But you were always gold to me

Steve slowly settles against the bed, leaving three to four feet of space between he and Bucky.

Bucky sucks a finger into his mouth absentmindedly, Steve smiling at the gesture. When he catches Steve’s gaze while he does it, heat curls in Steve’s gut.

“You remember those? Chocolate-covered cherries?”

Bucky knits his brow and shakes his head. Steve swallows a pang of disappointment.

He clears his throat. Bucky crosses his legs, curling into himself. His hands clench at his thighs. I know you, he manages.

Steve nods, encouraging him to continue. Bucky wrings his hands, then signs, Confused. I don’t know who is B-U-C-K-Y. But you know.

When his solemn eyes run up Steve’s body like he’s looking for answers, goosebumps erupt down Steve’s spine.

So I had to...you have to stay alive. You have to come back. You have to be safe, Bucky signs.

Steve swallows a smile, because watching over Steve is apparently so ingrained in Bucky’s being that not even 70 years of HYDRA’s torture can remove it; Bucky’s been keeping Steve alive even when he doesn’t know why.

“Was that you? On the stairs?” Steve asks it so softly, and Bucky’s unwavering stare tells him all he needs to know.

“Buck! How the--? You can't just follow us into the field. You could have been caught or killed, Tony could have--” He drags a hand over his face, but then realization dawns on him that Bucky could have been forced. “Did they make you? Did you go against your will?”

Bucky clenches his eyes shut and throws up a hand, as if he’s telling Steve to wait. Too many questions. Bucky takes a breath and reaches for something.

He holds up a mask, one Steve recognizes from their fight in the street. Bucky points to the mask, then signs Soldier, one fist on his breast and another on his stomach, the stance mimicking holding a rifle. Then he places the mask on the floor, away from him. Pauses a beat and points to himself, me.

Steve nods that he’s following. Bucky continues. Before, he signs, the fight between me and you, that was the Soldier. He shifts his shoulders a little. Now, in France, that was me. He points to himself.

Hope threatens to crackle up Steve’s chest like a fire fighting to ignite. Who saved me from the water? Steve signs.

Bucky looks away, eyes on the mask sitting by his knee. He puts two hands together, fingers splayed, and rubs the palms against each other. Blurry.

A smile tugs at Steve’s lips. “I’ll take that. As long as you’re in there, that’s all I need to hear.”

Bucky doesn’t respond, but grabs the mask and turns it over in his hands. They’re quiet for a long time.Bucky holds up the mask like he wants slide it on, and Steve sees his hand shake as he holds it out just in front of his mouth.

“If it makes you feel safe, holds you together, you can put it on, Buck. It doesn’t make you the Soldier. I get it.” He understands the displacement, the brokenness of coming back home and feeling like he doesn’t belong there yet, like he needs to crawl out of the suit one piece at a time.

Bucky finishes the movement and slides the mask on, straps it around the back of his neck in one swift movement. He lets out a heavy breath, somehow looking both relaxed and defeated. His piercing eyes look up at Steve, and he feels like he’s watching an animal retreat to its cage.

Sometimes, Bucky looks like he’s fighting just to get the words off his hands, I feel like...both?

With the confession, Bucky squirms a little, antsy and uncomfortable. He looks so frustrated, and Steve recognizes the feeling. It’s the same one he has when he gets back from missions, body weary and exhausted, crawling in his own skin. He tries to imagine the last time Bucky really slept.

Steve wants to reach out and smooth his hands over the lines pulling at Bucky’s face, ones filled with blatant hurt and confusion, like he’s displaced. And now, when he wears a look that is both blank and full of horror, like he’s been dropped into his worst nightmare, a monster that’s standing right over his shoulder, Steve thinks he understands that too. He wants to gather Bucky in his arms, tell him they’re fighting on the same side.

“Do you remember me?” Steve asks, trying to start at the beginning, meet Bucky where he is. “From before?”

