Editor's Note: I hope everyone's still enjoying the story! I know I'm having fun writing it. I'm still nervous about posting, just because I rarely share my writing with anyone but my best friend. But if you do enjoy the story, feel free to let me know in some way. Wether it be a follow, favorite, comment, or just by spreading the word to your friends, I'd greatly appreciate it! I check in on this site daily.

. . .

The sunlight filtered green through the trees, a discordant highlight against the black-clad onlookers. A maplewood coffin rested on the grass waiting to be lowered. Bucky stood beside Steve for the entire service, watching him warily from time to time. Steve remained unchanged, staring straight ahead with a stone-hard look. He kept his shoulders squared and held his head high. Bucky expected him to waver, to show even a hint of emotion, but he never did. After the ceremony, Bucky went to speak with his parents. When he turned around, Steve was gone. Dark clouds came rushing in, and the first raindrops fell on Bucky's cheek.

He found Steve rummaging in his pockets for his keys outside his apartment door. His hands were shaking. Bucky kicked over the cinderblock and picked up the spare key, holding it out to Steve. He took it but wouldn't look at Bucky.

"I looked for you afterward. With my parents. They wanted to see how you were doing."

"I didn't really feel like being around people."

Bucky nodded. "Come home with me. I'll make you some dinner. We can build a fort like we used to. My mom made some pie."

Steve finally looked up at him. "Thank you, Buck. But I can get by one my own." He tried smiling, but it didn't convince Bucky.

He knew Steve was just trying to be strong. As always, he was overcompensating for his lack of physical strength. "I know, but you don't have to." He wanted to wrap Steve in his arms, to make all the pain go away, to make him realize he didn't have to hide his emotions…to help him in some way. Instead, he clapped his hand over Steve's boney shoulder. "I'm with you 'til the end of the line."

Steve nodded and looked at his hands, not quite masking the grief breaking through. When he didn't say anything, Bucky turned to leave. "Bucky?" Steve's voice crackled a little. Bucky turned back to him. "Would you stay? Just for a little while?"

"Of course."

Steve held out the key to him, and Bucky opened the door. Steve stood in the living room, not really noticing his surroundings while Bucky pulled two glasses from the cupboard in the kitchen and popped the latch on the cabinet above the stove. That was where Steve's father had kept the brown bottles of whisky. There was one bottle left that hadn't been opened, and it was cloaked in dust. Bucky pulled it down and wrestled the cork out. He doled out a dose in each glass. Steve was still standing in the middle of the living room when Bucky handed him his glass. Steve inspected the dark liquid as though he'd never seen anything like it. Without further hesitation, he pressed the glass to his lips and tossed back the contents in one go. He grimaced and growled, but handed the glass back to Bucky. "Another," he said. Bucky handed over his own glass and retrieved the bottle from the kitchen. Steve had downed the second glass by the time he returned. Bucky refilled both and sat on the couch.

"Sit down, Steve." When he didn't respond, Bucky pulled him gently by the wrist. Steve nearly fell onto the cushion, a drop of whisky dripping over his fingers. He drank the rest of that glass as well and held it out to Bucky. He grabbed it from Steve's hand, but set it on the side table. "Slow down, Steve. The bottle's not going anywhere."

Steve leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and head in his hands. He didn't move or speak, and Bucky let the silence wash over them both. In that moment, Steve looked too small, too frail, to possibly exist. Even the slightest breeze could cut him. Bucky wondered how he never seemed to notice. He drank from his own glass and set it beside Steve's. Moments passed before Steve moved again, running his fingers through his hair. His eyes were rimmed red and his cheeks were damp. He glanced at Bucky and lost all composure. Bucky sat closer to him and slid an arm over his shoulder. He leaned into Bucky ever so slightly, where he let himself cry.

Bucky instinctively tensed, but relaxed after a second. Steve cried silently, but he shook all over. Bucky wondered if it had been a good idea to give him the whiskey, but he also wondered if Steve would have been able to express his grief in any way if he hadn't. In all the years they'd been friends, Steve refused to admit to any vulnerabilities. Bucky was just glad he was there for him in any way at all. Maybe he wasn't holding him quite the way he always wanted, in any circumstance he ever imagined, but they were there together.

