Super Soldiers Need Cuddles Too

by Raven'sDesk221b

Bucky Barnes remembers who he is. All he really wants out of the future is to curl up in Steve's lap like some sort of weird, over-large, ridiculously deadly house cat.

Bucky was finally starting to feel consistently human. He had been staying with Steve in a New York apartment that was, unsurprisingly, nearly three times bigger than the one they had shared back in the day. It wasn't really home, and he never really felt comfortable there, exactly, but it was infinitely better than the series of hovels had been; although, really, anywhere would have been infinitely better as long as Steve was there too (a cold ball of something he couldn't really name settled in his stomach at the thought of Steve in anyone one of those places). While he had mostly remembered his life as Bucky Barnes, barring a few understandable gaps, there was still a disconnect between him and them, like he was viewing them through a fog without the connecting emotions. He didn't quite feel like that man, but, then again, he didn't really feel like anyone else either. He had no real memories of being the Winter Soldier, except for that last mission, and even that was hit and miss, but the instincts remained; the urge to maim and kill and, above all, follow orders and the deep underlying terror that everything he did was going to be rewarded with horrible, horrible pain. It was like a computer program, a virus, that dictated how he interacted with everything, even himself. But he knew, even on his absolute worst days that there was another program, a deeper one, that refused to be overridden against all odds. And he can't imagine how the hell anyone ever thought that it would be a good idea to give him Captain America as a mission. It was the height of human arrogance to think that their programming was so good that Steve wouldn't be able to break through just by breathing; either that or it had been so long that even they had forgotten who he had been.

Remembering hadn't been in any way pleasant, though. Whatever Hydra had done to him, they had wanted to make sure that it was debilitating enough that he'd be about as defenseless as it was possible for a weaponized super-soldier to be. He spent a little more than a month barely managing to drag himself from hideout to hideout through blinding migraines, pretty much constant nausea, daily panic attacks, and the feeling that he is literally being ripped into tiny pieces for him to fully remember who he was. It felt kind of like waking up with the worst fucking hangover imaginable. Apparently at some point in the last seven decades he had forgotten how to sleep unless he was so sleep deprived that his body sent him into a near comatose state, and he could vaguely remember scrounging some food out of dumpsters at some point in the last four weeks, but it obviously wasn't enough and he has no idea how to go about fixing that. In fact, he didn't have the faintest idea how to go about doing pretty much anything useful. All he really knew was that he needed, wanted, to find Steve, but he didn't know how to do that either. He hadn't been trained for intelligence gathering, certainly not as Bucky Barnes and his Winter Soldier programming didn't seem to be helpful. And besides, he didn't have access to any of Hydra's systems or surveillance; Rogers' whole support system had come crashing down, so the most rudimentary logic said that he should have gone to ground weeks ago to regroup and nurse his wounds (Bucky shied away from thinking of Steve's wounds, remembering all too well just how he had gotten them). He didn't even know where to begin. And then, like some sort of goddamn epiphany, he remembered: It's Steve — the man had a seriously underdeveloped sense of both self-preservation and just plain common sense — he didn't have to go looking for him, all he had to do is stop fucking running and the stupid punk would find him.

So that's what Bucky did; he stopped running. He stayed wherever the hell he managed to get himself, curled up in as tight a ball as he could manage, and waited. Sure enough, not even two weeks went by before Steve came bursting in like some sort of patriotic angel in a stupid costume, some man Bucky only vaguely recognizes trailing along behind and looking distinctly less thrilled to be there. Steve squatted down in front of him, obviously trying to make himself look less threating, like Bucky's seen him do a million times when dealing with stray dogs and scared kids alike. The stranger hangs back, keeping a lookout for potential threats in a way that Bucky manages to find admirable with the infinitesimal part of himself that isn't entirely focused on the blonde in front of him. Neither of them say anything — Bucky's not sure if he even remembers how to speak, and he had no idea know why Steve kept silent, certainly he hadn't forgotten too. But that didn't make sense because in his memories Steve always seemed to be saying something; he hoped he hasn't forgotten that too because then they'd really be screwed. In fact, pretty much everything about Steve seemed wrong, off. He was pinched and drawn in and small like he hadn't been even when he weighed 90 pounds soaking wet, and he was tense in a way that he rarely was, even in the middle of combat. Bucky frowned, still huddled in the corner and tried to come up with something, anything that would move this along; he narrowed his eyes at the obvious.

"Stupid fucking outfit," he croaked, his throat feeling raw and his tongue awkward. "Ninety-six fucking years old and you're still running around dressed like a goddamn chorus girl."

Steve choked out a laugh, and even though it sounded closer to a sob, it was close enough to the reaction he had wanted that Bucky felt slightly less panicky. "You're seriously going to give me shit for how I'm dressed? Have you seen your hair?" And that's close enough to normal for Bucky to crack the tiniest of smiles and to begin to think about getting out of his corner.

