What now? What now?
The question looped through Bucky's head for days, over and over until the words blended together into one nonsensical phrase. Whatnowwhatnowwhatnow.
The next morning, Steve wouldn't meet your eyes, or Bucky's. He warmed up slowly as you talked and joked together over breakfast, but the way he turned crimson when you all hugged goodbye made Bucky worry he was going to spontaneously combust.
With Steve gone, it was easier to avoid the topic. What was Bucky supposed to say to you, anyway? Hey, I know you liked listening to my best-friend-slash-ex jerk off while listening to us have sex. And surprise, surprise, I really liked it. Can't get it out of my head. Any chance you maybe wanna fuck him so I can watch? Or what if you touched both of us at the same time? What if I touched him, too?
No. Bucky didn't bring it up, and neither did you. He didn't have too much time to worry about it, anyway— he had to finish his interview.
"What happened after the fall?"
Bucky was doing better this time, he thought. He had been able to answer most of the reporter's questions so far, and had even managed to crack a couple halfhearted jokes. But at this question, his hands clenched into fists where they rested on the table.
His right palm was littered with red crescents where his nails had pressed too deep against his skin, but that was easy enough to ignore— what made him cringe was the whirring of his vibranium arm, the attention he knew it would draw. He tried to relax his shoulder, to release the tension from the metal, but it was of no use. The bionic buzzing was a dead giveaway, proof of how his anxiety and adrenaline surged at the mention of the fall.
He wished he had his gloves— they would at least mask the sound, the hum of his freakish physicality. Gloves would make it less noticeable, to both him and the reporter who sat across from him, holding his fate in her own unblemished hands.
But there was a reason he left his gloves in the apartment that day, and he was reminded of it as soon as your sweet hands wrapped around his.
Your skin was warm against him, but the sweat on his palm and the iciness of the metal didn't deter you. You focused your touch on his left hand, rubbing at the plates, massaging the creases between them. Unfolding his fingers one by one, kneading into what would be the flesh of his palm until those artificial nerves were mollified enough to unwind.
He took a deep breath.
"I don't remember much," he said as he glanced up at the reporter. "It was, uh... a long time ago."
Karen just smiled at that and gave a slight nod. Encouraging him. Reassuring him. "Just tell me what you can," she said. Bucky gulped; he didn't want to think about it, let alone talk about it. But your fingers traveled to the back of his hand, tracing along the seams firmly enough to ground him, and he sucked in a shallow breath.
A sickly feeling grew in his gut while he worked through the basics. After the fall, he was captured again, he told her. His left arm was mostly gone, probably caught on the rocky cliffs he tumbled down, and he expected to bleed out there in the snow. He welcomed it. But he was found and brought to another bunker, this time in Siberia. He couldn't tell her how long he was kept there, because he didn't know himself.
Bucky didn't speak any Russian at the time, but, unfortunately, he was a fast learner. The names of their tools came first; he quickly learned what they called the scalpel and bone saw and soldering iron, though he wished he hadn't. It was better, easier for him when he didn't know what they were going to do to him, when he didn't understand their plans days in advance. When he still thought they might help him, might give what was left of his arm cleaner cut and then let him heal. When he didn't hear them muttering about bolts and drills, discussing experimental techniques and the odds of the prosthetic limb taking. He wished he was ignorant, so he would only have to suffer through the pain once, in real-time, instead of over and over in his head between each procedure.
That time in his life was fuzzy enough— Hydra offered no sedation, no painkillers, and when he wasn't being actively operated on, the deep-set agony in his chest and arm was bad enough to make him wish that he was. At least when the pain was that fresh and sharp, he was sometimes lucky enough to fall unconscious. The delirium that set in during that period was a refuge, but it made it impossible for him to track the hours and days he lost strapped down on the operating table.
When his new arm was firmly attached, rooted deeply under his skin and bolted into his bones, haphazardly wired straight to his brain, his indoctrination began.
"That's kind of where I... lose it." Bucky glanced down at the table; his notebook sat unopened in front of him. "The memories." He had spent years trying to dig through his convoluted consciousness— especially after DC, when he found his way to Bucharest without knowing who he was— but all he could recall were the vaguest fragments of sensations. The smell of blood and gunpowder, the texture of crunching sinew and cartilage. None of it made sense. None of it connected.
But all of that wasn't important; how he got there didn't matter.
"I only know what I did after that because I read about it," he continued. He couldn't trust his own mind, but he could trust history, trust the records and files. The reports didn't mention him by name, of course; the Winter Soldier was a ghost story. But there were characteristics he could look for: missing persons with ties to political figures who disappeared without a trace, assassinations made to look like accidents.
