"Sergeant Barnes, can you tell me about your time in the army?"
Bucky stared down at his hands, resting on the laminate tabletop in front of him. His right palm was sweaty, and his gloved left fingers picked at the clammy skin harshly enough to leave red marks behind. He took a slow, deep breath and opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
The air in the conference room was chilly against his damp skin, and he pulled the front of his jacket closed.
"We can start with something easier," the reporter said gently. "Would that be better?"
He nodded once, sharply, without looking up. The chair next to him squeaked when you shifted your weight.
As soon as Bucky agreed to speak to the reporter, you got to work helping him rehearse his answers. It was easier with you; you would laugh, and encourage him, and give him goofy looks when he got stuck in his head. And nothing he said seemed like new information to you, even if it was; you knew everything about him, whether you realized it or not. But it seemed that all his practicing hadn't helped— Bucky was still so nervous that he felt ready to claw out of his skin.
The reporter, this Karen Page, had been exceedingly kind to him so far. Kinder than Bucky deserved, considering he had wasted her time by inviting her out to the compound only for him to be unable to answer a single one of her questions. He shifted his gaze just a bit, from his hands to hers— they held a blank notebook and a pen. He watched as she set the pen down.
"How are you feeling?" she asked quietly. Bucky inhaled slowly, and it burned; he couldn't remember the last time he had inhaled. "From what Captain Rogers said, you were in pretty rough shape when you got back last week."
"I... yeah. I feel pretty good." He rolled his shoulders slightly, feeling some tension ease out of his muscles with the motion. Most of the pain he had felt just days ago was gone, and his left shoulder had returned to its normal, baseline ache. He was doing well, all things considered.
"But you were seriously injured, right?" Karen already knew the answer to this. Everyone did. Her story about the botched mission went online just an hour after her conversation with you, and it outlined the basics: the mission, the mistake. How Bucky held off what should have been an unstoppable force so that Steve was safe while he completed their directive. How Natasha had dragged Bucky's unconscious body to safety, and how Sam had done the impossible by piecing him back together with limited resources while they were in the air. It was a testament to Bucky's selfless nature, and to his teammates'— his friends'— love for him, and the lengths they went to to save him after he saved them. Bucky had opened the article with a sick, dizzying feeling in his gut, but the more he read, the more that feeling faded.
Bucky nodded to answer the question— yes, he had been seriously injured— and you opened your mouth to speak before deciding against it; you were doing your best to let him speak for himself, despite your protective urges. The corners of his lips twitched up before he forced them back to neutral.
You had agreed before the interview that Bucky would be the one to tell his story, and you would only interfere if absolutely necessary. He loved that about you— how you encouraged him to be his own person, to take control of his own narrative while still fiercely wanting to keep him safe from a world that had wronged him. An unfamiliar feeling flickered through him— with you, he almost felt... special. Like he was something worth keeping. Something worth fighting for.
"Can you tell me about some of the injuries?" Karen's fingers twitched toward her pen, and Bucky froze, his mind going blank. There was a long moment of silence.
"You had some stitches, right?" you suggested softly, and Bucky latched onto your statement, nodding. This was okay. There was no way that sharing this information could hurt him... right? Steve had probably already said most of it.
"Y-yeah," he stuttered. "Lacerations." He traced his right hand across his chest. Underneath his shirt he could feel the shiny pink seams, already healed enough for him to remove the threads that Sam and Banner had so carefully sewn. "Um, there were some broken bones..." His hand paused at his collarbone. "Dislocated shoulder. Internal bruising, ruptured spleen, a collapsed lung..." Next to him, your breath hitched. This was your first time hearing these details; you hadn't wanted to know before. Seeing him laid out, bloody and unconscious, had been enough.
"It's remarkable that you've healed this much in such a short amount of time," Karen said. "Is that because of the serum?"
Bucky's jaw snapped shut so harshly that there was an audible click of his teeth. He forced a deep breath, but the tension in the room was palpable. "Sergeant Barnes..." Karen started apologetically.
"Bucky." He looked up at her, meeting her eyes for the first time since they had sat down. "Please. It's Bucky."
She looked surprised, but she nodded. "Bucky," she repeated before she leaned toward him slightly. "I know you're nervous about speaking with me. But I swear to you that I won't publish anything without your approval." His eyes shifted away, so she continued. "Whatever you say. Whatever we talk about. You get the final judgement call before I even send it to my editor, okay?" His Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed roughly.
"You can read every draft, make any changes you want. Get rid of any details you decide you don't want to share." She sat back in her chair again. "I want to tell your story. Your real story. I'm not... I'm not going to use anything against you."
Bucky took an easier breath, although his words still came out cold. "You understand why I find that hard to believe."
He would never forget that day at the courthouse, when the reporters had picked him apart like vultures. He wasn't whole to begin with but they took everything he had left, plucking out all the shreds of hope and rotten bits of his soul until he was nothing but an empty carcass. They were scavengers, not predators— he was already dead, had died a million times over during testimony. They were just finishing the job.
And then there was the more recent memory— the day that you found out. The day you saw him on TV, looking ill and skeletal while he fumbled his words, each clipped phrase another shovel full of dirt out of his own grave. The way he panicked and ran that day, and how he pushed you away because through his self hatred, he couldn't fathom that maybe you wanted to stay.
