AN- hello everyone, Nasomta here! I managed to get this written faster than I thought, so here's the next chapter. The plot's starting up now and it'll only build up from here. Hope you like it!
As soon as he'd been released from the hospital, as soon as he could walk more than ten feet without something hurting and Sam saying "you might be Captain America but you're not as bulletproof as the American dream so lie down before you hurt yourself", Steve was out and looking for Bucky. He needed to find him. He had to find him. The fall of SHIELD had taken its toll on everyone. Natasha had so many political fires to put out, Fury was rooting out HYDRA remains, many of the SHIELD agents had filtered into other branches of the government, and what of him?
The great Captain America?
Without SHIELD barking missions at him, and in between his fruitless searches for the soldier, he didn't do anything. He stayed out of his apartment, hunting and looking for as long as he could. The fact that he had had a hand in the Insight disaster ate away as his peace. Sleep eluded him often, plagued by nightmares of the destruction almost wrought on the world, of HYDRA's atrocities, and Bucky. Those were the worst. He'd seen the chair, the cryotube, he'd seen it all when the agents tracked the location down. Just the sight of it had raised bile in his throat. This never should have happened to you, Buck. The decades he had spent dreamlessly frozen in the remains of that plane were nothing compared to the horrors his friend must have endured. The guilt sat heavy in his soul like a weight of lead.
His injuries had healed, leaving little else but faint silvery scars where the bullets and metal hand had bitten into him. The serum's boost to his immune system had saved him from an infection from the contaminated water, and mended the injuries quickly enough. With Natasha gone, Sam had kept an eye on the apartment while he was recovering, picking up the pieces from the assassination attempt so it would be tidy and welcoming once he was discharged. During one visit he said Natasha must have stopped by, as the bugs that had been in his apartment, that Fury and SHIELD had placed there long ago, had been neatly deactivated and left on the kitchen counter. Steve didn't tell him that Natasha had been away for days, caught up in the courts.
When he'd returned home, he didn't breathe a word to anyone about the… visits. He wasn't sure if they really happened, or if his own desperate hope was playing tricks on him. Steve swore that sometimes he would return home to find something off; a paper on his desk moved a half-inch to the left, some drops of water by the sink, the blanket on the couch folded a bit differently than he remembered, and, most alarmingly, a single, minuscule drop of blood he'd found on the windowsill. He told himself it had to be Bucky, that he knew where he lived, could easily sneak in. It was one of the reasons he'd denied moving after the dumping of SHIELD intel; Bucky knew his way here, he could find his way back if he needed him. It sounded absurd even to him, but there was a tiny bit of hope that maybe, just maybe, he'd wake up one day to find his friend at the door. A foolish hope, he knew, but optimism was one thing that he never could quite shake. He left his window unlocked anyway, just in case he wasn't as delusional as he feared.
Although SHIELD had fallen, that didn't mean he was free of service. He kept ties with the rest of the Avengers, with Fury and Agent Hill, more to assure himself he wasn't going at this alone than to look for a mission. Even though Hill had given him his shield, plucked from the Potomac by some divers searching for bodies, he couldn't find it in himself to go aid in the scattered attacks against HYDRA hotspots. After everything that had happened, he wasn't sure if he could trust himself with what remained of SHIELD. At least, not immediately. He trusted the members of SHIELD, but his faith in the organization itself had crumbled with the Insight Helicarriers. If something as catastrophic and dangerous as HYDRA had gone unnoticed within their ranks for so long, who knew what else could be growing just out of sight.
Sam would stop over at his apartment, check up on him and give him a call every once and a while when he couldn't join in his search. Some days he searched alone. Sam was well-meaning, and he enjoyed the company and support of his friend, but some days he just needed to be alone, to try and find Bucky on his own. He knew he was out there, somewhere, and he was determined to find him. He'd seen glimpses of him, just out of the corner of his eye or out in plain sight, looking right at him, but he always vanished before he could get close enough. Natasha was right, he really was a ghost.
