Work Text:
1.
It’s like straight out of one of those movies that people see at the theater (those who can afford it, that is). The abandoned house is considerably run down--way past its prime--sitting ominously atop the hill at the end of the street. All the boys they know have braved it, gone in and conquered the spirits roaming the corridors inside. It’s a rite of passage, if you will. A critical task in the journey to manhood. (That’s what Bobby said, at least. He’s the self-elected founding father and determiner of what exactly the journey to manhood entails, being a few years older than the rest of the boys.) And Bucky and Steve…maybe they’ve been putting it off for a while. It’s not that they’re too chicken to go up there to the house, it’s just that Bucky’s been busy with work and Steve’s been busy trying to not die from God knows which illness is next in line. But they’re 19 now. And the constant flack they get for not going up to the Crealey House (Mr. and Mrs. Crealey never had children of their own before they died) is getting really old.
So that’s why they’re creeping through the wide-open entrance hall, decorated with blankets of cobwebs and dust so thick that Bucky’s not sure how Steve’s poor old lungs can manage.
“You know the legend, right?” Steve’s voice cuts through the silence and it maybe makes Bucky jump a little.
“Huh?”
“The legend.” Steve whispers subconsciously, careful not to wake any lingering spirits. “It’s said that the Crealey’s used to snatch up kids who got too close to their house. Used to keep ‘em since they couldn’t have their own.”
Bucky rolls his eyes, trailing behind Steve as he lets out a long-suffering sigh. “S’just a myth, Steve. You don’t really believe that shit, do ya?”
Steve keeps walking, his steps creaking against the decrepit floorboards beneath their feet. “’Course I do.”
But Bucky knows that Steve is too smart for that. Too smart to believe some kinda bologna that Bobby probably made up to scare them. But Bucky’s not as smart as Steve. And maybe his pulse is a little quicker than normal, dodging spider webs and telling himself that that noise he just heard from down the hall is probably just a stray cat that found its way in. “Well I don’t.” But he does kinda.
This fond little noise floats from Steve, and Bucky knows that Steve knows he’s maybe a little scared. All he can think of are the Crealey spirits floating around in here, popping up and dragging them into the depths of the house to be kept forever. It sends a shiver up Bucky’s spine but he rolls it off.
“How far we gotta go in?” His voice betrays him, the slightest tremble amplified by their now close proximity.
He sees Steve shrug in front of him, delicate shoulders rising unhelpfully as they reach a long corridor framed with doors that lead to God knows where. “Let’s just see where this takes us.”
Bucky frowns, but doesn’t let any other discomfort show. He just pushes forward, listening to the house creak in the wind, the moonlight peaking in through a missing slat in the roof and casting an eerie, pale glow against the floorboards. There’s a suspicious noise from the very end of the hallway and Bucky narrows his eyes, going on the defensive and zoning in so thoroughly that he doesn’t notice Steve silently drop back behind him. His steps grow cautious, distrustful, eyes zeroing in on the door at the end of the hall.
Then his blood runs ice cold, heart leaping from his chest, because Steve screams—bloodcurdling and wild and there’s the heart-wrenching sound of a door being slammed behind him and Steve’s screams being muffled by the wood.
Bucky launches into panic mode, turning to see an empty hallway behind him and he’s at the door that Steve’s shouting is coming from behind in zero time flat.
“STEVE,” he yells, hand immediately twisting the doorknob as hard as he can but it’s locked it’s locked they have him they have Steve. “FUCK! STEVE!”
“BUCKY BUCKY HELP BUCKY,” Steve’s screams are manic, punctuated by the desperate pounding of his fist against the door.
Bucky panics, his heart crashing to the floor as he frantically runs his hands over the wood door in an attempt to find a weak spot because he needs to get Steve because they have him and they’re going to keep him and he needs to fucking get Steve now. He never stops moving, never stops yelling for Steve, never stops cursing and dying a little inside and he panics so he quickly backs up and slams his foot up against the door, splintering the aged wood to pieces and swoops into the room and zeros in on Steve and picks him up and runs. Runs down the dark hallway. Runs through the entrance hall and “Bucky! Bucky, I’m okay!” and runs out the door until they’re halfway down the hill and he’s clutching Steve against his chest for dear life and “Bucky, it’s okay, it was a joke!” but Bucky is too high strung, flying way too high on adrenaline to even hear anything but his own pulse in his ears.
He’s babbling now, strings of curses and “I thought you were gone” and “what the fuck would I ever do without you” and “Fuck, Steve—Steve—“
“Bucky—“
“Fuck—oh my God,” his breaths are so heavy and labored and he won’t let go of Steve, just holds him and closes his eyes and buries his face in Steve’s hair. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
“Buck.” And…
That’s when it finally filters in. Steve sounds fine. Sounds better than fine. Sounds-…he’s laughing.
