Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

December, 2027

It’s going to be a bad day, Steve can just tell. 

Rubbing his eye, he checks the time on his phone. 6:19 AM. And a long day, apparently, he realizes with a sigh. 

The bad days are less frequent than the good ones now, not like it had been at the beginning when Steve wasn’t sure he could see a future that didn’t involve Bucky struggling every single day, but the bad days still come. They always will. That’s something he’s had to accept, an unshakeable truth that refuses to let itself be ignored. And there are always going to be rough periods for Bucky, times when he’s pulled back under the surface of his pain and fighting his way out takes a while. 

Bucky’s in one of those rough periods right now. The last few weeks have been a rollercoaster, giving both of them whiplash. It’s nothing that Steve can’t handle, nothing he can’t support him through, but he still hates that Bucky has to go through this. It’s been a long time since Steve has believed in the concept of a just world, but he still finds it hard to face down the reality of what was done to Bucky. 

The half-empty pot of coffee, growing bitter on the warmer, is a good indicator of what kind of night Jamie had, but the two loaves of bread and three dozen muffins are a much more telling sign. It was a long night, that’s for damn sure. He wonders if Jamie slept at all.

More nights than not, Bucky is in bed with Steve. There are still nights that Bucky wants to sleep in his own bed, and they keep separate bedrooms for that reason. But Bucky is always welcome in Steve’s bed, and most nights, he takes him up on that standing offer. These days, it’s more unusual for Steve to wake up alone than for him to wake up next to Bucky, but when he’s going through it, sleep is the first time that goes. 

Recovery, as some people call what Jamie has had to do to claw his way out of hell, seems to suggest that Bucky at some point will ‘be better,’ a notion that Steve vehemently rails against because, for starters, every day Bucky is the best version of himself that he can be, Steve sees that day in and day out. But Steve also knows that Bucky isn’t going to ever be over what was done to him, what he went through. It changed him to his core, the horrors he experienced, and his body, just as much as his mind, remembers what was done. The idea that one day he’ll just forget it, that he’ll move on for good, is absurd. 

And how could he? HYDRA took everything from him, every single thing he loved, every ounce of himself, his memories, his free will. And he had to fight to get each and everything back. Hell, he still fights to hold onto the things he’s lost. And that fucking sucks because Jamie deserves peace, he deserves some kind of solace after what he’s endured. 

So, Steve does what he can to give him that, on the good days and the bad. For years, he slowly built up an arsenal of things that Bucky wants, things he needs on these days, and he does what he can to be the person that he needs. His therapist has pointed out that he needs that just as much as Jamie does, that he needs to be able to give him some kind of comfort, that he needs to be able to be soft and tender with him, because seeing the man he loves go through hell over and over again takes a toll on him. 

There was a time when he used to think that was a weakness, the way it exhausted him, the way he was broken down by Jamie’s pain. And it took years of therapy for him to understand that it was not a bad thing that he hated seeing the man he loved suffer. It wasn’t selfish that he wanted Bucky to be happy. It wasn’t selfish that he wished he could take away the hurt. 

But it was an unreasonable demand to put on himself, and it took longer than he’s proud of for him to really understand that making Bucky happy wasn’t his job. It was something that happened naturally as they shared their love, but it wasn’t a measure of his worth, it wasn’t the deciding factor in whether or not Steve was a good partner. 

“Jamie?” Steve calls out, curious to see how or if he will respond. There’s about a 50/50 chance that Steve’ll get the name right on a bad day, but it’s been a long time since Jamie’s been angry with him about it. At this point, they both know Steve’s doing his best. It’s one of the most and least important parts of all of this. 

March, 2016

“Buck, I’m sor—” 

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Bucky screams, hands over his ears. “God, shut the fuck up, Steve, stop—just stop calling me that!” 

“Bu—I don’t—” 

It’s been hours of this, one long, drawn-out battle between them. Some days are like this. The ones where Bucky can’t stand anyone, himself included. The ones where Steve has to try not to let him cut too deep when he lashes out. The things Bucky says when he’s like this hurt, but they’re necessary. Steve understands that. Right now, that’s the only way he knows to communicate what he really needs. Right now, this is the only time Bucky can say the hard things that Steve needs to hear, but Bucky is too scared to just come out and say.

No, not the hateful, mean parts. Those things he apologizes for later, sobbing as he holds Steve close to his chest and tells him that he’s sorry, that he doesn’t know why he does these things. No, the things that Bucky really means are hidden in between the awful accusations and cruel insults that he hurls at Steve in these moments. 

It’s a hell of a time trying to figure out what Bucky really means in those moments, trying to sift through the anger to get to the grains of truth that are sprinkled within. But this one is pretty clear. Crystal clear to Steve in a way that draws vehement hate to the surface. 

“What am I supposed to call you?” Steve asks, patience growing thin. His own imperfections have never been so obvious to him, the temper he can’t control, the emotions that flare up in him during these moments. He’s no good for Bucky, he knows that. 

“God, fucking anything, anything else,” Bucky says, angry and pleading. “It’s not my goddamn name. It’s not. I’m not—” He shakes his head. 

“It is your name! You can say you’re not him all you want, but you are Bucky,” Steve says, anger flickering to life in him. 

“Just because you want it to be, it doesn’t make that true,” Bucky growls at him, teeth grit. 

“God, not this again,” Steve says. “I get it, I do, you’ve changed. I see that. But you have to know, there is so much about you that hasn’t. There are so many things that are the same!” 

“That doesn’t make me him!” Bucky shouts. 

“No, your fucking heart, and mind, and body, make you him!” Steve snaps. “Fucking Christ. You’re standing in front of me, Bucky, you’re right here! What do you want me to say? What do you want me to do? I can’t just accept that you’re dead.” 

Steve doesn’t realize he’s hysterical until it’s too late, not even when his voice breaks and he feels the first hot tear pouring down his cheek. No, he doesn’t realize until Bucky lowers his hands from his ears, sorrow flooding his eyes as all the anger runs out of him. 

And by then, it’s too late. By then, Steve can’t stop. “God, you’re asking me to just—just accept that you’re gone,” Steve goes on screaming, ”that you’re d-dead and you’re not! You’re not! You’re right here, you’re right in front of me, and I-I—” A sob rips out of him, wounded, feral. “He’s not! He’s not dead, please—you’re here and I just—I just fucking miss him. I miss him so much. I miss him, and I see you, and—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Bu—fuck—” He buries his face in his hands, turning away from him as he shatters, rivulets of tears searing down his face, eyes blurred. 

Steve’s own crosses are no easier to bear than anyone else, he knows this. Just because someone else has it worse, it doesn’t mean Steve’s pain ceases to exist. It’s the reality that he’s come to terms with since Bucky came home. But he doesn’t need to make it anyone else’s problem, and especially not Bucky’s. 

The arms that encircle him startle a gasp out of him, but he doesn’t fight them when they pull him backward. The times that Bucky touches him are rare but usually intense, leaving Steve dizzy. But he doesn’t care, he soaks up every minute of it. Holding him tight, Bucky clutches Steve to his chest. 

“I know. I know you miss him, and I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I want to be him. Steve, you have to know that. I want to be him for you so bad, if I could be, if I knew how—” 

“No, no, B—please just—it’s not your fault,” Steve manages to choke out. “It’s not, I swear, I-I don’t blame you for this and you don’t owe me that. I just—” 

“I make it harder though,” Bucky says, and Steve can’t help the next whining sob that claws its way out of him despite all his efforts to stop it. “You might not blame me for it, but I do make it harder. I know I do,” Bucky murmurs, resting his forehead against the back of Steve’s neck. “It’s okay. I just…I hope you aren’t beating yourself up too much about that. And I-I hope you know I’m not trying to make things harder, I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” Steve says. “Please? I just—” He swallows hard, taking a few breaths. “God, please don’t be sorry, Bucky. I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m making you feel like this.” 

Bucky laughs, his warm breath tickling Steve’s neck. “We’re gonna keep going in circles here,” Bucky points out. 

Steve gives a wet chuckle. “I just—I don’t know how to stop making you feel like you need to be a ghost.” 

“He’s not—it’s not—ghost is a bit strong,” Bucky says, sighing. “He’s more like—that part of me, I mean—it’s—it’s an echo. I want it to be stronger, I want to—to feel like him. I try, Stevie, I try so hard but I just…I can’t. I don’t know how.” 

“You shouldn’t have to,” Steve says. And he means it, no matter how much it hurts. “I don’t want you to try to be anyone but yourself. I never wanted yo—h-him to be either. You fought so hard to be free. I know that. I don’t want you to be something you’re not.” 

“I wish this was easier, Steve, I really do,” Bucky whispers. “I know having me around is hard sometimes.” 

“No, it’s not, I swear. Look, B—I’m sorry, it’s not your fault, you have to know that,” Steve says, voice thick. “I can miss him and still want you here with me. And I do, I want you here, I want to help you, want to take care of you. I—I’m so sorry that I make you feel unwelcome, that I make you feel like you’re a burden. I’m sorry.” 

Bucky tightens his arms, giving Steve a squeeze. “Stevie, you’ve made this place a home for me,” he says, firm and sure. “I never felt safe, not before you. You’re the only reason I know what that word means.” 

Steve sighs, relaxing into the embrace a bit. They’ll be okay. He has to believe that. A silence envelops them, comfortable but heavy, and Steve can feel exhaustion creeping in on him. It’s been a long time since he was the one to break, and the last time it happened, Bucky hadn’t been in a place to offer him any kind of comfort. He supposes he should count that as a small victory, but he’s not ready to look for those right now. 

“Jamie,” Bucky finally says, breaking the silence. 

“Hm?” Steve murmurs back. 

“I—it’s a nice name,” Bucky shrugs. “And I—you hate calling me James. I know you do. ’S why I haven’t asked ya to.” 

Steve turns in Bucky’s arms, and face-to-face is too much for Bucky to stay in the hug, but he doesn’t step back too far. “You—It’s not that I—” Steve’s face is warm. “You—he— Bucky used to hate that name. George Barnes was the only one to use it, and he said it like a curse word. But if you want me to call you James—” 

“No,” Bucky shakes his head. “But I-I like Jamie,” he says, looking away. It’s still so hard, a year and a half later, for Bu—for him to say what he wants, for him to ask for things. “You could—if you wanted to, I mean—you could call me Jamie.” 

“Okay,” Steve nods quickly, latching on to the lifeline he’s being offered. “Jamie,” he says, testing the way the name feels on his tongue, and he sees the way it makes Bucky’s face flicker with something close to a happiness he so rarely gets to see. “Well, it’s nice to meet ya, Jamie,” he jokes, and Jamie rolls his eyes before locking onto Steve’s. And then, Jamie laughs. 

He actually fucking laughs.

Chapter Text

Putting on the kettle to boil, Steve busies himself getting two mugs and some tea leaves out, digging through the drawer for the little narwhal tea strainer Bucky likes so much. Today seems like a tea day. 

“Buck?” he tries again, and there’s no response, but he hears Bucky’s feet hit the ground in the living room, hears him coming up the hall. If he didn’t want to be heard, Steve knows that he wouldn’t be. 

Silence is an interesting thing for Jamie: a weapon, a tool, a muzzle, a shelter. Sometimes he uses it to disappear, sometimes to make it a little easier to get through the day. Some days words don’t want to find him. Sometimes he’s trapped by the weight of silence, unable to break through, held prisoner by what he can’t say. Steve’s not sure which one today will be. Hell, there are some times when Jamie just doesn’t want to talk to him. 

There are a lot of things that mean something else now for both of them. And from the outside, he’s sure that there are things about the way they live that seem outrageous to some people. Years ago, he might have been one of those people who just couldn’t understand how they made things work. And there were plenty of those people. The ones who wanted to look at them and call it unhealthy, call it codependent. There were a million outside opinions on them that Steve had blocked out a long time ago. 

Dragging himself into the kitchen, sullen darkness clouding his features, Bucky drops into a chair at the table without saying a word. Steve takes one look at him and turns to the cabinet, taking out the honey. Moments before the kettle really starts to kick off, Steve cuts the heat, wanting to avoid the piercing scream.

“You want English breakfast or Earl Grey?” Steve asks, holding up the two bags for him to pick, and Bucky points at the Earl Grey. “Got it.” So it’s gonna be a quiet day.

Once upon a time, Bucky’s silence would have sent Steve into a spiral, panicking and trying to get Bucky to speak to him again. Now, he knows better. 

January, 2016

“Sometimes he just… doesn’t talk,” Steve says, clutching a cup of steaming hot tea between his hands. “For like entire days, sometimes two or three before he says anything, and I just—I don’t know why, I don’t know what to do to get him out of it.” 