Then the new guy starts talking. "Look, as touching as it is to watch two guys who grew up during the depression argue about their fashion choices, I'd really like to start working on getting the hell out of here before a shit ton of men with a lot more guns than we've got come bursting through every available entry point."

Every part of Bucky that had relaxed with Steve's arrival tensed up again in a heartbeat and he pressed himself more tightly into his corner.

"I-I didn't," he stammered, wide eyed and panicked. "It's not an ambush. I wouldn't…" He trailed off because less than two months ago he most certainly would have, and he wasn't quite sure how to explain why or how that had changed.

The man shook his head, offering a small smile that seemed almost apologetic. "Good to know, but not what I meant. I'm sure that we only managed to find you because you let us — thanks for that by the way — but we're not the only ones looking for you, and I'd rather get you a hell of a long way away from here before they catch up, especially since I don't have my wings." He doesn't sound at all bitter, which seems wrong somehow. Then Bucky vaguely remembers something about a grappling hook and trying to fling the man out of the sky, and he flinched; he didn't know how he could be so kind after that, but, then again, Steve always did inspire a unique sort of loyalty. Anyway, it certainly seemed like an acceptable answer even if it didn't do much for the panic welling in his chest, so he took the hand that Steve offered and pulled himself up.

"Where are we?" He asked as he stumbled along with them towards the door. He's pretty sure that he would normally hate having to ask that question so much that he'd keep his mouth shut and try to figure it out, but he's too damn tired for that, and he's pretty sure that Steve is going to cut him some slack, just this once.

Sure enough, Steve just chuckled, sticking close to his side but not actually touching him. "Finland, which is some place that I've never been before, so thanks for that I guess. Although I can't say that I really want to come back anytime soon, or ever really."

"Why not?" He asked, desperate to keep the banter going.

The blonde shrugged, grinning from ear to ear like it was Christmas morning or something; for all Bucky knew, it actually was — it seemed to be the right time of year. "It's fucking freezing for one, and Sam here won't stop moaning about it, which just makes it worse. And neither of us actually speaks whatever language they speak here — between the two of us we barely managed to get a hotel and order a truly awful breakfast. And to top it all off I got bit by a goddamn reindeer on the way over here. A reindeer!" The other man — Sam — laughed, looking more relaxed than he had before even though he was still primarily focused on the mission (not that Steve wasn't; Bucky knew that Captain America was always more focused than he sometimes came across), and even Bucky cracked a smile.

"I guess that's a sure sign that you're on Santa's bad side, huh?" He quipped, his voice still rough and unsure. "Nothing but coal in Captain America's stocking?" It was a horrible joke and he knew it, barely worth an eye-roll, but Steve's whole fucking face lit up. Bucky wondered if it hurt to wear your heart on your sleeve all the time like that; it wasn't a new thought.

After that Steve settled down a bit, he still looked far more happy than anyone in his position had a right to, but he was more obviously focused on the mission, which was equally comforting in its own way. The next two days where a whirlwind, and Bucky is never quite sure of how Steve managed to get him out of Finland and into the States. Still, within the week Steve had Bucky safely in place in his comfortable, if barely lived in, New York apartment, and the soldier had done his best to settle in. Steve had even managed to keep Bucky out of government hands, which seemed nothing short of miraculous. Other than a brief visit to Howard Stark's son for an evaluation to ensure that Hydra hadn't put a tracking device or self-destruct code or something in his arm (the soldier in him thought that the fact that they hadn't seemed almost as stupid as sending him after Captain America; the more human part of him was cripplingly grateful for the oversight) and a once weekly visit to a psychologist that Stark and Wilson had worked together to find him, Bucky didn't have to leave the apartment at all. Most of the time Steve didn't leave either. Bucky was fairly certain that you didn't just take a leave of absence from the Avengers, but if anyone could manage it, then it was Steve Rogers. Half the time Steve even managed to get their groceries delivered to the front door.

It had been six months now, and Bucky was frankly surprised at the progress he had made. He was sleeping an average of five hours a night; his nightmares had decreased to maybe three nights a week, and leaving Steve's apartment no longer seemed incredibly daunting. He had even started going out by himself, just to the library down the street for an hour or so, but still. He was even interacting with people other than Steve and his therapist; Sam came by a couple times a week, and Bucky had even started looking forward to his visits, regardless of whether or not Steve was there at the time. Natasha's visits were something else entirely. Steve obviously liked her, so Bucky was determined to play nice. And it really wasn't that he didn't like her — she just made him feel... itchy: She was always a threat, and having someone that dangerous anywhere near Steve never failed to put him on edge; she also insisted on speaking to him in Russian — he could always understand her, but he couldn't remember learning the language, which was far from a comfortable feeling. He knew that she (probably) didn't mean any harm by it and that she was just looking for someone who could understand her, but empathy wasn't really his strong suit just then, and he couldn't get past how uncomfortable she made him. He didn't say anything, though, because she made Steve happy, and Bucky couldn't imagine doing anything that might take that away.