Bucky stares like he’s looking straight through him. He nods. Before, you were small. His hands are close together, face searching Steve’s. Now, you’re big.

Steve chuckles. “Yeah, Buck. I joined the army.”

Bucky’s eyes shoot open. His hands slowly raise in response, like he doesn’t know what he’s saying. Did it hurt?

A laugh forces its way out of Steve’s throat, or maybe it’s a sob. “A little.”

Bucky’s expression softens, muscles loosening. Then he gives Steve a memory of his own.

Before, he starts, drops his hands, trudges forward. You told me--you had my...six? He holds the sign up for the number, looks confused.

“Yeah, Buck. It means I have your back. When we were in the field together, I would look out for you. You looked out for me too, probably more. We made a good team.” He gives Bucky a little smile. “It means I’ll take care of you, make sure you don’t get hurt.”

Bucky sighs, the air forced through the tiny holes in his mask. His hands are on his knees, like he’s holding himself up.

“You’re tired, Buck. You can sleep here, you know. Whatever you need. You’re safe here.”

Bucky looks away, like he’s considering this. Then he rocks back, leaning against the wall. He crosses his arms across his chest, hugging himself and curling in.

He nods curtly at Steve. Watch my six. He signs, then closes his eyes.

The sun is just crawling through the blinds when Steve watches Bucky’s eyes blink open once, twice, then he’s awake, straightening stiffly. His eyes take in the room and then land on Steve, focused and ready, the rest of his features hidden behind the mask.

Steve greets him softly in sign, afraid the Soldier will be the one to respond. Feel better?

Bucky softens, looks around, shoulders dropping marginally. He puts his hand over the mask like he’s going to take it off, then thinks better of it.

He looks at Steve, his gaze open, like he’s asking for direction. Because the mask is on, Steve makes the decision to give Bucky suggestions instead of asking so many questions. Maybe he can lure Bucky out of the mask that way.

Come on. I’m hungry. He stands to his feet, happy to see Bucky slowly unfolding himself to follow.

In the kitchen, Bucky lingers by the end of the counter, watching Steve pull eggs out of the refrigerator. Sunlight streams into the open living area and covers the kitchen in brightness. Bucky squints against the light and glances around at all the windows, nervous. He crouches behind the counter, leaning into the corner of the cabinets like he’s ducking into a bunker. Steve pretends like he doesn’t notice.

He holds out a bag of shredded cheddar cheese and points at the eggs in the pan. Bucky gives him a blank stare, so he throws in a handful. When he offers mushrooms, Bucky clearly signs No, disgust clearly showing on his face. Steve muffles a laugh. He’s going to have to start making a list of things that haven’t changed.

He joins Bucky on the floor with two plates and two plastic forks, and he counts it as a personal victory when he hears the soft crunch of Velcro as Bucky slowly removes the mask. He places it at his knee and neatly finishes the eggs.

Steve points at the two of them, gestures to the food between them. Funny, right? Me cooking? Before, it was always you. I’m still a lousy chef.

Bucky keeps his eyes low, but he lets out a huff that could be acknowledgement or a laugh. His lip slowly curves up, and Steve wonders how many more years that smirk is going to give him heartburn.

O-A-T-M-E-A-L. Bucky fingerspells, then mimes spooning something out of a bowl, shaking his head, eyes laughing.

Steve groans and rolls his eyes. He mimes throwing up, because he doesn’t know enough signs to get out the flood of things he wants to say. In another time, in their tiny, wind-riddled apartment, he remembers a lighter man, dark hair swooping over his forehead and stirring pinches of brown sugar into two bowls of thick, gloppy breakfast. He always gave Steve a bigger portion and nagged him until he ate every bite.

Bucky throws his hands up, a “don’t blame me” gesture. You were always cold! He signs, throwing a hand out toward Steve. Bucky puts a finger on his own forehead and one on his stomach, and Steve crinkles his brow in confusion. He doesn’t recognize the sign.