Therapy wasn’t something Steve ever thought that he’d find himself in. Back in the 30s and 40s, it would have been a genuinely horrible thing in the minds of everyone around him if he did end up in therapy. The attitude toward any kind of mental healthcare back then was something that he had to overcome before he accepted help. 

When he arrived in this century, he convinced himself that he didn’t need therapy. People lost folks all the time, the war had taught him that, and he could ignore the pain of all that loss by being of use, by throwing himself into his work. 

And for a little while, he was right. For a little while, he was able to just be Captain America and shove Steve Rogers to the side. He left Brooklyn for D.C., a place that held no pain, no memories. He took a job with SHIELD, went wherever they sent him, took every job he was offered. He disappeared. 

And then Bucky showed up strapped in kevlar and explosives, throwing knives and putting holes in Steve with a well-aimed Glock, and all of a sudden, none of that shit he’d told himself, about forgetting the past, forgetting the pain, mattered anymore. The past had shown up, following him to a place it had no business being. And when Bucky came home two months later, it wasn’t long until he was in therapy. 

After a year and a half of talking to her, he trusts Angela with just about everything. 

“Alright, so he doesn’t speak,” she says carefully. “Why do you need to do something to get him out of it?” 

Steve bristles. He hates this question. She knows damn well why he needs to do something when Bucky’s like this, but she won’t just call him out on it. No, she makes him call himself out. 

“Because I’m an asshole,” Steve answers, arms crossing. 

“Steve,” she says, leveling him with a look. 

“Well, what am I supposed to do? Just follow him around in silence? We’ve got no way to communicate when it happens,” Steve says.

“There’s no other way to communicate?” she asks, even as always. 

“I—“ 

There are certainly ways that Bucky communicates even when words fail him; that’s undeniable. And Steve, after a year and a half, has learned how to read him. He had to. It was either that, or just keep slamming up against each other, unable to sort themselves out every time Bucky stopped talking. 

“Bucky might keep having periods of being non-verbal,” Angela says carefully. “Is it your job to change Bucky’s behavior?” 

“Of course not,” Steve says, rolling his eyes. “I just—I want him to be able to tell me what he needs.” 

“He is telling you what he needs,” Angela points out. 

Steve sighs. “Yeah, I-I guess he’s telling me he needs to zip his lips for a bit,” he says. 

“It’s tough, Steve. I don’t doubt that,” she says. “But Bucky isn’t a problem for you to fix.” 

“I never said he was!” Steve says, hurt by the implication. “I just… I feel so useless when it happens. He’s stuck without any way to tell me what’s going on, he can’t tell me what he needs, and it’s this awful, awkward dance where I’m just trying to help him, and he can’t tell me anything.” 

“So, it’s not really about Bucky,” Angela says softly, and Steve sighs.

“No,” he says. “It never is, though, is it?” 

"How ya feeling?” Steve asks, same as he always does on these days, and Bucky shrugs, same as he does when it’s a no-words day. Steve nods, pouring the hot water into their mugs and adding a liberal amount of honey to Bucky’s. After a moment’s consideration, he goes back to add a bit more, smiling at Bucky, who nods approvingly. Depositing the steaming beverage in front of Bucky, Steve kisses him on the top of the head. 

“Butter on your muffin?” Steve asks, and Bucky makes a face. “No muffins. Got it.” He resists the urge to ask why Bucky made three dozen if he didn’t plan on eating them. Nat loves Bucky’s baked goods, so they won’t go to waste. “There are biscuits in with the leftovers from Clint’s last night, you want a breakfast sandwich?” Bucky shrugs. “Bacon?” Bucky frowns. “Ham?” Bucky glares and Steve just laughs. “Kidding! We’ve got sausage, though, and some of that sharp cheddar you like.” To Steve, it’s too sharp, but he’d never tell Bucky that. 

Bucky gives Steve a non-committal shrug, eyes sad, and Steve kisses his head again. “Drink your tea, baby, I’ll fix ya up something to eat.” 

Breakfast’s quiet, but Steve doesn’t mind. When he’s in this kind of headspace, Bucky does like when Steve talks to him, but it’s early enough that Steve doesn’t have much to say, still shaking off sleep himself. Bucky eats less than half of his sandwich and barely touches the potatoes that Steve piled on his plate. Afterward, he gets up to start clearing the table automatically until Steve gets up and touches his hand. 

“Wanna let me take care of it?” Steve asks, and Bucky gives him a smile, touching his cheek. He leans in, gives Steve a kiss, and then goes back to clearing the table. Steve doesn’t push him on it. 

Instead, he goes to the living room to survey the scene. It’ll give him an idea of how Bucky’s night went. The record player is on, static in the background as the record spins soundlessly on the turntable. On the couch, an abandoned crochet project is spread out, three different colors of yarn coming from it.  The weed pen Steve got him for their anniversary is sitting on the coffee table with a half-full cart on it, an empty one lying on the table next to it. Bucky hated going outside alone when he was having a bad night, and Steve hated explaining to people at the VA why he smelled like weed. It was a compromise that worked for both of them. 

There are, what some would consider to be, an alarming number of knives laid out on the coffee table, but Steve knows that Bucky finds the methodical work of sharpening his knives to be extremely calming in the long hours when he can’t sleep and his anxiety threatens to creep up into full blown panic. Not only is it practical, but it gives him something tactile to focus on so his mind can take a break. 

The only real issue Steve can see is that the place is a mess. The pot mellows Bucky out enough to get him through these nights relatively unscathed, but it also makes him a raccoon. He’s a bit all over the place when he’s stoned, leaving his half-finished projects around, piling his books on the end table, scattering himself across the entire living room, leaving behind too many cans of Mountain Dew, which Steve shudders when he imagines having to drink.

Shaking his head, a smile on his face, Steve has to admit, it’s a lot better than what he used to wake up to. 

February, 2015

Shattering glass drags him from sleep so fast he’s not sure what woke him. But as the second crash rings out into the silence, he’s bounding out of bed before he’s even fully aware of himself. A guttural scream pierces the night, and Steve’s blood runs cold, his mind screaming, Bucky, Bucky, Bucky, Bucky. It’s become second nature to him, waking in the middle of the night, running toward the sound of Bucky’s distress. 

Six months ago, Bucky showed up on his doorstep, drenched from the rain, shivering, and curled in on himself, looking for all the world like a lost puppy. Since then, the most delicate way that Steve can describe life would be interesting. He’s not sure he’s slept a full night since Bucky showed up. 

Moving through the dark apartment, he follows the sound of Bucky’s screams to the kitchen, where he comes to a sudden halt. In the darkness, he can just make out Bucky’s shape huddled on the floor. Cold air is rushing out of the fridge, but there’s no light on, to Steve’s confusion. 

“Jar, a little light, please?” he asks, and a low light glows to life. 

The first thing he notices is the blood, the shocking red spreading across the kitchen floor, splattered on the white tile, covering Bucky. 

“Jesus, fuck,” Steve hisses, rushing toward him, not even thinking of his bare feet. “Buck, are you okay?” 

Whimpering, Bucky curls up tighter in a ball, blood pooling under him. The lack of light makes sense as he notices the shattered glass refrigerator door still closed but with the newly added gaping hole in the middle, and there are chunks of glass covering the floor. Steve didn’t even want this particular fridge. It’s one of Tony’s designs, a glass fridge door with touchscreen capabilities and Jarvis’ interface built in so that, supposedly, he would never be without the essential ingredients he needed. It was great, he assumed, but he rarely used it, preferring to just make a grocery list and go to the store himself. 

“Please, please, please,” Bucky whispers, eyes wide and staring at Steve’s feet. “The Soldier… the Soldier…”

Steve’s sinking heart is stopped when he steps on a particularly well-placed shard of glass, and he’s cursing as it cuts into his foot. “Fuck,” he hisses. This is fine. This is totally fine. He rips the glass out of his foot, cursing loudly as blood rushes out of the wound. 

As carefully as he can, avoiding the remaining pieces of glass, he rushes to the hallway to grab the nearest shoes he can find, shoving his bloody foot into a pair of winter boots he’ll need to replace, and rushes back to Bucky. Still shaking, Bucky is whispering about the Soldier over and over to himself. 

“Bucky, please,” Steve says softly. “I’ve gotta get you up, Buck, please? You’re bleeding real bad, okay? I-I need to take a look.” 

“He’s back… he’s back…” 

“Bucky? Bucky, please, let me just see you,” Steve says, but Bucky doesn’t move. There’s nothing for it. Knowing full well it’s probably going to go over like a curse in church, Steve reaches for Bucky, bracing for him to start swinging. 

But Bucky doesn’t lash out, doesn’t swing at Steve, or try to get away. Instead, he cries harder, his weak sobs turning hysterical, and goes completely limp in Steve’s arms. 

“Please, please, no, no, no,” he sobs. 

“Oh, God,” Steve murmurs. “B-Bucky, you’re okay, you’re—you’re gonna be fine, I-I got you.” 

His hands are already slick with blood as he shifts Bucky into a sitting position, holding him up against the counter, and tries to assess where the blood is coming from. And there is… there is a lot of fucking blood. It seems, as far as Steve can tell, to be coming from everywhere. Which doesn’t make any sense to him, but he’s panicking. 

“Please, please, please,” Bucky whispers. 

“Bucky, listen to me. I’m gonna help you, okay? I’m gonna help you, but I need to figure out where you’re bleeding, alright?” 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please, I’m sorry,” Bucky whispers. 

“It’s okay,” Steve says, shifting him so he can stay propped up. “Jesus,” he whispers. 

Towels. He needs towels and water and gauze and peroxide and a broom and—

“C’mere,” he says, and after giving him the most cursory once over for obvious shards of glass, Steve carefully lifts him off the ground and whisks him off to the bathroom. 

Placing Bucky on the ground, Steve rushes to turn on the tub, letting it run as he grabs down as many towels as he has. “Jesus, Buck,” he says again as he gingerly pulls off his blood-soaked henley. A gash up his forearm, almost up to the elbow, is responsible for most of the blood. It’s bleeding heavily, but there are other cuts and deep gashes. The right side of him is bloodied from where he was lying on the ground, and there is a shard of glass sticking out of his leg. 

Grabbing a towel, he wraps it around Bucky’s right arm, trying to make a tourniquet for lack of other options. He needs to stop the bleeding. At this point, Bucky still isn’t fighting him, and now Steve is really starting to freak out. Bucky’s looking awfully pale. And it suddenly dawns on him that he’s in way over his head here. Bucky is going to fucking bleed out right here on his bathroom floor. 

“Jarvis—“ 

“Stark Medical personnel are already on route, sir, eta 45 seconds,” he says, and Steve has never been happier that he moved into the tower when Bucky showed up. 

“Just hang on, Bucky,” Steve says, tying the towel off as tightly as he can. 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky whispers, blinking heavily. “The Soldier… I’m sorry…” 

"Well, he’s lucky for that serum, that’s for damn sure.” 

Steve hates to hear those words coming from Bruce’s mouth, a sick, twisted silver lining that is more like a slap in the face. That goddamn serum that got them both here. They’re hardly lucky. 

“How bad was this, Bruce?” Steve asks. 

“He nicked the radial artery,” Bruce says. “Pretty badly, but it wasn’t severed, and as you saw, it was pretty bad. He was unconscious within a matter of minutes, which would have been fatal to someone else. I’ll just say it’s a good thing Jarvis’ emergency protocols kicked in.” 

“I just don’t understand what happened,” Steve says, shaking his head. 

“I had Jarvis pull up the footage from your apartment and review it,” Tony says, uncharacteristically somber. “It looks like he punched through the fridge…it’s not obvious why. So, we’ll uh, we’ll make sure to take a look at the design of your apartment. Might be better, just for now, to have you guys somewhere designed with Bucky’s safety in mind.” 

Steve’s absolutely sick. The fact that he came that close to losing Bucky is making his stomach turn dangerously. He hadn’t even realized. He had no clue that it was as bad as it was until it would have been too late. Bruce said it himself. If Jarvis wasn’t programmed to respond, Bucky would be gone. 

“Excuse me,” Steve says, standing abruptly. 

“Steve—” 

“Let him go,” Tony says, and Steve’s incredibly grateful to have Tony Stark as a friend. 

Right now, though, he can’t fucking breathe. He needs to see Bucky, needs to look at him and know he’s alive, needs to hear his heart beating, needs to watch him breathe. It was that close. That close, and he could have lost him for good. Everything Bucky fought through to make it back to him, and Steve almost let him die in an accident. At least, that’s what he thinks it was, he’s got no idea, really. 

When Steve gets back to his room, Bucky is still asleep, though Steve knows that’s from the sedation more than anything. A nurse is monitoring his vitals and administering more fluids, and Steve just lets them do their work. He’s not feeling particularly chatty. 