Steve himself was another issue altogether. He was the only thing that really made Bucky feel comfortable in his own skin, and yet Bucky was almost constantly on edge around him for fear of doing something that would make him angry. He knew that Steve would never hurt him, but he might pull away and sometime having a privilege revoked was worse than a beating. It didn't help that Steve always seemed so distant. Bucky didn't blame him, it had been a long time since they had been together and a lot had changed, but it still hurt. He could remember what they had been like before, and it could never have been described as distant, even when they probably would have been better off if they had at least tried to pretend. Now, there was always space between them: their conversations had long, awkward pauses, and Steve rarely ever touched him anymore. It made Bucky feel like there was a piece of him missing, and it ached, but he would never be able to bring himself to ask for more; he had already been given far more than he deserved when Steve allowed him back into his life at all. He was sure that one day he'd be able to convince himself that that was enough.

Steve's first mission after finding Bucky was a short one. He had said that it was strictly information retrieval and that they had wanted a little extra muscle just in case. Bucky was sure that they wouldn't call in Captain America just for a little extra muscle, but he didn't press the issue; he didn't want to force Steve to either lie to him or admit that there was no way that the Winter Soldier was ever going to be trusted with such sensitive information. When Steve got back home he was filthy and carrying several bags of takeout, tired in the way that meant he had sustained a significant injury that was already healing. He left the food on the table and went to shower, but he was back out and wearing sweats before Bucky had finished setting the table and laying out the food; Bucky wished that he had stayed in the shower longer — the heat always helped make Steve feel better, even when he was little — but he barely managed to make his own decisions every day let alone make them for someone else. Steve ate methodically, as if he didn't care what anything tasted like as long as he ate as much of it as he possibly could. It made Bucky angry: Steve had always been bad about taking care of himself, especially after a mission, and he knew that if he hadn't been there then Steve probably wouldn't have eaten at all. He knew that people thought that Captain America didn't need anyone to take care of him, and thinking about how many missions he went on without anyone to take care of him afterwards made him furious. He wasn't really sure how to articulate that, though, so he kept his mouth shut and his eyes focused on his plate in order to keep his anger to himself.

After they finished eating, Bucky miraculously managed to convince Steve to just leave the dirty dishes in the sink and watch some television with him. He refused to choose what they were going to watch, knowing that if he chose wrong then Steve would just leave rather than contradict Bucky. They sat on opposite ends of the couch — as far away from each other as they possibly could while sitting on the same piece of furniture — but all Bucky really wanted to do was curl up in Steve's lap like some sort of weird, over-large, ridiculously deadly house cat. Admittedly, Bucky was paying far more attention to his companion than he was to the tv, but he couldn't entirely block it out, and he couldn't bite back a groan when Steve changed the channel from one baseball game to another. Steve looked over at him, raising an eyebrow in question.

Bucky smirked at him, forgetting to second guess the familiarity that felt as close to natural as anything ever did for him. "Come on Stevie, haven't you already subjected me to enough baseball to last three lifetimes?"

"Nope," Steve replied, grinning. "Everyone could always use more baseball; always. Besides, what are you gonna do about it, Jerk?"

He hesitated at the familiar taunt, unsure of whether or not he was allowed to play his part anymore; after a few moments he decided to risk it — Steve would forgive him if he was wrong, probably. "You know what I'm gonna do, Punk." He tensed, telegraphing his intentions enough that Steve would have plenty of time to let him know that this wasn't okay.

Steve didn't stop him, though; he just widened his eyes comically and shook his head, grinning even as he protested. "Buck. Don't you dare."

Bucky lunged, launching himself across the sofa and landing on Steve with a thud. They struggled for a bit, neither of them making anywhere near a real effort, but eventually Bucky managed to get the upper hand, pinning Steve's wrists with his metal hand and using his right to tickle him in all the spots that hadn't changed even after a super serum and seventy years. Steve gasped and shrieked through his laughter, trying to throw Bucky off with his hips but not making anywhere near an actual effort to fight back. This was the most physical contact they had had since Bucky had actually tried to kill him, and it was amazing; Bucky wanted to stay like that forever — pressed against each other and happy. Steve had early on thrown the remote across the room, but neither of them made even the slightest effort to pretend that that was the goal of this exercise.

"No more baseball!" Bucky demanded, digging his fingers into the most ticklish spot on Steve's side.

Steve shook his head, too breathless to actually protest. Bucky moved to get at the spot on his neck, but before he could actually do it all hell broke loose. There was a bang as the door was breached almost simultaneously with the front windows being blown out. Bucky flattened himself over Steve, blocking the worst of the shrapnel. He jumped up as men in full combat gear streamed into the apartment, beginning to fight whoever was closest; Steve joined him without hesitation. They fought well, but they were caught off guard and horribly out numbered, and whoever was attacking them had come prepared for super-soldiers. They were losing and they both knew it, but neither of them knew any other way than trying to bring down as many as they could.

