The Winter Soldier had integrated into civilian life almost seamlessly, with almost no interference from his enemies. Over seventy years, despite everything that had been done to him, he'd learned to lock away pieces of critical information. He knew things. Names. Locations. Account numbers. He had the wealth to disappear and create a new identity five times over without ever having to touch a weapon again. He had information that could cripple governments and destroy whole industries.

Twice, after HYDRA's exposure, they had tried to come for him: once to reclaim him, once to kill him. Both times, his enemies had failed, and they'd paid dearly for their failures. Now, they knew better. Mutually assured destruction. If they wanted to take him down, he had no illusions that he could stop their best efforts — but they would destroy themselves in the process.

He had five safehouses surrounding his asset's home in Brooklyn and more scattered throughout Manhattan, Westchester, and Long Island. He'd intentionally allowed two of them to be compromised. They were his traps, killing fields just waiting for him to lure in his victims. The rest were safe —

Or should have been.

He froze, metal fingertips a hairsbreadth from the doorknob. It should have pulsed with electromagnetic energy, but the circuit was disarmed.

Silently, out of view of the very slight gap under the door, he put down the groceries he'd picked up. The paper bag didn't even rustle.

He drew the sleek little Walther PPK that was almost comically small in his hand. When he'd changed out his weapons kit, he'd purchased the PPK on impulse. It was the favored weapon of a pop-culture assassin who was also something of a hero. He found the idea amusing. The gun was surprisingly accurate, though, and it was easy to conceal. He had no reason to regret the choice now.

In one smooth motion, he threw open the door and rolled into the apartment, staying low to avoid the kill-shot that didn't ring out. His trajectory took him behind the breakfast bar separating the tiny kitchen from the living room. He'd reinforced the breakfast bar with a two-inch plate of steel under the wood veneer, and he'd mounted a combat shotgun under the lip of the thinner, decorative steel countertop. He grabbed for it, but his fingers found empty air.

"I'd rather you not shoot me."

Steve Rogers.

He forced himself to get to his feet, though he knew he was exposing his head and torso to a shotgun blast that even his physiology couldn't repair. He couldn't bring himself to put down the Walther, but he kept it at his side, aimed safely at the ground. His downstairs neighbor played the TV at top volume and had a noisy, yappy little dog. No great loss if the Walther discharged.

It was unthinkable that Steve Rogers was here, in his safehouse, but... there he was, in the leather recliner by the window. He'd been sitting in the dark, but he had his Kindle in one hand. The screen was glowing faintly.

The shotgun was on the coffee table, breech open, with all eight shells in a neat line beside the barrel.

The Winter Soldier took a deep breath.

Months ago, the shift from the Winter Soldier to Bucky Barnes had been impossible. Unthinkable. It was still difficult, like trying to breathe underwater, fighting against what his mind told him was right and what he wanted, because want was something that was unfamiliar. Terrifying, even.

It was Bucky Barnes who exhaled — or as close to Bucky Barnes as he could get. There were gaps like the Grand Canyon in his memory, but he'd bridged a couple of them, thanks to Steve. Every ounce of the Winter Soldier's conditioning was focused on completing the mission and killing Steve Rogers. And every last shred of Bucky Barnes was focused on protecting Steve at any cost.

"I could have killed you."

Steve shrugged. "I'd rather have dinner."

"You're suicidal."

"You left. I woke up to find Sam trying to figure out how to deal with three dead assassins in my front hallway."

Bucky nodded. He didn't know what to say. He'd wanted to stay, but he couldn't.

"How many more did you kill?" Steve asked softly.

The question was a relief. Bucky didn't have to bring it up himself. "The rest of the team." Finally, he was able to put down the Walther. As soon as it touched the steel countertop, he turned away and went to get the groceries and close the door. His apartment was the last one on the right, and the entry was set back in an alcove, but there were still nosy neighbors.

As he locked the door and re-armed the defenses, he realized he wasn't thinking of moving, even though this safehouse was compromised. Some part of his paranoid, assassin-trained brain was... okay with Steve knowing where he lived. At least, one of the locations.

Steve put down the Kindle and turned on the standing lamp by the recliner. He stood up and crossed to the kitchen as Bucky started taking groceries out of the bag. "Your fridge is empty, you know. Otherwise, I would've cooked."

A hint of the Winter Soldier tried to surface. He couldn't risk eating food that had been left unattended, even in the supposed safety of a secure location. He bought his meals from a different store every day, allowing a computer to choose a truly random pattern for his purchases. Less chance of being poisoned. Or, worse — being drugged and recaptured.

But he knew that was paranoia. The risk was minimal, especially for the effort. He answered with a shrug.

"You don't have to live like this, Bucky."

"I didn't find out they'd sabotaged your washing machine until the trap was already set," Bucky said as he folded the bag and tossed it in the recycle bin under the sink. "It was done in two stages. The machine —"

"Bucky."