It was almost he was playing a game, some strange version of cat and mouse, except instead of him looking for Bucky, his friend was the cat, making himself visible just long enough to get his attention before disappearing into the background. He wasn't sure why he was doing this; was he trying to draw him into a fight? Had he been captured and redeployed by HYDRA? Was it some silent plea for help? Steve didn't know; he didn't know a lot of things these days, but he knew for sure he wasn't going to give up on Bucky.
This has been going on for a few weeks. He didn't tell Sam or Natasha about it since, honestly, he had no way to prove if it's really Bucky he's seeing. Maybe the nightmares were leaking into his waking hours. He didn't do his usual laps around the reflecting pool with Sam most days, usually just sitting in the shade of a tree while the Falcon did his rounds, thankful for the bit of fresh air and company. Some days he swore he could see a fleeting shadow, a flutter of movement and a dim flash of silver metal. If Bucky was trying to kill him, like Natasha feared he might be, then he had had plenty of opportunities to do so.
The nights were the worst. He'd been spending a lot of time at Sam's VA meetings, then lingering out well past dark, wandering the city aimlessly. Sometimes he searched, other times he just walked. And walked, and walked, as if by walking maybe he'd be able to escape the guilt preying on him, escape his failure to protect his best friend who had protected and cared for him for as long as he could remember. Sleep was rare, and when it came it was fitful and filled with horrific visions. Memories of Bucky's fall, the horrible instruments he'd seen that had been used on his friend to break him into their obedient weapon, images of Bucky alone, hurt and scared and withering away, or being tortured again by HYDRA. He woke up screaming his friend's name commonly; he was secretly thankful that Agent 13 had moved on with the rest of SHIELD, leaving the rest of the floor vacant. She was nice, and had proven herself trustworthy during Insight, but the thought of being looked after was-
"Hey, you alright?" Sam's voice shook Steve out of his thoughts, blinking and turning to look at him. He'd been staring off into empty space; Sam said he'd been doing that a lot recently. "The meeting's over, everyone's gone," he started, jacket slung over his shoulder, "It's getting pretty dark out. Not that I don't think you can't handle yourself, 'cause I know you can, but you should get home and get some rest." There was a bit of an edge to his voice, as if he was silently saying 'you look awful you need to get some good sleep'. He'd come to another of his VA meetings, not so much for the help, but just to get him out of the apartment. He'd had no recent leads in his search leaving him somewhat restless, the normally welcoming space he called home now seemed oppressive and cramped, choking even.
"M'fine, thanks for asking, though." a blatant lie that he hoped Sam wouldn't see through; Natasha still said his lying was some of the worst she'd ever seen. He highly doubted it was that bad. The skeptical look his got from Sam, however, shot down that confidence.
"Yeah, sure, whatever you say, Rogers." The sarcasm was thick in his voice, but he didn't press the issue any further. He knew when he could and couldn't push Steve, and he had a feeling he was having a particularly off day. "Really though, go home and sleep. I want to see you bright and early tomorrow so I can embarrass myself trying to keep up with you at the reflecting pool." He clapped a hand lightly on Steve's shoulder, a reassuring gesture, before he grabbed the rest of his things.
They said their farewells, and once again Steve was alone. The sky was already black, the light of the city drowning out the stars. A brisk wind brushed past him, carrying with it the scent of the Potomac and a feeling of unease. The air was cold, uncomfortable and almost abrasive against his skin; the seasons were just starting to shift, and now the nights were filled with air that drained warmth and offered only a sharp, unfeeling embrace. His bolstered metabolism meant that the cold rarely bothered him, but he wore a jacket anyway, leaving it unzipped to slip out of should someone grab him. Natasha had teased saying he wouldn't need to pay for heat in winter with how warm he was. He'd smiled at that. Tony commented that "I can't believe you didn't just melt yourself out of that capsickle". He hadn't found that funny.