S-I-C-K. Always. Bucky looks like he’s about to let out a laugh, and then he relaxes against the cabinet. His expression is soft when he points to his chest, then at Steve. Your lungs.

Steve nods, his face splitting wide in a grin. You remember? He asks Bucky.

Bucky smiles shyly, ducking his head, and nods. Steve’s fingers itch to chuck his chin, smooth his fingers over those full lips. This man may not be the Bucky from his dreams, the Bucky he remembers, with his cocky smile and quick words, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love who sits across from him. He will take the slow, bashful smiles and fierce, fleeting emotions. He will take Bucky in any form. God knows he’s not the only one who’s changed.

The radio from the bedroom crackles to life: Steve’s alarm. He ignores it, stays with his arms loosely crossed over his chest as Bucky tries to scrape a stray piece of cheese off the paper plate.

When Steve hears the first Russian phrase, every muscle tenses as he watches Bucky’s body grow beautifully taught, like a perfectly strung bow. He is almost graceful as his ears perk, eyes become alert, body poised and ready without actually moving. Steve curses himself for trying to be so practical as to stream the Daily Briefing in Russian so he can brush up on the language.

“High today forty-three, low seventeen.”

Bucky’s hand snaps out for the mask and Steve leaps to his feet.

“Bucky, Bucky!” Steve tries to keep his voice even as he sees the light in Bucky’s eyes disappear, replaced with a blank, compliant stare. The mask is already strapped to his face. He looks right through Steve, stepping toward him.

Steve lets him swing first, dodging and blocking with his forearm.

“Bucky, listen to my voice. It’s Steve,” he ducks under a punch. “You’re in my apartment. We’re in Brooklyn,” the radio babbles on in Russian in the other room, and he wishes he could smash it to bits. Bucky raises his fist, pausing for a second to study his target, and it’s like the connection is finally starting to spark, albeit weakly. Bucky’s brows knit together in confusion, and he swings his fist down harder, teeth gritted. Steve thinks of the helicarrier, and takes the blow to his sternum, his hands raised in peace. He notices Bucky only swings with the metal arm.

“I’m not gonna fight you,” he says slowly. “You’re my friend.”

Bucky’s eyes widen, and the look crushes Steve more than the blows he’s taken. Bucky turns, suddenly, and puts his right fist through the wall instead. An enraged, broken roar comes out of him. He staggers into the living room, metal arm braced on the back of the couch. He pulls at the mask on his face with a shaking hand.

Steve blinks, unable to move at hearing a sound come from Bucky, even if it isn’t words, and he watches his friend battle with the Soldier raging inside of him. He steps toward Bucky slowly, knowing approaching him during a flashback isn’t his smartest idea, but he’s never been good at backing away from a fight, either.

Bucky’s still pulling at the mask, a soft, whimpering sound muffled beneath it. Steve puts a hand on Bucky’s flesh shoulder and pulls at the Velcro around Bucky’s head in one quick motion, freeing him. It’s like hitting a kill-switch, and Bucky slumps to his knees.

Steve keeps the hand on his shoulder, waiting to see who emerges when Bucky responds. He doesn’t know if Bucky is even conscious. Steve starts to move his hand down Bucky’s arm, fingers gentle and non-threatening. When he’s made it to his wrist and is travelling back up again, Bucky sucks in a deep breath.

Steve gently rolls him to his back, Bucky’s entire body slack. His flesh hand trembles, and Steve dares to brush his fingers over Bucky’s, searching his face.

His eyes are closed, nostrils flaring with quick, desperate breaths.

“Hey Buck, you’re all right. You’re safe. This place is secure. We gotta get you calmed down, okay?” He speaks softly, sits fully next to Bucky and pulls his flesh arm to cradle it in his lap. Bucky’s eyes spring open, wide and wild, as Steve brushes the backs of his knuckles up the inside of Bucky’s forearm.