When they leave, Steve settles himself into the seat next to Bucky’s bed and just watches the way his chest rises and falls, slow, methodical. The lights are dim in the room, despite the fact that it’s mid-morning by now, the window tints keeping out the light and giving Bucky a peaceful room to rest in. Despite the low light, he can see every detail of Bucky’s face, every outline, every wrinkle. It’s a face he used to have memorized, or at least it’s something so close his mind keeps telling him this should be easier. 

Watching Bucky sleep there, face lax, lips parted, it hurts Steve’s heart that this is the most at peace he’s ever seen him. Even when he’s asleep, Bucky usually looks wary, guarded even. But with the sedation drugs running through his system, he looks like he’s calm. It’s a mask, a blanket keeping away the truth of what he’d be going through if he were aware of where he is right now. 

And that breaks open an absolutely torrential wave of tears from him. It hits him hard and fast, doubling him over as the agony cracks open his chest, and Steve wraps his arms around himself as he keens loudly. It’s too much. All of it. What they did to Bucky is too much. There’s no way he’ll survive it, there’s no way Steve can protect him, can keep him alive. All he’s done for the last six months is fail him. 

Now that he’s started, Steve can’t get himself under control. The sobbing sounds hysterical even to his own ears, and the hysteria of it drives his panic up higher and higher. Surely this is going to kill him. This pain tearing at his chest. Pain so deep it cuts into his soul. For one stupid moment, Steve thought that he was getting a second chance, that he was getting Bucky back. But he knows the truth now. Steve is getting Bucky back so he can watch him fall apart, so he can fail him one last time. Steve’s getting him back just to watch him die. 

It’s selfish, he knows it is, even as hot tears burn down his face, and he’s flooded with self-pity and hatred in equal measures. And even as he hates himself for the way he’s managed to make this about his own pain, he can’t stop thinking about it. Resentment, for the world, for the bastards that did this to Bucky, bitter and ashen on his tongue, makes its way up his throat, and he lets out a wounded cry. 

“Fucking hell, Rogers.” 

Over the sound of his own sobs, it’s barely possible to register the fact that Tony has entered the room, but when he feels hands grabbing at him, he’s aware enough not to take a swing. It’s awkward, and Tony ends up having to mostly just hold Steve’s face to his abdomen, but he manages to get Steve in enough of a hug. 

“Rogers, c’mon, you—Steve, listen to me,” Tony says. “It’s gonna be alright. He’s gonna be fine.” 

“No, no, I—God, Tony, I’m gonna lose him, I’m gonna lose him, and—” His words die in his throat, terror washing over him, as strong as his grief. 

“Easy, easy, Steve, you’re not gonna lose him,” Tony says. “We’re not gonna let that happen, I promise. We’ll take care of him, the whole time.” 

“I don’t want to watch him die,” Steve sobs, hands clinging to Tony’s shirt. 

Hushing him gently, Tony puts a hand on the back of Steve’s head, holding onto him. “C’mon, Steve, breathe for me. Listen, I know—I know shit’s been crazy here, and I’ve uh… I’ve struggled with having Barnes here, but I meant it when I said that he’s just as much a victim as my folks were. This team is just as dedicated to keeping him safe as you are, because we see what he means to you. So just… you’re not going to lose him. I’m not going to let you lose him. They’re not taking anyone else from us, Steve, I swear.” 

It’s soothing to hear Tony talk, so strong and sure, and Steve manages to shove down the feral cries that had been leaving him, but he can’t stop the flood of tears still pouring down his face. “God, Tony, I’m so scared,” he whispers, and Tony squeezes him. 

“I know,” he says gently. “It’s okay. You can be scared. You’re allowed to be human, Steve. You’re going to need to let yourself be if you’re gonna get through this.”

Chapter Text

Three months after Bucky recovered from his run-in with Tony’s fridge door, he finally told Steve what had happened. After waking from a nightmare about HYDRA using the chair to turn him back into the Soldier, Bucky had gone to the kitchen, wanting water. But when he’d seen his reflection in the glass door, Bucky panicked. The man staring back at him, Bucky said, had been the Soldier; he could see him in his eyes. The notion made Steve shudder at the time, but years later, he gets it. Or, at least, he gets it as much as he can. 

There’s a lot Steve doesn’t understand about what Bucky goes through, but he learned long ago that whether or not he gets it matters very little. Bucky needs someone who is beside him, walking the long, arduous road he’s on. He doesn’t need someone who has all the answers. Tony was right all those years ago when he said that Steve needed to let himself be human if they were going to get through this.

But being human wasn’t something he knew how to do after years of being Captain America, and Steve had to come to terms with the fact that he didn’t even know who he was outside of that role anymore. Shaking off the Captain America stoicism, the righteousness, and just being himself took an embarrassingly long time, but he pulled back the layers and discovered, with much resistance, that the Captain America persona was not compatible with the real man that he was. It took over everything real about him and forced who he really was into hiding. Captain America had been his mask for so long, he wasn’t sure how to take it off. 

All-in-all, Steve doesn’t mind the mess that Bucky leaves behind in the living room these days. And he doesn’t mind cleaning up after him, either. Well-meaning as he is, Bucky’s a bit scattered when he hasn’t slept, so while he picks up in the kitchen, Steve quietly cleans up the living room. It doesn’t take him long to get it set back in order, and, with a few dishes, a few wrappers, and an arm full of cans, Steve makes his way back to the kitchen. 

“Hey, you wanna—” Steve stops. 

Standing over the sink, head bent, hand to his face as he grips the sink, Bucky is silently crying, his shoulders shaking with it.

 Taking a deep breath, Steve quickly puts the dishes on the counter, tosses out the wrappers, puts the cans in the recycling, and moves toward the sink. 

“Sweetheart?” Steve says, opening his arms and staying far enough away from Bucky that he doesn’t feel boxed in. Immediately, a gunmetal gray hand reaches for him and Steve grabs ahold of it, pulling Bucky into his arms. 

June, 2019

“Shh, hey, shh, I’ve gotcha,” Steve soothes. “It was a nightmare, it’s gone now, it can’t hurt you.” 

Jamie is shaking in his arms. These nights are, admittedly, more frequent than Jamie wants but still a lot calmer than the days when he would wake screaming, alone, and confused, clawing at his own skin to try to rid himself of the touch of his former handlers. Those were the nights that Steve would watch in helpless despair as the most important person in his world drowned in his own pain. Those were the nights that Steve was sure they weren’t going to get through. 

Now, at least, he can hold Jamie, and he can comfort him in some way. Now he knows enough about how to help him to actually be of use instead of just making things worse. And now, Jamie trusts him enough that seeing Steve is a comfort instead of a terror. For a while, even when he did recognize Steve, he was still convinced Steve was going to hurt him when he was coming out of a nightmare. Those days hurt. Those days, Jamie would curl into a ball and beg for mercy, beg Steve not to hurt him. Those were the days that almost broke him. 

There is a much higher chance of Jamie punching Steve square in the face while he sleeps these days, but Steve, to Jamie’s dismay, insists that it’s worth it to share a bed and that he’s actually kind of getting used to it. 

“I mean, I can take a punch, y’know,” Steve told him. 

“Been doing it long enough,” Jamie grumbled back at him. 

They agree to disagree on a lot of this. Jamie insists that Steve shouldn’t let him share his bed because Steve can’t get any sleep with the way Jamie is always waking up, and it’s dangerous because Jamie still has those nightmares where he doesn’t know what’s going on. 

“You always end up in our bed after those nightmares,” Steve pointed out, “We’re streamlining the process.” 

“Your bed,” Jamie corrected. “And when I climb in bed after, it’s because I know who you are and I’m not going to hurt you.” 

“Jamie, you’ve never not stopped when you realized it was me,” Steve told him. 

“And what happens when I don’t realize it’s you?” 

That hasn’t happened yet, and Jamie spends a lot of nights in their bed. Even calls it theirs sometimes, though he insists that he needs his own room and that Steve should have the same. Steve insists that he doesn’t care at all about something like that, he’ll share anything he’s got with Jamie. 

“I have been alone for so long, Jamie,” Steve told him. “I don’t—I’m not saying that to make you feel bad, I swear, but it’s true. Everything I have is yours, and whatever you want to give me, I’ll take, okay? Just let me have that. Let me—that’s how I need to love you.” 

Therapy taught them a lot about communicating, he notes, trying not to roll his eyes at his own employment of the profession's vernacular. But it works. Or at least it has been. 

It’s gotten them to moments like this where Jamie can wake up from a nightmare and reach for Steve automatically, knowing he’s right there. It’s gotten them to a point where Steve knows what he needs, knows how to care for him. He knows that Jamie prefers sitting up when Steve holds him so he doesn’t feel so trapped, he knows that he might be quiet, but the tears are pouring down his face. And he knows that there is absolutely nothing he can do to actually take away Jamie’s pain. 

It’s a bitter reality, one he’s still learning to live with through his own personal therapy with Angela, but it’s one that he hasn’t been able to change no matter how hard he’s fought it. And he knows, truly he does, that he helps Jamie in his own ways. Being there, holding him, having a routine of comfort, care. Steve knows that he’s doing what Jamie needs. 

But it’s not enough. It’s never enough. Five years in and Steve still feels like he’s failing Jamie every time he doesn’t take away his pain. There are times Jamie cries with this wholehearted abandon, howling like he’s pulling shrapnel from his chest, and Steve can’t imagine what the last five years have been like for him, on top of the seventy he lived with HYDRA. Jamie is so strong, fighting every day just to keep going, and Steve can’t seem to find the strength to take some of his pain away. 

Angela says that’s an absurd way to judge things, measuring his own resilience against anyone else’s, justifying his guilt over what he can’t control by saying that he’s not strong enough to alter these immovable truths. And he knows that she’s not wrong. Because the only way that Steve can take away the pain that Jamie feels is if he can change what was done to him, and he’s not foolish enough to think that he can do that. But it’s one thing to know something and another to be able to accept it. And Steve can’t seem to swallow this pill. 

“Easy, baby, I’m right here,” Steve says. “Just breathe for me, Buck, nice and easy, c’mon, doll, you can do it,” he coaxes, and Jamie takes a shaky, rattling breath that catches in his throat as another whimpering sob slips out. “Oh, that was so good, sweetheart, thank you. Can you do another for me?” 

Steve’s got no idea how long it takes, but eventually, Jamie is taking long, slow breaths right alongside him, and the tears have stopped. He’s still shaking though, and Steve holds him close as silence falls on them. More often than not, Jamie will tell Steve about his nightmare, but he doesn’t like being asked if he wants to talk about it every single time it happens, so Steve doesn’t say anything, just keeps Jamie close and waits. 

“You died,” Jamie whispers finally, and Steve stiffens. That’s a new one. “On the—the helicarrier—I was—we were back in DC and I—I shot you. Point blank, right between the eyes—” His voice hitches. 

“Oh, J,” Steve whispers, kissing his temple. “That’s scary, baby. But I’m right here, I’m okay.”

“I know,” Jamie says softly. “I just—Steve, I’m so—” 

“Nope,” Steve cuts him off. 

“Steve, please, I’ve never apologized for what happened up there,” Jamie says. 

“Because you don’t need to,” Steve says. “Jamie, sweetheart, it wasn’t your fault.” 

“You apologized to me,” Jamie points out. 

“I—that’s different.” Steve bristles. “I was in control of myself, I—it was my choice to—” 

“And you did everything you could not to have to fight me, you did everything you could to save me, you gave up,” Jamie says. “Steve, please, I-I need to say it, I… please?” 

Steve sighs, pulling back to look at Jamie’s tear-stained face. Back in the day, Bucky used to call him a stubborn bastard when he’d dig his heels in and refuse to just meet him halfway when he’d refuse to just admit he was wrong. There were times when he’d say it with affection, a sweet smile on his face, and an arm slung around Steve’s shoulders. And other times, he’d scream it at Steve, tears streaming down his face, in the heat of an argument, Steve was dragging them through. Those memories of him, the ones where he hurt Bucky, those are the ones that make him really understand just what grief is because no matter how much those hurt, he cherishes the fact that they exist at all. 

He doesn’t want to hurt Jamie, though. If he can do anything with the pain those memories give to him, it’s to learn to do better. He can use it to take better care of Jamie, to make sure that he doesn’t inflict the same wounds on him. He likes to think Bucky would approve. 

“Okay,” he whispers, nodding. 

“I hurt you,” Jamie whispers, touching his face. “God, I hurt you and I just—I’m so sorry, Steve, it haunts me to this day, the way I caused you pain. I almost killed you. I’d never have forgiven myself if I did.” 

“But you didn’t,” Steve says. “Let’s not start apologizing for things you didn’t do.” 