Explaining it to Karen there in the conference room, he tried to keep it linear. Tried to make as much sense of it as he could. He flipped through his notebook with his right hand as he spoke, reading the details of his transgressions from the pages. He hadn't been able to use the dates he found to calculate how old he was, but they still served as a kind of road map, a guide to how he had spent his years.
Karen had a pained expression on her face while he spoke— of course she did. Anyone in their right mind would be uncomfortable sitting across from him while he recounted his crimes. But she let Bucky speak, and finally, when he was done, she took a deep breath.
"Serg... Bucky," she said carefully. "You got all of that information from news reports and the trial, right?" He nodded, and she gave him an apologetic wince. "That's... that's all public information. I did my research before meeting with you, of course, and none of that is new to me."
He didn't understand.
"What you said about your arm, that was good," she said encouragingly. "But I can't just report what was already reported." Bucky looked at her blankly. "That won't... it won't help anything," she explained. "It won't change anything. We need to tell them something they don't know."
Ice wrapped around Bucky's spine. "That's all I have," he lied. He pulled his hand away from you and shut his notebook forcefully. "That's all there is. I don't remember anything else."
"Why don't you remember?" Karen phrased her question innocently enough, but Bucky sucked in a harsh breath. Shocked by the frost that hit his lungs, he gasped again and tried not to cough.
Karen wasn't interrogating him, he reminded himself. She was helping him. Her questions were worded to guide him along as he told his story, pointing him in the right direction. Not to accuse him. Not to corner him. But Bucky's heart was still pounding like he had been running for miles, and he swallowed roughly around the lump in his throat. He glanced toward the door as his jaw clenched, then lowered his eyes.
"I don't remember anything else," he repeated through gritted teeth. But that wasn't true.
Bucky's thoughts whipped through his head, moving so quickly that he could only catch glimpses here and there— but each glimpse sent him reeling backward. He didn't want to see it. He didn't want to remember any of that. It was pointless, anyways. Remembering these details wouldn't help him— if anything, it would make things worse. It would give them new reasons to persecute him, more proof that he deserved to be punished.
He refused to unravel that thread, and tried to pull away from those memories— but he couldn't. The thoughts hurtled by whether he wanted to see them or not, spinning round and round through his brain, behind his eyes, and his only solution was to keep stepping back, further and further away.
He remained seated, but backed away from his own mind until it felt like he was looking at the conference room from afar; he saw himself sitting there in that plastic chair, his legs bouncing nervously under the table. He watched Karen brush her yellow-blond hair behind her ear as she tried not to stare at him, and he saw you shift in your seat, turning toward him with worry on your face. He saw the way his shoulders trembled, metal and flesh alike, while he tried to suck in shallow, rattling breaths.
Bucky was silent for a long while, just watching the scene. You tried to give him space, let him come back on his own terms, but eventually you relented to your own anxiety; you reached out to touch his left forearm. Instantly, he was warped back into his body, because no— he flinched away from you like your touch had stung. When his breathing finally slowed and he managed to look down at you, your eyes were glistening with tears.
"Yes, you do," you said quietly. Bucky stared at you; he couldn't remember what they had been talking about. "You remember more than that," you insisted. You lifted your hand again, and Bucky shook his head, leaned away— he didn't want you to touch him, couldn't let you touch him.
But you weren't reaching for him. You raised a shaky hand to your own temple, and Bucky's breath caught. No. You dragged your fingers across your forehead, then under your eye along your orbital bone, before they jumped across to rest on your opposite cheekbone.
Bucky's blood ran cold. How did you know about that?
Your guilt was plain on your face; you never intended to mention this. You never wanted to put him in this position. But stronger than your guilt was your determination, and you answered his unasked question, apologetic but firm. "Y-you talk about it in your sleep sometimes. The chair."
Fear rose in him, sudden and sharp, changing to poison in his bloodstream. "I don't see why it matters." His voice came out low, but it rumbled like quiet thunder, warning of danger on the horizon. He glared at you, and you shrunk beneath his gaze.
How dare you bring this up. How dare you know about this. He didn't even know about it, not consciously, until just now. He couldn't decide if he was more furious because you betrayed him, or because you were keeping his own secrets from him.
Despite the anger in his eyes, you didn't back down. You stared right back at him, but not in a challenge; you were impassible, a shelter in the storm.
Karen sat up straighter, watching the silent conversation unfold in front of her. "Bucky," she said slowly. "If— if she's right... If there's something else you know about that time... you need to tell me."
Bucky sighed and relaxed his gaze. He knew that. He knew it. God, it was hot in that stupid conference room. He tugged the collar of his shirt away from his neck and shivered.
You didn't know what you were getting yourself into by bringing up the chair. Sure, maybe he dreamed about it sometimes. And maybe you heard him talk about it; maybe you heard him beg. But you didn't know. You didn't know how bad it was. If you did, you wouldn't have made him remember. He risked another glance toward you; you were watching him intently through the tears in your eyes.
