"These are pretty good," Bucky told Steve one day after rifling through a pile of Steve's sketches. "You did always want to go to art school. Did you ever get the chance to go take some classes?" he asked, stretching out over the sofa, reaching out towards Steve, and it's so 1940s that Steve has to take a breath before he can respond.
"I can't believe you remember that," Steve muttered after a moment, passing a hand over his eyes. He'd been looking more and more tired recently, although Bucky couldn't imagine why. They went to bed at around the same time every night, and certainly Steve's bed in the Tower was far more comfortable than any Bucky had ever had the privilege to sleep in. If Bucky was being honest with himself, it was almost too comfortable, and sometimes he found himself waking up in the middle of the night, carefully untangling Steve's arm, heavy with sleep, from around his shoulders, and lying down on the floor, where he'd close his eyes and fall asleep almost immediately. He and Steve never talked about it, but he always woke up with a pillow wedged under his head, a blanket lying tangled over him, and a warm hollow in his half of the bed shaped like Steve.
"No, I didn't," Steve answered, clearing his throat. "I've been meaning to, God knows Tony's got enough money to afford to pack me away to art school, but it just seems that, you know, there's bigger, more important things besides learning how to manipulate figure-ground relationships and stuff. And I don't think it would be very fair for the teachers if they had to postpone a final because Captain America had some other things to do."
A sharp twinge of pain ran through Bucky's mind, and he groaned, dropping his head into his hands. Steve was by his side in an instant, a solid, comforting weight on the sofa cushion next to him, a hand, warm, clasping at his shoulder and rubbing in soft, soothing circles. Images flashed through his mind, imprinted on the backs of his eyelids, words ringing in his ears, you know how to make it stop, Mr. Barnes, I know you do, and his heart was racing in his chest, and Bucky could have sworn it was beating a tattoo on the inside of his ribcage, rhythmic and relentless, and he reached up to grasp at Steve's - Steve's not Captain America's - fingers, squeezing tightly until the pain began to pulse away, leaking out the corners of his eyes, salty and bitter. Steve's thumb came up to brush at his cheek, and he leaned into the touch, trying to ignore the way a chill had worked its way up his spine.
"You okay?" Steve asked quietly, and Bucky nodded hesitantly, his eyes drifting over a few scattered sketches that had slipped from his hands. There was one of him, really quite well done, he thought to himself, although it wasn't particularly realistic; he couldn't possibly look so peaceful, he always felt like there were a million thoughts running through his head at once and the world was going too fast for him. There was one of Natasha, cherry red curls fanning out from her face like a fiery halo, and Bucky smiled fondly at her image, remembering icy winters in Moscow cuddled up in bear skins by a fire, drinking vodka and letting her hair spread out all across his chest as she curled up into him. He wondered absentmindedly if Natasha had told Steve about Russia. Wondered if it mattered.
"Nat told me about it," Steve said, almost like reading his mind. "The two of you in Russia." There was a slight pause, and Bucky looked up to find Steve frowning, his lips pinched together, as though rolling his next sentence around his mouth and not liking the taste of it.
Before he could, Bucky hastened to fill the silence. "Are you...angry about that?" he asked after a moment, and Steve's look of consternation turned to confusion.
"Angry?" he asked, as though he'd thought nothing of the sort. Perhaps he hadn't. "Not really. Natasha's a lovely lady, although I can't say that I'm too pleased with knowing I was alive and you were alive at that time and you didn't come looking for me."
Bucky rolled his eyes, elbowed Steve in the ribs, and smiled hesitantly at him. "Well, you mention Captain America" - the name tastes bitter and acidic in his mouth, and he spits it out as quickly as possible - "in Russia, and you see how you turn out."
Steve smiled absentmindedly, and ruffled fingers through Bucky's dark hair.
"I was already forgetting things then, too," Bucky muttered, leaning back into Steve. "Sometimes I'd come home and find Natasha's coat hanging up by the door and I'd just about go ballistic because I thought that maybe there was an intruder in the place, that since it wasn't my coat, it definitely had to be a bad guy's, because I lived alone...and then she'd come out, her hair wrapped in a towel, and she'd sit down with me and pull out a short list, kind of like the ones you write for the grocery store, and go over them with me. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes, you are my boyfriend, my name is Natasha Romanov, we work together, that sort of thing." From this angle, when he looked up, he couldn't see Steve's expression.
When Steve still didn't say anything, Bucky pressed his head back into the hollow of Steve's throat. "I don't mean it, you know," he said, reaching up blindly and feeling around Steve's face with his flesh hand. Steve's skin was warm to the touch, and Bucky pulled back his fingers, glistening and tasting of salt.
