He keeps his hat pulled low and sticks to the shadows. He catches glimpses of conversations, follows the thread until he loses it, desperately searching for another to latch onto. If it’s not excited retellings, its screens in Times Square with headlines and explosions, news broadcasts, kids dressed up – all saying the same thing.
Here’s what he’s learned, that makes him proud:
Sam is Captain America, Sharon Carter is pardoned.
Here’s what he’s always known, proven again:
Black people have suffered for white supremacy for too long. Racism is tied to the shield, the serum, and entrenched in American history.
Here’s what shocks him to his core:
He’s dead. Or supposed to be. For the past six months.
---
The spare key still rests atop the door frame. When he opens the door, the scent of home hits with such a force, that he staggers into the wall. Where there should have been strangeness or staleness, his apartment looks lived in: a blanket thrown carelessly on the couch, the sheets rumpled on the bed. There’s a half empty glass in the sink, another on the coffee table. If he lifts it, he knows it will reveal a water ring.
Bucky never learned how to use coasters, no matter how much their mothers tried.
Steve sinks into the couch and buries his head in his hands. Bucky lives here, in his apartment. Bucky has turned Steve’s place into his own, folded himself into the spaces Steve had left behind.
He doesn’t know where he is, doesn’t know how to contact him. He had dialed the old burner phone he had left with Bucky, but it was out of service. Any Stark or Wakandan communication devices Steve had on him, had been ruined by multiple jumps through time.
He has no choice but to wait for Bucky. He’s familiar with it.
---
Steve is woken by the faint sound of a key scraping a lock. He must have fallen asleep sitting watch, the exhaustion of time travel finally catching up to him. He’s at the door before the lock snicks free, and then he’s across the room, wooden chair smashed to smithereens under his body weight and the force of the punch.
There’s only one metal arm that can do that to him.
Elated and smarting, he can’t contain the grin, even as he grumbles. “What the fuck, Buck?”
Bucky is staring back, slack-jawed. The short hair with the metal arm is jarring. It’s Bucky from the 40s, though not exactly. It fucks with Steve’s mind that he almost misses Bucky’s face morphing through a million different versions of confusion, hope, pain, and anger, before settling into the perfected blank stare of the Winter Soldier. He snaps his mouth shut and slams the door, clouds of saw dust surrounding him.
“Who are you?” Bucky asks, arms across his chest, back against the door.
Steve picks himself up, wincing as he steps on splinters of wood. “Bucky,” he starts, picking his way toward the man, faltering when Bucky presses further into the door.
“Who are you?” Bucky repeats.
A cold shock runs through Steve and he holds still, fighting waves of nausea. It’s not happening again. It can’t.
“You know me, Buck,” Steve pleads. “You’ve known me your whole life.”
Bucky holds his stare, impassive and unyielding. He feels like he’s travelling though time and space again, pressure closing in on all sides, water threatening to –
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Bucky mutters, erasing the space between them in two large strides, stopping within touching distance. “Breathe for me, Steve.”
He mimes taking a breath in, and Steve attempts a swat, fingers tangling in Bucky’s sweater instead. “Jerk. You know who I am,” he says wetly.
Bucky doesn’t fight off his hand, but he doesn’t deepen the contact. It’s disarming. Steve clings tighter.
“Don’t know which Steve you are.” Bucky mumbles.
“What do you mean? I’m Steve, your Steve. Til the end of the –“
“Don’t,” Bucky bites, removing Steve’s hand from his shirt. “You left. You said you finally had a chance to fulfill your promise to Peggy, and you left. You said Sam should be Captain America.” He pauses and looks away. “And you left.”
“Left?” Steve’s poleaxed. “Buck, I had to return the stones and I came back right away. Well, yeah, I danced with Peggy, but I told you about it.”
There’s no masking the pain in Bucky’s eyes, no matter how hard he tries. He turns and walks to the kitchen.
“What am I missing?” Steve demands. He’s met with silence.
“I swear to god, you better fucking tell me what’s going on, Bucky Barnes. We do not keep secrets from each other.”
Bucky lets out a derisive chuckle. He speaks to his feet when he says, “You missed your time mark. An old you came back, right after you left. Like real old, white hair, wrinkles, a-a wedding ring. You gave the shield to Sam, you talked to him. And then you left. Again.”
His mind is racing. “What did he say when you spoke to him?”
Bucky’s laugh is wet this time. He looks at Steve. “Nothing. You just smiled at me and disappeared.”