"— was sabotaged weeks ago. I only found out after they'd set the —"

"Bucky!"

The sharp interruption cut through his words like a knife. He looked at Steve, and a little part of him still stared in amazement that he had to look up at Steve — that Steve wasn't the skinny, scrawny little nothing he'd been growing up. It felt like just last week and a lifetime ago, all at once.

Steve ran a hand up Bucky's arm, and the touch nearly made him flinch, until he remembered that this was Steve. No one else could touch Bucky — not without losing a hand for their trouble.

"I mean it," Steve said when his hand reached Bucky's shoulder. "If you want to — I don't know, hook up an alarm to the door and windows or come jogging with me or... whatever you do, that's fine. But if you're going to watch me, I want you where I can watch you back."

The Winter Soldier operated alone. Even with a support team to provide backup and kit, the Winter Soldier was a solitary operative. He needed no one. Only his orders.

But Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes had been a part of something more. He'd been Steve's protector and companion and best friend. He'd been part of the 107th. He'd been one of Steve's chosen, part of the Howling Commandos.

He'd never been alone.

And now, he didn't have to stay alone.

"Are you going to keep taking risks?"

Steve grinned. "I'm still me. Just taller."

"You start fights. I finish them."

"No. We finish them together. And only the ones worth fighting."

Bucky nodded. He could live like this. He could let these memories surface, and maybe, over time, the Winter Soldier would fall down like silt in a river, always there but buried deep. Bucky was all that Steve needed. He was a soldier. A sniper. Steve's best friend.

So why did it feel like a loss?

"Deal, then?" Steve asked.

With effort, Bucky said, "Deal."

Steve's fingers tightened on Bucky's shoulder, and his other hand came up, cupping Bucky's metal shoulder. He felt the pressure of Steve holding him in place — not so tightly that he couldn't escape, but firmly. Intentionally.

Then Steve leaned in, ducking his head just a couple of inches, and the kiss — the kiss caught Bucky completely by surprise. And he had no idea how to react. Not as Bucky, not as the Winter Soldier, not as whatever mix of the two warred for dominance in his head.

Barely a heartbeat later, Steve backed off, hands falling to his side. "I'm — I'm sorry," he said, sounding lost.

Bucky's instincts pushed through his confusion. "No one's watching. You don't... have to..."

Steve cocked his head to the side, just a little bit, the way he'd do when he was wondering if he should ask what was going on or just start throwing punches. "Have to?"

Everything in Bucky screamed to withdraw. To retreat. That he'd handled this all wrong. But if he ran now, he'd never find Steve waiting for him again. Steve had put effort into finding him. Into bypassing his defenses. Into offering Bucky something like the old life they'd once shared.

"Tell me what you want."

Steve's eyes narrowed. The stubborn set to his jaw sparked more memories to life. "You first," he challenged.

Bucky should have been expecting it. Or maybe Bucky was expecting it, but the Winter Soldier wasn't. He floundered for a few seconds before finally saying, "Us. Together." It was incoherent but true, or as close to truth as he could get.

Steve relaxed. His hand returned to Bucky's shoulder, warm and heavy and comforting. "Okay. You know that, Bucky. No matter what, you'll always be my best friend..."

Something about Steve's voice told Bucky that there was a blank space at the end of that sentence — a space the Winter Soldier wanted to ignore, because it was enough. It gave him a purpose. A mission. Protect Steve. Asking too much would lead to trouble. Maybe Steve wouldn't hurt him, but Steve would send him away.

But Bucky had faith the Winter Soldier could never have. Trust had been beaten and burned and cut out of the Winter Soldier, but not Bucky. Steve had charged blindly into Hell and rescued Bucky not once but twice.

"More." Bucky took a breath. "I want more."

Steve nodded, and his smile was full of the relief that Bucky didn't dare show. "I was hoping you'd say that," he said softly, moving his hands up to Bucky's face.

Bucky closed his eyes, feeling Steve's fingers in his hair. This time, the kiss was soft and inviting, coaxing Bucky into responding as much or as little as he wanted. After one last instant of hesitation, Bucky pushed aside the Winter Soldier's fear and wrapped his arms around Steve's body. He let Steve help him remember how to kiss because he wanted to, not to seduce a target or divert attention. And because he was too fragmented to remember the words, he put everything into that kiss instead, hoping that Steve would understand.

When every inch of him was tingling, the kiss ended. Their eyes met, and Bucky couldn't help but smile at the warmth in Steve's eyes. "Did you want to have dinner, or can I take you home? To our home?"

The Winter Soldier's voice in Bucky's head was barely a whisper, a silent complaint of the vulnerabilities of Steve's house — doors and windows and the basement access. Looking into Steve's eyes, Bucky found it easy to ignore that voice, at least for now. Time enough for him to go to the hardware store tomorrow so he could start making some upgrades.

"Yeah, Steve," Bucky said softly. "Let's go home."