You stayed.
Karen nodded. "I do," she said. "I wish I could give you something more than my word." She paused before she shut her notebook. "Would you feel more comfortable if I come back another day? Give you some more time to think it over?"
No amount of time would make this easier, but it needed to be done. He glanced at you, and you gave him an encouraging nod. "Um... maybe... I could answer a couple today? Just not... everything?"
A smile spread across Karen's face. "Yeah. Perfect. Is it okay if I take some notes?" She sensed his hesitation. "You can read everything I write before I leave, and I'll tear out whatever you don't want me to take with me."
"Yeah. Okay," he exhaled, and Karen opened her notebook once again. "You were saying... something about the serum?" The pleased look that you and Karen shared didn't escape him.
"Yes." Karen clicked her pen. "Is your enhanced healing due to the super soldier serum you received?"
Bucky pulled the inside of his cheek between his molars and bit down hard enough to taste copper. This wasn't as simple of a question as she thought it was. "Well. Yes," he said. "But... I don't know if it was really the super soldier serum." He hesitated before he mumbled, "and I didn't receive it."
"Can you elaborate?"
"I don't know what they gave me," he said quietly, his eyes on the table. "It wasn't... it's not the same as Steve's. It's not Erskine's formula."
He and Steve had talked about it, back in Wakanda. Fundamentally, their enhanced abilities were the same; super strength, speed, stamina. Healing.
But while Steve's transformation occurred inside a top-secret Brooklyn lab, surrounded by politicians and army officers, Bucky's was in a filthy back room of an enemy bunker. While Steve was encased in that Vita-Ray machine, the most advanced technology available at the time, Bucky was strapped to a table with leather restraints that smelled like sweat and somebody else's blood.
Steve said that being injected with all those vials of serum at once made him feel like he was exploding, like his cells were all suddenly too large and he was straining at the seams, about to combust— but just as quickly as the pain began, it was over.
Bucky's injections were smaller and spaced out over days, each one feeling like toxic, fiery sandpaper as they entered his bloodstream, scraping his insides until they were oozing and raw. And as soon as the pain would begin to subside, as soon as he would stop screaming, Zola would come back with more. Bucky didn't know if Zola drew out his suffering for the sake of science, for the notes and monitored reactions, or if he just got some sick pleasure out of it.
But the biggest difference was that Steve chose this. He wanted it. Had worked for it.
Karen was scribbling furiously while he explained. "I didn't receive it," Bucky repeated. Receive made it sound like a gift, but it was a curse.
Your mouth had tipped into a tight frown. You had never been good at hiding your emotions, but you were doing an excellent job at containing the weepy rage you always felt when he talked about these memories.
"I didn't know what it was," he said. "I thought the shots were just... another way to torture me."
While Steve emerged from the machine physically perfected, it took some time for Bucky's version of the serum to activate. It didn't take long for Bucky to realize something was changing in him. On missions, Bucky could keep up with Steve when the rest of the Howlies were gasping for breath; he had always been a talented sniper, but now he rarely needed to use the scope. But he never spoke of the changes, and if Steve noticed, he never mentioned it— neither of them wanted to be the first to question what had really gone on in that lab.
"What lab?" Karen asked, and Bucky remembered he was speaking out loud.
"In Austria. The first time I was captured."
"You say the first time, because you were captured again?"
Bucky nodded. That was the sick irony of it; maybe if he and Steve had talked about it, if he had told Steve that his blood felt foreign, if Steve knew that something had changed... Maybe Steve would've looked for him. Maybe Bucky would've been saved. Of course no one thought he survived; no ordinary man could. No one knew Bucky had poison running through his veins.
"And the second time was after you fell from the train, correct?"
Bucky's eyes were closed, but he saw nothing but white. Sunlight reflected off the snow, so bright that spots of shimmery gold formed on the backs of his eyelids; he watched them float. He was wet, soaked to the bone, but he was no longer shivering. He was warm, almost. If this was what death felt like, he was fine with that. The thought didn't scare him, and he drifted off.
Voices faded in and out, eventually bringing him back to consciousness. He recognized the language. Russian. They were allies. They were there to help him. He tried to speak, but no sounds rose from his jagged glass throat. He couldn't move, but he felt hands against his jacket collar— and then a jarring, excruciating pain when they began dragging him carelessly through the snow. Every fiber of his being was being torn in two, or maybe he was already torn— the agony was all-encompassing. He couldn't move. He couldn't move.
He forced his heavy eyelids open to search for the owner of those wretched hands, the source of his suffering, but the sight he was met with sent him reeling. Red soaked through and melted the snow around him, leaving a trail in his wake; was that his blood? The pain was unbearable, the view ghastly; he turned his head and retched.
He'd rather be dead.
Bucky's chair screeched as he pushed away from the table and jumped to his feet. "M'sorry," he mumbled, and he took off. The conference room door slammed behind him, the glass shaking in the pane even as you raced after him.
He found himself in the empty men's restroom, panting heavily as he braced himself against the toilet.
