Sing Me Til I Fall Asleep

by CapGirlCanuck

All Steve wants to do is hold on, but all he can do is let go. Bucky has no guarantees on the other side of cryo, except for one: "I'm with you to the end of the line." (Civil War gap-filler. Nothing but angst, feels, tears, hugs, and emotional h/c.) BROTHERS2INFINITY

Author's note: Hey, everyone. Really sorry I haven't posted in so long, but I hope this story is worth it. I consider it the best thing I've ever written. XD

This began with the simple question, Where did Steve get the bruises on his face in the mid-credits scene? I thought it would be a nice short one-shot, but obviously no such luck. Not only did I decide to toss three story ideas together, but the emotions that kept coming out were just so... all over the place; joy and pain so tightly intertwined that most of the time I couldn't tell which I was experiencing.

This is Pure Steve n' Bucky Feels (TM), buckets and boatloads of h/c shared by two brothers who loved each other til they thought they lost each other and now have each other back. And won't let go again. Their friendship is so powerful and inspiring, I will probably never run out of things to write about them. So why am I surprised this got so long? XD

Definitely worth mentioning is some of the music that played soundtrack for me. Here are the best ones:
album of Beauty and Rage by Red
"Keep Me Breathing" by Ashes Remain
"Carry You" and "Find You" by Ruelle
"Without You" by My Darkest Days
"Shattered", "May I" and "One Day" by Trading Yesterday
"Not Alone" by Red
"Holding On and Letting Go" by Ross Copperman
"You Say" by Anthem Lights
"Die For You (Acoustic Version)" by STARSET
"With You Til the End" by Tommee Proffit
"Endlessly" by Amaranthe

This is set before and during Christmas Again, which I will double check to make sure it matches up. Fair warning: this is LONG. Especially the middle section. (There are scene breaks so you can catch your breath :) And I recommend it be read all in one go. So grab your hot-chocolate and warm blanket, get comfy, annnnnd ENJOY!

Dedicated to caristiona7 in thanks for her encouragement and beautiful writing.

Love and thanks to the usual culprits:
My blood sister, Rachael. I love you, I missed you, and I'm so glad you're HOME.
And my heart sisters: Griselda_Banks (A passing sentence that I turned into three pages.) and SergeantToMyCaptain (Queen of the GIF-sets, and biggest CW fan I know.)... May I?

---

All I want is to keep you safe
From the cold
To give you all that your heart
Needs the most

Let me raise you up
Let me be your love

May I hold you
As you fall to sleep?
When the world is closing in,
And you can't breathe?
May I love you?
May I be your shield?
When no one can be found,
May I lay you down?

-"May I" by Trading Yesterday

"Bucky! Grab my hand!"

"Bucky! NO!"

He awoke to the dark, and lay still, catching his breath, the echo of Bucky's scream in his ears. With a sigh he lifted his hand to rub over his face, and was surprised to find his cheeks were wet.

Huh. He'd relived that moment a thousand times in his nightmares; he thought he'd gotten used to it by now. He rolled over and found he was clutching a handful of the comforter in his left fist. He had to force himself to relax and stretch his fingers, to breathe deep and remember where he was. He sniffed, swiped the back of his hand across his nose, and lay on his side, staring into the darkness of the wall.

Bucky was there. Just on the other side of that wall. Asleep, hopefully.

He'd heard a lot of tossing and turning from Buck, almost every night since they'd gotten out of the hospital. Well, since they let Bucky out. Even though this was Wakanda, with technology and resources Steve could have never imagined, Buck had been in for almost three full days, thanks to the busted ribs, serious concussion, and the loss of his left arm for the second time in his life.

He figured that, for both of them, sleeping was one thing. Sleeping well was another. The images that could drift into his subconscious mind were bad enough. He could hardly bear to think what Bucky's nightmares consisted of.

"Grab my hand!"

Steve clenched his left hand into a fist, trying to hold back the memories, the horror that had filled him as the gap that had been less than six inches, was suddenly an unfathomable chasm, Bucky falling, falling…

He sat up with a jerk, swung his legs out of the bed, and stood. Sometimes he cursed his enhanced brain. Sometimes it was hard to remember that what had once been real, was not real now.

He padded to the door, wiping his sweaty hands on his pajama pants, and taking control of his breathing.

The doors here made no sound, and he stepped out into the hall, noted the dim night-light in the bathroom. Bucky's door was not quite shut, and Steve stood for a long minute, listening.

He could hear him breathing. Deep, slow; the sound of someone fast asleep.

But somehow, even that wasn't enough for Steve, because all he could think of was Bucky lying at the bottom of that canyon, red blood on white snow, freezing, dying… He raised his hand, brushed his palm across the solid wood, and the door swung away.

He could make out the heap of blankets on the bed, the hint of movement where Bucky breathed easily. He wondered suddenly if the reason Bucky slept with so many blankets was because he got chills sometimes. Like Steve had for a while after he got out of the ice. After all, Bucky had been frozen too…

Oh, God.

Steve leaned against the doorframe, and rested his head there, pushing his hands into the pockets of his flannels. The ache settled over him like a blanket.

They'd been in Wakanda a week. Which meant he'd had his friend—his best friend, the man he had called his brother since they were two kids giggling and fighting under the blankets on a bed made of couch cushions—he'd had Bucky back for… 11 days. And now he had to say goodbye. Again.

When he held his breath, he could hear Bucky's heartbeat.

Bucky. Battered, broken, scarred inside and out. At first glance a shell of the man Steve had once known. But then he'd look up, a pair of dark, unguarded eyes finding Steve's, and it would hit Steve all over again: those were Bucky's eyes.

No matter what had been done to him, no matter how he had changed, Bucky was here, he was alive. He was right there in front of Steve, sleeping. Some days Steve hadn't dared to even hope for that much.

This was real, right here and now. Maybe he could just focus on that, and not think about tomorrow. Not think about Bucky cold and still and… alone.

There was no question Steve had to leave.

Sam, Wanda, Clint, Scott. All in prison, with not a hint of fair trial, or any other rights. Natasha had gotten him that much information, before she dropped off the grid. He knew she'd find him again when she was ready. They were her friends too.

He thought of Sam, and his heart ached all over again. It was Sam who'd said it: "No, you go! The rest of us aren't getting out of here." Sam who'd fought alongside him every step of the way, the only person who had stood by Steve from the beginning. And look where that had gotten him.

He almost thought he could hear the man's voice, late one night in a hotel in Canada. "Look, Cap. You think you're the only one making decisions around here? I know how blame works, Steve. I know how it goes on the people in authority. But I'm not here because you made me. I'm here because I chose to be. Same with Barnes. He chose to follow you."

He remembered the way Sam looked out the window. "It was Riley's choice too. His decision to be a PJ, just like mine. His choice to be in the middle of a war. You think I don't try and tell myself that? Over and over?" A shake of the head and he looked back at Steve, eyes shadowed: "I hope you find him, Steve. So he can tell you himself."

Steve swallowed convulsively, the sound loud in his ears.

Sam would be waiting. They all would. And Steve didn't let his team down.

When he'd gotten the texts from Nat, he'd been sitting in Bucky's hospital room. Bucky had listened and nodded. "We'll get 'em out," he had said quietly, and the statement was so simple and matter-of-fact, it had been a minute before Steve became aware of his friend's word choice.

Steve had glanced up, and Bucky looked away, down at the one hand in his lap. "You'll get 'em out," he mumbled. "You'll do it. You don't leave a man behind."

Now, in his darkened room, in the apartment T'Challa had given them, Bucky shifted on the bed, turning under the blankets. Steve went still, barely breathing, until Bucky settled down again. His eyesight was good enough for him to see Bucky's hand, now resting on the pillow above his head, still mostly hidden under the covers.

Steve clenched his left hand, involuntarily, almost able to feel a warm palm there, flesh and bone and sinew, gripping his. Yet his hand closed on air.

He had sat in the hospital and clasped Bucky's hand tight, even as he felt himself starting to crack. And then Bucky's hand was on his shoulder, his arm going around Steve to pull him closer, as Steve sat on Bucky's hospital bed and finally broke down. He'd comforted Steve like he always had, even if it was only with one arm instead of two.

He wished he dared go to Bucky now, wake him, have Bucky grumble at him, but shuffle over under the blankets in a wordless invitation. Be able to take his friend's hand and just hold on.

But he wasn't about to sacrifice Bucky's sleep, for his own childish insecurities.

He wished it didn't have to be cryo. He wished Bucky could have made another choice. But wasn't that the difference now? This was Bucky's choice. And no matter how much Steve might hate it, he wasn't going to stop him. Not when he'd had no choices at all for 70 years.

That didn't mean it didn't hurt.

Tomorrow morning was the plan, less than 36 hours from now. Bucky would… go under, and Steve would be gone. For how long? Steve didn't know. But oh, please, God, not long. Princess Shuri, who was heading the research team herself, and Dr. Dal's son Dr. Silumko, and Dr. Dal himself, and everyone else would find a way, and Steve would come back, he would come back to Bucky, and together, they'd get through it all.

Steve wanted to believe it, needed to believe it, but here in the darkness, with the soft sound of Bucky's deep breathing, which would soon be silenced, again… The memory of his brother slipping away from him…

He had been unable to save Bucky then. He was unable to save him now. If he could take all that pain, all that fear, hell, even those trigger words—especially those trigger words—on himself he would. He would in a heartbeat. But he couldn't.

Steve hated feeling helpless. It hurt to feel helpless.

Another memory came back to him, from before the fall, after Steve had been able to save Bucky, pulling him off that table in Dr. Zola's lab. They'd never talked about what exactly Bucky had gone through there. All Steve knew, and sometimes all he needed to know, was that it gave Bucky nightmares. Bad ones. Ones where he'd wake up with his eyes gone wide and a scream lodged in his throat, hardly able to breathe.

Steve bending over him, calling his name only once before recognition dawned, and Bucky's hands reached out. Steve lying down, gathering his brother into his arms and pulling the thin blanket over both of them, holding him close, until the silent tears and the shaking stopped. Holding him until Bucky's body relaxed, and his breathing evened out, and at last he slept again. Holding him until morning dawned and he woke again, but now with a soft smile that was all the thanks Steve needed.

Steve found himself clenching his jaw too hard. He'd promised himself he wouldn't cry over this.

In the bed, Bucky stirred again, and again Steve held his breath, waiting until he settled. He breathed again as Bucky's own breathing evened out. He found the sound of his brother's heartbeat, and clung to it.

All he wanted was to protect Bucky, the way Bucky had always protected him. He knew he'd failed at that, several times.

Daylight would come soon, just as it had all those decades ago. Now, he figured, standing watch was the least he could do.

He stayed in Bucky's doorway, a silent guardian until the sun rose.

---

Bucky lay stretched out on the couch, his arm (yep, he only had one now) tucked behind his head, watching Steve across the living room through half-closed eyes. It was early evening, almost suppertime; he could tell by the color of the sky through the window that made up the east wall. He had slept surprisingly well the previous night, at least for a few hours, but that had been scarce this past week, and already he was slipping sideways toward sleep.

The room was warm enough that he'd discarded his sweatshirt, the lamp that had come on automatically cast a pleasant glow over the walls, and the couch was also pretty darn comfortable.

Thing was, he could see shadows under Steve's eyes too. The big blond had his feet propped up on the coffee table, trying to read a baseball book, but hadn't turned a page in several minutes. And Bucky knew how fast he could read. He was just sitting there, thinking.

About his teammates, maybe. The ones stuck in prison, without even a suggestion of a trial; the ones Bucky knew he had to go back for. Because that was what Steve did. Even if Bucky couldn't go with him.

Now he shut his eyes tightly, and Bucky saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard.

Yeah, he could guess what his friend was thinking about. Some of it was easy to read, in his face, in his voice.

Steve hated the way it had gone down; Bucky knew. He hated having to fight people he knew as friends and teammates, and he hated how Zemo had caught them, pulled them into his twisted plan. He hated everything that had happened to Bucky. And of course, he hated himself, blamed himself for most of it.

Bucky was pretty sure it had been their second full day in Wakanda, when it had finally been just the two of them, Steve sitting by Bucky's hospital bed. He'd said it then.

"I'm sorry, Buck."

"For what?"

"For… everything." He'd made a helpless gesture, taking in the missing arm, the hospital room… He met Bucky's gaze for a moment, before he dropped his head, and whispered, "I'm sorry I couldn't stop him."

Oh, Steve. Steve, you little idiot punk, Bucky thought, heart aching. Comforting Steve was something that ran in his very blood, and yet he hardly knew how to do it anymore. "Well, I'm not dead." Bucky had managed to pull up one corner of his mouth when Steve looked up. "So, clearly you did."

Steve had stared at him with those bright blue eyes, until Bucky finally put out his hand with a little sigh. He felt the warmth of Steve's big hand, as it closed tight around his fingers, flowing into him, and Bucky felt a moment of confusion, because hadn't it always been the other way? Bucky sitting in the chair by the bed, holding Steve's hot hand, tight, tight, as he fought through the coughing fit or the fever, holding on as if he could physically prevent Steve from slipping away from him?

Now it was Steve holding on to him.

Steve glanced up from his book now, and Bucky blinked. "You're thinkin' so hard, they can hear you in Manhattan," he said, lips curling in a faint smile to soften his gruff tone.

Steve snorted, before he looked down again, and Bucky almost wanted to get up and shake him.

Because it hurt to see him hurting.

This wasn't the Steve he had known, the Steve in his memories. Of course, not the scrawny boy that fought bullies, but also not the man full of optimism and laughter, with that cheeky grin right before he did something reckless that he could always offer an excuse for. Now there seemed to be only sadness and pain, and the weight of a world he was trying to carry alone.

On a mission, in a fight, it was easy to miss. It was easy to slip back into the old program of following his captain. But sitting here in the living room of the apartment they'd been given next to the royal palace, in the quiet of an early evening after a long day, with only Bucky to see, it was too obvious. The darkness had found Steve too, and Bucky hated it.

And how much of that pain have you caused? came the whisper.

Bucky thought of the way Steve had sat, silently holding himself in check, during the whole cryo discussion with Dr. Dal the previous afternoon. The older man, with the greying hair, keen eyes, and a love for coffee, had spoken to Steve a few times, asking what he thought, but the longest thing he'd said was, "It's Bucky's choice. He deserves that." Bucky wondered if he was the only one who saw how much effort those words cost Steve.

Mentally, Bucky pushed his guilt aside, trying to focus on Steve, on his friend who deserved far, far better than what the world had given him.

"Wanna read some of that story?" Bucky shifted onto his side, tucking his bare feet under a pillow and making himself more comfortable. "Then I can take a nap and you can make supper. Thank God you've improved your cooking skills," he added.

"Come on," Steve said, and there, he was half-smiling. "I'm not bad. I think I'm pretty good. I know how to put mustard on a sandwich."

"Ugh," Bucky groaned, and grabbed one of the colorful pillows he'd tucked behind his back to throw across the room at Steve. "You still have the worst taste in condiments."

"Well, I actually don't mind mayo now. As long as there a bunch of other things to disguise it." He chucked the pillow back.

"Well, thank God for that wonder of the century." Bucky firmly squashed an odd sense of regret, and gave Steve a little grin. "Next you'll be telling me you drink Pepsi now."

"Never!" Steve declared.

There, Bucky had successfully lightened the mood. And he'd wondered if that ability had dropped off with his original arm.

"Go ahead and read, pal," he said, closing his eyes. "And maybe you can try for something a little fancier than sandwiches."

He dozed off to the steady cadence of Steve's voice.

Too bad his dreams took the echo and twisted it into something else.

...

"Bucky! Buck, stop!"

His head slammed into something hard, sparks across his vision.

Arms wrapped around him, trying to pin his own arms to his sides. He threw them off, spun, but his balance was off. He fell.

A body on top of him, pressing him against the ground, heavy, but not crushing.

"Bucky. Bucky, please. Listen to me. It's okay. Stop fighting. It's just me, it's Steve." A gasping breath. "Bucky!"