“No.” Steve says, fervently. He rounds the counter and steps into Bucky’s space, grabbing onto forearms held tight across his chest. “I told you that I wanted to retire with you. I returned the stones. I danced with Peggy and I came right back. To you. I don’t know who gave Sam that shield but it wasn’t me.” He lowers his head and catches Bucky’s eye, wills him to understand. “It wasn’t me, Buck. I swear it wasn’t me.”
Bucky shoulders fall in acceptance, curving toward Steve.
“How could I ever leave you?”
There’s no masking the pain in Bucky’s eyes. “Maybe I wasn’t worth it.”
“You are worth everything.” His fingers dig tight into Bucky’s arms, the metal whirring.
“Steve.” It’s broken and pain.
There are still so many questions left unasked, but they can wait. He rests his head against Bucky’s. “I’m here, Buck. I promise, I’m here. I’m not leaving.”
---
Bucky begs away for a shower and judging by the red around his eyes, to cry in peace. He still holds onto the misguided notion that he must protect Steve at all costs, which somehow means, Steve cannot see him cry. Steve gets a few frozen pizzas into the oven. They are hot and steaming, just in time for Bucky to join him on the couch.
He tells Bucky his story: the surprising ease and the expected difficulty in returning the stones, showing up at Peggy’s door and asking for a dance, missing his time mark and ending up in Toronto, having to trek his way back, with no money and the news that he’s dead.
“Why didn’t you stay?” Bucky questions.
It takes a moment for Steve to understand. His brow is furrowed and full of bewilderment. “Why would I? I had just gotten you back. I had to adjust to a new life once already. I said my goodbyes to the past. My family is here, my friends are here. You are here.” He shoots Bucky a furtive look.
“But Peggy…”
Steve laughs, full of mirth. “Buck, I’m a hundred something years, not delusional. Peggy lived her life, she told me to move on and live my own. She was a bright light at a very important time, but we were never each other’s.”
Bucky stares at him, long and hard until he blinks and changes the conversation. He tells Steve his version. He’s direct, clearly glossing over a lot. But the gist is there: the battle for the shield, Isaiah Bradley, the super soldiers, the resettlement.
“There’s so much to do,” Steve muses. He leans back, having eaten his weight in pizza and closes his eyes. He relishes in Bucky’s warmth beside him. “Where were you just now?”
“At Sarah’s. There was a barbecue. We fixed up the boat.”
Steve’s eyes fly open. “She let you?”
Bucky chuckles. “She let Sam. I just had to save his sorry ass.”
“A true hero,” Steve teases.
Bucky flicks him and Steve uses the pretense of retaliation to push himself closer.
“The boys miss you. Showed me all the stuff you drew for them.”
“They’re good kids. Went around a bunch with Sam, and then after he was gone. Just to check up on them. They doing ok?”
“I think so?” There’s a lull. When Bucky speaks again, his voice is laced with fatigue. “They have the boat now, but the other issues still remain. Finances, racism.”
He hears the frustration and desire to do something in Bucky’s voice. “We’ll do everything we can to help. Promise.”
“Yeah.” Bucky gets up. He takes a step, then pauses. Turns to Steve. “I’m going to head to bed.”
“Right, um. It’s late.”
“Do you want to –?
“I’ll just sleep –
Bucky’s eyes betray a swell of emotion that neither of them are able to touch.
“I’ll just sleep here.”
Bucky nods stiffly. “Night, Steve.”
“Night, Buck.”
---
Restless sheets and a silent gasp wake up Steve. He’s off the couch and at the door of his – Bucky’s – bedroom where Bucky’s sitting up. It takes a moment for the anguish to clear, giving way to confusion when Bucky sees Steve.
“I’m here, Buck.”
Bucky looks away and Steve takes the long way round the bed, allowing Bucky time to regroup. The two settle against the headboard, knees drawn up. They could be children, backs against a wall timing their breaths through Steve’s asthma attack; soldiers behind enemy lines, willing the nerves to cease; tired men out of time, finding their way back together. The position is familiar; having Bucky beside him is ingrained in his bones. It’s only natural for his right hand to lay beside Bucky’s left, the touch a mere whisper.
“Nightmares?”
Bucky jerks a yes.
“Still bad?”
“Of course,” Bucky says, darkly. “Did you also expect that by crossing names off a book, the nightmares would suddenly stop?”
“What?” Steve tries for eloquence and comfort. It’s the puzzlement that wins.
Bucky sighs and runs a hand over his face. “I was told by… multiple people that I needed to amend the Winter Soldier’s actions. Each name I crossed off of the people I’d wronged would help me move on. Get rid of the nightmares.”
