Sam, Steve, and Natasha planted their butts on the back bumper of the pickup truck, and semi-patiently waited for Fury's people to finalize securing the house. Natasha dropped her head on Steve's shoulder, Sam sighed and folded his arms across his chest. Three weeks of all-things-hospital left Natasha tired, Sam cranky and Steve better, if not entirely healed. Bucky continued to perfect his ghost persona.

"What the hell are they doing in there? I'm tired; I'm hungry, I want our house back." Sam groused while no one listened.

Steve rubbed his nearly good-to-go right leg and stared at Fury pacing the front porch; an odd dichotomy of hard-ass world-weariness with the soft yellow of an old farmhouse that spoke of home and comfort. He devoted a look of dutiful intensity towards him that he hoped masked his real thoughts; sex with Bucky.

He couldn't repress the small smile that crept across his face when he recalled last night's internet search for 'best male-male sex positions.' It froze Natasha's laptop with pop-ups. She was the picture of discretion when he handed her the computer that morning. "We - I broke it. Sorry. I'll get you a new one. Sorry."

Her response to the images when she tried to fix it was a single raised eyebrow and a slow closing of the screen. But, she made quick yet extensive plans to use the evidence as fodder for teasing in the future when the scowl-face that Steve was wearing was gone entirely.

The previous evening's search debacle culminated with Steve's red-faced banging on the keyboard and muttering, "Shit, shit, shit," which got Bucky laughing so hard he fell out of the hospital bed backward, taking the bedside table with him. The ensuing thud and clatter rang through the midnight quiet of a sleeping ward bringing the not-so-sympathetic night nurse to his room; again. A muttered, "Sorry about that," a slammed shut computer, and a limping attempt to help with the clean up was made all the more awkward by the shadowy reflection of Bucky curled in the fetal position under the bed. An attempt to avoid being thrown out of the place for the third time that night. The nurse signaled her "I'm done with this BS" when she firmly stated, "Goodnight Mr. Smith, get some rest, Mr. Smith, tell your friend to go home, Mr. Smith."

Bucky mumbled as he crawled back into the bed, "Hey, Mr. Smith, I can't get thrown out again. I'm running out of re-entry points. Who knew a hospital would challenge my breaking and entering skills?" He rough tugged Steve into a position that suited his plans to engulf him and settled in to pursue his thorough head-to-toe body exploration.

Steve fell back into the claiming hold of Bucky wrapped around his back. Tight shoulders relaxed into the firm press of his chest. He slipped his leg between Bucky's and tugged his thigh over his own. The warmth of their bodies matching limb for limb washed away the tension that owned every muscle, ligament, and cell of his being. A sense of comfort, of being protected crept into his mind. He wanted more.

He couldn't see the smile pressed to the nape of his neck, but it was clear in Bucky's whisper, "You like this. Me. Behind you." His answer with a roll of his hips back was met with a slow rhythmic push that brought a tighter hold and a flush across his skin when the smile became a bite. Metal fingers slipped under his T-shirt and raked up his chest to tug him back hard; the force of the pull shook his need for control; he gave in to Bucky's insistence.

"Maybe we should do this, Steve, me, inside of you." A rush of heat filled his gut at the rasped words that fell close to his ear, it drove his need to bring their mouths together, to push a deep and hungry kiss. His "Maybe so," stumbled out but was lost in Bucky's moan when he slipped his hand between them to slowly drag a thumb down the bulge pressing into his ass. He tugged at the sweats, pushing his hand beneath the band to brush against his cock, he waited for the gasp and push he knew it would bring from Bucky. Steve wanted to hear that sound, the gasps, and moans of the pleasure he was giving him. The heat of his body matched his own despite the clothing, he wanted to feel that warmth skin-to-skin, wanted to watch his face when he entered him again. He pulled out of the kiss, rolled towards him, his hand caught his cheek, "We're going home. In the morning, that's it; we're going home."

Bucky's aborted sex thoughts gave way to agreement, "Sure, I could have sworn I suggested that three weeks ago, but you had to go get your leg broken. So yeah, I'm good with that plan."

