But you were always gold to me

Unfortunately, Steve doesn’t have as much time to spend at home researching as he wants, because Tony has coaxed him out of the house and into the suit for a mission. He spends a week in France chasing HYDRA leads with the team. Sam sits beside him on the jet, practically bouncing with excitement at being asked to come along. Steve stays away from the chatter, hanging near the back with Clint, who hasn’t been much of a talker since he lost his hearing. He can get by with his hearing aid, but he mostly stays around Natasha, who’s willing to use sign language with him. Steve isn’t feeling very social, but tonight, he’s on a mission.

He knows a few conversation starters: what’s up, how are you, you feel okay? But the rest of it is lost on him. He asks Clint to teach him, and he gets a wry smile.

Clint’s vocabulary isn’t extensive either, and he tells Steve that the best thing he can do is learn the alphabet, that way if he doesn’t know the sign, he can at least spell out the words. Natasha eavesdrops on their conversation, and she and Clint share a quick joke which involves Natasha pointing at Steve and the two of them cackling.

What? Steve signs, face pinched in annoyance.

She asked, why do you want to learn? Clint answers, teaching him half the signs to get the point across.

When he finally understands the question, Steve shrugs. I-N-T-E-R-E-S-T-E-D. The serum has always helped his understanding of new languages.

Clint laughs again. Steve points in Natasha’s general direction and then to his own mouth, tapping twice. What did she say?

Clint just signs something he doesn’t understand, but he has a goofy grin on his face, eyelashes fluttering dramatically. The thumbs of both his hands move up and down, knuckles pressed together over his heart. He’s laughing too hard to answer Steve, so he yells for Natasha with a huff.

“I said you’re interested in a sweetheart. ” She drawls, and Steve slumps in his seat to hide his blush.

He’s cornered, his comm down and he’s taken his third shot. His shield is compromised, and Steve is really wishing he had stayed home instead of being cornered by five HYDRA goons who didn’t like being prodded at. He thinks of Bucky, his wild eyes programmed for murder, metal arm trained for killing. The burn of anger licks up his throat like bile, and he snatches away two assault rifles, breaking them in half and taking out two agents. He disarms another, pushing him down the stairs as he retreats down the hall into the dark. The remaining two agents follow, and Steve can hear his heart slugging in his ears. Even though the serum is on his side, he’s losing a lot of blood. He’s not afraid, but he feels weakness creep over his muscles. He looks over the edge of the stone balcony he’s standing on, wondering if he could land the jump somewhat safely from this height.

He has looked away for only a moment, but at the sound of a yell, he whips his head back. One of the agents has disappeared completely, but one is still charging after him. Steve is grasping his side, shaking off a limp, but he’s not at full speed. A wall looms up ahead and marks a dead end. He turns, palms raised at the attacker.

The agent yells at him in French, rifle shouldered. It’s dark in the hallway, shadows covering the man’s face. Steve lets the cool of the concrete seep through the back of his suit.

Suddenly, a sickening crack replaces the silence, and the agent’s body is drawn away, followed by a clipped curse and another squelching thud.

Steve takes a tentative step, then another, before he’s calling out names and running around to the stairwell to see what’s going on. He can barely make out the soft patter of footsteps, and a metallic scrape before his rescuer is gone.  

On the way home, Sam says he’s quieter than usual. Banner fusses over his injuries, even though they both know he just needs to rest and let the serum do it’s work. Banner removes some shrapnel and stitches up some of his deeper cuts. To his embarrassment, he looks the worst out of his fellow Avengers, who have come away mostly unscathed. The mission is considered a success, but Steve’s mind is on the darkness that came to his rescue before he limped back to the jet. Natasha comes to sit beside where he is reclined, and she eventually meets his gaze with a knowing look.

“You wanna practice what you’ve learned, or are your fingers too bruised?” She smirks, but her eyes are solemn.

Sure, Steve replies, sitting up a little.

H-E W-A-S T-H-E-R-E. She fingerspells the words.

Steve pauses, decides to play dumb. Who?

Natasha up at him through her lashes darkly. Your Savior. Showed up for R-O-U-N-D 2. Maybe he’s following you.

