The sky is painted like a watercolor, dull yellows and pinks. Bucky's lips are red, and he is leaning against a wooden box. Their feet are dangling over the water. Steve is dreaming. Steve is fifteen. "You're my best friend," he says.
Steve knows how this should go. He looks to Bucky, expectantly. Bucky looks back and shakes his head. "No Steve," he says. He takes a long glance out into the calm ocean water before standing up.
"Bucky, what are you –" Steve begins, but he stops. Bucky walks away, reaches behind a crate on the dock, and reveals a cracked, but ornate picture frame. Moving briskly past Steve, Bucky hurls it into the ocean.
Steve jumps to his feet. He's small, but he has the same vigor here as he does after the serum. "What are you doing?" he asks. Bucky gives him a sad look, wipes his hand on his pants, and pulls out another piece of furniture, this time a wooden rocking chair. "Is that –"
It is. The same furniture from Bucky's childhood apartment. What was left of Winifred Barnes. One by one, Bucky throws it into the ocean. He's taller here, Steve realizes, looks more like a man than a teenager. There are dark circles under his eyes. The war has not been kind to him.
Bucky is working faster now. He throws things, pushes things over the edge of the dock. They fall into the ocean with a splash, sink under the depths or float away. Steve watches idly, at a loss.
Until Bucky pushes out the couch, an old drab thing with faded pink roses, whose cushions had laid the basis for boyhood adventures. "Whoa," Steve says. "No, you do not." He steps in front of the couch.
"Steve, get the hell out of the way," Bucky growls at him. His voice booms. Steve stands his ground.
"Bucky, this is crazy," he says, pushing his full weight against the couch. "You have got to stop."
"I can do whatever the hell I please, and you have got to move!" he yells. There are tears in his eyes.
"No!" Steve shouts back.
"Move!" Bucky roars one more time, before giving it his all. Steve barely makes it out of the way, making a hard landing on the swollen wood of the dock. The couch falls into the ocean with a loud splash. The cold water hits his neck, puts his hair on end.
Steve rolls up onto his knees, onto his feet. Bucky is crouched at the end of the dock, struggling with something around his neck. They glint silver in the light. "Hell no," Steve says. "I am not going to let you toss your dog tags!" Bucky snarls. Steve tries to snatch them. Bucky fights back, until the two are on top of each other.
"Bucky, knock it off!" Steve shouts. Bucky fights ruthlessly, but it is not reformed. There is no trace of soldier or assassin in his movements; he is fighting like a frightened kid on the streets of Brooklyn.
"Steve, please," Bucky sobs. His face is wet and his body is shaking, with anger or sorrow Steve cannot tell. "Please," he repeats. Steve fights harder, arms wrapped up in each other, trying to reach the dog tags. "Please, пожалуйста, пожалуйста!" With one last blow of force, Bucky pushes Steve off of him palm square in the face. Steve rolls off beside of him.
The sky changes colors above them. They lie side by side, both panting. Steve is losing ground, losing air. He wheezes, and sits up in a panic. It's been so long since this happened, he had almost forgotten that it is a possibility. Bucky is beside him immediately, and they are re-enacting a script that they both know very well.
"It's okay," Bucky sobs once Steve is grounded. "It's okay, Stevie, I couldn't do it." Bucky presses his forehead into Steve's cheek. The dog tags are on the dock between them. They read "STEVEN G ROGERS".
Steve wakes up in a cold sweat. He can hear James pacing in the kitchen, the soles of his feet padding on the tile floor. It is two in the morning. Outside, a car drives past.
They are in Europe, somewhere, when it happens.
Bucky is in a tavern. He is alone that night, for whatever reason. He is frozen at a counter, hand curled tightly around a glass. The bodies around him are in suspended animation. The ash of war is coated thick on his skin. The god of death pulls at his eyelids.
He stumbles blindly to the door. His bones ache for Brooklyn. He feels a foul, freezing thing. Tomorrow night may never come. The mud is cold underneath his boots.
