Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Bucky was a broken, hunched, limping scrap of fabric and scars. He was too weak to stand without help, slumped onto Steve’s arm and relying entirely on the indiscriminate, dogged love of the super-soldier to keep him upright.

“Easy, Bucky, I gotcha,” Steve kept murmuring over and over, his other arm wrapped around Bucky’s shoulders, fingers curling around the upper ribcage of the former HYDRA agent. “I won’t let you fall. Me and you, Bucky, ‘till the end of the line. I gotcha, just another few steps, and then you can rest. We just gotta get to the elevator.”

They were in the Avengers tower, heading down to Bruce Banner’s lab, where Bucky would receive more of the medical care that he so desperately needed. The Winter Soldier had spent an asylum of six months in Wakanda. Just long enough to spend five months of it in cryogenic sleep and one month being deprogrammed by Shuri enough to be sent back to America. The Wakandan princess had reached out to Steve when it was clear that Bucky felt he had no reason to get better, even after his memories began to filter back. The ex-assassin barely ate, his sleep plagued by nightmares, his waking hours flitting with the shadows of his past. His body, fused with metal and wires, felt little but pain and a bone-deep fatigue, his joints rusted, inflamed, skin sallow and tight over too-prominent ribs, lips split open and bleeding from how often his tongue darted nervously out to swipe across the chapped flesh.

Depressive and disassociative episodes clutched at him, holding him down in the grey fog of his mind. He asked for Steve when he managed the articulation for speech, but thought of him always. Despite the large gaps in some of his memories, and the fuzziness around the edges of others, he knew that he loved the blonde man. Whether or not Steve loved him was under no scrutiny now. Not when Steve was the one keeping him from falling a second time.

“JARVIS, open the elevator,” Steve said, and the elevator’s doors dinged open without the super-soldier having to shift his grip on Bucky to press the button. The Winter Soldier jerked as the hyper-intelligent AI replied in its usual crisp tones.

“I will connect to the elevator’s control panel to send you directly to Banner’s lab. The Dr. is waiting for you with the necessary equipment set up to begin a full medical exam of the Winter Soldier.”
“He’s not the Winter Soldier,” Steve snapped, making Bucky curl inwards, fearful of the anger in Steve’s voice.

JARVIS replied promptly, and with more guilt than one would expect from an AI. “Of course, sir. My apologies. Updating your personal preference for Barnes’ referrals now.” The elevator doors closed, and the floor lurched out from under them. Bucky shivered, nausea rising in his throat. He was alternating between shaking and sweating, his forehead clammy and sheening in the LED lighting. He wasn’t used to the marvels of 21st-century engineering. Sure, he had known how to navigate it as the Asset, but most of the knowledge he had gained from those missions was… gone. He could pluck at only snippets. The shiny modernity of all of this was blinding.

Steve kept Bucky against his chest as the elevator doors opened onto the floor where most of the labs were housed, including Bruce’s. The scientist was by no means a medical doctor, but years of necessity being the only one calm enough to patch up the Avengers’ wounds had left him with hands that were deft with a needle or syringe. He would do until someone else, a real professional, could be substituted.

Which might take a very, very long time. Because Tony Stark, the world-famous playboy, philanthropist, inventor, and, of course, founder of the Avengers and creator and wielder of the Iron Man suit, wanted Bucky dead.

Or at least for him to suffer. Tony had allowed Bucky to be brought in from Wakanda to the Tower only because he owed Steve about a hundred favors. And despite his flaws, Tony wanted the Captain to be happy. And it was clear that he never would be unless he had his Bucky with him.

So Tony had relented, though he spat and raged in private, seething with hatred. He didn’t know the level of Bucky’s deterioration. Didn’t know what the cold, ruthless assassin had become– a cowering shell of the proud, clean-cut, ladies-man fellow from the ‘40s. James Buchanan Barnes was so wholly separated from Bucky that even Steve found it hard to think of him – them? – without focusing on the rift.

The agreement was that Bucky would be given basic medical attention to help him recover from his trip ‘home,’ and then Steve would have to find other lodgings for him. The public didn’t exactly love the idea of a former killer living with their idealized heroes, after all.

Bruce was indeed waiting for them in the side-room of his lab, which functioned as a private infirmary for the Avengers whenever they were injured on the job. There was a small surgery, too, if the need arose for it. Bruce, a mild-mannered-looking man with short, greying coal hair, pale skin, and a compressed sort of build, sat in his swivel chair, hands folded in his lap. His keen, dark eyes always held a certain sadness in them, and it became more pronounced with sympathy as he caught his first glimpse of Bucky.

“Get him up on the exam table,” Bruce said, his voice quiet. He was often near-inaudible, afraid that raising his voice might trigger his Hulk form. He could control himself, mostly. But it still frightened him.

Steve hoisted Bucky up onto the padded exam table with ease, helping the exhausted man to lay back. Bucky’s eyes fluttered shut, his lips pressed in a thin line. He had regained so little strength to begin with that the flight from Wakanda to Manhattan, coupled with the time zone change and the walk from the tarmac to the elevator, had sapped him greatly.

Bruce snapped on a pair of latex gloves, standing and walking over. His shoes tapped softly on the linoleum floor. “Would he prefer me to call him by his first or last name?” He addressed the question to Steve, having to angle his head up several inches to make eye contact with the super-soldier.
“Just Bucky is fine,” Steve replied hoarsely. He allowed his fingertips to graze Bucky’s limp hand. “He won’t put up a fuss.”