Jamie chuckles. “I know,” he says. “You’re right. I just—I’m sorry, for all of it. I’m sorry, I didn’t want to, you know that, but I’m sorry nonetheless.” 

Steve leans in and kisses him softly. “Okay,” he whispers, nodding softly. “I forgive you.” 

Jamie presses his forehead to Steve’s, voice thick with emotion. “Thank you,” he says.

Steve pulls him in for another kiss, soft and loving, the way he always is with Jamie, he can’t help himself. “You wanna go to sleep, or you want to go smoke a joint?” He blames Bruce for turning Jamie into a stoner, but the weed has doubled how much sleep Jamie is getting, so Steve doesn’t really mind. 

“Mmm, joint!” Jamie nods, and Steve laughs. 

“Alright, but you’re going outside,” Steve says. It was a surprise to him when Bruce got Jamie high the first time, Steve assumed that, like him, Jamie couldn’t get drunk or use any drugs because of the serum. But it seems that his version of the serum doesn’t have quite the same impact on his metabolism, or the cryofreeze years did damage to it. Either way, Jamie’s been able to enjoy smoking weed like anyone else, to Bruce’s delight. 

“Boooo,” Jamie complains, but there’s no heat behind it. “You’ll come out with me?”

“Of course, baby,” Steve says. Jamie doesn’t like being on his own after a nightmare, especially outside. “C’mon. I got some of those pre-rolls with kief on the outside that you like.” 

“That is… so weird…” Jamie says, staring for a moment. “I—he would have found that so strange.”

“Bucky moment?” Steve asks. They had to find some way to describe the moments when Jamie swore he could feel what Bucky would have felt in that moment. 

“Yeah,” he says now, smiling. “And he’s incredulous that you’d risk being around it with your bad lungs.” 

Steve laughs. “Well, what he doesn’t know won’t kill him,” Steve says. 

“Do you tell your therapist these jokes?” Jamie asks. 

“I do, actually,” Steve says haughtily. 

“And does she laugh?” Jamie smiles sweetly at him. 

“She does not,” Steve confirms, and Bucky laughs. “C’mon, baby, let’s go outside.” 

“Alright, Buck,” Steve murmurs, one hand going to the back of Bucky’s head, the other running up and down his back. “That’s it, sweetheart, let it out, I’ve got you.” 

Shoulders heaving, Bucky clings to Steve as he cries, face tucked into his throat. Steve keeps him steady, lets Bucky lean all of his weight on him. If it wouldn’t annoy the shit out of him, Steve would scoop him up and carry him off to the couch. But Bucky will immediately start to fight him if he does, so Steve just gives him the space to cry instead. 

“I love you so much, Bucky,” Steve tells him. “So much, baby. I’m right here, I’ve got you.” 

For a long time, Steve thought that if he did enough, he could fight off the darkness that overtakes Jamie on these days. He would go over the top to get him out of his funks, doing everything that he could to bring any kind of light to Jamie. And more often than not, Jamie would feel obligated to cheer up so that Steve felt like he was helping. It was a vicious cycle they ended up stuck in for a while, one they broke in couple’s therapy, one that he still has to remind himself not to fall back into. 

Today’s gonna be one of those days where he has to remind himself that he can’t fix this, that no matter what he does, Jamie will still have spent seventy years in HYDRA’s custody, he’ll still have panic attacks, he’ll still have nightmares, he’ll still feel like he’s two people all twisted up into one. There isn’t anything that he can do to change all of that, so there’s very little point to him wasting time and energy that could be better spent on actually helping him. 

“You wanna go sit down?” Steve asks when Bucky stops shaking, and Bucky pulls back with a whine, turning back to the sink. “Baby, forget the dishes, I can take care of them,” Steve says. “Let me tuck you into some blankets, we can take it easy today, okay?” Bucky nods against his shoulder, and Steve turns his head to kiss him on the cheek. “Alright, c’mon, baby.” 

Leading him to the living room, Steve gets Bucky settled down on the couch and grabs a few blankets to cover him in. Curling his feet up under him, Bucky leans his head against the back of the couch and closes his eyes while Steve tucks the blankets around him, handing him his weed pen. He’s about to go back to the kitchen to finish off the dishes but Bucky makes a grab for his arm and pulls him down onto the couch. 

Steve chuckles. “Are we snuggling then?” he asks, wrapping his arms around Bucky, who just nods and cuddles into him.

It’s one of the many things that stuck with him through the years. When Bucky started to be okay with physical touch, he turned into a very tactile person. At first, he wasn’t sure how to ask Steve for physical affection, not after Steve spent years avoiding touching him at all without Bucky explicitly requesting it. Asking Steve to be affectionate with him mortified Bucky, though, and they ended up in a lot of awkward situations where Bucky would be grabby and demanding while Steve kept his hands pinned to his side, afraid to fuck things up. 

Eventually, Bucky did tell him what was going on and they worked out a system where Steve offers physical affection freely, but Bucky has to be the one to take it. Steve never grabs him, doesn’t just assume, but he makes offers all of the time, knowing that Bucky finds it grounding, that it brings him comfort and security. And Bucky, more often than not, turns into an octopus, wrapping himself around Steve as tightly as possible. There probably would have been few occasions where Steve was awakened by a fist to the face if Bucky hadn’t fallen asleep entwined with him, only to wake up feeling confined and confused. But Steve doesn’t mind, he wasn’t kidding when he told Bucky that it was worth it to have close. 

It was how he was back when they were kids, climbing into Steve’s bed as kids on sleepovers, lounging with his legs across Steve’s lap, pulling Steve down onto the couch to lay across Bucky’s chest, featherlight and mostly made up of jutting bones and knobs. Steve had missed it something awful after Bucky fell, even if he had complained about being manhandled and squished at the time. And when Bucky returned, Steve had to stop those instinctive impulses to pull him into a hug, comfort him the way Steve thought he wanted, the way he thought he needed. 

Bucky spreads himself out across Steve’s chest, knees on either side of his hips, head tucked into his throat, and sighs contently. There’s a book on the coffee table, close enough for Steve to grab without moving, Bucky’s go-to book when his mind needs a break. 

“How about I read to you a bit?” he offers, and Bucky just shrugs. Bucky probably knows at this point it’s a thinly veiled attempt to put Bucky to sleep, but Steve is pretty sure he doesn’t care. And besides, it fucking works. 

And Steve knows there’s one thing Bucky truly needs right now, and that’s some goddamn rest. He cracks the book open, finds Bucky’s most recent dog ear, and starts to read, smiling to himself as Bucky goes nearly boneless against him. 

Chapter Text

December 1938

“Stevie, you’re sick,” Bucky says, voice full of reprimand. “Would it kill you to just take it easy?” 

“I’m bored, Buck!” Steve complains. “Can’t I at least get out of bed?” 

“Stevie, no. You’re gonna take a chill out here. The boiler’s barely keeping up,” Bucky says, tucking the blankets down around him more. “I got your ma’s soup on the stove. Just rest for once, please?” 

It’s impossible for him to tell if Bucky is just a worried old nag or if Steve’s a stubborn old mule, but this seems to be how it always goes when Steve is sick; Bucky fighting him to stay in bed and rest, and Steve fighting to get up and be allowed to live. Staying in bed all day for days on end is enough to bore him to death, he’s sure of it. One of these days, he’s going to drop dead from laying here doing absolutely nothing for too long. And if he feels well enough to be bored, that has to mean he’s well enough to be up and about. 

“Aw, Buckles, c’mon. I’m hardly even sick anymore,” Steve pleads with him. 

“You got home from the hospital yesterday. You had pneumonia,” Bucky says, dry as sandpaper. “You almost died, Steve.” 

“I—” Steve sighs. When Bucky puts it that way, it always seems worse than it really is. Though, he is, admittedly, not wrong that Steve almost died. The doctors were sure to tell him that he was lucky to be alive. “I’m just bored, Buck,” he says, deflating, and Bucky tuts sympathetically at him. 

“Ah, Stevie, I know,” he says, climbing into the bed and pulling Steve close. “But you’ve gotta rest up. You need your strength back first.” 

“What strength?” Steve grumbles, tucking himself into Bucky’s chest. 

“I mean it, Stevie, I’m worried about you,” Bucky says, voice so full of earnestness, it leaves Steve’s chest aching. 

“I hate this,” Steve whispers, bitterness welling in him at his own weakness. 

“Me too,” Bucky says with a heavy sigh. “I hate seeing you sick. And I hate how upset you get. I know it’s rough, I just… I’m trying to take care of you, doll.” 

“I know,” Steve says, cuddling closer to him. “And I appreciate it. You gotta know that.”

“I do know that,” Bucky confirms. 

“Even when I complain,” Steve reiterates. 

“Even when you complain,” Bucky agrees. 

“I love you,” Steve says, and Bucky kisses the top of his head. 

“I love you, too, doll. Now, please, would ya get some rest? For me?” 

  “ …you couldn’t find a channel with anything but zombie news, either live images, or recorded footage from Yonkers. Looking back, I still can’t believe how unprofessional the news media was, ” Steve reads from the orange paperback in his hand. Bucky likes being read to, and he loves World War Z , so at this point, Steve’s basically got the book memorized. 

Laying across his chest, Bucky is barely awake, only half listening to the book, Steve is sure, but that’s the whole point of this. He’s read it so many times he can just fall asleep whenever and not worry about missing anything. 

And really, Bucky needs some sleep. After a few hits from his pen, Bucky started to fade, eyes drooping, blinks slowing. Steve could tell he needed a good night's sleep, but that wasn’t happening. Bucky is bound to get nightmares as worked up as he is still, and Steve knows that the best they’re going to get is a nap. So, he figures he’ll settle for something. It’s better than nothing. Reading to Bucky is usually a solid way to get him down for a few hours, and Steve is willing to be his audiobook for a while if it means Bucky can actually get some sleep. 

It did amuse Steve that the soothing book that put Bucky to sleep was the one about the aftermath of a zombie apocalypse. When they were teenagers, Bucky used to read sci-fi novels that gave him nightmares, loving every minute of them. Old habits, he supposes. 

Steve used to save up pocket change to buy him stacks of books to keep him entertained all winter when they were stuck inside, and on the hot summer nights when they couldn’t sleep. Sitting out on the fire escape, legs hanging over the edge, with a cigarette in one hand and a paperback in the other, Steve can still see him reading with an intent, focused look on his face. His hand itches with the need to sketch the scene in his mind, one he’s drawn a dozen times before. 

There are a lot of things that found their way into Jamie’s life long before he started to feel like he really was Bucky, that he remembered his own life, not someone’s stories. It used to hurt to see those things, the tiny moments that were like an axe to the chest for Steve that he kept quiet about because he was trying not to make Jamie feel bad. And there was no one else to share those moments with, no one who could understand what it’s like to live with the fully corporeal ghost of the man he’d loved more than life. 

But the more those things started to come to the surface, the more he saw the similarities between them, the more Steve was able to just accept that. Jamie could have a million things in common with Bucky and never be him if that’s how he felt. Steve had to accept that before he could learn to face that pain. And he’s sure, looking back, that he didn’t do the best job of that. 

February, 2019

“I-I feel him sometimes, like he’s—I—it doesn’t make sense.” 

Steve’s doing his best to be cool here, to just hear Jamie out and not get emotional. Talking about Bucky is always a bit risky for them. It’s hard for Jamie to have to face the raw grief Steve has after losing Bucky, and Steve hates having to explain Bucky to him. It’s just…a lot. 

But when Jamie brings him up, Steve never denies him, never holds back. He’s entitled to any information about him that he wants, and Steve, so protective over Bucky’s memory, is the only one who can share it with him, who can fill in those gaps when Jamie is ready. 

“It doesn’t need to make sense,” Steve tells him, chest aching. 

“I—” Jamie chews on his lip. Bucky used to do the same thing when he was deciding whether or not to say what was on his mind. 

“Just let it out, J, whatever it is,” Steve says.

“I don’t want to do this to you,” Jamie says, and Steve just blinks at him. 

“I—what? J, baby, you’re not doing anything to me,” Steve says, genuinely confused. 

“Oh, stop,” Jamie says. “I know how much it hurts when we talk about me then—I mean—” He freezes. 

And Steve turns into a statue right alongside him. It’s the first time that Jamie has said ‘me’ when talking about Bucky in… God, years, and Steve’s thrown off for a moment. But Jamie looks even more panicked and confused, and Steve knows that Jamie’s going to unravel if Steve doesn’t say something. 

“C’mere?” he asks, opening his arms, and Jamie walks right into his arms. “It’s okay. I can handle this. It hurts, I’m not denying that, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to talk about Bucky.”

