Chapter 12
The week had been almost... peaceful.
Bucky was better now, so much better, ever since Steve started giving him clear orders. It still twisted in his gut, acting like a superior all the time, but it worked. Bucky was eating regularly. Sleeping through the night. Even joking with him.
Bucky was starting to put weight back on.
When they first arrived at the tower, Bucky had looked almost brittle beneath the muscle. Now, his cheeks were fuller. His shoulders had broadened, filling out the shirts that hung loose. Even his posture had shifted. He didn’t move like a shadow anymore. He didn’t look like he was conserving energy and strength for a fight anymore.
Healing wasn’t a straight line, but Steve noticed every small change.
Bucky had also started trying things, quietly, cautiously. It began with coffee. One morning, when Steve made his usual black coffee, Bucky leaned closer, offered, traded with him.
If you want, I can… stay in your room tonight
Steve realized then, Bucky thought it was a reward. Bucky thought for every small thing he wanted, he had to earn permission. Hydra had trained him to trade himself for basic things. For coffee. For food.
Steve's hands clenched under the table.
But he played along, for now. He gave Bucky little "missions"— organizing books, folding laundry— each ending with a reward he shouldn't have had to earn.
When Bucky sipped the coffee, he made a face, wrinkled his nose, then tried again.
It became a habit after that—sampling whatever Steve was having, sometimes even making quiet, careful requests. Every request was a win for Steve.
The changes kept coming.
The first thing Steve noticed was the way Bucky was sitting.
Not curled tight in the corner anymore—but leaning back against the couch, legs stretched out. Casual. Relaxed.
And he was eating a cookie.
It was such a simple thing. But he stared at Bucky like it was sacred.
"You eating sugar now?" Steve asked, half-teasing as he came in from the gym.
"It's oat and blueberry," Bucky said, popping the rest of the cookie into his mouth with an honest-to-God smirk. "Technically healthy."
Steve tried not to stare. But Bucky no longer looked like he’d break under pressure.
"You’re doing that thing again," Bucky said, wiping crumbs from his fingers.
"What thing?"
Bucky huffed a laugh. "Looking at me like I’m gonna disappear."
"Yeah, no, it’s just, uh..." Steve rubbed the back of his neck. "You skipped breakfast for weeks. Said it made you nauseous."
"I’m better now," Bucky said simply.
And he was.
Even his voice had more color to it.
Bucky was healing.
Or pretending to.
Steve tried not to think about how easy it was to fall for either version.
He wasn’t delusional, he knew why Bucky was trying so hard. It was because of the promise Steve had made. He saw it in the small, careful smiles Bucky offered like peace offerings. And yeah, it stung.
Something sour curled in his chest every time he thought of Rumlow’s name, when the way Bucky looked a little too hopeful. If it had been anyone else, anyone who could truly take care of Bucky, keep him safe, help him heal, Steve would’ve swallowed the bitterness and stepped aside. Would’ve disappeared, quiet and unseen, if it meant Bucky would be alright. But it wasn’t anyone else.
And God, Steve wished, ached, for it to be him instead. For Bucky to look at him that way, to want him back. But he didn’t let it show, because this wasn’t about him. It was about Bucky choosing to live. And if Rumlow was the reason, Steve could live with that.
Bucky sits on the floor near Steve’s feet. He still won’t sit on the couch with him, and Steve doesn’t order him to.
“Steve...”
Pause.
“Can I go out?”
It’s not a demand. Not even really a question. It’s quiet, almost hopeful, and timed so perfectly that guilt punches Steve right in the chest.
“I mean,” Bucky adds, casual now, “I’ve been good. Haven’t broken anything or tried to kill anyone in weeks.” He even smiles a little. “Feels a little like progress,, right?”
Steve exhales, rubbing his hand over his mouth. “Bucky… you know it’s not that simple.”
“Even just a walk,” Bucky says, softer now. “Five minutes of fresh air. I’m not gonna run, Steve. I promise. I want to stay with you.”
Steve says quickly, “No, Buck. It’s not about that. It’s because they’d arrest you.”
Bucky goes still. Then, with a small, deliberate nod, he says, “Okay.”
The calmness scares Steve more than any anger ever could.
He leans forward, voice low. “Bucky… you’re still technically a fugitive. Your face is in every database in the country. If they arrest you…” He hesitates. “I don’t know if I can get you out.”
“You used to,” Bucky says, meeting his eyes for the first time.
“That was war. This is different.”