There was a time when Bucky might have knocked a man’s teeth in for calling him by the wrong name. Bucky had always hated being called James in their youth. He thought it was too prissy. Bucky had been the more masculine alternative that he had preferred. Steve didn’t care what Bucky wanted to be called, as long as Steve could call him at all.

“Alright, Bucky,” Bruce murmured, beginning to gently feel along Bucky’s remaining arm for any breaks. “Just tell me if you feel any pain at all. We’re just going to check for any visible injuries before we move on to the x-ray machine. We can’t do an MRI on you, obviously, because of the, um–” Bruce swallowed, pausing. His gaze flicked to the metallic stump of Bucky’s missing arm. “Well, all you need to worry about is just laying still. I know that you must be tired. Jet lag really is a knockout, huh?”

Bucky murmured what might have been a faint agreement. His breath whistled faintly in the air. He just wanted to sleep. Steve was holding his hand now. It was nice.

Bruce did a systematic check of Bucky’s torso, chest, and legs. There was no recent damage. The people of Wakanda had cared for him well, at least, or as best as Bucky would allow them to. His cryogenic sleep had healed his surface scrapes and bruises. That said nothing of the damage within, though.

Bruce rolled up a portable x-ray machine, snapping a few quick images. He didn’t bother stepping outside. What harm could some more radiation do to him? Steve didn’t make any move to leave, either. Whatever Bucky went through, Steve would be there for him.

The results of the x-rays showed the basic outlines of the metal fused up and down Bucky’s spine and shoulder socket. It looked gruesome, more android than man.

Bruce gestured for Steve to step aside with him for a moment. “My biggest concern is how underweight he is,” Bruce whispered, unsure of how conscious Bucky was, not wanting him to overhear. “He can’t be more than 110, maybe 115 pounds soaking wet. He should be at least 128. Preferably somewhere in the 150-170  range once he’s gained back a bit of muscle. Right now, it’s all just sinew. He doesn’t have an ounce of fat on him, and for someone who has been subjected to as much physical trauma as he has, that’s not a good thing. I can figure out a meal plan for him, something easy on his stomach for the first couple of weeks. Protein shakes, nutrient drinks, maybe some soup or bread if he keeps the liquids down. He’s severely dehydrated, too. If you can carry him over to one of the recovery cots, I’ll hook him up to an IV, if you think he’ll react alright.”
Steve nodded slowly, looking slightly shell-shocked himself. He lifted Bucky with the care of a parent carrying a sleeping child up to bed, pressing the brunette to his chest with desperate tenderness. He eased Bucky down onto one of the soft mattresses.

It had only been a half-hour since Bucky had tumbled into his arms off of the private jet that Tony had sent to pick him up, but time had already seemed to warp, static filling in the gaps of what Steve could compartmentalize and process at the moment. He heard Bucky’s sobbish chanting of “Steve, Steve, Steve,” repeated ceaselessly for the first few minutes of their reunion, still ringing in his head.

“I–” Steve didn’t know. He couldn’t possibly puzzle out how Bucky would react, not in this state. They were both so different, it hurt. “Yeah. Yeah, that should be fine. Whatever is best for him.”

“Alright, I’ll hook it up now,” Bruce said, turning to prepare a saline drip. He swabbed the back of Bucky’s hand with a disinfectant wipe, readying a sterile needle. “Just a small pinch, Bucky. You’ll barely even feel it.”

Bruce expertly slid the needle into one of Bucky’s blue-webbed veins. The ex-assassin twitched, whimpering softly, but didn’t open his eyes as Bruce connected the IV bag.

Steve stroked the lank, dead-ended strands of Bucky’s once-soft hair. Steve couldn’t help but think it would be so much healthier after a trim and a deep conditioning. Tony, fond of primping the team for galas and press releases, had taught the super-soldier more about hair care than he’d care to admit. Three-in-one shampooing body washes were strictly banned in the Avengers Tower.

“You’re doing so good, Buck,” Steve whispered, his gaze locked on the blade-like cheekbones of the other man. “You’ll feel better soon, I promise.”

“I’ll add a painkiller to the drip, but I don’t know how effective it will be with his increased metabolism,” Bruce informed. “But at least it will keep him comfortable for a few minutes, if nothing else.”

Steve barely heard him. All of his focus was on Bucky. The pallor of his skin. The dark circles under his closed eyes. The scars. The skinniness. The obvious signs of self-neglect.

Steve felt a wave of sorrow crash over him. His emotions caught in a ball in his throat. He tried to swallow them down, but choked, hot tears stinging his eyes.

Bruce glanced over at him with those strange, melancholy brown eyes. “Steve?”

Steve hurriedly tried to wipe at his own eyes, but the tears were starting to fall too fast. His chest was tight and aching, a gaping hole between his lungs that no amount of gasping for breath would fill. Was it grief? Was it anger? Sadness? He wasn’t sure anymore. He didn’t realize that he was shaking until Bruce’s hands were pulling him over to the cot next to Bucky’s.

“Shh, it’s alright, Steve. Just lay down for a few minutes. Today has been a lot for you.”

“Bucky—“ Steve tried to protest, his words catching.

“He needs to rest,” Bruce said firmly. “You can stay here and watch over him while he sleeps.” The scientist was giving Steve a job, a mission, a purpose. Usually it was Steve giving the orders, but it felt good to have someone tell him what to do for once. He felt like a scrawny, sick kid again, not strong enough to stop the hurting. He had been keyed-up for weeks now, spending most nights pacing, awaiting Bucky’s arrival, tearing himself apart with worry. It was all crashing down now.

