1
Steve was working late. It was the first night Peggy was out of town and she wasn't around to tell him to rest, so he took the opportunity to go overtime at SHIELD, staying until way past everyone else was gone. His office was big and spacious, with a window in the back, and it was connected to Peggy's office, which was nice. He'd already shut off all the lights and was getting his bag from his desk, his eyes adjusting to the darkness and the moonlight from the big window. He was so tired that he thought staying late might not have been worth it, but later, thinking back on it, he changed his mind. He had had no idea how worth it it had been.
As he was gathering up his things to leave, the door on the other side of the room swung open and slammed against the wall and Steve jumped, stunned. In the doorway stood a man, tall and uninvited and dressed in black and Steve stared, wide-eyed. The man stared, too. He was wearing goggles and a black scarf over his face. Steve waited for something to happen and the man didn't move.
"Get out," Steve said incredulously. On this cue, the man stalked into the room and dove at him. Steve jumped and gasped and almost hit the floor. He caught himself on his desk and the man had a knife and was raising it above his head and Steve thought he saw his life flash before his eyes. But then man hesitated, knife poised, and Steve needed no other opportunity. He steadied himself as fast as he could and socked the man as hard in the face. The assassin stumbled back and drop his knife and Steve followed him, trying to remember what Peggy had taught him, to square his feet and hit using his whole body, adrenaline suddenly rocketing through him. This wasn't how he had pictured his evening. His punches didn't seem to do a lot of good against the man, and after a few, he grabbed up Steve's hands and shoved him backwards hard. Steve hit the edge of his desk and scrambled to run behind it to put something in between them.
"Who are you? What do you want?" Steve cried and the man didn't answer. Was there anyone he could call? Could he reach the phone in time? The man followed him and took out another knife from his belt, but Steve watched his head turn as something on the desk caught his attention. He put the knife away and Steve watched him pick up his photo of Bucky from off the desk.
"Who is this man," the assassin spoke his first words to Steve from behind his black mask, his voice gruff underneath the metal, and raw, as though he hadn't spoke in years.
"How dare you touch that," Steve growled and reached out to yank the photo from the man's hands. He almost braced himself, ready to be brutally murdered in that instant, but the man let him take it passively. "How dare you."
"Who is he?" The man demanded again, but only his voice held the same menace. His shoulders had fallen, he was very nearly shying away. Steve looked down at the picture in his hand and looked back up at him defiantly.
"His name was Bucky," Steve finally said, his voice full of resentment and a little confusion about what was going on. "He was my best friend."
"Bucky," the man repeated slowly.
"Yeah, you got a problem with it?" Steve spat. The man stared at him.
"Til the end of the line," he whispered. Through the scarf, his voice was hollow. Steve almost didn't think he heard him right. First, he felt pain. It hurt, and he almost sounded like Bucky for a moment and Steve felt the words claw at his heart. Then, he drew up rage and indignance. It exploded in his chest and he thought he saw spots. Those weren't his words to say! They weren't anyone's to say! How dare he! Steve stepped towards the assassin, crowded his personal space, tried to hunch his shoulders to make himself bigger. The rage clouded his judgement.
"What," he hissed. "Did you say." The man said it again.
"Til the," he choked. "End of the line, end of… The-"
"Where in the hell did you hear that?!" Steve yelled. He was still holding Bucky's framed photograph in both hands and he used it to shove the assassin back in a rage. The man let himself be pushed and Steve could barely think about this through the emotions exploding in his chest. "How dare you!"
Then, the man seemed to fold in on himself. Steve watched his knees hit the floor and he looked up at Steve, his eyes wide. He moved his hands over his hair and he clutched his head. Something really weird was happening. Steve had never had been attempted to be assassinated before but he figured this wasn't how it was supposed to happen. The assassin seemed to be falling apart.
"Steve," he breathed.
"How do you know my name," Steve said, but watching the man collapse on the floor, he began to realize where he recognized that muffled, battered voice from. Horror he couldn't have imagined struck his heart. "How do you know my name."
"Steve," the man said again and he doubled over. "Uuuugh it hurts."
"Who are you," Steve said. He was gripping the picture frame tightly with both hands now, so tight his knuckles were white. He was starting to gasp. He could hear with each breath, the rattling in his chest get worse. "Who… Who are you…"
The man moaned in pain and he curled tighter into his chest.
This couldn't be happening, Steve thought. But his voice… He took a few steps back.
The man's head came up for a second and Steve stared as he tore off his goggles. His eyes were ringed red and tears streaked down his face. He looked up at Steve and Steve wheezed in a breath. Steve watched his eyes search his face for a brief second before he became overwhelmed again and covered his face with both hands, digging fingers into hair slicked back with sweat. He groaned.
"Aaaaahh… St-teve, Steve," he groaned and Steve felt his heart fall through the floor.
"It can't be," he whispered, but the man across the room was beginning to sob, shaking violently. Steve watched him wrap his arms around his stomach, watched his crying escalate, and he reached up with one hand and pulled down the black scarf. He was reaching up with his hands to cover his face again, but Steve had already seen. His legs became jello and he felt himself drop to the floor.
"Bucky," he whispered and Bucky screamed. "Bucky," Steve said again but he was still yelling.
"Stop!" He screamed. "Stop, stop, stop, stop!"
Cautiously, Steve began to try to bring himself to Bucky. He was starting to find it difficult to breathe, but he ignored the pain. Across the room, on all fours, he approached him. When he finally grew close enough, he reached out a hand. He wasn't sure if it was for comfort or to check for himself that Bucky was really there, but as soon as Bucky felt fingers on his shoulder, he leapt, scooting away, shaking his head.
"Don't touch me!" He screamed. "Don't touch me!" Bucky's back hit the wall and he stopped there, staring at Steve with terrified eyes, red and swollen eyes, eyes Steve was beginning to recognize. He was filthy. His face was streaked with tears and soot, his hair was greasy and unkempt and overgrown and on his face was the very beginnings of a beard. He looked like he'd been through hell.
"I'm not going to hurt you," Steve said and Bucky pressed his back to the wall harder. Suddenly, although minutes ago, he'd been terrifying and intimidating, all cold killer, Steve couldn't see that anymore. He couldn't see how anything like that existed here at all.
"Please don't hurt me, don't hurt me, anything, just don't," Bucky was pleading. He was still holding his head and tears still streaked his face.
"I'm not going to hurt you, damn it," Steve replied. "It's me, it's Steve." Bucky stared at him, heaving in breaths.
"Steve," Bucky repeated in a shaky voice.
"Steve, yeah," Steve responded. He reached out a hand gently to Bucky now and Bucky still looked at it untrustingly and shuddered. "Oh," Steve whispered. "Bucky, what happened to you?"
"I don't remember," Bucky whispered and Steve swallowed and stared.