Bucky felt the sting when the dart was shot into his neck; he ripped it out but still barely had the time to wonder what exactly someone put in a tranquilizer in order to bring him down in seconds. He hit the ground just in time to see the dart go into Steve's shoulder.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Bucky woke up slowly, groggy in a way that always indicated pharmaceutical interference. He was laying on a hard, flat surface, and after a few moments he realized that his inability to move his arms and legs was due to thick metal cuffs rather than a malfunction on his part. His heart rate picked up and he veered sharply towards panic as he remembered what had happened. He twisted and turned, trying to get a good look at where ever he was being held, but it didn't help. The room was bare, empty of anything other than whatever it was that he was tied to; it certainly didn't contain a blond national icon. Bucky held his breath to keep himself from hyperventilating — for some reason the thought of Steve being held where he couldn't see him was infinitely worse than the idea of them suffering together. He forced the thoughts of what could be happening to Steve out of his mind and tried to make himself calm down; panicking now would be the exact opposite of helping Steve.

He started breathing again, and his heart rate slowed back down to a reasonable pace. His head began to clear too, no longer fuzzy with the effects of whatever they had given him, and he realized that he could hear voices. They were muffled by the door but were clear enough that they couldn't be too far away. He tried to focus on what they were saying, but it was difficult to catch more than a word or two. Just as he was about to give up and focus his attention on something more productive when there was a loud thump — as if someone had banged their fist on a table — and one of the voiced became much clearer.

"Well where the hell is he?" The voice — obviously Steve's — boomed. "If you don't tell me right now, then so help me God…" The voice became too muffled to understand again, Steve having lowered his voice to make his threat more poignant.

There was a moment of debilitating relief before Bucky realized that if he could hear Steve, then Steve could probably hear him. He started yelling Steve's name at the top of his lungs, unsure of what else to say. He didn't have to yell it for long, though, because within thirty seconds the door opened violently, banging against the wall, and Steve himself was standing over him. Bucky fell silent again, his eyes darting across Steve's features as he tried to reassure himself that his friend wasn't badly hurt. He was so preoccupied with Steve that he, embarrassingly, didn't even realize that they weren't alone until Steve started speaking.

"He is tied to the table," he said, glaring at someone just out of Bucky's line of sight. "What the hell were you idiots thinking?" He was just shy of yelling, and Bucky could see that his hands were shaking in the way that said he was trying very hard not to punch something. He wished that he could reach out and hold his hand to try and make it better, but he knew that even if he hadn't been tied up and they had been back at home, he wouldn't have been able to manage it.

Whoever Steve was glaring at cleared his throat nervously. "We were afraid that he'd be disoriented when he woke up and that he'd lash out."

"Well he's awake now," he replied, the muscles in his jaw twitching. "And he's far calmer than anyone has a right to expect someone in his situation to be, so you need to release him right now."

"I-I don't have the authorization for that," the man stammered awkwardly.

Steve glared harder. "Then go find me someone who has that authority. You have two minutes before I start breaking things."

He heard footsteps retreating and then he and Steve were alone. The blond's expression softened when he looked down at his friend.

"We don't have to wait two minutes if you don't want to," he said quietly, his hands still shaking. "Just say the word and I'll start breaking things."

Bucky frowned. "Who took us? I don't understand."

"Shield," Steve replied, closing his eyes. "Or what's left of it; they've apparently had us under surveillance in case you were just trying to lull me into a false sense of security or something." He paused, shaking his head. "I'm so sorry Buck. I didn't know." Bucky's heart rate picking up again. Steve had promised that he would never end up in a Shield facility — and it seemed highly improbable that he would be lying — but he couldn't think straight.

He shook his head. "Why did they attack you too?"

It wasn't Steve who answered him. "Because Captain Rogers wasn't informed that we were watching him, and in case you haven't noticed he can be very dangerous when he feels the need to defend himself. It was strictly precautionary."

Steve was shocked — his tells were subtle, but there — so Bucky decided to give him the chance to recover. "Did he wake up strapped to a table too?" It wasn't hard to inject the necessary venom into his voice.

The newcomer coughed awkwardly, but he never got the chance to defend his actions because Steve cut him off. "Coulson. I'm glad you're not dead, but I can't say that I wouldn't be happier to see you if you hadn't just broken into out home and then drugged and kidnapped us."

"It was for your own good, Captain." Coulson replied. "The Winter Soldier is a volatile variable and we wanted to make sure that you have a safety net." Bucky couldn't help but flinch at his title, which didn't go unnoticed by Steve.

"Release him, now." Steve demanded, his voice cold and dangerous.

"Of course." Coulson answered. Seconds later the cuffs slid off, disappearing into the table. Bucky sat up quickly, regardless of how woozy he still felt; he didn't get to his feet though, not wanting to ruin his image by flopping on the floor. He turned to get a look at Coulson, a balding man in a decent looking suit.