You see him? Steve asks, eyes narrowed in disbelief, because the idea of Bucky donning the Winter Soldier garb, finding out about their mission, and catching a flight to France behind them without being picked up on Tony’s radar makes his stomach churn.

What really gets him, though, is the fact that--if it was actually Bucky--he didn’t interfere with the mission. Not to chase after Steve, not to take down Tony, not to kill Natasha. He was just there . Lingering in the shadows.

Natasha shrugs at his question. I didn’t have to. Then she taps her fingers against her stomach, the sign for I just know. She stands. “I’ll keep his secret. I owe him that. Just be careful, Rogers. Be smart. ” She squeezes his hand as she goes.

When he finally slumps into his apartment, the constant, throbbing pain has set his abdominals aflame. He keeps an arm wrapped around his middle, dropping his bag at the door. Tony had begged him to stay at the tower, but he knows he’ll just be coddled by pain medicine his metabolism will burn through in minutes. He yearns to turn off Captain America and just be Steve, curled up on his couch.

Luckily he’s halfway there as the suit is left at Stark Tower for mending, the thick fabric covering his abdomen riddled with tears. He strips out of his jeans and lifts his white teeshirt to examine the damage in his mirror, squinting against the bathroom light.

The bandages Banner has applied are soaked through, but most of them have stopped actively bleeding. He changes the dressings, fingers a large purple bruise at his hip, and crawls under the sheets, stretched out on his back. When he closes his eyes, he’s asleep instantly, the serum draining his energy to repair the supersoldier. But when he dreams, the corners of sleep are haunted by a man that lurks in the shadows, his eyes sharp and wild.

Steve wakes to a shout, and after a beat he realizes it’s come from his own mouth. He winces as he sits up in bed, shreds of pain following him out of his dreamscape, reminding him that they will not fade with sleep. He limps into the kitchen, searching for water and ice. It’s December, and the air in his apartment is cool, cool enough that he feels a warm wetness against his hip as he leans against the counter, the pain only registering after he sees a dark trail of blood on the tile leading from the bedroom.

He curses softly, whispering at the expense of no one. The apartment is empty, and he gropes for a paper towel, a sudden cough sending him to double over the sink, clenching his stomach in pain. His pulse thunders in his head.

He hears the tear of the paper towel, but both his arms are cradling his torso. When he feels pressure like fingers against the wound, he chalks it up to the pain. But when he feels warmth from his back down to his thighs, he knows he must be dreaming.

If he’s dreaming, Bucky is behind him, close, but not close enough to touch. The paper towel is suddenly damp, and the wetness cleans him from the wound at his hip all the way down to his ankle.

A rustling, and then his bandage is being peeled away, and smaller strips of adhesive pull the skin closed before larger dressing covers it.

He sticks out a cautious hand, because if this is a dream, he should be able to touch Bucky, put a hand on his arm or wrap his fingers around his shoulder--something.

He doesn’t make contact, but cool fingers wrap around his wrist, holding him in place until he slips back to sleep.

The next morning, he wakes with a start, and finds the window beside his bed has been left open. 

Steve naps during the day, partly because his healing body demands it, and partly so he can stay awake tonight in case Bucky decides to crawl back inside his window.

He toys with the idea that it could have been nothing. Bucky would be a fool to come into his house and risk being caught, and Steve has to remind himself that all of the evidence he thinks he has of seeing Bucky  are vague touches and whispers in the wind. Smoke and mirrors.

The following night comes and goes silently, his window still shut and locked when he wakes the next morning. Natasha and Sam stop by the second day to check on him, Sam complaining that he doesn’t have a Christmas tree up two days before Christmas and Natasha quietly leaving a bag of chocolate covered cherries wrapped in green cellophane on his counter as they make their way out. The candies are decent, but they don’t hold a candle to the ones Bucky’s mother used to make. Steve stands in front of the sink with his eyes closed and he can almost hear the squeals of Bucky’s sisters, running away from the playful pop of Mrs. Barnes wooden spoon, scolding them for stealing the cooling candy. When her eyes were on the girls, Bucky and Steve would swoop in to snatch a few, and she’d threaten to tan their hides too, yelling about spoiling their dinner. They would scramble under the table, all shoulders and knees, giddy from either the sugar rush, the closeness, or both.