Steve settled on his side, reaching out to take Bucky’s hand, which was hanging as dead weight off the side of the cot. Steve’s eyes closed, and tiredness cast its fog over his awareness. He slipped into an uneasy sleep.

Chapter Text

Bucky woke half-suspended in a haze of pain.

The empty socket of his left arm throbbed as it always did. He knew that it was called phantom pain because of the stories he had heard in the 107th Infantry Regiment of soldiers who had stepped on mines and had their legs blown off. He’d gotten a look at a field hospital once, too. He’d never seen anything so horrible at the time, but now, the memory of the gore, the reek of death and blood and piss, the sobs of the wounded– they seemed so plain. An inevitability. Like walking outside and seeing the sun. What kind of man was so comfortable with suffering?
The thought made his head hurt, so he let it slide away like a fine mist. He gripped the mattress beneath him– mattress? He slammed upright, looking around wildly. Why wasn’t he in his cryochamber? Or the Chair? Where was his metal prostheses?

“Bucky? Bucky, woah, lay back down, you’re okay–” A hand grabbed Bucky’s arm. He moved out of instinct, latching on and twisting the other person’s arm until there was a grunt of pain.

“Ah, shit– Bucky–”
Steve.

Bucky released the other man immediately, panicked apologies spilling hoarsely from his lips. “Steve, n-no, S-Steve– s-sorry, I’m so-sorry–”

Steve was holding him, rubbing his back, whispering reassurances against the shell of his ear. “It’s alright, Buck. It’s alright. You were just scared. Shh.”
Bucky shuddered. “S-Steve.”

“Yeah, it’s me, honey. Do you know where you are?”

The ex-assassin shook his head weakly. His hand ached where the IV had been removed. He heard Steve swallow hard above him.

“You’re in the Avengers Tower, in a recovery room. Do you remember Bruce checking you over?”

Slowly, Bucky nodded. He remembered deft hands inspecting him, putting the IV in his hand. “Y-yeah. B-Banner.”

“That’s right. We just want to take care of you, alright, Buck? You’re here to recover.”

Bucky felt the steady thump-thump-thump of Steve’s heartbeat. There was a time when their roles were reversed, when he was the one holding Steve through fits of coughing and chills. But that was a very, very long time ago. Even if it did feel like yesterday.

“Stark,” Bucky rasped out. “He won’t— won’t want me here. Not after what I…”

“I don’t give a damn about what Stark wants,” Steve interrupted. “This might be his tower, but he knows that without me, he doesn’t have the public on his side. Only so many people will choose a self-centered nepo baby over the guy who was created to be America’s number one propaganda image.”

Bucky squinted, willing his tumbled-up brain to understand. “What’s a nepo baby?”

Steve blinked. He’d been spending too much time with Peter lately. The new generation’s slang was starting to rub off on him. “It’s not important, Buck. The only thing that matters is that you’re staying here, and Stark can shove it if he thinks otherwise. Me and you, Buck.”

“‘Till the end of the line,” Bucky whispered. His lips were flecked with blood where talking had pulled open the split again. Steve winced at the sight, his hand coming up to cup Bucky’s cheek, thumb brushing over the damaged skin.

“We’ll fix you up,” Steve murmured. “A hot shower and some Vaseline will make you feel like a new man.” He carefully pulled away, making sure that Bucky could sit up by himself before slipping off of the bed and standing to his full height. “Bruce had a wheelchair brought down for you, so you don’t have to walk. He says it’s best if you take it easy until you feel a little stronger.”

Bucky stared at the wheelchair sitting unassuming by the bed. “I can walk,” he insisted, a flicker of old pride heating his cheeks. He made as if to try and get up, but Steve was one step ahead of him, easily lifting him up and plopping him down into the mobility device.

“There, all set,” Steve said, trying to force a smile. He was desperate to regain what normalcy he could. Bucky was looking at him like he was a stranger.

Steve wheeled Bucky to the elevator, pushing the button for his private apartment. They whooshed upwards and arrived with a ding!

Steve’s apartment was, admittedly, very nice. It opened through a mudroom with a washer and dryer, into a kitchenette connected to a comfortable living room with a long plush couch and two matching chairs, an end table and coffee table with a few books and a mug sitting on it, a floor lamp, and a wall of bookshelves. The opposite wall had an electric fireplace. At the far end were two doors, one leading to a bathroom and the other to Steve’s bedroom.

Despite the well-furnished look, the walls and hardwood floors were sparse. There were no paintings or pictures, no rugs, nothing. It was not the preferences of a utilitarian, it was the preferences of a man who hadn’t had time to figure out what he liked.

The door locked automatically behind them as Steve wheeled Bucky into the bathroom. It was bigger than the apartment Steve had grown up in, with a basin-like tub set into the wall, ledges for shampoos, conditioners, and washes enclosing it. It was unused, since Steve liked a quick shower better. It was rare that he luxuriated in anything, let alone a bath. It simply seemed unnecessary.

But Bucky, on the other hand… Steve would be more than happy to pamper Bucky with a hot bath. The super-soldier pushed a button on a control panel on the wall, and the stopper popped down in the bottom of the tub, the faucet beginning to pour out water.

Steve reached for Bucky’s shirt, then hesitated. “Is it okay if I…?”
Bucky, too, looked indecisive. But then he looked away and nodded, shamefaced.