“Breath with me, Buck. Come on, in…out...” He counts his breaths until Bucky slowly starts to follow him, the motions awkward and forced. His eyes are glued to Steve’s hands, like he can't understand how Steve is touching him. The tremors in his fingers slowly fade, but Steve keeps up the ministrations, smoothing his fingers up and down the soft skin of Bucky’s arm.

Steve doesn’t know how long they stay like this, but Bucky’s eyes finally look up, and the shame there is so raw that Steve almost has to look away. Bucky lets out a harsh breath and Steve realizes he’s seen Steve’s lip, the blood already dried and a scab forming.

“Hey, don’t sweat it. I’ve taken worse hits than this,” he reaches out a hand and tentatively tucks Bucky’s overlong hair behind his ears, the hand curling down to trace his jaw. “It’s okay, Buck. You won’t hurt me. I'm big now, remember?” He tries for a smile. 

Bucky curls into himself, knees pulled up to his chest and the metal arm tightened around them. He lets Steve keep the other arm in his lap, where he inspects the broken skin on Bucky’s right hand. He sees the gaping hole in the sheetrock out of the corner of his eye.

Suddenly, Bucky pushes to his feet, running a hand through his hair, and slowly paces in front of the couch. He runs a hand up and down his forearm where Steve’s hand has been.

Steve attempts to give him some time alone to collect himself, not sure what Bucky’s rituals are when this happens. He moves into the kitchen and starts washing the pan from breakfast, puttering around to waste time and see what Bucky will do. He’s wiping the counter off when the man walks over to slump onto one of the barstools. Steve takes it as a good sign that he hasn’t bolted yet.

Why, he signs, fingers at his temple, do you call me B-U-C-K-Y?

Steve sighs, thinks about it. He doesn’t want to dawdle when Bucky’s actively speaking to him, but he really doesn’t have an answer for him. Bucky has been Bucky all his life, as long as he’s known Steve. He doesn’t know who gave him the nickname, maybe his mother or his sisters, could have even been his dad when he was alive.

So Steve shrugs. Because that’s your name, he says, simply. When I met you, you told me your name was B-U-C-K-Y. So that’s who you are. He gestures toward his friend. I can call you J-A-M-E-S if you want, or something else?

Bucky shakes his head, the wheels turning in his mind. My name? Mine? His flesh palm rests over his broad chest with the sign. Steve nods, and Bucky purses his lips with something like acceptance.

Steve suggests he would feel better after taking a bath, and though Bucky looks pained at the idea, he nods and lets Steve lead him through the bedroom into the bathroom.

Steve wonders aloud how Bucky has been bathing, and Bucky leans over and picks up a plastic cup Steve keeps on the sink and gestures with it in response. Steve nods in understanding, trying to imagine where Bucky could take his cat-baths with a bar of soap and a water cup in the dark corners of the city. The thought makes worry and dread gather at his brow. He opens his mouth to ask, but suddenly takes great interest in the hand towel as Bucky shamelessly pushes pants and underwear off his body, but steps shakily into the bathtub.

Bucky presses his bare back flush against the wall and stares up at the shower head in horror.

“Hey, Buck. It’s okay,” Steve steps closer, sticking his head around the other side of the curtain. He takes down the removable wand for the shower head and holds it out for Bucky to see. “You can control this yourself, you can hold it in your hand if you want to. The water doesn't have to come down on your head.”

Bucky doesn’t move away from the wall, just eyes the shower head in Steve hand like he’s about to be flogged with it. He slowly moves his gaze up to meet Steve’s eyes, and the pure fear Steve sees there is so raw he almost has to look away. Bucky’s breath comes in shallow pants, and his pretty grey eyes turn down in what can only be read as shame. He slowly shakes his head.

Steve feels sick as he sits on the edge of the tub and swallows down the tightness in his throat. “Hey, you can use a cup if you want to. Just wash right here in the tub. I’ve got plenty more like this,” Steve says softly, grabbing the plastic cup and holding it out to Bucky.