Fury's irritated baritone voice wasn't what dragged Steve from his daylight, in-public sexual musings about Bucky. It was his looming figure as he stood directly in front of Steve and made his demands, apparently for the second time:

"Rogers, are you even listening to me? Please tell me you are at least humoring me."

Steve blinked to refocus, "Go on."

"Rogers, tell your friend he owes me a chopper." Fury's voice built to a crescendo as he continued, "Not just any chopper, I want a Sikorsky S-97 with variable speed, rigid coaxial main rotors, and a variable-pitch pusher propeller. I want a god-damned compound helicopter with fly-by-wire control and dynamic anti-vibration actuators to cancel out shaking." He stalked the front yard in front of his captive audience then shouted, "And, I want guns, big guns, fifty calibers with 500 rounds and seven-shot rocket pods." He turned to face the house and announced with an additional amount of enthusiasm and depth, "Barnes. You owe me."

Fury stalked away, followed by a scurry of black-clad workers who left the front door open.

The three of them sat staring at the house.

Sam opened, "Well, that was interesting. Do you suppose they cleaned the fridge while they were in there?"

Steve's response came a full minute after his observation, "Alright, I'll see you two in a month, maybe two. See ya." He pushed off the truck and headed for the house.

Sam didn't fake the look of surprise, "Wait. My bed. I want my bed. We don't live here anymore? Is that the message? I'm hurt. Really."

Natasha patted his arm, "Let's go, Birdman. You do not want to be here."

"Why? It's our place too, or it was."

She tugged him towards her car, "It's ours too, but you-know-who is in there. Let them get it out of their systems. A month, two maybe three tops. I've got a great sub-lease in Edinburgh; you'll love it there."

Steve let his forehead rest on the glass of the front door while he watched them drive away. A gnawing ache in his leg caused him to shift a step back into the firm abs and immovable stance of Bucky. He wasn't startled. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Way too long, Rogers. You're going soft; I nearly peed myself trying not to laugh."

Steve drew in a breath, "We need to talk," but a thumb pressed against his lower back slowly traced the curve of his spine upwards forcing him to loosen his resolve.

Bucky muttered as he rubbed his cheek across the back of his head "They're not coming back, right?"

Steve rasped, "Nope," and gave in to Bucky's need to touch him. He twisted through the pinning hold to face him; he welcomed the roaming hands that tugged his jacket from his shoulders and pulled at the buttons on his pants.

Bucky leaned his forehead against Steve's and whispered, "Good, I got plans for us."

"Buck, we need to talk." The words stumbled out despite Steve getting lost in his touch.

"No talking. We're busy." He pulled at the T-shirt, raking his fingers along his abdomen.

"Yes talking. Where's the chopper?" He grabbed the roaming hands to hold them against his chest.

Bucky shook his head and groaned, "Fury's an idiot. That chopper was at least 20 years old, no way he gets a Sikorsky S-97 for that piece of crap I flew. He could get three of those used through an arms dealer I know for the price of one Sikorsky."

"Seriously, you lost the chopper?"

"No. Of course not. I said he's an idiot. If he looked behind his silo, he'd find it. I landed it in his backyard."

Steve let his head fall back against the door, "I don't want to know about Sokolov, do I?"

Bucky pulled his hands away from his grip and tucked them into his armpits. He stared past Steve at the wintry landscape, letting the moment sit still and quiet.

Steve studied his face; he drew in a breath to ask again but Bucky spoke.

"Look, it's snowing. Do we even have a shovel? Or are we going to get snowed in and stumble out of here during the spring thaw."

He turned to follow his gaze. "A shovel? Maybe in the garage."

Bucky's next pause was longer, his words quiet, "She's safe."

"Safe? She would have been safe at the Raft. Fury trusted you." Steve turned to watch him again.

Bucky's response started coherently but fell to a ramble as he stared past him, "No, The Raft can't hold her. She'll fool them. Fury used me. Like she used me. Like every other organization has used me. She's safe, not protected, not free. I know where she is, I control it, I call the shots now, tables turned. No more mind control, no more Widow manipulation, no more games, no more..."

Steve caught his face between his hands. "Okay, safe. I get it. Done. I trust you."

Bucky laid his weight on Steve, pushing him back against the door. His breath warmed Steve's neck; his hands slipped around his waist, he whispered, "Take me to bed. I want you to take me to bed."