He's stopped jacking off to chicks. Why bother any more, if you could die at any minute. He's already a mess. Killing's stopped bothering him, why should liking guys be any different? He knows he's sick. He laughs bitterly. Being a fairy (yeah, he's gonna admit it, might as well make peace with himself before he kicks the bucket) is the least of his problems. Better to just give in.
And so he gives in.
The boy on his lap has dark curls. He reminds him of Ruth, if he's being honest. The boy's skinny and young. He doesn't speak much English, but he repeats "Soldier, soldier." Bucky kisses him hard to shut him up. It doesn't work.
"Talking isn't what I'm paying you for," Bucky growls in his ear. He doesn't know how much the boy understands, but it gets the point across.
The boy uses his mouth for other things. It's the first time that Bucky's ever been with a man. He's thought of it, dreamt of it even though he told himself not to. The boy smells better, feels better, fits better than any girl that he's ever been with. And Bucky's drunk –god, is he drunk – and he fucks that boy into oblivion.
He pays, and he goes back, and he falls asleep. In the morning, he remembers the night before and his ears burn red with shame. He buries his head in his hands, and a sob catches in his throat.
"Hey, Buck, you alright?" Steve asks. Bucky shoots up, swallows his sadness.
"Yeah, Steve, I'm fine. Yourself?"
Steve wipes eyes. He's tired. "Alright, I s'pose." He's so strong now. It's weird to see him anything less than on top. It reminds Bucky of home.
Steve sits down on the cot next to Bucky. Bucky thinks of the boy from last night. If Steve knew – if Steve knew that his best friend was a fag – if he knew what Bucky's hands had done that night before, if he had any idea –
Silently, Steve leans his head on Bucky's shoulder. Bucky inhales sharply. Steve's hair is soft on his cheek, and he smells like soap and something that's just so Steve it makes his chest ache.
"Rough night?" Steve asks. His voice is quiet. Somewhere far away there is a war on.
Bucky doesn't reply. Steve wraps his hand around Bucky's fingers. Steve runs so warm now. Bucky won't have to warm him up during the winter any more, like he used, back in Brooklyn.
There are tears in Bucky's eyes. He tries to push them back. Steve strokes Bucky's palm. They are together. They carve out the space around them.
In three weeks, Bucky will be gone, and Steve will be on a suicide mission.
"What do you mean he's gone?" Sam asks, his voice panicked on the other end of the phone line.
"He's gone," Steve explains. There is a manic energy about his movements. "He's not here."
"I'll be right over." Sam is prompt. "Natasha knows?"
"Natasha knows. She's scouting the area."
"He couldn't have gone far."
"I'm not worried about how far away he is," Steve says.
They hit the streets. It is a late summer night, but there is a chill in the air like autumn is blowing an ominous wind over the city. They move quickly. They move with purpose. Steve is aware of an empty hole in his chest, a vast expanse that stretches across houses and buildings. It is like a broken heart bleeding out.
It is dawn on the third day when Natasha says, "He does not want to be found."
Steve is functioning only off of some reserved back-power; he is so exhausted that he feels like a thin, grey piece of paper. He will not accept that. He cannot accept that. But he hasn't slept in three days. He returns to his empty apartment. He sleeps for ten hours. He wakes up, and goes back out again.
He has checked every old haunt twice over, but he returns to his old neighborhood because it is the only thing he has left. Bucky could be across the ocean by now, he could be long gone, he could be dead. Steve knows that Fury has been notified, and there are former SHIELD agents scouting country after country for him. He's a potential threat.
But he's Bucky.
The drugstore that stands in place of their apartment is open, but empty save for a lone teenager manning the register. It's the dead of night and quiet. Steve prowls. He buys a candy bar and continues to walk. He follows streets, both different and changed, up and down. He stops to linger at the building he grew up in. It's vacant, but the structure is the same. If he tries, he can almost see himself on the stairs, or his mother on the porch waving to Bucky to come up. The dull recollections of a promise. Steve feels numb.
Steve feels pressure on his back and then the sting of a blade on his neck.