A look of frustration passes over his brow, and Bucky slides down the wall, gathering his knees to his chest and hiding his face between crossed arms.

Steve waits a few beats, trying to keep his breathing steady and even because he knows Bucky’s sharp ears are attuned to signs that he’s getting emotional.

“If you want some time by yourself, I can--” Steve moves to stand and give him some space, but Bucky’s flesh arm shoots out suddenly, stopping just short of Steve’s. They both freeze, and Steve realizes Bucky is holding himself back from actually touching him. His eyes peer up from his knees, silently asking for confirmation with trembling fingers.

“You can touch me, Buck,” Steve whispers, breath bated as Bucky moves his fingers to rest on his forearm, his touch hesitant and light. They sit that way for a moment, Bucky’s eyes wide and watching while Steve holds his body as still as possible. He feels like he’s approaching a wild animal, full of awe at the closeness Bucky is allowing him, yet a little fearful that he might scare him away.

“You want me to stay? I will, I’ll do whatever you need.” Steve makes a show of slowly raising his other hand and placing it on top of Bucky’s to softly guide his fingers more securely around Steve’s arm. Steve kneels next to the tub, his eyes now at Bucky’s level. He takes it as a small victory when he sees Bucky’s stiff shoulders lower ever so slightly.

Bucky glances between the shower wand and the plastic cup, and he reaches his metal arm out to push the shower wand closer to Steve. He meets Steve’s gaze, and gives him a slight nod. Confused, Steve holds the wand out for him to take, but Bucky repeats the gesture, like he wants Steve to keep it. Realization washes over him in a blooming heat.

“You want me to help? That what you’re sayin’?” Steve asks, and it’s harder to keep his voice even as Bucky’s eyes shift just slightly, going from questioning to pleading.

Warmth pours down his chest to pool in his gut. Steve swallows thickly and grabs a washcloth, gathering the shower curtain slowly to move it open and away from Bucky. He makes sure the water is warm enough before he lathers the cloth with soap, and looks up to meet Bucky’s gaze. Bucky presses his head back against the shower wall, eyes clenched tightly shut.

“I’ll make this quick as I can, okay? You tell me anytime you want to stop.” The sound of running water roars in the silence between them.

Steve starts at his feet, placing hands at Bucky’s right foot and looking up at him for confirmation. When he gets a stiff nod in return, he begins washing in gentle circles up to his ankles and thick calves. His skin is chapped from the cold in some places, and Steve softly rubs over these areas with his bare hands in an attempt to soothe the irritated skin.

He washes Bucky’s knees and inspects a healing scrape on one, then gently starts on his flesh shoulder, letting his empty hand run gently over Bucky’s arm in an attempt to calm him before he washes the dirt away.

“You’re doing real great, Buck. Not too bad, huh? You’re halfway there,” Steve murmurs, letting him know each body part he’s about to touch. He covers his chest in soft, careful circles, placing a steady hand on Bucky’s sternum as his breathing starts to quicken, his nostrils flaring with labored breath and his jaw clamped shut.

Steve aches to gather him up, one hand on his back and another behind the knees, hold him tight and secure against him the way Bucky used to hold Steve on frigid nights so long ago. Steve’s big enough now that they could reverse the roles. He wants to place a kiss on Bucky’s clenching jaw, the line of it one that he could draw in his sleep he’s spent so many days staring at it. Helplessness clutches at his heart with the desire to smooth the throbbing anxiety that is strangling Bucky in front of him.

Instead, he takes a deep breath and tilts Bucky forward to get to his back, making quick but efficient work with both hands. Bucky slowly lets his legs stretch out a little in front of him, and Steve gently cleans the sensitive areas between his stomach and spread thighs, his eyes glued to Bucky’s hairline during the process and a comforting hand resting on his shoulder. He ignores the almost imperceivable hitch in Bucky’s breathing and tells himself he heard nothing.

