Steve sits still on his couch, eyes fixated on the sketchbook in his hands. His heart is heavy, and his mind is elsewhere, as he stares at the drawing of his pal. His buddy. His Bucky.
Today marked six years. Six years since Bucky had supposedly died in the war after falling from a train.
The hardest thing wasn't accepting Bucky's death. The hardest thing was the fact they had never found his body. The hardest thing was spending five years alone in his old empty apartment, holding onto the hope that Bucky was out there somewhere, too stubborn to die. Too determined not to leave Steve.
The end of the line. That was what he said.
Bucky never lied, not to Steve.
He flipped through his pages, frowning down as he noticed all the sketches of Bucky. They had started off with darker lineart, capturing every small detail, from his single dimple on his right cheek, to the grease stains that would almost always be smeared over his face. Overtime, however, they had grown messier, less consistent, as the memory of Bucky's face began to fade from his mind.
He found himself relying on his own drawings to draw Bucky rather than his memory more often than not now, and he hated himself for it. He hated himself for forgetting Bucky.
Steve closed the book, a resounding slap echoing throughout the apartment, breaking the silence.
He remembered when this place felt more like home. Before Bucky had left. He had tried getting another roommate, but he stopped looking after meeting up with the first person to offer. It felt wrong, being with anyone other than Bucky.
It was hard to find friends. He kept looking for Bucky inside of them, trying to find remnants of him inside of them. He would crack inside jokes, and instantly feeling dejected when no one seemed to understand them. Just when he would start having a good time with others, he would look at his side, always expecting to see Bucky, smiling and laughing as if he had never left.
He never did.
He's torn from his thoughts when he thinks his hears something nearby. He looks to the door, setting his sketchbook aside and rising to his feet, straightening his back and nearing the door, opening it slowly and peering outside.
The hallway was empty, if you ignore the stairs leading to the next and previous floors on either end.
He feels his stomach drop, nothing short of pure disappointment rushing through him. He didn't know what he was expecting, but whatever it was, he wasn't pleased with the result.
He closed the door again, turning and jumping back once he saw the man standing in the middle of the room, eyes stuck on him.
The man had a mask concealing half of his face, long greasy hair falling just above his shoulders. He was missing his left arm, a metal prosthetic having replaced it, red star imprinted on it. His gaze was far away, his posture stiff. He didn't move. He looked so unfamiliar- like a stranger.
But those eyes were unmistakable.
Steve took a slow, calculated step forwards, whilst the other took a step back. His eyes squinted, and he inspected Steve, eyeing him with enough confusion and hesitation for a lifetime.
"Bucky?"
The man doesn't respond, but Steve doesn't miss the pained expression that passes over his face. Something happened to him- it's obvious. It was clear the instant Steve had seen him.
They shared the same face, but the man standing before him wasn't Bucky Barnes. Not anymore. Untold stories were held behind those eyes, painful experiences and strained memories hidden away in his mind.
His body had trouble keeping up with his mind, however, and Steve lurched forwards, arms wrapped around the man's body, tears obscuring his vision as he did so.
Bucky didn't hug back.
He didn't know how much time had passed before Steve managed to tear himself from Bucky's body. His head lifted as he stared at his friend. He was taller than before, definitely broader, it was harder to look up at him. More difficult to tolerate, at least.
He reached up, slowly, allowing Bucky to move if he wanted to. He didn't. Steve grabbed onto his mask, carefully pulling it off of his face, dropping it to the ground. Bucky's gaze remained fixated on Steve, eyes unwavering, even as Steve took a step back from him so he didn't have to look up so much.
"Do you know me?" Steve asked, loud and clear. Bucky stared at him, brows furrowing as he nodded.
Great.
"Do you know my name?"
Bucky stayed still, his eyes flickering off to the side. He was thinking, Steve noticed. His expression was pained, like he was trying so hard just to remember his name.
"I know you." Was all he said in response, head tilting as he looked back at Steve. "I know you."
"You know me." Steve confirmed. He lifted a hand to his chest, trying for a smile. "I'm Steve."
"Steve." Bucky uttered out slowly. He spoke his name carefully, as if it was an incantation, remnants of a smile flickering over his face if only for a second.
Steve's smile grew, nodding. "Yeah, yeah- that's me."