Steve's glare didn't soften at all. "Now, we need to get one thing very clear. This will never happen again. I will not live my life wondering if my allies are going to break down my door at any given moment, and I'm certainly not about to make him live like that. So you need to remove all surveillance tonight."

"Be reasonable," he countered. "We will never know entirely what Hydra did to Sergent Barnes, and there's nothing wrong with having back up in case some of that comes back to…"

"We were playing," Steve interrupted angrily. "I will not sit back and let you punish him for messing around. I won't do it." Bucky wanted to say that he could live with the constant supervision, even if that meant he periodically woke up strapped to a table, as long as that meant Steve stayed safe, but it didn't seem like a good idea to contradict him in front of others.

"But you have other enemies," he continued just as easily as if he hadn't been interrupted by a terrifyingly angry super-soldier. "It is an unacceptable risk for you to be left without back up. You need us. Don't start burning bridges that you might need later."

He shook his head. "I can take care of us; I don't need you to do it for me. And I don't plan on burning any bridges unless you make me, but I can't make Bucky's well being anything less than my first priority. I will not allow you to take away the security of his own home. I am not willing to make that sacrifice."

"Steve, be smart about this." Coulson's voice took on a distinctly pleading tone. "Is this really the hill you want to make your big stand on?"

Steve snarled, taking a threatening step forward. "Every goddamn time. I swear to you Coulson: if you don't back off, I will take Bucky and disappear. I swear to God that you'll never see either one of us again."

"Would you really do that?" He asked. "Walk away from all of your responsibilities just to prove a point?"

"In a heartbeat." He replied without hesitation. "I don't owe you anything; I owe him everything. I will pick him every fucking time, so you're best bet is to not make me choose."

There was a tense moment of silence and then Coulson shrugged, looking as if he had just given in on what they were going to order for dinner. "As you wish. There's a car waiting to take you two back to your apartment, and I promise that the mess will be cleaned up and the teams removed by the time you get there."

"Thank you," Steve answered, relaxing slightly. "I hope that we won't need to have this conversation again." He turned to Bucky and nodded. "Are you ready to go Buck?"

Bucky nodded, pushing himself to his feet and focusing all of his attention on following Steve and not letting anyone see how off balance he still felt. Coulson gave them an agent to escort them out of the building and drive them back to Steve's apartment. It was beyond stressful: an armed agent that he didn't know who had probably been on the squad that had so recently attacked them, a too-small elevator leading down to a parking garage with too many places to hide and too few escape routes, and Steve was still tense and angry. He and Steve ended up in the back of a stereotypical black SUV, Steve still tense and rigid Bucky pressing his forehead again the cool glass in an attempt to make himself feel better. When they exited the garage the night was much more progressed than it had been when they had last been conscious, which was beyond jarring.

"How long were we out?" Bucky asked, barely whispering.

Steve sighed. "A couple of hours, I think. I woke up about twenty minutes before you did." He paused, letting the silence stretch on for a long couple of moments before shaking his head and sighing again. "Bucky, I am so sorry. I can't even begin to apologize enough for this mess."

"It's not your fault." Bucky replied quickly. "It only makes sense that they'd want to have a fail safe in place. It's not like I can really be trusted."

Steve looked up sharply, his hands making an aborted grabbing motion. "No! Bucky, God, I trust you. I do."

"Well," he began, flashing him a tiny smile, "your judgment has always been suspect."

He huffed out a breath that was nearly a laugh and made the weird hand gesture again, almost as if he wanted to reach for Bucky's hand; Bucky wished that he would.

Bucky almost wanted the car ride to last longer than it did because he didn't feel nearly recovered enough to be fully functioning. Even the walk up to Steve's second floor apartment seemed like too much for him, and it was all he could do to get to the couch without letting on to how badly he felt. In lieu of simply putting his head between his knees, Bucky looked around the room; it really was impressive how whoever was in charge of that kind of thing had put it back almost exactly as it had been before, but it was disconcerting at the same time — almost as if part of his past had been erased again. Steve hovered nearby, obviously wanting to keep an eye on Bucky but not wanting to get within three feet of him. Bucky thought he might actually feel better if Steve would just get a little closer.

Finally Steve wandered into the kitchen, coming back with a plate of cookies and a glass of juice — he had a tendency to try and feed Bucky up, especially when either of them was distressed, which was, honestly, more often than not. He set them on the coffee table and then hesitated again. He reached out for his shoulder but then quickly pulled back with an odd flutter that he tried to make look natural. Less than six hours before, Steve would have made that contact without thinking. It was too much for Bucky; he felt punished, even more so than he did when he had woken up strapped to a table, and he dropped his head into his hands, horrified that he could feel tears pricking at his eyes.

After a long moment during which Bucky was absolutely terrified that Steve would decide that the best course of action was to leave him alone, Steve cleared his throat nervously. "I-I could get you some milk if you'd like that better; we don't have to have juice."