“I’m almost done, gonna wash your face now, okay? Just with my hands,” Steve explains, running the white bar of soap over his palm a few times to create a light lather. Bucky’s eyes blink open, and tears threaten to spill over their brim. Steve swallows his own and softly asks, “You okay, Buck? Is it gettin’ to be too much?”

The man shakes his head, takes a deep breath. Bucky tilts his chin forward a little to indicate Steve can continue, but his lower lip trembles as he does so. Steve settles his thumb into the dip of Bucky’s chin, that dip that has haunted his dreams for the past 70 years or more.

He lets his thumbs smooth over Bucky’s sharp jaw, circling his full cheeks and up the bridge of his nose, up over his forehead and close to his damp hair.

When he's finished, he dips the rag in water and tenderly wipes off the suds, his finger drifting over Bucky’s lower lip to grab a stray bubble. Bucky’s eyes are open and watch his every move.

When Steve is done, draping the rag over the side of the tub, Bucky holds his gaze with more trepidation than when they started. Steve sighs. “Yeah Buck, we gotta wash your hair.”

Bucky nods, eyes roaming around the room before he drops his head back into his hands again, but his entire body starts to shake. Steve can hear his breath start to come in heaves, and he tries to sort through the panic of what could have possibly happened to Bucky to trigger him like this over getting his head wet. He mutters reassuring words, tries to get Bucky to focus on his breathing, but Bucky is stuttering nonsensical words in Russian. Steve understands most of them, but wishes he didn’t.

Steve knows he’s not thinking clearly when he jumps into the tub, clothes and all, and tucks Bucky in between his legs. He presses his chest into Bucky’s back and takes deep, sure breaths, praying Bucky will match them. He splays one hand on his side and one on his belly, light and impassive, and hopes the gentle body heat will bring Bucky back to the surface. Bucky’s flesh hand latches on to Steve’s forearm.

Steve has no idea how long they sit there, but Bucky finally takes several whole, shaky breaths, and relaxes back into Steve like he’s run a marathon. Steve remembers the feeling all too clearly. He slowly runs his hand up and down Bucky’s stomach, soothingly. Bucky’s metal hand forms a fist, and Steve knows what’s coming. Bucky brings it to his chest and moves it in a slow circle, counterclockwise. Sorry.

“Buck,” Steve places his hand on the metal wrist to stop his apologizing. “Don’t. It’s alright. Just part of the process. We’re gonna get through this one step at a time.” He looks down at their bodies woven together. “I’m sorry I...do you...do you want me to move?”

Bucky’s whole body coils with tension again. “All right, all right, I’ll stay. This okay?” He rubs his stomach again, lets Bucky relax against him. Feels guilty about how happy it makes him to be allowed to hold Bucky like this, to let his hands soothe him.

“You need a minute, or you want me to go ahead?” Bucky sighs, but he starts to lean forward, let’s Steve help him sit up fully. He grabs a green bottle of shampoo and turns his head toward Steve, one eyebrow crooked in confusion. Steve chuckles. “Yeah, it ain’t the 40s anymore, is it?”

Steve curls an arm around Bucky’s torso after he has the water turned back on and sets the shower wand to the lowest pressure he can find. Bucky rests his head on Steve’s shoulder while Steve wets his hair, gently coming his fingers through the long locks. “You know, some things are nicer,” he starts, conversationally, trying to talk over Bucky’s panting breaths. “Like the shampoo. It tingles, feels pretty good.” He keeps Bucky snug against him as he lathers the shampoo in, gently massaging the scalp with his fingertips. “Even has stuff to keep the tangles out of your hair, which you’re gonna need.” He rubs the shampoo dow to the ends of his hair, lifts a little in his fingers. “Never thought you’d have long hair, huh? Rebecca would never let you hear the end of this.” And God help him, Bucky chuckles. It’s a rumbling, dark sound, but Steve feels it vibrate against him, and it’s like the sun is coming out.