“I just… they’re starting to feel like my memories,” Jamies says, pulling back to look at Steve. “And I know they are technically—well, I guess not technically-- but it’s always been like—like a movie I’d seen.” 

“I know,” Steve nods. It took a long time for him to understand what Jamie meant when he said that he wasn’t Bucky, but through hours and hours of talking, it started to be clear to him. He started being able to see the difference between the two of them, the Bucky he knew and the person Jamie is. 

“But lately…” Jamie sighs, pulling out of Steve’s arms and walking over to the couch. He drops down on the seat, planting his elbows on his knees. Hands clasped in front of him, Jamie stares down at the ground for a long while, his face cloaked in sorrow. 

Steve goes over and sits down beside him, silent and patient. Sometimes it takes Jamie a while to find his words, Steve’s had a lot of practice giving him the space to find them. It used to be hard, sitting there anxiously waiting to hear what Jamie had to say, terrified of what his next words could be. But now he can just sit comfortably. He knows that whatever Jamie does say, they’ll be okay. Whatever he says, they’ll process it together. 

“I cried the other day,” Jamie finally says, and Steve isn’t sure whether that’s the end of the statement or not. 

“Okay,” he says slowly. Jamie cries often enough for that not to be a shocking statement, but Steve is sure there’s more to it than that. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah, it was when I was—I had this memory about my…my Ma,” Jamie says, and that hits Steve straight in the chest, an ache so deep it shocks him. 

“J,” he whispers. Reaching out, he puts his hand over Jamie’s clasped hands. 

“Her tomato sauce,” Jamie says, and Steve has to push down a little sob because Steve can taste it, Mrs. Barnes’s’ sauce. When his ma died, she was in his kitchen making it before Steve even got home from the hospital, little box with the ring his father gave her and the pins she’d worn in her hair. He walked in and the whole place smelled like garlic and onion, and she was there, holding him in a warm hug while he cried. 

“I remember it,” Steve says, voice thick, and Jamie looks over at him sharply. 

“Steve—“ 

“It’s fine,” Steve insists. “I mean it. What—” He swallows. “What did you remember?” 

Jamie searches his eyes for a moment before he goes on. “It was winter,” he says. “You were—you were staying with us cause your ma was working through a storm at the hospital. And Ma, she made her sauce for dinner, and then she made us all cocoa before bed but Becca spilled hers and I gave her mine, and we split yours instead.” Steve smiles. He remembers it. “And that night when she tucked me in, Ma said I was a good brother. That I’d make a good dad one day—” His throat catches, and he has to take a deep breath. “And God, Steve I can feel her arms around me, I can smell her perfume, and I can’t stop thinking about the fact that I never came home to her, there wasn’t anyone to bury and I—” He inhales sharply, Steve squeezes his hands. Turning over a palm, Jamie links their fingers together. “She was wrong about me. Being a good father, I mean. I’d be shit with kids.” 

“What are you talking about? We babysit for Clint all the time,” Steve says. “You do amazing with them. Those kids are obsessed with you.”

“Yeah, but that’s different,” Jamie argues. “They aren’t my kids.” 

“Right, so you’d be even better with your own,” Steve says. “I’m not saying we should have kids, J, if that’s not what you want, then I’m not trying to push that on you. But Mrs. Barnes—your mom—she wasn’t wrong about y—about Buck—” He looks at Jamie, who is staring at him intently, brow furrowed tightly, a crease down the center. 

And Steve can’t help himself, he reaches up and smooths it out, something he does all the time. Something he’s done since 1937 when it showed up for the first time. Smiling sadly, he touches Jamie’s cheek. “You’ve always gotten this wrinkle, right here,” he says, brushing his thumb across it. “Used to swear one day you’d be stuck with it.” 

“Hasn’t happened yet,” Jamie says quietly. Words he’d spoken to Steve a lifetime ago. “Stevie, I’m sorry I—” 

“He’s as much yours as he is mine, J,” Steve whispers. “You don’t have to apologize.” 

“I know how much you loved him, still love him,” Jamie says, eyes intent on Steve. “And I understand that trust me, it’s taken time, but I get it. Hell, there was a time when I was jealous of the love I once had because it all belonged to him. But that’s the thing. I—my heart would race when I’d see you, back then, I mean. Lord, it would slam so hard against my chest I swore one day you’d hear it. All I ever wanted was to touch you, to feel you. All I wanted was the chance. I close my eyes, and I can see it, Christ, Steve, I remember the way you tasted the first time I kissed you. Like the black cherry soda you were drinking—” 

“Jamie, please—” Steve whispers, shaking hand going to his mouth. “Please, just—just give me a second.” 

It’s too much all at once. For years now, Steve trained himself to understand that Jamie is not Bucky, that he’s not some replacement for him either. Accepting that Bucky really was gone took him an embarrassingly long time, and facing his death, facing his grief is something he still doesn’t know how to do. But having Jamie standing in front of him, talking about the way Steve used to love him, talking about the way Bucky felt about him. And he’s saying with those grey-blue headlights glaring straight at Steve, unable to look away. It hurts, he can’t stop that from being true. And he will keep talking about it because Jamie needs to, but he needs a second. 

Thankfully, Jamie doesn’t pull back. He’s working on giving Steve that same space to say what he means that Steve creates for him, and Steve is working on not being so hurt when Bucky isn’t able to do it. This time he manages, though, this time, he sits through and lets Steve collect himself. 

“It’s just—sorry, I-I try not to think about us—him and I, I mean, not us now, I mean us then, or—God, please tell me you know what I mean,” Steve groans, and Jamie chuckles. 

“I do, I mean, someone else might say you sound a little bit crazy,” Jamie nods. “Out of context, you’re certifiable.” 

“Well, you’d know,” Steve teases before blushing, giving him an apologetic look, and Jamie barks out a laugh. The familiarity of it hits him hard, and he’s not smiling anymore. “Buck used to laugh like that. We’d get going back and forth teasing each other and—” 

“And I’d find it so funny when you’d finally throw a hard ball at me and immediately feel so bad you’d be apologizing before I could even catch onto the insult,” Jamie finishes for him. “Yeah,” he breathes. “I know. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” 

“J,” Steve murmurs. “How long has this been going on?” 

“Months,” Jamie admits. 

“Sweetheart,” Steve chides gently. “Why didn’t you say something? I would have talked to you.” 

“Because I didn’t want to give you hope just to disappoint you,” Jamie blurts out and then looks like he feels awful. “I’m sorry, I—” 

“No, it’s okay,” Steve says. “I-I get it. Took me a while to accept some stuff, but I know you’re not going to turn into the man you were seventy years ago, Jamie.” 

“I just…y’know sometimes I hear him talking to me, I swear to God, Stevie, it’s like he’s right there in my ear,” Jamie says, looking nervous. “I-I know that sounds like I’m hearing voices or something, but I swear I’m fine, I—” 

“I know,” Steve says quickly. “Easy, baby.” 

“Right, I—yeah, I—” Jamie shakes his head. 

“You were saying you hear him,” Steve reminds him gently. 

“I—yeah,” he says. “I’ll be in a situation, I’ll be doing something, and it’s like—it’s like he’s giving me his thoughts. He’s giving me his side. God, I must sound insane—” 

“Jamie, I swear, you’re fine,” Steve assures him. “Sweetheart, you know I’ll never judge you for this. I know you’re not having some break with reality or something, don’t worry. You’re describing an internal monologue, it’s normal.” 

“But why do I—he sounds like me, for the most part, you know he does,” Jamie says, then shakes his head. “I mean, obviously, we’re the same—you get what I mean, right?” 

“I do,” Steve nods because he does get it. And that might be weird to someone else, but the last five years have given him a whole new perspective on what qualifies as weird. “I think…look, if you’re hearing him—or you—whatever—and that’s helping you, I think it’s okay. But if it’s bothering you…” 

“It’s not, well it—I just don’t—I feel like—” Jamie looks so scared, searching Steve’s face so carefully. His lips form the start of the word ‘please,’ a plea that Steve watches him physically force down and knows that it’s a leftover instinct. “Steve, sometimes—sometimes I feel like I am him. It’s fucking insane, I know it is, you can’t tell me otherwise because I just…I’m not stupid enough to think I am just going to turn back into him, but I feel like I have to—to push him away, push me away, and I don’t—” 

He’s breathing hard, staring wild-eyed at Steve. It’s what Steve’s been preparing for him to say. He already understands Jamie’s panic here, knows why he’s so worried, and knows that he’s scared. And Steve, he’s calm through it all, toeing the fine line between stoic and serene. 

“You both love sci-fi books,” Steve says after a moment, and Jamie looks confused for a moment. “And you both hate riding in cars so much. You both love singing in the shower, too. And cats. But neither one of you could cook or remember to hang up a wet towel. And yeah, it’s easier for me to keep you separated, keep Bucky as his own person, someone I lost, someone who’s gone. But he’s not. You’re not. Just because you’re not the same—Jamie, you’re whoever you want to be. You’re just you. Being able to feel the memories from before doesn’t make you any less you , Jamie.” 

“I love you,” he says. “I love you so much.” 

“Oh, Jamie—” Jamie’s never said it. Steve says it all the time, and it doesn’t bother him that Jamie hasn’t been able to say it back yet. But hearing those words now, his heart feels like it’s going to burst. 

“I do, I love you,” he says again. “I know I do. I loved you then, I love you now. Steve, I feel like him—like—like myself because I can feel that love, God, nothing has ever been so real. And I know, I just fucking know, if I can still feel that, then he’s still in me. He’s still a part of me.” 

“Of course he is,” Steve whispers. “And I love you, too, you know that.” 

“I do,” he says. “But I like hearing it.” 

Steve smiles, pulling him into his arms and leaning back on the couch. “Oh, well, let me tell you all about it then,” Steve says. “I love you so much it makes me feel crazy sometimes, I love you in ways I didn’t know I could, I love you to the moon and back, I love you—” 

“Alright, alright,” Jamie laughs. “I get it Steve, God, you’re in love.” 

Steve laughs. “I’m serious, though, there’s nothing wrong with how you’re feeling, J,” he says. 

“You know I like the way you say Bucky,” he says, so quiet Steve is sure he’s hoping Steve will miss it. 

“Oh?” Steve smiles. 

“Yeah, I don’t know, guess…maybe one day it could be mine again,” Jamie says, nervous and so unsure. 

“People have lots of names they go by,” Steve confirms. “Tons of nicknames, hell, you’ve got Bill and William, Richard and Dick, Elizabeth and Betty—.” 

“Alright, alright,” Jamie laughs. “I get it! Look…I don’t know what it means, not yet, but I-I know it means something important and that’s reason enough for me to tell you.” 

“Well, I appreciate you telling me,” Steve says. “And I promise, I’m not expecting something of you now. I’m not going to try to tell you what this means.” 

“Thank you,” Jamie whispers. “Steve, thank you.” 

Chapter Text

When Bucky falls asleep, Steve stays on the couch with him, Bucky wrapped around him like Steve’s a human body pillow. And Steve is more than happy to stay there with him, to hold Bucky close and soothe him to sleep. It takes trust for Bucky to be able to fall asleep around someone, but on these days the only way Bucky can fall asleep is if Steve is holding him. The protective side of him, the side that wants to wrap Bucky up and never let him go, is thrilled by the fact that he gets to hold him, to watch over Bucky’s sleep and chase away anything that may disturb him. Steve can’t make the nightmares go away, that would just be silly, but he can soothe Bucky through them, and bring him out of the terror gently. 

He’s got a feeling that Bucky won’t sleep a lot today. He’s restless as he falls asleep, resistant to it even as his body wills his mind to submit to the comfort Steve’s offering him. But sleep has him now, however briefly it might be. It’s something at least, Steve reasons with himself, because he knows it’s pointless to try to control anything about these days. 

There was a point in time when a good day was a rarity for Bucky. In those days, Steve was convinced that he was the biggest piece of shit in the world because of the toll it took on him. On the days when Bucky would scream his throat raw before finally succumbing to exhaustion, Steve would curl up on his bed and sob himself to sleep, biting down on his fist to keep the volume down. And he thought it made him a horrible, selfish person. Bucky was the one suffering, so it didn’t make any sense for Steve to struggle. 

But, years and years of therapy made him understand that there is nothing wrong with his heart hurting when he sees Jamie in pain. And it took just as much therapy for him to understand that there is nothing he can do to take away the pain that Jamie is in. All he can do is help him through it. At some point in all of it, he accepted the fact that there was nothing wrong with giving himself a little grace on these days as well, accepted that his pain in all of this is real, valid. 

Holding Bucky close like this helps. There are times when Bucky wants to be left alone on his bad days. When he doesn’t want to leave his room, he doesn’t want to see a soul, Steve included. And, of course, Steve respects that. But, that doesn’t make it easy. So, on the days that Bucky does seek out his affection, when he needs Steve's attention and love just as much as Steve needs to give it, he goes a bit overboard. 

