Authors Note: I started crying when I saw 1,003 views! I didn't think my stuff was any good! I'm not sure if 1,003 seems like an awful lot to those of you who've become used to this site, but to me, it's 1,003 more than I was ever expecting. Thank you all so much! Review time!
SLYNNR: I haven't actually seen AoS! *uses the chapter as a shield against the shock and horror of any readers* But! I am nothing if not persistent! I'll get around to writing up that one shot, hopefully that will be chapter thirteen! I hope it pleases you!
Again, my apologies for the last chapter. And for this! This is more of what I think of Stucky, and an overall synopsis, or whatever you like to call it! I'm sorry for not posting yesterday, graduation was insane! I hope you all have a wonderful day/night, depending on where you are!
They'd fallen asleep curled up together in front of the fireplace. Usually it was Steve snuggled up against Bucky's chest, out of habit more than anything else. Long gone nights, before the war, when Steve was overcoming an asthma attack, or a coughing fit, and Bucky's feelings for him were a mess of emotion, conflicting, boiling over as his fear of being ostracised and his rapidly growing love for Steve battled for dominance. Back then, when society was a prejudiced fuckfest, those nights were both a solace and a curse.
They didn't have much money. Hardly any, really. Scarcely enough to survive, let alone care for someone with the extensive list of maladies that Steve had. But they made do. Sure, they went to bed hungry a few times. But who didn't? That was the norm back then. After all, the world was looking on as a war spun itself into history. A little hunger wasn't a surprising occurrence.
Going to sleep hungry these days was supposedly something the rich folk did, to keep the skinny people looking as pretty as possible on those fucked up crash diets. Bucky hated them. So did Steve. In Steve's humble opinion, there was no point in trying to lose dangerous amounts of weight to make someone love you. On the tiny, practically invisible chance that it worked, your body was going to be running on fumes, your muscle being pulled away, giving you less time to spend with your loved ones.
That wasn't a problem they had anymore. Before the war, maybe. When time was less abundant, and the looming threat of war promised to take Bucky away from Steve. They used to joke about it, on lighter days, how it took the whole world being at war to tear them apart from one another. But most days were dark, filled with a gloomy silence. With Steve gently caressing Bucky's jaw, and Bucky quietly stroking Steve's hair back.
Steve was always a damn good artist. Back at his place, there were scraps of whitewashed newspapers, covered in doodles, sketches of Bucky, sketches of the streets. They were enchanting to watch. To see how every line moved up, swooping over the curves, flowing to create pictures that most artists could only dream of. They were always running out of something. Time. Money. Food. But never hope. Not once did they lose hope.
"You should sell 'em." Bucky remarked one day, lying back on the sofa as Steve sipped the thin broth. "The sketches. Some fat cat'll pay top dollar for those."
"What, the naked pictures of you?" Steve had chuckled.
"I'm a very handsome guy, Stevie. All the broads tell me. And you." he added with a little wink.
Nobody told him that when he was with Hydra. It would've been hilarious if they did, but they didn't. Instead, they tortured him, trained him. Forced him into a mold that he didn't want to change into. Took him from Steve, and, as a final kick up the ass, removed his fucking memories of him. Then, they buried all those cherished memories so far down that it took almost killing him to bring them back.
Even when things had been their darkest. When Steve had been forced to choose between him and Tony. Between the life he wanted and the life he needed. It had always been them. Together. To the end of the line.
When Tony finally allowed them back, Steve had taken three months to decide, even though Bucky insisted it was okay. They'd been poorer in friends than in material possessions. Steve's shield was gone, Bucky's arm was returned to its metal form, and they weren't able to talk to anyone other than T'Challa, who, despite it all, stood in their corner and provided invaluable aid.
Three months of debating, pacing, packing and unpacking had passed. And then, at long last, Steve and Bucky returned to New York City, walked to Manhattan, and returned to the base. Wanda and Sam had welcomed them back with open arms. Tony had taken more time. But once the scotch bottles were taken away, and intense conversations had passed, they'd returned to something that resembled normalcy. They had a room. Their friends slowly, but surely, returned to them, tentatively moving Bucky into their agendas, giving him time to adjust, to move.
Steve eventually got his shield back, after heavy negotiations with Agent Ross. After receiving a few journals from Bruce, however, the dots that linked him to Bruce's past were connected, and all lines of communication between him and the team were severed. Tony tweaked the Accords drastically, against all advice, and then finally Steve conceded to them, returning to the team as Captain America.
And while Bucky flat out refused to keep his title of the Winter Soldier, Peter tentatively warmed to the veteran, and after a while, they came to the conclusion of a new name for him. The Rainbow Soldier. When Bucky was later informed the relevance of the rainbow, he cherished the name, and went to all the marches and celebrations held for LGBT people.
But I suppose that's not why we're here, is it? No. The most important part is that, every night, they went to bed, holding one another. When the nightmares came, and the flashbacks struck with frightening ferocity, they clung to one another, pulling from reserves of strength and courage that neither of them were familiar with.
It didn't matter a damn about money, wealth, or material possessions. Bucky had Steve, and Steve had Bucky, no matter what.
To the end of the line.