“Buck, it was a joke!”
Everything stills for a moment. His heartbeat, his adrenaline rush. He slowly peels himself away from Steve, holding him out at arm’s length, regarding him with a sour mixture of still blatant worry and now confusion. “What?”
The smile that Steve presents him with both eases him and enrages him. “It was a joke. I was joking. I’m fine. Just tried to rile you up a bit, didn’t think you’d panic this much.”
Bucky stares at him. Dumbfounded. “But…the door—”
“I locked it myself. Although I’m flattered that you consistently destroy private property for me.”
It all filters back in now, all the pieces falling into their respective places. There were no spirits, are no spirits. Just Steve. Being Steve. Bucky should be infuriated. Should be embarrassed for how quickly he panicked. But…he’s not.
“Jesus Christ, Steve,” he breathes out, and then pulls him back in against his chest again, burying his face in his hair and letting it sink in. “You fucking punk.”
Steve smiles against him, still getting his kicks with the whole thing. Because he might be a truly wonderful person, but he can also be a little shit if he wants to be.
“Never fucking do that to me again,” Bucky says, but it lacks venom.
“I won’t.” Steve says.
But Bucky knows he will because he’s Steve.
2.
He’s sick. Sicker than he’s ever been. Bucky doesn’t want to tell himself that this is it, but…he thinks maybe this is it. But he doesn’t let Steve catch on. Doesn’t let him know just how fucking scared he is that he’s going to come home one day and his friend is going to be out for the count. They’re only 20, for Christ’s sake. They’re supposed to be out exploring the world and figuring out who they want to be for the rest of their lives, not holed up in a shitty apartment in a shitty part of town with a shitty chance that everything is going to turn out alright. And Bucky’s scared to death. But he doesn’t let Steve catch on—can’t. Because he’s already suffering enough. He doesn’t need to think about how terrified Bucky is that he’s going to lose his best pal and then have to face this world alone…without him.
He wraps Steve up in the blanket they have and fluffs his pillow and dotes for as long as possible, but then he has to go to work. Because if he doesn’t go to work, he doesn’t get paid. And if he doesn’t get paid, Steve doesn’t get the things he needs to possibly get better.
The horrid cough that rips out of Steve’s throat echoes down the hallway as Bucky trudges down the steps that lead out of the apartment complex. It’s jagged and pained and makes him want to just swoop Steve up and tuck him under his wing and fix everything that’s ever been wrongly passed onto him.
He works hard at his job. Tries to excel so maybe his boss notices and pays him a little extra. He doesn’t.
On the way home, Bucky considers stopping and picking up an ice cream for Steve with the last of the coins jingling around in his pocket, because maybe it’ll help his throat feel better. Or maybe the chill will numb the pain and will help him forget just for a second that life isn’t fair and he’s been dealt a shit hand.
He doesn’t stop for the ice cream because it’s going to melt before he can get it home. He’ll figure something else out.
Bucky’s already starting a conversation as he unlocks and opens the front door, “Steve, you’ll never guess what—“
Then he stops. Because Steve is not huddled on the couch where he left him. The blanket isn’t there either.
“Steve?” he calls out, trying to swallow that anticipatory dread that’s rising so quickly in his throat. “Where’re you at, pal?”
He checks the bathroom and their tiny bedroom because those are the only other two places he could possibly be. But he’s not.
The fear kicks in then. “Steve?” His voice is hard, just borderline frantic.
Because Steve is smart enough not to go anywhere like this. Steve is smart enough to realize that he’s hanging on by a thread and he needs to rest and let Bucky take care of him and—
“Steve?” His voice cracks, just barely more than a whisper, brow furrowing and he doesn’t know what to do and he just kind of collapses back against the wall.
His chest is opening up into a massive, gaping hole that’s swallowing up his insides. He can’t lose him. He can’t lose Steve.
The stillness in the room is suffocating. Suffocating silence.
Then his ears pick up on the faint sound. Familiar. Obvious.
It’s a cough. From next door.
Bucky scrambles to his feet, legs taking him as fast as he can out the door and over one until he’s pounding for dear life on Mrs. Farber’s door.
It’s way too frantic. Way too loud for the vicinity and how Bucky normally carries himself around his neighbors but he doesn’t fucking care. He needs to see it. Needs to make sure he heard right—
Before Mrs. Farber can even get the door all the way open, Bucky blurts out, “Steve,” and it’s hopeful but still painfully distressed.
And Mrs. Farber knows more than Bucky realizes she does. She knows about Bucky. And about Steve. And about how unusually attached they seem to be, in each other’s back pockets at every possible moment, that it’s probably a little bit more than an average friendship. More like brothers. So she smiles, warm and motherly, her voice gentle as she says, “He’s in here, dear.”
