Chapter Text
It’s been a few months since Steve found Bucky, or rather, Bucky found Steve, because the Winter Soldier will not be found if he does not want to be, but Bucky doesn’t know what he wants anymore. “It’s okay, Buck,” the man says when he tells him, “you don’t have to know what you want. You can figure it out later.”
All he knows is that he knew the man on the bridge-Steve-he reminded himself, he remembers him weighting barely 90 pounds and teeth clattering so loud when the heaters broke that he thought the neighbors would hear. There’s a strange weight in his chest, he wants to protect the kid, to wrap his arms around him to warm him up, to wipe the blood away from his face after a fight, but Steve is no longer the sick little kid he knew. The stubbornness and righteous fury is still there, though, he thinks to himself.
“It’s okay, Buck,” Steve had said to him after the second time he found his metal fingers wrapped around Steve’s throat, positioned precisely to cut off air supply and crush the spine in a single squeeze. “I’m not giving up on you.” Bucky couldn’t look at him in the eyes for days.
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Bucky’s always loved and hated the stubborn streak Steve had. It got him into more fights than he can remember, saved his scrawny ass just as frequently, but he sometimes wonders if it’s his Achilles heels. His greatest asset turning into his eventual demise, how fitting of a hero. If Bucky had an Achilles heel, it’d be Steve Rogers.
Some days the Soldier comes out and trashes half of the apartment, and Steve is so grateful for the soundproof walls that Stark had installed. Steve picks up the broken vases and picture frames while holding a pack of frozen peas to his jaw.
“It’s okay, Buck, it’s not your fault. I forgive you.” Steve says every time, so Bucky stops apologizing, because he can’t let Steve forgive him, because he doesn’t deserve to be forgiven. The next morning, Bucky would wake up to Steve making eggs and bacon in the kitchen, sporting cuts and bruises that not even his super serum can heal overnight, and Bucky wishes that he had apologized.
Bucky would force himself to finish whatever Steve had put on his plate, because he knows that Steve worries about his weight. So he eats without complaining, and purposely avoids looking at his face. He volunteers to wash and dry the dishes after they’re done, and Steve smiles at him because even though Bucky doesn’t say it out loud, he recognizes an apology when he sees one. “It’s okay, Buck,” Steve would stand beside him next to the sink, “I’ll help you dry.”
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On good days, they go to the supermarket for groceries; because eating takeout and having Natasha and Sam drop by to stock their fridge is only doing so much. Bucky doesn’t let anyone touch him except Steve, not even Natasha, who calls him James and speaks to him in Russian sometimes. Steve is very much the Earth to his moon. He keeps him grounded and makes him feel safe and secure. He slips his hand-the flesh one-into Steve’s pocket and latches himself to his side, like a moon orbiting its planet. The pull of Steve’s gravity is what keeps him in orbit, and he doesn’t want to think about what would happen if he ever fell out of orbit.
Steve always lets Bucky choose. “Chocolate or vanilla?” He’d ask, holding up two giant boxes of ice cream with a grin on his face. The first time Bucky worked up his courage to say “neither,” Steve looked so surprised he thought he had said something wrong.
“Is it okay if we try the mango one?” He pointed to a bright yellow container.
“It’s okay, Buck,” said Steve, “of course it’s okay.”
They ended up buying eight other ‘exotic’ flavors, as the labels said; Bucky chose six of them, and Steve chose the remaining two. They watched an old rerun of Firefly each with a tub of ice cream in their hands, occasionally reaching over to steal a few scoops of each other’s frozen dessert. Halfway through a commercial break, Bucky slapped Steve’s hand away from his tub when he tried to contaminate his coconut ice cream with his dirty spoon.
“Your guava ice cream is gonna ruin my white one,” Bucky had scolded, and fed Steve with his own spoon. He almost missed when Steve suddenly laughed, smearing the corner of his mouth with ice cream. He wiped it off with his thumb and licked it, making Steve laugh even harder. The TV in the background completely forgotten, Bucky smiles back, and feels happy for the first time in a very long time.
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There are times when Bucky snaps at Steve, picking fights and arguing over nothing and everything, and Bucky is not Bucky anymore. He ends up cursing at Steve in Russian, and his eyes grow cold and dark. Steve doesn’t stop him, he screams back, he slams the door just as hard, and glares unflinchingly. Steve doesn’t overpower him, but he doesn’t give him complete control either. He riles him up, gives him an outlet for his anger and rage, gives him leeway for his temper and violence, but he never makes him feel threatened or cornered. The Soldier appreciates that, and shows his gratitude with the form of his alliance and trust.
Steve knows that Bucky is not who he used to be before the war, and to be fair, neither is he. They’ve both changed, for the better or worse, who can tell, but the Winter Soldier accepts Steve Rogers and Captain America, and the fights don’t happen as often anymore.