The Captain walked, hands stuffed into his pockets, eyes slightly downward. There's hardly anyone out at this time of night and he's quietly relieved; he's noticed now that, after everything that happened at SHIELD, crowds have begun making him nervous. It wasn't an outright fear, but it wasn't easily dismissed after the stunt the Strike team pulled in the elevator. He'd decided against riding his motorcycle to the meeting, opting for the long walk instead, hoping it'd give him a bit more time to think and shake some of the idleness out of him. Natasha had told him he was going to rust his creaky old bones if he didn't get out and do things, and he'd laughed at first until he thought of Bucky.
Bucky.
A knot of tension built in his shoulders. The familiar sense of urgency swelled in his chest, his pace quickening in response. I need to find him. He instinctively grabbed at his arm, grasping for the shield that wasn't there. He'd started leaving it at home, not wanting to draw attention to himself; as safe as it made him feel, it wasn't exactly subtle and he was far from helpless without it. But it was a safety net of sorts, a tie back to his past, his past with the Howling Commandos, with Bucky. The endless, fruitless searches were wearing him ragged. With each dead end his desperation grew. Maybe this time, maybe this time. Natasha had given him all the information she could scrounge up, but even then the trails went cold. The Winter Soldier had vanished just as silently and invisibly as snow melting in the sun.
The sound of a couple laughing with each other distracted him momentarily as he passed them, only sparing them a glance as he continued down the sidewalk and turned onto his street. Shops were closing up or long since dim, and in a city of so many people, Steve suddenly felt very alone. He felt ostracized, alienated, lost in a time not his own. Everything had changed so much and he was rushing to catch up, yet felt like he was just falling more and more behind. The city was quiet; he was a city boy by heart, and when the city was this quiet it was somewhat unnerving. He was accustomed to the sounds and lights and never-ending bustle.
Steve arrived at his building soon enough, the cold of the air suddenly unbearable. He couldn't help but to think of Bucky alone in this. There mere thought of it seemed to let the chill into his soul. The soldier shuddered involuntarily, climbing the stairs up to his apartment. Fumbling through his pockets produced his door keys, but as he was about to unlock it he spotted something. The doorknob was slightly tilted, a single rust-colored mark blemishing the metal. Blood? The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, heart beginning to thud loudly against his ribs as the feeling of no longer being alone descended on him. Bright eyes scanned for anything different, even the smallest thing that looked out of place was now suspect, but saw nothing else.
The door was abandoned, the window the only other choice until he figured out what was wrong. It was entirely possible his nerves were getting the better of him, but better safe than dead. HYDRA could very well have set a trap in his apartment, like how they had cornered Fury for the kill. Or it could be Bucky. The thought made his heart skip, movements quickening as the window was opened, quietly as he could, slipping inside the darkened apartment.
I should have left a light on. He crouched below the open window with his back pressed to the wall, waiting for his eyes to adjust before he so much as dared to move. Nothing immediately looked out of place; there was nothing he didn't remember being there before. His shield was even untouched, glinting faintly from where the Captain could see it leaning against the wall in the sitting room. It was a small reassurance. He'd been so tense, so nervous the past few weeks that maybe it was all catching up to him.
Steve stood and walked as silently as he could, moving along the wall between him and most of the sitting room. He wanted to get his shield before he swept the rest of the apartment. The thought of sending a text to Natasha flitted across his mind. They had set up a series of innocuous sayings to send to one another if one needed assistance, and although she was halfway across the world doing God knows what it wouldn't hurt to give her a head's up. Always listening, always silent, he pulled the phone from his pocket and opened a text message. 'Have you seen my sketchbook?' was hastily entered, code for 'something's wrong but no immediate danger'.
As soon as the message was sent he heard a soft noise in the sitting room, the sound of stiff fabric sliding and metal creaking. His heart leapt into his throat. The phone was roughly shoved back into his pocket, forgotten quickly as he edged noiselessly to the corner of the wall. He knew he should grab a weapon, grab something to defend himself with, but if it really was Bucky the sight of a weapon might set him off. He was going to wait. He had to see with his own eyes first. The edge of the wall came agonizingly slowly, but as soon as he was there, crouched and ready to spring back should an attack be waiting, did he peek around the corner into the darkened sitting room.