Bucky let out a laugh that was far, far too close to a sob for anyone's taste. It was hilarious that Steve could even guess that his distress could have anything even remotely to do with beverages, and he couldn't help but wonder if Steve really thought that or if he just didn't want to deal with whatever the real problem was. In the end, it didn't much matter. Bucky's blood was rushing in his hears and his stomach was roiling in that unique way that made him feel as if he was going to either pass out or vomit; his skin was prickling and burning, and he was somehow convinced that Steve's large hands would be the perfect remedy to that problem. All in all, he felt too miserable and too wrong footed to be anything other than painfully honest.

"I honestly couldn't give a shit," he mumbled, unable to lift his head. "I would much rather starve as long as it meant that you would touch me again."

Steve's hand immediately shot out and clasped his shoulder, but it was so impersonal that it was almost worse than not being touched at all. It was at times like this that Bucky hated how much he could remember: he couldn't help but think of the time when he was 18 and he was, for once, the one who was sick; Steve had stayed by his side for days, holding his hand and petting his hair, or fetching wet cloths to ease his fever and head ache. Now, he was touching him in the politely detached and infinitely awkward way that you would when trying to comfort a stranger who had suddenly had a break down in front of you. He wished that he could forget the way that they had been so that he could be happy with the way they were, and he couldn't hold back a sob at that thought.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Steve asked earnestly, bringing his other hand around to tilt Bucky's face up. "Are you alright?"

Bucky just shrugged, afraid that if he told the truth about how close he was to losing his dinner then Steve would do the sensible thing and get out of the way.

"I think you're having a bad reaction to whatever they dosed us with." He said after a few moments. "I should call someone, a doctor."

He moved to pull away and Bucky panicked, clamping his hand around Steve's wrist to still the movement. "No, stay; please. I'll be fine, I promise." He hesitated before deciding that if he was losing anyway, he might as well lose it all in one fell swoop. Besides, Steve was always saying that he wanted to know what Bucky was really feeling. "I can't… I need you to stay, please. I can be better, do better; just please don't leave. I'll do anything you want, I promise. I'll lay at the foot of your bed if you let me. Just don't go away, please." He said it all in a rush, the tears flowing freely now, and by the end he could barely breathe.

"Hey, relax; it's okay." Steve said, now putting both of his hands of Bucky's face. "I'm not going anywhere, I promise. I'm right here."

He shook his head, only slightly comforted by the additional contact. "But you're always so far away. You were never this far away before."

"Oh," he breathed, letting the moment hang for a beat before pulling himself forward, sitting on the sofa as he pulled him into a hug. "Oh Bucky; I didn't know that's what you wanted." He gently guided Bucky's face into his neck, running a hand comfortingly through his hair. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I didn't want to push you because we touched a lot before; it wasn't because I don't want to be close to you, I promise."

Bucky nodded but stayed silent, afraid that if he said anything he would ruin it and Steve would stop. He still felt like shit, but with Steve's hand in his hair, he didn't actually mind so much. He squeezed his eyes shut and hoped that now that he had finally gotten what he so desperately wanted, he wouldn't fuck it up by puking down his shirt. He focused all of his attention on Steve's heartbeat, letting himself drown in the sound.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed before Steve spoke again, his voice soft and gentle. "Bucky, I'm really worried about you. You're not reacting well to whatever they stuck us with. We need to call a doctor before it gets worse."

"I'll be fine," Bucky promised. "I just need a little bit more time; I already don't feel like throwing up all over you. Can we just sit here for a bit longer? I'm sure that I'll feel better soon."

He sighed, obviously hesitant. "Alright. But if you're not better in half an hour, then you have to tell me so we can get you some help. Okay?"

Bucky agreed, more than happy to be allowed to slip back into that beautiful quiet place where he only had to listen to Steve's steady heart. He had loved that sound ever since they were kids — it was the best proof that Steve was still alive — but now it was even better: there was no murmur to disrupt the steady beat and the accompanying wheeze and rattle in his lungs was missing as well.

True to his word, Bucky was feeling much better in half an hour — his metabolism was still a bit slower than Steve's, but in the end it was still the same serum. He almost didn't want to tell Steve, though, because he was sure that then the physical contact would end and not come back. But when Steve asked, he gave an honest answer, and he was pleasantly surprised when, instead of letting him go, Steve just held him tighter, heaving a huge sigh of relief. They sat there for at least another half an hour before Steve began to obviously wilt; he had had a long, hard day, and it was beyond time for him to get a decent, non-drug induced rest. So Bucky carefully extracted himself from their embrace and hinted that he was feeling ready for bed, which had always been a much better strategy then trying to get the stubborn bastard to do something for his own good.

The apartment only had the one bathroom, so it wasn't odd that Steve was still brushing his teeth when Bucky came in to clean his. What was a bit out of the ordinary was that when he finished, Steve lingered, leaning against the door-jam with his typical faked nonchalance. Bucky pretended not to notice, knowing that acknowledging the strangeness would put his friend even more on edge. At times like this Bucky was astonished at how easy it was to take care of Steve, even in the tiniest ways; it made him feel more human than anything else seemed to. After he rinsed his mouth out he turned to look at Steve, wondering if he actually wanted something or if he was just too tired to continue trying to be subtle about all the staring he had been doing during the past six months.