Bucky let Steve lead him up the stairs. He followed his pull into the bedroom and watched as Steve undressed him, tugging away the T-shirt, unzipping his pants and dragging them down his legs. The only help was to kick off his shoes. He wanted Steve to do this, to own all of him, he would willingly give himself over to whatever Steve chose to do. He trusted him with everything, and now he would trust him with his body, he'd already given him his soul.

Bucky closed his eyes and let Steve's words flow over him, "I'm going to touch you. I'm going to touch, and caress every inch of your body."

He tilted his head to follow the whispered words as Steve moved around him, his hands doing exactly what he said he was going to do. Warm, rough-skinned fingers caressed his inner thighs, slipped across the point of his hip and traced a line deep into his groin, pointedly not connecting with his cock. His breath caught at the tease.

"I'm going to kiss you, but not on your mouth, on your body. Can I do that? Can I kiss you anywhere? My choice?"

His voice was close to Bucky's ear; the words ended with the wet touch of his tongue softly dragging along the lobe. He shuddered his response.

"I need your words, say it's okay or not."

Bucky nodded and muttered "Yes." He held his breath and waited, nearly opening his eyes when the wait took a heartbeat too long. The touch finally came, a gentle kiss laid down on his belly, he jumped at the contact.

"You okay still?"

"Yes."

Another kiss, firmer this time, a space lower than the first one. Bucky shivered away the flinch as Steve dropped the press of his mouth slowly down to his cock. He could hear him, long deep breaths that told Bucky he was right there feeling the tension, immersed in the moment with him. The quick touch of Steve's tongue to the tip of his cock, made his knees nearly give out. Steve caught his hips and held him as he dragged his tongue up the shaft and wrapped his mouth around him. He couldn't hold back the moan when Steve pulled his hips forward, moving his cock into his mouth, the feel of his lips pulling on him, teeth grazing his shaft, brought him so close to coming he grabbed Steve's shirt and dragged him to his feet.

"Hey, I wasn't done." Steve protested with a laugh in his tone, he whispered close to his cheek, "You liked that."

"You're still dressed, what the hell." Bucky's voice was thick. He pulled at Steve's clothes, rushing him out of them. He grabbed his arms to push him on the bed, but Steve pulled away.

"No. My way remember? I'm choosing."

Bucky relented to let Steve's hands fall on his hips, he stumbled back with the push and landed on the bed. The rush of weakness came on again when Steve's knee slipped between his legs, a hint of panic raced through his mind when his hand wrapped around his neck. Steve's crawl forward with a grip on his throat forced him to scramble towards the head of the bed. A flash of sweat across his chest when Steve settled between his thighs, the press of his knees, the rough caress of the sensitive skin brought Bucky to open his legs. A rush of heat grew up from his gut, the fingers around his neck tightened, he sucked in a breath, his pupils went wide. He vaguely heard Steve ask "You still okay, pal? You look unsure."

Bucky tried to speak, he nodded and blinked, no words came out at first, then a quiet, "Yes."

Steve brought their foreheads together, kept their eyes locked on one another so long that Bucky reached to kiss him, Steve pulled away. Bucky tried again, raising up on his elbows to chase Steve's mouth only to have his wrists caught and pinned over his head.

The slow rhythmic press of Steve's full cock as he pushed up between his legs brought his hips up to match Steve's push. Bucky fell into deep panting breaths as Steve left dark marks on his neck, raked his teeth along his jaw and dragged his tongue across his nipple. He ached for Steve to be inside of him, he rasped, "Do it, I want you inside."

Steve shook his head and laughed "My way, be patient, we've got a lifetime."

Bucky's groan ended when Steve's hand began to pull at his cock, long slow strokes that built to harder and faster; he pushed his foot on the bed to help drive his cock into Steve's hand. He was lost in the sound of Steve's low moan, the heat of their flesh pressed together, he thought he heard himself say "Shit I'm coming." He groaned at the hot wetness that fell on his stomach. He opened his eyes to see Steve, kneeling over him, slowly stroking both of them through the final throes of coming.