"People need to know what they did to you," you whispered. Your hand crept toward him again, and this time he allowed it to fall on his forearm. He closed his eyes.
"When my arm was... healed enough," he said haltingly, "they started training me. And I would resist, because it— it was awful, what they wanted me to do." The memories swirled around him, slipping from his grip as he reached for them, leaking out like water from his cupped hands.
He wrung his hands, tugging at them, attempting to ward off the rising hysteria that had tightened around his chest. It was of no use; that crackling current kept building and building, until it became a dull roar inside his skull. He felt weak. Leaning forward, he covered his face with his hands, resting his elbows on the table to support himself.
After a long moment of silence, he shuddered out a sigh. "They had this... machine." He moved his right hand to rub along his hairline, then under his eye. "If I was too defiant, or if I started remembering too much." He could almost feel it, the damp metal pressing into his skin, and he had to take another slow, deep breath to settle his racing heart.
"I don't know exactly what it was," he mumbled. He hadn't remembered it at all until he saw the photos in his file— the ones Steve had tried so desperately to keep him from seeing. But it all made sense when he did. "Electricity, obviously." He could remember the pain, the white-hot jolts that burnt his skin and scrambled his brain, sealing off all the memories and thoughts that Hydra didn't want him to access.
Looking up, he glanced at Karen through the mask of his fingers. She was watching him, her eyes wide and all the color drained from her face.
"Bucky," she said softly as her shaking hands pulled a recording device out from her bag. "Please keep talking."
He was buzzing. The vibrations rumbled deep in his chest, flitted across the surface of his skin like heat lightning. He felt it in his bones, the ghost of that ceaseless electric current— and he wasn't even in the fucking chair yet.
But the Soldier knew what was coming. His body knew. He couldn't remember why he was filled with dread at the sight of those big double doors, but his breath caught as soon as he stepped over the threshold and saw the chair. His arm knew, too, in whatever way those faulty neural pathways worked— it whirred nervously as the silver plates shifted.
Even his memories from earlier that day were foggy. He must have misbehaved, he decided. Resisted. Otherwise he wouldn't be here, in the chair, while handlers tightened restraints around his limbs. It was for the best, probably. He was malfunctioning. He needed maintenance.
The Soldier's teeth chattered as the crown lowered onto his head, as a handler fit the conductive pads snugly against his face. He bit down on the mouth guard held in front of him without knowing why, but suddenly, there was a flicker of understanding— pain was coming—
"Please," he tried to beg, but it was unintelligible around the plastic in his mouth. "I'm sorry. Please, I don't want to, please, I'm so sorry, please..."
The machine clicked on.
At the first jolt, his mind went blank. No present, past, or future, only the white-hot fire in his brain, in his skin. And his arm. Conductive as it was, the current coursed through the metal, brighter and more intense than anywhere else. The plates reacted accordingly, slamming and shaking, rolling over the surface as his body convulsed. The arm itself didn't hurt, but the metal went deeper— waves of electricity sparked into the roots of him, followed along the silver tendrils embedded deep in his sternum, adhered to his spine and ribs and shoulder. What was left of his shoulder.
"Hang on," Bucky managed to choke out, his words muffled by his hands. His muscles were shaking then, too, there in the conference room. He was vibrating with electricity or maybe panic, could feel it buzzing in his fingers and toes and teeth as he tried to breathe. In for four, out for eight, he knew what he was supposed to do. But it wasn't that easy— it took everything in him to keep his throat from sealing shut with terror.
The image of himself strapped down in that chair, the conductive crown sitting atop his head like a halo, was diabolically beautiful. The Winter Soldier fell from heaven like lightning, arrived to bring destruction and the end of times to anyone who crossed his path. To carry out the punishment of the wicked and blessedness of the righteous, as soon as his deification was complete.
"Bucky," you said softly, bringing his attention back to you. "Do you want to step outside?"
He shook his head; he had to keep going. The memories wouldn't wait. They were there, playing behind his eyelids, whether he wanted to see them or not.
The convulsions continued long after they pulled the Soldier's body from the chair. His muscles quivered with leftover electricity as they dragged him down the hall and threw him into a cell, where he would remain until the seizures ended. He was useless to them until they did. The concrete floor was cold and unforgiving as he thrashed, but he couldn't stop it. He succumbed to the torsion and torque, the seismic disturbances that felt like they would pull his body apart before his muscles and memory finally reset.
He'd wake up slowly, covered in bruises and contusions, smelling of singed hair and burnt flesh and piss. He was tame then, docile, weak physically and mentally. Perfectly malleable. Ready to be calibrated, automated, reprogrammed into the Fist of Hydra.