Time ticked away, though they remained unchanged, and Steve had quieted down. His breathing evened out and became shallow, and he was now leaning against Bucky entirely. "Do you need anything?" Bucky asked. When Steve didn't answer, he looked at him. Steve had fallen asleep, and was now curled up for warmth. Bucky smiled a little and eased Steve in the other direction so that he was laying down with his head on a toss pillow. He then grabbed the blanket from the back of the couch, draped it over Steve, and smoothed away the wispy bits of blonde hair from his forehead. "Goodnight, Steve."

The next morning, the grey of dawn made a feeble attempt to shine through the blue curtains. Bucky rolled onto his side, towards the couch, and saw Steve's hand dangling over the edge. Steve lay on his stomach with half his face pressed into the pillow. His pink lips were slightly parted, and a whisper of a snore sounded with each measured breath he took. Even in his sleep, Steve's brow furrowed. His long lashes brushed the top of his cheeks—dark against his grief-paled skin. A bit of Steve's bronze hair had slipped over his eyelid.

Bucky sat up, hesitated a moment, then brushed the hair away from Steve's face. The small motion sent Bucky's heart fluttering, his breathing erratic, but Steve remained asleep. Bucky's fingertips hovered over Steve's temple before he pulled his hand back. Steve huffed a small sigh. It was several moments before Bucky's pulse calmed, and he smiled at his daring. But Steve didn't seem so troubled in his sleep. The deep furrow on his brow lessened to a light crease.

Bucky resumed the position he'd held all night—back against the couch, legs outstretched, and listening to Steve sleep. He hadn't gotten much sleep himself, and even now he felt the heavy, gritty pull of drowsiness. But every time he tried for sleep, he'd ended up tossing about, dancing with sleep.

Steve's hand twitched and brushed against Bucky's arm. Without thinking, Bucky slipped his fingers between Steve's. He felt the warmth of his own palm heating the Steve's cold palm. Bucky ran the pad of his thumb over the back of Steve's hand in slow circles. Realization of what he was doing hit him, and Bucky let go.

Embarrassment and shame washed over him. If Steve ever found out…He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. His hand rested on the back of his neck while he grabbed the bottle of whiskey with the other. He drank a long pull straight from the bottle, the alcohol burning and scraping down his throat, spreading fire outward to his extremities.

. . .

It had been a week since Bucky walked back into camp. In that time, he'd been left on his own. No one requested his return to his usual duties, demanded he be looked over by the nurses, or asked him to recount his time in captivity. The men who hadn't been part of the 107th watched him pass with curiosity and wonder. They whispered when they thought he couldn't hear, and looked away when they caught him watching them in turn. He'd become isolated in a place that had become so familiar. Even Steve was giving him more space than was necessary after that first night in the bar. They'd caught each other's attention a few times, exchanged half-hearted smiles, but went their own directions. The distance was killing Bucky, more so than when he'd left Steve in the States for war. He finally had Steve there with him, but he couldn't bring himself to even speak to him. So he spent his days dodging people and spent his nights at the bar. The bartender was already handing him his daily dose of whiskey without Bucky needing to order.

Bucky sipped from his second glass of the night, fighting back the images of needles and sharp hands, and didn't react when Steve sat next to him. He wouldn't even look up from the counter he was hunched over. Steve ordered a whiskey as well.

"You know, you can't drink away your pain."

Bucky raised his glass to his lips. "I'd settle for my memories." He drank half of the remnants.

"You know I'm here for you, Bucky. You can talk to me about anything." Steve's voice was soft and tore at Bucky's stark resolve. "It'd be better than drinking to forget."

Bucky looked at Steve, the smallest smile playing at the corners of his lips. Steve seemed to belong in his US army uniform, and Bucky was having a difficult time imagining him in anything else. The man before him was the man Steve always thought himself to be. But it was the fact that Steve wouldn't need him anymore that was making this difficult. "I wish I could."

"Just this once, let me be there for you, Bucky. Please."

Bucky nodded and ran his thumb over the rim of his glass. "I was going to die in there, Steve. I knew it and accepted it. At first I fought—who wouldn't? But it got bad." Bucky clenched his jaw. "I can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes…" his voice broke. "I can see their faces. Feel their needles, feel the electricity pulling and twisting every fiber of my muscles. I can't escape it." He hung his head, hiding his fear and shame.