"Give me one reason why I should not kill you where you stand."
Steve closes his eyes. "Buck – James."
James presses the knife closer to Steve's throat. "We're friends, James."
James growls. "No, we're not." But his voice cracks as he says it. Steve sees the opportunity and takes it. He spins back, disarming James. They brawl. It's fast-paced, but not erratic. Steve thinks of DC, before. James fights like the Soldier.
"James – " Steve shouts. "James – Bucky!"
James is caught off balance. "I'm not him!" he roars, coming at Steve with an attack that's ferocious, but uncoordinated.
"Then why did you come here?" Steve asks. James balks.
"Stop it, Steve!" he yells, sounding too much like Bucky.
"No," Steve says. He blocks another attack. "Why did you run?"
"Stop it!" he warns again. He's begun to throw punches more like a schoolboy than a trained assassin. His footing is all wrong, his stance is unprofessional. Steve sees that he's limping on his right leg.
Another flurry of attacks and Bucky is on his knees. He is sobbing and shaking his head. He looks so small, to Steve, and so weak.
"Why did you follow me?" he begs, hysterical. "Couldn't you have just let me go?" It is the most emotion that Steve has seen from him in, well, decades, and it nearly knocks him over.
"End of the line, pal," Steve echoes. He pants, and kneels.
Bucky looks up. "I hate you."
Steve's face falls apart, and his body sags. He is enflamed and burning bright with pain.
Bucky's face twists, and he turns away. "I want to die," he says.
Steve takes a deep breath. "Then I'm coming with you," he replies. There is no leverage behind it, no taunt. It is sheer honesty. It is the verbalization of a thread that has followed Steve forever: there is no life without Bucky.
"You're stupider than I thought," Bucky tells him.
"I thought you hated me."
Bucky shakes his head, buries his face in his hands. "Why won't you let me go?"
Steve considers. "Because I'm selfish. Because I can't do that. Because if our situations were reversed, I know that you wouldn't let me out of your sight."
Bucky knots his hair in his fists. "You don't know me at all," he hisses.
"No," Steve says. "I don't. Not anymore. But I would like to get to know you."
"I don't want to get to know you," Bucky murmurs. His eyes are wet, but his breathing is regular again. Strands of hair stick to his cheeks.
"You should probably just kill me, then," Steve says. He can feel a bruise forming on the left side of his ribcage. It will heal in a few hours, but right now it hurts to breathe. "Because I'm not going anywhere."
Bucky swallows hard, closes his eyes. "Stevie –" he begins, but his voice cracks and waivers. Steve's heart leaps into his throat.
"Yeah, Buck?" he replies. His voice is weak, and quiet, and it trembles.
"I'm not – I'm not your friend. I'm not the guy that you used to know. He died – he died a long time ago."
A cold wind blows over them. "Alright," Steve says. "Then who are you now?"
Bucky's nostrils flare, his eyes harden. "I'm not anybody."
"Bullshit."
"I'm not the guy you want me to be."
"I don't want you to be anything you aren't."
Bucky huffs. "I'm a monster!"
"Bullshit! I read your file; Bucky, you and I both know you had no control over your actions!"
Bucky winces, draws out his words. "But I remember them."
Steve blinks. Bucky's breathing begins to grow more erratic. He nods, closes his eyes, and massages his temples. He is shaking just slightly.
"Do you – what else do you remember?"
"Not a lot." Bucky bites his lip. "More than I let on." Steve inhales sharply. "Mostly about you." Bucky rubs his eyes. "But it's, there's so much –"
"What?"
Bucky sobs. "Evil, Steve, I'm not – I'm not a good person. I don't, I'm not the kind of person that gets to be a hero, Steve. I don't deserve – I'm not the guy at the museum."
"Is that what this is –"
"No!" Bucky says. "Not completely. When you talk about him –"
"About you," Steve corrects quietly. "When I talk about you."
Bucky shakes his head. "When you talk about him, he's always so good."
Steve laughs, despite himself. "Would you prefer it if I track down all of the people that thought you were an asshole?"
