I. Brooklyn, 1925
“Hey! Are you okay?”
Steve sits up gingerly, propping himself on one elbow. He’ll be black and blue come morning; he can already feel the bruises blooming along his ribs. The boys who chased him here are long gone, even if their jeering laughter is still ringing in his ears. Another boy has since materialized in their place; he doesn’t seem especially interested in finishing the job, though. Instead he watches Steve with surprising intensity, arms folded across his chest and his mouth pressed in a thin line.
“You okay?” he repeats.
“Yeah.” Steve has taken plenty worse hits before, and knows it won’t be long before the black eye stops throbbing. His ma will have something for him to press on it later to keep the swelling down; he comes home in such a state more often than not. “You should see the other fella.”
“I did see him - all of ’em. Running off like cowards.” The other boy shakes his head. “They were a lot bigger than you.”
Steve shrugs. “Everyone’s bigger than me.”
“You must’ve hit ‘em harder, if they ran away.” The boy’s nose wrinkles when his face creases into a crooked grin, and his blue eyes sparkle. “Guess there’s more to you than meets the eye, huh?”
Steve can’t help grinning in return despite how it makes his split lip sting. “Guess so.” He casts about for his books - they’d been caught in the crossfire when the older boys cornered him. There’s dirt smudged on at least one of them; he wipes it carefully with his sleeve before inspecting it for further damage. “I’m Steve, by the way.”
“Steve Rogers, right? I’ve seen you around. I’m James - James Barnes,” the boy adds before Steve can interject. He bends to retrieve some of the errant books as he speaks, waving off Steve’s halfhearted protests. “You can call me Bucky.”
“Bucky, huh?”
The boy sighs. “Everyone calls me Bucky ’cept my ma - she says James is a real good Christian name and I was named for her great someone-or-other, so I may as well use it proper. But my little sisters call me Bucky, and she doesn’t have the heart to stop them.” He pauses for breath, brows knitting in consternation. “I don’t know but James is awful formal, anyhow.”
The rapid-fire, matter-of-fact speech startles a laugh out of Steve. He pushes himself to his feet, dusting off his clothes as best he can and straightens his shirt with his other hand. No doubt his ma will despair at the state of his trousers, but as long as the knees are patched up - again - he’ll still be able to wear them. He may as well; heaven knows he certainly won’t be outgrowing them anytime soon.
“Here.” Bucky thrusts the books at him. “They’re not too banged up.” He gives Steve a once-over with the air of someone who’s been through this before. “You don’t look too bad yourself - both arms and legs in working order. How ’bout your teeth?”
“‘m fine,” Steve says automatically, accepting the books and tucking them firmly under one arm. He uses his free hand to smooth his hair down, hoping he looks somewhat put together. There’s still dirt caked on his elbows and he can feel the breeze through the rips in his trousers, but there’s no help for that now. “Thanks.”
“It’s no trouble,” Bucky says cheerily, thrusting his hands into his pockets. “My ma always says folks ought to be neighborly.”
“Tell that to them,” Steve mutters, jerking his head in the general direction his latest adversaries had departed in once they were satisfied he was done running his mouth. To his credit, he thinks, he hadn’t folded easily.
“Aw, don’t worry about them,” Bucky says, voice laced with scorn. He lifts his chin, simultaneously dignified and haughty, for all that he can’t be much older than Steve. “They aren’t broke out with brains. They only know how to think with their fists.” His chin comes down again, and he considers Steve with a clear blue gaze. “I’ll walk you home, if you like.”
Steve bristles. “I don’t need your pity.”
There's a beat, during which something flashes across Bucky’s face, and a pang of guilt catches Steve by surprise. He doesn’t regret his words, of course, but he regrets spoiling the surprisingly easy camaraderie that’s sprung up between them these past few minutes. He likes Bucky already, and it’s clear that the other boy isn’t hung up on the fact that he’s scrawny and sickly and couldn’t finish a fight he himself started -
“Who says I pity you?” Bucky says it like a challenge. Their eyes lock, and for a moment Steve half expects him to turn on his heel and march away. And won’t his ma be disappointed; she’s always telling him to at least try to get along with the other boys his age.
Then Bucky grins and throws an arm around his shoulders. “C’mon, we’ll be there in a shake, and I’d rather walk you than Becky, she’s always stepping on my toes. And you won’t believe the fuss she makes if I walk too fast - she says I’m real mean for leaving her behind, and as her big brother I ought to know better. You should’ve seen her when I told her it’s not my fault her legs are so short…”
Steve shakes his head, laughing, and allows himself to be led away.