With gentle hands that didn’t match his strength, Steve pulled Bucky’s shirt up over his head, taking special care not to let the fabric snag on the rough scar tissue of the brunette’s amputated left arm. “Easy does it, there we go,” Steve encouraged, his voice going strained when he saw the greyish lines criss-crossing across Bucky’s body, looking like old knife wounds, as well as a scattered few pocks of puckered bullet wounds. “Oh, Buck…”

“Don’t–” Bucky snapped, then inhaled sharply. “They’re not… they’re not as bad as they look.”

Steve couldn’t help but reach down, tracing the studded metal running up the stump of Bucky’s left shoulder. “Does it hurt?”
Bucky almost laughed. Hurt? He couldn’t imagine a life in which it didn’t hurt. It would feel unnatural not to be in any pain at all, he reckoned. He settled for a simple shake of his head. Pain he knew. Pain he could handle. It was better not to mention it.

Steve swallowed again, feeling the textured ridges of the amputation. With a look of trembling reverence, he leaned down and kissed the sharp jut of bone where Bucky’s shoulder ended.

The brunette tensed, his red-rimmed eyes flicking up to Steve with the frozen look of a prey animal. How long had it been since a touch there had not brought more misery? He couldn’t remember. It didn’t feel right.

“I’m so sorry,” Steve mumbled, his head still bowed, his breath hot against Bucky’s skin. “I should have come looking for you. I should have sent out someone to find you. I– I thought that you were dead, I–” Steve choked out, old grief clutching mercilessly at his chest. “I couldn’t stand the thought of them bringing back your body, asking me to identify you. I was selfish and a coward, and you’ve suffered for it for decades.”

Bucky was still motionless, his body rigid. His eyes were glazed over with unshed tears, eyelashes fluttering to keep them from spilling over. Steve was crying. Steve was crying, and it was his fault. Horrible. Bad Asset. Bad dog. He deserved a beating. A memory wipe. Then he could erase the sight of Steve crouched in front of him, tears running unchecked down the blonde’s cheeks.

“I would have traded places with you in a heartbeat,” Steve whispered, gripping Bucky’s remaining hand tightly. “If I could have, if I’d known… I would have done anything to keep you safe. I’m so sorry.”

Bucky felt bile rise in his throat at Steve’s words. Steve, take his place? Steve, his beloved, his sunshine, his heart? Steve, brainwashed, tortured, mutilated? The thought was enough to make Bucky’s ribcage feel like it was caving in. “No,” he garbled out, expression stricken and pale. “No, no, no, no–”

Steve, drawing in small, choppy breaths, cupped Bucky’s face again. “I would. You have to know that I would, Bucky.”

Bucky couldn’t stop himself. He fell forward against Steve, his one arm coming around to clutch at the back of Steve’s shirt in a pitiful hug. “Wouldn’t want you to. Would rather it be me than you. Not you. Not you. Please.”

Steve pulled Bucky into his lap, though the position was slightly awkward, since the blonde was sitting on the half-step that led up to the tub. Steve braced himself against the tub with one hand, holding Bucky with the other, and felt warm water lapping at his fingers. The tub had filled up, steam rising into the air and fogging up the full-length mirror next to the bath. Steve, loath to waste the water even if he would rather sit there hunched over Bucky for the rest of the day, hooked a finger into the empty belt loop of Bucky’s tattered jeans. “Is it okay if…?” he trailed off, still holding the triangular point of Bucky’s hip.

Bucky nodded, his breaths stuttering and punched-out. He hiccuped miserably, his hand still bunched in the fabric of Steve’s tee, terrified of letting go. Steve, with some difficulty, managed to shimmy Bucky’s twiggy legs out of the jeans, leaving the brunette in nothing but a pair of black briefs. Steve tried not to look, not wanting to make Bucky uncomfortable.

“Do you think you can get into the bath by yourself?” Steve asked. “I can turn around, if you don’t want me to… well…”

“I don’t mind,” Bucky said softly, his throat scratchy from talking when his voice had been in disuse for so long. “I’m used to it.”

Steve’s heart nearly broke at that. He couldn’t stand to think about what Bucky had suffered under the cruel hands of his HYDRA handlers. “Okay. Alright, I’ll be gentle.” He shuffled Bucky’s briefs off, then lifted the brunette up over the side of the tub and down into the hot water.

Bucky shuddered as the warmth kissed his aching, oversensitive skin. “Oh… Stevie…” His eyes closed in bliss, a shivery sigh escaping him.

“That feel good?” Steve asked, pouring a mix into the water and swishing it around to generate a whitish mountain of bubbles. He fumbled with the bath salts that Natasha had recommended him, dunking in a handful and adding a generous pour of chamomile oil. He had no idea what any of it did, but people of the 21st century swore by self-care, so maybe this would fix Bucky.

“Yeah,” Bucky replied hoarsely. “Feels real good. Thanks, Stevie.”

Steve leaned forward, kissing Bucky on the forehead. “Anything for you, Buck.”

Bucky’s face colored. He looked away again. “Sap.”

Steve chuckled softly, tiredly. “I’ve had years to think up lines. Now I can test them out on you.”

“Coulda found a pretty dame to use ‘em on instead. They’re wasted on me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Steve shook his head, pouring a large dollop of green tea shampoo into his palm and beginning to massage it into the roots of Bucky’s hair. “You know, Buck, you’ve— you’ve always been the only one for me. Even after all this time, I couldn’t… I wouldn’t have anybody else.”

“But we’re different now.” Bucky’s voice was as small as Steve had ever heard it. “I’m not him anymore.”

“It doesn’t matter who you are,” Steve pressed. He rubbed Bucky’s scalp perhaps a little too vigorously in his emotion, making the brunette duck his head and wince. Steve stopped immediately. “Sorry. I’ll be gentler.”

