brooklyn_boy (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
brooklyn_boy) wrote2022-04-10 11:40 am
brooklyn_boy) wrote2022-04-10 11:40 am
For FrozenAssets
The strange thing was that Steve had never really been alone before. The closest he got was in DC with the small apartment and the ghosts of the past he kept close to him at all times. But even then, he had the Avengers. He had constant contact with Tony and the rest of the team. Missions to keep him occupied so that the moments with just his record player and books felt like a break more than stifling isolation. But now, after all that had happened?
Now he truly felt alone.
Europe had the unique ability to move forward in time while preserving the past in small isolated bubbles. Steve slipped into England at nightfall and trusted his new beard and darker hair to stop instant recognition from getting him arrested. He was a fugitive, after all. The only place he was truly safe now was Wakanda and he'd fled from that protection as soon as he could.
It wasn't ingratitude that had him running. It wasn't duty either although he used that as a convenient excuse. It was that ever since Bucky closed his eyes in the cryotube, Steve had felt an ache of loneliness open up inside of him and for the first time since waking up in the 21st century, he couldn't figure out how to handle it.
The feeling was unfair to Nat and Sam. Both of them were around more than they weren't and were there for him in a way that was complicated and profound. They both had turned their back on so much to stand at his side. But Nat had her own missions to disappear on and Sam had a family he couldn't reach that tore him up inside. And Steve? The only family he'd ever known here was once more locked away. Close enough to touch and yet still inaccessible. Failed yet again by Steve who tried so hard to protect his best friend and came up short.
Too slow to grab his hand. Too late to save his mind. Too weak to keep him safe. Forever destined, it seemed, to say goodbye and be left behind.
To be alone.
And so he ran. He ran back to one of those bubbles in time that England had. A bar made, destroyed, and then rebuilt on the same ground like a phoenix rising. The place where he and Bucky had drank a beer and started their journey into the war. Where Bucky had looked at a six-foot man brimming with muscles and had seen a little guy from Brooklyn where he'd always been. And where Steve had gone back to mourn that first time he'd lost Bucky two days before he died himself.
Steve wasn't sure why he needed to be there. He just did. At this time of day it was closed and dark which fit his mood well enough. Nat had taught him how to get into such places unseen and when he did, the past pushed against him like a too-tight hug. It was comforting and suffocating all at the same time and the choked out sob bubbled up before he could stop it. He wanted to go <i>back</i>. Back to the war when things were so much simpler. Back to the days when he knew who he was and what role he had to play. Back when he had Bucky and wasn't so <i>alone</i>, even in a crowd.
He walked to the counter and it was new and not when his hands fell on it. It looked the same as where he and Bucky sat. New wood made with old designs; the attempt to make things the way they'd always been and getting as close as you could while still falling short. His nails scratched against the wood as they curled into fists, body bowing over the spot like he were praying. Perhaps he was. For what though, he couldn't say.
Steve's head lifted up and red eyes looked at the bar, desperate for a drink. There was a row of items there from the time the bar was destroyed. Trinkets and antiques left behind after the bombings and the bloodshed. Steve walked behind and let his fingertips brush over them, remembering when they had been new. Mugs. Buttons. Medals. And there, at the end, something different. Something brighter than the rest. Something old and new at the same time that called him back in a way he couldn't explain.
Steve reached for it, unsure of what it was or why it seemed so important. But it did. And as his fingertips stroked over it, the burst of nostalgia that came over him was enough to bring him to his knees. Like he was touching the past. Bridging the gap.
If only such a thing could be done...
Now he truly felt alone.
Europe had the unique ability to move forward in time while preserving the past in small isolated bubbles. Steve slipped into England at nightfall and trusted his new beard and darker hair to stop instant recognition from getting him arrested. He was a fugitive, after all. The only place he was truly safe now was Wakanda and he'd fled from that protection as soon as he could.
It wasn't ingratitude that had him running. It wasn't duty either although he used that as a convenient excuse. It was that ever since Bucky closed his eyes in the cryotube, Steve had felt an ache of loneliness open up inside of him and for the first time since waking up in the 21st century, he couldn't figure out how to handle it.
The feeling was unfair to Nat and Sam. Both of them were around more than they weren't and were there for him in a way that was complicated and profound. They both had turned their back on so much to stand at his side. But Nat had her own missions to disappear on and Sam had a family he couldn't reach that tore him up inside. And Steve? The only family he'd ever known here was once more locked away. Close enough to touch and yet still inaccessible. Failed yet again by Steve who tried so hard to protect his best friend and came up short.
Too slow to grab his hand. Too late to save his mind. Too weak to keep him safe. Forever destined, it seemed, to say goodbye and be left behind.
To be alone.
And so he ran. He ran back to one of those bubbles in time that England had. A bar made, destroyed, and then rebuilt on the same ground like a phoenix rising. The place where he and Bucky had drank a beer and started their journey into the war. Where Bucky had looked at a six-foot man brimming with muscles and had seen a little guy from Brooklyn where he'd always been. And where Steve had gone back to mourn that first time he'd lost Bucky two days before he died himself.
Steve wasn't sure why he needed to be there. He just did. At this time of day it was closed and dark which fit his mood well enough. Nat had taught him how to get into such places unseen and when he did, the past pushed against him like a too-tight hug. It was comforting and suffocating all at the same time and the choked out sob bubbled up before he could stop it. He wanted to go <i>back</i>. Back to the war when things were so much simpler. Back to the days when he knew who he was and what role he had to play. Back when he had Bucky and wasn't so <i>alone</i>, even in a crowd.
He walked to the counter and it was new and not when his hands fell on it. It looked the same as where he and Bucky sat. New wood made with old designs; the attempt to make things the way they'd always been and getting as close as you could while still falling short. His nails scratched against the wood as they curled into fists, body bowing over the spot like he were praying. Perhaps he was. For what though, he couldn't say.