He stilled, panting, the chaos of his mind receding until he could recognize the only real sound as his harsh inhale and exhale. And someone else's.

They were lying on top of him, their chest pressing against his as their lungs sucked air.

"Bucky?"

Bucky. Yeah, that was him.

He blinked, let the blur above him come into focus. Light skin, blond hair, blue eyes inches from his own.

"Steve?"

Steve caught one deep breath, letting it out so Bucky felt the rush of air on his neck. The energy seemed to leave him at the same moment, and he dropped his head on Bucky's shoulder, his hair tickling along Bucky's jaw, before he slumped down, sprawled out on top of Bucky.

Bucky blinked up at the ceiling, felt the warm weight of Steve covering him, Steve's breath slowing, softening on his shoulder, their hearts pulsing against each other. Adrenaline was easing off, and he could feel the blood coming back into the fingers of his right hand, as Steve's grip on his wrist had relaxed.

He could smell the tang of sweat, fear, and blood, and his heart lurched.

"Steve-?" he faltered, and he heard the other man catch his breath, before he moved easily, pushing himself off Bucky and rising to his knees.

It took Bucky one quick glance around the room. Scattered pillows and a blanket on the floor, coffee table overturned and broken, a smashed lamp, the armchair on its side blocking the doorway to the kitchen, several books scattered on the floor, along with broken pencils and loose sheets of paper, some torn.

"No," he whispered. "No, no, nonono."

He surged to his feet, sickening horror flooding through him.

"What did I do?"

He turned to look down at Steve, still kneeling, and lost his breath completely.

Blood—streaked across Steve's face, his nose, his cheeks, dotted on his light-grey t-shirt; angry red marks, already swelling—blossoming in the same places where the bruising had only just healed.

"Nothing, Buck," Steve was saying. "It's okay." He pressed the back of one hand to his nose, and swiped the bright red stuff off on the leg of his pants, standing without taking his eyes off Bucky. "It's okay," he said again, softer.

"No! No, it's not!" He caught the wildness exploding inside him, tried to rein it in, anger mixing with the fear and cold despair. "I hurt you!"

"Nuttin' that won't heal."

A growl burst out of Bucky, and he flung his arm in a gesture at the destruction that surrounded them. Destruction he had caused. Like he caused everywhere he went. Like he kept hurting Steve. "Don't say that! I was trying to kill you, wasn't I."

"No, you weren't," Steve said, too quickly. He gave his head a shake. "But it's okay. You heard me calling you, Buck. You came back. It's okay."

"Stop saying that!"

There was a frozen moment, his shout hanging in the air between them, and he couldn't bear to see Steve's face. He dropped his gaze to the floor, to where one of Steve's sketching pencils was snapped in two, and another in three pieces. The book Steve had been reading lay open, the top pages torn. And there was one of the broken table legs.

He stared down at his hands… Hand. Just one. There was blood on his knuckles. Steve's blood.

"Bucky, look at me. Please," Steve amended, as Bucky snapped his head up. Those blue eyes held his; soft, steady, and so sad.

"Buck…" He stepped toward Bucky, and all Bucky could see was the once-more battered face, and his eyes full of worry and pain and sadness, all caused by him. By Bucky. The person Steve called his friend.

You're my mission.

A hand landed on his good shoulder, and instinctively he jerked away.

"Don't touch me!"

He saw the words hit Steve, as sure as a blow from Bucky's hand, and now he turned and fled.

Steve didn't follow.

Alone in his room he paced, short, choppy strides, his breathing fast and heavy.

Roughly equal parts anger, fear, and self-loathing raged through him. He had snapped, lost it, forgotten, whatever you wanted to call it. Dear, God… Would it ever end? What was he thinking?

Steve hated himself? Ha! He had nothing on Bucky. What did Steve have to hate himself for anyway? He'd made his choices, stood by what he believed was right. When had Bucky ever had that choice?

No control. You have no control. The voices raged in his head. Look at you, you're a monster. Two years you spent, thinking you could be free. Thinking you could leave it behind. Thinking you could choose your life. Who do you think you've been fooling? You can never live like a normal person. Not like this. Not with HYDRA's junk in your head.

He whirled, his desperate shout choked off, and dropped to his knees. He slammed his fist against the floor, again, and again. He was shaking.

These thoughts, these voices. He knew them, he'd faced them before. He'd held them at bay for weeks now, forcing himself to focus only on the next step, and Steve's presence. But the maelstrom was back, and he could barely stand against it.

Because… it was all true.

And what if… what if it isn't just HYDRA? What if this really is who I am now? What if everything Steve said is a lie? What if… what if that's why I keep on trying to kill him? What if I really am nothing more than what they made me? The Winter Soldier. The weapon, the killer. The monster.

He was gripping his hair with his one hand now, tugging so hard that it hurt. He saw again the chaos of the living room, the things he'd broken. Steve's sketching things, the coffee table. Oh, God. What would T'Challa say?

T'Challa, who had admitted he was wrong to accuse Bucky of killing his father, who had told him, "I will not hurt you. It seems to me you have been hurt enough." Who had not only given him and Steve asylum in his country, but given them food, medical attention, an apartment to live in. Who, even as he mourned his father, had assembled a whole team of doctors to take care of Bucky.

And T'Challa's genius sister, Shuri, who had simply beamed at Bucky and called him 'a difficult case', adding, "The more difficult, the better."

And the psychiatrist Dr. Dal, and his therapist wife Dr. Lin, whom the king had said had asked to work with Bucky. And, and, and…

All those people who had treated him with kindness and even trust. Trust… Didn't they know how dangerous he was? What if… what if that happened, what if he went Winter Soldier again, and Steve wasn't there? What if he killed someone…?

The images came, sharp and crisp as his enhanced mind could make them. Bodies, broken and bloodied. A knife cut. A bullet hole. Fire and smoke. Screaming, pleading. Lifeless eyes staring into his.

T'Challa's eyes. Shuri's eyes. Dr. Dal's eyes. The eyes of the little girl in the picture on Dr. Dal's desk…

Bucky gulped back a wave of nausea, swallowing hard. "No," he croaked.

The echo of a rough voice, speaking in Russian.

"Longing."

His stomach lurched again.

"Rusted."

"No," he croaked. "No, I won't–"

"Seventeen."

He clapped his hand over his mouth, lurched to his feet.

"Daybreak."

He was bent over the toilet, vomit hot in his mouth.

The hand that cupped his forehead was cool.

"Furnace."

"Easy, pal. It's okay, I gotcha."

His stomach twisted, heaved. A third, a fourth time. The world a blur of bile, sweat, heat.

"Nine."

"No," he tried to say. Stop it, please, someone stop it.

"Buck." Steve's voice was louder, almost drowning out the next word.

"– nign."

Then louder: "Bucky?"

His stomach had nothing left. Bucky blinked, and pushed away from the toilet, Steve's hands steadying him for a moment, before they pulled away. Buck. Bucky. He called me Bucky.

There! He caught the familiar cadence of that thought, pulled others out with it. My name is- my name is James Buchanan Barnes. He called me Bucky.

"My name is James Buchanan Barnes," he repeated, his voice coming out somewhere between a whisper and a croak, throat scraped raw. But it always helped more to say it out loud. "He called me Bucky." He had his back against the wall now, something solid to brace himself against. "His name is Steve Rogers." He kept his head down, between his knees, his hand in his hair again, shaking, hanging on. "He has blue eyes and blond hair. I have blue eyes and dark brown hair. My favorite color is blue. I like baseball and soccer. I like dogs and cats. I like chocolate bars. I like books. I can't get drunk, but I still like the taste of beer. Steve can't get drunk either. Steve likes Coke. Steve likes to draw."

Over time the list had gotten longer, but he always kept it simple; if he added too much, or changed it too often, he forgot things and that would make him panic all over again. Now he forced himself to close his eyes, to take a deep breath in through his nose, hold it, let it out through his mouth. He always saved this for last.

"He said, 'I'm with you to the end of the line.'"

Bucky opened his eyes, stared down at the cream-colored floor tiles. Let himself breathe. The room was quiet.

He could feel a person, feel Steve nearby, and a sudden wave of unease tugged at his stomach. What could Steve possibly be thinking of him now?

"And I still mean it, Buck."

The other man's voice was soft and a little husky, and Bucky risked a glance up. Steve sat cross-legged maybe four feet from Bucky, to one side so he wasn't blocking the route to the door. As their eyes met, he offered Bucky a tiny, uncertain smile. "You… want a drink to wash your mouth out?" he asked.

Bucky silently held out his shaky hand, took the cup of water Steve put in it. He had to pause and search for the right word. "Thanks," he muttered, before he drained it in a single breath. Steve took the mug back, rose smoothly and quietly to refill it at the sink, and Bucky drank again.

When he had finished, he sat turning the cup over in his hand. "You get used to the taste though," he mumbled. "I couldn't let them know if I threw up, so if I did, I just slept with it. Like the pain. It's not so bad, when you get used to it."

He heard Steve make an odd little noise in his throat, and a surge of defiance joined the ache in his chest. He glanced up. See? he almost wanted to say. See how messed up I am? See what they did to me? See what I've become?

His eyes found Steve's face. Blue eyes, blood smeared across his cheeks and dried around his nose. Bruises blooming on either side of his face.

Guilt pooled in Bucky's gut, and he wanted to turn away, to erase the last half-hour of his life, but he couldn't, he'd figured out a long time ago that he couldn't. He swallowed hard, forced himself to stand, even as the room tilted a bit. He saw the involuntary jerk of Steve's hand, but steadied himself, took the step to set the mug on the counter by the sink.

"Sit down," Bucky said, then cleared his throat and repeated the order. "Need to clean your face off," he added, trying to soften his voice.

Now Steve moved, hoisting himself up on the long counter, and sitting quietly as Bucky hunted up a first-aid kit in one of the cabinets (thank God these Wakandans had some normal things around), and wet a washcloth at the sink. Lukewarm, he knew. Not cold, not yet. That was for the bruises after.

Steve, sitting on the counter, was on eye level with him, and Bucky studiously avoided his gaze as he reached to start wiping away the rusty streaks across his friend (some friend you are, Barnes) his friend's face. He forced himself to concentrate, to take in the details of the bruising, the cuts his fist had left behind on Steve's cheekbones, which were already closed over.

The shame ate at him, an acid burning inside. Trashing a room in the apartment he had so graciously been provided was bad enough—worthy of, oh, at least a night in the dungeons—but to turn on this man who had called him, chased after him, found him, fought for him, believed in him the way Bucky couldn't even believe in himself… trusted him. That betrayal was unforgiveable.

As Bucky rubbed the cloth gently over Steve's upper lip, the motions so familiar they hurt, Steve still hadn't spoken. His breathing was soft, even; his hands resting in his lap. His only motion was to tilt his head this way or that to accommodate Bucky's ministrations, and now Bucky snuck a look at his eyes. They were closed.

Bucky's jaw clenched. Dear God, why? How? How can he do that? He shouldn't. He shouldn't… Even in his head he couldn't finish that thought.

Maybe, maybe if it had been three or four weeks ago, back when he thought he was finding some kind of life, some kind of way to be human again, maybe if it had been before Zemo found him... maybe then he could have understood. But now with these sharp, undeniable reminders of what they had made him, who he now was… it was incomprehensible.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "Sorry I–"

He couldn't go on, and suddenly hated the echo of his feeble, useless apology hanging between them. Face burning, he pulled his hand away, keeping his gaze down as he turned.

"Already forgiven, Buck."

Steve's voice was soft, his tone almost casual, but Bucky stood still, staring down at the cloth he'd dropped in the sink. "Already forgiven, Buck." Dear God, how he wished he could accept that! The ease with which Steve said it, the utter lack of judgement. Maybe Steve wasn't lying, but he could still be wrong. You know you can never deserve forgiveness, came the whisper in his mind. He turned on the water, biting his lip until he tasted blood.

He rinsed the cloth out under the water, turning and squeezing it in his hand, over and over, until he had released enough of the pain in his throat to speak.

"Might want to put something on those cuts. Just in case," he added. Idiot. He's a super soldier. They'll be gone in a few hours.

He switched on the cold water only, letting it run until it felt icy, and he squeezed out the cloth one more time, shut the water off. Steve watched him as he reached to press the cold cloth to Steve's left cheek. "Here," Bucky said, still evading the blond man's eyes, "hold that on one side, while I get another."

Steve's hand came up, as Bucky's fingers grazed over the swollen skin, and suddenly he could bear it no longer, snatching his hand back, before Steve's could press over top. The washcloth fell, unnoticed, as Steve's hand changed direction, flying out to catch Bucky's wrist.

"Bucky, it's oka– Sorry," he added hastily, letting go and dropping his hand awkwardly.

Bucky found himself staring down at his own hand, wondering why Steve let go. "Why are you sorry?" he rasped.

"You- you said you didn't want me to touch you."

Steve's voice was quiet, uncertain, but Bucky went still. What? Confusion joined the emotions swirling inside and he involuntarily lifted his head to stare at Steve, frowning. Had he said that?

"Don't touch me!"

Shoot. The look on Steve's face…

Bucky's lips parted to speak, but he paused.

Steve had heard him. He'd told Steve not to touch him, and even if the words had been spoken in a moment of pain and fear, Steve had heard them, and was trying to honour them. Even if it was hard for him.

Oh, Steve… "I didn't–" He had to stop to clear his throat. "I didn't mean it." He knew Steve was watching him, and slowly Bucky lifted his eyes to meet Steve's. He saw a tentative, almost fragile, hope there, and he knew he had to say this out loud. Because it was true. No matter how little he deserved it.

"I- I want you to- to touch me. If I say something like that, I don't mean it. I do want you to touch me." Bucky caught a deep breath. "I- I mean… you know, if- if you want to…"

Steve's smile cut off Bucky's stammering, as did the hand he held out. Bucky stared at it for a moment, halfway across the four feet that separated them, before he slowly lifted his own hand to reach the rest of the way. Steve's warm fingers closed around his cold ones, gently tugging him a step closer, so he was standing right in front of Steve again.

"I told you," Steve said, "It's okay." He was looking right into Bucky's eyes, as he placed the other man's palm against his cheek, holding it there with his own.

Instinctively, Bucky curled his fingers away from the bruises, until Steve's index finger shifted to press them flat. He kept his touch featherlight, barely brushing the painful, swollen skin, and stared at his hand and Steve's, catching a glimpse of memory: his hand pressed to feverish skin, touching a face so much smaller and thinner.

Unconsciously, Bucky softened his hand, cupping the other man's cheek of his own accord, and Steve's head tilted into the contact, letting Bucky take some of his weight.

Bucky glanced at Steve's eyes. Why was he not surprised to see that they were closed? The lines smoothed out of Steve's forehead, and a faint smile curved his mouth, as he rested his head against the hand whose knuckles still bore traces of his own blood. He looked so… vulnerable. As if he still was that skinny kid who would get half-killed if Bucky didn't stand up for him and watch over him and patch up his cuts and bruises after. Except now the worst wounds were on the inside. And Bucky could only see himself adding to those.

For a long moment Bucky watched Steve, his heart breaking. "Don't." he finally said.

Steve's eyelashes fluttered open again. "Don't… what?"

"Don't trust me," he whispered, around the aching knot growing in his throat.

Steve's lips twitched in a smile. "Too late."

Bucky could not bear the look in those blue eyes, and he ducked his head, his hair falling across his face, fighting the emotions. How, how can he do that? How can he see who I am and say that?

You're a monster. Only a monster would betray a trust like that.

He had to force the words out. "But I'm not- not worth it." His voice cracked on the second-last word, and he knew he was barely holding on. He was so tired, so tired of fighting, so tired of keeping up the walls around him. "I'm not worth… all… this."