Bucky took a step closer. "Steve." He repeated. His brows furrowed, worry flashing over his face as he stared at Steve. "...You're shaking."
It turns out that Steve was, in fact, shaking.
Just as Bucky had pointed this out, Steve felt tears stream down his face, his smile wavering. His knees buckled beneath him, and Bucky hastened forwards, having to bob down in the slightest manner to catch Steve in his arms.
Steve broke into a fit of weak, heaved laughter, hands balling into fists as he grabbed at Bucky's bizarre looking uniform. He rested his hand on Bucky's left arm, running his hand cautiously along the metal.
"Where have you been..?" Steve mumbled, his own hand lifting Bucky's, intertwining their fingers, watching as Bucky's fingers curled. It was fascinating, if anything, seeing how fluidly and efficiently the prosthetic moved.
"Unimportant." Bucky responded, short and sharp. Steve frowned, making a somewhat feeble attempt to push himself out of Bucky's grasp, grunting in annoyance when his attempts proved impotent.
"Of course it's important, Buck- you- you died!" "Steve.." "It's been six years- You've been dead for six years-!" "Steve-" "You left me alone for six years!" "Steve."
Steve froze up, feeling cold metal against his face, wiping at the stray tears still falling from his eyes. Bucky's hand shifted, moving to brush Steve's hair from his face, tucking it behind his ear.
Bucky grabbed onto Steve's chin, lifting his head to meet his gaze, and Steve shuddered against the cold metal.
In response, Bucky frowned, steadily rising to his feet. His arms wrapped around Steve's frail frame, heedful to his petite, shaking form as he lifted him off the ground.
Steve panicked, legs kicking wildly before wrapping around Bucky's waist, clinging to his friend. Burying his face in Bucky's shoulder, he took in a deep, shaky breath. Tears pricked at his eyes, taking in the now unfamiliar smell that he had forgotten about over the years.
It was just as hard to accept that Bucky was here as it was to believe that Bucky was dead.
He clung to Bucky, paying no mind even as he noticed Bucky was moving. His arms wrapped tighter around Bucky as he tried setting him down on his bed, burrowing his face deeper into his shoulder, even as he felt Bucky struggling to pry Steve off of him.
"Steve-" Bucky mumbled, irritation practically radiating off of him.
"Shut up." Steve hissed, brows stitched together.
His breath hitched when he felt Bucky's hand slid between their bodies, pushing Steve down and onto the bed with sudden force. Steve stared up at Bucky, squirming under his metal hand, grabbing at his wrist, trying- and failing- to tear his hand off of his chest.
"Bucky-" Steve chokes out, voice strained and raspy after crying so much. His vision is still blurry, but he can see how Bucky flinches, how he refuses to look at Steve. "Don't- Don't go."
When Bucky doesn't respond, his hands shoot up, grabbing almost desperately onto Bucky's shoulders, struggling not to break down for the third time in the past ten minutes. "It's been six years, please-"
Bucky lifted his hand, slowly, gaze shifting to watch Steve. Steve stayed lying there, unmoving, pleading silently for Bucky to just... stay.
Steve opens his mouth to speak again, stopping when Bucky lifts his hand, holding a finger to his lips, a silent way of telling Steve to shut up. He complied, his eyes not moving from the man standing above him.
"Why did I come here?"
Steve could feel the moment his heart shattered. It was worse than Bucky not remembering his name- Bucky didn't even remember that this was home. He didn't remember the significance of this apartment- the memories shared, the years spent here, the nights they would spend talking idly, the dances they shared alone together, without a care in the world, because in those moments it was just them. Two men who loved each other, enjoying each other's company.
"It's home, Buck." Steve said simply, hand reaching out to grab Bucky's flesh hand. He sat up gradually, and Bucky did nothing to stop him. "You came home."
It was a struggle, but Steve had managed to pull Bucky down and onto the bed. He crawled into his lap, arms snaking around his waist. "I- I missed you... God, I missed you..."
"Sorry..." Bucky mumbled, running a hand through Steve's hair.
"Don't be- you big jerk.." Steve sighed, a waterfall of tears falling from his eyes yet again. In spite of this, a smile broke out over his face, because Bucky was here. Bucky was alive. Bucky was home.
And for a short moment, with Steve in Bucky's arms, everything felt like it would be okay.