Bucky’s chest bursts with relief and the leftovers of worry when he steps into the apartment, his eyes landing on his best friend laying on the unfamiliar couch, tucked underneath their blanket. He doesn’t realize he’s crying until Mrs. Farber presses a clean handkerchief in his hand.
“I heard him having a rather nasty coughing spell and didn’t feel comfortable leaving him by himself,” she explains quietly, so as not to wake Steve. “I hope you don’t mind.”
Bucky rubs his eyes with the soft fabric, says fuck it because Mrs. Farber has been like a mother to them and it’s okay if your almost-mother sees you cry, right?
“Thank you,” he manages to say, not taking his eyes off of Steve because he’s here. He’s safe. He’s alive.
Mrs. Farber kindly pats his shoulder and then shuffles into the other room, giving Bucky enough space to finally climb down from yet another Steve-induced panic. He steps back until his shoulders hit the wall, then slides down until he comes to relax against it, elbows resting on his bent knees as he watches Steve’s sleeping form on the couch in front of him. The tears keep falling, but Bucky lets them. It helps him remember that he’s alive. That Steve’s alive. That they’re both alive and they’re going to get through this.
3.
They do get through it.
They get through it so well that Bucky goes to war and Steve goes to war and somehow they both end up there in the war together.
Except Steve isn’t scrawny and dying anymore. He’s built, a few feet taller than the tiny punk that Bucky remembers from Brooklyn and it kind of scares Bucky a little. It kind of scares him because this is not what he’s used to—who he grew up with. This is not Steve but it is Steve and it might be all the shit they did to him in the HYDRA facility, but he’s having a hard time coming to grips with the way things are now.
But he follows Steve with dedication—a sort of devotion that is only reserved for Steve and has only been reserved for Steve since Brooklyn. He follows him because everything may be fucked up now, and they might die tomorrow, but in the end they’re together. And Bucky would kill and do horrible things to keep it that way. And he does.
Steve may be taller but he’s still a punk. Steve might have muscles now but he still finds time to be a little shit and rile Bucky up in the way only he can. Bucky huffs and grumbles and complains but everyone knows he’s into it—that he eventually ends up laughing or punching Steve just hard enough to let him know that ‘yeah okay, that was kind of funny but you’re still an incredible prick’. It’s all fun and games.
Except when the two of them and the rest of the Howling Commandos are on the front lines, night thick with fog and smoke and the electric blue light of the HYDRA weapons nearby. They’re all hunkered down in the trench, Dum Dum laying down fire as Steve strategizes, voice deep and commanding over the gunfire. An explosion bursts near the trench, the detonation throwing rock and dirt down on top of their heads.
Steve is nearly finished with working out a rough plan when a soldier, one of their own, slides down into the trench next to them, shouting at the top of his lungs. There’s another detonation and Bucky crouches low, squinting through the falling debris as this man spews frantic line after frantic line and suddenly Steve gets this look in his eye. And Bucky knows that look.
“One of our men is trapped up ahead,” Steve shouts, relaying the information, but he’s looking straight at Bucky. “Some kinda fallen beam.”
Bucky’s mind reels and he already knows exactly what’s running through his friend’s head. “I’m going with you,” he says before he has to hear him say that he’s going to go retrieve the soldier alone.
But Steve isn’t listening, isn’t even considering letting Bucky tag along on this suicide mission. Because they’re so far up in all this shit and it’s already alarmingly dangerous. And just because he’s been injected with confidence doesn’t necessarily mean he can actually successfully go get this guy and come back. So he ignores Bucky. Ignores how Bucky says it again and then physically plants himself in front of Steve in attempt to be heard. Instead, Steve braces himself, a visible mental prep, and if Bucky wasn’t launching into a panic because fuck Steve is going to go do this—if Bucky wasn’t ready to damn near thrust himself up and over the top of the trench after Steve, he’d notice how Steve glances at Falsworth, who nods, like this is something that has been previously discussed.
Steve bounds into the crossfire and Bucky curses, pained and raw and ready, and he’s almost over the edge of the trench to grab at Steve before he feels hands on him and Falsworth is holding him back. “STEVE.”
But Steve is gone already, enveloped immediately by the thick smog covering the battlefield. Bucky struggles against Falsworth, voice ripping through the shriek of bullets in the air. “STEVE. GOD DAMN IT!” Because there’s so much gunfire and Bucky doesn’t know exactly how much Steve can take now and what he was thinking and everyone knows that this was a long shot to begin with and “STEVE.”