“It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

Those words again. They nearly made Steve’s hands clench into fists, but he stopped himself just in time so as not to pull on Bucky’s hair. Steve forced down his disgust — not at Bucky, never at Bucky, at those bastards from HYDRA — and finished lathering up the green-tinted shampoo. “Alright, time to rinse.”

Steve reached for the showerhead connected to the wall. He turned it on, facing away from Bucky so he could see how strong the flow was, lest he accidentally half-drown the smaller man. He adjusted the water pressure with a little button on the side, and then guided Bucky to lean forward slightly so that he could rinse out the shampoo.

Bucky shut his eyes tightly to protect them from the bubbles as Steve rinsed him, his dark brown hair smooth and floppy, drenched. “Are we done now?”

“No, we have to use conditioner, too. Natasha says it’s important.”

Bucky’s lips pressed more tightly together, but he said nothing, remaining pliant for Steve to pour about half of a bottle of oatmeal-shea conditioner over his head and start to scrunch it around into a foam. Once the blonde was satisfied that the conditioner was fully coating each strand of Bucky’s hair, he turned the showerhead back on to rinse out the thick, slippery concoction.

“Tilt your head back, there we go–” Steve slid his fingers through Bucky’s hair, ensuring that any remaining bubbles or conditioner were thoroughly out. “Does that feel better?”

Bucky didn’t answer, trembling faintly as he tried to keep the water away from his nose and mouth. Steve, knowing that he was trying too hard and yet continuing anyway, squirted some body wash on an exfoliating cloth and began to gingerly rub Bucky’s good shoulder, more creamy foam fizzling across the brunette’s skin. Steve was pretty sure that if he didn’t fill the silence between them, it would push them further and further apart, like a wedge driven into a crack until it became a canyon. So like the lovesick fool that he was, he talked.

“The Tower is nice, really, Buck. You’ll be safe here. You don’t even have to leave the apartment if you don’t want to. We’ve got everything we need to be happy, just you and me. The press doesn’t know you’re here, so they won’t bother us. All I’ll have to do is pop out every once and awhile for interviews or missions, and nobody will suspect a thing. It’s going to be a good thing, what we’ve got going, I promise.”

As he yapped, he finished washing Bucky, the other man hunkered miserably in the tub. The luxuries were lost on the brunette. He was trapped in his own mind.

“Bucky? Can you stand up, do you think?” Steve asked, trying to keep his voice from cracking. “I’ll help you. We just need to rinse you off a bit.”

Bucky stayed sitting, knees drawn up to his chest. He stared blankly at the wall.

“Bucky?” Steve tried again. “Stand up.”

An order. The Winter Soldier knew better than to defy orders. With joints straining, he tried to grab the side of the tub with his one hand and push himself up against the slippery porcelain. Steve hurriedly helped him, taking most of the brunette’s weight, unbothered by the fat that his shirt was getting soaked. It wasn’t easy to hose Bucky down with just one free hand, but somehow he managed it, and then pulled the smaller man out of the bath and into the embrace of a clean, fluffy towel.

Bucky was shivering in the cool air, his body depleted from so basic an action as bathing. He pressed his face against Steve’s neck and mumbled apologies.

“Shh, no need for sorries,” Steve reassured. He lifted Bucky into his arms in a bridal carry, tottering into the bedroom with him and setting him down in the center of the mattress. “Stay here, I’ll grab you some clothes to wear. Hope you don’t mind sharing briefs.” Steve gave a weak chuckle, turning to grab a pair of grey sweatpants and a black hoodie from the dresser. They would probably swallow Bucky whole, but it was either that or the old clothes Bucky had been wearing, the ones from Wakanda. And as selfish as he knew it was, Steve wanted to see Bucky in his clothes. It used to be Steve buried in Bucky’s coats and scarves, anything to protect him from the Brooklyn cold. It was still so… wrong to be the one who was bigger. Steve, even after years, wasn’t used to his larger frame. He felt ungainly sometimes, his movements nothing like the quick, ferret-like ones of his youth. He wouldn’t want to go back to being that beat-up, sickly, scrawny young man again, but it had felt more natural than his muscles and strong lungs now.

Bucky hadn’t moved when Steve returned to him. The brunette didn’t even look up.

“Bucky?” Steve said quietly, reaching out to take Bucky’s hand. “Can you sit up? You’ll be a lot warmer in something other than just a towel.”

Dull, lifeless eyes met Steve’s imploring gaze. Silently, Bucky pushed himself up on one wobbling arm. Steve wiggled Bucky into the sweatshirt. He was right— it was two sizes too big on the one-armed man. It looked more like some kind of choir boy gown.

“Better?” Steve asked, and enough recognition flickered in Bucky’s eyes for the brunette to nod once, the movement tight, curt.

“Raise your hips up a little, if you can,” Steve said, shuffling Bucky into a pair of clean briefs, and then the soft grey sweatpants. They would need to be rolled up one or two times to keep from dragging the ground. Steve chucked the towel towards the nearby hamper, then went back to the bathroom to get a hairbrush, hand lotion, lip balm, and a tub of Vaseline. Setting out his supplies on the bed, Steve set to work detangling Bucky’s dripping locks, brushing them straight and out of Bucky’s face. Next came the lip balm. Steve gingerly rolled it over the cracked skin of Bucky’s lips, then opened the Vaseline and daubed a thin layer over the balm to lock in its moisture. “Press your lips together to work it into all the cracks. You know, Vaseline hasn’t really changed since our time, Buck. It’s really one of the only things that hasn’t. Well, besides Converse. Can you believe those are still around?”