He let his hand drop to his side, and decided not to mention it.
He asked me the other day if maybe Tony and Bruce could implant some sort of GPS tracker under his skin or something, they apparently had microchips put in cats and dogs and all sorts of other pets these days to find where they were if they ever went missing. Yes, cats and dogs and animals, I wanted to shout at him. Is that what you are? I managed to refrain.
Even though the idea itself isn't particularly bad, I can't bear the thought of any more artificial things being sewn underneath his skin, taking up the room where his feelings and memories and words ought to be. The scars he had on his chest from before have already all but faded, and are just the faintest pink lines running along his skin. He asked what they were, and I didn't have the heart to tell him. Didn't have the heart to tell him. I've clearly gotten onto the bad puns stage of grief, wherever that happens to be. Denial? Anger? Probably anger. I can't imagine what kind of monster could possibly do this.
Well, in my experience with the world, I think I can honestly say that the only monsters this world has are people. We kill and lie and steal and then wonder why the world is devolving into such a horrendous place.
But Bucky's not...that. Granted, he's done his fair share of lying and stealing, and true, he did try to kill me the first time he saw me in this era, but he's not the same as the people you see on the television, who beat their partners and their children and keep people locked up in the basement for years on end. But Buck's not like that. He's not a monster, despite his metal arm, despite the history he can't seem to remember, despite the way he flinches whenever the words "Captain America" are mentioned.
I've noticed he has this weird quirk where he gets up in the middle of the night and goes over to the windows in my room, looks out as if contemplating whether jumping would kill him. He always stands there for about an hour before going back to the side of the bed and lying down on the floor. At this point, I roll over into his side, whether to feel closer to him, or just to stare at his sleeping outline and wonder what he's dreaming about for hours on end, or just to be near enough to stuff a pillow under his head and toss an extra blanket over him if he looks like he gets cold in the middle of the night. I'm not sure he does, he's never complained about it, and he supposedly did spend a few years in Russia, so perhaps he's just used to it. I don't want to think about him locked up in somebody's basement, slowly getting acclimated to the freezing temperatures and huddling in the corner in shredded clothes, trying to keep warm.
Speaking of Russia. I feel extremely conflicted on that subject. Yes, I'm irritated that Bucky and I were awake and conscious for some time simultaneously during this century, and I didn't know. Yes, I'm a bit annoyed that he and Natasha have some history together, history that I'll never be privy to, but then I remember that I've got all of Bucky's childhood and adolescence in the palm of my hand, and this never fails to make me feel a little better, even though Bucky admits that he himself is a bit shaky on the details, but I suppose six or seven decades will do that to a person. That, and whatever he goes through whenever he leaves. On the other hand, I'm glad that he had somebody I've come to trust taking care of him while he was there and making sure he didn't freeze to death or drink himself into a coma or the like.
Natasha once told me that one morning she woke up, and Bucky had just disappeared, no shoes, no keys, no coat, no trace of himself left behind. I suppose I should be thanking my lucky stars that Bucky hasn't upped and packed the contents of his wardrobe here (admittedly, there's not much) and run away. But it's almost worse, somehow, seeing his shirts hanging in the closet by mine, day after day when I open it to get dressed, and hoping beyond hope that today might be the day he comes back, the hope slowly growing bitter and acrid in the back of my throat as the day passes and I lie down to sleep and try to think of what tomorrow might bring.
He tells me today that I draw well, and I store the compliment away deep in my mind for a time when he will not be here, for a time when he will not remember ever saying it, and think bitterly to myself that ordinary people don't have to do this. He traces the contours of Natasha's face almost reverently, and I wonder if he's ever looked at me the same way and I just haven't been watching him back to see it.
"Nat told me about it," I told him, watching his fingers smudge one of Natasha's curls. "The two of you in Russia." I pause for a moment, willing the jealous questions to crawl back down into my throat. Do you still love her? Were you like this then? Anybody can say 'I love you,' but even a computer can say those words and they won't mean anything because it comes from a metal place, so how can I know you're telling the truth?
"Are you...angry about that?" he asks me, looking hopefully up at me, and I wonder if the hope burns bitter in the back of his throat also.
"Angry? Not really," I lie. There I go, lying, just like a monster. Words make hypocrites of us all.
He assures me that he was like this, forgetful and dizzy, even then, back in Russia. He hastens to fill the silence with his thoughts, and I don't even notice I'm crying until he reaches up with his flesh hand and presses it against my cheek, fingertips just barely grazing against the skin before pulling away again.
Perhaps I should let him go through with the tracker idea. I don't know how much more of this I can take.