Falsworth holds true, hands clamped down onto Bucky’s arms as he thrashes like an animal in a trap, betrayed and panicked and petrified. There’s shouting. There’s so much shouting but Bucky doesn’t hear any of it—doesn’t even hear himself. All he picks up on is the distinct whir of the HYDRA weapons and the electric blue light, dimmed by the layers of smoke between the detonation and where they stand in the trench. But it’s loud and it’s forceful and it’s touching down right where the fallen soldier should be—right where Steve should be.
Bucky freezes, mouth left hanging open from the yelling he couldn’t hear.
His entire body ices over.
He can’t feel anything.
Except the distinct pain of crippling fear.
A storm of rock and dust and dirt settles over them but Bucky can’t move—can’t move himself from where he stands, still in Falsworth’s grip, because there’s no movement out on the battlefield. No one is moving.
The shooting from both sides continues but Bucky is gone, lost in a haze that settles over him as he starts to realize that Steve isn’t coming back.
It’s all in slow motion, time dragging out into an infinite space that doesn’t even matter anymore because…
Bucky swallows. Blinks. Swallows again.
And Steve’s not coming back.
A muffled conversation hovers near him, Falsworth and someone else, blurry and drunk but he catches: “…to get him outta here…”
He’s numb.
He’s numb.
He’s numb.
“…take him--…other side or--…”
He’s numb.
There’s another flash of light, dull now, because everything is. Then two bodies tumble over the top of the trench and Bucky blinks. Then blinks again.
Dum Dum cheers.
Falsworth’s hands release their grip.
And Steve is smiling at him. At Bucky.
Bucky blinks.
Steve’s back.
“You crazy bastard!” Dum Dum shouts, and Bucky isn’t 110% sure that Steve is actually here—just saw an explosion where he should have been--so he reaches out, his fingers brushing over the pulse point in Steve’s wrist.
Steve glances up at him, out of breath and covered in mud, but his smile is bright and alive like the pulse beneath Bucky’s fingers.
And—
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Bucky croaks, voice all sorts of uneven emotion. “Are you fucking kidding me, Steve?”
And it’s like they’re in Brooklyn. It’s like Steve just picked a fight he can’t win or tried to trick Bucky into thinking that ghosts pulled him into a room in a haunted house at the top of the hill.
Steve smiles, like he knows exactly what he’s done, and he nods over to the soldier he came back with, “Got him, didn’t I?”
Bucky rubs a hand over his face, emotional and drained and just so fucking relieved. “I’ll kill you,” he says, and it pulls a laugh out of the rest of the Howling Commandos. “I’ll fucking kill you myself, Steve.”
Steve never stops grinning—never stops being Steve.
And when they find camp a few hours later, and when Bucky walks out and finds Steve at the look-out post, and when he just gives in and just fucking hugs him with all his might because he thought he’d never get to do that again, and when he sort of smiles as he breathes out, “You fucking punk…” it all feels like maybe it’s going to be ok again. It feels like nothing can separate them.
4.
It stays true.
Nothing can separate them.
It’s so true that they both die and then come back to life and find each other seventy years later, like two magnets dragging towards each other from opposite ends of the earth.
It takes so long, and for a while Steve isn’t as certain as he was before that Bucky will be okay, but one thing leads to another and they realign—Brooklyn boys. Once again. They sidle up to each other with little thought, two parts to their eternal whole.
And Steve is still a little shit.
The storms that rip through the sky feel like they’re at eye-level on this upper floor of Avenger’s Tower—the one they share—the one they more or less live together on. They’re so close to the dark clouds, the pitch-black sky, the jagged bolts of lightning that tear so close to the wall of windows in the living room that they illuminate Bucky, who sits idly on the couch, knee-deep in the plot of Requiem for a Dream. Steve is supposed to be watching the movie with him, but he disappeared not too long ago, leaving the space next to Bucky empty.
A considerably powerful flash of lightning strikes near the window and before Bucky knows what’s happening, the television goes dark, the entire tower sounding like it’s whirring down to a stop.
Bucky blinks, eyes shifting with concern into the darkness. “Great.” He sits patiently, waiting for the lights to turn back on. You’d think Stark would have some sort of back-up plan installed in this place for such an occasion. “Steve…” he calls out lazily, letting his head fall back against the couch as he beckons casually. “Steeeeeeve…”
When there’s no answer, Bucky picks himself off the couch with a huff, deciding that with this being his first power outage at the tower and all, he should probably see if there’s something he can do. But of course, he needs Steve for that.
“Hey punk,” he calls, his voice not loud enough to echo off the dark hall as he does his best to navigate in the total darkness. “D’you have candles?”
There’s no answer from Steve, but there’s a helpful flash of lightning that provides Bucky with a snapshot of his path. And yeah, he’s been in complete darkness before, he’s been in worse before, but something about storms that rage on to the point of a power outage unhinges him a bit.