Bucky grunted weakly, flinching as Steve applied another light layer of the petroleum jelly, this time on Bucky’s cheeks, rubbing it across dull skin until a healthy glow returned, the skin pinkened by the contact.

“This’ll be kind of greasy for a few minutes, but then it should soak in,” Steve said apologetically. “Would you, ah— your arm… the scars looked… dry, and I don’t want them to crack open…”

“They aren’t as bad as they look.” Bucky repeated his words from earlier, his voice like gravel in his throat.

“Bucky, you don’t have to—“

“Don’t want you to see them again. You don’t know—“

“I want to know.” Steve took Bucky’s hand in his own. “We used to know each other better than anybody, and I want that back.”

Bucky just shook his head. “You won’t get it. You don’t know what I am. You don’t want me.”

Steve’s brows furrowed. “I’ll always want you.”

“Not like this.”

“Yes, like this,” insisted Steve, hurt touching his words and making his volume raise perhaps slightly louder than needed. “Do you think that low of me?”

Bucky’s shoulders slumped, like a child being chastised by a parent. “No, sir,” he mumbled automatically. “Sorry, sir.”

Steve stopped short. “Buck—“

Bucky kept his gaze averted. “Sorry,” he repeated.

“Please, don’t…” Steve knelt so that he was at eye-level with Bucky. “You don’t need to call me that. I’m not your handler, Bucky. I’m just Steve. Okay?”

“Steve,” Bucky agreed without inflection. His expression was colorless again. He looked at a fixed point beyond Steve’s head.

“Yeah, Buck. Just me.”

Chapter Text

Steve tensed as three short raps sounded on the door to his apartment. “JARVIS?”

“It is Barton,” the AI replied crisply. “He appears to be bringing you and Barnes food.”

“Shit.” Steve ran a hand through his hair. He glanced down at Bucky, who was sleeping fitfully, curled up in Steve’s lap.  “Unlock the door.”

Steve carefully extricated himself from Bucky’s grasp, padding into the living room just as the door opened and Clint Barton, dressed casually in a black t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers, stepped into the mudroom.

Clint was about 5’10, quite a bit smaller than Steve. He had a ruddy face and a sharp, straight nose, and greyish-green eyes flecked with blue. His shoulders were squared, his biceps lean with sinew. He had a calm, usually guarded expression, though now he looked more worried. He held up a plastic bag. “We got takeout. The team, I mean. Natasha told me to bring you and Barnes up some. It’s grilled cheese melts and mushroom kebabs. Oh, and some kind of potato soup thing. Whatever it is, it’s pretty good.”

Steve took the bag with a nod. “Tell Nat I said thanks. Bucky could use the food, for sure.”

“Mhm. About that…”

Steve looked back to the bedroom, then back at Clint. “Speak your mind, Barton.”

“Tony’s pretty pissed. He’s been in his lab all day, cursing up a storm and sulking. Pepper barely got him to come have dinner with us. Says that you have three days before he kicks you and Barnes out.”

Steve’s eyes darkened like thunder. “Tell him that I’d like to see him try. I’ll beat his ass into these polished linoleum floors if he so much as lays a hand on Bucky.”

Clint sighed. “Look, Cap… I know that you Barnes have history, but is it really worth it?”

“Damn straight. If I have to, I’ll choose Bucky over the Avengers. Permanently.”

Clint winced at the thought. The Avengers without a Captain America would be more than dysfunctional. Nobody could rally them like Steve. “Alright, alright. I get it. Look, I…” He rubbed at the back of his neck, huffing quietly. “I remember what it was like, coming out of the hold Loki had over me. I was confused, exhausted, emotionally out of whack. I don’t know what I’d have done without Nat. My point is, it’s good that Bucky has you to stand by him. And… for what it’s worth, Cap, I hope that the deprogramming worked. I agree with you that all this wasn’t Barnes’ fault. I say screw them HYDRA bastards, you know?”

Steve nodded, Clint’s words meaning more than the archer probably knew. “Thanks, Clint. I appreciate that.”

“Steve?” A small, hoarse voice called from the bedroom doorway. Bucky was blinking around blearily, holding onto the doorframe for support.

Steve glanced back towards the bedroom. “I’m right here, Buck. Just a second.”

Clint shifted awkwardly on the heels of his feet as he caught sight of how drained and worn-down Bucky looked, nothing like the cold, violent soldier that Tony seemed to think he still was. “I, uh, I should go.”

Steve felt his face flushing, but he wasn’t sure why. “Yeah. Thanks again for the food.”

Giving Steve a firm pat on the arm, Clint headed back towards the door. “Don’t mention it. See you later, Cap.”

The door opened automatically and then shut and locked as Clint disappeared into the hallway. Steve stood staring after the archer for a long moment before he tore his attention away, forcing himself to make Bucky his top priority once more.

Steve grabbed some silverware from a drawer in the kitchenette, tossing it into the plastic bag. “Clint brought us some lunch, Buck. You hungry?” He wrapped his free arm around Bucky, helping the other man to limp back over to the bed.

“I don’t know,” Bucky mumbled. It was the truth. He’d learned to ignore hunger until he could no longer recognize whether the pains in his belly were from injuries or having not eaten. It didn’t matter which, anyway. For the past seventy years, he ate when his handlers thought he should, when he’d earned it. It was better that way. It saved him from having to think about it.