Steve was quiet a moment. He hadn't touched the drink cradled in his hands. "I'm sorry." He watched Bucky carefully, seeing the creases beneath his unkempt fringe. "I wish I could have been there with you—front of the line."

Bucky smirked wryly and glanced at Steve. "That would have been a sight. I thought about it a few times."

"Yeah?"

"You've always been stronger than me. I admire you for that." Bucky left a thin layer of liquid at the bottom of his glass. He swirled it around the corners of the glass before sliding it back to the bartender.

"If I was so strong, how come I always needed you to bail me out?" Steve finally took a small sip from his glass. "Without you looking out for me, I probably would have died…a few times. I just don't know when to walk away."

Bucky shrugged away his comment. "You were just too easy of a target. Someone needed to tell those kids that."

"I mean it, Bucky. I don't know where I'd be without you." He swallowed and hunched over the counters. "That's what makes this difficult." Bucky watched Steve with a crinkled brow. "I can only ask, and I'd completely understand if you said no…"

"Just say what you need."

Steve looked at Bucky with the same respect and admiration he always had. "I'm going after Hydra. The Red Skull needs to be stopped, and I'd like you to go with me. I've already got the go-ahead to build my own team."

Bucky loosed a long breath and ran his hand through his hair. "Captain America needs my help?"

"No, but Steve Rogers does. Look, I know it's a lot to ask—especially after what you've been through. But I'm not sure I can do it without my best friend watching my back."

Bucky smirked and shifted closer to Steve. "Hey. You know I'd follow Steve Rogers anywhere."

Steve grinned. "Yeah?"

"Absolutely." He pointed to the poster. "You're not keeping the suit, are you?"

"Well…It is kinda growing on me." His grin widened.

"Sorry to interrupt, boys, but I've been looking everywhere for you, Steve." It was that gorgeous brunette, but tonight she was clad in a form-fitting red dress with the lipstick to match. Precisely the type of girl Bucky would while away the time with. Both of them stood as the woman approached. Bucky made a half-hearted attempt to discreetly straighten his shirt. Steve stood a little too straight and allowed a little too much fear to show on his face. He looked as though he might run away if she took another step towards him.

"You were looking for me?" He cleared his throat.

Bucky puffed out his chest a little, holding his shoulders back. "Hello, ma'am." His tone exuded charm, but he cringed at the words. Ma'am? Was she his school teacher? "The names's Sargent James Buchannan Barnes." He flashed her the toothy, crooked, boyish grin he'd perfected over the years. "Or Bucky, if you'd rather."

"You are to report to the Colonel in the morning. He wants to start going over your plans for taking down Hydra in further detail." She didn't even spare a glance at Bucky. Rather, he dark brown eyes danced over Steve's form, memorizing the curves of his face. Her eyes lingered a little too long on his lips before looking up into his eyes.

Steve seemed to relax a tiny bit. "Another meeting with the Colonel? Don't you ever have fun?" An uncertain grin betrayed Steve's lingering nerves.

The corner of her painted lips twitched upward in a seductive smirk. "What would be the point when there's work to be done?"

"How 'bout I take you dancing? I'm sure I could help you forget about work for a while." Bucky didn't even bother adding a grin to his statement, knowing he was practically invisible. A hint of a sharp tone edged his words.

"I'm waiting for the right dance partner." It was the first time she'd even remotely acknowledged Bucky had spoken, and she still stared up at Steve as she spoke.

Steve had backed up to the barstool, clutching the edge so he wouldn't stumble backward, but he smiled down at the woman. There was confidence in that smile that Bucky hadn't seen before. With pursed lips, Bucky looked at the woman then back to Steve. He felt he was intruding on a private moment. The woman eyed Steve's lips again. Steve's gaze had softened to wonder and admiration as he smiled at her. Steve held nothing back. Bucky looked at his feet, focusing on keeping his breathing even, though a small lump in his throat was trying to choke him. He ignored the next few moments of their conversation and looked up only when the woman turned to leave. As she walked past, Bucky rushed to waive goodbye and force a fake smile. Steve watched her go with a lustful expression. "It's like I'm invisible. No, it's worse. I'm turning into you." Bucky sank back onto his barstool.

Steve joined him again. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that I'm off my game."