“Steve,” he says again, his tone quickly losing nonchalance and quickly adopting a tinge of irritated alarm. “Seriously, where are you?”
He runs his hand against the wall, heated fingertips against cool paint, the sudden deep roll of growling thunder rumbling against his chest so hard that he can feel it in the floorboards. And Steve is still lurking around here somewhere like the little shit he is.
“Okay, it’s not funny anymore,” Bucky frowns, not yet frightened—mostly annoyed—but approaching it quickly. “Steve, you dick. If you jump out at me, I swear to God…”
There’s a small red light that surges on in the corner of the ceiling, one that just barely illuminates the hallway with a pulsing crimson glow. It’s enough to see what’s just in front of him, and Bucky is grateful enough, muttering under his breath that if that’s Stark’s idea of a back-up plan, then they’re fucked if anything worse ev—
Two strong, deliberate hands grab onto him out of nowhere, and Bucky screams bloody murder, his heart leaping in his chest and “GOD DAMN IT, STEVE!” because he’s never screamed like that in his life and it’s kind of embarrassing and now he twists in Steve’s hands, who’s laughing his ass off, and Bucky punches him hard and quick in his shoulder, grateful that the pulsing red light above them probably hides the smile that’s quickly spreading on his face.
And Steve’s laughing so hard, caught between trying to block Bucky’s punches and keeping him in his grasp. Bucky chain-swears, the curses falling off his tongue with considerable grace for how hard he’s laughing, how hard he’s smiling, how stupidly light and happy he feels for someone who just got the shit scared out of him.
Steve tries to duck but it’s not working too well. So he scrambles, fights to gather Bucky’s flailing arms and pushes him up against the wall, pinning his wrists above his head. Bucky lets out a playful groan, gives a pointed wiggle, pressing his hips against Steve in attempt to break free, but the smile is still wide across both of their faces and it feels like they’re kids again, playing again, except…
They stand there, out of breath and so very very close to one another, their chests rising and falling off-evenly. Bucky gives an experimental twist of his hand and Steve’s grip tightens around his wrist, firm and unyielding. And when Bucky’s eyes flick up to his--that incredible blue that still shines through the darkness and the pulsing red and the electric lightning--his heart hurts again, but for an entirely different reason now.
Because it’s like they’re back in Brooklyn again. It’s like it’s seventy years ago and they’re living in a shithole apartment and Steve is scrawny and small and beautiful and Bucky has to ignore what his heart is screaming at him all over again—has to hide and watch out for himself and not ever let it slip that Steve is his entire world and that he’s just so fucking beautiful. So fucking beautiful and he wants him.
And now here, in this time, after everything that’s happened separately and they’re still together and they’re here so close and so intimate.
And Bucky’s scared.
Steve stares down at him, eyes sweeping tranquilly over his face in the dark. Bucky tries not to show his worry, tries not to let the way Steve watches him affect him down to the core. He swallows, blinks slow, lets his head rest back against the cool wall and tries to get his breathing under control.
Then Steve reaches down, Bucky’s wrists still clasped in one hand as he brings the other up to his face. His fingertips brush over Bucky’s jaw, his cheekbone, soft and barely-there until the pad of his thumb hovers teasingly over Bucky’s bottom lip—skilled, lithe artist’s hands.
And then the lights turn back on. Blinding. And they both squeeze their eyes shut from the sudden intrusion and Steve must check back in with reality—with the fact that he just had his best friend pinned to the wall—because he lets go, backing away and running a hand over his eyes.
Bucky settles back against the wall, an odd relief washing over him.
And it’s not just because the power is back on.
5.
Water polo.
Filed under: Things Bucky Doesn’t Really Understand About The Avenger’s Workout Plan
“Good for stamina,” Bruce tells him, and Bucky supposes he can kind of get that, what with the constant treading of water to keep afloat. There’s a lot of upper body work too—blocking and throwing and all that shit.
Bucky finds himself getting into the game, shouting both words of encouragement and more-often-than-not smack-talk. Their voices echo off the high ceiling of the room that houses the Olympic-length pool.
Steve and Clint are a powerhouse force, both agilely dipping in and out of the water with grace, only to turn around and send a perfectly timed tidal wave that veils them from Bucky and Tony’s attempted defensive strategies. (Bruce is also not the best goalie in the world but that’s okay).
Steve hurls the ball from the far end of the pool, and Bucky doesn’t move in time to avoid Clint, who breaches out of the water like a dolphin to receive the throw, his body coming down entirely on top of him in an awkward tangle of wet muscles and hard limbs. When Bucky resurfaces, running a hand through his hair to get it out of his eyes, Clint has scored and Tony is shouting rude things at him. Bucky’s pretty sure he hears Clint say “Caw caw, motherfucker!” but there’s a lot of water in his ears so he’s not entirely certain.