Bucky flinched at the grating noise— you pushed your chair back and hurried to your feet, the chair legs scraping loudly across the tile floor. You stood behind him and wrapped your arms around his shoulders— warm and cold, skin and metal, both engulfed and surrounded by your tenderness. His hands rose to grip your forearms as you hugged him; you were crying, he realized. It had been awful for him to revisit the memories, but it was awful for you to listen to them, too— you hadn't known. You buried your face in the crook of his neck to hide your tears, but he didn't have that same luxury; he had to lift a hand to wipe the moisture from his own cheek and hope that no one noticed.
Bucky looked at Karen. Her face had gone splotchy, and she was breathing deeply in an attempt to keep her own feelings in check. That only made it worse— or maybe better— knowing that someone so far removed from his situation was so affected by what happened to him. He had to choke back another swell of emotion before he could speak.
"I didn't have a choice," he finally croaked. "I couldn't stop them."
When Karen eventually said goodbye, there were tears in her eyes and a tremble in her chin. Guilt pooled heavy in Bucky's gut— she was upset because of him. He could have, should have spared her from those grisly details. All he was doing by telling his story was spreading his pain around, making more people suffer. But she hesitated before she turned to walk away, and Bucky didn't understand the look in her eyes until she gave in with a sigh and threw her arms around him.
It was a quick hug, only a couple seconds at most, and he stood there awkwardly while she embraced him. "Thank you," she whispered, and Bucky knew that she wasn't only talking about the interview. He patted her back stiffly, unaccustomed to this kind of gentleness from a near stranger. "I'll let you know when it's finished."
The door closed behind her, and when he turned to you, you were giving him that look— that Sarah Rogers look he knew from so long ago that melted him to his core. Like he was good. Like he was loved. Like he was going to be okay.
Back in the apartment, Bucky couldn't seem to settle down. There was an ache in him, like a rotten tooth, and he wanted nothing more than to find some pliers and start pulling— to yank and twist and pick out all the putrid pieces of his brain, his soul. It was irrational, he knew; he tried to take deep breaths, to get his thoughts under control. But there was still that voltaic static crackling through his brain, under his skin; no matter what he did, peace still sat just out of reach.
So, he paced.
You watched him quietly at first, your gaze caustic on his skin. It dissected him, deconstructed him down to his wires and bolts, his tin-man defenses. You clocked his reeling thoughts, that inner turbulence that was seeping out of his pores as a clammy sweat even as he tried to smile at you. You weren't convinced. You knew, you always knew. It made him feel exposed and raw and combustible, being known like that. He hated it. He loved it.
After another lap around the apartment, you stepped up to him and wrapped your arms around his waist to stop him.
Bucky sighed. Your touch worked like a tranquilizer in his bloodstream, sedating him as you snuggled in against his shoulder. You spoke into the seam of him, the fault line between man and machine.
"You gotta stop, Buck."
He knew. He knew. His voice sounded faraway when he spoke. "Can we lay down?"
You climbed into bed together and laid skin against skin. Bucky had stripped down to his boxers as soon as he reached the bedroom, but if you were surprised by his choice, you didn't show it; you followed suit and climbed under the blankets, wrapping yourself around him.
Of course Bucky wasn't going to sleep. He wasn't even going to try. But the soft bed was a far cry from the concrete he kept feeling against his bones. His pillow was worlds apart from that metal halo around his skull.
Your touch was a different kind of voltage pulsing through his skin.
You shifted against him, and he turned his head on the pillow to look at you. Your bright eyes searched his, and the wrinkles in your brow softened when you saw the tension in him had eased as well. "Hi," you whispered.
"Hi," he whispered back, but his voice cracked. Your eyebrows furrowed again, your concern evident on your face, and he pressed a kiss between them to smooth the lines he had caused.
You sighed at that, a sound of relief, and stroked the backs of your fingers down his stubbled cheek. "You gonna be okay?"
He nodded. He always was, eventually. You leaned in to kiss him.
Bucky almost gasped at the current that jumped through him when your lips met his, jolting his muscles and erasing his thoughts. That distorted white noise that filled his brain left him blissfully blank. His hand flew to your hip, gripped your flesh roughly over the elastic band there.
That was it, he realized. He knew what he had to do. His cheeks tinged pink when he met your eyes. "Need you, sweets."
"I'm right here," you murmured, still caressing his jaw. You pressed a kiss to his dimpled chin. "Not going anywhere."
"No, I— I need you."
You didn't fail to notice the way a healthy pink glow spread across his pallid skin at his words. The way his eyes were the clearest, the most alive that they'd been all day.
"You need me to take care of you?" you asked, and he nodded silently, suddenly shy. "Okay, pretty boy." You tucked a strand of his hair behind his ear, and he shivered. "I can do that."