“What?” The anger vibrates under his skin. “Bucky, that’s just – so - wrong. On so many fronts.”
“Yeah?” There’s a wry pull to his lip.
“Yes.” Steve glowers, tremulously. “Where do I start?”
“You could try taking a breath first. Contain all that - ” he lifts his palm in the general direction of Steve – “righteous anger.”
“Don’t,” Steve snaps. But he does as he’s told and breathes deep. Just once. “You have nothing to amend for. Nothing to fix.”
“Steve,” his name falls from Bucky’s lips. Tired, pleading. They’ve had this discussion – fight – too many times to count. Steve refusing to believe Bucky is at fault for his actions as the Winter Solder, Bucky holding onto the responsibility.
“You listen to me, Bucky Barnes,” and he takes Bucky’s metal palm in his. “I don’t give a fuck what anyone else says. You are not responsible for what Hydra made you do. It wasn’t you. You are not a bad person. You are good and worthy and the second you regained control of your mind, you’ve done nothing but protect. I will spend every second of every day reminding you, if I have to.”
Bucky refuses to look at him, tries to take his hand away. Steve just holds on tighter.
“I know you feel responsible, I get that. And that’s okay. You do whatever you need, but no one has a right to tell you that you’re going about this wrong. That there’s a right way of getting over your trauma. You never get over trauma. You learn to live with it so it doesn’t control your life. And fuck, you were doing that. You are doing that.
You fought so hard to get rid of the triggers. You were finding peace again, finding connections in Wakanda. You were smiling. You were living. You fucking fought against Thanos and saved people time and time again. Buck, you’ve done so much already. Don’t you go believing anyone who makes you think you weren’t doing enough.”
When he finishes, his chest is heaving. Eventually, slowly, his breathing settles and a silence falls. This time, when Bucky tries to remove his hand from Steve’s, he lets him.
“Why did you stay? Here,” he clarifies when Bucky doesn’t respond. “Why didn’t you return to Wakanda?”
Bucky fiddles with the sheet between their hands, twisting and squeezing, again and again, until he finally says, “They offered me a pardon if I could prove I was no longer the Winter Soldier. I think - I needed to prove that I was just me, you know? That I had control of my life again.” There’s a long breath before he says. “And you – “
He stops. The sheets still.
Steve wants to cry, to scream at the universe that keeps tearing them apart. He wants to hold Bucky’s hand again and never let go. He compromises by allowing their pinkies to touch.
“I’m here. I’ll never leave you willingly, and I will fight anyone who makes you question your worth. You did it for me when we were kids. Let me do this for you, now.”
He doesn’t know how long they sit together. He tells the passage of time by the incremental shifts of Bucky’s body, until Bucky’s shoulder touches his, until his hand is covered in a metal.
---
They orbit around each other, an uncertainty in covert gazes and tentative touches. Bucky too scared to let Steve out of his sight, too hurt to close the gap just yet. For Steve, wanting to be around Bucky is just second nature. He doesn’t know life without the desire.
And so, they’ve reached an impasse: neither willing to leave the other, even if it means going out to get food. Neither willing to go together because inevitably, someone will recognize them. And neither are ready to leave this momentary solitude.
“I’m starving,” Steve whines. His stomach growls in agreement.
“Just order in,” Bucky replies, with the patience of someone who has repeated the words for the hundredth time. He continues reading.
“I don’t have a phone,” Steve pouts. Bucky’s phone hits him in the chest and bounces to land on his stomach. “Ow.”
He swipes through the phone, looking for the app to order food, when –
“You have Tinder.” There’s an odd feeling in his stomach. It doesn’t feel like hunger. “And Hinge.”
“Mhm,” Bucky doesn’t look up from his book.
Steve opens an app, curious. Natasha tried to download them for him – before Thanos and after – though he never actually used them. Maybe he was too old-fashioned for online dating, holding onto beliefs of love borne from instant connections, deep trust, and fate thrusting people together, again and again and again. Where love smells like faint sweat and Brooklyn streets, muddy trenches and gun powder, tastes like metal and blood, and feels like never ending blue.
He shakes his head and looks back at the phone. “Oh.”
Bucky finally looks up, wary. “What?”
“You have men on here.”
Bucky’s jaw tightens. His fingers dig ever so slightly into the book. “So?”
“I – nothing.”
He forgets to order the food. Until half an hour later, when Bucky’s stomach joins in the protest.