They call a break and Bucky is glad for it, taking the time to heave himself over the side of the pool and pad over to get a towel, leaving wet splotchy footprints in his wake. Somewhere behind them, Steve and Clint are huddled together re-strategizing, possibly taking this friendly game of water polo a touch too far. Bucky’s surprised, to be honest, that it’s not Stark who’s blowing things out of proportion, since he seems to be the godfather of blowing things out of proportion.
Tony must read his mind because he starts giving him shit with all of his fancy words and dry wit. Either that or he’s still pissed about how Bucky fucked up that last play (which honestly wasn’t Bucky’s fault, because how was he supposed to calculate that Clint was going to come down on top of him like that?) Bucky runs the towel over his hair, happy to have it short again because it’s much easier to dry. In fact, his entire body is almost all the way dry now, excluding the damp swim trunks hanging on his hips.
That is, until his ears pick up on the distinct sound of wet feet slapping against the pavement, and it’s getting louder, and Tony looks just over Bucky’s shoulder and rolls his eyes, eternally suffering through the boys’ antics, muttering “Christ” under his breath before Bucky can turn to see Steve plowing towards him, eyes wild and bottom lip tucked between his teeth with playful concentration, his eyes on the prize. Which is Bucky. And Bucky doesn’t have time to panic, doesn’t have time to step out of the way, just has enough time to sneak a breath in before Steve collides with him, arms wrapped protectively around him as he launches both of them over the side of the pool.
They hit the water with a gigantic splash, Bucky first, then Steve, still wrapped up in each other as they quickly descend towards the bottom, bubbles appearing and traveling to the surface all around them. Bucky’s eyes open slowly, squinting one after the other, until he just sees Steve’s face, backlit like a heavenly angel by the lights on the ceiling that are so far away now because they’ve been sinking for what feels like forever. Steve smiles, pleased with himself, pleased with his success. His short hair dances slowly with the current their splash has created, and he looks beautiful. Is beautiful.
Bucky wants to get closer—doesn’t even care that he’s not breathing—just wants to get closer and maybe kiss him. No one would know, high above them on dry land as the two of them become shrouded by the water. It could be their secret, something left and settled under ten feet of water. Bucky grabs hold tighter, his hands running over Steve’s muscles and it’s all very lovely but now his lungs are starting to protest.
They resurface together, just like how they sank, but Bucky doesn’t even gasp for air because he’s been drowning with Steve long before the water polo game. He’s been drowning since Brooklyn. He’s used to it.
Steve’s still watching him, still holding onto him, and Bucky only now realizes that he’s got his legs wrapped just above Steve’s waist, holding himself snug against his body like a koala to its favorite branch.
Steve is Bucky’s favorite branch.
“Huh?” Steve says quietly, a small trace of amusement dancing across his eyes.
And son of a fucking bitch, did Bucky just say that out loud?
“Steve, no fraternizing with the enemy,” Clint’s voice wrecks the mood…whatever kind of mood is created when you tell your love interest that they’re your favorite branch…
But it must not affect Steve, because one of his hands travels slow, low on Bucky’s waist then down over his ass to grip lightly under his thigh, now vulnerable given the fact that Bucky is still clinging onto him. Bucky startles, the intimacy just a touch too genuine, and Clint has gone off to complain to Tony, who just mumbles something along the lines of: “They do this shit all the time. Where have you been?” and “No, they’re in the middle of some ninety-year-old-Titanic bullshit, they can’t hear you.”
But they can--or Bucky can, at least--and his pulse is getting a little too quick for his liking, and what if Steve feels how nervous he is? What if he can see right through all the shitty barriers Bucky threw up in hopes to barricade himself from his feelings?
But Bucky wants to stay here, floating in the water with Steve, wrapped around him with Steve’s hands on his waist and under his thigh. Maybe wants to rock his hips into him a little bit if he gets the chance and Steve’s into it…
But Clint and Tony are here. And it’s weird. And he might have been zeroed in on Steve and oblivious to the world a few minutes ago, but now he’s awkwardly aware of the other men’s presence. So…
“M’gonna dry off,” Bucky hears himself say, and he unwraps his legs from around Steve’s waist.
They float to the side of the pool together and Bucky purposely doesn’t look at Steve, because he doesn’t want to know what might be there.
It’s so hard to keep it under control—to maintain composure around him—and it’s terrifying.
+1
This guy’s dropping bombs—literal bombs. Everywhere. And his alien buddies are doing a great job at turning the Manhattan street into a swirling shitstorm of ruin. They’re from a different galaxy altogether, but somehow SHIELD has got some pointers on how to deal with them (Bucky doesn’t ask because he’s so done with their shit sometimes).