Steve's head lifted up and red eyes looked at the bar, desperate for a drink. There was a row of items there from the time the bar was destroyed. Trinkets and antiques left behind after the bombings and the bloodshed. Steve walked behind and let his fingertips brush over them, remembering when they had been new. Mugs. Buttons. Medals. And there, at the end, something different. Something brighter than the rest. Something old and new at the same time that called him back in a way he couldn't explain.
Steve reached for it, unsure of what it was or why it seemed so important. But it did. And as his fingertips stroked over it, the burst of nostalgia that came over him was enough to bring him to his knees. Like he was touching the past. Bridging the gap.
If only such a thing could be done...
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Now, with no one else here, Bucky lets himself sink into Steve when he slides down to join him on the floor. Thickly corded arms wind around him, and Bucky’s eyes scrunch closed like he’s gonna hide himself from his own future. From the fact that he’s guessing Steve was there to see every second of it and carry it the rest of his life. Bucky presses into Steve’s strong form, trying to push down the way his breathing wants to run frantic and his head feels a little like he’s tried breathing too high up.
It’s Steve’s scent that helps Bucky steady himself. Familiar but foreign at the same time; the woodsy charcoal smell Steve carried like the vine and willow charcoals he’d used crept into his skin, and then on it now, something with a tang of spice he’s never smelled before, tinged with a fabric scent that leans more towards the rubber that seems to follow the flyboys around.
Bucky pulls back, but only barely. They’re so close that their breath mingles, but Bucky’s heart twists at how Steve’s looking at him like he’s drinking up the sight of him while he can.
Seems like once Steve starts talking, he can’t stop. Bucky closes his eyes against the stinging threatening ‘em, sucks in a slow, deliberate breath like he’s trying to master himself before a shot, and opens them even when he’s still not ready to face any of this.
God. It feels like he’s a dead man walking already. Steve’s might as well be getting his last words out to a ghost.
“Don’t talk like that, Rogers. Shit happens, that’s just war. The reels didn’t show all that, and it’s not your fault,,” Bucky says shakily. He clasps Steve’s shoulders, giving them a squeeze and a shake. It’s not your fault! Blame the krauts for it, but it’s not your fault! “Do the others make it? What about my family?”
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At Bucky's other questions, guilt claws at his stomach. It's not the first time he's thought about the Barnes' and what became of them. Steve follows them from a distance as they live their lives under new names. Sisters married and having kids of their own. Bucky even has a great-grandniece as of last month, not that he's been able to know that.
Steve hasn't reached out to them once.
"The guys all make it," Steve answers finally. He sits back on his heels to put some space between them even though his hands can't let Bucky go. It practically has him tugging Bucky along.
"And your family... God, Buck. They did so good. You got a nephew they named James who's an honest to God rocket scientist. Niece named Stephanie after yours truly. Her kid just had a kid. Enough to make you feel old..."
He shakes his head a little, the smile on it worn but there.
"Everyone has a real good life. No scraping for food. No cold winter nights. Everybody after the war gets all the things we coulda dreamed of for them. You and I couldn't hope for more. 'Cept maybe JB Jr. going to the White House." A ghost of teasing washes out some of Steve's weariness.
"All those president names wasted twice..."
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Focus on my family. On Steve. It’s hard to feel the same rah-rah when Uncle Sam left you out in the cold, but if dying’s gonna save Steve and his family, it’s gotta be okay, right? Bucky’s trying to shove the fear from his eyes, and it looks like it’s an effort of brute force; Bucky’s jaw grits, and a stony look settles over his face like a guy knowing he’s going to a chopping block no matter what.
But the slight tremor in his hands as they clutch at Steve’s biceps still gives him away as they part, but only just.
“I got a nephew named after me. And Stephanie-,” Bucky looks wide-eyed, ‘cause of course. Becca’s always had a soft spot for Steve, so it figures, but to hear they all got to have a family. And a great grand-nephew! Bucky feels old before his time, and something sad and proud flickers across his face. “An honest-to-God rocket scientist!”
Bucky feels himself sinking to the floor, right on his ass, and looking anything but a proper Sarge of the good ol’ US of A as he takes this all in. His family hadn’t been scraping as bad as Steve and he had when they set out to make something of themselves, but to never have to go through the Great Crash.
“Shit, I’ll take it. Maybe it’s worth it, really worth it,” Bucky sounds hushed, because dread and happiness clash against each other so much that he’s not sure what to think. Bucky looks up at Steve, and only sees the kind of bone-deep exhaustion you saw in guys on the front too long. “Isn’t that why we shipped out in the first place? To stop the Nazis, give everyone else a future?”
Tell me I didn't die for no goddamn reason, is what Bucky's silently asking.
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Was it worth it? Was the war worth it? Was the peace we gained worth the lives lost? Was the sacrifice Bucky made and that he made important? Was the lives they gave up for some greater purpose?
Was the pain and the grief and all of this time spent for everyone else and never for himself for a goddamn reason? Or was all of it just wasted and lost?
Steve knows he needs to answer Bucky but the truth is more complicated than it should be and 'I don't know' is still an answer. It's the wrong answer, even if it's correct. Especially if it is correct. And Steve can't do that to his friend. The man is still recovering from what he must assume is confirmation of his death. How much more could Steve toss on him before he broke?
So he nods.
"Yeah. Yeah, that is why we shipped out," he says evenly. "And we definitely gave them a future where they could be happy and free. It's what I still fight for, now."
'Is it?', he wonders privately, that wall inside him taking another sharp hit. He pushes the thought away.
"You did so much good, Buck. You should be proud."
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Now even Steve’s struggling to answer. Bucky looks back up at him, the tiniest telltale hints of the toll the war’s taking on him on his face. The dark shadows sitting under his eyes, the exhaustion that seems to sit like a permanent squatter along the edges of Bucky’s face; he’s gone through so much that being so bone-deep beat seems second nature. Hardly remembers what it’s like to feel up and at’em.