Bucky sat up, grabbed Steve and dragged him down to full weight lie on top of himself. Arms and legs tangled, wrapped together, like when they were kids. The panting, heaving chests slowly dissipated, the sweat began to cool. By the time Steve pulled the blanket from the foot of the bed to wrap around them, Bucky was asleep. He laid on his side and watched him. The long slow deep breaths of someone who feels safe, who knows without any doubt that someone is watching over him.

Bucky woke to the repetitive thwacking sounds of a helicopter's blades, it pulled a hot flush of sweat and adrenalin from his body. His jolt upright nearly woke Steve; flesh fingers wrapped around the handle of a knife sheathed by the head of the bed. Bare feet dropped silently to the floor; he paused in the middle of the bedroom making his threat assessment. A quick glance at the window reassured him. The blinds danced in the cold night air from the window they'd opened. The noise threw his mind back to his last mission. The one where he delivered Mother to her final destination. He hoped. As much as he wanted to lie back down next to the inviting warmth of Steve wrapped in a blanket, the tug of the memory made him wander the house. He didn't want her in their bed. He found himself in the darkened kitchen, wrapped in a quilt and nothing else staring out the glass doors. Moonlight made the newly fallen snow glisten and sparkle in a way he'd never seen in Siberia. Maybe he just didn't notice that kind of thing as the Soldier. He reveled in the moment now.

Steve padded up to snake his arms under the quilt and slip in behind him. "You okay?"

Bucky's nod was followed by "Damn, your hands are cold, so is your chest, put some clothes on." The fake growl contradicted the way he pulled him tighter around himself.

"So what's this all about?" Steve held out the sketch pad, open to a page that had smudged and scrawled words that looked a lot like Bucky's handwriting.

"I don't know; it's your sketch pad. Wilson was probably writing a grocery list. Or Romanova and her spy shit."

"Nope not me, or Sam or Nat. It's your incredibly bad handwriting; here I'll try to read it."

"I should have told you before now. I...loved you since the beginning of time. It was better to … "

Steve paused.

Bucky twisted to see the writing and glance at Steve, "Better to what?"

A mumbled, "Never mind."

Bucky pulled the pad from his hands. "Gimme it, 'Better to die than hurt you again. Forgive me.'" He stared at the pad for a heartbeat then threw it on the island. "It was my suicide note. I forgot I wrote that. I was… out of my mind. I'm sorry." The tension that gripped his stomach pushed him a step away from Steve; he faced the door again.

"Not anymore, Buck, not anymore." Steve's hands tugged at his hips, pulling him skin-to-skin, right where he wanted him to be. His fingers slow caressed his abdomen, wandered down his thighs. He pressed his hips to Bucky's ass and wrapped an arm across his belly, holding him in place. He rubbed his cheek across his back.

Bucky mumbled, "Keeping the beard, I take it."

"Yup. Gotta problem with it."

He pushed his ass back, "No. Looks good. I like it."

"Keeping the long hair?" He dragged his fingers through his hair and tugged; his tongue slipped along the slope of his exposed neck.

Bucky laughed, "Anything that makes you do that to me is worth keeping."

Mother

Gieta Sokolov, Black Widow, architect, and guardian of the words that lived in Bucky's brain woke from a groggy, drug-induced sleep lying on a painfully thin horse-hair mattress.

Several spins inside her head eventually let her eyes and nausea settle before she could fully take in her surroundings. A six-by-eight room painted the standard issue putrid green that adorned the walls of hundreds of aging psych facilities. She knew the color well; a throw-back to earlier days when things went south in the Red Room and she lost control of the Soldier. She closed her eyes and wished it away. It didn't work.

A first attempt to roll to her knees was colored by expletives when she tried to use her fractured hand. The successful second attempt brought her to her feet, although with a stagger towards the wall, she braced with one arm, facing the expanse of green. "I despise this color. This will have to change."

A quick shiver rolled through her; she glanced at the room and cringed at the ridiculously bright yellow beanbag chair that graced one corner. A thin-lipped grimace towards the unenclosed porcelain toilet was followed by her foot re-examining the bare mattress. She shook off the distinct memory of similar rooms; the items here were reminders of days gone by, conditions she had orchestrated for the Soldier when he wasn't in cryo.

Another shiver reminded her to examine the walls, "No heat controls? This will not do."