Bucky pauses. "Yeah," he says. "I would prefer that."
Steve leans back a little, feigning relaxation. "Well, you pissed off about half of the girls in Brooklyn. We could start by walking into any nursing home, there's bound to be some dames that still want to sock you."
Bucky snorts. It's the most beautiful sound that Steve has ever heard.
He continues. "We could track down Ruth Mathers' great grand-daughter. Knowing Ruth, you're a family legend." Steve stops, and his heart sinks. He hadn't told Bucky about Ruth, but:
Bucky's lip twitches and he says, "Yeah, Ruthie was pretty miffed at me when I broke it off. I don't think I ever told you that story, but she was mad as hell." His face falls, eyes wide with shock at his own words.
Steve leans forward, trying to ignore Bucky's face. This is good, this is good. "You know, her great-granddaughter did contact me a while back. She sent me a drawing that I did of Ruth. I couldn't believe she kept it."
Bucky furrows his brow. He chooses his words carefully, but the message is expressed naturally. "Ruthie probably ended up telling people she had gone steady with you."
Steve guffaws. "She wouldn't give me the time of day!"
Bucky frowns. "I – he felt very bad about that. He pretended he didn't notice, but it upset him."
Steve winces. "It doesn't matter, Bucky." Bucky looks at him sadly. Steve forces a wry smile. "Besides, you wisened up."
"Do you still draw?" Bucky asks. His voice is low and fragile.
Steve nods. "Yeah, I do."
Bucky chews on his bottom lip. He's calmed down some and is collapsed on himself with a melancholy sort of exhaustion. "He thought that you were very good. He wanted to send you to art school."
Steve's smiles sadly. "I didn't know that."
Bucky furrows his brow again. He looks almost nervous. "Would you want to go to art school now?" he says, finally.
"I haven't thought about it. 'Sides, I dunno if they'd still take me."
"They would," Bucky says immediately. He notes Steve's surprised expression, and explains. "You are very good. They would have to take you."
Steve smiles. It is warm. It makes Bucky uncomfortable, but something in his heart beams with pride. "Thanks, Buck," he says.
Around them, the sun is beginning to rise, and Steve thinks of another sunny morning way back in 1925. He can hear the sound of footsteps and the sharp pain of a fist against his cheek bone, the harsh reality of being beaten up in the back of some Brooklyn alleyway for the three pennies in his pocket. He's an easy target, he knows, and he's starting to become dimly aware of some incoherent yelling around him. Suddenly, he's on the ground, and the bullies are off him, and there's a kid who's his size, but ferocious in manner, helping him up.
"Hi, I'm Bucky!" the kid says, and he sticks a sweaty hand out. Steve takes it because he's at a loss, because he has no idea what's going on besides the fact that his nose is dripping syrupy blood all over his nice shirt, and his mom is going to kill him, and the kid (Bucky) says "My house is right over there and my mom is home, and she can clean you up if you'd like!"
And Steve nods, and Steve screams Bucky's name as he falls to his wintery doom, and in 2014 Sam Wilson tells him "It's like you were just there to watch," and it so aptly sums up everything that Steve spends the debriefing with Natasha rolling it over and over again in his head. In 1925, Winifred Barnes, recently widowed, wipes at Steve's nose with a wet rag while her eldest son – the only one that she has left – talks on and on to his newfound friend. The rag is cold and it makes Steve shiver, shiver like he did as the plane fell into the arctic, and as his body fell into the Potomac.
And in 2011, he woke up, and in 2014, strong hands pulled him from the river and dropped his bleeding, broken body on the shoreline, before those hands ran away to kill and maim, and then shake and tremble. Those hands that held him tight on the night of his mother's death, and those hands that fit so well on his hips as they swayed together for what seemed like hours before Bucky broke it apart over something that looked like fear, and those hands he failed to grasp when it mattered the most.
It matters the most.
Steve stretches out a hand. "Do you want to go home, Bucky?" he asks. Bucky looks up. He is tired. He is filthy.
He says yes.