That night, Steve leaves a chocolate covered cherry on the window sill, feeling like he’s leaving cookies for Santa.

He wakes in the middle of the night, and sharp eyes peer at him from the corner. He sits up slowly in bed, a hand on his sore middle, and Bucky’s eyes follow the movements. Steve just watches him for a beat, waiting to see what he’ll do, but Bucky stays crouched in his spot like a gargoyle. Steve walks into the kitchen to get a glass of water and to lure Bucky into the light, but he lingers in the hallway, still watching Steve gulp down the water.

“Are you thirsty?” He asks quietly, holding out the cup. Bucky narrows his eyes, as if he’s offered him arsenic.

“Are you hurt?” Silence hangs heavy between them.

“Do you know who I am?” The wild-eyed stare he’d gotten while fighting Bucky that day in the street is on him, and blood roars in his ears. Bucky steps silently into the kitchen, moonlight illuminating him. He’s dressed in cargo pants and a thin leather jacket, tennis shoes on his feet. He moves closer, moving so silently across the room until there’s a pace between them. He stands in front of Steve, brow furrowed and a battle on his features. But his stance is open, arms hanging limp at his sides.

“Remember me? I’m…?” Steve prompts him, and Bucky’s face clears, he nods.

“Do you remember what I called you? Why I know you?” Bucky turns away, features softening. He nods, like Steve’s asked him a question about the weather.

“Do you...do you want to remember? Do you want to talk?” He holds out a hand flat, palm up and impassive toward Bucky.

Bucky rocks away, back on his heel. He meets Steve’s gaze, moonlight playing over his full lips, the soft curve of his nose. He touches a hand to his throat like an afterthought and firmly shakes his head.

“Why did you come looking for me?” Steve asks, his voice dropping to a whisper for reasons he can’t explain. Bucky drops his eyes, lowers himself into a crouch again, and it takes Steve a moment to realize he’s eyeing his healing wounds that dot up his legs and torso.

Steve tugs down his shorts and pulls up the white teeshirt, showing Bucky what is left of the healing process, the bullet wound looking like a simple puncture wound. It will be healed by morning. He takes a cautious step toward Bucky, then another, placing himself in the moonlight and close enough for Bucky to touch him if he wants.

Warmth heats his cheeks as Bucky checks each spot, never touching him, just inspecting each bruise and blemish with his hands just inches off of Steve’s skin.

If he trembles a little under Bucky’s careful gaze, he tells himself it’s just nerves and not his desire to feel the sweet, delicate touch of hands he knows, hands he trusts. Hands he hasn’t felt in almost a decade.

Satisfied with his check-up, Bucky stands and turns toward the bedroom as silently as he’d come.

Wait, Steve sticks his hand out, the fingers waggling up. Bucky freezes, eyes on the hand like he’s holding a gun.

Don’t...don’t leave. He has to pause to remember the signs. You don’t have to talk. Just stay.

Steve can hear Bucky’s breath pick up, a sound that would be lost on the naked ear.

Bucky turns quietly, heading toward the bedroom, and Steve’s spirit droops until Bucky peeks at Steve over his shoulder, as if to beckon him to follow.

Steve sits on the end of the bed, Bucky tucking himself into the corner of the room on the floor across from him.

S-T-E-V-E. He spells each letter carefully, then points at Steve.

Steve has to force down a chortle of happiness, scared it will spook Bucky out the window. He nods. B-U-C-K-Y. He points at the dark-haired man seated on the carpet. My friend.

Bucky stills at that, looking down at his hands as he repeats the gesutre, two pointer fingers gentle hooked to curl into one another. Bucky points to himself, as if asking a question.

Steve’s whole body nods along with his fist, yes! Best friend.

Bucky nods, but then with two hands asks, Now?

Steve slowly lowers himself to the carpet, ignoring the pull of his muscles and the way Bucky scuttles as far back against the wall as he can go. He gives his most convincing smille, willing the sadness won’t seep through the cracks. Yes, even now.