Bucky stared at the painting of Steve with the helmet over his face, the warmth in his eyes somehow masked despite no physical material covering them. Bucky had never liked the mask— he liked any protection Steve was getting, but he didn't actually like the armor. The suit.
He didn't actually like Captain America.
He'd never told Steve that, he knew would get punched something wicked if he did. But he'd had a growing resentment for Captain America ever since that bridge in the Azzano prison had broken, and he'd imagined for a brief moment that he was going to have to die in there, because someone had decided to shoot Steve Rogers full of whatever the fuck it had been and send him into a war zone.
And the serum wasn't all bad. Bucky didn't have to wonder how the hell Steve couldn't seem to keep on weight no matter how much he ate, he stopped having nightmares about the rattling in Steve's chest finally giving up. But he knew, deep enough inside himself that Steve couldn't see, that he preferred Steve when he was small and sickly and at least he was fucking safe.
And it wasn't like he was some mother hen puttering around with band-aids at the ready for every little scrape. But while Erskine had understand what the army sergeant hadn't— that Steve was more than birdy bones and unfaltering defiance, he was a good man— Bucky understood something even deeper than that. He understood that Steve was a good man. He knew that better than anyone, he gave hard eyes to anyone who didn't bother looking past the too-small frame, but underneath the courage and the kindness and the warmth, Steve had an anger that couldn't be tamed. Steve had been a solider his entire life. Bucky had picked him up off the ground when they were both five, and Steve had wiped the blood from his nose and put his fists back up just in case Bucky thought about making fun of him. Erskine was enamored by the sense of righteousness, the loyalty to being good, the desire to protect others, but Bucky knew that that protectiveness didn't apply to its owner. Steve was a soldier, Bucky knew that all too well, and not being allowed to fight overseas had never stopped Steve from being one. What it had done was keep him safe; and the second the serum had entered Steve's body, there was nothing to make sure that he came home.
The first time he'd seen the helmet, Bucky hadn't been able to help being reminded of a picture he'd seen in an old scruffy library book once. It had been during his mythology stage, when he would tell Steve all about the things he read about Persephone and how her mother was so sad when she went away that the whole world turned into winter, and Steve would ask to hear about Hercules and all the monsters the heroes killed. He used to look at the pictures Bucky showed him, and fashion his own pretend shields and spears and swords from the garbage they found on the streets. Steve had always reminded Steve of the various pictures in his book, of heroes and knights and gods, but Captain America...
Captain America looked like Mars. Mars looked different from the Greek mythology illustrations— he was essentially the same as Ares, just renamed by the Romans, but there was something different in all his illustrations. Ares had a hot, horrible anger about him, Mars looked... colder. He was usually drawn with more armor than Ares, and Bucky had never been as interested in him. Mars was shielded, closed off, inaccessible.
Mars was different than Ares in what he stood for, too. He wasn't raw and angry, Mars's power was meant to be used to establish peace, not victory. That fit a lot more with Captain America. It fit a lot more with Steve Rogers, but Bucky didn't like to acknowledge that Mars was really who Steve was at his core. Mars would always be at war. Mars wasn't ever going to come home.
Mars's consort had been Venus, he remembered that.
He'd seen a painting of Venus before. She had long blonde hair that cascaded down in waves, and a soft face and full lips. He'd seen Venus in a museum when he was tailing a target, once, and he'd seen her in the apartment across from Steve's, a laundry basket balanced on her hip.
He turned away from the painting, to the rest of the exhibit. There was the video of Peggy, who was so strong she could almost hide the strain to her voice as she talked about Steve. There was the video of himself and Steve— not a video, not really, just a set of images. A moment. And not himself really, either. Not anymore.
There was laughter. The looked happy together, but there was no substance to it. No color, no sound, not like with Peggy or with Sharon. Steve might miss it, might think he wanted it back, but Bucky knew better. He wasn't a part of this story. All the characters already taken. There was no place left for him. Mars had his battles to win, his love to woo.
Maybe he could be Pluto. Buried in the underworld, with the rest of the lost souls he'd taken from the world.
He touched the plane ticket in his pocket. Romania. Ironic, that his underworld would bear the name of the mythology that he wasn't allowed to be a part of. But he supposed that's what the underworld was, really. A mirror, so close, everything almost fitting but not quite. He'd still be removed. He'd have his own Romans, his own Romania, and the rest would live out their stories an ocean away.
He held his breath as he left the way he came in, another divorce from the world of the living. He passed by the muted lights gleaming off golden hair; unhelmeted, shining golden like it couldn't help but boast the victories, the battles won.
Bucky passed by unnoticed. He didn't remember reading any stories where Mars and Pluto had interacted. He was sure there were some, they would have had a few experiences, maybe even a few years together. But those weren't the important stories. Not the ones that needed to go down in history, to survive HYDRA's wipes. Mars and Pluto didn't need to know each other, not any more. Their paths had crossed, they each had their own stories to finish.
Bucky ignored the pain of that as he left the museum, as he boarded the plane. Nobody had ever said that Pluto hadn't hurt. But this was his narrative. He wasn't Venus, and Mars wasn't meant for him.