"Bucky?" you called from the doorway. He could only grunt in response, and you followed the sound to find him in a stall. You sank to your knees behind him and tenderly placed a hand between his sweaty shoulder blades.
The churning in his stomach never materialized; the longer he sat on the tiles with you soothingly rubbing his back, the more his breathing slowed. Eventually he sat back and rested his head against the plastic wall. He eyed you with a worried expression, because he had fucked it all up— he was too weak, couldn't handle a stupid fucking interview, and now you were disappointed in him, and his failure would be all over the nightly news—
You gently placed your hands on either side of his face, your thumbs stroking across his trembling cheeks.
"You're doing so good," you murmured. "You're okay. I know it's hard. Nobody is upset with you. You're doing great." You pressed your forehead to his as you whispered your reassurances, and you stayed with him like that until he was ready to stand.
You walked together, hand in hand, to the conference room where Karen sat waiting. She looked up from her phone when the door opened, and Bucky clenched his jaw when he felt his face go red. Instead of being angry, Karen only looked at him with concern, which somehow might have been worse— god, he hated being the one everyone had to worry about. She began to stand, but you shook your head and led Bucky back to his seat. Karen gave you a confused look as she sank back down.
"Bucky wants to tell you about the time he stole a motorcycle." Now it was Bucky's turn to look confused; he stared at you.
"...I do?" he asked, and you nodded. You held his left hand in both of yours on top of the table, exposed and unashamed; if Karen noticed, she didn't acknowledge it.
"Um, yeah. Okay," he said slowly. "We— the unit, the Howlies— were in Italy, so I guess it was 1944, and..."
Both you and Karen laughed at his story, and even Bucky cracked a nervous smile. He felt better, talking about good memories like that. When he was finished, you looked at the time on your phone. "Well, it's getting late," you said pointedly.
"Right," Karen said, and she pushed her notebook toward Bucky. He turned it around to read it; she hadn't written anything down past "experimental formula- NO CONSENT- forced as POW." He closed his eyes, but nodded and passed the book back to her.
"I'll be in touch," Karen said. "Call me whenever you're ready to continue. Thank you for speaking with me, Serg— Bucky."
The nap Bucky took that afternoon, with his much larger frame wrapped safely in your arms, rivaled any therapy hangover nap. His dreams were unsteady— shadowy figures in his peripheral, a foreboding feeling bubbling in his chest. But when the shadows got a bit too close and he jolted awake, your warm skin and steady heartbeat were all that he felt.
Bucky didn't look up when he walked into the apartment. "Package," he muttered under his breath as the door shut behind him. You glanced at him from your spot on the couch, but not quickly enough; you had to lean to the side and swat the package to the floor to keep it from hitting you directly in the face.
The box bounced to a stop in the middle of the living room, and Bucky grinned. He had made a bit of a game of this— you didn't have the most effective reflexes, but at least they were... entertaining.
"Hope it wasn't fragile, dumbass." You scowled unconvincingly; the corners of your lips twitched up when your saccharine gaze met his. "What'd you order?"
"Nothing. It's yours."
"Well I didn't order anything."
"Got your name on it."
Tension surged as you both stared at the medium-sized rectangular box, now lying on its side next to the coffee table. You leaned over to pick it up, but Bucky beat you there.
He lifted the box with newfound attention. Nothing about it had felt off when he carried it upstairs, but he hadn't had a reason to be suspicious then. He weighed it in his hand and listened to the contents slide around when he moved it: something soft, like fabric, and the quiet crinkle of tissue paper. Satisfied with its harmlessness, he passed the package to you, and you checked the label. Your shoulders stiffened.
"It's... from my parents," you said haltingly. You almost looked like you were going to set the box back down, but with a sigh you reluctantly tore it open. Bucky was right; you had to peel crinkly white paper away to see what was inside. You slowly pulled the fabric out of the box, and your nose wrinkled in disgust when you realized what it was.
A crisp black suit, complete with a pencil skirt, creased from how it was cheaply packaged. And underneath it, a card with your name on it. You unceremoniously ripped the envelope open and glanced at the message inside; your lip immediately curled into a snarl, and you tossed it to the coffee table. You almost climbed to your feet, but Bucky stopped you.
"What is it?" he asked.
You scoffed. "A suit," you said, "for all my interviews that I'm going to go on when I leave this place. Just what I wanted to be reminded of. Right. Great."
Panic surged through his veins. When you leave this place? Bucky quickly did the math in his head; it was nearly November, so you had just over two months left here at the compound. Oh, fuck. How had time gotten away from him like that? Of course you'd be making plans for after.
You were too busy seething to notice how Bucky had frozen with a blank, wide-eyed expression on his face, a dead giveaway to his racing thoughts. "Happy birthday to me," you muttered as you slumped sideways onto the couch cushions.
Wait. Bucky looked at you sharply. "...When is that, again? Your birthday?"
"Uh... what day is it now? Thursday?" You held up your fingers to count. "It's... four days from now. Monday." You sighed and settled further into the couch. "Of course it's a fucking Monday. Gross."
But Bucky wasn't listening. He turned to you, his eyes betraying his frustration, his almost angry bewilderment.
"What?" you asked, taken aback by the intensity of his expression.