It’s not a guarantee that he’ll get Bucky to sleep at all when he’s having a hard time, but he’s resting easy now, cheek pillowed against Steve’s chest, and Steve’s stroking his hair gently, listening to his soft inhales and exhales. With the tension and sorrow washed away by sleep, Bucky looks young. The bastard has yet to go grey, unlike Steve, whose blonde hair not only darkened, but also started turning silver when he hit 100. 

“A lotta people would be happy to not go grey til they’re a hundred,” Nat told him when he complained. 

“Yeah, but with the time on ice, you’re only like 40,” Tony pointed out, ducking as Nat chucked a dinner roll at his head. 

Bucky’s always had a young face, though, sweet and open, big blue eyes and full lips. The girls used to go wild for him when they’d hit the town back before the war. And even when he came back to Steve, when he showed up barely alive on his doorstep, he hadn’t lost that young man that Steve knew so well. Only, Steve had never seen him so scared, had never seen him so haunted. It took a while to get used to it, and even longer for that haunted look to leave Bucky. It’s still not gone entirely, the fear is there, still creeps up into his eyes in the difficult moments, but there’s life sparkling in his eyes, too. Warmth and wonder and love returned to him eventually. 

Shifting a bit, Jamie frowns in his sleep, and Steve pulls him closer, kissing his forehead softly. “You’re okay,” he whispers, and Jamie sighs, settling again. 

It’s peaceful, this quiet moment where he just gets to hold onto the man that he loves, and despite the turmoil that Bucky is going through, Steve takes a moment to be grateful that he has this. Grateful that they made it. 

May, 2018

“Jamie?” Steve calls out, nerves tightening his throat. 

Jarvis lets Jamie know when Steve is coming home, and it’s weird for Jamie to not be in a common area to greet him. Or maybe Steve’s come home to one too many nightmares for him to not be at least a little wary. And there’s no response from Jamie, wherever he is in the apartment. 

“Jamie? J? Where are you?” Steve calls out, trying not to sound panicked. “Jam—” 

“His bedroom, sir,” Jarvis answers, and Steve breathes easier. He keeps forgetting that Jarvis is here keeping an eye on things, that Jamie finally consented to letting the AI back into their home after banning him for two years. 

The door to his bedroom is open but Steve stays in the doorway, waiting for permission. Without a doubt, Jamie knows he’s there. Though he’s not even close to being silent like Jamie is, Steve makes a point of keeping his footfalls heavy. But Jamie doesn’t turn around, sitting on the edge of his bed, facing away from Steve. 

“J? Sweetie, can I come in?” Steve asks, and finally Jamie turns. 

And, oh, does he look angry. 

“What the hell is this, Steve?” He asks, voice dripping with accusation, and he holds up a sketchbook. 

Steve stomach drops. “I can explain—” 

Jamie flips the cover open and reads, “‘What I’m trying to say is I love you.’ Goddamn it, Steve,” Jamie says, standing and throwing the book down angrily. “When are you going to stop with this bullshit?” 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Weeks ago, Steve stupidly confessed that he was in love with Jamie in a moment of weakness when they were particularly close, and he’s regretted it ever since. Because Jamie didn’t so much reject him as he lost his fucking mind on Steve, screaming at him that he was a cruel, lying asshole and accusing him of just pretending to see him as someone besides Bucky. And that hurt. A lot. Because it took Steve a long time to reconcile his feelings for Jamie with himself. 

But that was weeks ago, and sure, things were rough between them still, rocky at best, but they talked about it when it happened, Steve hasn’t brought it up since. So, the fact that Jamie has found the sketchbook that Steve planned to give him to confess his love once upon a time is definitely not a blessing. And the fact that he’s still this angry about Steve’s feelings is not a good sign. 

“Jamie, please, I-I was never going to give that to you,” Steve starts, hoping to head the entire thing off. “I made it before we talked, I know you said that you don’t want this—” 

“That is not what I said! There is no this!” Jamie shouts, face contorted with anger. “God, Steve, how do you not understand this? You’re in love with a fucking ghost!” 

“You have to know that’s not true,” Steve pleads. “Jamie, I see you. Really, I do. I know who I love, and it’s you,” 

“You’re out of your mind, Steve. Absolutely fucking insane,” Jamie says. “If you think you could be in love with me, then you’re batshit crazy.” 

“Jamie, stop, this isn’t—” Steve holds up a hand. 

“Oh, I’m supposed to stop?” Jamie snarls, teeth grit, hands on his hips. “I’m the problem here? You won’t just admit that you want me to be Bucky so badly, you’ve convinced yourself that I’m close enough because I have his fucking face.” 

“Jamie, enough! We have already had this fight. I didn’t give you that sketchbook,” Steve says, temper rising. “I didn’t bring this up again. And for the record, that’s a bunch of bullshit! You don’t get to tell me how I feel, Jamie, you don’t get to decide what I’m thinking!” 

“And you don’t get to tell me a bunch of fucking lies just to make yourself feel better!” Jamie screams at him. 

“What do I have to do to make you understand that I am not lying, that I am not confused?” Steve asks, trying to calm himself. “I know who I’m talking to here, and I love you , Jamie.” 

“Bullshit,” Jamie hisses, eyes narrowing, and he’s absolutely seething. “That’s fucking bullshit.”

“Hey, that’s not fair—” 

“Not fair? Not fair?” Jamie shouts. “Not fair is expecting me to be this thing that I’m not! Not fair is expecting me to fill in some hole in your life. Not fair is lying to me and telling me you love me when you’re just trying to avoid your own grief.” 

“I am not! J, I have faced losing Bucky, I’ve worked my ass off to figure out how to carry that grief,” Steve says, frustration growing. “I’m not going to stop loving him, just like I’m not going to stop loving you.” 

“Fuck you,” Jamie hisses, rage flaring in his eyes. “Fuck you for saying that, Steve. I’m done. I mean it, I’m leaving. I can’t fucking trust you anymore.” 

“J, c’mon,” Steve says, “don’t do this. Please? Look, we don’t—we don’t have to talk about this, okay? We can just—we can forget it, okay? Just—” 

“No, I’m not going to stay here while you try to convince me you love me, just so that you can leave me when you realize I’ll never be the man I was,” Jamie snaps at him, panic flooding his eyes. Jamie’s tense, like a viper on the defense. “I’m not going to let you h-hurt me like that.” 

Steve moves forward, heart clenching at the pain written on Jamie’s face. “J, please, I—” 

Jamie puts his hands up, stopping Steve from coming any closer. “Don’t,” he says, voice shaking. His eyes are wild, darting around the room and back to Steve. “Don’t Steve. I can’t—” He shakes his head. “I can’t do this.” 

“Jamie—” 

Steve knows he’s going to bolt, knows he’ll run, and he knows that he can’t go after him. Letting him go is like a knife in Steve’s chest, but chasing him down will cause Jamie to panic, to absolutely freak out thinking Steve intends to hurt him. And he still shudders when he thinks about the day he found that out, a stupid mistake on his part. 

And sure enough, Jamie still flinches as he passes Steve, tensing like Steve is going to grab him as he slides past him, eyes glued to Steve. “It’s okay,” Steve says, nodding at him, hands raised in submission. “It’s okay, sweetheart, I know.” 

Jamie turns and runs. And Steve’s heart breaks. 

Tears rush up in him, hot and fast, as soon as he hears the front door slam, and he sits down heavily on Jamie’s bed, hanging his head in his hands as he sobs. It’s been a long two months since he told Jamie that he had fallen in love with him. It was a mistake to say it, but it had just come out, his mouth running so much faster than his mind. 

It was a full week before he spoke to Steve again, staying in Nat’s apartment instead. It was the worst week since Jamie had come to him, Steve was sick with worry about him, and Nat was not willing to give him any updates that Jamie didn’t want him to have. And Jamie wanted him to know absolutely nothing. When he came back, it was tense for weeks, and in all honesty, things weren’t back to normal between them. 

But this was the first time Jamie had left again. And all over this goddamn sketchbook Steve never intended to give him. Before he blurted out his feelings, Steve had the romantic notion that he’d present Jamie with the sketches he’d made of him, even wrote a loving letter in the front of the book confessing his feelings. And went on and on about how he wanted Jamie to know that he sees him, truly sees him. Wanted to give him the sketches that Steve made of him. At least now he knows that it wouldn’t have worked. 

It’s his fault that Jamie thinks Steve couldn’t possibly see him as anything other than the man he loved in 1945. It took him so long to be able to understand what Jamie meant when he said he wasn’t that person anymore, that Bucky had died when HYDRA got him. It’s not just that Jamie was changed irreversibly by what was done to him, they scooped out every last ounce of who he was only to fill him with fear and violence and submission. When he got back his mind, it was something he didn’t recognize, something so foreign to him, he didn’t even know how to start processing it. Jamie is a different person than he was, Steve knows that, he understands that now. 

But when he was still holding out a selfish hope that one day Bucky was going to walk back into his life, back into his arms, Steve did damage to his relationship with Jamie that he doesn’t know if he can undo. Steve thought, with time, with enough conversation about it, Jamie would believe that Steve really does see him for who he is. But when he told Jamie that he was falling in love with him, he discovered, to his dismay, that Jamie thinks Steve’s just saying what Jamie wants to hear. 

And Steve’s not. For one thing, Steve’s too stubborn to just go along with something he doesn’t believe, Jamie should realize that by now. But besides that, Steve doesn’t lie to him. Makes a point of it, in fact. Even when it’s going to hurt them both, Steve is honest. Going into all of this, he understood that if Jamie was ever going to trust him, Steve needed to handle that trust with the utmost care, and he always has. So, the fact that Jamie thinks he’s lying about this stings. 

There is also the possibility that Steve put Jamie in the horrible position of having to reject Steve, and tell him that he doesn’t feel the same. Not that Steve was pressuring him into anything, not that he even suggested that they be together. But still, if Jamie doesn’t feel anything like that toward Steve, it might be hard for him. Rejecting Steve may feel impossible, might explain the anger that Jamie lashes out with any time the topic is broached. 

That anger is why Steve wasn’t going to bring it up again, why he intended to just live with his feelings and accept that he couldn’t have Jamie the way he wanted. And that anger’s why he almost regrets telling him about his feelings. Almost. But it felt wrong to hold onto feelings that he was having when Jamie deserved to know the truth. Steve was open with him about everything, as much as he could be. And this was a big thing to keep hidden. 

If Steve learned anything from his overextended life on this planet, it’s that all secret fester. The best intentions could guide a secret but all the same, it’ll rot from the inside. And Steve didn’t want to do anything to poison the relationship that they have. And it’s not like he was trying to make Jamie uncomfortable, but he didn’t want to act differently with him either, trying to hide things that he can’t help. It ended up a no-win situation that he made worse by opening his stupid mouth. 

Steve’s got no idea how long he cries for, head in his hands, but he doesn’t even try to calm himself down. Jamie’s not coming back for a while, Steve knows that. When he runs, it’s not always far, but he stays away for a while, and Steve knows better than to chase him. So, he does the only thing he can think to do. He sits and wallows in it, he lets himself spiral into a panic, wondering if this will be the time Jamie doesn’t come back, wondering if he’ll ever be able to fix what he did to them. He cries and cries and cries and when he runs out of tears he just lays down on the bed and stares at the ceiling. 

Eventually, he gets up and all but crawls into the shower, letting the hot water soothe him, but it does little to calm him, fear and sorrow and hurt roiling in his gut. Half dressed, unable to motivate himself to finish the job, he wanders into the kitchen, drinks a glass of water, looks around and realizes there’s absolutely no reason for him to bother, and goes to his own bedroom. 

On the off chance that Jamie comes back at some point in the night, Steve doesn’t want to be in his space like some pathetic love-sick puppy. He’d rather maintain some semblance of dignity here, and cry himself to sleep in his own bed. Which is exactly what he does after he spends a few hours watching the shadows grow long across his bedroom before darkness fell. 

Not chasing after Jamie is the hardest part of all of this, him being out there on his own scares Steve, too, because he hates the idea of him having a panic attack or a flashback, and not having anyone to get him through. And he almost calls Nat to go check on him, but Jamie isn’t a child and if he needs Nat, he knows where to find her. Steve doesn’t go after him, doesn’t try to find him when night falls, and it grows late and he’s not back. But, he does send him a text, though he’s not even sure Jamie had his phone when he left. 

[11:46pm]: I’m sorry. Please be safe. The only thing that matters is that you’re okay. Come home when you’re ready.

Jamie doesn’t respond, and Steve doesn’t expect him to, but it still hurts to see the text opened and ignored, and it’s enough to trigger him into another crying fit that eventually pulls him under into sleep. 