II. London, 1944
The bar is a riot of noise, bawdy and boisterous and a little wild on the edges over the lively notes of the piano. The noise pulses in Steve’s temples and he’s reasonably certain that by the end of the night he’ll have a headache going. It could almost be a scene from any given bar back home - almost, except for the thousand and one glaring reminders that this isn’t home. It feels like a dream, in some ways.
His uniform, freshly starched and still a little stiff across the shoulders, itches something fierce. He tries to tell himself it’s really not all that worse than the USO getup. It feels equally like a costume in some ways, this uniform, except that the pins on his chest and the glaring silver bars on his shoulders actually mean something this time.
This is what you wanted, he reminds himself, only the voice sounds remarkably like Bucky. And speaking of -
Steve rounds the corner now that his promise to open a tab has been fulfilled - he’s strongly inclined to believe Dugan’s threat that there would be hell to pay otherwise - and spots Bucky nursing a drink of his own. Right on cue, Bucky looks up expectantly, a knowing smirk lifting the corner of his mouth. It’s a look Steve has seen countless times before - usually accompanied by the other man throwing an arm around his shoulders and jostling him with a huff of laughter - but something about it feels like a gut punch.
Maybe it’s something about the hazy light, the way it makes the dark bruising across Bucky’s cheekbone look like nothing more than a shadow. Maybe it’s the way that for the briefest of moments, the haunted look in his eyes is gone, and he looks every bit the charming boy from Brooklyn. Whatever it is, Steve’s breath hitches in his chest, and the smile he offers in return feels a little more forced than it should.
If Bucky notices any of this, he doesn’t let on. “See? Told you. They’re all idiots,” he pronounces in a satisfied drawl before Steve can think of anything to say that won’t spoil the moment. He pivots to face the bar once more, and the tightness in Steve’s chest loosens somewhat. He feels his smile ease into something more genuine as he hooks a seat for himself.
Bucky’s movements are easy, fluid when he raises his glass and takes a pull of his drink. He’d waved off any and all concern when they first returned with the 107th - what remained of it, at least - in tow. I’ll be right as rain in no time, Steve, quit fussing. That was one fight Steve quickly conceded; Bucky can be difficult when he so chooses. And he has recovered quickly, more so than Steve would have expected considering the state he found him in. It shouldn’t be surprising, really - Bucky’s always bounced back quickly. But something like that…
He promptly banishes the thought, unwilling to let the memories permeate this place, this sanctuary of sorts. They’ll have to face the music soon enough; best not to dwell on it any longer than he already has. God knows he’s thought about it plenty since that day in Austria.
“How about you?” he asks, more for his own sake than anything. “Are you ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?”
It comes out more imploring than he intended, and he immediately wishes he could take it back. Stupid, he berates himself, but Bucky’s already shaking his head, a ghost of a smile playing around his lips. The ache in Steve’s chest returns with a vengeance at the sight of it. It’s the same smile he’s seen for years but so very different now and Bucky is so very different now and he himself is so very different now -
“Hell, no.” Bucky’s voice draws him from his thoughts. He’s gazing thoughtfully at the pitted and stained wood of the bar. “That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb to run away from a fight.” He looks up at Steve, eyes clear and impossibly blue in the dim light and for a moment nothing else matters. “I’m following him.”
Bucky raises his glass. Steve smiles.
III. Brooklyn, 2025
Sam eases himself through the door behind Bucky and thinks, somewhat hysterically, that Bucky is going to need a bigger apartment.
On any other day, the space is more than enough for its occupant and his fourlegged shadow, who is looking considerably less scrappy these days and has taken to stalking haughtily about with her tail in the air. Bucky insists that the square footage is nothing to sneeze at and normally Sam would agree that it really is perfectly respectable but there’s no escaping the fact that the Red Guardian is a bear of a man. His jovial tones alone seem to fill every nook and cranny of Bucky’s apartment, and his personality occupies the rest. But he’s a good man, so it’s with some amusement that Sam watches Alexei deposits himself on the couch.
The springs let out an audible creak; Bucky glances over at the noise, brows furrowing, but his expression eases into something that’s simultaneously resigned and amused. Sam, for his part, lowers himself into one of the kitchen stools. His knees grind in sympathy with the couch springs, and he wonders if maybe he should’ve stopped by the drugstore a few doors down for some painkillers after all. Bucky’s home finally looks properly lived in, but Tylenol or some such thing is short in supply.
Alpine rubs up against his leg with a quiet mrow. She looks remarkably uninterested in him despite the way her fur splays every which way when she presses herself into him. Sam leans down to oblige her, scratching behind delicate ears, and her tail flicks in a decidedly pleased manner.