There was a stray shaft of light filtering through the curtains, falling across the couch, illuminating a crumpled form huddled up in one corner of it. If Steve hadn't been alerted to something being amiss in the apartment, he would have passed it off as a discarded jacket he'd forgotten to put away. But he knew better. Bucky. The dark form's side rose and fell without a sound, his breathing almost imperceptible in the dark. His position was contorted and looked in no way comfortable; his flesh and bone arm was tucked tight against his chest and partly hidden behind the knees pulled up to his stomach, with his metal limb resting on top of his leg, fingers loosely wrapped around the hilt of a blade anchored in his boot. It was clear that he would be up and armed within seconds of being alerted of a potential threat. With how he faced the door from his curled position he was very glad he'd opted for his unorthodox entrance.
Steve exhaled the breath he'd subconsciously held, scared to so much as blink, fearing that if he did so his friend would evaporate into the shadows. Is this real? Is he really here? A minute ticked by before he worked up the nerve to move, stepping incredibly lightly for someone of his build. He moved within a few feet of the couch, silently thankful for not remembering to pull the blinds all the way shut earlier, as it let in just enough light for him to get a good look at him. His swelling hope was dashed almost instantly. Bucky was real and not just a trick of the light, he was sure of that now, but he looked so different from their last encounter on the Helicarrier.
Bucky looked awful. Absolutely awful. James Buchanan Barnes, a man who'd once prided himself on his appearance for the dames, was sullied with soot and dirt, dried mud caked to his skin and clothing; blood that was still crimson and tacky was splattered across his artificial arm and Steve didn't know who it belonged to. It must have been the source of the spot on the doorknob. What made his happiness at finally finding his friend wither the most was Bucky's physical condition. He was so thin, thin to the point that he looked as if he hadn't eaten a thing since the fall of Project Insight. Steve grimly realized that that was a distinct possibility and his stomach turned in response. Bucky had always been on the lean side, but he looked heartbreakingly fragile in this state; he knew he could likely still outpace and kill him even in his depleted state, but God did he look like he would break at the slightest touch.
It was then he noticed the shivering. He'd missed it at first, too caught up in his own shock, but he was shivering and shaking, sometimes faintly and sometimes enough that his breathing would hitch. It was like he was suffering from some intense cold that only he could sense. The air in the apartment was cool but not unpleasantly so, definitely warmer than the outside, yet he was shivering as if he'd been dunked in cold water. He knew it was stupid, that it'd likely end up with him getting stabbed at best, but he couldn't stand to see him shivering like that. It made him think about how scared he must have felt, alone and injured in the snow at the bottom of that ravine. At least this time he could try and help, even though it might end with his blood being shed.
Steve was careful to be as quiet as he could, sliding the jacket off of his shoulders without looking away from the sleeping assassin. It wasn't much, just the leather jacket he typically wore when on his motorcycle, but it was warm from his body heat. He figured that, since it was smaller than the blanket at the opposite end of the couch, it wouldn't tangle up around Bucky while he slept; that would no doubt end disastrously if he woke up and tried to move and couldn't. He had seen the restraints on the chair in that horrific place, and never wanted to remind Bucky of that nightmare ever again.
There was a moment of hesitation before he ever so carefully draped the jacket over Bucky's body, praying that he wouldn't wake up and try and run. The moment it covered him the soldier froze, frame suddenly tense and breathing all but silent. Steve let go of the article, glancing to his shield a few feet to his right, holding his breath. It's alright, Buck; you're safe. He didn't dare speak it but it helped to think the words at him. Those few seconds seemed to drag on for hours until the tenseness left his friend, thin fingers hesitantly curling around the edge of the jacket and pulling it tight to his body. It was such an easily dismissible gesture but it meant the world to Steve.