Bucky doesn’t argue. He just looks down again, peeling an orange. Steve watches him eat—a bite, a slow chew, a swallow.
“You hungry?” Steve asks, desperate to fix something. “I can order something. Whatever you want, Buck.”
“You said I should try having fruit in the evenings.”
Steve blinks. “I did?”
“You wrote it down,” Bucky says, nodding toward a rumpled notebook on the counter.
Steve follows the motion. It is his old notebook, half messy notes, half frantic prayers from the first sleepless weeks of trying to keep Bucky alive. He remembers that line now. Not an order, not even a real suggestion. Just something he jotted down in the margins. Maybe try fruit. Or something like that.
Bucky kept it. He’s been following it.
“You don’t have to do things just because I wrote them down,” Steve says quietly.
Bucky looks at him then, really looks. “I know. But it makes you happy when I do.”
Steve looks away fast, because if he doesn't, he’s going to say something stupid.
Steve closes his eyes.
“Okay,” Steve says, clearing his throat.
“We’ll go out. Just for a little while. Hoodie, glasses. I’ll handle the rest.”
Bucky blinks, not expecting that. “Seriously?”
When Bucky smiles, really smiles, Steve almost forgets how to breathe.
Bucky looks, God help him, alive.
There is risk here, but Steve can’t bring himself to deny Bucky this.
They dress fast. Hoodie up, cap low, sunglasses masking most of Bucky’s face. He’s skinnier than Steve would like, but he looks just like the kid he used to know—the one who’d grin at him across the alley.
The trip is surprisingly uneventful. Steve steers them toward the Brooklyn Bridge, rambling about what it looked like in the '30s, which streets they used to haunt, how Steve always managed to get into fights he couldn’t finish, and how Bucky, without fail, would find him.
Bucky doesn’t say much. Just listens, hands in his hoodie pockets, his shoulders loosen as the night goes on.
Next to Greenwood Cemetery stood a camphor tree, and he recognized it almost instantly — the same tree he had seen as a child. October 14th, 1936. A little after eight in the morning. The streets were empty, not a soul in sight. Bucky found him by that tree. The next day, his mom passed away. Next time he goes there, he would probably be alone. If there even is a next time.
The streets are busy enough that no one looks twice at them.
On the way back, they stop by Starbucks because, apparently, Bucky’s never been, and he wants to try one of those ridiculous drinks that taste like dessert.
Steve orders while Bucky lurks awkwardly in the corner, half-hiding behind a display of travel mugs.
He gets himself an Americano and, for Bucky, a venti caramel frappuccino loaded with whipped cream.
The barista, a girl barely older than nineteen, leans across the counter with a bright smile.
“You sure you only want one sugar?” she teases, voice warm.
Steve glances back at Bucky.
“Yeah, Thanks,” Steve says, smiling politely.
“Well, Steve… you have a nice day, okay?” she adds with a wink.
Steve grabs the drinks and turns, just in time to hear Bucky mutter, “Gross.”
He nearly chokes trying not to laugh.
“You should’ve let me handle that,” Bucky grumbles as they walk out. “I bet I could’ve gotten us free drinks.”
Steve grins. “Yeah, you flirting with baristas now, Buck?”
Bucky makes a face and takes a long pull from his frappuccino, the whipped cream smearing a little across his upper lip. He doesn’t even notice.
Steve does.
God, he notices everything, the way Bucky’s shoulders are a little looser, the quiet humor back in his voice, the way he actually seems like he’s enjoying himself.
Steve’s chest ached in the best, most painful way.
Because he wanted him to be free. Because this wasn’t the Asset. It was Bucky. His best friend. Maybe more than that, if Steve let himself think too hard about it.
And maybe, just maybe, Bucky isn’t doing all this just for Rumlow.
Warm water runs in steady streams over the Asset’s bare shoulders, trailing down the ridges of bone. Steve sits behind him on the closed lid of the toilet, cradling a bowl of clean water in his lap and gently working his fingers through damp, tangled hair. The shampoo he uses smells like strawberry.
"You’re doing great," Steve murmurs, rubbing gently at the roots of his hair. “Almost done.”
He dips a soft washcloth into the bowl, and began wiping behind the Asset’s ear, tracing the line of his jaw.
The Asset blinks.
The cloth is no longer soft.
The water smells like bleach, acidic and burning.
The bathroom blurs, grimy tile, rusted sink.
He was kneeling. Cold seeping up from the floor into his knees. Clothes rumpled, torn.