His skin lit up again at your words, an all-over warmth that melted those icy tendrils still twisted deeply through him. His lips met yours in a heated kiss and slowly, gently, you climbed on top of him. Laying flush against his bare chest, you cupped his face in your hands and let the love you felt for him pour out through your lips.
He came alive beneath you. A resurrection with each soft kiss, each press of your pillowy lips. His fingers dug into the muscle of your ass and his tongue darted out to meet yours, an implicit request. He didn't have to ask for it, because you knew.
Almost imperceptibly, your hips began their gentle roll. With only the thin cotton layers of underwear between your bodies, Bucky's reaction was immediate: a groan into your mouth, his hips bucking upwards. His hands on your ass tugged you closer to him, tried to guide your movement, force the friction, but you resisted.
"Hold still, Buck," you murmured. "I'm gonna take care of you." Taking one of his wrists in each hand, you gently lifted them above his head and pinned them to the pillow. Stretched above him like that, your tits were right above his face, and he craned his neck up to nuzzle at your bra until you released one of his wrists to move the cup aside for him. He pulled one peaked nipple into his mouth, and you shuddered when he suckled at it.
"Good boy," you said, all confidence even though your voice shook with pleasure, and he bloomed underneath you from the praise. Your hips picked up momentum again, grinding that wet patch on your panties more passionately against his cock, and he had to open his mouth to let out a deep, low moan against your skin.
"Feel good, baby?"
"So good," he sighed. "Please, need you."
"You wanna fuck me?" you asked, and he nodded, though not as enthusiastically as he usually did. You noticed. "You want me to fuck you? Want me to use you?" Yes, yes, yes—
You raised your eyebrows at him, holding his gaze while you squeezed his wrists lightly. He understood— don't move. You released your grip, slowly, to make sure he'd stay. And he did— he'd do anything you asked— so you sat back with a smile to slide his boxers down his legs. Straddling his thighs, you gripped his cock in both hands and pumped it slowly. He was rock hard, of course he was; he'd been plugged in, turned on, since that first fiery zap.
You rose up on your knees, pulling the gusset of your panties to the side to tease his tip with your wet heat. He bit down hard on his lower lip to try to distract himself from the way his cock twitched at the contact, and you smirked knowingly as you slowly sank down onto him. "Ah, fuck, that's it," he groaned.
You wiggled your hips testingly as you settled down against him, causing his breath to hitch when he was fully buried inside you. "You want me to make you come?" you asked. "Or do you want me to make you wait?"
"I— I— I don't know." Bucky's mind was pleasantly empty, enveloped in silky sweet white noise. He couldn't find the words in the haze but he reached for you, to urge you to move, to make him feel good like he knew you could. But before his hands could land on your hips, you captured his wrists again.
"Ah, ah," you tutted. You leaned forward to hold them above his head again, and he moaned at the drag of your cunt as you moved.
Bucky tried to focus only on you as you rocked with him, but that incredible emptiness he felt moments ago was beginning to fill. Shadowy figures lurked around the edges of his consciousness, the edges of his vision, distracting him from the pleasure that was ringing through him from your movements. It wasn't enough. He needed more.
You rode him, stretched above him like an Elysian wet dream, but after a while your muscles began to tremble from exertion. You had to sit back, had to drag your hands down to his chest to support yourself, but when your hands paused on Bucky's collarbones, he jolted up against your touch. That was it, he managed to think. Despite all the crackling static in his head and the waspish droning in his ears, he knew what he had to do.
Bucky's hands found yours, and he seized one of your wrists; he pulled your hand from his collarbone up to his neck. His eyes fluttered shut immediately, but your rhythm faltered. He peeked an eye open to find you hesitating, your brows furrowed, your eyes worried. You didn't want to hurt him, that much was obvious— but this wasn't hurting him.
He didn't know how to explain it, but with his hand covering yours, he squeezed slightly— and the effect it had on him was instantaneous. His cock jerked inside you and a low groan rumbled in his chest. You gasped, your tight-lipped frown morphing into a filthy smile.
It was almost enough— your hand was petite on the trunk of his throat, so he searched for your other hand and pulled it into place, too. Urging you. Begging.
"You want this?" you asked softly. You tapped your fingers along the sides of his throat, and your smile grew when he closed his eyes and shuddered. He nodded, almost imperceptibly, but you still didn't move.
"Squeeze," he implored, his voice low and rough and utterly ruined.
Your hands closed around his throat, and Bucky's mind emptied once again. Silky sweet static filled his brain as the edges of his consciousness blurred to smoky black.
He couldn't think, couldn't see, couldn't feel anything other than your hands around his neck, the slick glide of your cunt, and the wave of ecstasy rising inside of him.
Bucky's face contorted in pleasure as you picked up pace again, emboldened by the way his eager hips thrusted up to meet your movements. He was lost, he was gone, reclaimed and redeemed between your trembling thighs. A voice broke through the throbbing sound of his pulse in his ears.