"How did I not know?" He was absolutely certain he hadn't forgotten; he had never known in the first place. "Why didn't you tell me?" His voice shook slightly. "What the fuck," he said under his breath, more to himself than to you. "How am I missing stuff like this?"
Bucky loved you, he knew that for sure. And he knew you. He knew the rhythm of your breaths when you slept, and what you looked like when you first woke up, and how you took your coffee in the morning. He knew what made you laugh, what made you cry, and what scared you so deeply that you wouldn't sleep if you thought about it. He knew what kind of music you liked, knew the songs you kept on repeat, and the ones that reminded you of so much pain that you could no longer bear to listen to them.
He knew how fiercely loyal you were, and how your sense of self preservation went out the window when you felt someone you loved had been wronged. He knew what it meant when you looked at him with that mischievous glint in your eye, and what it meant when you wrapped your arms around yourself so tightly that your nails left indents in your skin. But something as simple as a birthday? How the fuck did he not know that?
"It doesn't matter," you said with a shrug and a dismissive shake of your head.
Bucky collapsed onto the couch next to your and grabbed your arm, and your mouth dropped open slightly at his vehemence. He couldn't hide the way his low voice trembled. "Everything matters."
It was true— everything about you mattered to him. God, how could he be your boyfriend— your boyfriend? He gulped. How could he be anything to you without knowing such crucial, basic information?
He exhaled, releasing some of his intensity with his breath. "Your birthday is in four days," he said. "What do you want to do for it?"
"Nothing," you said, and maybe on the surface it looked like you were telling the truth— but Bucky knew better. Your eyes shifted away from him, your shoulders hunched. "Seriously, it's no big deal," you continued. "I'm... surprised they even remembered it." Something in your tone changed when you looked back at the card from your parents. "They probably put it on the calendar this year just so they could send me that suit," you said bitterly. "That's the exact kind of fucked up, passive aggressive bullshit they would do."
Bucky opened his mouth, but he didn't quite know what to say. "But do you want to... celebrate?"
"No," you said, quickly shaking your head. "I'm not— I don't..." you sighed. "I usually just go to a Halloween party and pretend," you mumbled. "The days are close enough."
Bucky's jaw dropped; that was one of the saddest fucking things he had ever heard.
"We've gotta talk," he said. You turned back to him, your fragile face threatening to crumple.
He pressed his lips to your forehead. "I want you to tell me everything," he breathed. "Everything."
The next several hours were spent going over every detail you could think of. Both of you talked about your families, the houses you grew up in, your favorite stories from when you were kids. Bucky told you about going to school in the 1920s and 30s, how he'd tag along to Steve's art classes even though he could barely draw a decent stick figure, and when he had to leave to get his first job on the docks. You told him about your favorite elementary school teacher, your childhood hobbies, and the girls who bullied you so badly that you faked sick to stay home as often as you could.
Bucky almost melted from the way you watched him, listening eagerly as he spoke about the most mundane moments of his life, and you both teared up when he told you more about his time spent healing in Wakanda. You didn't miss the way Bucky scowled when you talked about your parents, or how he wrapped a protective arm around your shoulders when you tallied up your heartbreaks.
Finally, after you both had exhausted every last memory in your brains, Bucky felt at ease. This was how it was supposed to be. This closeness, this knowledge, was more intimate than sex could ever be.
"I can't believe I didn't know your birthday," he grumbled good-naturedly.
You hushed him. "It's fine," you said. "Now you know."
But it wasn't fine. Because he only had four days.
Bucky had done a good job of hiding it from you; at least, he thought he did. You sat together on the couch after dinner on Sunday evening, just reading, his right arm tucked around your shoulders. You were engrossed in your book, but through his haze of excitement Bucky couldn't get those little black marks on the page to turn into words. When he glanced at the clock on his phone for the umpteenth time, you gave him a much deserved odd look, but he just shrugged; he couldn't help it.
When it was finally seven o'clock, Bucky closed his book and leaned over to speak against your ear. "Baby," he said, his low voice hardly masking his eagerness. "Let's go. We're gonna be late."
You looked up at him, doe-eyed in your confusion until you caught sight of his shit-eating grin. Your own expression turned into a mulish frown, but that didn't deter him.
"C'mon," he said. "Go get dressed up." Your frown didn't budge, but there was a growing glimmer in your eyes. "Nothing fancy," he said with a peck against your cheek. "Stay comfortable. But we're going out."
"We can't go out," you said flatly as you marked your page.
"Okay, maybe not out out. Just go get ready. Please? Please."
You didn't try to hide your snicker. "Well, I guess if you're going to beg."
You changed quickly: sweatpants to jeans, a nice shirt, and a necklace Bucky hadn't seen before. That was a good sign. He didn't bother with a jacket or gloves before he led you to the elevator, and you noticed.
"Where are we going?"
He wrapped his arm around you, pulling you close so he could speak with his lips against your hair— that sweet scent that drove him so crazy. "I told ya I was going to take you to the movies, didn't I?"
You forced the corners of your mouth down to hide your smile. "You did." During that hazy fantasy you had talked him through so long ago, when you blurred the lines between past and present, he told you he would've taken you to the movies for your second date. Make out in the back row like a couple of kids.