There was a moment's silence, as he kept his eyes on the floor, eyes that burned with the effort of holding back tears. He shivered suddenly, chilled between dried sweat and cool air. And then he felt Steve move. Sliding off the counter, closing the last of the distance between them, still with Bucky's palm held against his cheek. But now he lifted his other hand to pull Bucky's hair back from his face, carefully tucking it behind his ear.

Bucky closed his eyes, felt Steve's fingers now against the side of his neck, his thumb brushing Bucky's jaw, gently nudging him to lift his head. Bucky didn't think he could handle looking Steve in the eye now; no, he knew he couldn't. But he raised his head anyway, keeping his eyes closed, feeling his lips tremble.

He felt the moment Steve's warm forehead pressed against his, heard the intake of Steve's breath.

"You're right for once."

The words were barely whispered, but Steve was too close for Bucky to not hear the tremble in his voice, and something in Bucky's chest cracked.

Steve's thumb swiped across his cheek. "You're worth so much more."

There were no words to the sound that escaped Bucky's throat, but the arms that wrapped around him said they understood.

Bucky felt his shoulders shake as he buried his face against Steve's neck, and Steve's grip tightened, his right arm across Bucky's back, left hand now resting on Bucky's hair. Bucky closed his fist around a handful of Steve's shirt, pressing himself into the solid, living warmth of the other man, and let the tears come.

Steve held him and he cried, and he knew Steve cried some too. Because it had come to this. Two boys who wanted nothing more than to do life together and make the world better were lost to time, and they'd washed up on the shore of the present as nothing more than a broken assassin and a wounded soldier.

This wasn't what they had asked for, this wasn't the way it was supposed to be. But there was no going back, no way Bucky could ever be what he had been. Broken. Messed up. Damaged goods. All labels, names Bucky was familiar with. Killer. Murderer. Monster.

Worthless.

But he had fought it, he'd tried so hard. No, maybe he couldn't be Sergeant James Barnes, maybe he couldn't be the friend Steve wanted, but he could try to be human. He could try to live. And then every fragile piece of himself he'd managed to assemble, came crashing down.

They caught him, they held him, they twisted him back into the shape of a weapon with ease. And he was helpless to stop it. Strong enough to break cement with his bare hands, and he was helpless. He couldn't even stop them from infiltrating his dreams. He couldn't even stop himself from hurting Steve.

"Bucky," he thought he heard Steve whisper.

Steve; his best friend, the man he called his brother, the person he'd sworn to protect at any cost, the boy he'd followed into dark alleys and held while he cried for his mother. The one soul that made him realise he was still capable of loving. Because even battered and bruised at the hands of a man he'd trusted all his life, injured by a man Steve had teased and comforted and gone to hell and back to rescue… Because even when it was his own brother's hand that had drawn his blood, Steve looked at Bucky. And loved him.

Steve Rogers had never once looked Bucky Barnes in the eye, and lied.

Bucky was trying to control himself, to keep the worst of this storm inside. But the sobs kept coming, and he couldn't stop them. He felt Steve's hand stroking his hair, the press of Steve's cheek against the side of his head, the vibration of Steve's voice in his throat as he spoke: "I love you, Buck. Nothing can change that. You're my best friend and I love you. To the end of the line."

A broken sob was Bucky's only answer, and he leaned further into Steve's warm embrace, letting Steve take his weight—holding on as he let go, and trusting Steve to catch him. In Steve's arms, he was the safest he'd ever been in 71 years, and he cried until he could cry no more.

...

Even once the only sound was their breathing and the beat of their hearts, Bucky stayed there. His cheeks felt hot and his nose was running, but he just wormed his one hand up between his and Steve's chests to rub over his face. A long sigh escaped him and he closed his eyes, rested his forehead against Steve's neck where he could feel the other man's pulse against his temple. Steve's hands rubbed his back in slow circles, and Bucky could feel the world softly slipping sideways.

Next thing he knew he was sitting on the bathroom floor, blinking groggily at Steve.

"Hey," Steve said softly, and even Bucky's exhausted mind could identify the worry in his face. "Buck. You with me?"

"Yeah," Bucky croaked, then coughed.

Steve refilled the mug of water four times for him.

When he'd finished, he sat cross-legged, and rested his head on his hand, letting his hair fall over his face. Steve sank down beside him, also crossing his legs, and turned to face toward Bucky, resting his hand on Bucky's right shoulder. "You look done in, pal," he said. "Want to just go to bed? We can eat supper for breakfast."

Eat!

That caught Bucky's attention, and he lifted his head, squinting at Steve. Supper. "What did you make?"

"Stir-fry with whatever I could find." Steve half-smiled. "Not as good as Sam makes it, but it'll do. Probably cold now, but should be easy to reheat."

Now Bucky's stomach made an alarming growl, and Steve chuckled. "Think that's a sign?"

Bucky let out a long sigh. "Probably. Enhanced metabolisms don't take kindly to being ignored."

"Yep." Steve rose to a crouch, and offered Bucky his hand, steadying him as they both stood.

Gently shaking off Steve's grip, Bucky shuffled to the sink, and splashed some cold water on his face. He felt like an old man, tired and worn beyond telling, yet strengthened somehow. At least on the inside. He dried off with the hand towel, pausing when the first-aid kit and wet cloth lying there reminded him of everything that had happened since he'd fallen asleep while Steve made supper.

The shame was duller, quieter now. He glanced over his shoulder, saw Steve had left the bathroom, and cocked his head to catch a few sounds from the kitchen. There's no undoing what I've done. But at least I can try to… fix some things.

You really think that makes any difference? he asked himself.

I… don't know. He looked down at his one hand, opened and closed his fist. I want it to. It probably doesn't. But… I'm going to do it anyway.

He could feel some focus and energy coming back as he cleaned up the bathroom first, and then slowly made his way back to the living room. It made his stomach hurt again to see the chaos, and he set his jaw, walking carefully to the kitchen to find the broom. He couldn't help sniffing at the smells of meat and cooked vegetables coming from the stovetop, and his stomach rumbled again. Not until you've cleaned this place up, he growled at himself.

He was stepping back into the living room when he heard Steve behind him. He did not look over his shoulder.

It was Steve who spoke first: "Want any help?"

"No."

After a moment, he looked over at Steve. "Thanks for asking."

Steve's smile was a fragile thing. "Call if you need me."

Bucky nodded.

He supposed it could have been a lot worse. Only the one page in Steve's book was torn, but he didn't know if there was such a thing as tape around, so he simply set the book on the little table beside the couch, taking care to line up the pages. The armchair seemed unharmed.

He swept up the shattered lamp and found something to use for a garbage can. He picked through the broken sketching pencils, knowing Steve could still use any piece long enough to be held. Smoothed out and restacked the papers, set them on the bookshelves. Replaced the pillows and the throw on the back of the couch.

But there was nothing to be done for the coffee table. Bucky supposed he and Steve had both landed on it, considering how many bits it was in. Funny, he'd thought everything here would be made of vibranium. But then they had stoves and refrigerators (not that he knew exactly how they were powered) and a lot of other mostly normal things. So, it shouldn't be that surprising. He wished it had been made of something stronger than wood.

He sat beside the trash bin with his head resting on his one hand, defeated, until Steve came and crouched beside him.

"Buck?"

He closed his eyes.

"Come and eat. You've done all you can."

Bucky lifted his head and looked at him dully. "It's not enough. It's never enough."

Steve looked at him, brow furrowed, pain in his eyes. "It's what you have. And maybe… maybe that is enough." He put out one hand, touched Bucky's shoulder. "Come on."

He took Steve's offered hand.

They ate at the small table in the kitchen, no talking. Bucky had no idea what kind of meat Steve had used, and he suspected his friend didn't either; there were also vegetables he couldn't identify, and didn't care to. It was good—delicious in fact—and easy enough to eat from a wooden bowl with a spoon in his one hand. Steve had made plenty and they both ended up going for thirds and finishing the entire pot.

It was after nine by the time they cleaned up the kitchen, still without really speaking. Both of them were exhausted, yes. But there just didn't seem to be a need for many words. It was almost as if some barrier that neither of them had even known was between them had fallen away, or maybe some missing link in the chain that bound them had clicked back into place.

Steve spoke in the way he bumped shoulders with Bucky, the way he held back to let Bucky figure out how to wash a dish one handed, the way he tilted his head to nudge Bucky's when Bucky came up behind him and rested his forehead against the back of Steve's neck. And Bucky didn't really know how to say anything except for when he pulled the milk from the fridge and a saucepan from the cupboard.

He felt Steve's smile, before the other man went burrowing into an upper cupboard and produced a bar of chocolate.

They took turns, one watching the stove while the other got ready for bed. Bucky was still mostly borrowing Steve's clothes, which he quite frankly liked, because they were loose and comfortable and already worn soft. Steve had left a clean t-shirt—which happened to have a well-washed image of his shield on the front—and loose flannel pants on Bucky's bed, and he changed quickly, glad to shed his wrinkled, now stale-smelling clothes. Funny how the hardest thing to do with one arm was get his pants on, not his shirt. He was far too tired to take a shower now; he'd do it in the morning.

Steve had changed first, and he turned when Bucky shuffled back into the kitchen, his smile tired and soft. "You always made the best hot-chocolate."

"Better let me decide when it's done then," Bucky retorted.

By some unspoken agreement, they ended up sitting in the living room with their drinks, just the one light on, but side-by-side on the couch now. Somehow neither of them felt ready for sleep.

Bucky tried to avoid looking at the empty space in the middle of the room, and focus on the taste of his hot-chocolate, warm and sweet filling his mouth. He glanced sideways at Steve, who was staring out the floor-to-ceiling window, watching the mix of city lights and jungle darkness. The swelling on Steve's face had begun to go down. By morning, only the bruises would be visible.

Bucky swallowed convulsively, and dropped his gaze to the hand wrapped around his mug. "Thank you," he whispered.

After a moment Steve said, "Are you talking to me or your hot chocolate?"

A little laugh slipped out, and Bucky leaned over to shove his left shoulder against Steve's. "You, stupid."

Steve shoved back, grinning crookedly. "Just wanted to check."

"Idiot," Bucky muttered, then sighed, letting his head rest on Steve's shoulder.

"For what?" Steve finally asked.

"For stopping me." He pulled away, swirled the last of his drink around the bottom of his mug, and knocked it back.

"You were dreaming, right?" Steve said suddenly. "I heard you say–" he hesitated, then finished in bad Russian, "YA gotov otvetit'."

Ready to comply.

"I went in to wake you up," Steve went on, "and that was when you… started fighting."

Bucky carefully set his mug over on the floor, afraid he might crush it in his grip. He was awake now. "The Words," he said.

"So, you dreamed someone was–?"

"Programming me. The Soldier." The warmth inside Bucky that had almost felt like happiness was washed away, replaced by familiar cold despair.

"Okay," Steve said, very quietly, and there was a long silence.

Bucky supposed he couldn't be angry with Steve for bringing that up; his friend was just trying to understand. Bucky could imagine the horror of shaking awake the man you called your best friend, and staring into the eyes of a cold-blooded killer. He knew he wouldn't have been fully programmed, just caught in the realm somewhere between dream and reality and the deep-rooted impulses in his brain.

They'd met with Dr. Dal twice now, not counting their introduction at the hospital. The first conversation had been almost entirely on that subject: the Winter Soldier's trigger words and, perhaps, what could be done about them. Bucky had given the man all the information he could, pushing himself almost to the point of a panic attack, which Steve had not been happy about.

Hearing the Words repeated in his sub-conscious, both waking and asleep, had been a lot more frequent in the first year or so after he'd dragged Steve Rogers out of the Potomac River and bolted. Slowly, as his sense of reality strengthened, he'd figured out ways of coping with it, coping with himself.

Until Zemo's voice ripped through his mind, drowning everything else out.

"Longing."

Bucky's eyes slammed shut. No.

"Rusted."

He ducked his head, his hand going up to grip his hair, hard, painful.

"Seventeen."

Fight it! he yelled at himself. Come on! Remember…

"Bucky? Are you okay?" Steve…

"Daybreak."

"My name is James Buchanan Barnes.," he whispered. "He called me Bucky."

"Furnace."

Now the words came steady, strong. "His name is Steve Rogers. He has blue eyes and blond hair. I have blue eyes and brown hair. My favourite color is blue." Was it his imagination, or was there another voice, louder than either his or Zemo's?

"I like baseball and soccer. I like dogs and cats. I like chocolate bars. I like books. I can't get drunk, but I still like the taste of beer. Steve can't get drunk either. Steve likes Coke. Steve likes to draw."

He sucked in a deep breath, let it out into silence.

"And I'm with you to the end of the line."

Bucky paused, knowing he hadn't spoken, his own words still half-formed in his mouth, and slowly looked up to find Steve crouching in front of him, though again to one side, his eyes intent on Bucky's face.

Bucky blinked, and Steve gently reached out and touched Bucky's hand, easing his fingers between Bucky's, before pulling it out of his hair to clasp it tightly in Steve's own.

Bucky felt the warm skin against his, looked into Steve's eyes, and somehow the last thing on the list came out a little different. "I said, 'I'm with you to the end of the line.'"

Both of them seemed surprised by the tears that flooded Steve's eyes.

"Sorry," Steve blurted, turning his head away to swipe his free hand across his face.

Bucky felt his own throat tighten, and he twisted his hand out of Steve's grip, instinctively reaching for his brother. "Stevie…"

A choked sound escaped Steve, and more tears spilled onto Bucky's fingers, warm and wet.

"Okay, punk," he murmured. "Come on."

Steve ended up sitting awkwardly sideways on the couch facing Bucky, his arms around Bucky's middle, face pressed against Bucky's chest. Bucky leaned back, resting his arm around Steve's shoulders, occasionally smoothing his hand over Steve's hair. It was… natural, an intrinsic reaction, even if the scrawny kid he had once comforted was now a big, powerful man. But Steve's tears stirred the same protective urges in him now, and Steve's broken whispers cut him just as deep as they had a lifetime ago.

"I… I missed you, Buck. I mis-sed you so-o much." Steve gulped a quick breath, before more sobs choked him off. "M'sorry… Buck. So sor-ry."

"What the hell for?" Bucky asked.

A deep ragged breath from Steve. Then: "I was always so- so- scared. That someone would find you before I did." A wet sniff. "That I would be too late. That I'd fail you. Again." Another sob. "And then I-I found you, but- but I-I still failed you. I still couldn't… protect you. Not even from- from- from cryo."

Ohhh…

Wordless, Bucky rested his chin on top of Steve's head, and Steve turned his head to the side, freeing his face from the fabric of Bucky's t-shirt. Bucky brushed the backs of his fingers over Steve's flushed cheek, heart aching.

"And I just… I just want you here." Steve sniffed again, closed his eyes. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but I-I… I don't want to lose you again, Buck," he whispered.

It was Bucky's turn to close his eyes, holding on tight, so tight, trying to somehow pour all the love that burned in his heart down his arm and through his fingers into Steve. It took him a few moments to steady himself, before he felt sure of his voice.

"You not losing me, Steve. You can't really. You're the one– These days, it's like you're the only one who can find me."

They were quiet again, Bucky not knowing what else to say as Steve's tears wore out, and he began to wonder if the other man had fallen asleep in his arms, until Steve sucked in a deep breath and pulled away to sit up. He sniffed again, and Bucky glanced around, spotted a box of Kleenexes on the bookshelf, hopped up to get it.

"Blow your nose, pal," he said, offering it to Steve, and Steve followed orders. After Bucky tossed the used tissues in the trash bin, he came back and sat beside Steve. Side-by-side again, they leaned into each other.

Bucky's bare right arm was pressed against Steve's left, but that didn't seem to be quite enough for Steve, who slipped his hand into Bucky's, grasping it firmly. Gently Bucky shifted his grip, squeezing Steve's hand back, and rested his head on Steve's shoulder. Steve's head tilted to rest against his, in a motion that felt suddenly as familiar as breathing.

"I'm still sorry, Buck," Steve said, breaking the silence. "For everything."

"Wha-?" Bucky pulled away suddenly, staring at Steve, who had his eyes on their clasped hands. "What the hell you talkin' 'bout?"