---
He feels a little restless. Hell, he feels a lot restless. Bucky has been refusing his multiple attempts to talk and Steve hates when he gets like this: outwardly calm but festering internally. Still, this is nothing compared to a thirteen year old Bucky, excitedly telling Steve about his first kiss, only for Steve to have made a snide remark. It had been a long week of avoidance.
It’s coming on a full day since they’ve been back together. He knows Bucky has to first sort through the past six months and perceived betrayal, but Steve wants the after now. He wants – he just wants, needs Bucky’s attention and Bucky’s warmth, and just - Bucky.
“Let’s watch something,” Steve says, abandoning his drawing. He’d tried to draw Bucky smiling, but the scowling face before him was making it difficult.
Bucky glances at him. He has another book in his hand. “Don’t you wanna go see the others? Sam will be upset that you haven’t contacted him yet. Sharon too.”
Steve frowns. “I want to spend time with you. It’s barely been a day.”
Bucky looks down. He’s out of reach, on the armchair opposite the couch where Steve is sprawled. He sits up and conspicuously makes space for Bucky. “Where’s my book?”
Bucky ignores him.
“Buck? The red book? I wrote down a bunch of movies and songs I wanted to check out.”
Bucky resolutely avoids looking at him. His cheeks slowly gain a faint pink.
“Buck-“
“I gave it away.”
It takes him a moment to comprehend, blinking rapidly hoping the words can make sense. Why would – what?
There’s only one reason. One reason to give away his belongings, download dating apps, refuse to look at him after six months of being apart. The rational, more settled side of Steve, honed through time and experience tells him to chill the fuck out and not make this about him. The other side, quick to anger and heightened emotions, only ever brought on by his best friend these days, roars to life.
The only thought that got him through his missions and back home was Bucky, while Bucky was clearly building a life without Steve. Where Steve floundered trying to find his identity as an empty half, Bucky had obviously never thought of them as ever being whole together.
He thought his heart had broken every time Bucky was taken away from him. Bucky choosing to distance himself is infinitely worse.
Abruptly, Steve gets up. “If I’m intruding, I can leave.”
Slowly, with carefully measured movements, Bucky puts down his book. He stands. “Excuse me?”
“You don’t want me here. I can tell when I’m not needed.” He meets Bucky’s eyes, defiantly.
There’s a well suppressed tremor in Bucky’s voice. “And why would you think that?”
Steve shrugs. “You’ve moved on. You - you gave away my book. You’ve been dating.” He aims for nonchalance and falls flat.
Bucky takes a step toward him. “What does dating have to do with anything?”
“Nothing – I –“ Steve stammers in the face of an advancing Bucky.
Bucky stalks into his space. The closer he gets, the harder it is for him to conceal his fury. “I’ve moved on?” He hisses. “Do you think I could ever move on? That I’d ever get used to a life without you? That some shitty, old version of yourself will suddenly make this ache disappear? Do you think that I wouldn’t miss you? That every breath wasn’t a reminder that you weren’t here? Dammit Steve, you are in every inch of my body, in every recess of my mind.
Sam, my therapist, the rest of the world – maybe they’re able to get over their grief and learn to live without you. I can’t. I can’t. Fuck, I don’t even know who I am without you. I don’t need a book or a damn shield to hold on to you. You live in me. I can’t fucking move on.”
He scrubs a hand over his face, his breath coming out in pained gasps. All it takes, is Steve reaching out to caress his cheek, and Bucky collapses. He lurches forward, clinging to Steve, face buried in Steve’s neck.
“I thought I lost you. Do you have any idea how much it hurts?”
Steve laughs, sadly. If there’s one thing he knows, it’s the pain of losing Bucky. “Yeah, Buck. I do. I keep losing you. I’m terrified that if I let you out of my sight, you won’t come back. That none of this is real.”
Bucky shudders. And then he’s crying. He presses up into Steve, holds on for dear life, and he cries. And Steve – he burrows into Bucky and does the same.
--
The tears take a long time to run out, and by then, they’re both spent. Now that Steve’s been given permission, he’s loathe to let go. There’s a desperation in his hold on Bucky, a need to reassure himself, each other, that they’re here. Together.
“Steve,” Bucky’s voice is as scratchy as his beard against Steve’s neck. “We should…”
“Mhm.” Steve makes no effort to let go, hand scraping at the short hair at his nape. “You cut your hair.”
“Do you like it?”
“Do you?”
“Are we really talking about my hair right now?” Bucky grumbles, half-heartedly.
“Buck.”
“I feel more like myself. Less like the Winter Soldier.”
“Whatever you need. For what it’s worth, I always like how you look.”