"O-oh, fuck," he heard you pant from somewhere far away. "Fuck, baby, you look so good like this. Oh, god, Buck, just like that—" Your words were cut off by a broken cry as you came, your cunt squeezing tightly around his cock, just like your hands around his throat when you cut off his air completely.
Bucky was a live wire, open and sizzling, and his back arched up off the bed when the current became too much for his tense muscles to bear. His mouth fell open in a silent curse as he shattered after you, each pulse of his cock devastatingly powerful as he pumped his load deep inside you. Your hands loosened around his throat, and he sucked in harsh breaths that just as quickly left his body as desperate, fevered sobs. Despite his body's violent struggle to catch his breath, the corners of his lips turned up in a tranquil smile.
You soothed your thumbs along the tender skin on his neck as your chest heaved, too.
"I love you," he rasped when he could. The words weren't enough, they would never be enough— but they were all Bucky knew how to say. And you understood.
In his cloudlike bed, surrounded by comfort and warmth and tender touch, hearing nothing but the gentle lilt of your voice as you murmured reassurances to him, he drifted into a dreamless sleep. Warm and soft, safe.
"How is it already dark?" Bucky grumbled as he crossed the living room. He switched the lamp on, filling the mostly empty room with a soft yellow glow. It was hardly four o'clock, but the sun was lost behind the horizon; he scowled.
You were standing in front of the couch, stuffing throw pillows and blankets into oversized trash bags. It took Bucky all of about ten seconds to fix the zipper on your suitcase earlier that day, but while trying to pack up what you brought plus everything you had accumulated over your months in the apartment, you quickly ran out of room. When you pulled out the box of trash bags Bucky had joined you, gathering up and packing away everything he wouldn't need for the next two weeks: spare clothes, books, his memory box.
You looked up at Bucky, a soft smile forming on your face at his words.
"Solstice," you said quietly, and Bucky blinked— there was something familiar, right on the tip of his tongue—
"All day? Seriously?" You turned to look at him with your eyebrows raised playfully, only to find Bucky staring unseeingly at the windows, every muscle in his body tense. "Solstice," you murmured. "Isn't it nice, all the extra light?"
Solstice. Summer and winter, when the sun was at its highest and lowest points in the sky. Winter solstice was the longest night of the year, but for thousands of years, it had always been a reason to celebrate. Because even with dark days ahead, light was sure to follow; the worst was over.
There was nothing but daylight ahead of him.
While Bucky was lost in thought, you moved on, leaning over to tie your half-filled trash bag shut. You walked away, toward the kitchen, even though there were still things in the living room to pack— Bucky picked up the French blue blanket off the couch.
"Hey, what about this one?" He hurried after you, but when he held the blanket out to you, you only gave him a tight-lipped smile. You pulled at your sleeves, unable to meet his gaze.
He narrowed his eyes.
"I thought maybe you could keep that one," you mumbled, your eyes on the floor. "I know you like it."
Your voice was strangely apologetic, and Bucky didn't understand— his ears started to ring— "And that way it'll be here when I come to visit." You turned and walked away without waiting for him to reply, adding the trash bag to the growing pile of your luggage in the corner of the room.
Bucky's mouth fell open, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. He didn't hear you correctly. He couldn't have. "Wait, what?"
Your shoulders were raised defensively, and your chest expanded with forced, shallow breaths. Once you were sure the trash bag wouldn't come unlodged from its precarious position in the stack, you turned back to Bucky. You looked at him for only a second before averting your gaze, but the broken look in your eyes was enough to send him reeling. "Do you think I'll be allowed to visit?" you asked, your voice sounding impossibly small.
That didn't make sense. It didn't make sense. When he just stared at you without answering, you continued. "Because I, um, was thinking maybe at the end of the month? The end of January, I mean." You tugged at your sleeves. "I'll need some time to save up for the plane ticket—"
"What are you talking about?" Panic rose within him, and his voice shook from the effort it took for him to hold it at bay.
"—from North Carolina."
"North Carolina?" Why the fuck were you going to North Carolina, you'd never talked about North Carolina—
"My brother just got a place there, and he said that I can stay with—"
"No."
"Bucky." You looked up at him with pleading eyes, your lips pursed. "Please don't make this harder than it has to be."
"Make what harder—"
You couldn't leave him. You couldn't. He thought you— in March, you said you were going to— Bucky had to plant his feet a little wider, to keep steady.
"I can't stay," you said, and yes, he knew that, that's why he was— "But you have to. You work here."
"No." Bucky's voice was deeper, angrier than he intended. He wasn't angry, he was— He took a breath and willed his words to come out softer. "No. I'm going with you."