Steve did not lift his head, and his grip tightened. "I'm sorry," he whispered, forcing the words out, "that I let you fall."

Bucky barely heard the last words, and for a moment they were both still, Bucky staring at what he could see of Steve's face, watching the other man's shoulders hunch forward, his chin dip lower. Bucky shook his head, trying to believe what he had heard, wondering if they were both just too tired to be making sense any more.

"I'm sorry that I let you fall." What the hell?

He glanced down to where Steve's clasp on his hand had become painfully tight, before he made a sudden movement, pulling his hand out of Bucky's.

Falling… falling…

It clicked.

He caught at Steve's hand, held it tight in his own as he asked, "You mean on the train?"

A further slump of Steve's shoulders.

For a moment Bucky sat, trying to gather his thoughts, because suddenly he knew. He knew that Steve had blamed himself for that since the day it happened. That Steve had probably blamed himself even more when he discovered that Bucky had not died, but been found by HYDRA and taken away to a living death.

Steve was dead serious here. He had judged himself guilty, and it was far too easy for Bucky to see now how that judgement was eating him alive. And probably the only person who could ever convince him otherwise was Bucky himself.

Bucky knew it would be like that if their places were reversed.

He had to swallow hard, and clear his throat before he started talking.

"Steven Grant Rogers." He said that slowly, deliberately, and he saw Steve's head tilt. "You are the biggest idiot–" He felt tears coming, and a soft smile curved his lips, because, dang it all, he loved his brother almost more than he could bear. "–I have ever known.

"You didn't let me fall. You just… couldn't catch me. There's a difference."

A sharp exhalation from Steve, a slow shake of his head.

"You didn't want me to fall." Bucky took his time, holding back the emotion to keep his voice clear and strong. "I remember that much." He remembered cold wind, terrified eyes staring into his, a hand stretched out toward him. "You didn't want me to fall, and you tried everything you could to stop it from happening. You tried and… it wasn't enough. Not because you weren't enough. But because that's just the way it was."

Steve's head came up now, and he looked at Bucky, eyes full of grief and guilt. "But I should've known. Should've–"

"No."

Bucky stared into Steve's eyes, and shook his head.

"No. We were there, in that moment, and that was what happened. You did what you could. It was my choice to be there, my choice to fight. And if one of us had to fall, you know I would choose me." He saw the way Steve's face crumpled, and plowed on. "And I know that you are thinking the exact same thing. That you would sacrifice yourself a hundred times over for me, same as I would for you. And I know that because you're my friend. Same as I'm yours."

He saw the tears in Steve's eyes, and, okay, now his voice was shaking.

"I might not remember everything about that day, but even if I do, it won't change a thing." He clung to Steve's hand, as if they were back there on the train, and tried to look right down into Steve's heart, willing Steve to believe him. "I have not, and never will, blame you.

"And I'll shoot anyone who does," he added.

An odd sound broke from Steve, somewhere between a growl, a sigh, a laugh, and a sob.

"But I wanted to save you," he choked out.

Bucky stared at him, and laughed suddenly, tears on his cheeks. "Steve," he said. "All you've ever done is save me. You've saved me so many times, I'd have started forgetting them all whether HYDRA wiped my mind or not."

Steve's head went down, and now he pressed Bucky's hand against his forehead, so Bucky thought he could feel Steve's pulse in his temple. Bucky felt a couple warm tears fall onto his bare arm.

"You don't have to believe me now," he said hoarsely. "But I'll keep saying it until you do." Somehow, now that he'd started talking, it was hard to stop. He just wanted Steve to be okay, to– Well, not hurt was probably a stretch, but maybe, hurt less? "You've done more for me than anyone ever should. Maybe one day you'll see that. And maybe- maybe one day I'll be worth it." His voice died in his throat, and now it was his turn to duck his head.

He let Steve pull him in, hold him tight; he rested his head on Steve's shoulder, held Steve back as tight as he could.

Steve's voice was shaking, but Bucky could hear him clearly. "And I'll keep telling you that you already are. Until you believe me."

They didn't laugh exactly, and they didn't cry exactly, mostly they just sat there and breathed, and Bucky didn't know which one of them was the strong one and which was the weak one and then he knew that it was both of them, together, all at once, because that was the way friends worked.

Because that was the way love worked.

...

Neither of them wanted to leave. Bucky knew that.

They stayed there on the couch, leaning on each other, Steve's arm around Bucky's shoulders. Trying to make time stand still. Steve didn't seem any more interested in going to bed than Bucky.

It was as if this was the first time they each truly grasped the reality of the other's presence, but not just in body, more like in heart or spirit or whatever you wanted to call it. And that just when they had to let go.

Steve's voice pulled his mind away from whatever odd thought was going to come next.

"Buck?"

"Hmm?"

"Those things you… That… list, I guess, of things you tell yourself." Steve hesitated again. "Why?"

It took Bucky several seconds to make the connection and come up with the answer. Sheesh, he was getting too close to sleep. "It's what I know is true," he said, then shrugged his one shoulder. "Used to forget where I was a lot. And the only thing I could remember was what you said. So, I'd tell myself over and over until the world was… clear again. And then to fight the Words. When they started playing in my head. I added more things. More things I knew about myself. Things I knew about you."

"Bucky!"

"Soldat."

A whisper of Russian, and he blinked, pulled away suddenly, shaking his head. No. Please. Go away. Not now. He was tired. He didn't have the energy for this now…

Weakling, he thought.

"I- I thought I was strong," he whispered, his hand creeping up into his hair. "I thought I could fight it. But that was all just in my head." Pain across his scalp, yet so small compared to what it had been, when the metal plates clamped around his face.

"Then it was real. And there was nothing I could do." He had to stop, thanks to the lump in his throat. The despair was back, and he didn't want it, but he was tired, so tired…

"Buck. Buck, look at me."

Steve's voice, a hand on his hair, fingers tangling with his own, gently freeing his grip on his own hair. Another hand on the side of his face, Steve gently pulling back the curtain of hair, tucking it behind his left ear. Steve's palm, warm against his cheek.

He looked up, exhausted tears burning at the backs of his eyes, stared at Steve. "'M tired," he said.

Steve's mouth closed silently, and he stared back.

"'M just tired of- of fighting. I'm tired of being like this. I'm tired of being afraid." Now his voice was shaking, he could feel the hot salt stinging his eyes. Weakling! he tried to snap at himself; he'd already cried hard enough once today.

He blinked, saw the red and blue staining the sides of Steve's face, felt the pain like a knife twisting in his chest. "I'm tired of hurting people." Okay, he was crying, and Steve's hand was on the back of his neck, letting go of Bucky's hand to throw his other arm around Bucky, pulling him in against his chest.

"Bucky," he thought he heard Steve whisper.

Bucky pressed his forehead against warm, solid muscle, heard the throb of Steve's heart, felt the warmth and comforting smell of the other man wrapped around him. "I-I don't wanna be af-afraid. Of myself." He shut his eyes, catching his breath on a sob. "I don't… wanna be a monster."

Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster.

With every sob that shook him, the word seemed to echo in his mind, and he tried to burrow deeper into Steve's arms, tried to escape it. He pulled his hand out from between them, wrapping his arm around Steve's back and clinging to him. Only Steve's voice was louder than the ones in his head.

"You're not, Buck. You're not a monster, and you never have been. Not you. Not the real you, Buck. You're not."

"P-please," Bucky gasped. "Don't- don't let them g-g-get me, again." The fears were back, raging at him, holding him up by the throat. Weakling. Coward. Useless. Begging again now? Pleading for mercy? You're supposed to be stronger than that. "'M sorry, Steve," he choked out. "'M sorry I couldn't fight it, sorry I'm not better, sorry I can't–"

"Stop! Bucky, stop."

Steve's sharp voice cut across the chaos of his own mind, bringing it to a shuddering halt, and he couldn't help cringing. Exhaustion and emotion had blurred all the lines, and for a moment he was bracing for punishment, trying (vainly) to choke off the sobs…

"Buck. Can you hear me?" No edge to these words, just a familiar steadiness. And a big hand on his head, stroking his hair, slow, smooth, repetitive.

His nod was lost in the next sob that shook him, and he managed to force out a rough, "Yeah."

"Then listen to me." Steve took a slow breath. "Breathe. Okay? Just breathe. Don't think about anything else. Don't try to talk. Just breathe. Breathe with me, okay?"

It was as if a hand had caught his, yanking him to a stop in the runaway current of his thoughts, steadying him enough so he could get his head above the water. He gasped for breath and tightened his grip on Steve, trying to do what he said, trying to focus.

"It's okay, Buck." Steve's voice was a low murmur now, and he had one hand rubbing up and down Bucky's back, a warm rhythm. "Come on, pal. It's okay." He breathed deep and steady; inhale, exhale. "Just try to breathe. I promise. I'm not going to let anyone hurt you again. I promise that on my life. I've got you, okay? Just breathe."

When he concentrated on Steve's voice, Bucky didn't have to think about how to respond, he just did it. Slowly the sobs quieted, his breathing evened out, and his body relaxed, melting into Steve's embrace.

"We'll get there, Buck," Steve whispered. "We'll get there. I've gotcha, pal." He bowed his head protectively over Bucky's, his hands going still now, just holding him, and then, as if words failed him, he pressed a spontaneous kiss in Bucky's hair.

Bucky felt Steve's arms tighten once more, before he took a deep breath, and let go. Bucky sniffled a bit, but let Steve gently push him upright, so he was sitting up facing Steve, the blond man's hands on his shoulders. He knew he must look like a mess: tears and snot all over his face, eyes bloodshot from crying. He wiped the back of his hand across his nose, then pulled up the hem of his t-shirt to dry his face.

"Sorry," he croaked, keeping his head down, hair covering his face.

"Buck."

Steve's right hand came off Bucky's shoulder, and his fingertips brushed Bucky's forehead as he pulled Bucky's hair back, pushed it behind his ear. "Look at me." He felt both of Steve's hands then, on either side of his face, and lifted his head with a long sigh.

He blinked and found Steve's eyes, suddenly, shockingly blue, even in the lamp's soft light. Steve stared into him, unwavering.

"You are not a monster." (Every word was clear and firm…) "You're a man." (…engraving itself in Bucky's consciousness.) "You are Bucky Barnes, and you're my friend." (He tilted his head into Steve's hand, held his gaze; listening, trusting.)

"Maybe… maybe you do have a monster inside you. And maybe sometimes, you can't fight him. It. But that doesn't mean you're weak." (How did he know-?) "It just means you can't do it alone. And you're not."

A faint smile curled the corners of Steve's mouth. "You've already been fighting for two years, fighting to save yourself. And you were doing it. That already makes you one of the strongest people I've ever known."

Bucky sighed, and let his head rest a little heavier in Steve's palm. "Only one of?" he murmured, his voice scratchy, but managing to sound amused.

Steve's answering sigh had the same tone. "After my mom," he said softly. "But hush, I'm not done yet."

"Yessir."

Now Steve actually smiled, before his face went serious again. "You're not alone anymore. And you're allowed to be tired. Okay? Let- let me do some of the fighting for you. Let the rest of us figure some things out. We'll win this one, Buck. Maybe it'll take time. But we will."

"You don't know that," Bucky whispered.

Steve didn't blink. "I know you."

He leaned forward and they pressed their foreheads together; breathing slow, breathing deep.

"Even if there is that monster inside you," Steve said low, "it still isn't you. You don't have to let it define you. I don't."

Bucky stared down at his hand resting on the one leg he had pulled up on the couch, picked at the seam of his pants. "You can't say that. You don't know…"

Once more Steve pulled back, looked him in the eye, gaze steely. "I know all I need to. I know you pulled me from the river. I know you fought for me. I know you wish it was your blood not mine. Or anyone else's. I know…" He swallowed hard. "…that you're willing to go back into cryo, instead of risking hurting anyone. I know that you're brave." A breath. "I know that you trust me."

It was Bucky's turn to lean forward, closing his eyes. Steve was quiet for a minute, his forehead warm against Bucky's, and his hands gentle on either side of Bucky's neck, before one slid down to press against Bucky's shirt, over his heart.

"That's you," he said. "That's Bucky."

Bucky found himself smiling in surrender. "Maybe you're right for once."

"When am I ever wrong?" Steve asked.

Bucky pulled away, unable to hold back a snort as he stared at Steve, and shook his head. His tired brain searched for a suitable insult, but all he had was, "Punk!"

He wondered if he was imagining the tears in Steve's eyes, when the blond man whispered, "Jerk."

Steve reached out to pull Bucky back into his arms, rested his chin on Bucky's shoulder. "You can tell me whatever you need to. Whatever you want to. But nothing can change what I think about you. What I know. And I want you to know it too." He turned his head, and Bucky felt his breath on his ear.

"I love you," he mouthed against Bucky's hair. "You're my friend and my brother. To the end of the line. I promise. I love you."

I love you.

It wasn't something Bucky remembered either of them really saying. Or at least, not in those words. For one thing it wasn't something men told each other, even if it was true. Now, it sounded so simple, so true, so right in Steve's soft voice.

I love you.

But for another, they just hadn't needed to. They'd said it over and over in other ways; a glance, an act, those words: I'm with you to the end of the line.

"I said it first, you know," Bucky murmured, shifting to a more comfortable position, letting himself relax. "I'm with you to the end of the line, pal." Steve's thin face, his little smile, before he broke down crying right there in front of his apartment door.

"And I never forgot it."

Bucky smiled. "I love you back."

…

"Buck?"

He snapped his eyes open.

"You asleep?"

He shook his head, felt his eyes closing again.

"'M scared," he mumbled.

"Why?"

"What if I wake up and…?"

"Then I'll be right here."

Bucky wasn't exactly sure what Steve meant, until he felt the other man moving, lying down on the couch and gently pulling Bucky with him.

"What- what if I hurt you 'gain?" he tried to protest, his words slurring together.

"Won't."

Bucky blinked down at him before he surrendered, sprawling with his head on Steve's chest, and swinging his legs up to stretch out with Steve's. With a sigh, he tucked his arm up around Steve's neck, and shifted a little more toward the back of the couch. Steve's arms draped over top of him, and one of his hands came up to rest on Bucky's hair, tenderly, almost hypnotically, stroking it; fingers easing through the strands, combing it smooth.

On the edge of soft sleep, Bucky shivered suddenly. He shivered again, and closed his eyes tighter, trying to focus on the heat that radiated from Steve's body, that supersoldier warmth. But he felt the chill in his belly, and a tiny whimper escaped him.

"Cold?"

Bucky nodded, his cheek rubbing against Steve's shirt, and then felt him tugging at something, before a soft blanket settled over them, one end still pinned between their bodies and the back of the couch. Steve's hands moved, straightening the throw out; it was long enough that it covered most of their legs too. Bucky instinctively pulled his feet up to tuck underneath, and he felt Steve shifting to accommodate that.

Bucky shivered again, and Steve's arms went around him, underneath the blanket. One hand back in Bucky's hair. Another soft, brotherly kiss to the top of his head, the same way Bucky used to do it to Steve. Way… back… whenever…

His next shiver was more like a tremor as the warmth surrounded Bucky, seeped into him. Steve's breathing was deep and even, and his heart beat a slow, steady rhythm in Bucky's ear; a wordless lullaby sweeter than any music.

They both slept.

...

Warm. He felt warm all the way through, warm like he hadn't felt in a long time. Of course, a lot of that would be because another person slept beside him, pressed close, holding him… Confused, he blinked his eyes open, took in the grey morning light, the quiet room, Steve's white t-shirt rising and falling with his breathing…

Bucky let his head relax back on to Steve's shoulder. He was on his right side now, tucked between Steve and the back of the couch. Steve's left shoulder was his pillow, the other man's arm looped around behind Bucky to drape over his left side, and the throw Steve had pulled off the back of the couch still covered them both. Steve was still fast asleep.