“Well, even if you’re not hungry, you do need to try and eat a little,” said Steve, easing Bucky to sit down on the bed, propped up on the pillows. The blonde set the takeout boxes of food out and then doubled back to the kitchen for two bottles of electrolyte-infused water. Bucky stared down blankly at the bottle as Steve handed it to him.

Steve opened the cartons of food, finding four cheese-and-beef melts on crunchy toast, a cup of ranch on the side, as well as ten mushroom kebabs and two of the soup bowls. The team always ordered huge quantities of food, since several of them had increased metabolisms, and they all trained regularly, burning calories at an impressive rate. Steve figured that they should probably start Bucky on the soup, just in case the brunette didn’t take well to normal food at first. He didn’t want to accidentally make him sick.

“Here, Buck, want to try this first?” Steve set the bowl into Bucky’s lap and handed him a spoon.

Bucky made no move to either eat or answer. Steve sighed, then rephrased his words.

“Go ahead and eat, Buck.”

At the direct command, Bucky reflexively took the lid off of the bowl and picked up the spoon with a shaking hand. His fine motor skills were nothing like Steve had observed when they had fought months ago. Bucky had been vicious, precise, deadly. Now his fingers curled awkwardly, gripping the silverware like a combat knife.

The soup was rich and thick, the creamy, starchy taste unlike anything Bucky had tasted since the ‘40s. He let the flavor coat his tongue and shivered in pleasure. It was at times like these that Bucky wondered if he was still asleep in his cryochamber, because nothing so good happened outside of dreams.

“I hope that I can still remember your face when I wake up,” Bucky says faintly, eyes far away. He doesn’t take another bite of soup.

Steve pauses, one of the melts lifted halfway to his mouth. “What?”

“Your face,” Bucky repeats, his voice dozy. His head lists a little to the side. “It’s been harder and harder to remember how your eyes crease when you’re laughing… or how your lips curve when you frown… the white flash of your teeth… it started slipping away so fast…”

Steve laid a hand on Bucky’s arm. “Buck. This isn’t a dream. It’s all real. HYDRA can’t hurt you anymore.”

Bucky trailed his fingers down Steve’s leg. “That’s what the dreams said, sometimes. I believed them at first. It made it hurt so much more to wake up. So I stopped believing. I don’t know if I can believe this, either.”

Steve cupped the back of Bucky’s neck, pressing their foreheads together. “Oh, Buck…”

Bucky’s foggy grey eyes were locked with Steve’s clear blue ones. “I don’t want to wake up,” the brunette whispered.

“Bucky.” Steve stroked the other man’s freshly-washed hair. “You’re not asleep. You’re not dreaming. The nightmare is over.”

Bucky just smiled sadly, pulling slowly away from Steve’s grasp. He looked at Steve like the blonde was the most precious thing on the face of the earth. “I wish I could love you.”

Steve’s heart stuttered and squeezed painfully in his chest. His stomach felt like it bottomed out. His expression twisted in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

“To love you,” Bucky said quietly, “would probably be the best thing in the world.”

Steve tried to remind himself that Bucky was confused, that he wasn’t fully aware of what he was saying. But the words still felt like a punch to the gut. “Why’s that, Buck?”

Bucky stared into empty air, his face slack. His lips formed soundless words.

Steve gently touched Bucky’s arm. “Buck? You still with me?”

There was no response. Steve carefully took the soup bowl and spoon, setting them on the nightstand, then drew Bucky into lap. The brunette curled obediently about him.

Steve rubbed Bucky’s back in firm, long strokes. “It’s alright. You’re alright.” He sighed under his breath, resting his chin on the top of Bucky’s head. “I love you, Buck. Doesn’t mean that you have to love me back, but I want you to know it.”

Bucky shifted, pushing his face up against Steve’s neck. He whined softly, his remaining hand gripping the fabric of Steve’s shirt.

“I’m here,” Steve murmured. “I gotcha. Shh…” He slowly lowered them both down, laying against the pillows so that he could let Bucky rest against his chest. “You can go back to sleep if you want. I’ll keep watch.”

Bucky kept his eyes open, unblinking.

Steve sighed again. “Sleep, Buck.”

Bucky closed his eyes, his head tucked under Steve’s jaw. His breathing evened out within seconds.

*   *   *

The Winter Soldier woke in a haze. He was vaguely aware of the warmth at his back. His handler must have allowed him to sleep near the heater in his cell as a reward for a mission well done. He felt a thrum of pride. He was being a good dog, proving his worth as the Asset.

He felt the urge to roam. He must have been given new orders. He didn’t need to think. His body would take him to his target.

He rose, ignoring the pain in his joints. Assets didn’t yield to pain. Nervous system reactions were secondary to the mission. He hobbled down through a hallway into a room with a couch and chairs. A kitchen. He found himself without his weapons, so he took a keen kitchen knife from the holder on the counter. The world was a grey fog around him, vision blurred and blackened at the edges, as it always did when he was tracking down his newest victim. A low growl rattled in his chest.

The door at the end of the room opened automatically. The hallway outside was a sheen of linoleum and metal arches, smooth and polished. He limped to the elevator, the itch of instincts telling him to go up. The floor pushed up beneath him. His knife scraped against the wall. His heated panting fogged the steel panel of buttons.

The elevator lurched to a halt and opened with a ding! Somewhere on the floor below, an alarm was blaring. The Asset ignored it. He was prepared to take on the first wave of the enemy. He heaved himself, one dragging step at a time, down the next corridor. He clutched at the wall for support. Why was the Asset’s body failing? Why was the Serum not sustaining him?