Bucky draws away, so Steve can see him roll his eyes. “Sap.” He gingerly untangles himself from Steve, apologetic as he says, “My eyes are itchy.”
They’re red and swollen. Steve’s probably looks the same. It takes a lot of effort not to follow Bucky into the bathroom and help him wash his face. Instead, he scrubs at his own at the kitchen sink and gets them glasses of water.
When Bucky returns, he sits on the couch, right beside Steve. There’s a tangible shift in the air: it’s lighter, easier to move through and sit in. It envelopes them, cradles bone-weary fatigue and cautious hope. Steve allows himself to look, really look at Bucky – not the tentative, furtive glances he’d been throwing all day. He takes in Bucky’s new look, the shorter hair and silver dog tags. Eyes nestled in dark circles, but no longer bordered by worry or fear.
It’s minute and Steve prides himself in noticing the shifts, the signs that Bucky is freer. The way his shoulders are half an inch lower, the loss of the furrow between his brows, how he leans into Steve. He looks, and he looks, painfully aware that he will never tire of looking at Bucky. At the face he knows better than his own. The last one he sees before he sleeps, the first when he wakes.
And it’s still not enough. He wants to see Bucky’s face when it’s hovering over his own, when it’s asleep next to him, when it’s open in laughter, and full of pleasure.
Fuck, does he want more and he’s tired of waiting.
“Buck,” Steve begins. Then pauses to take Bucky’s hands, thrilling in the touch. “I know it’s going to take time for you to trust me again –
Bucky moves to cut him off.
“Let me finish.”
“No,” Bucky says over him. “You listen to me. I needed time to believe this is real and not a figment of my imagination. There’s been a lot of grief in the past six months and suddenly, you’re back, and - it’s a lot to take in. But I’ve never stopped trusting you and I’ve never stopped wanting you here, with me.”
Apparently, there are still tears left. He leans forward until his forehead rests against Bucky’s. Breathes in his scent, familiar despite the months, years, decades apart. He closes his eyes and cradles Bucky’s face in his palms. After five years and six months, and seventy years before that, there’s finally a tendril of hope and peace. He latches on to it.
“Can I speak now?”
“If you must.”
“Do you believe me when I say I never meant to leave you?” His voice is soft, quiet, for just them.
“Yeah.” Bucky’s reply is a whisper, ghosted across Steve’s face.
“And that I’m back, I’m here to stay.”
“Yes.”
“That when I said, ‘the end of the line,’ I meant it.”
Bucky nods. His nose brushes along Steve’s and Steve’s breath hitches. His pulse quickens.
“And that you’re good and kind and incredible?”
“Steve.”
“Do you know that when I see you, everything makes sense? That you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me?”
A choked whimper escapes from Bucky and Steve presses in tighter, thumbs brushing high cheekbones with tenderness.
“Do you believe you deserve good things?”
Bucky’s fingers clench into Steve’s shirt, but he says silent. Steve drags his nose to the single tear on Bucky’s cheek, chases it away with his lips.
“You can have it all, Buck.” His words are careful, soft, mouthed into Bucky’s skin. “Happiness, peace -anything, everything you want.”
“And if I only want you?”
Steve swallows thickly, pulling back so he can meet Bucky’s eyes. “You’ve always had me. I’m already yours.”
There’s a moment which stretches, where Steve watches a mess of emotion war through Bucky. “Fuck, Stevie.” And then Bucky closes the miniscule gap between them, pressing his lips to Steve’s.
It’s so, so tender and gentle, the barest hint of pressure. It leaves Steve reeling, and he draws back with a gasp. Bucky’s fingers are trembling against Steve’s body, both coming undone at a mere brush of lips. Steve wants to laugh. He wants to kiss Bucky and never stop.
Bucky’s eyes flutter open, a smile slowly growing on his face “Hi.”
He’s stunning in the glow of happiness and it warms Steve to his core, his blood thrumming with urgency. “Kiss me, Buck. Kiss –
Bucky cuts him off with his lips, insistent, demanding this time. He chases his desires in Steve, pushing into him, pulling him closer. Bucky’s mouth is hot against his own, tongue sending jolts of pleasure at every swipe. Steve buries his hands in Bucky’s hair and gives in to static in his head, Bucky’s body against his own.
Bucky wrenches his away, panting wetly as he mouths up Steve’s jaw to his ear. “I love you. I’ve always loved you.”
And as he holds Bucky in his arms, guides his head back so he can kiss him with a hundred years of pent up love and longing, Steve finally finds himself home.