He meant it, just like he meant every single word he said to you, every promise. He was going to keep them all.
When Bucky opened the heavy doors to the theater room and you saw the setup, you dug your heels in.
Okay, sure, maybe it looked like a lot. But Bucky didn't have much trouble putting it together at all. The projection system was foolproof, and he was able to order the other things online— the microwave popcorn, the candy, some different types of soda. He had searched the new releases and found some fantasy movie that came out a month ago with good reviews— and he had it queued up and waiting on the projection screen.
You turned to him, your familiar frown returning while he poured two drinks. "I said I didn't want to do anything for my birthday."
"Nothing?" he wheedled as he turned to you. "Not even cake?" He tempted you with a lopsided smile and took a sip of his drink.
You stepped closer to him, and before he realized what was happening, you reached around with both arms to squeeze two handfuls of his ass. "Got all the cake I need right here."
Soda didn't quite snort out of Bucky's nose, but it was close; he turned his head to spare you while he sputtered, but you didn't let go of him.
"Why are you like this?" he asked when he could speak without choking.
You shrugged innocently and looked up at him with that telltale glint in your eyes. "Why do you like me like this?"
He shook his head slowly, a sheepish grin taking over his face while he coughed to clear more carbonation out of his throat. "Well, good thing it's not your birthday," he said with a shrug. "That's tomorrow. So tonight, this is just a date."
This little theater room was exceptionally nice; Bucky appreciated the decision to substitute normal movie theater seats with plush leather couches, because that meant he could keep his arms wrapped tightly around you for the entire movie.
You stretched out together on one of the couches, and when the credits rolled, you glanced over your shoulder to find his eyes glued to you. "I didn't think you were still awake," you said teasingly.
"Of course I'm awake." He kissed the side of your face.
"Your hands were still."
He grinned— it had taken an ungodly amount of self control, but he had been trying very hard to let you focus on the movie. "Well, I'm nothing if not a gentleman."
You snorted, and Bucky shrugged playfully. You had both chosen to ignore the way he had stiffened against your backside, throbbing occasionally, during the film's one sex scene. He couldn't help it— it was... a lot for him, if he was honest. He had heard of blue movies back in the day, but he'd never seen one for himself— and even now, with everything on the internet, he hadn't quite acclimated. He couldn't wrap his head around how people watched those kinds of things in public.
"You were very good," you murmured to him, the combination of your words and your sultry tone sending a jolt of lightning through his core. You rolled over and traced your fingers down his abdomen, but he recoiled when they reached his waistband.
"No," he said quietly. "S'posed to be for you."
"It's a date," you said, and he shivered when your lips met his earlobe. "Isn't this how you'd want a date to end?"
Well, yeah, but... "It's your birthday," he mumbled. You grinned wickedly when he finally admitted it, and glanced at your phone.
"It's not my birthday for another ten minutes," you said as you sank to your knees on the floor in front of him. "Now take off your belt."
Bucky groaned, and he couldn't believe he was doing it, but he placed a hand on your shoulder and held you at bay. "Wait a minute, wait a minute," he said, and you pouted. "You can do anything you want to me later," he promised, instantly regretting the words when your eyes widened with excitement. "But there's something else I gotta show you."
Bucky was nearly giddy as he led you through the dark to the common kitchen table and flicked on a single light. You glanced at the table, at the two plates and forks he had set out, then looked back to Bucky with narrowed eyes. He was standing with his back to you in front of the large commercial refrigerator. "I said I didn't want anything," you almost growled, but his smile only grew.
"I know," Bucky said without turning around. "But you lied." You dropped down into a chair with a halfhearted scoff.
The soft glow of the small light over the sink was just enough to chase the shadows away from your face. You were fighting hard to keep your mouth straight; it wasn't clear if you were trying not to smile or frown.
Bucky turned around slowly, revealing the small cake he held on a platter with a flourish— but his smile immediately faded when he saw the tears welling in your eyes.
Shit. It was a small cake, maybe too small, hardly more than a glorified cupcake. And he had forgotten to buy candles— he found some in the cabinets earlier but they were mismatched, haphazardly stuck into the frosting at odd angles— he should've spent more time arranging them nicely. His expression must have dropped as far as his heart did, because you sniffed and shook your head slightly, a smile cracking across your lips. You beckoned to him, and he set the cake on the table and sat down across from you.
"You didn't make that," you said matter-of-factly, although your voice was thick.
He shook his head. "You didn't hear any fire alarms, did you?" he asked with a crooked smile. You huffed in agreement, and your smile grew, slowly becoming more natural. "I found a bakery in town that delivers," he said. "I know it's small, but I didn't want to get too much with just the two of us."
"It's perfect," you said, almost to yourself, as Bucky lit each candle in turn.
"Baby," he said, suddenly deadly serious. "There's just one thing." You nodded and leaned toward him, perplexed, and he struggled to keep the smile off his face. "I'm sorry, but I'm not going to sing to you."
You laughed. "That's it, that's just too much," you teased. "It's all ruined." But your smile told him exactly the opposite, and you leaned forward to blow out the candles.