“Yeah, Pepper, sweetheart, I’ll be there for the marketing presentation in five minutes. I’ve just removed JARVIS’ program from the Tower’s main interface to take him with me, it’s easier that way–” A placating Manhattan accent came from just around the corner.

The Asset tried to backpedal, but his knees refused to obey, his feet as heavy as lead. The person coming around the corner crashed into him with an “Oof!” of impact and surprise. The Asset was sent sprawling backwards, grabbing weakly at the wall again.

“What the hell–” The other man managed to steady himself. His gaze locked with Bucky’s and he went as white as death and then a terrible hatred struck across his face. “You murderer–”

The other man didn’t get time to finish his sentence before the Asset was on him, knife flashing towards his chest. The other man gripped the Asset’s wrist, grunting as he kept the knife a hairsbreath from his chest. “Rogers! Rogers, call off your mutt! Rogers, where the hell are you?!”

The Asset could hear a woman’s frantic voice coming through the phone, which had been knocked several feet away. “Tony? Tony, what’s happening? Tony? I’m activating your remote distress signal.”

“Get– off–” The man gritted out, clawing at the Asset’s wrist, the knife inching closer. “You bastard–”

The elevator doors flew open. A steel-tipped arrow sliced through the air, hitting the knife and sending it spinning out of the Asset’s grasp. The man below him threw the Asset backwards, the Asset’s head slamming against the floor. Pain exploded like white fire through his temples, down through his neck and the stump of his left arm. Where was his prostheses? He hadn’t realized that it was missing. Everything was spinning. The Asset could feel himself being kicked over onto his side.

“Tony, stop!” A man with a recurve bow in one hand was grabbing the man that the Asset had attacked. “Tony! He doesn’t know what he’s doing!”

“He knows! He came to finish the job he started in 1991!” The man hauled the Asset upright, vengeful, tearful fury, shaking him like a terrier with a rat. The Asset’s bare foot kicked against the man’s shin, making him drop the Asset, who swiftly lunged for the knife. Before his fingers could curl around the hilt, there was a whistle in the air and the riser of the recurve bow slammed into his face.

The Asset flew backwards and hit the wall. He collapsed, limp, against the cold linoleum. The world went dark.

*   *   *

Bucky dipped in and out of consciousness, aware of strong arms holding him in a bridal carry. His head and face throbbed with a dull pain. His empty shoulder socket was fiery-hot. His eyes fluttered open, vision blurring double. “St… eve…?”

“Easy, you’re alright,” murmured the archer. His bow was slung over his back. It had a smear of Bucky’s blood on it. “We’re taking you back to Steve. It’s alright. You just got confused.”

Bucky shivered against the archer’s chest. “Steve,” he whimpered softly. He felt the familiar lurch. The elevator.

As soon as the doors opened, they were met with a frantic Steve who had just been preparing to head upwards. “Bucky!” He rushed to take the shaking brunette out of Clint’s arms. “Clint, what happened? I woke up and he was gone, I’ve been looking all over this floor, I was just about to go looking in the other apartments.”

Bucky threw his arm around Steve’s neck, hunkering against him, making broken little noises. Tony slowly stepped out from behind Clint. His eyes were hard and unyielding. Tony was quite a bit shorter than Steve, but he carried himself with authority and tension, shoulders squared, back straight. His brown hair was mussed from the scuffle, his smart-tech sunglasses cracked. His suit had gotten wrinkled.

“He sic’ed himself on me like a pitbull.”

Steve’s heart dropped. “What?”

“Came at me with a knife from your kitchenette,” Tony continued, grinding his jaws. “Just about got it through my chest before Barton stepped in.”

“He didn’t mean to,” Steve said instantly. “He must have woken up confused and scared, wandered off–” Steve’s brows furrowed in confusion. “Why didn’t JARVIS alert me? I asked him to track Bucky’s movements and tell me if anything happened.”

“I disconnected JARVIS to bring his full program with me to a very important marketing pitch,” Tony snapped. “He’s my AI, I can do what I want with him. I don’t need Captain Propoganda’s permission.”

Steve’s eyes darkened. “I never said that you needed my permission, Tony. All I did was ask. Look, I’ll keep a better eye on him–”

“I want him out!” Tony shouted, his fists clenched at his sides. “If I come back from my pitch and find that he’s still here, I will throw him out onto the streets myself. He’d be swarmed by an angry mob in seconds. In case you’ve forgotten, Cap, the people don’t particularly like HYDRA’s little bloodthirty fido.”

“You touch him,” Steve hissed, “and I’ll throw you out the window, Stark. We’ll see if your fancy suit can catch you before you become another stain on the pavement.”

Clint stepped between them, a hand on each of their chests, pushing them apart. “Cool it. You’re acting like middleschoolers. Cap, Bucky’s not getting kicked out–”

“Like hell he isn’t!” Tony shoved Clint’s hand off of him. “This is my tower! I own this place! I can evict who I damn well please, especially the assassin who murdered my parents!”

“It wasn’t him!” Steve insisted, keeping Bucky curled protectively to his chest. “He doesn’t remember what he did. He was just following orders.”

“He might not remember,” Tony spat, “but I do. At least you grew up with a mother, Rogers. He took mine from me. Maybe that’s why you’re so damn soft.” He straightened his tie with hands that shook with anger. “You have until 7 pm tonight. Get rid of him, or I will.”
With that, the elevator doors closed, leaving Steve, with Bucky still cradled against him, and Clint staring after him.