At least Steve sounds like he sorta believes it. Mostly.
“At least it wasn’t a waste,” Bucky looks down at the mud crusted on his boots. His folks get a future, everyone else back home and in Europe gets a world without the Nazis overrunning it. He’s got the sudden urge to pick at a lace threatening to come loose, but instead digs his nails into his palm just to feel the blunt pain. “Everything we’re gonna go through.”
He doesn’t feel proud. He feels resigned. But at least if he’s gonna go, it won’t be for nothing.
Bucky casts around for something to say, turn it away from his coming death so the panic he’s mostly got down to a simmer doesn’t flare up. It almost doesn’t work. Instead, Bucky drags his hand across his face, and pulls himself up. Dragging a nearby chair over, he slumps down into it, and glances up at Steve. “So that’s it? You make your home here in London or something? Or just wanted to check out an old haunt?”
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The thing is that the both of them are operating without a script and without rules. Steve has no idea how long Bucky is here for nor what impact the visit is going to have. The cruelest option is the one Steve's shattered heart assumes the most likely: that he is being given a breath of air before once more being submerged. Much like waterboarding, this is the break needed so he stays alive and engaged. Part of the punishment more than a relief from it. Another way to test the soundness of his foundation by all but dropping a bomb onto it and salting the ground behind.
But that is not the only option.
Hope, cruel and insidious and part of his DNA much the way his asthma used to be, still whispers into his ear. It makes him wonder if this is not perhaps a gift. A chance at something better than the life he saw spinning out from one disaster to the next, endlessly and joylessly until the end. What if Bucky was here in this time and that was meant to be? What if he was meant to stay?
Steve has no way to know which of these is the truth or if the reality falls somewhere in between. But either way, there are practical concerns that are going to come up sooner rather than later and it is going to take some work to either excise the truth Bucky needs to understand them without giving away the plot or a great deal more of a conversation than Steve has the energy for now. He still hasn't moved, belying the complicated nature of what should have been a simple question. It's a conscious effort to slouch a bit and look toward the ground.
To stop his hands from shaking from bone-deep exhaustion and an even deeper need to touch.
"I'm...uh. I'm taking a break, actually," he says evenly. It's not a lie but only because it is omitting most of the important information. Specifically what he is taking a break from. "It's been a rough few months for me and I was lookin' for some familiar ground. This was the first that came to mind."
They can't stay here for too much longer, he also realizes as a distant clock tower strikes the early hour. Bucky hasn't turned into a pumpkin either so it's unlikely this is something connected to a specific timeframe. Perhaps. But he'll need to think about that later.
"We probably should... A hotel or something." He has a quinjet parked and hidden away which is probably safer. Going back to it though means that he needs to take it someplace else. He can't make that kind of decision right now. "I kinda broke in here, 's the thing. Last thing either of us needs is cops asking questions." Bucky because his answers would sound insane and Steve because he's wanted by 115 nations and a few of them aren't picky about what condition he's delivered in.
"Do ya think you can... You think you can walk out with me?"
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Bucky’s eyebrow raise: Steve, taking a break? The guy didn’t even take a break when he was ninety-something and some change, when a chill breeze could do him in.
“Must’ve been a rough couple of months.” Bucky says slowly, as if it’ll lead to Steve spilling…. though what if it’s what put that exhaustion on Steve’s face? Must’ve been hell if this is what got Steve needing a break, when he’d never needed one back during a full scale War. “Guess our digs are gone, huh?”
Bucky starts; a clock tower in the distance strikes, echoing like a reminder that there’s a world out there, and time hasn’t frozen like Bucky feels it has. Shaking himself a little, Bucky glances out past Steve’s shoulder towards the span of windows along the bar’s front, but he’s only greeted with a thick pea soup crowded up along the streets, and through it, the dim shadows of buildings and alleys that look like specters that had come with him from his time.
Steve’s right. They gotta get a move on it. Bucky gets to his feet and holds a hand out to Steve. “Yeah, I’m fine. Last thing I want is attention right now, and we’ll get company soon.”
The fog, it turns out, is a godsend, even when the English early chill sinks into his bones like it always has. At least that hasn’t changed, Bucky thinks; the cold seeps into a guy’s veins just like it did back on the front, so deep that you start to forget what it’s like to actually feel warm again. Bucky doesn’t bitch, not even once. He tugs his collar up and hunches his shoulders while they slip through the alleys and streets, while their breaths puff out in faint white clouds.
The area’s changed just enough that Bucky would’ve been lost if it wasn’t for Steve. And he sure as hell wouldn’t have noticed the abandoned apartment if it weren’t for Steve; suddenly they’re veering off, and down a couple turns, there’s a drawn up emergency ladder that isn’t enough to stop them both. The apartment sits near roof level, and only one of the windows has been broken; other than that, it looks like they’re not about to bust in on someone.
“So we hole up here for a bit, get our bearings.” Bucky says, rubbing at his arms. The place doesn’t look half bad, actually. “You think we’re gonna have a tail?”
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The first thing Steve does is sweep the place, quickly. It's got a thin layer of dust which is helpful; Nat had shown him how to use dust to assess whether or not the place has been disturbed. This one looks untouched for weeks and that is immediately a relief. Steve goes to any windows and pulls out a thin laser to assess sightlines. Both he and Bucky should be able to avoid being noticed with a reasonable amount of caution, he figures. So, all in all, the place is good. Great, even, when he tries the tap and finds clear water pumping through.
Steve splashes his face with it and pulls the bottom of his shirt to wipe it off. It is still a weird sensation to do that and find hair on his chin. That and Bucky's comment actually makes him smile.
"I doubt either of us get a tail unless your version of the serum had some fancy stuff I don't know about."
He grins, proud of the pun for a whole five seconds before he realizes what he said.
Fuck.