Only Steve could hold him close like this; only Steve could make him feel this safe and secure, nestled under the arm of a sleeping person. After physical tortures and abuse beyond what his conscious memory could recall, he had instinctively shied away from and avoided touching, or being touched by, people. But it was something deeper than instinct, something stronger than conditioning, that always told him Steve was different.

He liked this; Bucky realized. He really liked this. He liked the way Steve touched him, and he liked being able to respond in kind: leaning in, squeezing back, nestling closer.

He remembered being touched. He remembered hands on him, twisting, snapping, breaking, cutting; hard, cold, sharp hands; a slap across the face, a needle and thread being pulled through the edges of a gaping wound, fingers tangled in his hair yanking his head back to crack his skull against the wall, electricity searing through the living bone of his left shoulder…

Involuntarily he turned his head, hiding his face against the soft cotton of Steve's shirt. He felt Steve stir, his arm tightening around Bucky, the rest of his body shifting slightly toward his friend, before he gave a little sigh, and lay still again, his breath warming the top of Bucky's head. On guard somehow, even in his sleep…

Bucky closed his eyes, and let the warmth push back the cold, let the love push back the fear, until he could grasp the other memories. The ones before The Soldier, before the fall.

A woman's kiss on his cheek; a man's hand on his shoulder, chubby fingers grabbing his. Skinny arms wrapped around his neck; a joyous pummeling. Deft fingers pressing a bandage to his forehead; a warm hand clasping his. Strong arms holding him close, leaving no room for the demons.

No, that was now. Actually, it was then and now. His family and fellow soldiers were gone, but Steve… Steve was still here. Still keeping him safe.

The light in the room had increased, but was still muted, and Bucky lifted his head slightly, enough to peer down past the end of the couch toward the big window. Grey, overcast, mist drifting past the glass.

Bucky felt his face softening in something like a smile, as he laid his head back on Steve's shoulder, knowing he was warm and dry and safe right here. He let his breathing even out, matching it to Steve's, let the steady tha-dump… tha-dump… tha-dump… of Steve's powerful heart thrum through him, let his body relax against Steve's.

Bucky closed his eyes again, held the heat and softness close, breathed in the peace and Steve's particular warm smell… trying to memorize how it felt, hoarding them away inside somewhere where he could reach for them whenever the darkness got too cold, or the pain got too fierce.

Steve's breathing and the beat of his heart, the strength of his presence, his arm around Bucky, holding him close to his side.

How had he ever stayed away from this? How? Two years he had run; lost, afraid, ashamed… He had run from this?

You don't deserve it. You don't deserve anything he gives you.

I know I don't, Bucky thought back. I know. But… he gives it anyway.

He doesn't know all that you've done.

He knows I almost killed him.

Yeah, but what about all the hundreds of people you didn't 'almost' kill?

He saw the video in Siberia. Bucky blinked, widened his eyes against a burning behind them, stared across the room without seeing it. He said… it wasn't my fault. He never said I didn't do it. He knows I did. Like when I hit him last night. He didn't say I didn't do it. He said… "Already forgiven, Buck."

That doesn't mean you deserve it.

But he said it anyway.

Bucky tilted his head back enough to glance up at Steve's face mere inches away, which was turned toward Bucky. He could see the purple smear across Steve's cheekbone, and swallowed hard. Let his eyes travel over the rest of Steve's expression, soft with the peace of sleep, eyes closed in silent trust.

"Don't trust me."

"Too late."

"I'm not worth all this."

"You're worth more."

He said he…

"…loves me."

Bucky didn't even realize he'd spoken aloud, until Steve stirred.

His face scrunched up, as he sucked in a deep breath, letting it out in a long sigh, and blinking his eyes open. "Mhmm, wha-? Buck?"

Steve sighed again, and lifted his other hand to rub over his face, knuckling the sleep out of his eyes. Bucky was still watching him when Steve pulled back a few inches to look down at the other man more easily. Steve smiled.

"Hey," he murmured, his eyes soft and hopeful. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Bucky looked away, and felt Steve settle back down, pulling the blanket up a little more over Bucky's metal stump of a shoulder, and then wrapping his other arm around Bucky, pulling him close.

"Sleep alright?"

The words vibrated in Steve's chest where Bucky's cheek rested, and he nodded his head mutely, the stubble on his jaw scratching on the fabric of Steve's shirt.

"Nightmares?" Steve's voice was barely above a whisper.

A shake of Bucky's head.

Steve gave a little sigh, a hint of a smile in his voice. "Me either."

He felt Steve's hand on his hair, stroking it almost absently, like it was something so normal he did it without thinking. Fingertips lightly scratching his scalp, the gentle tugging of a knot being untangled, a big hand pausing on the back of his neck. No anger, no pain, no fear; nothing but care and comfort and strength.

Tears stung Bucky's eyes, and he didn't think he could have spoken if he wanted to.

He remembered picking up the newspaper with his picture splashed across the front, remembered the way his stomach dropped. His cover was blown; he only hoped he had enough time to get back to his apartment, grab his backpack, and vanish, as he'd done so many times before.

He remembered standing, staring at the back of a tall, uniformed man, shield on his arm, standing in front of Bucky's fridge. His mind screaming at him to run, even as something else held him, froze him there.

Steve.

Please, no. Steve couldn't be here, he… No, please, I'm not ready, I can't, no, I'm not ready for this, I'm not.

He remembered watching Steve crack open the journal, and feeling like Steve had cracked Bucky himself open. He remembered making no sound, yet his terrified heart seemed to thunder in his ears; perhaps that was what Steve had heard, why he turned.

His eyes were as blue as Bucky remembered…

A quick assessing glance, then: "Do you know me?"

"Then finish it. 'Cause I'm with you to the end of the line." Bruises and blood, on a swollen, messed up face. Eyes that stared up at their would-be killer, filled with nothing but…

"You're Steve." Oh, crap, WRONG! "I read about you in a museum." He glanced away, then back up.

He couldn't let Steve think he was Bucky, not that Bucky, because he wasn't, he was a killer, he wasn't a good man anymore, he wasn't, and he didn't think he could ever be him again, but that would be what Steve would want, and this Bucky would only disappoint him–

His eyes were disappointed.

"I know you're nervous." Steve's voice was strong and steady, his motions careful and slow as he set the book down on the corner of the table. "And you have plenty of reason to be."

How could he know that?

"But you're lying." Those eyes, so clear and confident, and Bucky could feel himself crumbling inside.

"I wasn't in Vienna. I don't do that anymore." He didn't, he didn't, he hadn't slipped or forgotten where he was for months now, and if anyone would believe him…

Steve glanced toward the window; Bucky felt his tension, mirroring his own. He looked back, stepping closer to Bucky. "Well, the people who think you did are coming here now."

"…the people who think you did…"

"And they're not planning on taking you alive."

The cold knot in the pit of his stomach. Of course, they wanted him dead, he deserved that. See, Steve. "That's smart. Good strategy."

His enhanced hearing caught the sounds of people; above, outside in the halls. He could feel them closing in, trapping him like some wild animal, and his insides felt like ice now, because this wasn't what he'd wanted, if he let himself want at all. No, not like this.

"This doesn't have to end in a fight, Buck."

He felt a terrible wave of sadness and longing, as he turned, walked a few steps to the far wall. Buck. The way that name in Steve's voice echoed through him, tearing at his heart. Dear, God, if only Steve could be right. Tears burned his eyes.

"It always ends in a fight." They were already surrounded, he would have to fight his way out of this one, and he didn't—did not—want to, but Steve was here and he always fought, he didn't run.

Even six feet away, he felt Steve's tension skyrocketing, before he took a quick short step toward Bucky. He lifted his head, and found Steve's eyes locking in on him, the Asset, the Soldier, Bucky.

"You pulled me from the river. Why?" His voice, louder and almost fierce, demanding an answer.

"Hey, Buck?" A big hand rested on his left shoulder, warm in the space between the remains of the metal and Bucky's neck; fingers squeezing gently, tracing circles under the collar of his t-shirt. It pulled Bucky back from the vivid memories, and he caught his breath, blinked away the tears.

"You okay, pal?" Steve asked softly.

The vibrations of his voice against Bucky's ear; the warm weight of his other arm, still draped over Bucky's side…

"Why?"

He remembered pulling off his glove and staring down at his gleaming metal hand, flexing his fingers. A hand stained with blood. And still Steve stood there, not leaving, not attacking, just… calling him Buck.

"I don't know." One last ditch effort to push Steve away, to hold off the man who had called him his friend, who had been willing to die for him, this broken, messed up, weapon of a man. And it came out sounding as weak and terrified as he had felt.

He remembered looking up at Steve, and those eyes were not the eyes of Captain America, but Steve Rogers, locking stares with him in a knowing stubbornness that shocked Bucky with its familiarity. No anger, no cruelty, just his eyes cutting right into Bucky's soul. And the simplest, most direct statement.

"Yes, you do."

Bucky really didn't want to cry. This wasn't the time; it was their last morning together. He should be cracking jokes, making Steve laugh… He shouldn't be crying again. But he was.

"Aw, Buck," Steve murmured, but he said nothing more; just pulled Bucky close, and rested his cheek on the top of Bucky's head, warm and firm.

Bucky stayed quiet, letting the tears drip onto Steve's shirt, his breath catching on tiny sobs. Steve's hand stayed on the back of his neck; fingers pressing slow circles into his skin, firm against the muscles underneath.

"Yes, you do."

"Yeah, I do," he whispered. "I know why."

"Why… what?"

Bucky sniffed, took a shuddering breath, let it out, sniffed again. "I lied. To you." He pulled his hand out from under Steve, shifting more of his weight onto his elbow, and wiped his cheeks.

"Wha-? When?" Steve pulled back, frowning in confusion.

"You asked why." Bucky swallowed, kept his chin down, forehead resting against Steve's sternum. "Why I… pulled you out of the river. I-I said I didn't know. That was a lie."

Bucky felt Steve's small, affectionate chuckle vibrate through him. "I know," Steve said. "I always knew."

A huff escaped Bucky, a sound somewhere between tears and exasperated amusement. "How?"

"You called me Steve," he answered simply.

Three heartbeats of silence, before Bucky gave a choky laugh, and let himself sink back into Steve's arms. "Of course, I did," he whispered.

...

They stayed there like that for a while longer, content in the immediate physical presence of each other, wrapped in warmth and safety, happy to forget about the passing of time.

It was growling stomachs and Steve needing to go to the bathroom that finally dragged them off the couch.

Steve stood, stretched, and then dropped his hand on Bucky's right shoulder in a quick squeeze, before heading for the hallway. He paused, glanced back. "Hey, do you wanna shower first?"

"Nah, you go ahead." Bucky gave a half smile. "I'll see what we got in the kitchen."

"See if we've got the ingredients for pancakes," Steve called over his shoulder as he disappeared.

Pancakes. Bucky couldn't remember the last time he'd had those. Wait, there'd been a box of pancake mix left in a cupboard in one of his apartments. It had tasted old and worn out, and he hadn't had anything sweet to put on top. But as had fumbled through making them—and burning most—one or two clear memories had emerged from the fog, and he'd stood stock still beside the oven remembering, until the smell of cooking smoke reached his nose.

With a sigh, Bucky stood up from the couch and stretched himself, hearing his neck pop as he cranked his head from side to side. He hadn't used to make pancakes from a box, he knew. But hell, if he could remember what all went into the recipe.

He hunted through the cupboards, finding the most obvious things: flour, sugar, what he thought could be baking soda. Eggs and milk in the fridge. He was inspecting the bread box, and wondering if there was a toaster around (he didn't see one), when he remembered.

He was going back into cryo in… he glanced at the glowing numbers on the wall. Less than four hours. And he'd been given strict instructions to show up with an empty stomach. It wasn't his stomach that clenched then, though.

Bucky cursed softly, and set the lid back in place, turned away. Whatever a 'normal' morning was, it wouldn't happen today. He paced out of the kitchen, down the hall, past the bathroom where the shower was running (very quietly), past the painting on the opposite wall of a sunset over the savannah, and into his room.

He paused a few steps inside.

Smooth walls in a warm, peachy color; a small (empty) bookshelf to one side of the bed; chest of drawers and nightstand in what might be mahogany; floor to ceiling windows on the east wall; a few paintings and artistic knickknacks, including the lamp by the bed that was carved or molded in the shape of a tree, with a large cat sprawled across a branch, and the shade colored like fall leaves. All the lamps were carved differently, and all you had to do to turn them on and off was tap them with your hand.

A nice, warm, pleasant room, which might have felt like a hotel room, except he'd never stayed in a hotel this fancy. He had come here with almost nothing but the clothes he'd been wearing. The only things in this room that were actually his were the socks and underwear in the top drawer of the dresser, the tac gear draped over a chair in the corner, and the knife on the night table.

Bucky walked to the bed, still made from the previous day, and sat on the edge of it. He picked up the knife, turned it over in his hand. One of his old Winter Soldier knives, the last of the Yari II's he'd had on him after dragging Steve out of the river; small enough to keep in his boot, but big enough to be truly useful. The last thing he'd used it for was… cutting up an apple yesterday.

He ran his thumb down the edge; still plenty sharp. Well, he wouldn't need this in cryo. But somehow, he wanted to hang on to it. Just like people, he thought, knives could be used for more than one purpose, for bad or good; it just depended on who guided them. He should give it to Steve to hold on to, until he… came back. Until they both came back.

Bucky bit his lip, aching with something he thought might be hope.

He hesitated then, cocked his head to listen. Shower was running again.

Quickly he set the knife on the pillow beside him, and pulled open the single drawer in the nightstand, found the folded piece of paper he'd stuck in there. He unfolded it, read it again.

Bucky had fumbled through this letter to Steve yesterday afternoon, feeling awkward and uncertain, constantly left at a loss for words. Odd, since he'd written so much in the journals he'd kept over the last two years. He felt a pang at the thought, wondering what had happened to them. But it was different when it was for Steve. Knowing how Steve felt about everything, trying to find words that could maybe be at least a small comfort to Steve, while Bucky was gone.

Now, staring at his occasionally unsteady handwriting, he realized that he had actually said almost all of this at some point, either last night or this morning. Slowly he folded the paper once more, creasing the edges with his fingers. Truth was, there weren't enough words to tell what Steve had done for him. Or how he felt about Steve. He didn't think there ever would be. But that didn't mean this letter couldn't be a tangible reminder for Steve, something for him to hold onto the way Bucky had once held on to Steve's letters in the war (he remembered that), even if it did seem awkward and inadequate.

Bucky twisted his mouth to one side, and made up his mind. The shower had stopped, so he'd better hurry. He scooped up the knife and got to his feet, wrapping the slim blade in the letter. He didn't need to explain the knife; Steve would understand. He would make sure to tuck it in a place Steve wouldn't find it until later. When he needed it.

He was back in his own room, when Steve wandered in, smelling damp and clean and carrying a clean shirt and jeans, which he tossed to Bucky. "Your turn," he said smiling. "I'll go start breakfast. Did you find everything for the pancakes?"

Bucky looked down, not wanting to see Steve's face. "You know I'm not supposed to eat anything this morning. Because of going into cryo. Sorry." He swallowed, dared to glance up. "Go ahead and make 'em if you want. I'll just have to wait."

Steve's sad expression hurt, but the smile he forced when their eyes met hurt more. "Nah," he said. "Wouldn't be fair." Bucky could see the moment he bit the inside of his cheek, before he added: "First breakfast after you get out. Deal?"

Now Bucky dared to smile. "Deal."

He didn't rush his shower, but he didn't dawdle either; wanting to give Steve enough time to eat his own meal, but loathe to give up more of these precious minutes with Steve than he had to. He'd already showered twice with only his one arm, and thought he was managing pretty well. It helped that all he had to do was cup his hand under the soap dispenser; no juggling a bar or bottle.

He stood for a while in the spray, letting the heat pound against his skin. There was a part of him that never wanted it to come. And another part that just wanted to get it over with.