The shivering continued, albeit diminished, but the Captain decided that was enough dancing with fate. He backed away, towards his shield, wanting to retrieve it before Bucky woke up. He had a lot of faith that he could bring his friend back, that Bucky could pull himself out of the Winter Soldier, but he wasn't stupid. If he could avoid letting something turn into a potential weapon in the soldier's hands then he was going to do so. He never turned his back to him, always facing him, just in case. Fingers brushed the top of the shield, the vibranium cold and unyielding yet comforting nonetheless. If he moved it out of sight then maybe—
The text alert on his phone broke the silence, sounding impossibly loud in the small apartment.
Steve stopped breathing, rooted to the spot when he saw Bucky's eyes flash open, looking right at him. Neither man dared to move, completely immobile and eyes locked as they became aware of the other's conscious presence. There wasn't an emotion to be seen in those blue eyes of his, and they seemed to stare right through him. A flicker of movement and his gaze had cut to the shield, and Steve realized in dawning horror just how damning of a position he was in; standing a scant few yards away with a hand on his shield was hardly an innocent stance.
"No its alr—" he had only a fleeting warning before the soldier was upon him. The jacket had delayed him a precious half-second, giving Steve just enough time to hastily raise his shield in a halfhearted defensive reflex. Bucky leapt at him like a jungle cat, the sound of his metal arm and the knife it held colliding with the shield almost deafening after such prolonged silence. The force of it caused the shield to slam into his chest, the Captain losing his precarious footing and the both of them tumbling back and slamming against the far wall in a heap. The air was knocked from Steve's lungs, leaving him gasping for breath as he saw the shadowy form that was Bucky rise up like a cobra to strike with that single metal fang.
It was a reflex more than anything that compelled Steve to kick the man away when he lunged for his throat; the resulting scream of pain, however, was completely unexpected. I hurt him. There was no time to panic as Bucky rebounded off of the couch, rolling off to Steve's left into a crouched stance, blade angled out with the hilt turned inward to his stomach. The movements were stiff, slowed, lacking in the predatory grace that had nearly killed the Captain previously but still just as precise and efficient. His right arm remained cradled to his chest as if crippled, seemingly useless. The sight of it caught Steve's attention for the briefest of moments, his attempt to stand paused, and it was all the opening the soldier needed to strike. Metal screeched as the blade glanced off of the shield, biting into shirt and skin instead of throat. Even injured and malnourished the assassin's reflexes were impeccable, and before he could even blink Steve found himself pinned to the floor, Bucky's knee jammed into his ribs with his full weight on his sternum.
"Buck—" his voice was little more than a pathetic wheeze, unable to get air back into his lungs with the assassin's weight on top of him. It was almost impossible to make out any details on the man's face in the dark, especially now that his head was swimming from colliding with the wall. Movement out of the corner of his eye made him tense in expectation of a blade plunging into his chest, but a second later he heard the weapon clang to the floor as the other leaned closer.
"Ингалятор?"
Bucky's voice was quiet, rough with disuse and thickly accented, but the tone wasn't aggressive. Concerned was the wrong word, but it wasn't angry or demanding or mocking; it was a question. It took him a moment to recognize the language. Steve regretted never thinking to brush up on basic Russian during his search, as he had no idea what he was saying to him. "Ингалятор?" he asked again, removing himself from on top of him and moving to his side. Steve gasped loudly, thankful to be able to breathe again, but also hopelessly confused. Does he recognize me? What is he saying?
"Где твой ингалятор?" more words he couldn't even begin to fathom, but he sounded somewhat alarmed. Metal clinked faintly and Steve suddenly felt the soldier's metallic hand grasp his upper arm, pulling him up into a sitting position with a painstaking delicateness, as if fearing he would shatter like glass. The upright posture greatly eased the strain in his lungs, taking several minutes to get his breathing evened; he felt the coolness of Bucky's hand pressed against his back the entire time, occasionally brushing it gently up and down his spine when he coughed particularly hard. What was he trying to do? Steve looked over to scrutinize the other's face, not expecting to see such a softened expression on his features.