It is still dark when he wakes but Steve has a heavy, bleary feeling that tells him he’s been asleep for a while. Peeling his eyes open is like running sandpaper over them, still swollen and dried out from crying so hard, an impressive feat with the serum. And, at first, he can’t tell why he’s awake, what discomfort might have pulled him from sleep. Because he’s so comfortable, warm and heavy under the weight of the blankets, no nightmare clings to the edge of his mind. 

And then a weight registers on his flank, warm and solid, and he stiffens. 

“I’m sorry,” Jamie whispers against the back of his neck, making Steve shiver. Tucked in as tightly as he can be, Jamie is cradling Steve from behind, spooning him with one arm thrown over him. “Stevie, honey, I’m so sorry. I just—I’m scared.” 

“Me too,” Steve whispers, voice rasping with sleep or emotion, he’s not sure. He wants to turn over and look at Jamie, but he gets the feeling it’s easier for him this way, and Steve knows how important it is to let Jamie be the one who guides these things. “I’m sorry. I truly am. I just—I-I’m really afraid to lose you, Jamie.” 

“You mean again?” he whispers, and Steve reaches up to grab Jamie’s hand, holding it to his chest. 

“Please don’t. Please? I can’t keep going in circles with this,” Steve says, so tired. “I know you don’t believe me, but please, stop accusing me of lying. It—it hurts, J.” 

“That’s not—I didn’t mean—” Jamie stops, sighing. “I mean losing…someone you—you… l-love, again. I didn’t mean—I’m sorry, Steve. God, I said awful things to you and I’m sorry. Please, I’m so sorry--” 

“Shh, hey,” Steve murmurs. “I’m not mad, I’m not up—okay, well, I was upset but not—I’m not upset with you, J, I swear. I’m sorry for making that sketch—” 

“Don’t,” Jamie stops him sharply, and Steve winces. Jamie must still be angry about it, to Steve’s disappointment. “Don’t—don’t apologize for that. Don’t. Because it was—” He drags in a harsh breath and Steve grips his hand a little tighter. “Steve, it was everything. I—you see me in ways that I can’t. You see things in me that I—God, I want to see so badly, I want to believe are there. And then I find this sketchbook and I—” Jamie stops, squeezing Steve a little. “It was beautiful, Steve, all of it. And I just—I hurt you and I’m sorry.” 

“Oh, Jamie. It’s okay,” Steve whispers. “I forgive you.” 

“And I, uh, I’m sorry I went through your private shit,” Jamie says. “I wasn’t trying to. I saw it and thought it was one of the ones you’ve shown me, I was curious. I’m sorry.” 

“I mean, they are sketches of you so you should get to see them. And honestly? I’m kind of proud of you for snooping,” Steve says. “I think about that happening a few years ago, and we both know you wouldn’t have dared. And then for you to confront me after? God, I’m so proud of you, J.” 

“You’re not seriously going to try to tell me that you’re glad I invaded your privacy and then screamed at you and called you a liar, are you?” Jamie laughs. “You understand why that’s nonsense, right?” 

“I am serious,” Steve says, chuckling. “Are you really going to try to tell me anything in our lives has to make sense?” 

“Fair,” Jamie laughs again, and it’s so good to hear that sound. 

“Look, J, I know this isn’t great,” Steve says. “And I-I see now that I’ve made you uncomfortable, made you feel unwelcome in your own home. But I don’t want that. So, just—you don’t have to worry about me bringing this up or—or trying to push you. I swear, I just want you in my life, I don’t care how. So, I promise, I’ll stop making it weird, I won’t intentionally bring this up again. I-I understand that this isn’t something you…it’s just not—I just get it.” 

“Steve,” Jamie whispers. “No, that’s not what I—I don’t—I need time.” 

Steve’s heart clenches tight in his chest. “J, what…what do you—” 

“It hurts so bad, Steve, hearing you say those words,” Jamie says softly. “I know you don’t mean for it to but it does. Every time, it rips me apart. Because I want them to be for me and yet I-I can’t seem to let myself believe that you could possibly love someone like me. But I-I want to. I want to believe it and I think maybe I—maybe I just need time and that I could—or I mean…we could…” 

“Anything, Jamie, anything you need,” Steve says, hoping to not sound too desperate. “Jamie, I’m not going to rush you into anything. I don’t…” The thought occurs to him suddenly and he knows it will require a delicate hand. He turns in Jamie’s arms, face-to-face to have this conversation. “Jamie, you haven’t said anything about how you feel though. I’m not—don’t do this just for me. Don’t do this because you think you have to, please? You don’t have to pretend to want this, okay? You don’t owe me anything, you don’t have to do this to stay here, you don’t have to—” 

“I know,” Jamie says. “That’s the thing, I know that. You—you wouldn’t do that to me. Steve, I don’t think you’d ever hurt me, not on purpose. I don’t think you’d force me or—or make me pick. And that’s why I…my feelings are…” He stops swallowing, and Steve nods, putting his hand on Jamie’s chest. “I don’t know how to do this, Steve, I don’t know how to be whatever it is you need me to be. But I want to, because I want—I want you. I don’t really—it’s not—I know it doesn’t make any sense, I don’t understand it myself. But I just…a little more time, just—just try to convince me a little longer, please? Just…keep fighting me, okay?” 

“Jamie, I don’t need you to be anything other than who you are,” Steve tells him. “And I will spend the rest of my life fighting for you.” 

Chapter Text

Steve doesn’t mean to fall asleep. He never does. But Bucky is so warm and heavy on top of him, and Stark’s couches are top-of-the-line. 

Years ago, Steve would have kept himself awake no matter what, vigilant as he watched over Jamie. In the moment where Jamie was able to trust him enough to fall asleep, Steve felt like it was his job to make sure he never failed him, that he never made Jamie question that trust. So, he would have spent hours awake, with nowhere to go and nothing but time on his hands. Steve made a pasttime of worrying and stressing and tearing himself down over the fact that Jamie was having a hard time still, that he wasn’t doing enough to protect him. To take care of him. And that was always enough to keep him wide awake. 

The first time he fell asleep, he woke up panicked. It was the kind of dreamless, disorienting sleep where he blinked and lost half an hour. Jamie was awake when Steve did reopen his eyes, smiling down at him with a soft, content look on his face. And, naturally, Steve ruined the moment with his profuse apologizing. 

“Steve! Jesus Christ, you’re allowed to sleep even when I’m having a bad day,” Jamie told him. “It’s nice to not wake up to you staring at me looking all haunted and shit.”

“I’m supposed to be watching over you, though, J,” Steve said at the time. “If you have a nightmare, I want to be there for you.” 

“I’m literally laying on top of you, Steve. I think you’ll feel it if I have a nightmare,” Jamie insisted.

Of course, Jamie was right, and Steve did wake up immediately the first time Jamie had a nightmare while Steve slept. And nothing terrible came from it, Jamie didn’t suffer any because Steve wasn’t there fighting against his own need to sleep just to stay and watch over someone else’s. After that he stopped fighting it. 

He doesn’t fight it this time either, just lets himself get drawn deeper and deeper into the comfort of having Bucky close, of having him here, safe in Steve’s arms, and soon sleep is dragging down into his dreams. 

July 2014

Two months. He’d noted the anniversary just yesterday. It’s been two months since Bucky dropped him into, and subsequently dragged him out of, the Potomac and left him nearly dead on the shore. And in those two months, they’ve come no closer to finding him and bringing him home. In fact, no one has. The media makes a point of reminding the world every day that no one has even seen Bucky in the two months since HYDRA fell. 

Nat called him a ghost story, and true to his reputation he disappeared as soon as he deposited Steve on solid ground. It frustrated Steve to no end that, even with all of Stark’s resources at his disposal, he wasn’t able to find so much as a whisper about him once Bucky decided to go to ground. In honesty, it frustrated all of them. Nat seemed to have her own reasons for wanting to find him, ones Steve was pretty sure he didn’t want to know. Even after he was transferred from the hospital in DC to the tower’s medical unit and Steve told Tony what he’d learned about how Tony’s parents really died, the man had been determined to help Steve. 

“HYDRA killed my parents, alright? Let’s just fucking leave it at that before I do something I’ll regret down the road,” Tony said to him when Steve asked why he was still willing to help. 

Two months of searching, two months of long nights, two months of going over each and every single detail available to them on what happened to make Bucky Barnes the Winter Soldier. Two months of hell for Steve, learning about the torture, the repeated rapes, the murders, the experiments. He saw pictures of Bucky cut open, Bucky frozen solid, Bucky naked and covered in burn marks and cuts. Steve watched videos of him being waterboarded, of his memories being burned out of him, physical trials he was forced to do over and over again, testing his limits. 

It was the longest two months of his life. The hardest two months of his life. Even after Bucky fell from that train, it didn’t hurt this bad. Steve made peace with Bucky dying, with his suffering having ended. To Steve, that fall was a horrible way to die, a long, cold, terrifying way to leave the world, and he hated that those were Bucky’s last moments. He hated that the last thing Bucky knew was Steve failing him. But he was able to at least take comfort in the fact that it was over, for Bucky at least. The one left in pain was Steve, and he’d take all the pain in the world if it meant Bucky didn’t have to. 

The reality was much crueler than that, Steve knows that now. Death would have been kinder for both of them, he understands that now. But he also knows that it means he needs to find him, needs to bring him home, so he can keep him safe. The least Steve can do for Bucky is protect him from here out, no matter what. He owes him that much. 

So, for two months he’s looked for Bucky. Two long, slow months, where minutes ticked by with syrupy slow hopelessness, each second aching in Steve’s chest. Two months with nothing to show. 

And here Bucky is now, standing in front of Steve like a rabbit pulled from a magician’s hat. 

The wind and the rain are raging just outside the confines of his front porch. The blistering heat that had preceded the storm has mercifully broken, unlikely to surge again afterwards now that the sun has gone down, but the air is still charged, as if the lightening was dancing across it. Soaking wet, wild-eyed, pale, and gaunt, Bucky is standing in the dim light of his porch looking for all the world like he brought the storm himself. 

“Buck?” he whispers, hardly breathing, and steely blue eyes land on Steve’s, cracking with flashes of lightning behind them. “Christ, what are you—how did you—come in, come in, quick,” he says, stepping back. 

Bucky hurries across the threshold and Steve casts a glance around the quiet street. The house belongs to Tony’s, one he gives to guests who prefer a more suburban setting than the tower. Well, as suburban as Brooklyn can get, at least. But the fact that Tony owns this house has always made Steve suspicious that he owns the entire block, and as he looks out onto homes of the potential witnesses to Bucky’s arrival, he prays to god he’s right about that. 

Once he’s inside, Steve gets a better look at Bucky in the light, and he doesn’t like what he sees. It’s clearly been a long time since Bucky has showered properly. His hair is a matted nest sticking out in places, with dirt caked into his scalp, and his beard has grown in thick and unkempt. The clothes that he’s wearing are unwashed as well, and several sizes too big on him. Steve can’t tell if that’s because it’s all Bucky could find or if the clothes fit him two months ago before he clearly started losing weight. The cheekbones jutting out from under his eyes are an easy tell; it’s been weeks since Bucky’s had a real meal. Probably the whole two months. 

Steve’s eyes are glued to him. He looks fucking awful, dark bags under his wary eyes, deathly pale skin stretched over sharp bone creating too many angles where Steve knows curves used to be, unclean, underfed, terrfied. He’s dripping a muddy puddle onto the foyer’s hardwood floors. He’s the greatest thing Steve’s ever seen. 

And, sure, that makes Steve the biggest piece of shit in existence, but he doesn’t have the ability to care about something as trivial as morality when Bucky is standing in front of him. Whole, alive, obviously unwell, but alive, alive, alive. 

Alive, and clearly needing Steve’s help. 

He snaps himself out of it pretty quickly. Because his heart may be singing with joy that Bucky is here, but his head is starting to catch up, and red flags are going up all over the place for him. Bucky is here for a reason. This is not just a social visit. Either something is seriously wrong or someone found him. Either way, Steve can feel the fear radiating off of him. Bucky doesn’t want to be here, it’s pretty obvious. Which means whatever is out there he’s more afraid of than he is of Steve. 

The realization hits him in that moment. The person he’s been searching for two months to find is here, standing right in front of him, and he’s got no fucking clue what to do. He’s like a dog that’s caught his own tail, despite his persistence, he’s got no actual plan for what to do now that it’s happened. 

“Bucky, I don’t… you know me?” he asks, trying to sound curious and not desperate. 

Bucky nods. “You’re Steve,” he says. “I read about you in a museum. And I… there are—I see you sometimes.” 

