was ready.
"Steve Rogers, if you weren't already on your deathbed, I'd beat you into next week." Bucky fumed as he hauled his barely conscious friend to his wobbling feet.
"He made a lady cry in front of everybody," Steve mumbled, his slurred words barely coherent, "I couldn't...Somebody had to stick up for her."
"Well, that somebody didn't have to be you." Bucky snapped darkly, dragging Steve away from the heavily crowded market street and propping him up against a wall in a dark alleyway. Steve muttered an unintelligible reply as Bucky took in account his injuries and treated them the best he could.
"You're gonna be the death of you and me both." Bucky sighed out, cradling Steve's face in his calloused yet gentle hands.
"Then why do you even put up with me then?" Steve demanded, gaze sharp and accusing-like as he stared him down, "If I'm that much trouble, why do you even bother?"
"You listen to me, Steve Rogers," Bucky said tersely, his blue eyes darkening as he leaned in and gritted out, "I ain't quittin' on you. I'm with you 'til the end of the line."
Steve swallowed hard and nodded, only to make Bucky lean back again so Steve wouldn't be tempted to do something that he'd soon regret.
Bucky sighed—his breath tickling Steve's busted lip and making him lick it subconsciously and taste his own blood—and leaned back, glancing away and saying abruptly, "We better get you home. Your ma is probably worried sick."
"She's already sick." Steve pointed out quietly but let Bucky lead him back to his house, leaning his head on his shoulder and wondering why life couldn't be easy.
Steve's parents died when he was nineteen, though at their funeral, he felt just like child again as he willed back tears and let Bucky hold his hand under the table.
"Three times, Steve?" Bucky demanded in anger as he dragged Steve to their shared apartment by his shirt collar, "Now you're just trying to test your luck."
"I don't get what the big deal is," Steve retorted, pulling himself out of Bucky's grip and holding his ground, "You're going to war. Why shouldn't I?"
"Oh I don't know, maybe because it's dangerous," Bucky snapped, "Maybe because a war is the one fight I can't pull you out of."
"I never asked for you to pull me out of any of those fights," Steve pointed out sternly, "And I'm not asking you to pull me out of this one."
"Well, it's my job, okay?" Bucky said heatedly, "I'm supposed to protect you. Steve, I'm sorry, but you're not equipped for battle. You're practically skin and bones!"
"So what?" Steve spat, "Strength doesn't make you a warrior. Your integrity does."
"So you're doing this to, what, prove you're a man?" Bucky demanded, causing Steve to sigh exasperatedly and rake a hand through his hair.
"No, I...I just want be with you, Bucky," Steve confessed in a fluster, feeling oddly ashamed and embarrassed at the admission, "'Til the end of the line, remember?"
Bucky sighed and glanced away, replying sharply, "Well, maybe I don't want you to be, alright?" At Steve's crushed silence, he softened his tone and added, "Just…not this time. This is war, Steve. People die in wars."
"Exactly," Steve responded flatly, eyes flashing, "So what happens to me if you bite the dust?" He scoffed, bile rising in his throat at the very thought as he stated miserably, "Face it, Buck, I'm—I'm nothing without you."
"Not nothing," Bucky insisted, taking a step forward and bracing his friend by the shoulders, "You're Steve Rogers. And believe me, he's a pretty swell guy." He smiled, adding coyly, "Kind of a trouble-maker, but he's got a heart as pure as gold."
Steve sighed and shook his head, "I get what you're saying, Bucky, but I just…I just don't want to live in a world without you in it."
Bucky's blazing eyes softened as his death-grip became a soft caress, his voice promising reassurances, "Not everybody dies, Steve. You'll see me again. I promise."
Steve bristled and glared at him, snapping, "Don't make promises you can't keep."
Bucky sighed and pulled him into a hug, ignoring Steve's weak protests and hoping his actions spoke louder than words.
Bucky wasn't the only reason Steve wanted to enlist in the army, and Bucky knew that. Steve was always the one to stand up for the little guy—that was why he got into so many fights; he had a big heart and an even bigger mouth to match. So he stopped voicing his protests every time Steve enlisted, partly because he knew there was no way to convince him to do otherwise and partly because he knew that Steve would never get drafted.
He was too small; too fragile. He wasn't the kind of soldier you wanted watching your back on the battlefield.
So he tried not to worry about him during his service and kept him in line every time he returned. Steve was a handful, but Bucky was used to dealing with ruthless Nazis and spirit-breaking generals. Steve's rebellious nature was nothing compared to them.
"Don't do anything stupid until I get back." Bucky had told him the night before he was set to ship out to England for yet another tour.
Steve had cracked a smile, trying to take his concern with a wry joke, "How can I? You're taking all the stupid with you."
Bucky scoffed, trying to suppress a smile, "You're a punk."
Steve smiled at him, "Jerk." Bucky smiled sadly and pulled him into a tight hug. As Bucky clutched onto his best friend, he was suddenly struck with the vain wish that they lived in a world where he could take Steve dancing instead of those girls.
But that was damn near impossible. Even stubborn, headstrong Sergeant James Barnes could admit that.
The next time they saw each other, Steve was different.
Like, a lot different. So much different, Bucky was convinced he was just stuck in a twisted fever dream until it came to the point that Steve was actually planning on sacrificing his own life and kept telling Bucky to go on without him (Hell, not even Bucky's own imagination was that cruel).
"I'm not leaving without you!" Bucky yelled hoarsely, appalled at the very thought of it. It wasn't the end of the line, he thought stubbornly as he watched Captain America jump, not yet.
And he was right. The end of the line wasn't until much later.
Even with his drastic change in appearance, Bucky still couldn't bring himself to see Steve Rogers as Captain America. No, even in that new, "improved" body of his, he still saw a scrawny punk from Brooklyn that was always looking for a fight.
So when Steve asked him if he wanted to follow Captain America through the battlefield once again, he told him just that himself.
Steve gave him a crooked smile at his reply—the same smile that always made Bucky's stomach flip with the sheer radiance of it.
Bucky cleared his throat and glanced down to study his half-empty glass of beer, "So that Agent Carter sure is something, ain't she?" Steve arched an eyebrow, his body tensing at the mention of her. His reaction made Bucky's smile dawn a sour twist to it.
"You should take her dancing," Bucky advised him hollowly, "You know, after all this is over."
"I don't know," Steve said quietly, a small smile on his face as he added, "She might be a dame that likes flowers."
Bucky threw his head back and laughed, forcing himself to believe that Steve actually meant it.
The end of the line, it turned out, happened a few months later. Bucky clung on desperately to the side of the train, staring with bleary eyes as Steve thrust his hand out and yelled for him to "Hang on, Buck. Just hang on!"
He wasn't too blind by the face of death to notice that if Steve tried to pull him back any further, he'd slip and fall himself. And Bucky couldn't let that happen. Not in a million years.
The end of the line, he mouthed before letting his weak grip slip and falling to his death.
"The end of the line." Steve repeated to himself in a hoarse whisper that night, tilting the bottle back and trying fruitlessly to drown his sorrows. The liquor tasted bittersweet, and Steve didn't know if that was because of the brand or his tears.
It wasn't until almost a century later when Steve finds out that it wasn't the end of the line, though it might come soon.
But Steve couldn't worry about that now. All he needed to focus on was find Bucky Barnes and never let him go.
There didn't really have to be an end of the line, he thought to himself, at least not between a Captain America and a Winter Soldier.
Author's Note: Reviews and/or favorites are greatly appreciated! I hope my ease into the Marvel fandom was rewarding to you as readers just as it was for me as the writer.