Bucky wakes up screaming in the middle of the night and the Soldier doesn’t lash out anymore; instead, he leads him to Steve’s ajarred door and knocks. Steve is already awake, has been the moment Bucky had started screaming, he shifts over and lifts the corner of his blanket. Bucky crawls over Steve and settles into the blanket with his back against the wall, facing the door. “It’s okay, Buck,” Steve whispers to him, “I’m here for you.” And Bucky falls asleep surrounded by the solidness of the wall and Steve’s warm presence beside him.
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On one of the rare days where Bucky wakes up before Steve and manages to shower without waking him up, he scribbles a note on a piece of stationary and leaves it by the bedside, grabs his Stark phone, wallet and jacket and leaves. He remembers walking past an arts and crafts store with Steve a few weeks ago, and he retraces their steps, trying to pin point the exact location. He finds it a few blocks away, next to a cozy looking coffee shop, and walks in.
He is immediately hit with the smell of paint, wood, and something distinct, sharp and not unpleasant. There are canvases, paint brushes, sketch books on display with giant price tags next to them. At the front, a petite woman with an apron is popping her gum and twirling a marker in her hands.
“Hey, morning, and welcome!” She smiles at him and pops her gum. Bucky nods back in acknowledgment. “Looking for anything specific?”
“Umm…” He didn’t know what to say, “I, uh…”
“Didn’t get your usual dose of coffee this morning?” She teases harmlessly and spares him from anymore awkwardness, “We’re having a sale on the multimedia sketch books, and all the items marked with a red sticker are fifty percent off.”
“Acrylics,” Bucky clears his throat and tries again, “I need acrylic paints.”
The woman, Anna, her name tag reads, walks around the desk and motions for him to follow her. She leads him to an aisle in the middle, and points out the various brands and sets of paints. “And these ones are good for textures, while this is better for mixing with other mediums.”
Bucky bends down and picks up the biggest set, “Is this the most complete set?” He asks.
“Yes, and I’m assuming you’ll need a few canvas and brushes?” Anna smiles at him again.
“Yes, please,” he adds, remembering his manners, and follows her to another aisle.
“These are the brushes for acrylics, and these are the softer ones, for water color,” she explains, gesturing towards the brushes hanging on the wall, “Do you also want a full set?”
“Yes, the best ones, thank you,” Bucky says, “Can you show me the canvases as well?”
“Sure, follow me.”
He follows her to yet another aisle, this time stacked from top to bottom with rolls of paper, sketch books and stretched canvases. Afraid that he’s going to knock something over, he shifts the box of paint and the brushes onto his hip.
“Are you buying these for someone?” Anna suddenly asks.
“Yeah, a good friend of mine,” Bucky says as he piles four canvases on top of the brushes.
“Is it their birthday?” She questions as she leads them to the checkout counter.
“No,” he frowns, “why?”
“It’s a bit excessive, isn’t it? I mean, if they’re an artist-which I would assume they are, they would already have plenty of brushes and paint.”
Bucky didn’t know how to answer to that, “Steve likes these,” he offers with a shrug and places the supplies in the desk.
Anna gives him a small smile and rings him up.
“You must really like him, huh?”
“Yeah, I do,” Bucky admits, and lets that thought sink in, “Yes, I do really like him.”
She bags the items and hands it to him. He swipes his credit card the way Steve taught him and throws the bag over his shoulders. He waves goodbye to her and leaved with a grin on his face.
The grin leaves his face when he runs into Steve a block away from their apartment, looking out of breathe, scared and lost, and it’s something Bucky never wants to see again. He looks so small and frightened, and Bucky notices right away that he’s still in the clothes that he slept in last night. Steve runs up to him and grabs him by the shoulders, fingers digging into the scars where his metal arm is melted into his flesh.
"Dammit, Buck,” he looks like he’s about to cry, “I thought something-I thought you had left.”
Bucky drops the bag onto the ground and they both pull into a hug, clutching each other desperately, although Bucky doesn’t know why. He would never leave Steve, he thinks to himself, he’s safe with him, he feels at home with him. A moon out of orbit will eventually crash into and burn the nearest planet. No one is allowed to hurt Steve, especially not Bucky himself.
“I’m sorry,” Bucky says into Steve’s shoulder, gripping the back of his shirt and pressing against his body as close as possible, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It’s okay, Buck.”
With Steve’s body pressed against his, chest to chest, face buried into his neck, Bucky feels whole and complete.
Steve pulls away first, wipes away the unshed tears and looks down at the bag for the first time. “What’s that?” He sniffles.
“Art supplies,” Bucky replies, and if his voice sounded funny, Steve didn't mention it, “from that store we sometimes pass by on our way to the grocery's. I thought you’d want to start painting again.”
“Yeah, I do. Thanks.” Steve smiles at him like he’s seeing the sun for the first time and Bucky secretly wonders if he was the Sun to Steve’s Earth.
They clear away a section of the living room to set up a studio for Steve, moving the couch and the coffee table to the other side of the ridiculously small room and facing the easel towards the window. It takes them a few hours. Once they finish, they order pizza and cheese sticks, and watch Jurassic Park on TV and point out plot holes and inconsistencies.