But those bombs—they’re a thorn in the Avengers’ side, dropping at a whim and tearing up the street. They’re heavy, big enough to lift if you really try, but too big to throw out of the way. They’re a gigantic pain in the ass, and Bucky can just feel in his bones that Steve is on the verge of doing something stupidly heroic. Oh God, it’s coming. It’s only a matter of time.
So he sticks close—well, as close as he can when he’s got three of these aliens on his tail and he has to deal with them, metal arm ripping through armor like a knife through warm butter. One of those bombs lands near a frantic couple, the pair of them still trying to take cover, but there’s not enough time and they’re not running fast enough. Bucky grits his teeth, bounding towards them because if he doesn’t do something, they’re as good as dead. The bomb hisses at his feet and he runs between them, picking both of them up in each arm without stopping, carrying them faster than their feet could ever accomplish. They clutch onto him as the bomb detonates behind them, where they should be, hiding their faces in his shoulder and chest when chunks of flying concrete just barely misses them. The building on the corner of the street is the safest he can get them, setting them down and nearly pushing them into the doors. He barely hears their thanks, barely notices Tony soar by, a quick flash of red.
Clint’s shooting from the rooftops and Steve’s on the far end of the street, shield pinballing against aliens as quickly as they approach him. There’s a detonation just behind Bucky, the thunderous result of a stray bomb. Bucky hunkers down, arms covering his head. When he stands, he’s got clear sights down the street onto Steve, who is running toward a group of maybe a dozen citizens, cornered by downed power lines and flipped cars. Then Bucky’s eyes lock on what Steve’s headed towards, faster than he’s ever seen him move.
“Steve,” Bucky utters, his voice traveling through the earpiece that all of them have. It’s pointed—not a warning, but deadly serious. Because Steve is heading straight towards that bomb that’s only a few feet away from the group of trapped civilians.
And there’s not enough time to possibly move the cars or the live power lines. There’s not enough time to gather everyone and relocate them before the bomb ticks down. And Bucky knows what’s happening before maybe even Steve does.
“Steve, think.” It’s a warning now. A doting, nervous, dreadfully aware order that fizzles through the line between them, because even if he sprints toward him, as fast as humanly possible, he’s not going to reach them in time.
But Steve isn’t listening. Steve never fucking listens. Never has.
Steve swoops down, picking the bomb up and cradling it to his chest as he runs as fast as he can away from the crowd, because honest to God there’s really no time to do anything else. And Bucky knew it was coming—could practically smell it in the air—but it doesn’t make his heart pound any less.
“STEVE,” he’s yelling now, running as fast as his legs can take him towards where Steve has disappeared into a sea of settling smoke from a nearby fire. He’s not going to let this happen again. He’s not going to let him run straight into death like he did back in England. “JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, STEVE!”
And then the air ignites, the blast pounding at his ear drums. Bucky screeches to a stop, bringing an arm up to shield his face from the blast. He’s far from the group of trapped people, far from the rest of the team, but not close enough to see through the smoke. And there’s a dead fizzling from the other end of the ear piece.
And this…this will be like back with the Howling Commandos. Steve’s just gonna walk out from the ash and smile at him and act like nothing’s wrong because he’s Captain America but most of all he’s Steve Rogers. And nothing can keep Steve Rogers down. Not illness. Not self-deprecating thoughts. Especially not Bucky Barnes.
But…he’s not emerging from the ruins of the street.
And Tony’s saying something through the communicator but Bucky can’t hear him over the deafening sound of blood pumping through his ears.
When he speaks, his voice betrays him, shaky and filled to the brim with broken worry. “Steve?”
The other end fizzles still. White noise.
“…Steve?”
There’s an explosion somewhere behind him but it’s muffled, and Bucky knows he should move, should keep fighting, that there are countless other bombs and more aliens than they can probably handle, but his legs lock up and he’s stuck, eyes scanning the curls of smoke in front of him because the need to see his friend overrides seventy years of training.
“…Stevie?”
The ground shakes as something impacts strongly against the concrete. Then he feels a tight grip, metal on metal, and Tony’s right there, full Iron Man suit not enough to grab Bucky’s attention away from the billowing wreckage. Tony shakes him, shouts something, lets go for a second (there’s the sound of his weapons firing but then--) he’s right back there, shouting again. Bucky blinks, turns his head toward him but his eyes are still looking for movement, for—
“—TOGETHER NOW,” he catches Tony say and it’s not angry but it’s strict and no-nonsense and he’s physically shaking him, trying to get him to look at him. “…AS MUCH AS THE NEXT GUY BUT WE’VE STILL GOT--…”
Bucky drags his stare away from the smoke, finally tuning in. Tony’s got his helmet open, eyes flooded with a kind of understanding that he doesn’t expect. But there’s also this overwhelming sense of urgency.