Bucky knew he wasn't supposed to wish, but after missing out on so many birthdays, he figured he was allowed a couple of extra wishes— and besides, the way you were looking at him gave him a sneaking suspicion that you had wished for the exact same thing.
When you were both finished with the cake, Bucky quickly washed the dishes in the sink while you nearly dozed off at the table. Well, he thought you were dozing— with his back turned, he didn't notice the dreamy way you watched his every move. He was glad to have the dishes to keep his hands busy; he was growing more nervous with each passing second. Finally, he dried his shaky hands on the kitchen towel, and you stood up to leave.
"Wait, wait, wait," he said hurriedly. "One more thing." He pulled something out of a cabinet and hurried to sit down across from you. Before he could change his mind, he held the gift out over the table.
"Oh my god," you muttered, sitting up straight while you stared at the small black velvet box. You clutched your left hand in your right. "Bucky, I..." Emotion after emotion passed over your face as you glanced between Bucky and the little square box; terror, and excitement, and dismay, and... He hid his frown.
"I didn't have anything to wrap it with," he said apologetically as he handed it over. "Forgot about that part." He made a mental note for next time: candles and wrapping paper.
You stared straight at the box as you took it into your shaky hands. Something about him passing it to you over the table like that seemed to calm you, and you took another deep breath as you sized it up in your hand; it was larger than your palm. But you gasped when you cracked the hinged box open and peeked inside, and your eyes flew to meet his as you slammed it shut again. Bucky's smile was weak, uncertain, but he gave you a tiny nod. Keep going. Please, keep going. You opened the box fully and sucked in a reverent breath.
You plucked the bracelet from its velvet cushion with two fingers and let it dangle in front of you. The dainty gold chain rotated slowly in the air, and the row of faceted black gemstones reflected and refracted the dull light, their inky blackness somehow giving way to a bright shimmer.
The idea came to him that day in the shower, when you took his hand in your own and scrubbed at the black and gold, carefully washing away the shame that had encrusted it for too long. You paid it so much attention, touched it with so much tender care, that he could almost see it through your eyes— and just for a moment, his arm was a thing of beauty. It really was.
Bucky thought that maybe if you found that cursed arm so beautiful, then you would like something that was actually beautiful even more. And, selfishly, maybe it would remind you of him. After.
He watched you with bated breath while he waited for you to say something. Anything. Your eyes traveled between Bucky's face and the bracelet, and you swallowed hard. You opened your mouth, but instead of speaking you clutched the bracelet to your chest and burst into tears.
Oh, no. "I-I can return it if you don't like it, you can pick something else—" He suddenly realized how stupid this was. You rarely wore jewelry, why did he think you'd want jewelry— And how fucking arrogant of him, how deluded to think you'd want something like this, something to remind you of him— of his— he gulped— his weapon—
"Are you kidding me?" you sobbed. Those were the only words you managed to choke out, but your grip on the bracelet never loosened. Bucky watched you nervously, his thoughts racing so quickly that he couldn't grab hold of any of them. Maybe... maybe you didn't hate it. But when you hiccuped a pained breath, he realized with a sinking feeling that your tears weren't slowing.
He jumped up from his chair and hurried to your side of the table. Standing behind you, he wrapped his arms tightly around your shoulders, which only made you cry harder, but you were smiling now—
Either Bucky did something wrong, or he did something really, really right.
"Thank you," you finally managed to say during a break in the tears. "I love it." You slipped it over your left hand and tightened the chain. It sparkled in the shadows, much brighter than the metallic luster of his arm next to it, but still a perfect match.
Bucky smiled as he nuzzled his lips against your ear, and the words slipped out before he could stop them: "I love you."
He froze as soon as he realized what he said. He held his breath, waiting for the fallout, but he couldn't step away because that would be too strange, it would draw too much attention— you hadn't replied yet, so maybe you didn't hear, and he could pretend it never happened—
He didn't mean to say it. It wasn't part of his plan. But seeing you like that, matching him, embracing it... if he had known the words to explain how much that meant to him, he would have said them. But there were only three words he knew that seemed big enough, important enough, to convey that monumental truth—
"I love you," he said again, the words so sweet on his tongue that he had to taste them again. His voice was steadier this time, and he could feel his cheeks curving up into an infectious smile even when you pulled away to look back at him.
"Wait," you said, your voice unusually timid as you searched his eyes for any hint of a joke. "You're serious?"
He nodded.
Heavy sobs shook your shoulders when you stood to throw your arms around his neck. Soft, incredulous laughter broke through your tears when he kissed you, and with your face smushed against his cheek the words didn't come out quite right, but he heard them: "I love you, too."
He scooped you up in his arms; anything to be closer to you. "I'm sorry," he mumbled against your ear when you snuggled into the crook of his shoulder. "I didn't mean to make you cry." That only made you cry harder, but it was okay— you were smiling. They were happy tears, and he couldn't blame you— nothing had ever been more deserving of happy tears in his life.
When you finally calmed down enough to speak, you pulled away slightly. "You know that's not the first time you've said that to me, right?"
He blanched. "...What?"
You only laughed, and covered what you could reach of his face and neck in sweet kisses while he carried your back upstairs.