The jiggled attempt at the door handle proved it to be locked. She stood on her toes to reach the thick glass window; it afforded a limited view of a long and empty hallway.

Her reconnaissance told her there were several doors all similar in form and color with numbers painted over each one. She pushed open the food tray trap and called "Hello?" A gruff male voice answered, "Hello, hello, hello." It seemed to come from the room across from hers but they ignored any of her attempts to engage in a conversation. She gave up and moved to the wire-mesh and iron-barred window.

A hot pink and yellow sunrise crested over the horizon lending the forbidden landscape a warm glow and adding a bright glaze to the walls of her room. The most notable feature laid out before her was a wall. A flat-stone and steel structure topped with razor wire that ran as far as her eye could see surrounding the building. Several towers broke its monotony, complete with floodlights, guards, and radio-antenna; she mocked the concession to the modern age of electronic tracking. "Mind control is far superior."

Her eye was drawn to the landscape beyond the barricade; a wide humorless barren covered with snow and empty of anything pleasant to contemplate. All the things she hated. It reminded her of Siberia. Godforsaken Siberia. "At least there were mountains there." She huffed to no one in particular and wondered "How many times have I complained about that to you, Pasha."

The irony didn't settle in until she saw him standing in the yard, looking up at her. She watched him - watching her. Her hand moved to the glass before she could stop herself.

His subtle shift of weight, the tilt of his head, how his shoulders squared from his waiting stance; she read his every tic and twitch as always. He saw her. "I know you Soldat. You will not leave me here."

The last feature she noted about the Soldier was his smile. Not something she could recall seeing except for a moment in the Red Room years earlier. He never directed it towards her before now. The sick feeling that lodged itself deep in her gut grew to a rising panic that sent sweat rolling down her back. His long look towards her ended when he turned his back, his sure and purposeful stride never faltered or slowed; if anything it quickened as it carried him away. The Soldier never looked back.

"How dare you leave me here, you ungrateful, piece of shit. I am Mother. Get the hell back here and let me out." She drove her fist into the window and screamed "Soldat."

A rotund man dressed in a long dark robe rapped hard on the door to Gieta Sokolov's room and pinned open the tray flap. His toneless monologue boomed through the hallway and rolled into her room, "Good Morning Inmate 36993. Welcome to Ravencroft Institute for the Criminally Insane. Your sentence here is not commutable. There will be no visitors. There are no records of your existence here. We have explicit instructions regarding your care. No purposeful harm will come to you. Meals are served in your room precisely at 6 AM, 11 AM, and 5 pm. There will be no utensils, ever..." The man's voice droned on in the background of Mother's hearing while the echoing voice across the hall screamed "Soldat."

Bucky stood in the cold wind that swept across the remote prison's courtyard. He hoped his shivering would keep freezing to death at bay; he was more than willing to lose a toe to the cold, anything to have this moment. He knew she would wake eventually, knew she'd take stock of her surroundings and that would mean looking out the window. This was a long time coming; the day he'd turn his back on her when he would be outside of her control, a free man. The sun threw its gold and red heat on the building, it fell across the window on the fourth floor where he knew she would be. His eyes stung from the cold and lack of sleep, but they were still clear enough to see when her face peered out across the yard. She didn't seem to notice him at first but then she did. The moment their eyes met felt oddly unceremonious; it was intimate and distant, familiar and foreign; he thought briefly about giving her the finger, but thoughts of Steve made him rise above it. Bucky wanted the moment he turned his back on Mother to be one of certainty, his turn to leave was clear, deliberate and without hesitation, a message of finality. It was the best he could do on a wintry day near the top of the world, freezing his ass off leaving his tormentor to rot in a secret prison.

Bucky climbed into Fury's chopper and switched on the rotors, he rubbed his flesh hand on his thigh trying to get the feeling back. A thought about Steve lying in traction filled his mind, until...

"Well, that was anticlimactic. There should have been a swell of music or fireworks or puking right? Something to signify this monumental event? Then again, Soldat, we'll never really be free of her, will we?"

Bucky sighed, "Free of her, yes. Free of you, apparently not."

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR FOLLOWING!

I hope to post the first chapter of the sequel within the next two weeks! Hearts and Hugs!

Thank you again!

THE END