And he hears Tony say, clear as day: “I know. I get it. We’ll get him when it’s over. But we’ve still got work to do, soldier.”
The words sink into Bucky’s skin like a knife. We’ll get him when it’s over. We’ll get his body—what’s left of it—when we’re done fighting. We’ll pick up all of his pieces and bring him back for you, but first we need to finish this. You need to keep going and act like everything you revolve around has not just been torn to bits.
Bucky swallows, stares at Tony, doesn’t know how to move his legs.
This is not like England.
This is not like Mrs. Farber’s house.
“Barnes,” Tony says, softer now. “Bucky.”
“I can’t--…” Bucky’s voice croaks, broken. “I need-…”
How is he supposed to move? How is he supposed to let Tony drag him away from this? From his entire world. From the man he found again and again and again because they’re whole when they’re together and maybe they’re just meant to be.
“Hey, jerk.” Bucky’s heart falls straight to the ground, his head whipping toward the smoke and ash at the voice over the communicator. It’s frail. And Bucky thinks he’s hallucinating before if floats in again. “Could use a hand out here.”
Tony hears it too.
But Bucky doesn’t see his eyes close with relief because he’s wrenching his arm out of his grip, barreling headfirst into the unknown that’s hiding behind the clouds of smoke. His feet slam down on the pavement but nothing beats how fast his heart is pounding, a frantic rhythm that won’t let up because that was real, that was Steve’s voice, that was Steve.
Smoke parts down the middle like the Red Sea, and Bucky doesn’t think he’s ever felt something so intensely when he sees the figure, that man, his Steve, staggering towards him.
Bucky’s pace quickens impossibly faster, pushing to the very limits, and he doesn’t even slow down as he approaches Steve, just slams into him with an incredible amount of pressure and an incredible amount of relief and an incredible amount of love. Steve groans from the impact, and it’s the most beautiful thing Bucky has ever heard in his entire fucking life.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters over and over again like a prayer, running his hands over Steve’s face—caked with dirt and dust and blood. “Jesus Christ, Steve. Jesus Christ, I thought you were gone. I thought you were—” and fuck it, he can’t help the tears running down his face.
Steve’s eyes close, a tiny smile gracing him as he leans up against Bucky.
And Bucky…holy shit. “You’re the worst. You’re the actual fucking worst, Steve. Stop scaring me so bad,” he mutters and he doesn’t give a flying fuck that everyone else can hear what he’s saying because of the earpiece. “You scare the shit out of me.”
Steve has the balls to chuckle, short and pained. “Sorry.”
“Where’re you hurt?”
“Side.”
“How’s your face?”
Steve raises an eyebrow, his tone drawn out in confusion. “…fine?”
And then Bucky reels back and punches him straight in the jaw, not hard enough to hurt too much, but hard enough to make his point. “You fucking punk,” he says lowly, fondly. And Steve doesn’t have time to bring a hand up to cradle his jaw because then Bucky is pushing forward, pressing his lips against Steve’s. And he tastes blood and dirt and dust and it’s beautiful. Just fucking beautiful. Manhattan is crumbling at their feet and they’re standing there, arms wrapped around another, completely lost against their other half.
It’s a long time coming. Should have happened ninety years ago. But now is fine too.
Bucky leans back, takes Steve in, really really really appreciates him. “You can’t keep doing this shit, Stevie. You’re givin’ me gray hairs. I’m gonna die an early death if you don’t stop pulling this kinda crap.”
Neither of them notice how he unconsciously slips back into that good old Brooklyn dialect. It’s normal. Like they’re still nineteen and they’re halfway through a haunted house that threatens to tear them apart.
Steve smiles, wheezes a little bit. “Just the way I am, Buck. You know that.”
Bucky does know that—knows that much more than he cares to. “Yeah well stop it. Jump out at me a million times if you have to. Get it out of your system. Just no more suicide missions, got that?”
“Got it.” But they both know that things probably aren’t going to really change.
The dust has settled. The remains of the bomb that had been carried over here and then chucked as far away as possible lie nearby. And Bucky is just so goddamn beside himself with happiness and relief.
Steve wheezes again, trying not to ruin the moment but… “Uh…still bleeding here, Buck.”
Bucky checks him, thanks every deity out there for the accelerated healing that Steve is blessed with, and glances back up at him. “You’ll be fine. Kiss me.”
And Steve does…deep and passionate and with a certain fervor that has Bucky leaning in, appreciating every single moment of it, even when it gets a little sloppy because it’s still perfect. And they still don’t care that everyone else can hear them.
Because it’s a long time coming. And…
And for once, Bucky’s not scared.
THE END