Your kisses turned needier and more frantic as soon as you reached the elevator, and it took all of Bucky's willpower to force himself to walk steadily instead of sprinting to the bedroom.
He crashed through the apartment door, stumbling slightly as he finally gave in and raced down the hall. Bucky laid you onto the bed before falling forward to join you on top of the comforter. You giggled, but his lips never left your skin while he hastily removed your clothes. You lifted your hips so he could slide your jeans off down your legs, and he stood back to tear his own clothes off. But his breath caught at the view in front of him, and he paused.
"Bucky," you said with a knowing smile. "You're staring again." Even so, you didn't move to cover yourself.
"Never gonna stop staring," he said with an unashamed shrug. He climbed back on top of your and rested his forearms on either side of your head.
"I love you," he said again, the words still foreign but delicious on his tongue. The way you shut your eyes, your cheeks glowing, and practically fucking purred told him all he needed to know— so when you said the words back to him, that was just icing on the cake. Bucky's lips came crashing down onto yours, and you grinned into the kiss. You hitched your knees up over his waist, tilting your pelvis up to meet his, and he rolled his hips against yours a few times in that way he knew you liked.
He leaned his weight on his left elbow so he could reach down and get you ready for him, but your hand on his wrist stopped him.
"Other hand," you whispered breathlessly. "Please?"
There was a hesitation, and he tore his gaze from your chest back up to your eyes— his eyebrows furrowed, and he gulped. But you nodded, encouraging him. You wanted it. You did.
He shifted his weight and slowly, carefully, traced his left hand over the hill of your breast, over the ledge where your ribs gave way to softness, and down to your thigh. Goosebumps followed his trail, either from the cool metal, his teasing touch, or both. He splayed his hand out wide over your thigh and rubbed this thumb against the tender skin there, so close to where you wanted him, but not quite enough. You let out a quiet groan and squirmed, wiggling your hips; if he wouldn't put his hand where you needed it, you'd do it yourself, apparently. He grinned at that, and so lightly that it almost tickled, he drew a metal finger up through your dripping folds.
He was unprepared for the moan that broke free from you, and the way you immediately trembled under his touch. The temperature difference was astounding, he knew; the digits would warm up eventually, but for now they were like ice against your most sensitive skin. And judging from your whimpers, you liked it.
"Need it, need it, need it," you chanted quietly.
He pushed one finger inside of you, and oh, fuck, that feeling— the warmth and enveloping pressure that those fingers had never felt, that those nerves had never experienced— he carefully inserted another finger, and when you shuddered, he did, too.
He was hesitant to use the hand too much, wary of its strength, but when his thumb pressed gently to your clit, you started rocking your hips against it. He was simply a passenger, a witness to this small miracle, and he watched with heavy-lidded eyes and a slack jaw while you took pleasure from a piece of him that he thought had none to offer.
"So good," you panted. "Fuck— l-love you..."
His cock was leaking strings of pre-cum all over your thigh and the bedsheets, and it jumped when your pussy tightened around his fingers. It knocked the air from his lungs, that pressure, and he crooked his fingers and slotted his lips over yours to drink up all the beautiful sounds you made as you came.
Your body was still shaking from the aftershocks, but Bucky couldn't get inside you fast enough. There was no waiting, no teasing; only that urgent need to be as close to you as possible. To be part of you. He gripped the base of his cock and nudged at your entrance, and he was met with a slick heat that made his hips jerk forward uncontrollably. Your moan when he entered you made his breath catch.
"God, I fucking love you," he rasped against your lips. Fully sheathed, he gave you a moment to adjust, waiting for you to nod before his hips picked up an unrelenting rhythm.
You sucked in a harsh breath when he wrapped his metal arm under your hips and yanked them up, changing the angle so he could fuck even deeper inside of you without pulling his lips away from yours. You fluttered around him again, and he didn't have the strength to even attempt to hold out against the delicious pressure that had been blooming in him for hours. He came with a raw shout against your neck, then continued to grind into you slowly while you both caught your breath.
Eventually Bucky rolled to the side, and you reached for him blindly. The bracelet dangled from your wrist, reflecting the moonlight that snuck in through the window.
He couldn't take his eyes off it. The bracelet looked so beautiful on you, it was perfect— but he couldn't help that piece inside of him that wished it was a ring.
Bucky didn't know how much time passed as he lay there, watching you in the moonlight. After a while you sighed, and in the last few moments before sleep pulled you under, you spoke. "Love you, Buck. Always have."
Bucky slammed his notebook shut when he heard your footsteps approaching from down the hall the next day. He chewed on the end of his pen, but he couldn't wipe the guilt from his face quickly enough— you gave him a questioning glance as you walked over to where he was seated at the kitchen table.
"Dear diary," you said in a mockingly deep voice, and when he didn't stop you, you continued.
"Dear diary, I might have overdone it last night." He narrowed his eyes at you when he noticed that crazy gleam, but it was too late. "Bucky Jr. might need medical attention—" Bucky snorted and dropped his pen on the table— "he's never been so exhausted. He put up a valiant fight, but waking up to my girlfriend's soul-sucking powers is just too—"
Bucky blinked. "Girlfriend?"