When he looks around again Bucky is fishing for something in the cabinet next to the fridge. After some rummaging and muttering to himself in what Sam’s tired brain identifies as Russian, he produces a small bottle and straightens up again triumphantly. Vodka, Sam thinks, and can’t find it in himself to object when Bucky presses a glass into his hands.
“A bit unconventional, I know,” Bucky says as he does, squinting critically at the glass and sounding somewhat apologetic, “but it’ll have to do.” He turns to Alexei, holding up the bottle and tipping his head. Alexei’s eyes light up in response to the unspoken question, and by the time Sam swallows his first sip the Red Guardian is rumbling away in Russian. He seems to be both deaf to Bucky’s less than enthusiastic responses and perfectly content to prattle on between hearty mouthfuls of vodka. Sam strongly suspects Alexei would consider the furniture an equally acceptable audience.
They’re going to need more alcohol, he thinks. Right on cue, Bucky looks over with an expression that says he feels the exact same way. Sam doesn’t manage to fully stifle his snort, and hastily takes another sip to cover it. To his dismay, this fails to have the intended result, and he breaks into a fit of coughs that cut across Alexei’s ongoing speech. Sam’s eyes are streaming when he finally surfaces again. Bucky smirks from where he’s lounging against the counter, damn him, one leg crossed over the other and his elbow propped on the countertop.
Sam does not flip him off, mostly because he’s too busy getting his breath back, but he shoots his partner the best scowl he can manage under the circumstances.
Alexei grins at him. “Is good stuff!”
“Sure is,” Sam agrees, and damn it if Bucky doesn’t look even more smug when his voice comes out hoarse. James Barnes is going to be the death of him someday, he’s sure of it.
“Bucky Barnes and I, we drink in Siberia,” Alexei says conversationally, eyes crinkling at the corners. He turns his grin on Bucky, who shifts almost imperceptibly in his position across the room. His posture doesn’t change, but there’s a new tension in the set of his shoulders. “You remember this, yes? Must have been eighty, eighty-one.”
Sam glances sidelong at Bucky. He blinks once, rapid, then says in a deceptively light tone, “That was a long time ago.” I don't remember is what he really means, and the ache of it catches Sam behind his ribs. It’s a warning - a casual one, but a warning nonetheless.
Alexei’s face wrinkles momentarily, and he lets out a near-theatrical sigh. “We are getting old,” he says solemnly, in a show of diplomacy that takes Sam by surprise.
“I’ll drink to that,” Sam interjects, partly for Bucky’s benefit and partly because his knees really have been aching more lately. Gettin’ old ain’t for the faint-hearted, I’ll tell you that much, Sarah had said just a few weeks back as she stood over the stove after another day of overseeing operations at the marina, massaging the small of her back absently. Although he’s loath to admit it, Sam is starting to agree.
Alexei laughs, and Sam swears he sees the windowpane shiver. “You are young man, Sam Wilson, in your prime. Not like us.” The smile returns, more sentimental this time. “Is not such a bad thing. But those were the days, eh?”
Bucky is busy scooping up Alpine - who has been twining about his legs and mewing plaintively - and informing her that it isn’t polite to be so pushy, so he doesn’t respond right away. After settling her on his shoulder, where she sets about grooming one paw, he returns his attention to Alexei. Sam studies his face, expecting to see - well, he’s not sure what exactly he expects to see. Alexei is effectively barreling into a minefield, he knows that much. He wills him to stop talking.
But the Red Guardian has been nothing if not garrulous for the past seven hours since he crashed - not quite literally, although it was a near thing - into New York. “You were very different back then - you would not have recognized him,” he adds to Sam, with a meaningful look that says he’s not just talking about appearances.
“A lot has changed since then,” Bucky says evenly. Sam doesn’t miss the way he grips the edge of the counter, the sole indicator that he isn’t as relaxed as he seems.
Alexei nods. “Yes, it has.” He considers Bucky, head tilting. “For the better, I think.”
He lapses into silence. Sam swirls his drink, waiting for the tension to break and wishing all this could at least wait until tomorrow morning. His head is starting to ache, from the alcohol or exhaustion or a disagreeable combination both. A hot shower is sounding more appealing by the minute, but he’s not entirely convinced the apartment will still be intact if Bucky and Alexei are left to their own devices.
No sooner does the thought cross his mind than something seems to pass between them; Bucky’s chin jerks in a sharp nod, and his shoulders drop as he lets out a long breath. Sam finds himself doing the same from his perch on the opposite side of the kitchen.
Bucky’s eyes find him, piercing as ever. “You can have the shower first.”