Steve cleared his throat, masking his nervousness in a way that most anybody else wouldn't have noticed. "Are you ready to come to bed, then?"

Bucky froze, totally unsure of what was going on. He was aware of the connotations behind the phrase, but they didn't seem to fit with what had been happening. He remembered their relationship from Before, and he missed it, but it seemed out of character for Steve to bring it up like this, especially after not having even alluded to it once in the past six months.

A few moments later the blond paled, obviously having caught on to the double meaning in what he had said. "I mean just to sleep — not… not for any funny business. Just, sleeping… next to each other."

"Why?" He asked, only mildly less confused than he had originally been.

Steve sighed, purposefully avoiding eye contact. "Bucky, less than two hours ago you told me that you were willing to sleep at the foot of my bed like some sort of pet. I don't know if you actually wanted to sleep together, but if you do, then I just wanted you to know that you're more than welcome to; you're always welcome wherever I am."

"I, um…" Bucky's voice caught in his throat and for a few horrifying seconds he thought he might cry again. He coughed and got himself back under control. "Bed sounds good. It's been a long day."

Steve lit up, grinning at his friend like he had just given him a fantastic gift. He took a few seconds to revel before nodding and leading the way to his bedroom.

Bucky had never actually been in Steve's room. From what he remembered Steve had never really had his own space, and he didn't want to violate that without an express invitation. So he was incredibly surprised when he walked in the door and saw that the bed took up most of the room. It was large enough to comfortably hold three men Steve's size; he was fairly certain that it was custom made, but he had no idea why Steve would feel compelled to custom order a gigantic bed.

Steve flushed, obviously embarrassed. "Um, the bed was a housewarming gift."

"From who?" He asked, incredulous.

Impossibly, his blush darkened. "Tony Stark."

"Why?" Bucky demanded, feeling a surge of jealousy at the thought of why Stark would buy a bed like that for Steve.

He shrugged. "I think he thought it was a funny joke because he thinks I'm a virgin or a prude or something, so I would be intimidated by what people do in beds like this."

Bucky snorted, biting back a laugh. "Yeah Rogers, you're a regular innocent. Do you need me to tell you where babies come from?"

"Well you do have more experience with that side of things." Steve quipped, rolling his eyes. "Rosie DeRiggi certainly seemed to think so, at least. Maybe you've got some great-grandchildren running around Brooklyn; we should try and find them."

He shoved him lightly, trying not to laugh. "Oh stuff it." It made him incredibly happy that they had finally reached the point where they could joke about that — even if it had taken them the better part of the century. One of the biggest fights they had ever had was over what part Bucky may or may not have played in Rosie's pregnancy. It had been a bad week that started with Miss DeRiggi showing up pregnant and claiming that Bucky was the father, which had immediately led to Steve not talking to him, or coming home, for two days and then finally showing up to yell at Bucky for lying when he said he was just going out with Rosie to keep up appearances and for not stepping up to do the right thing (when Bucky tried to defend himself by saying that Rosie had a thing for sailors, Steve almost punched him in the face for besmirching her honor and then left for another two days); the issue was finally resolved at the end of the week when the entire DeRiggi family dragged Bucky to the church so he could swear on the Bible in front of his priest that he had never even fucked a woman, let alone Rosie, so, barring some twisted immaculate conception, it was actually impossible for him to be responsible for any of it.

Steve just grinned. "Oh come on, Rosie was very pretty; you know that little Barnes and DeRiggi children would have been adorable."

"I don't know, I've always preferred blonds." Bucky quipped unthinkingly. It was an old joke, one that he would make every time Steve would comment on a girl that he had gone out with.

Steve blushed, obviously remembering all the other times he had heard that joke, and coughed awkwardly. "Yes, well, we should probably get to bed. It's been a long day."

Bucky agreed, his heart rate picking up in both nervousness and excitement. They climbed into bed, fidgeting for a bit before settling down with plenty of space between them. Bucky lay on his back, staring up at the dark ceiling because he couldn't calm down enough to sleep.

After a few minutes he cleared his throat, fairly certain that his friend was still awake. "Hey Steve, can I ask you a question?"

"Sure Buck." He replied easily.

He hesitated, not sure if he should really open this can of worms but ultimately decided to finish what he had started. "Do you remember when that whole thing with Rosie happened? And how you stayed somewhere else for most of that week?"

"Yeah." He answered, quickly becoming wary.

He cleared his throat again. "I've always wanted to know where you stayed. By the time it was all over I was too scared to ask because I was afraid that you'd leave again."

"I slept in the storeroom of the store I was working in at the time," Steve said, sounding sad. "It wasn't too bad, but I missed hot food and a bed; I missed you."