Steve knows he's a bad liar and if people who knew him for months could tell him that then Bucky might as well be reading his mind. Still, Steve coughs nervously and goes to recheck the locks on the door. His only hope at this point is distraction both from Bucky and for Bucky. The best way he can think of to do that is to just keep talking.
"I...uh. No, in seriousness. The people who are looking for me wouldn't be subtle if they had an idea where I was. So unless you getting yanked here came up on someone's radar and they're hunting for us, we should be good for awhile." He crosses from the door to the stove and the gas is also still on. Great. "Think we'd be lucky enough to find a tea kettle or coffee around this place?" Just keep talking.
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Maybe ‘cause no one can afford it these days either, Bucky thinks as he and Steve sweep the area. it’s gotta cost a fortune. They settle into it like they never left, spreading out silently like a couple of wolves on the hunt as natural as breathing. So far it doesn’t look like anyone’s been here for weeks, but it’s when Bucky turns and catches Steve waving some sorta thin, narrow device that sometimes flares a red as brilliant as a miniature flare.
It’s enough to snag Bucky's attention - every now and then Bucky sneaks a glimpse as if trying to figure what the hell that thing is. So far, whatever Steve’s doing with that thing, he doesn’t find anything they gotta be worried about. Bucky pulls the curtains closed anyway; the tatters just starting to form at the edges drift lazily along the faint morning breeze that ruffles through them.
Bucky joins Steve, where he leans against the doorway and watches the broad span of Steve’s back as he stoops for the sink. Bucky’s so distracted - god, he doesn’t think he’ll get used to an actual beard on Steve, but it also looks…well, it looks good on him - that it takes him a beat to realize what Steve said. When he does, Bucky stiffens.
“You…” Bucky trails off, because he didn’t want to admit to himself that maybe something more than getting roughed up had happened back at that factory. That maybe all those times out in the field weren’t just to adrenaline; it’s in those times Bucky didn’t quite feel the cold as quick as the other guys, or he could march longer than them, carrying more without stopping, or when he seemed to hone in on enemy so quickly it’s like his body knew he was there before his mind did. Where sometimes he could wear he can hear the thud of someone’s heart, or someone breathing even when he’s in his own sniper’s nest. Bucky’s voice sounds tight behind Steve. “You’ve known the entire time?”
If he did, when the hell was he gonna say something? (Bucky sure wasn’t ever gonna say it; it meant admitting something’s FUBARed with him if he even admitted it was (maybe) real)
Bucky follows Steve even after Steve tries to busy himself with the locks, like they weren’t already checked.
“You telling me you got guys worse than HYDRA after you or something? HYDRA wasn’t enough trouble?” Bucky lets himself sink down onto a couch starting to peel at the edges - and yet it’s far softer than anything back at camp. Might as well be a goddamn cloud. He eyes the cupboards hopefully “Hope so. Hell, I’d give my left arm for an actual cup of Joe.” But Steve’s also not quite off the hook, ‘cause Bucky adds. “So you knew something was off? That’s why you never said anything when I’d dodged the docs.”
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He's just hit the end of his rope. The end of his patience. The end of his sanity, perhaps. And there's just no appropriate reaction to that sort of break in one's mind. Emotions all bubble up and it's a lottery wheel to decide which one gets the floor. Steve could have just as easily broken into sobs or punched a hole in the wall or thrown up in the sink.
Maybe it's a blessing he got laughing as the decided on behavior. Anything else would probably have terrified Bucky more than likely is right now.
It breaks off into giggles and hiccups as Steve finds not only mugs and some instant coffee but also a kettle that he can use to brew it all in. It's old-school but so is he. He takes his time, chuckling as he sets it up and leaves it going. The mugs get a rinse and then there's nothing else for it.
He turns around and looks at Bucky, miserable and still with a smile.
"I didn't know," he confesses. It sounds like a betrayal because Steve's mind has already jumped ahead to what that lack of knowledge caused. What he'd assumed because of it and what that did to Bucky.
'Give my left arm for an actual cup of Joe'.
The laughter dies and disgust wins on the next roll of the wheel. Steve feels like he's a second away from being sick.
"I maybe worried? I... I didn't know but you did things that were... I don't know. Amazing? Incredible. And maybe I had a thought now and again but I didn't know. I didn't find out until much, much later. I wish I hadknown.
"I wish I'd figured it out before everything went to shit."
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Look, sometimes Bucky can crack a good joke….but he’s not some chuckles-a-minute kinda guy and what he just said wasn’t exactly a barrel of laughs either. Sometimes it helps GIs to find something to bitch about to pass the time - or get through the day - and nothing’s an easier target than bad coffee and rations.
Bucky’s gaze slides down Steve’s back, then again up the back of his head, like he can figure him out as Steve fusses around the kitchen. It sounds a little like some of the poor bastards back on the front who’d…well, had enough. Reached the end of the rope, and couldn’t take a second more ‘cause if they weren’t already over the edge, they were one foot over the cliff’s edge. He just never figured he’d hear it from Steve; Steve laughs like he’ll go nuts if he doesn’t find something funny there.
“Steve?” Bucky’s voice is soft. At last, Steve’s laugh dies down. “You good, pal?”
Steve throws himself into it; what better way to avoid your problems than by burying yourself in your work, even if it’s just getting some coffee in them. Bucky can only watch Steve putter around the kitchen like he used to back in New York, with an uneasy sense sitting heavy in his stomach. It’s like watching their lives in a funhouse mirror, only now they’re holed up and hiding .
When Steve does turn, the smile’s fooling nobody. There’s misery all over Steve’s face, so deep-seated there that Bucky’s heart aches. Bucky doesn’t hesitate. The leather creaks under him as Bucky rises and joins him; close enough to touch, if Steve needs another reminder, and not halfway across the room. The morbid part of Bucky thinks maybe Steve should enjoy it while he can; if Bucky’s KIA in the War, he’s bound to go back to his time one way or another.
