Epilogue
Natalia told him; ‘it’s time for you to rest’. The windows are open, cool breeze brushing the curtains back. The apartment is quiet except for the sounds of slow breathing; Steve’s laying on the couch. It’s been three weeks since James washed the blood of the fight from his hands and hung up his kevlar. Three weeks since all ties to his previous alias’ were cut and there was no one left inhabiting his body but James Barnes.
And Bucky. Bucky’s here too, but only for Steve. In the beginning, it startled James how quickly he and Steve became friends again, even with the knowledge of who they used to be hanging over them like snow on a tree branch. Now, they are careful. Still learning. Pushing. Pulling. Asking. Giving.
Natalia has given her apartment to James, with the parting excuse that it was so he couldn’t get Clint’s trashed again. James, surprisingly enough, still has his mechanic job. Tony is apparently unfazed by the fact that he missed his third day at the job. It’s whatever - he doesn’t really need the money considering the amount he got paid for killing but also not killing Fury, but he actually likes working at the shop. For the first time in a while, he comes home from work covered in grease instead of blood.
Steve comes over a lot. Sometimes they sit on the couch and watch movies, sometimes they talk about their days (on top of being Captain America, Steve’s also a freelance artist) and sometimes they talk about the past. When he’s in the right mood, James likes to ask questions about a past he doesn’t remember - where was I born? When did we meet? How did we meet? What was I like?
Bucky Beckham was an overprotective, far too loud, loyal friend with a light sense of humor. Nowadays, James is unstable, unpredictable, quiet and with the darkest sense of humor Sam’s said he’s heard in a long time. Sam Wilson, Steve’s best friend. He comes over and watches movies at James’, too, brings popcorn and a presence that calms the tension between James and Steve that they haven’t worked out yet.
Sam, underneath the shield he likes to provide for Steve, is a real good guy. After a long talk with both James and Steve, Sam warms up to James and James is starting to consider the guy a friend. He’s always there for Steve in a way that James doesn’t think he’ll ever understand.
Steve himself is an entirely different story. He seems to think it’s his purpose to weave himself back into James’ daily life - there during lunch at James’ work, hanging at his apartment on the weekends, joining him for a run in the mornings. James can’t find it in himself to say he doesn’t like it. Steve’s become a constant in James’ life that he genuinely enjoys.
“You’re thinking too hard again,” comes from the couch.
James looks up, knows his face is too blank to be considered normal, knows his entire body is full of tension that never really leaves. “Someone’s gotta do some of it around here,” he retorts.
Steve snickers, looking up from the sketchpad on his knee. “You’re a dick,” he replies, all the heat from the remark completely nonexistent.
“And you’re an asshole. Pay me rent,” James pulls up a now old arguement, getting up from the dining table and walking over to the coffee pot.
Steve rolls his eyes - James isn’t looking, but he knows - and goes back to scratching his pencil along the paper. “You’re literally the worst model,” he says.
“I think the real problem there is that you never let me know when I’m actually supposed to be modelling,” James tells him, raising an eyebrow from where he’s sipping at steaming coffee.
Steve mutters something under his breath that James doesn’t bother lipreading, instead content to lean against the bench and turn his attention the cloud-filled sky outside the window. It’ll be nearing dark soon, and that means Steve will be gearing up and going out to prowl the streets of Brooklyn.
In the past three weeks, James has considered countless times going with him.
His body misses the way it used to move - silent, agile, an unstoppable force. Something in him misses the way he could find a target in less than a week and take them down with minimal effort. He knows it’s not healthy, to love the kill, but god does he miss it. He wonders if turning that bloodlust into something good, like helping Steve protect the streets, would settle the need.
But at the same time, his body loves the way he gets home from work and knows that he’s done something good. He’d fixed something. Sometimes created something, what with the way Tony ropes him into helping with all his crazy new inventions. It’s a new kind of satisfaction, something warm that curls up inside his chest and helps him sleep at night, helps him forget the things he’s done.
He knows these kinds of things take time.
“You’re doing it again.”
Steve’s gotten up from the couch, moved over to James to sneak around him and grab his own cup of coffee. “Where’re you going tonight?” James asks, dodging the statement successfully.
Steve rolls his eyes but lets it go. “Probably Bedford-Stuyvesant, Clint’s been reporting a lot of trouble down that way. Admittedly, it’s mostly near his building, but whatever,” Steve shrugs.
James nods, eyes back on the windows. His skin prickles from where he can pick up the warmth of Steve. He’s so close. “Are you coming back here after?” he asks.
“Well, I’ll need you to stitch me up if things go to hell, won’t I?” Steve laughs.
James rolls his eyes, setting the mug down on the bench and turning to him. “Don’t wake me up before sunrise.”
“My word, Barnes,” Steve promises, a wide grin spreading over his face.
James narrows his eyes. “I’ll hold you to that,” he states, before letting a smile slip through. He thinks he sees Steve’s eyes dart down to his lips for a split second. He knows he can hear Steve’s heartbeat kick up a notch. It’s whatever.
That night, Steve slips out the windows, dressed head to toe in his night gear, leaving James settled on the couch watching reruns of the Great British Bake Off. James falls asleep in his bed around midnight and doesn’t wake up till the birds start singing. When he drags himself to the kitchen, Steve’s there on the couch, waiting to be stitched up, blood dribbling from a goddamn knife wound in his abdomen.
James sighs and flicks the coffee pot on before digging the first aid kit out.
He reckons he’ll just stay here a while, let things play out. If Steve needs him, he’ll pull the kevlar on again but for now, everything seems pretty damn fine.