He dressed quickly, and made a stab at drying his hair, but that was definitely hard with only one hand. He was struggling with the towel, trying to at least get it dry enough that it wouldn't drip down the back of his shirt, when a knock came at the door.

Steve must have translated his grunt as "Come in", because he did. "Sorry. Left my razor on the counter," he said, then hesitated. "Need a hand?"

Bucky let the big towel drop over his shoulder, with a growl. "Yeah, I could, except I don't know how you'll find 'em. One's buried in the Alps, and the other's probably in Stark's workshop." He saw Steve's face in the mirror. "That's a joke, Steve. For cryin' out loud, do you even remember what those are, Captain Star-Spangled Serious?"

"Yeah," Steve said quietly. "I do." He stepped up behind Bucky, taking the towel in his own hands. He met Bucky's eyes in the mirror. "It's what happens every time you open your mouth."

"Oh, really?" Bucky smirked. "So says the guy who once thought 'fondue' meant– Hey!" He broke off in an undignified squeal, as Steve's fingers dug into a certain spot on his right side below his ribs, and jerked away.

He glared over his shoulder, causing Steve to take a healthy step backwards, holding up both hands. And suddenly Bucky didn't care that Steve had tickled him, because Steve was smiling, one eyebrow raised, and he would do anything to make Steve happy. He turned back, and bounced his frown off the mirror.

"Of all the things you remember," Steve said, stepping close again, "you remember that?"

Bucky rolled his eyes. "How could I forget? Howard never let you live that down."

He felt the smooth strokes of Steve's hands in the towel on his hair, stripping the water out, even as Steve shook his head and snorted. "I'd like to think I gave as good as I got."

Bucky felt his memory stall on that, unable to call up any more pictures or echoes of those faces, those times, but before he could get frustrated, Steve was speaking again: "He was a civilian, so I could order him around all I wanted."

"And he was a civilian so he never had to do what you told him," Bucky added. "Unlike me." Steve's face fell a bit. "Which was the perfect excuse for dragging all over Europe keeping my sights on your scrawny butt. Could never have done it without me." Bucky grinned.

"You're right," Steve said seriously. He draped the towel over Bucky's shoulders and leaned over to grab the comb lying on the counter beside his razor.

Bucky met his eyes in the mirror, and Steve gave him a soft smile. "Darn right," Bucky muttered, smiling back.

A comfortable silence fell, as Steve began to work the comb through Bucky's hair, and Bucky let his shoulders relax and then his eyes drift shut, feeling the pleasant scratch of the comb on his scalp and the gentle tug of the teeth passing through the damp strands. Maybe, maybe he could just stay here forever. Maybe they both could.

He couldn't hold back a sigh when Steve's hands stilled, and he blinked, let a small smile bounce off the glass this time. Steve, still standing behind him, moved close enough to lean against his back, and returned the favour, before suddenly draping his left arm over Bucky's shoulder and across his chest, resting his chin on Bucky's other shoulder.

Bucky couldn't help tensing at Steve's potentially threatening position; his mind leaping to prepare a counter attack, before he managed to rein it in. Steve didn't move, except to turn his head to one side and lay his cheek against the fabric of the towel, letting out a sigh that Bucky could feel.

Bucky stared at the blond head reflected next to his, and each breath came easier, until he tilted his own head against Steve's. Now Steve looked up again, watching him in the mirror.

A quirk of his lips. "You still look like yourself," Steve said.

Bucky stared at the picture they made in the mirror, trying to memorize it: Steve's dark blue sleeve across the front of his army green t-shirt; the golden hair, and the dark; two sets of blue eyes, in two different shades. Because it looked so right. Like they had in photos from the war, side-by-side, arm-in-arm, always together.

Stay.

The word filled his mouth and, for a moment, Bucky was afraid he'd said it out loud. Because even as the thought came, he knew it was wrong. Steve couldn't stay. Not when he had others waiting on him. He wouldn't ask Steve that.

So, he just turned around inside Steve's hold, wrapped his own arm around Steve's back, and buried his face against Steve's neck. Held on, until the urgency of that single word had died down.

Finally, he pulled back enough to examine the bruises on Steve's face, and hesitantly reached up to brush his fingers over them. Steve, left hand still on the back of Bucky's neck, smiled faintly. "Doesn't hurt any more. Bruises will be gone in another day or so."

Bucky nodded. "Used to be, you got bruises on top of your bruises," he muttered. "And no," he added, giving Steve a light punch in the shoulder, before he stepped away. "I don't miss that."

"Oh? I thought you liked patching me up," Steve said, letting go and turning to grab his razor off the counter.

Bucky moved to hang up the damp towel, before following Steve down the hall to his room. A navy-blue duffle bag, bearing a white star, half rubbed off, was on the bed, various articles of clothing scattered around it, and Steve moved quickly, packing up.

Bucky leaned against the doorframe, watching. "You're leaving right after, right?"

Steve's lips pressed together tightly, but his hands kept moving. "Yep. Sooner I go, the sooner I'll be back." He paused then, picked up a grey sweater still lying on the bedspread. "Catch," he said, tossing it across to Bucky.

Bucky stood, confused, staring at Steve with the sweater dangling from his upraised hand.

"It's only 55 degrees out there, and definitely damp." Steve zipped his bag shut. "I'm not having you complaining on the drive there."

Bucky rolled his eyes to cover up the pang he felt, knowing he'd have no need for a sweater in a couple hours. "Actually, it's not really a drive. More like a fly."

"Right."

Carrying his duffle, Steve walked toward him, avoiding eye contact, and Bucky stepped quietly aside. He was glad Steve's back was turned, while he wrestled the sweatshirt over his head. It had a hood, and a pocket on the front, and was big and soft. He couldn't help pausing halfway, the thick, fuzzy fabric still over his face, to sniff. It smelled like Steve.

Bucky walked to the kitchen, tucking the end of the empty sleeve in the front pocket, and then burying his hand in there too. Steve had left his bag by the door, and was putting away what must have been his breakfast dishes. Bucky leaned back against the counter, silent, watching, not knowing what to say or do.

He felt the aching tension in the air, the sense of wishing for every minute to last a year, and at the same time wanting to get it all over with immediately. He could see Steve trying to steel himself; preparing to watch Bucky 'leave', preparing to leave Bucky. And it was killing Steve inside.

Bucky glanced up at the time on the wall. Almost 10. Bulelani, one of the King's Guard who was taking them to the laboratory, would be here soon. He glanced back, to see Steve now staring at him from the other side of the kitchen.

Steve's jaw was clenched, his eyes filled with pain and hope and… something deeper. Love. The kind of love that would hold on forever, even as it let go for a little while.

Then Steve was moving, and Bucky was moving, and they met in the middle of the kitchen. Bucky stepped right into Steve's arms, wrapping his own arm around the other man's middle. He let out a breath that was not supposed to be shaky, and closed his eyes, burying his face against Steve's neck, breathing him in. He felt Steve's arms tighten around him, before Steve turned his head and pressed his face into Bucky's hair.

At some point Bucky noticed that their hearts were beating in the same time, pulsing against each other where their chests pressed together.

He stood there, wrapped in Steve's embrace, held close inside those arms so strong and gentle, forehead resting against Steve's neck. He inhaled the warm smell of him: coffee, aftershave, laundry soap, sweat, Steve. Steve was an anchor, something solid and steady Bucky could hold onto, trusting with no reservations now. Somehow, he did not think it odd that the skinny kid he had once held close to comfort and warm in the depths of a winter night, now held him close, a comfort and a warmth to Bucky, before he went back into the cold.

Steve did not move; his one arm across Bucky's back, the other around his shoulders, his nose pressed above Bucky's ear. His body heat surrounded Bucky, seeped through Bucky's sweater, under his skin and into his bones. It might have been almost too much, except that for so long there had been only ice in Bucky's blood, and warmth like this had been long forgotten.

Dear God. If only it could stay like this. If only this could be the place he stayed, safe and secure, unafraid, even of himself here. Steve's arms—so warm, so soft, so strong; instead of the cold glass and steel of a cryo tube. If only.

Bucky wasn't going to cry, not now. No, he would hold onto Steve in this moment, and breathe.

He realized then that Steve's breathing had changed, become uneven, with a tell-tale hitch that made Bucky's heart crack. Now Steve shifted his position, turning his head to rest his cheek against the side of Bucky's head, and Bucky heard him swallow hard.

"Steve…" he whispered.

A tiny noise in Steve's throat, and instinctively Bucky moved too, straightening up, sliding his hand up Steve's spine to cup the back of his head, and now it was Steve who pressed his face into Bucky's neck.

He could feel Steve fighting it, holding back the tears, and he hesitated, before dropping his hand to Steve's back, resting his palm between Steve's shoulder blades. It felt awkward and natural at the same time, to rub his fingers in small circles, smoothing out the rigid tension that gripped Steve's muscles.

Gradually, Steve's breathing deepened, steadied, until he took a long breath, let it out against Bucky's throat, and relaxed. He sniffed once, before lifting his head, resting his chin on Bucky's shoulder, and tilting his head sideways to rest against Bucky's.

Bucky could feel Steve's thumb rubbing back and forth at the base of his neck, and he stilled, let his eyes drift shut again, nudged Steve's head with his. Steve's motion stopped too, and they stood, silent, their hold on each other a little looser now, without the clinging desperation. Bucky fit into Steve's arms the way Steve fit into his; like there was no where else they were supposed to be. Like this was where they belonged.

Steve and Bucky stood in the middle of the kitchen in their apartment in Wakanda, lost in each other's embrace, lost in a hug that had waited 70 years; speaking nothing, and saying everything.

For a long time, there was no sound but their breathing and their beating hearts, and the occasional shifting of their arms around each other, neither of them willing to let go.

Supersoldier hearing caught the sound of feet and voices outside their apartment door, before someone knocked sharply. Bucky shut his eyes, convulsively tightening his grip on Steve for a long moment. He felt Steve do the same to him, with an almost painfully tight squeeze. And somehow, they stepped back at the same moment.

Bucky stared into Steve's face, saw the struggle inside. Now that it was here, the moment when they had to let go, he saw how much it hurt his friend, how much Steve's heart was breaking. It didn't matter, Bucky thought, that this was only temporary. Just a waiting time; until Steve returned and Princess Shuri and her team made sense of his brain.

But for Steve, who had already lived without him for so long, it was like one more time Bucky's hand was slipping out of his. And he could only watch, helplessly.

Bucky longed to take that look off Steve's face. To smooth that line out of his forehead, to take away the pain in his eyes, to protect him and cheer him the way he remembered doing all those decades ago. He wished he could make that clenched jaw soften into a little smile, the one that ran deeper than memory.

It hurt to see Steve hurting. But what could Bucky do about it?

As Steve took another step away from him, turning towards the front door, Bucky blurted out, "This ain't the end of the line."

Steve went still again, staring at him.

"You know that, right?" Bucky added, voice gone hoarse with feeling.

There! A quirk of Steve's lips, and a smile, small and fleeting. But Bucky knew what he had seen.

"Yeah," Steve said quietly. "Yeah, I-I know." His tone was more one of hope, than belief, but Bucky would take it.

Another knock broke the last strand of the spell that had held them, and they were both moving. Steve greeted Bulelani, who nodded politely and said he would wait in the hall until they were ready. Bucky was concentrating on pulling his boots on, while Steve laced up his own, and then he stood silently as Steve knelt at his feet to tie Bucky's boots.

Bucky stared down at the back of Steve's head and his broad shoulders, bent over his task. Without moving his feet, Bucky reached over to grab Steve's blue lightweight jacket off a coat hook, before bending to drape it over Steve's back, fumbling a bit with his one hand.

Steve's hands gave a final tug at the laces, before they went automatically to grab the edges of the jacket, pulling it closer around him. He glanced up from where he knelt, finding Bucky's eyes even before he rose to his feet and shoved his arms into the sleeves.

"Ready?" Steve asked, holding himself strong and straight.

Bucky nodded, and Steve turned, his hand swinging to brush against Buck's. Impulsively Bucky grabbed at Steve's hand, squeezed it hard, and felt Steve's warm fingers wrap around his own cool ones. For one more heartbeat.

Then Steve was opening the door, and they let go, and Bucky shoved his hand into the pocket on the front of his sweatshirt, squared his shoulders.

"Let's go," he said.

...

They sat in a kind of waiting room, cool and quiet, with one wall made of glass, looking out over a valley thick with mist.

Bucky's nerves came and went in waves. Steve sat beside him, sometimes leaning back with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, or sometimes sitting forward, his hands clasped together so tightly he kept leaving white marks on his own fingers.

Dr. Dal— a sturdy man with his dark hair greying, and wearing his usual traditionally patterned tunic and pants, this morning in dark grey—sat perpendicular to Bucky's left, calm and thoughtful, thinking about what Bucky had been saying.

"Steven," he asked. "How long did it take you to call him back to himself?"

Steve's head had jerked up at his name, and his glance flickered to Bucky. "Maybe a minute? Not more."

"You can still do plenty of damage in sixty seconds," Bucky muttered. He gave the doctor a sideways look. "T'Challa's going to kill me." He wasn't sure if he was joking or not.

One corner of Dr. Dal's mouth came up, and he shook his head. "I assure you; he will do no such thing. Especially not over cheap furniture."

"What if-?" Bucky suddenly started, then hesitated. He did not dare look at Steve as he finished. "What if you can't do it? In the end. What if whatever you try doesn't work?"

"Stop!" Steve half-stood, then sat back, turning to stare at Bucky. "You can't talk like that, Buck. You–"

"It is a valid question," Dr. Dal interrupted. Bucky kept his eyes on the floor, but he heard Steve stifle his protests. "And also," the older man added, "not something you should fear, Bucky." He gave a little sigh.

"Nothing is as unique or unpredictable as the human brain. Yet," (Bucky could hear him smiling.) "I am fully confident that we will not fail. You have the best minds in the world on your side. The princess is nothing short of a genius, and my son knows more than a little. We are very close to a solution already." He paused, and now Bucky looked up at him.

Dr. Dal's smile was gentle, his dark eyes staring intently into Bucky's. "But it is not genius that makes me so certain. It is hope. For all of us, but perhaps most for the princess and her brother. You give us hope. Hope that, even in the darkness of tragedy, there can be good. In their brokenness, they have been made able to reach out to you. And in that way… the healing can go both ways."

Bucky had to bite his lips together and look away, swallowing hard.

"You are not a project, Bucky. You are a person. You are stronger than you even know. And more than just heads, you have hearts on your side. Hopefully this can give you hope as well."

Bucky didn't trust himself to speak, so he nodded shortly.

"Captain Rogers?"

All three men glanced over at the call, to see Princess Shuri herself standing in the doorway to the lab.

"Come here, please," she said, and Bucky felt Steve start to rise, before he paused, eyes on Bucky in a worried expression.

"Better take that as a royal order," Bucky muttered, and Steve stood, walked over to the Princess, where they proceeded to talk quietly.

"And you have him," Dr. Dal said softly. "He would journey to the stars or to the bottom of hell for you, I think."

"He… already has."

Bucky remembered a cold room, pain, Steve's face above him, calling his name; a chasm of fire, Steve leaping across it. He remembered Steve's face under his fists, and eyes that stared into him, and lips that spoke a promise.

"I don't deserve that," Bucky whispered. "I don't." He glanced up at Dr. Dal, throat suddenly aching, though his eyes remained dry. "All I keep doing is hurting him. Almost killing him. The highway, the helicarrier, in Germany, last night… He shouldn't stay. He shouldn't–" Bucky shook his head.

"Do you want him to leave you? To abandon you?"

An instant wordless shake of Bucky's head.

"Would you do it for him? Stay with him?"

Bucky huffed a sad laugh. "Hell, yeah. I- I promised."

Dr. Dal spread his hands in a gesture that said, well then, then hesitated as if searching for the right words. "You know his body… No. You know his heart is more vulnerable than his body. As with any person who loves you, the one way you can truly hurt him, is if you shut him out."