“I didn’t know you noticed,” Bucky’s mouth presses in a thin line, and he looks away. God, he almost wants to ask how things go to shit... but at the same time, he doesn’t want to know. What if he gets taken out by a grenade? Or interrogated by HYDRA, and he doesn’t make it out? Bucky’s stomach clenches. Nah. Maybe he’s better off not knowing. “I was hoping no one figured it out. Always felt something was weird with me, but I didn’t want to be some lab freak. So I thought…maybe it was adrenaline. Or maybe I was a damn good shot, or just had some devil’s luck. I mean, I didn’t come out looking like all that.”
no subject
Fuck.
His hands reach out and rest on Bucky's waist as though magnets drew them there. He's not sure if he wants to use that grip to pull Bucky closer or maintain the space they have. Pushing him away is not an option he even considers for a second. He can't with how good it feels to have him here, warm and alive. Steve hadn't even realized he'd been cold until the heat of Bucky's skin bleeds through his shirt and against Steve's palms. Another thawing out to add to the list.
Steve rubs his thumbs in circles against Bucky's shirt and doesn't think about whatever boundaries that might cross.
"No one else noticed," he confirms even though the idea of continuing this conversation makes him want to just curl up in bed for the rest of the week. "And, yeah. You didn't come out looking all that different because you weren't 5'3'' and under a hundred pounds. But. Yeah. They..."
Steve pauses as he realizes the significance of it all. This is just the first time for Bucky. It was just the first time that HYDRA took his body away from him and did what they liked to it. Steve could remember him back then shrugging it off and moving on as though it hadn't mattered, but it had. He knew it had then and he knows it now too. And it was just the first time. Bucky has no idea that it will become the theme for the next few decades of his life.
The body in his hands suddenly feels precious with that understanding behind it. Unknowingly on borrowed time with its autonomy, Steve feels wrong even holding it still. His grip loosens but stays where it is. He's weak, it seems. Selfish. Even knowing better, he can't stop the need for contact. Bucky isn't the only one likely on borrowed time.
"You got a version of the serum," he continues. "Not the same one but the same effect. It doesn't... It won't hurt you any, if you're worried about that." Unless Bucky considers his living past the fall from the train a type of 'hurt'. It's debatable. "Just means you can keep up with me, still..."
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“I don’t want anyone looking at me funny or turning me into some kinda lab rat. Again,” Bucky tacks on, distracted. “So at least I’m not gonna turn into Schmidt.”
Bucky trails off. It’s not the first time Steve’s touched him. Before Steve rolled in as Cap, neither of them were shy about it. A rough hug or shove or sprawled out on a hot afternoon on each other, too bored and hot to do anything else. But this might as well be the first time. This is something closer, something like you would a doll you were sweet on. A kind of careless touch at her shoulders or lower back. Bucky’s gaze slide downwards towards his fingers spread along Steve’s arms, feeling the play of muscle underneath, while his heart thuds a little faster as Steve traces circles against his shirt.
Bucky’s throat bobs, against the dangerous thrill that he’s always tried to stamp down twists downwards. Don’t ruin this, Barnes, Bucky thinks desperately. And then, almost like he can squash the guilt out; Besides, anyone’s gonna get funny after a dry spell. Not like there’s time for anything else but Rosie between missions
Bucky barely had interest in jerking one off these days anyway. Too beat, too anxious, too focused on what came next. But now…
He doesn’t make any move to step away or move Steve’s hands. Instead, he leans into the touch. Bucky, as if testing, slowly runs his hands along the length of Steve’s forearms even when Steve’s grip relaxes, but doesn’t let go; similar and different to the Steve back in his own time, this Steve feels rougher around the edges, more at home in his own body, but so tired and worn behind those baby blues that Bucky wants badly to hold him.
Bucky moistens his lips, grey eyes finding Steve’s. “So I keep you and the guys outta trouble better. Guess it’s good for something.”
no subject
Bucky licks his lips and Steve is consumed by wondering what they feel like.
The truth is, of course, that this feeling isn't novel. It isn't the first time he's met Bucky's eyes and felt guilt over where his mind had gone. Steve thinks he'd always felt the draw in his lower stomach whenever Bucky smirked his way. He'd at least known well enough what it meant when he woke up in the morning and only got wood after knowing Bucky was the one curled close around him. It had been shameful and embarrassing and Steve had perhaps indulged in a moment or two more than he should have. But they'd never crossed the line. Steve had never taken that step. He might have been the sick one but he wouldn't bring Bucky down with him.
And then, Rebirth.
Steve can remember the first time he relaxed at camp and looked over at Bucky after Erskine. Those same butterflies rising up and making his heart flutter. It was then that Steve knew his feelings hadn't been a sickness. It hadn't been wrong. The serum hadn't cured him because there was nothing to cure. And he'd used that incredible knowledge to do fucking nothing.
But here Bucky is. And that ball spinning inside of Steve is painted red with all the furious desire that he's kept contained.
If it's the one that bubbles to the top, Steve is frankly worried about what he might do.
"You keep us safe," Steve says evenly. He bends his elbows, carefully drawing Bucky in. "You always keep us safe, Buck. God. I want so bad right now to do that for you."
The wheel stops and there is no decision. No laughter. No tears. No ripping Bucky's clothes off and tossing him to the floor. Steve has to make a choice, it seems.
It may be he already has.
Bucky is close enough that one of Steve's hands can wrap around his waist and press against the small of his back. It's a simple move that breaks any semblance of naive misunderstanding. Steve runs his fingertips slowly up and down Bucky's lower spine.
"I shoulda known better. I shoulda seen it. But you were always so incredible to me, Buck. I was used to thinking you hung the stars. Even when I became a super soldier, it only made sense for you to still be so...so fucking amazing."