"… Bucky?" he tried once more, voice as gentle as he could manage considering he was still a bit winded. Blue eyes blinked before narrowing, some of the softness draining from his face as the hand was withdrawn cautiously. It was as if he was confused, conflicted, and unsure of himself. Eyes darted under messy, unkempt hair from Steve's face to the knife-inflicted cut on his arm, to the shield, and back again. There was a sudden sense of dread as he feared his friend was lapsing back into his combative mindset.
"I…" the other's words were hardly above a whisper, "… I know you." Thank God, English, but at the same time the answer was equal parts relieving and concerning. "What were you doing?"
"Y-yeah, you do, Buck," Steve spoke as gently as he could, as if he was consoling a wild animal, "I just gave you my jacket. I came home and found you asleep. You were shivering and I just wanted to make sure you were warm enough." His voice was still somewhat strained, but he never dropped his calm tones. He could see that his body was wound up in tense readiness again, and he feared that he'd make a try for the still-open window if he was given any reason to startle. "I've been looking for you every—"
"I know." The response was cold and quick, a drastic shift from mere moments ago. The man formerly known as Bucky stood, the predatory gleam starting to shine through his eyes again. Steve recognized that he was losing him, but trying to force him to do anything would do far more harm than any good. He couldn't force any part of this; if he did, he told himself he'd be no better than the HYDRA agents that had ruined him so badly in the first place. He needed to try something else, but before he could think of anything the assassin spoke.
"… you're… taller than I remember." The words were chosen carefully, eyes averted in concentration. All of that earlier optimism crept back into Steve's mind. He smiled and shook his head a bit, gaze down on his shield which was left abandoned at his feet. Memories of his dangerous rescue from the HYDRA base came back, remembering how Bucky had been so surprised to see him that he'd forgotten all about his own injuries.
"You said the same thing when I rescued you from—" when the Captain glanced back over to where the other man had been there was nothing there. Gone. His heart skipped, half expecting an attack, but a single soft footstep outside in the hall told him that he'd escaped out of the open window. His heart sank, but at the same time, he'd spoken. He remembered. If only he hadn't startled him so badly then maybe he could have convinced him to stay. Brushing his hand over his arm, the warm tackiness of the blood there assured him that yes, he hadn't just imagined all of that, it'd been real.
There was little chance he'd be back again tonight, but just in case he did, Steve went around the house and checked everything. The window was closed partly, leaving enough of it open for Bucky to open it easily if he returned, with some thick blankets, a small first-aid kit and some water left on the table next to the couch. There must have been a reason he'd come, and he was confident that he'd return eventually. He just hoped he'd be ready and not muck it up next time.
Absentmindedly, Steve pulled the phone from his pocket, reading the text that had set off the confrontation. It was from Natasha. 'Did you check on the windowsill?' was what the text read, 'has something happened?' being the meaning. He considered telling her what had happened, about the accidental attack and the Soviet's horrible shape, but he kept it to himself. It wasn't that he didn't trust her, it was that he was rather sure Bucky didn't want anyone to know about his whereabouts. Anyone other than him, it seemed.
'Found it' he replied, an 'all clear', hesitating a few moments before typing another message. 'What does "ingalyata" mean?' he had no idea how the Russian word Bucky had uttered was spelled, so he hoped she got the gist of it. There was no hope of him remembering the sentence. He felt like he should be happy, relieved that he'd confirmed that his friend was still alive, but instead he felt empty, perhaps even worse than when he'd been left wondering over his fate. He was alive, but he had scared him into an attack, sent him running, and hurt him. Some friend. With a quiet sigh he walked into his room, lying down and sinking into the mattress, eyes trained blankly on the ceiling. Hours might have passed, he had no idea, and he only looked away when he heard the text chime.
'That's Russian for inhaler. Where'd you hear that?'