Bucky nodded, biting his lip. "I missed you too, but I'm glad you weren't sleeping in an alley or something. I was just so happy when you came home; that's the closest you've ever come to leaving me, and I was so scared. Rosie's brothers were threatening to beat me to death every day, but all I could worry about was whether or not you were eating."

"I'm so sorry, I should have trusted you," he whispered, instinctively reaching for Bucky's hand without paying any mind to the fact that it was the metal one. "I was terrified that you wouldn't take me back after that; I wouldn't have blamed you."

Bucky clicked his tongue, wondering why they couldn't have had this conversation back when he was more emotionally competent. "Steve, I never thought of it like that. I never thought that I needed to take you back; I just thought that you were coming home."

Steve sighed, his breath shaking worryingly. "I've always regretted how I handled that, especially after everything that's happened since. We were both healthy, and we had decent jobs, and we were happy, and I wasted that. I should have been better to you; I don't know why you still want to put up with me, especially after everything that happened during the war and with Hydra. I never should have left you." He sounded like he had started crying, so Bucky rolled over onto his side, desperate to see his face.

"Hey, what's going on?" He asked, positive that they were somehow no longer talking about a stupid fight about Rosie DeRiggi.

He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. "I shouldn't have left you, and I can't even apologize because what the fuck can I say? I don't know why you don't hate me."

"I don't… I don't understand." Bucky admitted, feeling completely out of his depth.

Steve took a deep breath and sat up, obviously getting ready to leave. "You're right, you shouldn't have to deal with this. I'll just go."

"No, wait, that's not what I meant," he said quickly, grabbing for Steve's arm. "I just don't know what you're talking about? Am I not remembering something? Just fill me in, please."

He closed his eyes, still crying. "When you fell. I should have looked for you; I should have been the one to find you. Hydra never should have gotten their hands on you, and it's my fault that they did. You've taken care of me our whole lives; it was finally my turn, and I failed." He looked like he was expecting to be kicked and that he believed he deserved whatever he got; it was heartbreaking.

Bucky panicked. He had neither the words nor the emotional intelligence to articulate his feelings the way that he needed to. Steve was crying freely now, his emotional state visibly deteriorating the longer the silence dragged on. But Bucky couldn't bring himself to say anything. He was petrified of saying the wrong thing and making Steve feel even worse, but more than that, he didn't have any idea how to put how he felt into words. He tried to remember a time back when he knew how to deal with feelings that he felt similarly to this. The closest he could remember was when they were sixteen and Steve was distraught because James Barnes Sr. had told him that he was a runt who would continue to hold Bucky back until natural selection finally did its job and offed him. Of course, he hadn't really dealt very well with it in that instance, either: he had kissed Steve for the first time, just to get him to stop long enough to breathe before he passed out. However fantastically it had turned out the first time, he didn't think he'd be quite so lucky twice. Still, Steve had definitely taken the long stretch of silence has an answer in and of itself and was preparing to get up and leave anyway. Bucky panicked and acted without giving himself time to think, smashing a clumsy kiss on his friend's lips.

Steve froze, barely managing to kiss back. He pulled back, shaking his head in confusion. But he looked significantly less like he was awaiting a death sentence, so even if it all went absolutely horribly, Bucky was willing to count it as a win. They just sat there and stared at each other for a few impossibly long moments.

"Bucky, why did you do that?" He whispered, shell shocked.

He gulped, still unsure of what to actually say. "I, um, thought it was a good idea."

"But why?" Steve pressed. "We haven't really talked about the way we were before, but if you just kissed me because you think that that's what I want from you, then I don't even know what to say."

Bucky shook his head, his human palm beginning to sweat. "No, I… I wanted to — I still want to. I want you." It felt weird to say out loud — heavy and awkward in his mouth. He couldn't imagine how Steve — Captain America — could still want him, broken and dysfunctional, especially after so much time had passed.

"Do you really still have those feeling for me, or do you just remember having those feelings?" He asked, obviously unhappy about having to bring up Bucky's issues.

"I still have them," he said urgently. "It's one of the few things that I'm absolutely sure that I feel all the time. And if you've moved on and don't want me like that anymore, then I will honestly be happy for you. But if you're just holding back for my sake, then please don't."

Steve shook his head. "I just don't want us to go too fast."

"Then we'll go slow." Bucky answered, beginning to feel hopeful. "Impossibly, horribly slow. So slow that we want to scream, and then we'll wait some more. Slow is much better than not at all."

"I think we can do slow," Steve said, looking like he could barely contain himself. "Slow is good."

They kissed again, still chaste but with less panic and more skill. When they separated they both had dopey grins on their faces.

Steve squeezed Bucky's hand. "Now, if you're done starting emotionally challenging conversations tonight, we really should go to sleep."

Bucky agreed, relieved that he didn't have to talk anymore, and they lay down again, pressed as closely together as if they had been trying to fit onto one of the tiny beds they had had back in Brooklyn.