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Once Bucky’s breath catches, it’s like he doesn’t dare draw more than a shallow inhale through parted lips - like anything more’ll ruin the moment like chucking a rock into a lake. The air feels still, so still, when Steve draws Bucky closer, and Bucky? He goes with it, as if Steve’s finally learned how to actually take lead in a dance without crushing his partner’s feet and of course, Bucky will follow. He’s drawn up close, far closer than they ever had when Bucky did try to teach him how to dance.
Really, he’d only tried to save his future date’s feet. That’s all. Really. Bucky never taught him a slow-dance, up close and personal, and that’s almost what this feels like. Like they got a mind of his own, Bucky’s hands slip up along the swell of hard biceps to wind around broad shoulders as he looks up into blue eyes that drown out everything else in this FUBARed mess. Only an inch apart, they could be swaying to the slow, tinny thrum of a record player back home.
“Well, keeping you safe’s practically a full-time job. Serum’s evened the playing field some,” Relief flickers across Bucky’s face. At least something good came from what happened to him. Idly, his fingers comb absently with the strands of Steve’s hair at the nape of neck as if noting the difference from back home; even out in the front, Steve’d never let it grow even a shade too long.
Steve can’t keep him safe for what’s coming. And Bucky’s not gonna make it worse on insisting he can, so he doesn’t. Instead, Bucky’s mouth quirks into a bittersweet smile that flickers into something tinged with the shock of desire that lances through him at the press of Steve’s hand to his lower back. Bucky sucks in a sharp,startled gasp the next moment. Bucky sways on their feet a little, as if to press himself to close the gap, and his nails scrape dully along the nape of Steve’s neck next as Steve drags his fingertips in a tease up and down his spine.
This isn’t something everyday pals did. It’s not something Bucky can explain off later to himself, just as he can’t explain why he’s not stopping himself. Bucky always figured Steve had it bad for Peggy, and yet here they are; Bucky might have done the stupid thing and fooled around with the pretty bartender, but the real thing is so much better.
Bucky’s gaze drifts to Steve’s mouth, at the dark hair framing it, biting his own lower lip: would it feel soft, tinged with the coarse itch from the beard? How would Steve kiss these days?
“Me, some schmoe hanging the stars? Pal, you might as well hung the sun with the way I followed you around,” Bucky whispers, a thumb tracing slow circles along Steve's nape. “You’re one in a million, not me."
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But here it is. Steve watches Bucky's eyes drift to his lips and he can read the other's thoughts like they are neon signs. Or maybe it's just that they're having the same thoughts and that fact is so painfully obvious, no telepathy is even needed.
"I'm nothing..." His voice is small as he closes that last inch by pressing their foreheads together. "I've been a ghost without you, Buck. I...I need you. I always have. I always will..."
Steve's head cocks to the side and his nose bumps against Bucky's. He practically nuzzles in a millimeter at a time, hands shaking just a bit from restrained need, not fear. There's nothing to fear, here. For the first time in too long Steve feels secure. He inhales deep, cherishing it. The two of them are close enough that they are sharing air.
He can taste Bucky's last drink on his breath.
"I need you."
Steve's lips bump against Bucky's as he speaks and words are so inadequate. So meaningless now that he has Bucky's arms around his neck and his lips a hairsbreadth away.
"I..."
Who needs them?
Steve presses in, finally. He kisses Bucky harder than he means to, already starving for it from the start. His arms wrap tight around Bucky's waist and pull him flush. The heat at every point of contact is searing.
Steve hopes he has burns and scars from each one.
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Bucky trails off, because judging from the dawning shock on his face, finally, finally, gets it when Steve says he needs him. That maybe Bucky’s not the only one who might’ve had it bad: here Bucky had figured Steve was all in for the birds, just had bad luck, but they’re so, so close that Bucky’s nose flares and his eyes darken as he inhales Steve’s scent and his arms tighten around his neck as Steve’s nuzzles light as a butterfly’s caress against him.
It’s not the way a guy might look if he was just looking to scratch an itch and move on. Bucky’s heart flips. A sound squeezes out from his chest is low and shaky wanting; Steve wants him in a way Bucky only ever dreamed about. This has to be a fever dream. It’s gotta be. Thing is, Bucky wants it so badly, he’ll even take just a dream while he’s got a chance. Bucky’s face turns towards Steve softly, lashes lowered as he looks down at Steve’s mouth so close that his own lips just barely brush against it in a brush that sends hunger twining down his nerves. Bucky’s fingers splay over the nape of Steve’s neck, firm, holding him close.
“Steve, I -”
Bucky’s not even sure where he’s going with it, when the yearning is so tight and fierce in his chest that he can’t think straight when Steve’s this close, and when their lips tease against each other.
Steve’s the one to break, to leap into the fray like he always does.
Bucky gasps, a sharp, shocked sound muffled when Steve’s lips crash into his. It’s no soft kiss, easy or exploring. It’s bruising, hungry, and hard that Bucky’s toes curl in his boots as he groans thickly as arousal lances through him so fiercely that he jolts against Steve at the scratch of Steve’s beard and the soft touch of lips that’ve always looked a shade too generous for a guy.
Bucky’s arms tighten fiercely around Steve’s shoulders, as Bucky stumbles them back into the cabinet behind Steve just so he can savor the way they fit together like the missing pieces of a puzzle, and kisses him back like a drowning man finally offered water. His fingers slide through Steve’s hair, mussing up the back as he groans into the kiss with a muffled sound that might be a prayer and Steve’s name folded into one.
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It gives a dangerous groaning noise as Steve uses more strength than is wise to shove Bucky against it. As long as it holds he doesn't care. He barely even notices the plaster that cracks off through the haze of desperate need. All he cares about is the feel of Bucky's lips beneath his own and the hard body that Steve knows as well as his own but somehow still has new and exciting things to discover.
Like how their hips are about the same height, now. How pushing forward lights up Steve's entire body with pleasure. And how, with a man, you can use that contact to gauge progress. Interest. Steve is getting harder himself and it's enough to make him light-headed to not be the only one.