Steve inhales sharply. “Then you know I’m your friend, right?” he asks, and Bucky just stares at him. “I am, Buck. I swear.” 

“They found me,” Bucky says, ignoring Steve’s words. “I got away but… they’ll find me again.” 

“Stay here,” Steve says. “I’ll keep you safe. This is a secure location, they won’t find you here.” 

“I can’t go back,” Bucky says, desperation bleeding into his voice. 

Steve takes a step forward, stopping when Bucky flinches back. With a long, steadying breath, Steve tries to push away the hurt that flares up in him every time he remembers Bucky is terrified of him now. “Bucky,” he says, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “I will never let them take you again.” 

Bucky gives him a wary, assessing look, but nods, and looks down at the ground after a moment, and Steve isn’t really sure what to make of that, but he figures it’s about as much as he can expect from him given the circumstances. And Steve isn’t going to just start pushing him on shit the minute he walks back into Steve’s life. That’s probably the fastest way he could get Bucky to turn around and run as far away from Steve as he can possibly get, and if the last two months are any indications, he can run pretty fucking far. If that’s as much as Bucky wants to say about the matter, Steve won’t force him. 

“Alright,” Steve nods. “Alright,” he repeats, swallowing loudly. “So, I um… you could probably use a—a fresh up, I’m guessing. Shower or a bath or y’know, whatever. I mean… those are your only choices though, so, yeah. Um, I can uh… show you where the bathroom is. Get you some clothes. After that, maybe I can fix you up some food?” Bucky looks up at Steve, eyes narrowed, but he doesn’t say anything. “Or… I could always—I mean… what do you want to do?” Bucky just stares. “Okay… uh… let’s go with my plan? Yeah. Okay. We’ll just… yeah, follow—folow me.” 

He heads down the hall toward the bathroom, turning his back on Bucky deliberately in an act of good faith, and he’s relieved when he hears Bucky’s feet padding along behind him. For one thing, he’s not sure what else to do besides help Bucky get clean right now. He can’t imagine a situation where he just leaves him filthy like this. But also, Steve knows that if Bucky didn’t want his footsteps heard, he wouldn’t hear them. Bucky is letting him know he’s behind him, wordless acknowledgment maybe. Steve’s got no idea, but he grabs onto it like a fucking lifeline as he leads the way to the bathroom. 

“What the fuck do you mean he just showed up?”

“Sam, calm down,” Steve hisses. 

“I’m coming over,” Sam says through Steve’s phone, and he can hear rustling as Sam gets ready to head over. 

“Sam, no,” Steve insists. “I’m not—he’s not going to hurt me, okay? But I… I don’t know how he’ll respond to someone he doesn’t really know.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry, was I supposed to introduce myself while he was trying to hurl me to my death, Steve?” Sam snaps, and Steve winces. 

“I’m not blaming you, Christ, Wilson. Relax,” he says.”I’m just saying give me some time here, okay?” 

“You’re going to actually drive me fucking insane. Man, do you realize that? I’m going to lose my damn mind being your friend,” Sam complains, and Steve sighs. 

“I know,” he says. “I’m sorry. I really am.” 

“I know you are, that’s the worst part,” Sam says. “Well, I’ll give you this much, I feel for the guy Barnes used to be. You must have been a lot more fucking stressful when you were considerably less fucking sturdy.” 

Steve laughs. “I was,” he agrees. “Bucky could tell ya—” He stops. “Ah, forget it.” He’s really not sure he can go there right now. 

“Steve,” Sam says softly, and Steve recognizes the voice Sam uses when he’s figured out exactly what Steve doesn’t want him to. Befriending a therapist was possibly a mistake, Steve’s honestly not sure yet. “I know you feel like it’s your fault that Bucky is in the situation he’s in at this point. But you can’t keep taking responsibility for every bad thing that happens.” 

“I didn’t grab him, Sam,” Steve says, sharply. Because he’s sick of hearing about what was and wasn’t his fault from people who weren’t there. “I was right fucking there, and I didn’t save him. And I didn’t go back for him. I knew Zola had experimented on him, I knew HYDRA was after the serum, I should have fucking made sure. I should have—” 

“But you didn’t,” Sam says, firm, not backing down. “Because there’s no fucking way you could have actually known that was going to be his fate. Steve, you hear how insane that sounds, right? If for one goddamn second, you really thought Barnes was still alive, would you have stopped until you found him?” 

“Of course not.” Steve bristles. “I would have been in that fucking ravine—” 

“Okay, you hear yourself? You can say you should have known now that you do know but that’s a bullshit idea because if you’d had any inkling of hope you’d have jumped on it. He was presumed dead when you burned down HYDRA’s headquarters, true or fucking true, Steve?” 

“Okay, yes, but—” 

“No, do not ‘but’ me here, this is not your goddamn fault, Steve. You didn’t cause this to happen,” Sam says. “And I know that it’s hard to hear that because it means that bad shit just happens to people who don’t deserve it but that’s what happened. Bucky was a good man. He didn’t deserve what happened to him. And it still did.” 

“Sam, I can’t get into this right now,” he says, feeling too trapped by Sam’s words. He can’t breathe when Sam has him under his microscope like this. 

Sam sighs heavily like he expected this from Steve. “Steve, just be careful,” he says. “I know that sounds like a challenge to your ears for some reason, I have to assume it has something to do with growing up a white man in the thirties—” 

“Thanks, Sam.” 

“—but I actually mean be careful, Steve. Whether you want to believe it or not, this could be fucking dangerous.” 

“Alright,” Steve says, somber. Because he fucking hates it, but Sam isn’t wrong. The asshole usually isn’t. 

“Call me often, please?” Sam says. 

“Okay, I promise,” Steve agrees. “I’ll call if anything comes up.” 

“No, man, call me whether something comes up or not,” Sam corrects. “Goddam, I swear to God, Steve.” 

“Okay, jeez, yes, I got it,” Steve says. “Look, I gotta go, Bucky’s sleeping now, but I don’t want him to wake up alone.”

“Alright, go, go,” Sam says. “Christ, I gotta call Nat.” 

Steve decides to ignore that comment and just ends the call. Calling Sam was always going to be a fucking mess but on the off chance he’s right about Bucky being dangerous, Steve wanted someone to know he’s here. Shaking his head, he tosses the phone down onto the bed, and sits heavily on the edge, letting his face fall into his hands. 

Getting Bucky to sleep had been far from easy. For starters, he needed first aid and to bathe, and that in and of itself was a harrowing experience. The last thing Steve thought he was going to be doing when he finally found Bucky was helping him shower, but Bucky had freaked out when Steve showed him the shower and attempted to leave him to it. The begging and pleading that followed made Steve hate himself more than he thought possible, but eventually he got Bucky to calm down enough that he could help him shower and get patched up. 

Steve’s rationalizing all of this the best that he can, telling himself that he’s just triaging right now because that’s what Bucky needs. But the truth is, he’s in way over his head already, and he’s got no idea what he’s supposed to do from here. The only things he can think of are the most basic human needs because it’s so evident that Bucky has no regard for those needs. There must be something primal that propels him into action so he doesn’t die, but Steve can tell he’s struggling with everything from hygiene and food to wrestling with his own mind. 

Bucky is in no condition to be on his own. The fact that he’s managed to survive this long on his own is genuinely a miracle in Steve’s eyes. But then again, he survived HYDRA, so maybe Steve’s shock is just insulting. Sure, Bucky hasn’t been thriving on his own, but how is he supposed to? Steve may just be making too much out of the whole situation with the shower. There are a million and one things that could have triggered Bucky into that reaction, so he’s got no real way of knowing, but Bucky clearly had a fucked up day, and it may have just caught up with him. Tomorrow, Bucky will probably want to eat, the one thing Steve failed to get him to do, and he may take a shower on his own even, Steve’s got no way of knowing. 

He tries to remind himself of that. He’s already getting way ahead of himself, something Nat would probably be pointing out if she were here. For someone who thinks forty steps ahead of everyone else, she sure hates when Steve tries to make a preemptive strike. She always tells him he causes more problems than he solves with that shit, and he always tells her she’s got no way of knowing that for sure. And sure, she’d probably have some comments about why he’s suddenly deciding to listen to her, but maybe now is the time to take her advice to heart. 

All in all, whether he’s getting ahead of himself or not. Steve doesn’t think he’s doing the worst job here. He managed to get Bucky moderately clean and at least wearing fresh clothing, and got his injuries – thankfully all very mild – taken care of. But Bucky refused food altogether, and when he laid down on the floor of Steve’s guest bedroom he slipped into sleep immediately, with next to no resistance, which baffled Steve, because he was sure that would have been a problem. Steve doesn’t expect him to sleep for very long, not with how jumpy and anxious Bucky is. 

Heaving himself off the bed, Steve heads back into the guest bedroom to check in. Slipping silently into the room, Steve’s careful not to wake Bucky. He needs as much sleep as he can get if the bruise-like bags under his eyes are any indication. So, Steve is silent as he slips into the room and gives his eyes a minute to adjust before he checks on him. 

And when they do adjust, his heart fucking drops, because Bucky is not sleeping on the floor next to the bed like he had been when Steve left him. And that hadn’t been great, but Steve was taking what he could get and ignoring the possible implications of him refusing to get on a bed. Now, he’s not there at all, and Steve’s heart is in his fucking throat. Did he run? If he’s gone again…

Steve comes around the bed and jerks to a stop, going a bit cold. Because, sitting with his back to the closet door, knees clutched to his chest, with a blade held out in front of him, Bucky is wide awake and staring at Steve with pure panic. The same fear Steve saw in Bucky’s eyes in those moments before he lost consciousness on the helicarrier, the same feral, instinctive fear that exists within every caged animal. Bucky is so fucking lost, his entire existence is boiled down to terror. 

“Buck,” he breathes. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re safe, Bucky.” And it’s so fucking reductive, he hates himself as the words leave his mouth. What a fucking thing to say to a man who doesn’t know what safe means. There’s no context for him. The concept doesn’t even exist for him, and here Steve is trying to just tell him that, expecting it to mean anything, expecting it to help. 

And, unsurprisingly, it doesn’t help. “D-Don’t,” he stutters out. “Don’t come closer. I-I won’t go back. I won’t. I won’t go back to them.” 

“Never,” Steve agrees, dropping down to his knees. “Never, Bucky, I’ll never let them near you again.” 

“I don’t—” He looks around wildly, clearly not recognizing where he is. “I’m not—” He shakes his head. His face is mostly in shadow but there is still such clear fear written across it. 

“Lights, please,” Steve says, grateful that Tony installs the AI at all of his properties, and thankfully Jarvis doesn’t respond other than turning on the lamp on the bedside table. Blinking rapidly as warm light floods the room, Bucky seems more alarmed at seeing the room more clearly. 

“Do you remember where you are?” Steve asks. Bucky’s eyes snap back to meet his, wide and confused, but he doesn’t respond. 

“You know me, right?” Bucky nods jerkily, as if he’s not sure how to move his head. “You came to my house tonight. This is where I live. It’s 2014, and you’re not with HYDRA anymore.” 

“I—” Bucky shakes his head again. 

“It’s okay,” Steve says again. “Do you—do you know who you are?” 

Dread washes over Bucky’s face, bottom lip trembling. “P-Please, I-I don’t—” 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Steve assures him. “It’s okay. That’s okay, Bucky. Your—Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. I call you Bucky. Everyone did. You came here because, whether you know it or not, I’m your friend. And I’m gonna protect you, okay? I’ll always protect you. Just…” He nods at the knife in Bucky’s hand. “Will you put that down?” 

The knife drops an inch or so, but hovers for a moment longer before Bucky finally drops it. There’s a sliver of recognition on Bucky’s face, and Steve wonders if he’s remembering coming here or if he’s just recognizing Steve again. Really, he’s got no way of knowing to what extent Bucky actually remembers him. But talking to him seems to be working, so that’s what he’s going to go with. 

“You—you used to be the one to protect me, y’know,” he tells him, and Bucky narrows his eyes. “You did, it’s true. When we were kids, you were always the one having to step into whatever fights I’d started.” 

“I—I fought for you?” Bucky frowns. 

“All the time,” Steve confirms, and Bucky’s narrowed eyes smooth into understanding, to Steve’s own confusion, and wariness replaces his suspicion. 

“I understand,” he says. 

“I—okay,” Steve nods. “Well… now it’s my turn,” he tells him. “And I’ll—I’ll stay here with you and talk all night if that’s what you need. I’ll tell you anything you want to know. I’ll tell you about your sisters, your ma, the games we used to play, the places we lived. I’ll—I”ll tell you everything, Buck. You don’t remember it yet, but I do. I remember it for both of us and I-I can help you remember too, okay? I’m gonna help you, Bucky. The way you always helped me.”