You stared back at him with wide eyes, realizing your mistake at the same moment he did. "I-I mean, um, yeah, if you... fuck..." You turned away from him, your shoulders raised nearly to your ears, shielding you while you held your breath.
It took a moment for his brain to reboot. "Yes," he said as quickly as he could. "Yes. Yeah, of course.
You turned back to him with a sparkling grin, as if that moment of doubt was already so far in your rear view mirror that it was just a blur. "What are you writing, though? Really?"
He sighed, and his voice came out too small as his mood deflated. "I'm... just trying to figure out how old I am," he mumbled.
You shot a sideways glance at the closed notebook. "You said you were born in 1917."
"I mean, yeah, but... I'm just... It's more complicated than that." His first instinct was to clam up, or lie— but no. No more secrets. "I'm trying to figure out how often Hydra had me out of cryo," he said quietly. "It's hard to keep track... easier if I write it down. And I'd just... rather you not see that."
Because the easiest way for him to track how often he was awake was to follow along with the reports of his crimes. He had looked up the charges and testimonies from court to get a general sense, but what was left unanswered was just how long he was out of cryo each time. He didn't know how much prep he got; he couldn't remember if they pulled him out and trained him, or if they just gave him his mission and sent him off. And what about the missions that were so successful that they were never discovered? He clenched his teeth; he was getting frustrated by the nebulosity of it all.
"It's okay," you told him softly. "It doesn't matter—"
"It does," he said forcefully, but his voice broke slightly with his next words. "Because I don't— I don't know how much longer—"
"What?" you stepped closer beside him and placed a calming hand on the back of his neck. He could tell from your unbothered tone that you weren't following, you didn't get it—
"I... hear me out, okay?" he said, and you nodded as you rubbed lazy circles against his skin. He sighed. "I always assumed I'd die in a fight." He expected you to protest that, but you didn't. "But what if... what if maybe, I don't? What if I get to live out my life, however much is left of it?"
You smiled gently. "That doesn't seem like a bad thought to have."
Bucky shook his head. "No. But... How am I supposed to know how much time I have left?"
"What do you mean?"
"I thought I could figure it out and do the math, but there's so much time that's just... blank. Too many variables. And the fucking serum, too, I don't know..."
"Bucky, no one knows how much time they have left."
Bucky shook his head, still agitated. "It's different. Steve was in the ice for seventy years, right? And he came out looking pretty much like he looked in 1944." He waited for you to nod. "Well, I think I look... older. Not by much," he said quickly when you started to disagree. His hand stroked his beard, hesitating at the gray patch of hair. "But there's something... Steve wasn't awake at all through those years. But I was."
"We can ask Dr. Banner," you murmured, and that made Bucky's heart jolt because you were acknowledging his fear— and if you were acknowledging it, that meant it was justified— "We can call him tomorrow and ask him to research it, and then you can see him as soon as he's back. Run some tests or something." Bucky just shook his head.
"He can't research. There is no research. It's me and Steve."
You didn't have any way to refute that. "Why are you so worried about this right now?"
"Because what if I'm in good shape but my body still has an expiration date, and I die in like, a couple years?" And leave you behind. "Or what if I've got decades to go still, even out of the ice, and I—" He'd have to spend all that time without you.
Somehow, you heard the unspoken part of his thoughts. "You're here with me now." You stepped completely behind him and wrapped your arms around his shoulders, your chin coming to rest at the top of his head.
"But how long?" He winced when his voice broke again. "How long will I be here with you? I can't— I don't want to hurt you. I don't want to leave you. But maybe I..."
"Bucky," you said sharply. A warning. "Whatever you're thinking, it's too late. Yes, if you die it will hurt me. You're not going to make it hurt any less by leaving me." He knew from your tone that you were glaring at him, even as you pressed a kiss to his hair. "That'd hurt even more— losing you twice." Your voice was smaller now. "Please don't make me lose you twice."
Bucky let out a shaky breath. His heartbeat was slowing slightly. You were right, of course you were.
"Your birthday is March tenth, 1917," you murmured into his ear. "That's all that matters. That's all I care about."
"Yeah, well, that's still fucking weird," he grumbled. He felt a little grumpy now, but at least the panic had subsided.
"Would you want to do something fun? It's not every day that someone turns..." you quickly did the math in your head, "one hundred and five."
He groaned. "Don't say that," he said. Talking about his age freaked him out a little bit, if he was honest. "I don't want a party. I've had too many birthdays."
"How many were you able to celebrate like you deserve?" He was silent at that, and he felt you grin because you knew you had won. "And I wasn't talking about a party." You loosened your arms and stepped to the side. "What about something with just you and me?" He looked up at you, the tension creeping away from his shoulders, his eyes softening.
His birthday was in March. You wanted to do something with him in March— you were still going to be with him in March— but where would you—? After December, what would he—?
"What..." He cleared his throat. "What do you have in mind?"
"Something quiet," you said. "Peaceful. Maybe we could go somewhere? Make a little vacation out of it."
God, that would be nice— so much freedom after all this time stuck inside. He felt a stinging behind his eyes and blinked several times to soften it.
"How does that sound? Anywhere you wanna go?"
"I always wanted to see the Grand Canyon."