He breaks to breathe but only barely and even then his mouth is biting and kissing against Bucky's throat. Part of Steve is worried if he stops then they both might realize this is a mistake. So stopping just can't happen. Thinking can barely happen. Each time his mind drifts it's to notice the familiar scent of Bucky's wartime pomade or the feel of cheaper uniform fabric.
He crushes their lips back together and scratches at Bucky's shirt to try and get underneath it. If it rips open then so be it.
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The sound that gets dragged outta Bucky as Steve covers his body and his shoulder-blades smart from the impact is shamefully filthy and wanting. It’s like a dam’s broke: no doll’s ever handled him like this. The blood’s practically running downwards right for his dick as Buck gasps for the air that was knocked out of him, and jerks right against the hips slotted against his. Bucky’s always been so careful with his girls, but now here’s Steve, and neither of them gotta treat each other like dance.
Bucky’s head falls back to knock against the cracked wall, eyes fluttering shut as Steve’s beard scratches at his throat, as Steve nips and kisses against a pulse thrumming harder underneath. Plaster peppers the ground below them, peppers his boots as Steve scrabbles at Bucky’s shirt; it ends up ripped open and Bucky swears harshly under his breath as his hips snap up to grind against the hardening shaft tucked away in Steve’s jeans, and he curls his leg up to dig his heel into Steve’s lower back.
There’s too much between them. Bucky’s squirms gracelessly out of his shirt, skin prickling against the cold air and the furnace of Steve’s hard form pressed against his as Bucky’s hands claw through Steve’s hair and mess it up completely; here he didn’t even have the energy to jerk himself off even when he had some privacy - just didn’t seem worth the effort - but all it takes is Steve’s lips and he’s revved up like he’s making up for lost time.
Bucky claws at Steve’s clothes, at the bulky jacket that he fumbles clumsily off Steve just so he can slide his hands up the hard planes of Steve’s stomach, fingernails dragging against smooth skin as their lips crash together once again and Bucky, without a second thought, slides his tongue hot and insistent past those perfect lips as his hips move like they got a mind of their own. Instinct has him rock from the wall against Steve’s fly, desperate for more friction as his own dick quickly gets with the program.
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But first...this.
The heel to his back is a surprise but a good one. Steve presses closer to make sure he's supporting Bucky's weight if needed. But then there is a tongue in his mouth and that's a sort of kiss he's seen and never experienced. It had seemed odd and uncomfortable, before. But it's not. Fuck, it's not.
Steve is tingling from the intimacy of it and battles Bucky's tongue with his own. When Bucky grinds his dick against his, Steve has to break off the kiss to cry out a moan. It's good. So good. Without thought he drops his hands to Bucky's belt and frantically starts pawing at it, pulling it open however he can. Before he can slide it free though, he uses it like a lasso to drag their hips flush and secure it there as he nips Bucky's bottom lip and finally breaks away to breathe.
Steve's eyes are pitch black as he stares at his friend. He can feel his pulse in his cock as it presses against Bucky's. There's no misunderstanding, here. No way to pass this off as something other than what it is.
Steve is amazed to realize he doesn't even want to.
"Buck," he breathes. "Bucky." Steve kisses him softer for a moment but deepens it before he really pulls away.
He's yet to loosen the belt grip even a little.
"You better be sure about this, pal. If you're not, this is your chance to walk away. No hard feelings. Otherwise, I don't feel like I'll ever be able to stop touching you again. Not now that I know what it's like.
"Better than I could even imagine..."
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Kissing Steve’s nothing like kissing one of his girls. It’s not a nice kiss. Not one of those gentle searching ones you might have with a doll, tucked away in a car at the end of a nice date. Back when he used to go on that kinda thing, Bucky was always a gentleman; he just wasn’t one of those guys who pushed things too much or too fast or raced to get his rocks off first. That also meant taking his time - however long it took - to get a bird’s motor running. This is none of that.
Maybe because neither of them need it when it’s like a dam’s burst. Maybe because this is so different from anything Bucky’s had before that it feels like his head’s spinning. This kiss is bruising and fierce and desperate on Bucky’s end, especially when Steve groans and welcomes him inside, his tongue sliding hot and damp against his that’s got Bucky’s cock practically lurching against his fly. Steve’s cock throbs against his even through the layers between them, the hardening bulge brushing against his own that’s got Bucky choking on a startled, wanting sound. Sure, they’ve seen each other naked. But he’s never seen Steve hard, and now? Now he’s dying to.
Steve suddenly pulls back, chest heaving on a groan that Bucky echoes. Blunt fingernails scrape dull tracks along Steve’s scalp as Bucky sinks his grip into Steve’s hair. It leaves Bucky breathing hard and thickly against the corner of Steve’s mouth as he can’t help but chase after the friction while Steve figures out for them how belts work again. Unhelpfully, Bucky tries to worm out of it, but it mostly ends up with him rocking along Steve’s length like a world class call girl might.
By the time Steve gets the belt trapping him against him like a promise and an order that has Bucky's shaft straining, fully hard and trapped as he chases after Steve’s lips with little sucks and kisses as if to snatch one more taste, then another and another for himself as he struggles to get Steve’s shirt up and over his head, and tossed to some corner.
God, look at him. Steve looks amazing like this; flushed and eyes dark with arousal, perfect muscles tapered down to a perfect waist. Bucky looks down between them, at the sight of their straining cocks, trapped and ground against each other, even as he squirms to try and greedily get more and more.
“Don’t. Don’t be all polite or nice. Just let me have this before I have to go back,” Bucky groans, and buries his face in Steve’s throat.
Because he’s also a little yellow-bellied and he’ll never have this with his Steve. That means taking whatever he can here, while he can, before the War gets him.
“Let me have this, please.” Bucky whispers and he’s licking his way past Steve’s lips as he works at Steve’s belt, tossing it aside before he squeezes his hand down between them to jam his hand gracelessly underneath Steve’s waistband. Calloused hands find the length there, velvety but shockingly hard, familiar and unfamiliar as Bucky pumps at him.