"I've already done that," Bucky mumbled. "For two years." He gave a short unamused chuckle. "I ran away from him for two years. I thought- I thought I had to… find myself. On my own." He glanced back at Dr. Dal. My name is James Buchanan Barnes. He called me Bucky. His name is Steve Rogers…

"And the whole time the first thing I ever believed about myself was what he told me. Sometimes, when everything would get… fuzzy, that was all I could remember. The whole time… he was there whether I wanted him or not."

Dr. Dal smiled. "You have known each other since you were children. You treated each other like twin brothers, did you not? And a brother's love is not lost, it is only kept."

Bucky had no answer for that, so he simply nodded, and glanced over at Steve's back where he listened intently to something the princess was saying. He realized with a start that they had been joined by T'Challa, who was now motioning at Steve's face. Asking about the bruises.

Bucky's stomach dropped, and he had an insane urge to bolt, which he hastily squashed. Before he had even blinked again, the king of Wakanda was crossing the room toward him. Involuntarily, Bucky started to rise, but a quick gesture halted him.

"Sit," T'Challa said. "Doctor." He bowed his head to Dr. Dal.

"Kumkani," Dr. Dal said, nodding back.

T'Challa seated himself opposite Bucky, and immediately asked, "You are alright? After last night."

Bucky's mouth had gone dry. "Uh- um, a-about that–"

"Do not trouble yourself, friend," T'Challa said quietly. "I am only glad it was the table that was broken and not you."

Bucky dropped his eyes to the floor and shook his head side-to-side. "Don't say that. Don't–"

"I am a king. I will say what I want."

Bucky jerked his head up and found humor in T'Challa's eyes. "You still shouldn't care," he replied. "You still shouldn't trust me."

"Who said I trust you?" T'Challa asked, raising one eyebrow. "I trust you a little farther than I can throw you. Which I am sure is pretty darn far." But then the humor dropped off T'Challa's face, and his intense dark eyes locked on Bucky's. "I have seen enough to know that you are a man who has suffered much, and yet you are still a man who cares. You are stronger than you even know, I think."

Bucky closed his eyes and shook his head. "I don't even trust me."

"Do you trust me?" T'Challa asked quietly.

Bucky took a quick glance at him, then dropped his gaze again. He didn't know how to answer that question. His heart was suddenly beating too fast, his breathing going shallow, and he jerked his head up to find Steve. Steve.

"Bucky?"

That was Dr. Dal's voice, calm, unhurried. Bucky managed a short nod, eyes locked on that dark blue jacket. He waited until he had taken a full deep breath, before looking over at the older man.

Dr. Dal smiled softly. "Don't be afraid, my son. You are free to speak your mind here. Or to not speak, if you so choose."

Bucky's eyes flickered over T'Challa before returning to Steve, and he swallowed hard. "I don't know who to trust," he muttered.

They were quiet for a moment, before T'Challa stood. "They are ready for you." Slowly Bucky rose, and dared to meet his gaze. "One day," the king said quietly. "One day I hope you will trust me. But for now, will you accept my help?"

Bucky blinked, then slowly lowered his eyes to T'Challa's proffered hand. His palm was warm against Bucky's, his grip, firm. Bucky looked up then, right into T'Challa's face, and remembered. It was just over a week since Steve had found him, which meant it was just over a week since this man had lost his father. Days since he had buried the man he looked up to and adored. And even if Bucky hadn't done it, King T'Chaka had died because of him, or who he'd been.

Yet T'Challa still stood and clasped Bucky's hand, and in his normally guarded gaze Bucky thought he caught a glimpse of the hurt inside. Bucky hesitated before he spoke, hoping the word he remembered would come out right.

"Enkosi. Enkosi kakhulu."

The smile he surprised out of the other man, a quick gleam of white teeth, was enough.

"Ndiyayonwabela."

The three men turned toward where Steve and Shuri stood waiting. Bucky caught Steve's eye, and the blond man mouthed the worried question, "Okay?"

Bucky nodded back. Of course, he was. As much as he could be. A touch on his arm, and Bucky glanced at Dr. Dal.

"Even if you cannot trust us," Dr. Dal said quietly. "Even if you cannot trust yourself… trust him."

Something warm swelled in Bucky's chest, and he felt his jaw loosen. He bit his bottom lip, and found Steve watching him again. Now Bucky found a tiny, but real, smile for his brother, before he answered the doctor. "I do."

...

He sat on a table (not in a chair), dressed in the white clothes they had given him. He supposed the room was actually warm, but already he felt the chill inside him. Technicians moved quietly around, stopping to introduce themselves and offer a short explanation of what they were doing, and Bucky had a distant understanding that they were doing everything they could to make this different from his experiences with HYDRA, which he had described the one day with Dr. Dal.

It took a concentrated effort for Bucky to stay present, and not shut down mentally, torn as he was between familiar and unfamiliar, a little unsteady on the line between then and now. It was Steve who kept him grounded, Steve who stayed within sight at all times, sometimes standing with T'Challa or the princess, sometimes exchanging a few words with Dr. Silumko, sometimes just quietly watching Bucky.

All Bucky had to do was find him, that familiar face with the clear blue eyes, and he could breathe again, remembering what it felt like to be surrounded by Steve's warmth and kindness.

"Almost ready," someone announced, and when Bucky tried to swallow there was nothing there. He turned his head, locked eyes on Steve, who nodded and gave an encouraging smile. Bucky found that his lungs and his throat actually worked, and he tried to match his inhale and exhale to the memory of last night. It worked.

At some point he realized that he hadn't once used his list, even in this stressful situation, and he glanced again at Steve. …the first thing I ever believed about myself was what he told me. Maybe- maybe it was almost as if Bucky didn't have to tell himself now. Because Steve was here to do it; Steve was here to say it all. "I love you. You're my friend and my brother. To the end of the line. I promise. I love you."

Another person in a white coat came and took the IV needle out of the back of his hand, proceeding to wrap a bandage around it. Bucky flexed his hand, before glancing up at the cryostasis tube he would be in. Different, smaller, brighter, far less primitive than anything HYDRA had used.

Steve's approach pulled him away from those thoughts. The blond man followed Bucky's gaze for a moment, before looking back, and they held each other's eyes silently.

"You sure about this?" Steve asked, and Bucky knew he couldn't help it, knew Steve couldn't help asking one last time. Like they were kids again, he needed Bucky to explain as clearly as possible, needed Bucky to reassure him that this was the right thing to do. Bucky stared again at the stasis tube and tried to sort his thoughts so they would come out quiet and steady.

"I can't trust my own mind," he said simply. A glance back at Steve, and Bucky saw the heartache there. He mustered as hopeful a smile as he could. "So, until they figure out how to get this stuff out of my head, I think going back under is the best thing." He saw Steve's little nod. "For everybody."

Steve's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, and Bucky saw his gaze fall to the floor. Quietly, Bucky slid off the table, the floor cool and smooth under his bare feet, and stood facing Steve, waiting for him to look back up. When he did, Bucky saw the pain mixed with the strength in Steve's eyes. He also saw the bruises.

"You saw what happened last night. If you hadn't been there…" Bucky shook his head. "If I… lost myself again, and I… hurt someone, I'd never forgive myself. You're the only one I trust. The only one I trust to stop me. The only one I trust… to save me. From myself. This way, as long as you're gone, you know I'm safe."

A tiny nod from Steve.

For a moment they were silent, watching each other. Bucky kept his hand at his side, knowing that if he hugged Steve now, he didn't think he could let go. Steve must have felt the same, because he stood still, hands in his pockets.

In this last moment, Bucky dropped his voice low enough that only Steve could hear, his other deepest fear finally spilling out.

"Promise you'll come back?"

"Always."

That one fiercely whispered word, and Steve's bright blue eyes sealed themselves in Bucky's memory, and it was Bucky's turn to nod.

"Okay."

Even with the mild sedative Bucky had agreed to, he could feel his heart rate kick up as he lay back in the cryo tube. The distant echo of voices, the mindless ghosts of pain. He knew he could fight it, knew what to do, but he hoped that maybe someday, he wouldn't have to.

My name is James Buchanan Barnes. He calls me Bucky.

It was Steve's face he saw last before he closed his eyes.

His name is Steve. He has blue eyes and blond hair…

The only voice in his mind now was Steve's: "You're not alone anymore… Okay? Let me do some of the fighting for you. Let the rest of us figure some things out. We'll win this one, Buck. Maybe it'll take time. But we will."

You fought for me even when you didn't know it, Bucky thought. He could almost feel the warmth and soft strength of Steve's arms around him.

Somehow the rest of the list came different.

He said, 'I'm with you to the end of the line.'

He said, 'I love you.'

He said, 'Always.'

The world went dark.

---

"Bucky. Hey, Buck?"

Steve nudged the stack of four dry plates against Bucky's ribs, and Bucky jerked his head around to blink at Steve.

"Wha-? Sorry." Buck took the plates and wandered across the kitchen to put them away.

Sam dropped the last of the cutlery onto the towel they'd spread on the counter, and prepared to drain the dishwater from the sink. Even though there was a high-tech automatic dishwasher set into the counter beside the refrigerator, there were only four of them so it was just as easy to do their dishes by hand. And besides, Steve liked washing dishes, liked having that old familiar routine.

Sam was in a good mood, teasing with Natasha who sat on a stool at the kitchen island, peeling an orange with her own knife. They were all in a good mood, Steve figured.

He felt, rather than heard, someone behind him, before a warm forehead rested against the back of his neck. Bucky's sigh was quiet, but deep. Steve tilted his head back far enough to nudge against the other man's, even as he kept drying the forks and spoons.

Bucky had to be getting tired. It had been a full day, for his first out of cryo sleep. They had done the surgery on his shoulder before he woke, then after his reunion with Steve they'd had a session in Shuri's lab. That was a lot to handle already, plus it wasn't just the two of them now.

He seemed to get along alright with Sam and Nat, Steve thought. He had asked if Bucky was okay with Sam sharing their apartment, while Nat got one of her own across the hall, and Bucky had said that was fine. He was quieter around Nat, but quick to joke with Sam, snarking back and forth across the supper table, and through the movie afterward. Now though, Steve thought he could sense Bucky mentally withdrawing from the company and conversation.

"You okay?" he muttered over his shoulder. Bucky nodded, the motion rubbing against the top of Steve's spine.

"Tired?" A hesitation this time, before a very small nod.

"Me too. Sorry, Buck," he added. "I've gotta put these away."

Bucky moved to stand beside him, as Steve pulled out the cutlery drawer. He had a dim sense that it was telling, the way Bucky slumped against him, shoulder to shoulder, sliding down enough to rest his head against Steve too. He was wearing the same hooded sweater, green shirt and jeans he had on the morning of the day he went under, and in some moments, Steve could almost pretend no time had passed at all.

But the ache of those six months lingered. Of course, Bucky had been right. Of course, it had been easier to throw himself into his mission of rescuing Sam and the others from the Raft Prison, getting Clint and Scott home, and dealing with the million-and-one problems that cropped up along the way, while knowing that Bucky was safe and protected in Wakanda.

Steve glanced over at Sam and Nat, glad for his freedom, glad to have her back at his side. Clint and Scott were with their families now, and Wanda, who had had the worst of the time in the Raft, was safe with some good people in Canada. It would take time, but she would heal. Like Bucky.

Still, the whole time, Steve had felt Bucky's absence, almost more keenly than before he'd turned around in that little apartment in Bucharest, or, maybe, even before a black mask had clattered onto the pavement. He'd had his best friend—his brother in every way that mattered—back. Back where he could see him and talk to him and hold him and listen to his heartbeat. Steve had had that back, and having to let go of that again, so soon after, had hurt like hell.

A nudge from Bucky's head. "You're thinkin' so loud they can hear you in 'hatten," he mumbled.

Steve felt his lips pull into a smile, even as a lump swelled in his throat, and he shrugged his shoulder against Bucky, feeling the weight of him there.

He dropped the last fork into its place, slid the drawer shut, and turned to pull Bucky into his arms. Bucky kept his hand buried in the front pocket of his sweater, quietly leaning into Steve, who rested his chin on Bucky's shoulder. Steve closed his eyes, while they stood there and breathed.

It was Bucky's weight settling heavier against his chest that made him ease back a step, hands gripping Bucky's shoulders. Bucky lifted his head, and now Steve saw clearly the exhaustion written in the lines of his friend's face.

"Hey, you go ahead. I'll be there in a minute." He turned Bucky toward the hall, giving him a nudge from behind, and Bucky sighed, muttering something that sounded like, "Jerk," before he shuffled off.

"That's my line," Steve called after him.

Natasha had left, and now Sam came back into the kitchen, stifling a yawn of his own. "You guys ready to crash?" he asked.

"Yeah." Steve draped his dishtowel over the handle of the oven door, the way his mom always had. He glanced over at Sam, saw that open, friendly face. "Thanks for making supper."

Sam shrugged. "No problem. I just needed a chance to show off in this nice kitchen."

Steve gave him a small smile. "Thanks for everything else too," he added quietly.

Sam paused in the doorway, and raised an eyebrow at Steve. "You're the one who hauled me out of that – What did Tony call it? Floating ocean pokey? You know, in all my time growing up, one thing I never expected to go to jail for was doing the right thing."

Steve felt a stab of guilt, but Sam must have seen something on his face. "Doing what I believed was right." He gave Steve one of his looks. "Now go to bed, Cap. That's an order. And I better not get woken up by a supersoldier's pillow fight," he added over his shoulder, as he turned away.

Sam was taking the room Steve had slept in last time he was here, leaving Steve and Bucky to double up. Steve tapped on the door of Bucky's room, before he pressed his hand in the spot where a doorknob might have been.

Bucky was half-dressed, and standing in front of the mirror; just standing, staring at himself, his shirt hanging from his hand. Steve shut the door behind him, and hesitated, his eyes instantly drawn to Bucky's left shoulder, which was now completely gone, all traces of metal removed.

Princess Shuri said she had fixed things inside Bucky's shoulder, so that, should Bucky wish, giving him a new permanent arm would be easy for her. But on the outside, it was all skin, folded over the hole in Bucky's body so an almost straight line formed the left side of his silhouette.

Steve remembered something Bucky had said to the princess and now he took a couple steps closer, until he could see himself reflected in the edge of the mirror, alongside Bucky.

"So, no new arm?"

Bucky's brooding face seemed to lighten, and he turned away from the mirror, toward Steve. "Nope. Just me."

Steve gave him a little smile. "That's all I want."

Bucky gave a tired kind of grin, and threw his shirt at Steve. "One thing I don't remember is you being such a sap."

Steve threw the t-shirt back. "Well, you've turned into a giant teddy bear, so I think we're even." He ducked the shirt again as he went to grab some sleep clothes of his own.

Sam called down the hall that he was taking a shower, so they both made quick work of brushing their teeth. Now it was Steve's turn to stare into the mirror above the sink, seeing himself and Bucky side-by-side, just like they had been on that morning six months ago. Just like always.

Bucky was rinsing off his toothbrush, when Steve noticed that his hand was trembling. Steve frowned, and glanced at Bucky's face, but he had his head down now, a curtain of dark hair hiding his expression. Before Steve could speak, Bucky had turned and padded out of the bathroom. But Steve could swear he heard the other man's teeth chatter together.

He finished up as quickly as possible, called to Sam that the bathroom was free, and headed for his and Bucky's room. As he shut the door behind him, he saw that Bucky was already in bed, head buried under the blankets. But it wasn't until he crawled in on the other side of the big double bed, switched off the light and rolled over onto his side, that he knew for sure.

Bucky was shivering.

"Buck? Hey, you okay?" He reached back over to turn the lamp on dim, and even in that short span, he could feel through the mattress the tremors intensifying. "Buck?" he tried again, pushing himself up on one elbow, reaching out with his other hand.

Bucky said nothing, but before Steve could begin to panic, he turned over onto his right side, facing Steve. Steve found those dark eyes, almost black in this light, and read the vulnerability there.

"C-c-c-cold."