You blinked at him for a moment. "You work here," you finally repeated.
"It doesn't matter. I can commute. I— I'm moving out." He furrowed his brows slightly and let out an exasperated breath. "Sweets, I've been packing with you all day. Where did you think I was going?"
"I dunno," you muttered. "A smaller apartment. Or Steve's."
He shook his head in disbelief. "I'm coming with you." But what should've reassured you, should've comforted you, only made your eyes well up with tears.
"Buck, I—" You blinked furiously, trying to stop the tears from overflowing. "I can hardly support myself. I don't have a job, or a plan—"
He stepped up to you and gripped both of your hands firmly. "We can get a place in Brooklyn." He thought you were going to get a place in Brooklyn together. But you never really talked about it, he realized, and—
You laughed out loud, but it was wrong, almost bitter, and you turned away from him. "I can't afford a closet in Brooklyn—"
"I can." His voice was so quiet that you didn't hear, and you kept talking.
"I-I can't afford any place big enough for both of us, or close enough to where you need—"
But the rest of your words were cut off when Bucky wrapped his arms around you, squeezing tightly. "Baby. I can pay for it."
Your panicked babbling stopped, and you risked a glance up at him. "What?" you whispered, your eyebrows drawn together.
"I can do it. I can pay for it." There was a desperate kind of urgency in his words that made you pause, but then you shook your head. Your voice was gentler when you spoke again.
"I don't know what you paid for your place in the 30s," you said, softly, like you were trying to break bad news to him. "But things are way different now. Especially in Brooklyn— it'd be a couple thousand a month for something like this place."
"I know," Bucky said quietly. He'd been looking at apartments online ever since Steve brought him back to the States. Rent was different now, sure, but— "I can pay."
You were staring at him with your brow furrowed, your eyes flitting between his, trying to read him. He knew what you were thinking. He'd never talked to you about money before, and of course you had assumed— he was living in Stark's building, it made sense—
"How—?"
"Hang on. I'll show you." He let go of you gently and hurried down the hall, disappearing into his bedroom. From inside the closet he pulled a box full of papers, and he dug through them until he found the ones he needed. You hadn't moved by the time he returned, but when he passed the papers to you, your eyes nearly bulged out of your head.
"What the fu..." you cursed under your breath, your eyes shooting up to meet his.
He chuckled nervously and scratched his ear. "It... turns out that the army still pays you. When you're a POW," he said haltingly. "After the trial I got back pay for all those years, and with interest, and inflation or whatever... I can pay."
For someone who grew up in the depression, it was a sickening amount of money. He didn't like to think about it, let alone say the numbers out loud. You flipped through the pages of bank statements, your eyes growing impossibly wider at each sum.
"Pepper helped me," he said quietly. "The amount that I got was... a lot, even after taxes. But she wanted to make sure it'll last, for however long I need it. I don't know what exactly she did— a bunch of different investments, something about bushes— but... it worked." He watched you intently, silently begging you to believe him. "It's enough."
Bucky had reimbursed Tony for the lawyer fees as soon as he got his settlement, and he'd been paying rent on this apartment, too— under market, but still something, enough to make him feel like he wasn't being too much of a parasite. Tony paid your salary because it was his idea to go on tour, to leave Bucky, but...
"I still don't— I don't have a job, I don't know what I'm doing—"
"It doesn't matter," Bucky said quickly. It was probably something left over from the 40s stuck in the shadows of his brain, that desire to provide. To have you waiting for him to come home with a hot, and knowing you, probably questionable meal. "I'll take care of you."
You sputtered at him. "I-I'm not— I'm not being a housewife—"
"Of course not." He would never tell you how his heart sank at those words, but deep inside, despite his fantasy, he knew— of course you wouldn't want that. "You can find something, I know you can. But only if you want to," he added, trying to remain casual about it. "You don't have to. Just. Stay with me. Please?" Bucky could hardly bear to look at you as he asked, but he did. "Move in with me, sweets."
He had hoped for a resounding yes, but you just gave him a wry half-smile. "You're missing a couple steps there, Barnes."
His heart sank again, his words came out defeated. "W-what do you mean?"
"Just seems kind of quick, asking me to move in with you," you said with a shrug. "We haven't even been on a date."
Your words were teasing, but the mischievous glint in your eye told Bucky everything he needed to know. Yes. Yes. You said yes. He stepped forward, closing the gap between the two of you, and kissed you.
"I'll take you on any date you want," he said quickly against your lips. "Anywhere you want to go. Let's go." He felt you smile as he wrapped his arms around you. "Where first?"
"Well... we have to go get pizza, remember?"
How could he forget? "You still want to do that?"
"Of course I do."
Bucky's relief bubbled out of him as a laugh; it was too loud, too weird, and you shot him a questioning look. He squeezed you tightly.