Maybe Bucky won’t be the death of him after all. “Thanks, man. I’ll be quick.”
_______
Sam emerges from the shower feeling considerably more human. Bucky takes the next turn, stopping long enough to set Alpine on the floor and promise that he’ll only be gone a few minutes. Alexei, meanwhile, has helped himself to the vodka and is nursing his drink in his post on the couch.
“Sam Wilson,” he greets, raising his glass in a salute. “You need a drink? There is enough for both of us.”
Sam shakes his head, feeling a smile tugging at his mouth. “Just the one for me, thanks.”
“If you say so.” Alexei shifts to one side of the couch, then beckons him. “At least come and sit.”
“Oh, no, that’s okay…”
“Sit,” the Red Guardian insists. Sam sits.
It’s quiet for a few minutes aside from the shower and the occasional creak from the old elevator down the hall. Weariness drags at Sam’s limbs. This couch could never be accused of being comfortable, exactly, but it’s the first piece of soft furniture he’s sat on in days. His eyelids seem to grow heavier by the minute, and he’s just starting to drift off when Alexei speaks again.
“He is a good man, Bucky Barnes.”
Sam staves off a yawn long enough to mumble agreement. God, he’s tired. He meant to call Sarah this morning, but…
“Strong man, too,” Alexei continues, ruminative. “Strong here,” he adds when Sam glances at him, holding a clenched fist against his heart. “What happen to him… any man would be bitter.”
You have a right to be angry, you know, Sam remembers saying once. Bucky had absorbed this with his usual silence and a stiff nod. Whether he believed it, Sam couldn’t tell. But he’d believed it was worth saying all the same.
“HYDRA are all scum.” The vitriol in Alexei’s voice takes him by surprise. “A man isn’t a weapon. They treat him like dog. Worse than dog. Their Winter Soldier. ” Voice dripping with scorn. “He was man.”
Maybe, had been the soft reply, after several minutes passed and Sam had almost forgotten he’d spoken in the first place. But I don’t have a right to take it out on the world. And then, with a shy, sidelong glance at Sam: I think we both have things we’re angry about.
“When I come to New York, I did not think I will see Winter Soldier. But I am glad I did. When we first met… it was nothing like I imagine. Everything I had been told, all the rumors… I expected him to be a machine.” Alexei gazes into the distance, heavy-lidded. “He was no machine, Sam Wilson. He was a man. A good man. Even HYDRA couldn’t change that.”
“They tried,” Sam murmurs, half to himself. All those nights poring over files with Steve, wondering how anyone could come on the other side with any semblance of humanity…
Alexei hums his agreement. “Tried, yes. But they did not break him.”
Sam swallows. Somewhere on the street below, a car horn blares. A door down the hallway slams, and a pair of muffled footsteps tromp towards the elevator. If he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine it’s a normal night.
“I am glad he has you,” Alexei says quietly. “There are hard times ahead.”
Sam isn’t too tired to register the way his stomach rolls at that. Alexei hasn’t divulged much so far – not here, not now, he’d insisted earlier - but he knows whatever brought the Red Guardian to New York can’t be good. His rapid, intense exchange with Bucky and the ensuing grim look on Bucky’s face had all but confirmed it. Later, he’d muttered in response to Sam’s puzzled look.
Sam’s just starting to gather his thoughts to broach the subject when the bathroom light flicks off and Bucky reemerges, still toweling off his hair with one hand. He takes in the scene - Alexei sprawled comfortably on one half of the couch, drink in hand, and Sam occupying the other – and the corner of his mouth lifts.
Alexei raises his glass in a salute, and launches a barrage of somewhat slurred Russian that amounts to, as far as Sam can tell, an invitation to join them. Bucky can hardly get a word in edgewise, but at last Alexei slows when he says quickly, “Okay, hang on a sec - ”
Alexei squashes himself into the corner of the couch as much as someone of his stature can. For a fleeting moment, Sam thinks Bucky is going to wedge himself between them. That really might be more than he can bear tonight, after the day they’ve had, but Bucky merely raises an eyebrow and pointedly settles in a chair.
“Now, we can begin!” Alexei’s eyes are glowing, a little wild, but Sam's inclined to believe it has nothing to do with the vodka.
He suppresses a sigh. Ain’t no rest for the wicked. Across the room, Bucky catches his eye and grins. And while Sam is still very much interested in the bed just a few steps away, with its firm mattress that does wonders for his back, that grin is enough for him to rally and turn to Alexei.
“Alright, then,” he says, idly wondering just when his life started to go wildly off track, “where do we begin?”