Steve sank back down on the bed, putting out his own hand to meet Bucky's. His brother's fingers were like ice.

Steve wrapped both hands around Bucky's, trying to press his own warmth through Bucky's skin. He had to swallow hard before he asked, "Is it… aftereffects from the cryo?"

"Y-y-y-y-ea-ah."

He could feel Bucky shuffling closer, even as he continued to shake, and without a word, Steve took Bucky's hand and tucked it between his neck and the pillow, warmth and softness. He reached for the rest of Bucky then, tugging his trembling friend into his arms.

The cold fingers curled around the side of Steve's neck, gentle even in their need. Steve felt the shivers run through him now, as he pulled Bucky's head against his chest, and wrapped his other arm around Bucky's waist. He found Bucky's feet with his own, cold at the ends of the legs of his flannels, and tangled his warm ones with them.

For all his size and strength, Bucky felt small in Steve's arms, as he curled into Steve's body heat, pressing against Steve's living warmth, trying to soak as much of it up as he could. The shaking seemed to radiate from deep inside him, and Steve felt Bucky's hand shift as he slid his arm around Steve's neck, burrowing his face deeper into Steve's shirt.

Steve used one hand to pull the blankets up enough to cover Bucky completely, but leaving enough of a gap around his own shoulders that he wouldn't find it stifling. Bucky made a small sound in his throat, and Steve tightened his right arm around Bucky's back, rubbing his hand in slow circles. He rested his other hand on the back of Bucky's head, and began to comb his fingers through his friend's shoulder-length hair.

Still Bucky shuddered against him, but Steve could tell that the strength of the shivering was already lessening.

"I-I-I remem-ember. This us-s-sed to happen a l-l-l-lot." Bucky took a breath, and Steve could feel him consciously trying to relax, but that was hard. "With- with th-them. I w-wouldn't be ab-b-ble to sleep the firs-s-st night. So c-cold."

What did they do for you? Not a question Steve wanted to ask.

Bucky gave him the answer anyway. "They f-found a drug that s-stopped it."

The bone-deep shaking had slowed to lighter tremors, though every now and then another hard shiver would grip Bucky. Steve could feel that Bucky's feet, tucked under Steve's left leg, were no longer freezing cold. The top of Bucky's head bumped Steve's chin, as Bucky turned it to rest his cheek against Steve's sternum.

"This is better than drugs."

...

The only sound was their breathing. Bucky dozed in Steve's arms, warm and limp, his one arm now tucked between their bodies.

Steve could feel himself drifting toward sleep, and he quietly disentangled his right arm from Bucky, and reached behind himself to switch off the lamp.

Bucky stirred, but Steve settled them both again, his grip on Bucky loosening in the dark, as they both relaxed into sleep.

Bucky slipped from his arms.

He could feel him falling, tried to catch him, tried to catch them both, but he couldn't. Bucky was slipping away, down, down, down towards the snow, the ice. His terrified eyes held Steve's, and he flung out his hand, reaching for Steve to save him.

Already the ice was closing around Bucky, but Steve knew, if he could just catch Bucky's hand, he could pull him out, he could rescue him.

He felt Bucky's fingertips brush his, before they slid away, and he lunged forward reaching, stretching, desperate. But something froze him, right there, and his eyes could only watch the gap between their hands grow wider and wider as Bucky fell, his eyes never leaving Steve's face.

Steve couldn't tell which of them was screaming.

"No!"

"Bucky!"

"Steve!"

A hand closed around his, warm fingers wrapped around his cold ones, and Steve caught his breath.

"Steve."

He opened his eyes in the dark. No white snow, no ice. The weight of blankets covering him, a hand holding tightly to his left.

A light came on, soft glow spreading across the room.

"Stevie?"

Buck. A sound escaped Steve's throat, somewhere between Bucky's name and a sob. He rolled onto his side, reaching for Bucky with his other hand, and pulling him close once again. He could feel the tears on his face, as he lifted their clasped hands to his chest, pressed them over his heart, bone and sinew that did not slip away, but stayed, warm and sweaty and gripping Steve's hand back.

Bucky's forehead pressed against his, his legs tangled with Steve's; little touches that grounded Steve in this moment, in Bucky's reality, pushing the dream into the background. Steve pulled him closer, burying his face between the pillow and Bucky's shoulder, soaking the fabric of his friend's shirt.

"Bucky," he whispered, between the broken sobs. "Bucky!"

"I'm right here," came Bucky's answer. "Right here. I swear."

Steve could hear him, could take in what he was saying, could even believe it. But the sensation of Bucky once more falling away from him had dug its claws in again, and only the solidness of Bucky's hand in his, of Bucky's body pressed against him, could ease the pain in his heart. Steve clung to Bucky, and cried.

Bucky held him until he could breathe again.

When they were lying quietly, facing each other less than a foot apart, clasped hands resting in the space between their chests, Steve spoke again.

"Don't leave me."

Bucky's eyes held his, and Steve thought he saw a deep sadness sweep through Bucky's expression. "Please," Steve whispered. "Don't fall again."

He felt like a child, asking the stupidest questions, and yet questions that burned to be asked. But Bucky only bowed his head, and pressed his cheek to the back of Steve's hand; rough stubble, warm skin. Steve couldn't tell from his angle, but he was pretty sure Bucky's eyes were closed. "Can't fall now," the dark-haired man murmured. "Not now you caught me."

A breath escaped Steve that he didn't know he'd been holding, and he ducked his own chin to rest his head against Bucky's. Under Steve's other arm, draped over Bucky's side, Bucky breathed slow and steady.

Hadn't they already done this tonight? Steve thought. Now who was comforting who?

Touch was always something they'd shared easily and freely, especially Bucky; a natural extension of their friendship.

Even when Steve was a kid, so often sick and weak—avoided like the plague by other kids, treated like either glass or garbage by adults—Bucky never hesitated to reach out: a punch in the arm, a hand on a shoulder, tickle fights, boxing lessons, falling asleep with his arm thrown over Steve. And as much as he might shrug Bucky off at times, part of Steve had always been grateful, knowing it was Bucky's way of saying he was Steve's friend, of saying he cared.

Touch had been a kind of language for Bucky, but one Steve had learned too.

Steve remembered when they were kids in the depths of the Depression, when Bucky's family had struggled to even hold together, and sometimes Steve would simply press his shoulder into Bucky's, trying to let him know he wasn't alone. Nights when they were older and it was just the two of them trying to survive, when Bucky would come home exhausted, and they would sit on the couch without speaking, Bucky slumped against Steve's side.

The war had only served to deepen the meaning of such moments; when horrors piled up and death won and words failed, they could stand and hold each other close and just breathe. Or when Bucky—worn out from a nightmare of that HYDRA factory—shivered, wordless against Steve's side, until the other man's warmth became enough and his body relaxed into sleep.

Steve had watched over him, a guilty gratefulness mixing with the pain; gratefulness for a chance to return to Bucky at least a little of the comfort he had so frequently given Steve.

Reaching out for each other was something that ran in the bedrock of their brotherhood.

"I'm sorry."

Bucky's whisper interrupted Steve's wandering thoughts, and he blinked in the darkness. "What?"

"I'm sorry." Bucky's voice was tight, pained. "I'm sorry I left you. I'm sorry I walked away. I'm sorry I… ran."

Steve stopped with his mouth open, suddenly knowing that Bucky wasn't talking about the train. He pulled away a few inches, but Bucky kept his face hidden.

"You… hardly knew what you were doing," Steve murmured, hardly knowing what he was saying. He remembered the intense loneliness and longing that would almost crush him at times, the pain of knowing that Bucky was out there, broken and lost, trying to make it alone. And yet the guilt and fear that ran through every line of Bucky's cringing posture, hurt Steve far more.

"I knew enough to save you." Bucky's voice was low and pained. "But even after, when I did know. When I… I knew I wouldn't try to hurt you again. I knew who you were, even when I didn't know who I was. And then… I knew who I was supposed to be. But I– I still didn't go to you."

Now, Steve freed his hand from Bucky's, and pulled Bucky back into his arms, wrapping both tightly around his friend. A question rose in Steve's throat, and he knew he would ask it. But first and foremost, he needed to make sure Bucky could feel how much Steve loved him, trying to say the most important thing with his hands, even as he spoke other words.

"Why? Why not?"

Bucky kept his head tucked against Steve's chest, and Steve heard his quivering inhale, felt his shoulders hunch a little more. "Scared."

That one word made Steve's heart ache, and he ducked his head, pressing his lips firmly against Bucky's hair, left hand on the back of Bucky's head. It was impulsive, yet unawkward, the only other thing Steve could think of to convey how much he cared about his friend. There was a short silence.

"It – I didn't – You – " Bucky was struggling now, and Steve rested his cheek on top of Bucky's head, let out a soft breath, rubbing his right hand on Bucky's back.

"Just say it, whatever you're thinkin'. Even if you don't think it'll make sense."

Bucky breathed in shakily, breathed out again. "I'm not – I-I wanted to be Bucky. I did. But I'm not. Not the old one. I'm not like that anymore. And I can't be."

I'm not who I used to be either, Steve wanted to say, but he didn't, knowing Bucky needed space.

"Who I am now…" Bucky was talking through a lump in his throat. "I wanted to find as much of myself as possible. But it was never enough. You deserved more." His voice broke slightly. "Who I am now? I can't be enough."

A breath Steve didn't realize he'd been holding, escaped, and his arms tightened almost painfully around Bucky. He pressed his face into Bucky's hair, unable to completely hold back the tears.

"Buck," he whispered. "Oh, Bucky."

A tremor ran through Bucky's shoulders, and Steve guessed he was crying. Steve caught a shaky breath, swallowed with difficulty, and turned his head to put his mouth next to Bucky's ear.

"You're Bucky. And that is enough. More than good enough."

A choked sob from Bucky, who burrowed his head in further against Steve's chest, his hand tangled in Steve's shirt, holding on as if for his life.

"Do you hate me?"

The words were so quiet and broken, Steve hardly caught them. But he did. Swallowing back the sobs, he spoke, his voice trembling with the depth of feeling in his heart.

"Never."

"I'm." A sob. "Sorry."

"Already forgiven, Buck. Always."

Steve's voice broke and then he was crying too, because, Dear, Lord, had Bucky carried that fear with him for all this time? He'd thought he had to do it alone? He had been afraid that he couldn't be enough for Steve? When the most Steve had let himself truly hope for was to hear his name in Bucky's voice, one more time?

Yes, there had been times when Steve was tired and frustrated and there had been hurt and even resentment for the way Bucky kept disappearing. At first Steve had turned on himself for even thinking like that, until Sam got through to him: "Feelings and emotions are normal and you can't blame yourself for having them. It's what makes us human. It's what you do about them, that makes the difference."

So, any time those feelings came back, he had simply forgiven Buck—something already as natural as breathing—and kept going.

And now lying here in the middle of the night, holding his brother tight in his arms, none of that even mattered, as Steve's heart broke with the overwhelming love he felt toward him.

Steve opened his mouth, and a sob choked off any words. So he buried his face in Bucky's hair, and let the tears fall. He didn't even know why he was crying exactly; he wanted to talk to Bucky, to tell him over and over again that he loved him, that he was with him to the end of the line and—last he checked—that end hadn't come yet. He wanted to say that nothing Bucky could ever do would make Steve stop loving him, and if he didn't like that, he'd just have to deal with it.

I love you. I love you. I love you. It was a rhythm Steve's very heart beat out, but he still couldn't speak, so he held Bucky like he'd never let go, trying send that message through his hands and into Bucky's own heart.

I'm with you to the end of the line, pal.

It was a little while before the tears finally stopped, and Steve found he could breath and swallow without difficulty. He lifted his right hand to dry his face, before looping that arm back over Bucky's side. Bucky was still sniffling against Steve's shirt, the front of which was now damp with his tears, but Steve didn't care.

Steve rested his chin on the crown of Bucky's head, running his fingers through Bucky's hair, trying to sort through his heart and mind. There were too many words he wanted to say, too many things he wanted to tell Bucky again and again, to show him over and over how much Steve loved him that he didn't know where to start.

When he opened his mouth, the words all jammed in his throat, and he still couldn't speak.

Bucky stirred in his arms, pulling away slightly, and rolling partway onto his back. He shifted so that his head rested comfortably on Steve left arm, tucked against Steve's shoulder, and sighed deeply.

"Pancakes," he muttered hoarsely.

Steve blinked a few times, then pulled away, staring down at Bucky, bewildered. "Wha-?"

"For breakfast. You promised. Pancakes for my first breakfast after I got out." Bucky sniffed again, frowning up at Steve who was now leaning on his elbows. "Don't tell me you forgot. Hell, who's got a bad memory round here anyway?"

Something odd was happening in Steve's chest, and with his face. He couldn't think what –

Pancakes?

"Pan-cakes?" he choked out, and then the feeling burst out of him and… he was laughing. He was laughing. He flopped back on the pillows, almost choking with hysterical laughter, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Pancakes?!" he gasped. "Pancakes? That's all you can think about? Now? Pancakes?!" Another burst of hilarity, and somehow the way Bucky was staring at him like he'd turned into an alien, just made it so much funnier.

And then he heard Bucky giggle.

Steve didn't know if he was laughing or crying then. Something inside him seemed to be cracking open, something that had been chained up tightly felt like it was breaking free.

It was somewhere in the middle of the night, as he lay in bed, laughing with his best friend in the entire universe, but for Steve the sun had risen.

Pancakes. For breakfast. Because there was a breakfast to eat in the morning. They would have the whole next morning, to talk and eat and be together. And the rest of the day after that. And another morning after that, and another, and another…

He caught his breath, and turned his head to look across at Bucky. Bucky… smiled. Small, and kinda tired. But an honest-to-goodness smile that pierced Steve's heart with a joy that hurt. And once again, he couldn't speak.

He reached out and clasped Bucky's hand, found himself smiling back. Because… that was okay. Because he didn't have to say it now. He could say it in the morning, and later in the day, and then again the day after that, and the day after that. He'd tell Bucky in every way he knew how, so that he'd never doubt Steve's love again.

Steve and Bucky had something they thought they'd never have again. They had time.

Bucky linked his fingers with Steve's, and Steve felt his brother's heartbeat where their wrists pressed together; steady and strong.

"Pancakes," Steve said. "For breakfast. That's a promise."

"Good."

Now Bucky yawned, and he wriggled closer to Steve again, nestling against his side, and pressing his cheek against Steve's shoulder with a contented little sigh.

Steve reached with his free hand to tap the light off (which must have come on automatically when he called out in his sleep), and then pulled the blankets back up over them both, letting the warmth and the life and the hope wrap itself around him. Around them both.

Nightmares and crying and middle-of-the-night emotional discussions were actually pretty exhausting, and Steve could feel his eyelids beginning to get heavy. Bucky breathed, slow and soft against him, and Steve tilted his head to rest against Bucky's.

Bucky had often held Steve's hand when they were kids, small enough to be given the order by their mothers. And Steve remembered waking up in a fevered haze to find Bucky gripping his hand as if he could physically prevent Steve from slipping any further into sickness. But there was nothing forced or desperate about this handclasp. It was the simplest way they knew, to say the simplest thing.

I'm here.

He shifted his grip on Bucky's hand so it was more comfortable, tucking their hands between their bodies. Bucky didn't stir, and Steve closed his eyes.

I love you, Buck, he thought, and maybe he'd actually said it, because he could have sworn he heard Bucky mumble sleepily, "Love you back, Stevie."

Or maybe he just dreamed that. If he did, it was the best dream he'd had in a long time.

---

"There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear." - 1 John 4:18

...

I can almost feel you breathing
Like a whisper in my ear
I remember how you lost me
Or how I lost you
I stare into the blackness
It's staring back at me
Why did I try to live without you?
I want you
I need you

Open up my eyes
I need your light again
Burning me inside
I need your love again
I can feel our heart collide
I can feel our hearts ignite
Open up my eyes
I'm yours again

-'Yours Again' by Red