The door kicked open and Evan walked into the room. He scanned the asset, settling on his face and frowning at the mess.
“Fuck me,” Evan muttered under his breath. “You reek.”
The asset stayed perfectly still, his gaze fixed on the floor. Breathing shallow.
“Fucking Rumlow,” Evan crossed the room, yanked open a bin, dug out a gray rag and a bottle of surgical soap. “Not even my rotation today.”
Still, he grabbed the Asset’s jaw in one rough hand, forcing his head up.
“The fuck?” Evan jerked back, disgusted at whatever stuck to his fingers. He cursed, wiped his hand with a pump of disinfectant, then soaked the rag in the sink and wrung it out hard.
“Open your mouth,” he ordered.
The asset obeyed immediately, lips parting, throat still raw.
Evan didn’t crouch. He just leaned down and shoved the rag between the asset’s lips, wiping hard, scraping over his teeth, his tongue, rubbing hard enough to make the Asset’s mouth bleed again. He tasted the scent of old cleaning chemicals. His eyes watered.
Evan twisted the rag to get the other side, “You open your mouth like that for everyone?”
He yanked the rag out, wiping it roughly across the Asset’s chin, leaving his lips swollen and raw. “There. Now you smell like bleach instead of dick.”
He turned to a bin near the door, then paused.
"Here," he tossed the rag onto the floor near the Asset’s feet. "You should be grateful I don’t just leave you in this fucking mess. Go ahead. Clean up.”
The Asset hesitated, only a second, then picked it up. He pressed it gently to his face, rubbing at the corners of his lips, trying to wipe away the taste.
"You want water?" Evan snorted.
Bucky?
The Asset lifted his gaze, blinking tears from his eyes, and nodded once.
Evan rolled his eyes and fetched a plastic cup.
When the Asset reached for it, desperate, Evan yanked it back with a grunt.
“Don’t fucking touch me.”
Bucky, it’s me….
Evan didn’t hand him the cup. He poured it out slowly over the Asset’s face, letting some trickle into his mouth, the rest spilling down his collar, pooling on the floor.
The asset tilted his head to drink what he could. Let it wash over his tongue, rinse out the taste.
When it was done, Evan dropped the empty cup beside him. “Tell Rumlow I did it.”
Come back to me, Buck…
The Asset stayed kneeling, trembling slightly. His mouth stung. The taste in his mouth was bitter, and his lips were split.
And yet—
He still felt gratitude that someone, anyone, had cleaned him.
He’d learned not to thank them out loud unless prompted.
The water is still running.
The air smells like strawberries.
The Asset blinks, slowly, disoriented, his hand lifting toward his mouth.
Steve notices immediately. He sets down the cloth and leans in, voice steady, warm.
“It’s just me,” he says. “You’re safe. You’re not there anymore.”
Steve doesn’t smile. He looks…scared?
“What’s going on, Sir?”
His hair drips into his eyes. He shakes it back with a casually.
"You look like you’re gonna cry. What’d I miss?"
"You had a—" Steve cuts himself off. Swallows. "You spaced out for a second."
He nudges Steve with his elbow playfully.
He hates that he is making Steve upset. He hates even more that he needs Steve to stay happy, calm and steady. Because if he is good, if Steve is happy, if he doesn’t cause trouble, if he smiles and jokes and plays the part of "getting better"....
He ducks his head, let his wet hair fall forward like a curtain, and adds in a low, teasing voice, "You getting soft on me?"
But underneath it all, there was something real, too.
Steve’s touch is gentle.
The Asset is grateful, the same way he'd been grateful when Evan had cleaned his face. He is grateful now, for the warm water, for the smell of strawberry instead of bleach. Hydra had called that maintenance. Steve calls it care. It feels the same.
And sitting there, with Steve’s fingers combing carefully through his damp hair, somewhere in his mind, he realizes he isn’t just performing anymore. The Asset can feel something else terrifying and real. He can feel himself wanting to lean back into Steve’s touch.
He is starting to enjoy being here.
Being with Steve.
The bowl of water is still warm between them.
The smell of strawberries lingers in the air.
Steve’s jeans are a little damp where Bucky’s shoulder brushes against him, and there is tiny beads of moisture clinging to Steve’s eyelashes. Bucky’s first instinct — ridiculous as it is — is to lean in and catch Steve’s scent.
Somehow, it pulls him back to that evening long ago. Steve was walking ahead of him, the endless snowy mountains stretching out beneath their feet.