"I thought you were leaving," he said quietly, apologetically. "I thought you wanted to leave."
You shook your head, almost looking sad that he even questioned it, but you stepped forward slowly, pushing Bucky gently backwards. "I want to go get pizza with you," you said as you guided him toward the couch. "And I want to show you where I grew up." When the backs of Bucky's knees hit the cushion, he sat, and you settled down sideways across his lap with your knees pulled up. "I want to take you to my favorite restaurants," you said quietly. "And go on walks, and hold your hand. I... I want you to meet my family."
He frowned, an unexpected worry rising in his chest. "What if they don't like me?"
But you grinned. "That'll just be another reason for me to love you." You brushed a strand of his hair away from his face; it was getting long again. Your eyes met his, suddenly serious.
"I want you to show me everything you can," you said quietly. "Go wander around Brooklyn and tell me what used to be there." You kissed his cheek, and Bucky swore he melted. "Bring me to Wakanda, if they'll let you." His heart skipped a beat at the idea of taking you back to the place that had healed him. To meet the people who had healed him.
"I want you to show me the good and the bad," you continued softly. "Take me to Bucharest and show me where you found yourself. Take me anywhere you can remember."
He squeezed you tightly and buried his face in the crook of your neck, trying to impede the swell of emotion that was threatening to overflow from his eyes. But you weren't finished.
"I want to make new memories with you, too." You lifted your hand to his cheek, stroking over his stubble comfortingly, though it didn't help him hold the tears back. "New places, new experiences. I want to go on hikes and go to coffee shops and concerts. I want to go on road trips and stop at stupid tourist traps because we have nothing better to do. I want to go to a lake and swim." You pulled away from him slightly, to make him look at you. "I want to go to the Grand Canyon."
His mind reeled at all of the possibilities.
He had never loved you more.
But there was still that feeling, deep in his gut. Something like dread, like a warning, reminding him that this was too good. He didn't deserve it. Wouldn't be allowed to keep it. "A-are you sure?" he asked hesitantly. You could do anything, be with anyone— "You have your whole future ahead of you."
Your lips trembled when you smiled. "Believe it or not, Sarge, so do you."
His breath hitched at that, but he couldn't take the time to process it— his brain was still itchy, like there was some loose thought he couldn't quite unravel.
You wanted to do all of this with him. Wanted to live a normal life with him. But Bucky wasn't normal. He was a man out of time, a stranger to this century and he doubted he'd ever be able to completely catch up. He was a war veteran with more baggage than a freight train, prone to flashbacks and irrational fear and defensive irritability. He was more than an amputee, nearly as much machine as he was man, and the arm had its own wretched history. It would need maintenance eventually, and who knew what that would entail, where he'd have to go for it or what condition he'd be in when it happened—
"What if I can't?" he almost whispered. What if he couldn't be in a crowd without panicking? What if he couldn't walk down an unfamiliar street without scanning each face that passed, certain one of them was looking for him? What if he couldn't stand in an open field without hearing the sirens, choking on the smoke from a memory of an air raid?
"Bucky," you said softly as you soothed your hand through his hair. "You're misunderstanding me." His uncertain eyes met yours. "If we try something and you don't like it, we'll figure out something else," you said. "We can go live out in the woods, or— or somewhere deep in the mountains. Out west, in the desert. We can have some space for ourselves, never have to see another soul again." You took a deep breath. "Or we can plant ourselves in the middle of the city and blend in. Whatever you need. It doesn't matter to me." You pressed a kiss to his rough, trembling cheek. "I don't care what we do, as long as I'm with you."
Oh. The knot in his chest finally seemed to unwind, and he could do nothing but lean down and kiss you.
"I'm with you," you repeated against his mouth. "No matter what." Your breath tickled against his skin. "I want all of you. The good and the bad." You smiled again, and he couldn't help but smile, too. "As long as I'm with you. As long as I'm yours, I'll be happy."
Awful. Gross. He had to kiss you long and slow for that one.
When he finally pulled away to breathe, he chuckled. "You scare the shit out of me, you know that?" he murmured. Your mouth opened indignantly, but he kept talking. "You scare me to fucking death."
You shook your head, grinning, but Bucky continued.
"I've never had something this good," he said quietly. He pressed his face into your hair so he wouldn't have to look at you. "I never thought I could have something this good. And I feel like, at any moment, I'm gonna wake up. Or they're gonna thaw me out, and it'll all have just been some horrible dream." His voice shook slightly, and he traced his fingers up and down your arm. "Horrible because it's perfect. Because it's everything I've ever wanted. And there's no way that can be real, right?" You almost protested, but Bucky smiled. He pulled back to meet your glistening eyes. "But then I wake up, and you're still here. I want it forever, if you do too."
"I do."
He kissed you.