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Bucky's hips writhe against his as Steve's working off his clothes. That alone has Steve hissing in pleasure and ready to rip their remaining layers off. But then Bucky begs him for this. His hands go to his belt and there is something expert about how he gets it open and slides inside. Steve might have questions but the ability to think is completely robbed by Bucky's hand on his cock, stroking him in the close confines.
"Oh...oh, Buck," he gasps, heaving air in as though his asthma is coming back. His hands release the belt in order to press into the wall for stability. He claws against it, hands curling and uncurling as he trembles at the touch. Steve presses their foreheads together and lets out a broken moan as those familiar callouses stroke against him. But it's not enough. None of it will ever be enough.
The plaster around his hands cracks into spiderwebs with just a little too much force and Steve takes that as proof they need to move.
It's difficult but Steve moves back and considers his next move with all three of the braincells he still has online. Finally, he grabs onto that belt once more and reels Bucky in close. This time, however, it's not to hold him there. He just needs Bucky within grabbing distance so he can lift the man up and practically toss him onto the nearby couch.
"Don't want polite or nice?"
Steve slides his hands up Bucky's legs before going for his fly and practically ripping the clothes off him. Both of them just in underwear now, Steve climbs on top and lines themselves up as best he can before grinding in closer. His mouth finds Bucky's neck and bites lightly against it, trailing them from pulse to bottom lip.
"Show me how you want it, Buck."
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Bucky’s got a secret that he’d been planning on taking to his grave. It just turns out that’s gonna be sooner than later, but still; Bucky’s keeping his mouth shut, even if the way he’s working Steve’s belt open seems a little too at ease. Too practiced. Sometimes out on the front, things got lonely out there. Sometimes a guy did things in the shadows or behind a tree that you learned to turn the other way; sure, it’s a blue ticket, but the guy next to you could be the fella who saves your life. And one of those nights, before Hydra got the 107th, Bucky caves with this other Sarge when their eyes kept meeting, and the guy jerked his head towards the outer edge of camp. Just two men with hands stuffed down the other fella’s pants, frantically, silently jerking each other off because at least it was better than your own hand.
The next morning, it might as well’ve never happened. Just an itch to scratch.
Bucky’s teeth catch at Steve’s lower lip as bits of plaster rain down on him, pumping away at the hard shaft nestled in his palm even as he’s dragged in close by the belt. Steve lifts him easily, like he’s nothing at all, and Bucky’s laugh gets cut off as it's knocked out of him as he lands in a sprawl on his back. Warm hands curl up along Steve’s shoulders, following the dip and rise of firm muscles as he lets his legs fall open and lifts his hips so he can help worm out of his fatigue, before dragging the pants clinging to Steve’s thighs. They’re both straining in thick bulges against their underwear, and Bucky moans thickly as Steve settles against him and grinds into him, and Bucky’s hands skate down Steve’s back to grip at his ass and squeeze
“Hell no, nice is the last thing I want,” Bucky shakes his head, eyes fluttering closed as he reaches down to free their cocks, tucking the bands of their underwear behind their balls and jolts upwards in a shock of hot skin against hot skin. His dick throbs hot and jerks into Steve’s as he worries at his throat and Bucky humps upwards against him in rough, hungry strokes. “I want to feel it for days. Leave me something to remember all this even if it’s weeks later.”
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"Keep talkin' about leaving and I'll let you finish in the bathroom," he warns in a tone that's aiming for a tease but has an edge a bit too raw to manage it. Still, he isn't going to let that ruin the moment. Not when he has Bucky hard and throbbing against him. Steve bends and sucks a mark high on Bucky's neck as he releases his grip in order to stroke them both instead. The combination of another cock against his own and the friction of his hand is enough to make him feel blinded.
"Jesus Christ," he hisses. With one free hand he all but fists it into Bucky's hair and pulls their lips together. The kiss is brutal and starving just as the first one had been. Steve is somewhere between trying to bite those lips and soothing the abuse with his tongue. The whole time his hand makes up for the inexpert, instinctual movements of his hips. Steve strokes them smoothly and firmly and without any rush despite how his body screams for it.
"Bucky," he says in prayer. His own cock twitches hard and leaks from the tip. Steve uses it as he keeps going. His body starts to tremble with the force of his restraint and the feelings of everything building up.
He wants more but doesn't want this to end. It's an impossible intersection of desires.
"You better give me some marks too," he finally is able to say, voice trembling from more than just pleasure. "I want you burned into every inch of me..."
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The sound that gets poured into Steve’s mouth is shameful: scalp smarting under Steve’s grip, Bucky’s body rocks upwards in a hungry, greedy arc that nearly knocks Steve’s hand off them both as he presses for more and more. Bucky practically ravages Steve’s mouth, leaving him aching for more and hell, just plain aching as the couch creaks under them as he sucks on Steve’s tongue.
Even as Bucky tries to hump into his grip for more, Steve’s the one setting the pace. This is how we’re gonna do it, that grip says, and he shudders under him with arousal as his shaft slides along Steve’s.
Bucky doesn’t even wait for Steve to finish. Damp kisses get mouthed up along the curve of Steve’s shoulder before teeth sink into his skin hard enough even to leave Steve bruised for hours. Days if he’s lucky. Bucky’s nails drag dull red tracks up Steve’s back - following on either side of his spine to grip at his hair and tilt Steve’s head forcefully to the side, so he can bit and nip and suck bruises like a treasure trail up along the beat of his pulse.
Teeth catch at an earlobe as his other hand squeezes around Steve’s knuckles, catching at the tips of their cocks.
“No neighbors or paper thin walls, no grunts breathing down our necks,” Bucky breathes against the shell of his ear. “Feels a little like the sky’s the limits, huh, Steve?”
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Literally forgot I didn't reply and then went to the thread to see if I'd missed yours.
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Sap.
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